Principles of Philosophy: A Phenomenological Approach 9783495823699, 9783495490921

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Ivo De Gennaro

Principles of Philosophy A Phenomenological Approach

VERLAG KARL ALBER

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699

.

B

Ivo De Gennaro Principles of Philosophy

VERLAG KARL ALBER

A

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

This book offers a phenomenologically informed interpretation of some fundamental positions of the philosophical tradition. It can therefore be read as an introduction to phenomenological thinking in the perspective first opened by Heidegger’s Seinsfrage. Its objective is not that of giving an exhaustive account of the thinking of any single philosopher, much less of the trajectory of philosophy as a whole; rather, the aim is to retrace a few key moments in the course of philosophical enquiry, from its outset to its accomplishment in Nietzsche’s metaphysics, with a focus on the main motive of that enquiry: the always new attempt to establish a sufficient knowledge of the ultimate principle on which to build a human ethos. Because the tradition of these attempts unfolds in the dimension of the original openness of being (i. e. alētheia), which broke forth, but was never interrogated as such, in the Greek inception of thinking, ample space is given to the pre-Socratic thinkers Heraclitus and Parmenides, as well as to Plato’s inauguration of metaphysics. Finally, because each one of these attempts consists in a path through language, particular attention is devoted to the way in which philosophy speaks, and to the translation of pivotal philosophical terms from Greek to modern languages – notably English, German and Italian –, as well as between these languages themselves.

The Author: Ivo De Gennaro is Associate Professor of Philosophy at the Free University of Bozen-Bolzano. His research is in fundamental ethics, to which he brings a perspective informed by hermeneutic phenomenology. Presently he is working on a study on Nietzsche’s economy of time.

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

Ivo De Gennaro

Principles of Philosophy A Phenomenological Approach

Verlag Karl Alber Freiburg / München

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

This book was published with the financial support of the Free University of Bozen-Bolzano.

Original edition © VERLAG KARL ALBER in der Verlag Herder GmbH, Freiburg / München 2019 All rights reserved www.verlag-alber.de Text design: SatzWeise, Bad Wünnenberg Printed by CPI Books GmbH, Leck Printed in Germany ISBN (Buch) 978-3-495-49092-1 ISBN (PDF-E-Book) 978-3-495-82369-9

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

Ich bemerke übrigens, daß hier nur von Systemen die Rede ist, die wirkliche Momente der Entwicklung darstellen, nicht von solchen, denen etwa nur ihre Urheber diese Titel geben, und denen man zu viel Ehre anthun würde, wenn man sie auch nur eines Irrthums fähig halten wollte. Wer irren will, der muß wenigstens auf dem Wege seyn; wer aber gar nicht einmal sich auf den Weg macht, sondern völlig zu Hause sitzen bleibt, kann nicht irren. Wer sich in die See wagt, kann durch Stürme oder eigne Ungeschicklichkeit freilich vom Wege abkommen und verschlagen werden, wer aber gar nicht aus dem Hafen ausläuft, dessen ganzes Bestreben vielmehr darin besteht, nicht auszulaufen, sondern durch ein ewiges Philosophiren über Philosophie zu verhindern, daß es gar nie zur Philosophie komme, der hat freilich keine Gefahren zu befürchten. 1 Incidentally, I remark that here we consider only systems that constitute an actual moment of development, not those which merely happen to receive this title by their authors, and which one would honour excessively if one as much as deemed them capable of errancy. He who wants to err must at least be en route; however, he who does not even hit the road, but instead remains squarely seated at home, cannot err. He who ventures out to sea might lose his way and be driven out of his course due to storms or his own ineptitude; but he who does not even leave the harbour, and whose entire effort is directed not toward sailing, but toward impeding, through an eternal philosophizing about philosophy, that philosophy ever comes to be — he, indeed, has no dangers to fear.

1

Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Über die Natur der Philosophie als Wis-

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Contents

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.

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A Propaedeutic Distinction: Operative Concepts versus Ontological Concepts (On Σχολή) . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Appendix 1: From the Preface to Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit .

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2.

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Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Appendix 2: Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy

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3. The End of Philosophy — and Beyond . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1 Contingency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2 Why Engage with the Principles of Philosophy? . . . . .

60 65 74

Appendix 3: Schelling on the Condition for Attaining the Point of Inception of Philosophy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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4. 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4

Heraclitus Logos . . Harmonia Kosmos . Physis . .

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Appendix 4: On Abscondedness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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5. 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5

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Parmenides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Preliminary Consideration: the Word »Being« Fundamental Concepts . . . . . . . . . . . . Fragment VI: Being’s Need . . . . . . . . . The Paths of Inquiry . . . . . . . . . . . . . Circuits and Cybernetics . . . . . . . . . . .

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Contents

5.6 Fragment VIII: the Traits of Being . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.7 The Ontological Temptation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.8 The Philosophical Question . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

154 157 161

6. Plato . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.1 The Structure and Scope of the Guiding Question of Philosophy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.2 Plato’s Answer to the Guiding Question of Philosophy 6.3 The Traits of the Idea and its Reference to Physis . . 6.4 The Idea of the Good . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.5 Paideia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.6 The Myth of the Cave . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.7 Plato and the Onto-theo-logical Constitution of Metaphysics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

169 176 179 182 186 193

Appendix 5: Plato on the Uselessness of Philosophy

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Appendix 6: Heidegger on the Eros of Being . . . . . . . . . .

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Aristotle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Transition to Modernity (On Method)

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Appendix 7: From Galilei’s Discorsi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

240

9. Descartes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9.1 The Meditations as First Philosophy . . . . . . . . . 9.2 What is Old and what is New in the Philosophy of the »New Time« . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9.3 Descartes’s First Principle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9.4 What Does »to Cogitate« Mean? . . . . . . . . . . . 9.5 The Cogitating I as Subiectum . . . . . . . . . . . . 9.6 Recapitulation of Descartes’s Metaphysical Position .

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Appendix 8: From Descartes’s Meditations . . . . . . . . . . .

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10. 10.1 10.2 10.3

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Leibniz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leibniz’s Answer to the Guiding Question of Philosophy The Principle of Sufficient Reason . . . . . . . . . . . The Original (Harmonic) Economy of the World . . . .

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11. Kant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11.1 The Transcendental Experience . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11.2 The Position of Being and the Original Unity of Apperception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix 9: Schelling on the Desirableness of Philosophy

Heidegger . . . . . . . The End of Philosophy The Task Held in Store Being and Time . . . .

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12. Nietzsche . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12.1 Nietzsche’s Answer to the Guiding Question of Philosophy: Life and the Will to Power . . . . . . . . 12.2 Values as Conditions of the Will to Power . . . . . . . 12.3 The Will to Power as the Cause of Universal Becoming and the Absence of a »True World« . . . . . . . . . . 12.4 Becoming as an Approximation of Being . . . . . . . 12.5 Nihilism and the Necessary Inversion of the Polarity of Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12.6 The Overall Economic Management of the Earth and the Overman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13. 13.1 13.2 13.3

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Greek Alphabet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Preface

This treatise offers an insight into the path of philosophy under the aspect of its principles. Neither its intent nor its method is historical — as is shown, among other things, by the gaps in the list of philosophical positions it considers and the scarce historical and bibliographical information it provides. As to the guiding intent, it can best be described as ethical in a fundamental sense. If ethos is the whole of sense relations that form a human world, a fundamental ethical enquiry will have to interrogate the constitutive and ruling origin of this dimension. What we call principle of philosophy is such an origin. Insofar as the interrogation of philosophical principles requires a regard that does not simply take these principles as given, but minds them in how they generate themselves, this interrogation, and therefore any fundamental ethical enquiry, is in itself, and necessarily, theoretical. As to the method, or approach, that is followed, it can be called phenomenological. Here, phenomenology is taken as the knowledge whose primal phenomenon is the space of time — in Greek: scholē — of being itself. The first scholar of this knowledge is Martin Heidegger, and its first school is what he has named Denkweg, or thinkingpath. While the title »phenomenology« is as such dispensable, the theoretical scope by virtue of which the school of that name has reopened the urgency of retracing the onset and the turning points of the philosophical tradition remains, I believe, an ineludible reference for future thought. In sum, what this book presents are, therefore, elements towards a future phenomenological ethics. At the same time, it can be read as an exercise in the scholē of phenomenological thinking. Worth mentioning are a central feature and a recurrent theme of the treatise, both of which have a constitutive and a circumstantial

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Preface

aspect, the latter being due to the academic environment in which this study was elaborated. The central feature, which is intimately tied to the adopted interpretive approach, is the attention to language. Philosophical thinking is generated in the element of speech; the tradition of philosophy is a tradition of translations within the dialogue of languages. Translations in philosophy can be fertile or not, but are in all instances decisive. Hence the insistence, in this book, on providing source texts (in Greek, Latin, French and German), and avoiding automatic renderings which can easily nip thinking in the bud. Occasional German and Italian translations of certain keywords or expressions, as well as Italian translations of source texts, are meant to favour the understanding of readers familiar with Germanic or Romance languages and their involvement in the dialogue. If not otherwise specified, all translations are mine. A recurrent, though not systematically pursued theme, in the context of this enquiry, is the problem of economy. Its inner link to the principles of philosophy becomes clear if we consider the Greek word oikonomia, whose meaning is far from being exhausted if we indicate it as the knowledge of the laws and rules for the sound management of a household. In fact, if we hear in nomos the extemporal and illocal point of inception whose coming, if heeded by man, at all times and everywhere metes out and denies the measure for things; if, on the other hand, we hear in oikos the sense of a human world which is such — namely hospitable for all things terrestrial and celestial — insofar as it shelters the space of time of the thus understood nomos, then the name »economy« indeed holds the promise of a future ethics, whose need, for us, gains a more distinct voice by the day. The reader unfamiliar with the Greek alphabet can find it at the end of this volume. The writing of Greek words is handled in such a way that not knowing Greek in no way impedes reading, while, once the end of the treatise is reached, at least some of the often repeated words will have become close acquaintances even in their original script. * * * The publication of this book has been financially supported by the Free University of Bozen-Bolzano. I am deeply grateful to Bridget 12 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

Preface

Pupillo for her accurate and understanding revision of the text. All remaining insufficiencies, improprieties and mistakes are my sole responsibility.

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1. A Propaedeutic Distinction: Operative Concepts versus Ontological Concepts (On Σχολή)

Common sense and scientific discourse employ concepts whose origin and implications they do not question or interrogate. In common sense and in scientific thinking, concepts have an operative function. We therefore call them operative concepts. »Operative« means: expedient, apt for operating, suitable for carrying out an intended operation. An operative concept is a concept that presents itself as evident and ready for use, in the sense that one can immediately and without further ado operate with it and on its basis. »Operating«, here, means »obtaining an effect (in a functional context)«. Operative concepts are designed in such a way as to be ready-foruse when carrying out an operation that envisages a certain outcome. The designing that achieves these ready concepts proceeds on the ground of circumstances that appear evident and unworthy of interrogation. For instance, at the beginning of the first of his 1921 Princeton lectures, which appeared collectively under the title The Meaning of Relativity, Albert Einstein writes: How are our customary ideas of space and time related to the character of our experiences? The experiences of an individual appear to us arranged in a series of events; in this series the single events which we remember appear to be ordered according to the criterion of »earlier« and »later«, which cannot be analysed further. 2

The fact that events appear to be arranged according to a criterion that »cannot be analysed further« serves as a basis for an operative concept of time (i. e. »physical time«, the time measured by a clock) whose functioning is the subject of study of mathematical physics. However, the above-mentioned criterion, which was originally established in Aristotle’s Physics, can very well be »analysed further«: namely, it

2 Albert Einstein, The Meaning of Relativity. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1923, p. 1.

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can be interrogated with regard to its constitutive relations, and, ultimately, to the scope of the notion of time which this criterion defines. In fact, Aristotle himself interrogates time as part of an investigation and a »sounding out« of φύσις (physis, i. e. the Greek sense of being) and in view of an interrogation of the principles of being. On the other hand, this »further analysis«, which brings to light what the relation of »earlier« and »later« actually implies in the perspective of an interrogation of being, 3 is of no concern in the context of Einstein’s operative intent. For our own purposes, it is important to see that operative concepts are never original concepts but are derived from other concepts, in ways whose implications, in turn, are not within the scope of what a functional theory can envisage. Those concepts from which operative concepts are derived we call ontological concepts; in literal terms, they are concepts that »say being«, 4 where »being« (Sein; essere) is an element that as such concerns, and calls upon, the being of man (i. e. the human being), and is only given within its relation to man. In other words, »being« is a matter of »sense« (Sinn; senso), and there is sense only where there is man, just as everything which human beings conceive and of which they partake is, in one way or another, sense. »Sense« means the same as »direction«: it indicates how something appears, and presents itself to our understanding, in terms of its origin and its destination, as coming from … and heading to …. The concepts of philosophy, insofar as they indicate this element of sense — that is, being — are ontological concepts. In the transition from an ontological concept to an operative concept, the relation to the dimension of being is lost or cut off. In fact, operative concepts obtain their peculiar evidence and manageability precisely because this relation to being is cut off, or truncated, and the trait (der Zug; il tratto) of man’s being that consists in engaging in, and attending to, that relation, lies idle or, as we may also say, remains inert: in fact, in the domain of operative concepts, the only thing that counts is operating; hence, as long as a concept fulfils its operative function, »all is clear«, and there is no need to question the A question the »further analysis« would have to deal with is the following: are »earlier« and »later« characters of the events to which they apply (characters which the human mind recognizes), or is the »criterion of ›earlier‹ and ›later‹« a scheme provided by the perceiving mind in the first place? In other words (as Leibniz would formulate): is time a real or an ideal entity? 4 »To say« (sagen; dire, indicare) something, is to show it, to let it appear and be seen. 3

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import (namely, the origin and the implications) of the concepts involved. In other words, there is no need of, nor indeed any scope for, philosophizing. On the other hand, philosophical concepts are not operative in this sense. Instead, by saying being, they keep open and preserve our relation to being itself, and this relation consists in the first place (though not at first) in an interrogation. 5 Just as with any interrogation of a philosophical notion, the interrogation of being goes both ways: being itself interrogates us by calling us to sustain (viz. acknowledge and confirm) it in an interrogation. Thus, ontological concepts are concepts that interrogate being, while through them being interrogates us. However, what governs the two-way relation that constitutes the scope of ontological concepts, is in itself not operative or controllable. We can provisionally call this originally constitutive element a principle. Since a principle is not operative or controllable, the meaning of ontological concepts is never settled once and for all but must perpetually be sought out and found anew. Summing up, we have two fundamentally different kinds of concepts, which, in turn, characterize manners of speaking (or: relations to the way in which our languages indicate and speak) that are fundamentally different: 1. operative concepts, or concepts relating to operations, which draw their evidence from the fact that they function in an operative context; 2. ontological concepts, or concepts involved in the interrogation of being, which draw their transparency from the clarification of a being-relation that must always be interrogated anew through these concepts themselves. Since our immediate encounter with things and their concepts takes place in the operative domain; and since, at the same time, our task — namely philosophical interrogation — requires us to refer to the ontological import of these concepts, our philosophical work implies the constant effort of tracing back commonly employed concepts from the operative to the ontological dimension, from which they derive by way of (an implicit) truncation. The shaping of concepts which puts them into an operative form, on the basis of that prior truncation, is something we call »formating« (as distinguished from the operation of »formatting« in the 5 In fact, our relation to being is at first and for the most part (zunächst und zumeist; dapprima e per lo più) inert. The fact that, when this inertia is broken, the relation that »awakens« as a consequence of this breaking has the form of an interrogation, points to the nature of being itself, namely, its constitutive trait of withdrawing.

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domain of information technology); hence, an operative concept can also be called a format. The word »format« is itself the truncated form of the Latin word (liber) formatus. Formats transform everything they contain, no matter how heterogeneous, into something uniformly operative, thus making it fit to function in an operative context. A case in point of an ontological concept that has become an operative concept of both common sense and scientific reason and speech is the Greek word σχολή (scholē), whose translations include »leisure«, Muße, and ozio. Another common way of translating σχολή is »free (or spare) time«. Apart from meaning something like »leisure«, σχολή also indicates the kind of engagement that such leisure allows, in particular a learned discussion, a lecture, or study; finally, it means the place of studying, or a group of those to whom lectures are given, i. e. that which, precisely after the Greek word σχολή, we call a school (Schule; scuola). In the scientific domain, the role of this concept is particularly prominent in economics. In fact, the primacy of what is usually referred to as the »economic problem« (namely, the problem of the satisfaction of so-called basic or absolute needs), and, as a consequence, the primacy of the knowledge provided by economic science, is argued on the basis of the operative distinction between work and leisure: the latter, it is said, presupposes, as its condition, that the »economic problem« be solved and hence the necessities of life successfully dealt with; in other words, these necessities must be taken care of to begin with, so as to form a stable basis for man’s »higher« needs and purposes, which man himself is free to pursue in his spare time. However, the concept of σχολή also plays an important, if not fundamental, role in the very definition of philosophizing: in fact, in the early days of philosophical thought, both Plato and Aristotle claim that philosophizing (as a kind of knowledge that, not being related to what is immediately necessary or pleasurable, is however constitutive for the πόλις [polis]) requires precisely σχολή as its presupposition. On the other hand, they add, σχολή is given only where the necessities of life are provided for. For example, in his Metaphysics Aristotle writes the following (981 b 20–25): Whence already all huseful and pleasant thingsi showed to be entirely provided for, there those forms of knowledge [such as philosophy] were found,

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which are directed neither at what is necessary nor at what is agreeable, and this notably first in those places where first they had leisure. 6

Thus, philosophy itself seems to confirm the primacy of the economic problem. This primacy becomes even more compelling in light of the fact that Aristotle claims that only in σχολή can there be »happiness« (which is how the Greek word εὐδαιμονία [eudaimonia] is commonly translated) 7. As a consequence, economics, while it might not itself »make (one) happy« or »be happy« (in fact, Scottish historian and essayist Thomas Carlyle famously defined economics as »the dismal science«), is essential in paving the path towards happiness. While this conclusion seems to confirm a commonly held opinion, we shall now attempt to exercise our capacity to retrace the operative concept of σχολή to its ontological dimension. We find an opportunity to do so in a passage from Aristotle’s Nicomachean ethics. In Book X, Chapter 7 of this treatise, Aristotle deals with the relation of virtue, σχολή and eudaimonia. In this context we find the following dictum (X 7, 1177 b 4–5): ἀσχολούμεθα γὰρ ἵνα σχολάζωμεν. (ascholoumetha gar hina scholazōmen.)

Here is an operative translation of this sentence, based on a formated understanding of what it says, which prevails both in common and in scientific knowledge: For we engage in occupations in order to have leisure.

Affirming that we engage in occupations with the aim of eventually attaining leisure does not strike us as a particularly original thought. In fact, it is rather trivial. A formula that expresses this thought in an even more concise manner is the following: »We work for the sake of leisure«. With his proposition, Aristotle seems to underpin the thesis that happiness is to be found in leisure. The argument runs as follows:

Angle brackets h…i indicate additions which are to be read as parts of the text, while square brackets […] indicate explicative notes or, in some cases, alternative translations. 7 Eudaimonia literally indicates a good, sound, open, true (eu) relation to the nonhuman counterpart of man (daimon) whence man’s relation to being is alerted and obtains its tone. For Aristotle, human »virtues« are traits of man’s being thanks to which he or she is capable of sustaining that relation in an appropriate manner, i. e. of remaining »on good terms« with the daimon, who assigns our lot. 6

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given that we strive for happiness, the fact that we give up leisure in order to eventually attain leisure (namely, in a more »sustainable« manner) shows that leisure is the more, or even the only, »eudaimonic« state. However, apart from not being particularly original, this thought (namely, the thought suggested by the operative or formated translation) does not appear to be universally true. It is true that some kinds of occupation appear to be nothing but ways to leave these very occupations behind. But is it not true that many occupations also have »value« in themselves, even though ultimately leisure would appear to be preferable? On the other hand, there are occupations, or kinds of work, that do not have leisure as their final objective at all, but, so to speak, contain their objective in themselves. In other words, there is work that is only about work, or work for its own sake, and this occurs in different modalities. For instance, we speak of workaholics; that is, people who cannot stop working or being occupied, and for whom something like free time is a bugbear. But is everybody who works all the time a workaholic? What about the work of artists, among whom we often find »horrible workers« (as the poet Arthur Rimbaud has called them), namely workers who are dedicated to their task in a way, and to a degree, that our common reasoning can hardly understand? There are still more questions to be asked: Are work and leisure necessarily opposites? Isn’t there a kind of occupation that can take place only if there is the necessary leisure for it? What is an occupation in the first place? Is occupation the same as work? Is leisure a kind of passivity that excludes being active? Which one, between leisure and work, is the more fundamental state? What does it mean that the latter is »for the sake of« the former? And so on. As we can see, the sense of Aristotle’s dictum remains unclear as long as the meaning of its words is blurry. Therefore, we need, in the first place, to clarify the meaning of the words σχολάζειν (scholazein), ἀσχολεῖσθαι (ascholeisthai) and ἵνα (hina) beyond the obvious meaning they have in operative contexts, namely »to have leisure (or free time)«, »to be occupied (or busy)«, and »in order that« (indicating an objective), respectively. Hence, we shall ask, first, what the Greek language says in the word σχολή, and, second, what is indicated by the word ἵνα. The word σχολή comes from the verb ἔχειν (echein), which means »to have, to hold«. How does this lead to the meaning »leisure, free time«? Leisure, we could say, takes place when we hold off from 19 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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all engagement; that is, when usual occupations are held up and come to rest. However, this does not account for the fact that σχολή is also the opportunity for what Aristotle considers the highest activity involving the being of man, namely the action of theoretical thinking. How exactly is the time of σχολή »free«? From what, exactly, is socalled »free time« free? At first sight, it is free from the occupations in which we are not free. And which are those? Answer: the activities in which there is »no time«, and therefore no relation to sense or being, but only to whatever format of things happens to be relevant in a particular operative context. However, it is still not sufficiently clear how σχολή is related to a sense of holding or having. In order to come closer to that sense, let us consider the following: The notion of σχολή implies a holding, or a condition, »of« time, where the »of« speaks both ways: time holds (i. e. consists in a holding) and is in its turn held (i. e. sustained). But what is time? The operative notion (or format) of time sees it as an infinite and unidirectional flow, or succession, of »nows«, of which we can consider separate segments, or intervals, of equal or different length. The device that measures these intervals is called »clock«. Now, if a certain segment of time is »filled« with occupations, we say that this time is »occupied«, just as we ourselves are »occupied«, and therefore in a state that lacks σχολή, or — in Greek — in a state of ἀσχολία (ascholia). On the other hand, if a segment is »empty« of occupations, this time is said to be »free« or »spare«, and we, in turn, appear to have time, or leisure, to go about whatever we please. However, what is actually meant when we say that »there is time« or that »we have time«? For instance, we might say: »There is still time before I have to hand in my exam paper at 5.30 pm«. If we say this at 4.30 pm, it means that there is an hour left, and the fact that »there is time« refers to the segment of unidirectionally flowing »nows« which we can quantify in terms of that hour, or of sixty minutes, etc. And yet, we know that an hour can be very short or very long, that it can be »no time at all«, just as it can be »all the time in the world«. If asked to account for this changing »length of time«, we typically refer to the common distinction between »objective« (or »actual«) time (namely the time »incorporated« in the clock), and a »subjective« (or »psychological«) experience of »actual« time, which is seen as a distorted perception of the latter. Objective time, we gather, »flows« independently of man, that is, from human experience. 20 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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However, holding on to this distinction, and thus to the prejudice that our experience of time is but a distortion of »actual«, namely »absolute« time, hinders us from acknowledging what is truly meant when we say: »there is time«, or even: »it is (the right) time«, and thus from becoming aware of (and eventually holding close in an ontological concept) what arguably is a more fundamental meaning of time. In fact, the distinction between »objective« and »subjective« time is based on an operative concept of time and is itself an operative distinction. 8 Again, according to that operative, and therefore derived, concept, time is a unidirectional succession of elapsing punctual »nows«, which come after each other while inexorably rolling from the state of »not yet« to the state of »not anymore«. As mentioned above, this operative flow- or arrow-concept of time stems from the ontological concept of time coined in Aristotle’s Physics. However, that ontological concept of time has, among others, the following constitutive traits: firstly, it is never independent of man, but, on the contrary, has its basis in the human faculty to mind and understand the being of things as movement and transformation; secondly, it involves an ordering and arraying of things, whose sense is not merely that of uniformly co-ordinating them (which, on the other hand, is what clock-time does), but rather, in the first place, that of confirming (i. e. providing a firmness to) their relation of sense (Sinnbezug; relazione di senso) to what, in their unique unfolding, comes before and after them (or: to what is and concerns [us] while being already held off, and what is and concerns [us] while still holding off), so as to let them be what they truly are, and the way they are, within the whole of the sense-relations to which they belong; in other words, time is seen as a category of being, minded and understood by man, which admits and makes accessible the sense of things by clarifying their state, or position, with regard to what comes before and after. 9 Incidentally, the trait of admitting a sense and making it accessible is also found in the Latin notion of time, i. e. tempus, which in fact means something like »favourable occasion«, namely favourable for a sense to arise and evolve. Mathematical physics uses (i. e. bases itself on) this operative distinction in order to build a functional theory of time. 9 Note that the relation of before and after, by itself, does not imply anything like a »linear time«; the latter is the point of view of an objectifying regard that already conceives of »reality« as a »series of events« capable of being coordinated according to an objective and uniform parameter of succession. 8

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On the basis of these considerations, we can suggest the following: σχολή indicates a »holding« and »having«, namely, the holding out and having of a respite (in a containment of before and after), which offers the occasion for a sense to arise and to be held (that is, accepted and contained) as such, thus allowing a being to be, and hence to be acknowledged, as it truly is, i. e. in its sense. Now, this »holding«, which is offered (or denied) to man for him to uphold it, in turn, in an attuned be-haviour (Ver-haltung; con-tegno), is precisely what we can call time. 10 Thus, time never subsists independently of man, but only in a relation to man, which (that relation), on man’s part, is in its turn a holding, namely an upholding or bearing. 11 Thus, the full meaning of σχολή as »free time« is that of a »held (and thus had) holding« (of a respite or broken freeness), in which man, in turn, holds and has (be-haves) himself as such; this held holding is the time for a sense to take place or to be generated, and hence be experienced by man himself. In fact, in σχολή, and only in σχολή, man is »in touch« with the being or sense of things. Sustaining the openness of σχολή as the dimension for the encounter with the sense of things is what we can call freedom. We therefore say: σχολή is »free time« in the sense of a dimension of freeness, held out towards man, which in its turn must be upheld (borne, held out) by man himself in his being thanks to an appropriate »having« or »behaving«, so that the resulting openness can allow a sense to be generated and preserved. When man, in his being, upholds (or bears) the offer of a time for the sense or being of things, he is free and, consequently, »eudaimonic«. Such upholding (or bearing) of σχολή in a behaviour attuned to σχολή itself is indicated by the verb σχολάζειν. On the other hand, the verb ἀσχολεῖσθαι indicates a lack of σχολή, namely a manner of being in which our capacity for »bearing time« is inert, and, as a consequence, we lack that open relation to the being of things, i. e. our As mentioned above, the Latin word tempus means precisely this: a favourable occasion, or a convenient opportunity, for a sense to be generated for man. 11 The respite, in which σχολή consists, is »held out« and »had« (namely, for man to uphold and have it in his turn) by virtue of the twofold »holding off« that characterizes the »before« (i. e. »not anymore«) and »after« (i. e. »not yet«). The respite itself can be seen as a break — not, though, as a break »from something«, but in the first place as the original breaking (das Aufbrechen; l’irrompere) of an openness and freeness for the generation of an acceptable, receivable, likely sense (concerning this notion of likelihood, see below, p. 143 sqq.). 10

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freedom. As we shall see, there are different modes and degrees of that inertia; in other words, not all manners of »unfree occupation« are equal. For the moment, we can conclude that, with regard to the distinction between »leisure« and »occupation«, the relevant opposition is not between »action« and »idleness«, »busyness« and »rest«, but between 1. a manner of being in which man’s relation to being, and, in the first place, to time as the opportunity for being, is »at work«, and 2. a manner of being in which, on the other hand, the relation to time, and therefore to being, is inert. Since time is, so to speak, a condition of man’s relation to being or sense, the first manner of being (i. e. scholazein) is the one in which »there is time« and »we have time«, while in the second one (i. e. ascholeisthai) »there is no time« and »we have no time«. 12 Thus, the circumstance of »having time«, and of there »being time«, is independent of what the clock might show; in fact, the latter is a device that in itself has no relation to time (intended as an opportunity for the arising of a sense), while it provides a parametric mechanism that helps to implement a peculiar kind of order (namely, one that is characterized by uniformity and computability) with respect to the movement, or sense, of beings, and to our own actions with regard to those beings. As a result of »applying the clock to time«, the movement of beings and the being of man are, in turn, translated into a parametric form. Let us now turn our attention to ἵνα »that, in order that« (dass, damit; affinché). We call this kind of word a conjunction and, in particular, a final conjunction. The final conjunction indicates the end (Zweck; fine) of what precedes it. What, however, is an end? Answer: that which »comes at the end«, in the sense that all the rest tends toward it and finds in it its completion. However, while the end, in a sense, »comes at the end«, it is what is kept in view from the very beginning, and precisely as that which gives direction, or sense, to whatever tends toward it. Hence, the end (in particular, what the Greeks call τέλος [telos]) is not merely, and not in the first place, what comes after everything else in a succession, but rather what constantly comes first, in that it is always already there as the source from which the being of something originates; in other words, the end is what, from the beginning to the end, waits for man to mind it We must take this term literally: in ἀσχολία there is no time, i. e. time as such is »absent«, just as we ourselves are, in a sense, »absent«, i. e. not our own selves.

12

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and attend to it in his relation to things and to himself. Considering that the end of something is the source from which the being of that something springs, in an ontological sense ἵνα indicates »an end« (an aim, an objective, a target) that is of the order of what from the outset and »at all times« determines the being of what tends toward it. In light of this notion of end, we can now affirm the following: σχολάζειν is not just »one« manner of man’s being, but the end of man’s being, and thus the initial and perennial source of that being and its sense. In other words, σχολάζειν is the »final« being-oneself of man (namely, his being »free« and, therefore, »eudaimonic«), which gives a sense to his entire being — both when this being is in accordance with that end and when it is not (in which case man, in a sense, »is not«). Because in σχολάζειν the very being of man is at stake, we call it a »native endowment« of man. A native endowment is what the human being »has« by virtue of being born as a human being; however, rather than being a possession that can be dealt with at will, this endowment is what pertains to us as the element in which we struggle to be ourselves, i. e. to be free. This circumstance has the following consequence: any ἀσχολεῖσθαι is more or less meaningful (and makes us more or less »eudaimonic«) according to its relation to the »finally (i. e. initially and ultimately) underlying« σχολάζειν, which is its first and last »what-for«. This conclusion applies, in particular, to the forms of ἀσχολεῖσθαι directed towards securing the necessities of life. If, on the one hand, it is true that there can be no σχολάζειν without the support of life, and therefore without the satisfaction of the necessities of life, on the other hand, these necessities, like life itself, are meaningful (i. e. obtain their sense and measure) only thanks to σχολάζειν, which is already there as their end, and which they, in turn, sustain or fail to sustain, with which they are in accord or at odds. In other words: there is no such thing as an »absolute« ἀσχολεῖσθαι; that is, an absolute activity for absolute necessities of life, where »absolute« means: independent of the originally and finally human trait of σχολάζειν. Rather, any ἀσχολεῖσθαι — any activity directed toward the solution of the economic problem — »makes sense« insofar as it is attuned to σχολή and σχολάζειν, which it is meant to sustain, and from which it obtains the measure that it lacks in itself. 13 Consequently, ἀσχολεῖσθαι is a »presupposition« for σχολάζειν only if 13

Absolute ascholeisthai, that is, being busy in the provision of means without an

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— and to the extent to which — the latter already provides it with sense and measure. This, however, implies that σχολάζειν (and particularly its purest form: »theory«, in the sense of philosophical thinking) cannot be »postponed« or »procrastinated«, and thereby »for the time being« entirely disregarded, according to the maxim »first provide for the necessities of life, then engage in philosophizing«, where 1. »first« and »then« are points on the »arrow of time« (the very notion and operative scope of which in fact excludes time in the sense of σχολή); and 2. »providing for the necessities of life« is seen as an activity governed by its own, »objective« laws, and in which σχολάζειν has no say. In fact, the implication of such blind postponement is that the »economic problem«, in turn, becomes absolute, as the relation within which it can become clear what its »solution« is supposed to be »good for« (i. e. what is its end) is completely inert; as a consequence, »eudaimonia« itself ends up being deferred forever, while all actions, as well as their outcomes, lack a sense and a measure. Hence, the effort of solving the economic problem makes sense — i. e. there is a true scope for economising — only where σχολάζειν already directs that effort, thus providing a measure for the economic virtue of prudence. In other words, only thanks to the awakening of σχολάζειν may economic action actually contribute to support the »free« and »eudaimonic« being of man. We can sum up this insight with the following formula: Without σχολάζειν no measure for economy no true economic ἀσχολεῖσθαι.

underlying, attuning reference to the respite of scholē, is measureless, and therefore senseless and dehumanizing.

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Appendix 1 From the Preface to Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit (1806)

Von allen Wissenschaften, Künsten, Geschicklichkeiten, Handwerken gilt die Ueberzeugung, daß, um sie zu besitzen, eine vielfache Bemühung des Erlernens und Uebens derselben nöthig ist. In Ansehung der Philosophie dagegen scheint jetzt das Vorurtheil zu herrschen, daß, wenn zwar jeder Augen und Finger hat, und wenn er Leder und Werkzeug bekommt, er darum nicht im Stande sey, Schuhe zu machen, — jeder doch unmittelbar zu philosophieren, und die Philosophie zu beurtheilen verstehe, weil er den Maaßstab an seiner natürlichen Vernunft dazu besitze, — als ob er den Maaßstab eines Schuhes nicht an seinem Fuße ebenfalls besäße. — Es scheint gerade in den Mangel von Kenntnissen und von Studium der Besitz der Philosophie gesetzt zu werden, und diese da aufzuhören, wo jene anfangen. Sie wird häufig für ein formelles inhaltsleeres Wissen gehalten, und es fehlt sehr an der Einsicht, daß was, auch dem Inhalte nach, in irgend einer Kenntniß und Wissenschaft Wahrheit ist, diesen Namen allein dann verdienen kann, wenn es von der Philosophie erzeugt worden; daß die anderen Wissenschaften, sie mögen es mit Raisonnieren ohne die Philosophie versuchen, so viel sie wollen, ohne sie nicht Leben, Geist, Wahrheit in ihnen zu haben vermögen. 14

With respect to all sciences, arts, skills and crafts the conviction holds that, in order to master them, multiple efforts of learning and training are necessary. However, regarding philosophy, it now appears that the following prejudice prevails: while, though anyone has eyes and fingers, that does not suffice to make him capable of making shoes once he is given leather and tools; on the other hand, anyone is immediately [»just like that«, »without further ado«] able to philosophize, and to pass a judgement on philosophy, because he possesses in his natural reason the gauge [il metro] for doing so — as if he didn’t also possess the gauge for a shoe on his foot. — It appears that one ties the mastery of philosophy precisely to the lack of knowledge and of study, and that philosophy ends where the latter begin. Philosophy is often deemed to be a formal science without any content, and the insight is very much missing that whatever truth there is in a knowledge or in a science, including the truth of its contents, can deserve to be called a truth only if it has been brought about by philosophy; and that the other sciences, no matter how hard they may try to argue without philosophy, without it are not capable of having in themselves any life, genius or truth.

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Both the common sense that sustains our ordinary thinking (»natural reason«) and the thinking of science, Hegel implies, use an operative concept of philosophy: that concept allows the former to operate in the manner of »philosophizing« straight away, and of »judging philosophy« without having to exhibit a sufficient criterion of truth; on the other hand, the latter bases its operative knowledge (including, for instance, a scientific explanation of how »philosophical thinking« functions) 15 precisely on its presumed self-sufficiency with regard to truth. However, it is not Hegel’s intention to argue against natural reason or against science. Rather, he argues in favour of a sound foundation of human knowledge (namely, a foundation in truth), which, on the other hand, is threatened when philosophy is reduced to an operative concept of it.

14 G. W. F. Hegel's Phänomenologie des Geistes. Berlin: Duncker und Humblot, 1832, p. 53 sq. 15 An example of such an explanation could be a functional theory of philosophical thinking elaborated within, e. g., the field of cognitive science viz. neuroscience (on this cf. Gino Zaccaria, Lingua pensiero canto. Pavia: Ibis, 2014, p. 105 sqq.).

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2. Introduction

The title Principles of Philosophy suggests that this text is about »principles« such as we find within the form of knowledge called »philosophy«. Philosophy is known to be a very general and abstract manner of reflecting on things of all kinds. A principle, on the other hand, is a source or an origin, a deepest root or fundamental cause, an ultimate basis or primary force, a first law or fundamental truth, from which something, or even everything, derives in one way or another as a result or consequence. »Principles of philosophy« could therefore be either the most general sources of those things discovered through philosophical thought, or the sources of this general thought itself and of the principles it elaborates within itself. In either case, our topic is definitely out of the way with respect to what we are accustomed to encounter and to engage with, to pursue and to cope with on the many paths we walk every day. Wherever the principles which philosophy attempts to determine might be located, they are certainly remote, in the sense that there is a long distance between the principles themselves and that which is of immediate or pressing concern to us. Principles are remote, and yet they are »there« and necessary. In fact, if a principle is a source and an origin, all those infinite things which are not principles, and in which we are more or less closely and directly interested, must owe themselves to, and depend on, some kind of principle. Two plus three is five, and the principle of this lies in the peculiar judgement that »sees« the number five resulting from the addition of two and three. An apple falls to the ground, and the underlying principle is the law of gravity. A rosebush buds, and the principle is the photosynthesis which the bush performs. A wolf kills a sheep, and the principle is the instinctive hunger that is driving the wolf. A student doesn’t pay attention during a lecture, and the principle is the hunger afflicting him, namely, a bodily need that prevails over his capacity to behave in a »scholarly« manner, that is, to focus on an intellectual content to which his attention is being called. A 28 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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man and a woman walk together through life, and the principle is the inexplicable and inextinguishable love that unites them. A statesman unites a people, and the principle is the idea of nation which the statesman serves. The universe exists, and the principle is an uncreated god who is the maker of everything. An individual acts in a good manner, and the principle is the imperative according to which she chooses to act in that particular way rather than otherwise. And so on ad infinitum. Wherever something exists, and this something is derived or has the form of a consequence, there must be a source or an origin that is prior to what is derived or is a consequence. And wherever there is a source or an origin that is itself derived or a consequence of a previous source, there must eventually be an underived, first origin that comes before all others and from which all derived sources spring. What seems to characterize a principle is this firstand-before-all character. In fact, in some of the preceding statements, the word principle sounds more appropriate than in others, in which we could just as well have said »reason« or »cause« or »law«. It is where the highest reason or the first cause or the most fundamental law comes into play that we are, properly speaking, in the domain of principles. If we look back at the examples of principles we have just listed, we notice another fundamental difference between them. Some of these principles belong to the realm of nature, and they are thought to exist and operate independently of man; that is, of the sheer fact of man’s existence as well as of man’s will. Had there never been human beings on the earth, the law of gravity, we think, would still hold. And however strong our will, we cannot influence that principle as such, namely the fact that it acts in the way it acts. The most that we can do is to influence the forces that act according to this principle. Other principles among those that were mentioned are, on the contrary, not independent from man, even though man does not make them but can only recognize them or not and comply with them or not. For instance, man does not create love; he does not make the idea of a nation; he does not invent a moral imperative. However, without man there is no love, nor the idea of a nation, nor of course a moral imperative. And what about God? Man does not create God, but is there a god without man? We do not know how to answer this question right away. The question we must pose and answer, however, is this: What kind of principles are the principles of philosophy? Are they of the kind that exist and hold independently of man, or rather 29 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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of the kind that exist and hold only in relation to man? Or are there philosophical principles of both kinds? Or, finally, are philosophical principles of an altogether different nature than the principles we have considered so far? At first sight, the answer to this question appears obvious: the principles of philosophy can only be principles that are in some way related to man. The other kind of principles — let us call them »natural principles« — are not part of philosophy, but rather of science. Therefore, we must conclude that philosophy only deals with a part, but not with the totality of principles, and that there are principles, for instance the aforementioned natural principles, which are investigated and discovered by another form of knowledge. To be true, there must exist something like a philosophy of mathematics and of natural science. But the philosophy of mathematics does not discover, say, the first axioms of arithmetic; nor does the philosophy of physics unveil the fundamental laws of nature; nor does the philosophy of biology investigate the basic mechanisms of life; and so on. Rather than dealing with their specific content, philosophy concerns these forms of knowledge as such by offering the ground on which they can unfold and prosper. Precisely this grounding-relation of philosophy to science introduces a new perspective on the question of principles. If a natural principle — say, the relation of mass and energy — is recognized as such within mathematical physics, and mathematical physics as a form of knowledge owes itself to philosophy, from which its operative concepts are derived; that is, if physics has philosophy as its source in the specified sense, then the natural principles of physics are themselves derived insofar as they are known, and, more specifically, are scientifically known principles. Hence, they are »principles« only within the restricted domain of the particular, derived form of knowledge, i. e. science, which obtains and upholds them within the scope of its enquiry. 16 This restriction implies that, if we adopt a rigorous noThe problem remains, whether (and, in case, how) we can conceive of a principle independently of its being known. We say: the law of gravity exists and acts independently of its being known to man. Even if »law of gravity«, »existence« and »acting« are admittedly concepts within the domain of human knowledge, we are inclined to affirm that, undoubtedly, there is »something« taking place as a consequence of »something else« irrespective of all knowledge, namely of the fact that at some point we identify this »event« as the movement of a mass according to the law of gravity. Independently of whether and how it is known, we still say that the event occurs. Fine.

16

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tion of principle, according to which a principle is a first source or origin, a source or origin that does not owe itself to any other source or origin, we must conclude that something like a principle cannot be found in physics, and indeed in any science, while it can — supposedly — be found in philosophy, and perhaps only in philosophy. Hence, the relevant distinction is not, as we thought in the first place, between principles that are independent of man and principles that are not. Rather, we need to distinguish between a broader and a more rigorous meaning of principle. While a natural law, or a commonsense rule of action, is a principle only in a wide and derived sense, philosophical principles are principles in the strict or original sense. Thus, from now on we will be referring to principles only in this original and rigorous sense of the word. Moreover, if it is true that only philosophical principles are principles in the now clarified sense, and philosophical principles are always related to man, then there is an essential character of principles which we can already state at this early stage of our enquiry: a principle is a source or an origin that is in some way related to man, and, more precisely, to man as man, or, in other words, to man’s being. In fact, for man, the relation to something like a principle is not an accidental or accessory one. Rather, it concerns man in the character or trait that constitutes him as such. This trait is that of knowing. Man is the knowing being, and this means: when applied to man, the verb »being« has primarily the sense of knowing. 17 Therefore, we can say that a principle is a source or an origin that is known by man, while man, in turn, is who he is by virtue of his knowing-relation to something like a principle in the rigorous sense of the term. And yet, even this »completely independent« event falls into the sphere of knowledge, insofar as it is known as being independent of knowledge and is known as this event in the first place. Thus, it seems that »event« and »being known as an event« indicate the same circumstance, and that the notion of »event«, including that of »event taking place before the appearance of the human species in the universe«, implies that of »being known by man« — or, which is the same, that of »taking place within the sphere of human awareness«. This suggests that human awareness is »older« (or »earlier«) than any event, including the events that precede the appearance of the human species in the universe. (As we can see, the problem, which here is far from being properly posed, let alone solved, is not such that could be tackled swiftly.) 17 Notice that this statement does not imply that such knowledge is a »mental« rather than a »bodily« act. Also, knowing here does not indicate a formal knowledge, but the awareness of what makes itself known, which can, eventually, give rise to such a knowledge.

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When we say that a principle is a source or an origin known by man, we do not mean that, as long as the principle is unknown, it is not yet a principle, while it becomes a principle in the very instant in which man acquires an explicit knowledge of it. What we mean is entirely different, namely this: a principle is a source or an origin that as such consists in a reference to man which we call knowledge, independently of whether man happens to have a formal or explicit knowledge of that principle. Indeed, the principle is itself this reference to man, to wit, it is itself a knowledge of itself, a letting man know of itself, which is the source and element of all further human knowledge. A more rigorous formulation than the mere statement that a principle is »known by man« is therefore the following: a principle is a source or origin that is itself the source or origin of the knowledge that man can have of it. Put differently: a principle always comes with a knowledge of itself, a knowledge of which the principle itself is the source — a principle originates its own knowledge and through that knowledge of itself addresses man so that he may acknowledge it. Therefore, finding a principle always means recognizing a source that contains in itself a reference to man, that is, to being known. This, in turn, implies that finding a principle and gaining knowledge of it is, for man (whose being consists in the acknowledging knowledge of principles), a way to find and to know himself. As a matter of fact, this is not only »a« way, but the way for man to find and know himself — at least in terms of the manhood that stands within the tradition of philosophy: that is, in the tradition of the knowledge of principles. We said above that man is the knowing being. We can now expand this statement by saying: man is the knowing being insofar as he knows, as the being that he is, the source of all knowledge; in other words: insofar as he has, purely by virtue of his being a man, a knowledge of principles. We must take this statement in its literal and full sense, which offers a notion of man as such: to be a man is to know principles. If we combine this notion with our previous statement, namely that philosophy is the knowledge of principles, we can conclude that man as such is a philosophical being. In other words, to be a man is, in a sense, to philosophize. We must not take this phrase to mean that each single human being is by nature constantly occupied in philosophical reflection, which is clearly not true. Rather, we must take it as a determination of man’s being. »To be a man is to philosophize« means: man’s being is characterized by a constitutive openness to what we call principles, 32 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

Introduction

and therefore — given that philosophy is the knowledge of principles — by a constitutive reference to philosophy. The fact that the openness of man’s being to principles is constitutive means that man’s being has its origin and ground 18 in that openness. Independently of whether or not we (i. e. each single one of us) ever engage in philosophical thought, the fundamental trait of our being is philosophical. This insight can also be formulated as follows: man as such is natively philosophical, or — in the terms of a notion introduced in the previous chapter — philosophy is a native endowment of man. 19 Thus, by the mere fact of being born as human beings we are already in an essential relation to philosophy: that is, to the knowledge of principles, i. e. to the knowledge of the source of all knowledge, to which source we, as human beings, belong. Man — each single human being — through his or her very being reaches into the source of all knowledge. Through our being we already dwell in the domain of this source, and this source, in turn, »is« in and through us. Man — the human being — is a »born philosopher«. Thus, being a human being means, in a sense, to philosophize. Yet, this fundamental relation to philosophy, this knowledge we have

Throughout this book we use the word »ground« (Grund; fondo) rather than »basis« in order to indicate what is fundamental in the manner of an element that, in order to constitute itself as such, needs to be established, or »grounded« through man’s being; in other words: a ground grounds itself as such by availing itself of the capacity for grounding that is man’s native endowment (see following note). That said, we shall see how, throughout the tradition of philosophical thinking, »being« has in fact been thought as a ground in the sense of an underlying basis or fundament, namely for beings. 19 The fact that man is born into philosophy implies that philosophy is the dimension in which the very being of man is at stake. In a formula: philosophy is about the being of man as such. — The notion of »native endowment« is to be strictly distinguished from that of an »innate capacity«. The latter is a capacity we acquire by birth, but not in so far as we are born as human beings. Examples of innate capacities are walking, singing, articulating sounds, drawing, playing an instrument, calculating and similar »talents«, which we can either sustain in their unfolding and eventually bring to an accomplished stage, or else neglect and allow to wither. However, a talent for drawing does not necessarily make a painter; playing the piano with virtuosity does not make a musician; a great singing voice does not make an artist in singing; the ability to quickly perform calculations does not make an original mathematician; and so on. On the other hand, an artist is someone whose awakened native endowment might be aided by an innate capacity for drawing or singing etc., which that same endowment then proceeds to educate and shape according to the needs of its particular artistic path. 18

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through our very being, for the most part remains dormant or — as said above in regard to our relation to being and to time — inert. Most if not all of the manifold knowledge we acquire and retain is not an explicit knowledge of principles, and, more often than not, it is oblivious of its source. In fact, those principles seem to be so distant that we find it rather difficult to accept that the knowledge of principles is the only knowledge which we can say each human being »has« by birth. One of the reasons for this difficulty is that, when we hear the word »knowledge«, we cannot help but think that in this knowledge something is known, and that this known content must be stored somewhere in our brain. As a consequence, this knowledge with which we are supposedly born, the knowledge of principles, appears to be something that escapes us, and thus a sort of unexpressed and inactivated potential or a resource that, for some reason, mostly lies idle. How is it possible, we think, that I know something without having at some point consciously learned it? And how can it be that, moreover, this something completely escapes my awareness? We will soon see, however, that the knowledge of principles is not the knowledge of something. Meanwhile, we can indicate how an explicit knowledge of these principles is gained; in other words, we can say something about the nature of philosophical knowledge. While what we can say in the first place about philosophical knowledge is very simple, it immediately introduces a sharp distinction between philosophical knowledge on the one hand and scientific knowledge as well as common sense on the other. We can indicate the peculiar character of philosophical knowledge as follows: a principle (in the rigorous meaning of the word) cannot be known by demonstration; the only way to know it is to become aware of it. In fact, if principles are what we already know by virtue of being born as human beings, knowing them, in the sense of acquiring an explicit, or formal, knowledge of them, can only be a matter of remembering, so to speak, what we already know by birth, or, as we have said before, of becoming aware of them. Philosophical knowledge is about this »act« of becoming aware, this awakening from inertia into a perceptiveness and mindfulness; it has to do with the awakening of a constitutive reference that at first and for the most part remains dormant — it is about discerning and acknowledging what we already know by turning our mind to it, or simply: by minding it. This minding is what the German and the Italian language say, respectively, in the expressions auf etwas merken (or also: auf etwas aufmerksam werden, etwas 34 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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bemerken) and scorgere qualcosa (or also: accorgersi di qualcosa). 20 We can thus formulate as follows what is itself a fundamental principle of philosophical knowledge: A principle cannot be demonstrated, we can only become aware of it (i. e. mind it). Ein Prinzip kann nicht bewiesen werden, wir können nur darauf merken (bzw. darauf aufmerksam werden). Un principio non può essere dimostrato, ma soltanto scorto (ovvero possiamo soltanto accorgercene).

What does it mean that a principle cannot be demonstrated? Any demonstration, be it logical, mathematical, or empirical, bases the compellingness of its conclusion on the unquestioned givenness of the terms, concepts and facts that it computes. The characteristic evidence of thus computed results, their immediate and conclusive acceptability, comes from the »intuitive« evidence of what the method of demonstration presupposes. However, in the domain of principles, of first sources and ultimate origins, this kind of evidence cannot arise, in that nothing is »intuitively« or unquestionably given, nothing is presupposed or taken for granted as a basis from which a demonstration could proceed: in fact, a principle is what in the first place gives a »light« of knowledge, grants a ground for all appearing, constitutes the interrogative space in which all evidence becomes questionable. Therefore, as we shall see in more detail thanks to the guidance of Aristotle, the idea that principles could or should be known by demonstration is not only fallacious, but is a fallacy of thinking that affects and encroaches upon man’s very capacity to know anything at all in a constitutive sense. The words »mind«, merken and scorgere are different ways of indicating the same »trial«, or »ordeal«, of our capacity for knowing. »Mind« comes from PIE (ProtoIndo-European) root *men- »think, remember, have one’s mind aroused«. This root is extraordinarily rich in our languages, including Greek (mainesthai, mnasthai, mania, etc.) and Latin (mens, meminisse, monere, etc.), and, from there, Italian (mente, memoria, moneta, etc.), German (Mentalität, Kommentar, demonstrieren, etc.) and English (comment, mentor, remember, etc.); the German words mahnen (to remind, exhort), munter (brisk, alert) and Minne (an old word for love) also come from the same root. It is significant that merken means both »become aware, notice, pay attention« and »remember«. On the other hand, scorgere comes from Latin excorrigere, which is formed from ex »out«, cum »with, by« (indicating a means) and regere »direct, rule, guide«, and has the meaning »follow with the eye, direct the mind«, hence »notice, spot, discern (and thus bring ›out‹, namely to light)«. 20

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This consideration about how philosophical knowledge can be acquired — that is, about the nature of philosophizing — brings us back to the peculiar nature of principles. More precisely, it brings us back to what we said earlier, namely, that the knowledge of principles is not the knowledge of something, which implies that principles themselves are not something. However, what are they, if they are not something? Let us look at the word »principle« in order to get a better grasp of what we have learned about principles so far. The word principle traces back to the Latin principium, which has two concurrent etymologies. The first component of principium (prin-) is formed by a theme which we also find in primus »first«. For the second component (-cipium) two derivations have been suggested: on the one hand, from the verb capere »to hold, grasp, seize« (see the English word »inception«, a synonym of »beginning« or »onset«), and, on the other hand, from the verb coepi »to have begun, to have set on«. It can be shown, however, that in the present context the two suggested derivations for the second component of principium in fact refer to one and the same sense, namely a setting on, or initiating, or incepting (anfangen; iniziare) that has the character of a seizure (ein Fangen; un prendere), and a seizure that is in itself a setting on. 21 Since, as we have said, a principle is not the principle of something, it follows that the seizure, too, does not seize anything; rather, the seizure, as it were, seizes itself: it is therefore a self-seizure, whose knowledge and openness in its turn seizes and concerns man, who in his being is natively open to it. 22 Thus, if we put together the first component and the likely unitary meaning of the second component, we obtain the following as the meaning of principium or principle: principle: first (already initiated) self-seizing Prinzip: erstes (schon angefangenes) Sich-Fangen principio: pristino (già iniziato) sé-prendere

This definition sounds awkward, if not weird. It sounds even weirder if we bear in mind what has been said above concerning the relation of man’s being to principles, namely, that man’s being is native of (viz.

It is not accidental that in German and Italian words like anfangen and prendere (a) mean to begin. 22 One instance, or rather one tone, of this seizure is what the Greeks call ἔρως (erōs). 21

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awakens as such to) the knowledge of principles as the first origin and source, and that this source — as we now say: the first (already initiated) self-seizing — is in and through us insofar as we are human beings. Yet, despite its weirdness, this formulaic determination of what a principle is can help us to become more familiar with this notion; that is, (it can help us) to begin to let us be reminded of what we already know. More precisely, that determination helps us to gain a richer understanding of the aforementioned remoteness of principles. A principle is first or pristine, meaning: it comes before or earlier than anything else. It is not »something« that is earlier than everything else, but rather comes as the earliness itself. In other words, the »firstness« of the principle is not such that what is first is followed by what is second, and so on. On the contrary, the principle is »first« in a way that knows no »second« and no »third«; that is, in its being first, the principle is (each time) unique or one of a kind. The pristine character indicates a remoteness of the principle with regard to that of which it is the principle. However, this remoteness cannot imply that the principle is »elsewhere« with regard to everything else. Why? Because, if the principle is truly pristine and first, there cannot be a given »elsewhere« in which the principle finds a location: if there already were an »elsewhere« before the principle, in order for the principle to be located there, then that elsewhere would itself be the principle! The only conclusion we can draw from this conundrum is the following: not only is the principle removed into earliness, but »removed (or remote) earliness« is that in which the principle itself consists. 23 Thus, earliness does not refer to a chronological precedence, but to the simultaneous remoteness (at all times) of what is first in the sense of the origin. The thus characterized earliness is such that it seizes itself, and this means: it does not seize anything (indeed, there is no given thing for it to seize), nor can it be seized (like a thing), but, again, it consists in a self-seizing. By virtue of this self-seizing, the earliness holds off in its own place and only by such holding-off it is, in turn, and in its own way, seizing. However, this »off-holding earliness« is in itself such that it has always already begun. This having already begun, or What we are saying here is this: the »removed earliness« is itself »principle-like«, or: the removed earliness is an original trait through which the principle itself »speaks«, or makes itself known, thus instantaneously igniting our awareness of it.

23

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being already initiated, means that the principle is always already »in motion« — but in motion towards where? Answer: towards us! However, because the expression »in motion« makes us think of something moving, we speak instead of a »coming«, which can be said without reference to something. Hence, we say that the principle consists in a coming (namely, the coming »our way« of the only selfseizing earliness) that is always already coming. If we ponder more closely this structure of »a coming that is always already coming«, we notice that what it says is that what comes in this coming is (not something but) the remote initiation of the coming itself, where »remote« means: withdrawn into an unseizable »before« (or »earlier«) that, in the coming, has already come as the initial self-seizing! If we now call this initial self-seizing, the initiation of all coming, »instant«, we can say that the remote earliness in which the principle consists, namely the advent of the has-been selfseizing, is the »coming of the (already) come instant« (die Ankunft des gewesenen Augenblicks; l’avvento dell’avvenuto istante). If we read this explication backwards, the result is that a principle — the »first (already initiated) self-seizing« — is the has-been instant, which, by virtue of its having been, holds off and, in this manner, comes forever toward us (or: »our way«) as a »before«, namely before anything, before any something. However, this »before« of the earliness is not a before »in time«, for what comes before something »in time« is just another something, whereas, as we know, a principle is never something. Thus, a principle in its removed earliness comes rigorously before any something without being itself a something. In due time we will have to ask what, precisely, is the sense of this coming-before — or this »anticipatory character« — of the principle. For the time being, we can draw a few consequences from this preliminary determination of what constitutes a principle. First, a principle is nowhere among the things of the world, in none of the places that is a place of something. As said before, the principle holds off »in its own place« (i. e. it consists in an originally removed earliness). On the other hand, the principle »is« always »there« when and where something finds or is in its place, and precisely as the origin and source, thanks to which this something takes place in its place. Hence, the principle is at once nowhere and everywhere. Second, the principle is never among the things of the world, at none of the times that is a time of something. It is the coming-our-way of the unique has-been instant, the instantaneous towardness which holds 38 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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(con-tains) the »already-been« and the »yet-to-be«. As such, it »is« always »there« when and where something takes place at its time, namely, as the origin and source, thanks to which this something takes place. Hence, the principle is at once never and ever (always). Third, the principle is itself not something, 24 but is before everything as the origin and source, thanks to which anything may be. Hence, the principle is at once nothing and everything. Summing up, what we call a principle is nothing, never and nowhere, and thus remote in a way that no difference between a thing and another thing can measure. However, a principle is at once everything, ever and everywhere, and thus close to us (namely to our native understanding of principles) in a way that no immediacy of something could ever attain; in fact, our own being is native of the ever coming instant: it natively belongs to (finds itself from and loses itself to) what always comes our way. In this manner, the principle is itself of a unique otherness with regard to all that is known as evident, to all that is customary, ordinary and common. In fact, it is utterly other with respect to all that is, that has been and that will be. Philosophy, the knowledge of principles, has as its one and only preoccupation this weird and »offish« nothing that is never and nowhere, and yet is always »there«. Philosophy is nothing but the knowledge of that nothing, and it knows itself as this knowledge. However, to this knowledge also belongs the awareness that it is not a more or less extravagant and somewhat idle activity in which some humans happen to engage. Rather, this knowledge knows itself to be the borne (suffered, sustained) awakening of the knowledge of principles, thanks to which, through which and by whose measure the human being is a human being in the first place. In other words, philosophy

Put differently, a principle is not a being (ein Seiendes; un ente/essente), which explains the quotation marks around »is« in the expression »the principle ›is‹ always ›there‹«. If we apply the verb »being« to beings (»a being is«), it seems that we cannot, in the same sense, say »is« with respect to that which is not a being, but rather the constitutive trait of beings as such, i. e. the principle. This raises the question of how we ought to think and name the constitutive »action« of a principle. However, the same question concerns being (das Sein; l’essere), of which we equally cannot say that it »is«, as by doing so we would place it at the level of beings. The question can thus be formulated as follows: »A being is. But what about being itself?« — »Seiendes ist. Wie aber steht es mit dem Sein selbst?« — »L’ente è. Che ne è però dell’essere in quanto tale, ovvero dell’indole ›essere‹ ?«

24

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knows itself as a manner of being that is entirely dedicated to suffering the ground of man’s being in its constitutive trait, namely (the openness to) the knowledge of principles. 25 Because the knowledge of principles is constitutive for man’s being, it is what man can never get away from, that of which man can never rid himself. In other words, man cannot but hold himself in reference to (he cannot not think) what is nothing and nowhere and never, and yet, in a sense, is (i. e. deserves to have the verb »being« applied to it) more than anything that is not a principle but owes itself to a principle. 26 In spite of this, man for the most part is not at all mindful of the close remoteness (or: remote closeness) of principles. Usually, he turns his mind to what appears to be the only thing »there is«, namely, the »things« of the »world«. These things are what he creates and destroys, spares and consumes, worships and condemns, enjoys and suffers, loves and hates, remembers and forgets, knows and ignores. Man is entirely absorbed by »things« and never turned towards the »nothing« that is the source of what these things are and how they are — indeed, the source of the »there« which allows us to say »there is …« in the first place. Why is this? One reason for this lack of attention consists in a fundamental trait of this nothing, namely the fact that it evades being grasped, retreats into itself and refrains from appearing, and all this precisely in favour of what obtains its sense and appears thanks to it; consequently, the »favour of nothing« is itself easily overlooked and forgotten. Our ordinary way of seeing, grasping and considering, which is all geared towards, and attuned to, things and their relations, can at most state the utter fleetingness of this dimension, the »existence« of

Suffering, here, does not imply »physical« or »psychological« pain. Rather, it is to be understood in its literal meaning (from Latin sub »under« and ferre »carry«), namely as an unsustained sustaining. 26 This is another way of approaching the question raised above in note 24: if a being is, and the principle is the source or origin thanks to which the being is a being, then the principle can legitimately claim to »be« even more than any single being or than beings in whole. One might go even further and say that the »is« does not belong to any being, but rather to the principle that originates being (and thus beings as such), so that one reaches the conclusion that only the principle is, while beings are not. Rather than providing a conclusive answer as to whether the verb »being« should be reserved for beings, or for being itself, or for the principle of being, these considerations should in the first place raise our awareness to the fact that it is not at all clear what we are saying when we say »is« and »being«. 25

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which it might admit »in theory«, while for the most part it is bound to overlook and forget it. 27 However, by overlooking and forgetting this original dimension (to which, as we recall, man as such natively belongs), man is detached from himself, namely, from his own self, which consists precisely in the relation to that dimension. In this exclusive relation of man, detached from himself, and things, deprived of the source of their sense, »everything flows«, one thing leads to another, and nothing is truly unexpected, while we, in turn, are constantly kept busy, and are acquainted with ourselves in this busy-ness. The absorbing familiarity of our everyday world is, on the whole, comfortable and comforting. And yet, though it usually does not show, the things we run into every day, including our own selves, are in a way alien and foreign. They are alien and foreign not in the sense of the weirdness and otherness of the principle and its knowledge. Rather, these things are (unconspicuously and yet perceptibly) alien and foreign in the sense that, no matter what their role and function and importance in our lives, the light in which they appear, and therefore the things themselves, do not, as it were, remind us of the dimension in which, as human beings, we dwell in the first place, and therefore also do not restore and sustain us in our dwelling in it. What is this dimension? Answer: the domain of the manifold ways of our belonging to the principle and its openness, which (that domain) we can provisionally call »the world«. Thus, we can conclude that, even though they often »make up our world«, those things are alien to us in that they are deprived of their world-bearing light and thus are worldless. 28 The closeness of the principle is, so to speak, an over-closeness. In other words, what is of the order of a principle is so close to us (or in us, namely as the origin of our being), that we mostly overlook it, while our attention is already engaged by things. To this closeness we must apply the same consideration that has been made concerning the remoteness of the principle: the principle is not something that is close, but rather the closeness itself. The immediacy that mostly characterizes our encounter and dealing with things covers up the closeness (the invisible »country« for all encounters with beings) in which the principle consists. In fact, that immediacy consists in the circumstance that the closeness of the principle, with its constitutive reference to man’s being, retreats to the point in which it relinquishes beings to themselves and lets man fall prey to the immediate impact which these beings have on his »life-sphere«. 28 The Greek word for »dwelling place« is ἦθος (ēthos), and man’s original ἦθος is what the Greeks call κόσμος (kosmos); hence, instead of »worldless«, we could say »acosmic« and »an-ethical«. 27

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In one of the fragments of his lost book which have been handed down to us, an early thinker of our tradition, Heraclitus of Ephesus, makes reference to this peculiar familiarity of things, which actually hides a fundamental alienation. In this fragment, n. 72 in the standard edition by German philologists Hermann Diels and Walther Kranz, 29 he speaks of our ordinary relation to λόγος (logos) — which is his name for the principle of being — and the consequences of that relation on the encounter with things. The fragment reads as follows: That with which they converse most continuously 30, namely logos — with that they are at odds; and hthusi, that which they encounter and with which they deal every day, appears alien to them.

Whom does Heraclitus mean with »they«? Rather than referring to a certain group or category of people, he is indicating a certain manner of being, and therefore each one of us, insofar as we exist in that manner of being. It is the everyday or ordinary manner of being, in which our relation to things — be it »theoretical« or »practical« — rests on an obvious, operative understanding of their sense, with no regard for (let alone an explicit questioning of) sense-relations, in light of which each thing acquires its meaning, or remains meaningless, within the whole of sense-relations (i. e. the human world) which we inhabit. As a consequence, certain actions are performed, and certain effects are obtained, certain goals are pursued, and certain objectives are met — and yet, in a more or less hidden manner, that for which all these efforts, ultimately, are meant to be »good«, and whose light only makes things themselves appear »homely«, escapes us and remains unminded. The missing reference to the ultimate, sense-bestowing »good« — which is the same as the »first origin« (i. e. the principle) — results in the fact that any »something« we encounter and with which we deal (including ourselves) appears alien, deprived of its world-sense, even though in an operative, habi-

Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. Griechisch und Deutsch von Hermann Diels, herausgegeben von Walther Kranz. Erster Band. Zürich-Hildesheim: Weidmann, 1992. 30 »To converse with«, here, translates Greek ὁμιλεῖν (homilein) »to consort, associate, hold converse, deal with« (from ὁμοῦ [homou], »together«; see our word »homily«, a sermon, i. e. a speech delivered to a gathered crowd). The reference is to the »silent conversation« with the origin of all sense which we hold throughout at the ground of our being, and indeed as that ground. 29

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tual context this alien appearance is mostly covered and only rarely shows through. 31 Before we continue, let us highlight a notion that, though perhaps not obvious at first, upon closer scrutiny presents compelling evidence: If there is something like principles, and if these principles are the source and origin of all sense, then are these principles not what man should care about most, and therefore that for the sake of which everything is (i. e. obtains or loses its being) in the first place? Must not everything, in the end, be about the principle, just as everything is, to begin with, owed to the principle itself? Put differently: How could anything ever not ultimately be for the sake of the principle? How could we ever not, in whatever way we are, respond to the principle in the first place so as to let it have its way? How could any (manner of) being — both of man and of things — »make sense«, as long as it does not, as it were, pay respect to the principle? Meanwhile we have come to know at least two different manners of man’s being: one that is oblivious of principles and another which, on the contrary, is mindful of them. Since our purpose is not only to learn something about the principles of philosophy, but to actually think these principles — that is, to awaken the philosophical trait that is in each one of us — the following question naturally arises: given that we are in the first instance at odds with and oblivious of principles, and this not only in our everyday life, but also as students of different scientific disciplines and even as students of philosophy, how can we shift, or break free, from the condition in which we are oblivious of principles to that in which we are, on the contrary, mindful of them? The answer to this question is simple: we cannot. This answer is clearly disappointing, if not troubling. It seems to suggest that either someone by sheer chance or »destiny« finds him- or herself to be a »philosophizing mind«, or he or she is forever excluded from an explicit access to principles.

It seems contradictory to say that the appearing is alien while the surface is habitual or familiar. Are »appearing« and »surface« not the same? Answer: no, they are not. By »appearing« we don’t mean the outer appearance, but the »light« in which something shows in the sense that it has; that is, in what it is and how it is. Thus, »appearing« here is not, as we commonly think, the opposite of being, but the same as being. In what follows, we must therefore distinguish appearing from (mere) appearance, as we distinguish Erscheinung from Schein and Anschein, and apparire and apparizione from (mera) apparenza and parvenza. 31

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However, the answer implies something different, namely this: philosophical thinking, the thinking of principles, is neither natural to man (for, as we have said, natural is not the same as native), nor can it be induced or initiated by virtue of an act of will, where »act of will« means: an act that is not already itself philosophical and an instance of philosophizing: While philosophizing is certainly a matter of rigour and attention, of patience and dedication, of humbleness and courage, it cannot be set off through a decision to break the inertia that usually encloses us and keeps us from our own native openness to principles. The reason for this is the following: that inertia is itself a mode of our relation to the principle, and we do not own this relation but rather are owned by it. What, then, triggers philosophical thinking? What is its initial and initiating motive? Answer: What other than the principle itself, in its reference to our being! But again, how is this initiating supposed to happen? It still seems that explicit philosophizing ultimately depends on some external event that is beyond our control and influence, which, especially in the eyes of a human being of our time, is a rather odd notion. Leaving aside that oddness for the moment, we now ask the following: Isn’t there a certain disposition, and a certain practice, which is typical of philosophizing, and which we can adopt in order to favour the initiation of philosophizing? Indeed there is such a disposition and practice; namely, the disposition and practice of interrogation. It is a current notion that philosophy is about asking questions — in fact, from the outside (an outside that, as it turns out, is the inside of inertia) it seems that philosophy is nothing but the posing of an endless, mostly inconclusive and ultimately pointless series of questions: What elsewhere is obvious, philosophy calls into question, and this, as everyone knows, is done by questioning further and more deeply where other forms of knowledge and other manners of interrogation content themselves with answers that, though they may not be sufficient in an absolute sense, work well enough for all practical purposes. Fine. However, what precisely is the manner of interrogating which is properly and specifically philosophical? As a matter of fact, qualities such as »more deeply«, »further« or »endless« cannot discriminate between an interrogation that is philosophical and one that is not, between an interrogation for the sake of a knowledge of principles and one that is done out of mere fancy or curiosity or stubbornness, or else in an operative perspective. Exactly how deep does an interrogation need to be, exactly how far does it have to go, exactly 44 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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how long must it last in order to be philosophical? Clearly, these kinds of questions can, as a matter of principle, never find a sufficient answer. Hence, we are back with the problem of how to begin our philosophical journey. Fortunately, philosophy itself is well aware of this problem, and indeed necessarily so. Therefore, the philosophical tradition offers many answers to the question of how philosophizing begins. One of these answers is particularly significant, in that it comes from the thinker with whom philosophy itself begins, namely Socrates. Socrates himself did not leave any written testimony of his thinking. We know about his thinking thanks to his pupil Plato, who placed the figure of Socrates at the centre of his dialogues. Since Plato himself speaks through Socrates’ voice, in the Platonic dialogues it is never quite clear where Socrates’s own teaching ends and Plato’s philosophy begins. However, this is not a question with which we need to be concerned. What should concern us is what Socrates says in Plato’s dialogue Theaetetus about the beginning of philosophizing (155 d): For this is very much a philosopher’s emotive experience [fundamental attunement] — astoundment. Indeed, there is no other initiation [ruling »wherefrom«] of philosophy than this.

The Greek word ἀρχή (archē), which here is translated as initiation, means onset, inception, but also rule and, finally, domain, namely the domain defined by that very rule, in the sense that the domain itself and whatever takes place in it is ruled by (and is thus all about, and for the sake of) that onset. Plato says: the ἀρχή, the initiation (onset, inception) of philosophy that rules the domain and the modes of philosophical interrogation, is a πάθος (pathos), that is, a suffered, borne emotive experience, an initiating attunement (eine Stimmung; un’intonazione), and, in particular, the attunement of θαυμάζειν (thaumazein), or, as we say in English, astoundment (das Erstaunen; lo stupore). While this provides an answer to the question about how philosophizing, namely, the specifically philosophical manner of interrogating, begins, it leaves us with a new puzzle: now it appears that philosophizing depends on some kind of mood or emotional state, a notion which, among other things, stands in contrast to the common notion of philosophy as a practice of rational, that is, emotionless, sober, methodical thinking. However, what Plato calls πάθος and what we translate as attunement is not a mere affection or emotional state of our lived experi45 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ence. The fact that it is the »ruling wherefrom« — that is, the origin and initiation — as well as the »tone« of all things philosophical, suggests that the attunement is strictly connected with the principle itself. In fact, if we take Plato’s words seriously, we must assume that it is the principle as such that attunes man’s being to itself (i. e. to the principle), thus in the first place enabling man to pursue (according to his fitness for sustaining this trial) an explicit knowledge of principles, namely philosophizing. In other words, the principle itself as an attuning is the wake-up call that stirs the philosophical ground of man’s being, and in this manner liberates (shifts, removes, »emotes«) the man who experiences it from inertia; the thus awakened human being is set on the path towards his true self in the acknowledgment of the knowledge of a principle. This circumstance, however, implies that all philosophical thinking (and, as a consequence, any kind of thinking) is, in a fundamental sense, an attuned thinking. More precisely, philosophical thinking is an attuned answer to an attuning call that comes from the principle itself, or rather, to an attuning call that the principle itself is. 32 Presumably, the common concepts of »rational« (i. e. emotionless, orderly) vs. »irrational« (i. e. emotive and confused) thinking are not capable of capturing what is involved in the notions of πάθος and attunement. The fact that all thinking is attuned implies that the attuning principle, in the first place, opens the interrogative space and sets the interrogative tone for thinking. The attuning principle, through its knowledge (i. e. its making itself known), opens the space and sets the tone for philosophizing, and thus calls a man to engage himself with that space through a peculiar manner of interrogation. The scope of this attuned and alerted interrogation is to preserve the openness with regard to the principle itself, so that the principle may eventually come to its open-retracted ruling as the gift of a world. Only thanks to the initial attuning call can a human being (or, to speak with the Greeks, a βροτός [brotos], a mortal [ein Sterblicher; un mortale]) be freed from being entangled in what is always only something, without ever having eyes and ears and hands for the nothing of principles. Therefore, it turns out that philosophizing is not a mere exercise of asking »general« or »deep« questions that human intelligence or curiThe principle itself, insofar as it comes as an attuning call, is the word, where the latter is not »a word of a language« (i. e. an item of vocabulary), but rather the mother of all human speech.

32

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osity happens to contrive and pursue; rather, it is an attuned answer, by way of interrogating, to that which shows itself to the now liberated being of man as being worthy and in need of being interrogated in the first place. Man’s being is liberated in the sense that it is set on a path of interrogation. This path, however, is a path of errancy. 33 We can now see how the earlier perplexity concerning the likely »kick-off« of philosophizing, and the common idea that philosophizing consists in an interrogation that goes deeper and further than ordinary questioning, both take a stance that is external to philosophizing itself. That stance is precisely the inertia in which that perplexity and common idea are unawares stuck. In fact, a stance of inertia does not experience itself as such, but takes itself as the »normal« state and, from there, pretends to figure out how, say, philosophy is different from that »normal« state. However, because inertia is precisely that manner of being in which we are excluded from the knowledge of what we cannot not know, from within inertia we are clueless with regard to philosophizing. While this cluelessness (i. e. the peculiar unknowingness with regard to what we cannot not know) is incapable of any philosophical truth concerning philosophy, and therefore also of tracing a path towards it (both of which can be »done« only by way of philosophizing), it might prove fruitful to allow this very cluelessness to become a clue and a hint towards that which it precludes. 34 This step requires that we, without making unIn the present context, errancy (Irrnis; erranza) does not mean being at fault or making a mistake (im Irrtum sein, sich irren; essere in errore). Rather, it indicates a way of proceeding that is entirely, and without assurance or backup, offered to the »fleeting«, or the essentially withdrawing and absconding nothing of the principle. Thinking may sometimes commit errors, but it errs constitutively, in that it bears, and travels within, the interrogative dimension in which the principle itself in one moment shows a likely path on which to provide a firmness to the attuning inception, whereas in the next moment it withholds any path, so that suddenly no further progress, or even orientation, is likely. And the further the path leads, the more errant, and therefore adamantly free, the errancy becomes. Thus, errancy is not a temporary state, but the habitual dimension of thinking: philosophical thinking either errs, and thus is a form of constitutive thinking, or it doesn’t, in which case it is not a form of constitutive thinking in the first place. (In order to avoid misunderstandings, it would in fact be preferable to employ the word »errantry«, which indicates the condition of being »errant« [cf. knight-errant], rather than »errancy«.) 34 We need to distinguish between a correct statement about philosophy and a philosophical truth about philosophy. Only the latter is already an instance of philosophizing, while the former is always possible without in any way breaking our natural inertia. For instance, the statement: »Philosophizing is an activity of the human 33

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likely efforts to break out of it, allow ourselves to be puzzled and maybe even shocked by that inertial cluelessness and its strange pretension 35 that philosophy and its principles should in some way conform to the standards of that unknowing cluelessness. Allowing this pathos would not in fact mean that we are already philosophizing. However, it might favour the circumstance that the native philosophical trait of our being — should the latter find itself available for and reachable by the principle — be unexpectedly seized by the interrogative attuning tone of the pristine self-seizing, towards which there is only a path of errancy. In the passage taken from Theaetetus, Plato does not speak of a generic attunement as the ruling onset or inception of philosophy, but of a peculiar attunement, namely, astoundment. While at this point we will not delve deeper into the sense and scope of astoundment, we nevertheless must note and bear in mind the following: astoundment is the ruling onset of Greek thinking, which means the Greek onset of philosophy, which means philosophy as such. The implication here is that, while on the one hand astoundment is the peculiar attunement of Greek philosophy, on the other hand, wherever philosophical thinking arises, it is also attuned as astoundment. However, it does not imply that astoundment is the only attunement of philosophy. This leads us to the last point on which we need to touch in this introduction. If it is legitimate to assume, on the basis of Plato’s words, that there is no philosophizing (i. e. no explicit knowledge of principles) without the attuning principle tuning thinking to itself and, so to speak, winning that thinking for itself (für sich gewinnen; avvincere), a question, or rather a series of questions, becomes ineludible: Is our thinking, and more generally the dominant thought of our epoch, at all attuned? If it appears not to be, what does that mean? If, on the other hand, it is, what is its attunement, and consequently its likely scope and tone of interrogation? How is the attunement of our thinking different from the astoundment that is the ruling onset of the being« is correct, and yet it misses the truth concerning the relation of philosophizing and man’s being, namely that philosophizing is precisely the fundamental trait of that being, the trait that constitutes the human being as such before it gets involved in any kind of activity. This latter consideration, however, can be truly made only if we (to some extent) already explicitly philosophize. Thus, we can truly speak about philosophy only in a philosophical manner; that is, when we ourselves philosophize. 35 See Appendix 1 above.

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Greek foundation of philosophy? Do we have ears for the attunement that awakens philosophical thinking in our epoch as opposed to the epoch of the Greeks or to other epochs? What, in short, are we supposed to think, and how? What would we say is the dominant, namely the initial and initiating attunement of our epoch? More specifically: are we aware of an attunement that sets us free from the exclusive implication in alien »things«, »worlds«, and »operations«? If we are honest, our world is, for the most part, if not entirely, constituted by alien things or beings, and the functional relations between them. These beings saturate everything we call real or possible or necessary. These »things«, with their urges and demands that engage us within constantly updated scenarios and upgraded realities, which in turn require new updates and upgrades, take up, occupy, all time and all space. In fact, even time and space themselves appear as »things«, namely as parametric resources that are at the service of an ever more inescapable involvement in »brute« things. As a consequence of this involvement and saturation, a need other than that for (more, different, new, etc.) beings cannot surface and be felt — or, if it does surface and is felt, it does not appear as a likely initiation for our most constitutive thinking. Thus, despite their flagrant insufficiency, »beings« appear as sufficient in and of themselves, and exclude what is other with respect to them; and while they are deprived of any reference to a principle borne in man’s being, their alien appearance is more and more concealed and unnoticed. Where alienation is increasingly exclusive, such principles as would let this alienation appear as such, are less and less likely to attain and alert us, and to interrogate us as to our stance with regard to a self-seizing, sufficient inception. On the other hand, what is the need for such principles, what would they be »good for«, how could they effectively function in the algorithm-driven production chains that link one thing to another? Clearly, principles are of no use and value in a world of this sort, which is why the holding-off of a principle (das Ausbleiben eines Prinzips; lo star via di un principio) is not experienced as such — or rather: (not experienced) in its need of being sustained as such. Moreover, as there is no need for principles, there is also no need for a knowledge of principles. In fact, according to present standards, such knowledge, which is the knowledge of nothing (and therefore unserviceable in the domain of valorization and enhancement through steerable and plannable procedures), cannot even be regarded as a legitimate form of knowledge in the first 49 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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place. 36 The world in which we exist consists completely and exclusively of things and of the knowledge of things, meaning the knowledge of contingency. 37 This world is a world without principles and therefore without philosophy. The fact that all knowledge recognized as such today, and in particular scientific knowledge, unwittingly owes itself to philosophy, and is in fact empowered by this unwittingness, is the clearest sign of the absence of philosophy in our time — or rather, as we shall see, of its »definitive«, ultimate presence. 38 What is the πάθος that, in our epoch, sets the tone of a likely thinking of principles? Presumably, this πάθος must in the first place be such as to awaken the awareness, and impose as a flagrant need, the acknowledgement of this undeniable and therefore most tenaciously denied circumstance: that our world is a world that does without a principle and without philosophy, and therefore is an alienated world, or an »unworld«. Presumably, the πάθος that is likely to once again tune our thinking to something like a principle is the shock of the unacknowledged needlessness of our epoch (and in the first place of »us« who exist within it) with regard to a principle. Presumably, only those who have been taken aback by the exclusiveness and seeming self-sufficiency of informatised »beings« can be seized by the want of a principle, and by the need to answer this want through an attuned interrogation. Presumably, only those who have thus been taken aback can in their turn take and endure the »step back« (from beings) that exposes them to the unprecedented interrogation that the principle of our »epoch without principles« claims. Finally, only for those open to this interrogation can the study of the principles that constitute the tradition of philosophy be productive, rather than reToday, knowledge is equivalent to what we may call informatization. Informatization is the process by which anything (be it »material« or »spiritual«) is made available in a computable form, i. e. in a format. On the other hand, interrogating, which is the fundamental trait of philosophizing, is alien to informatization. Philosophical interrogation deals with phenomena that are neither computable nor incomputable, but of an order that is altogether removed from the domain of computability. The same notion concerning the present meaning of knowledge can also be indicated thus: what we today consider as forms of knowledge (modelling, formalizing, mapping, mining, processing, elaborating, controlling, linking, steering, etc.), and as valid forms of evidence, excludes what above has been characterized as minding (or becoming aware), and, as a consequence, shuts out those phenomena that can only be known if they are, in the first place, minded and mindfully named. 37 This concept is explicitly introduced below, p. 65 sqq. 38 See below, Chapter 13. 36

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maining a more or less interested and interesting exercise of intellectual faculties. This has the following implication for our enquiry: unless we are already somehow seized by the want of a principle, and the consequent penury that characterizes our time, we can at most think about principles, or learn what others have thought about them, but never set out to think ourselves in the way in which the principle that means us needs us to think.

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Appendix 2 Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy

Alle Unterweisung der Jugend hat dieses Beschwerliche an sich, daß man genöthigt ist, mit der Einsicht den Jahren vorzueilen, und, ohne die Reife des Verstandes abzuwarten, solches Erkenntnisse ertheilen soll, die nach der natürlichen Ordnung nur von einer geübteren und versuchten Vernunft könnten begriffen werden. Daher entspringen die ewige Vorurtheile der Schulen, welche hartnäckiger und öfters abgeschmackter sind als die gemeinen, und die frühkluge Geschwätzigkeit junger Denker, die blinder ist als irgend ein anderer Eigendünkel und unheilbarer als die Unwissenheit. Gleichwohl ist diese Beschwerlichkeit nicht gänzlich zu vermeiden, weil in dem Zeitalter einer sehr ausgeschmückten bürgerlichen Verfassung die feinere Einsichten zu den Mitteln des Fortkommens gehören und Bedürfnisse werden, die ihrer Natur nach eigentlich nur zur Zierde des Lebens und gleichsam zum Entbehrlich-Schönen desselben gezählt werden sollten. Indessen ist es möglich den

There is always a certain difficulty involved in the instruction of young people, and it is this: the knowledge one imparts to them is such that one finds oneself constrained to outstrip their years. Without waiting for their understanding to mature, one is obliged to impart knowledge to them, which, in the natural order of things, can only be understood by minds which are more practised and experienced. It is this which is the source of the endless prejudices of the schools — prejudices which are more intractable and frequently more absurd than ordinary prejudices. And it is this, too, which is the source of that precocious prating of young thinkers, which is blinder than any other self-conceit and more incurable than ignorance. This difficulty, however, is one which cannot be entirely avoided, and the reason is this. In an epoch which is characterized by an elaborately complex social organization, a knowledge of higher things is regarded as a means to advancement and

Ogni istruzione della gioventù è, per sua natura, resa difficile dal fatto che si è costretti ad anticipare gli anni con la conoscenza, e che, senza attendere la maturità dell’intelletto, si devono impartire conoscenze le quali, secondo un ordine naturale, risulterebbero comprensibili solo da una ragione più esperta e provata. Da qui nascono gli eterni pregiudizi delle scuole — che sono più ostinati e spesso anche più sciocchi di quelli comuni —, e la saputella loquacità di giovani pensatori, la quale, a sua volta, è più cieca di qualsiasi altra spocchia e più incurabile dell’ignoranza. Tuttavia, tale difficoltà non può essere del tutto evitata, poiché in un’epoca di assai raffinata condizione civile, le conoscenze più sottili fanno parte dei mezzi che servono per far carriera, e quindi si trasformano in esigenze, allorché, per loro natura, dovrebbero figurare solo come decoro della vita e, per così dire, quale sua dispensabile radiosa indole. Eppure, anche a tale riguardo è possibile rendere l’istruzione pubblica

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Appendix 2: Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy öffentlichen Unterricht auch in diesem Stücke nach der Natur mehr zu bequemen, wo nicht mit ihr gänzlich einstimmig zu machen. Denn da der natürliche Fortschritt der menschlichen Erkenntniß dieser ist, daß sich zuerst der Verstand ausbildet, indem er durch Erfahrung zu anschauenden Urtheilen und durch diese zu Begriffen gelangt, daß darauf diese Begriffe in Verhältniß mit ihren Gründen und Folgen durch Vernunft und endlich in einem wohlgeordneten Ganzen vermittelst der Wissenschaft erkannt werden, so wird die Unterweisung eben denselben Weg zu nehmen haben. Von einem Lehrer wird also erwartet, daß er an seinem Zuhörer erstlich den verständigen, dann den vernünftigen Mann und endlich den Gelehrten bilde. Ein solches Verfahren hat den Vortheil, daß, wenn der Lehrling gleich niemals zu der letzten Stufe gelangen sollte, wie es gemeiniglich geschieht, er dennoch durch die Unterweisung gewonnen hat und, wo nicht für die Schule, doch für das Leben geübter und klüger geworden.

comes to be thought of as a necessity of life. Such knowledge ought by nature, however, really to be regarded merely as one of life’s adornments — one of life’s inessential 39 beauties, so to speak. Nonetheless, even in this branch of instruction, it is possible to make public education more adapted to nature, or even to bring it into perfect harmony with it. The natural progress of human knowledge is as follows: first of all, the understanding develops by using experience to arrive at intuitive judgements, and by their means to attain to concepts. After that, and employing reason, these concepts come to be known in relation to their grounds and consequences. Finally, by means of science, these concepts come to be known as parts of a well-ordered whole. This being the case, teaching must follow exactly the same path. The teacher is, therefore, expected to develop in his pupil firstly the man of understanding, then the man of reason, and finally the man of learning. Such a procedure has this advantage: even if, as usually happens, the pupil should never reach the final phase, he will still have benefitted from his instruction. He will

più confacente, se non addirittura interamente consona, con la natura. A tal scopo, basterà seguire il naturale progresso della conoscenza umana, che si sviluppa nel modo seguente: innanzi tutto si forma l’intelletto, il quale, mediante l’esperienza, giunge a giudizi intuitivi, e, attraverso questi ultimi, a concetti; quindi tali concetti sono conosciuti, mediante la ragione, in relazione ai loro fondamenti e alle loro implicazioni, e, infine, per mezzo della scienza, in forma di un intero ben ordinato. Ebbene, l’istruzione dovrà seguire il medesimo cammino. Dunque, da un insegnante ci si attende che, nel suo uditore, egli formi, in primo luogo, l’uomo intelligente [scil.: l’uomo intelligente che quel singolo uditore può essere], in secondo luogo, l’uomo raziocinante, e, infine, lo studioso. Un simile metodo ha il vantaggio che, se anche l’apprendista non dovesse mai raggiungere l’ultimo grado, come di solito accade, egli avrà tuttavia tratto profitto dall’insegnamento, e sarà divenuto più esperto e più saggio, non per la scuola, ma per la vita.

Das Entbehrlich-Schöne (literally, the »dispensable-beautiful«) refers to that which is not necessary in terms of contingent needs (and which is, in this sense, dispensable), but is itself the resplendent shining of the very essence of life, which is always at risk of being forgotten. Hence, what is, in one sense, dispensable, in another sense is all but »inessential« (idg).

39

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Wenn man diese Methode umkehrt, so erschnappt der Schüler eine Art von Vernunft, ehe noch der Verstand an ihm ausgebildet wurde, und trägt erborgte Wissenschaft, die an ihm gleichsam nur geklebt und nicht gewachsen ist, wobei seine Gemüthsfähigkeit noch so unfruchtbar wie jemals, aber zugleich durch den Wahn von Weisheit viel verderbter geworden ist. Dieses ist die Ursache, weswegen man nicht selten Gelehrte (eigentlich Studirte) antrifft, die wenig Verstand zeigen, und warum die Akademie mehr abgeschmackte Köpfe in die Welt schicken als irgend ein anderer Stande des gemeinen Wesens.

Die Regel des Verhaltens also ist diese: zuvörderst den Verstand zu zeitigen und seinen Wachsthum zu beschleunigen, indem man ihn in Erfahrungsurtheilen übt und auf dasjenige achtsam macht, was ihm die verglichenen Empfindungen seiner Sinne lehren können. Von diesen Urtheilen oder Begriffen soll er zu den höheren und entlegnern keinen kühnen Schwung unternehmen, sondern dahin durch

have grown more experienced and become more clever, if not for school then at least for life. If this method is reversed, then the pupil picks up a kind of reason, even before his understanding has developed. His science is a borrowed science which he wears, not as something which has, so to speak, grown within him, but as something which has been hung upon him. Intellectual aptitude is as unfruitful as it ever was. But at the same time it has been corrupted to a much greater degree by the delusion of wisdom. It is for this reason that one not infrequently comes across men of learning (strictly speaking, people who have pursued courses of study) who display little understanding. It is for this reason, too, that the academies send more people out into the world with their heads full of inanities than any other public institution. The rule for proceeding is, therefore, as follows. Firstly, the understanding must be brought to maturity and its growth expedited by exercising it in empirical judgements and focusing its attention on what it can learn by comparing the impressions which are furnished by the senses. It ought not to venture any bold ascent from these judgements and concepts to higher and more remote judgements and con-

Ora, se tale metodo viene capovolto, il discente abbrancherà una sorta di ragione, prima ancora che sia stata formata la sua intelligenza, e si porterà in giro un sapere scientifico preso in prestito, che gli starà, per così dire, solo appiccicato addosso, invece di essere generato in lui; in tutto ciò, la sua capacità di percepire e apprendere in forza della sua indole resta sterile come giammai, mentre, al contempo, è diventata molto più corrotta a causa dell’illusione di saggezza. Questa è la ragione per cui, non di rado, si incontrano studiosi (meglio: »studiati«) che mostrano scarsa intelligenza, e le Accademie irrorano il mondo di un maggior numero di sciocchi rispetto a ogni altro stato della collettività.

La regola di comportamento è dunque la seguente: in primo luogo si tratta di sortire l’intelletto e di accelerarne la crescita, esercitandolo in giudizi dell’esperienza e rendendolo accorto rispetto a ciò che possono insegnargli le percezioni comparate dei suoi sensi. Muovendo da tali giudizi o concetti, egli dovrà procedere verso quelli più alti e meno accessibili — non però compiendo balzi audaci, ma mediante il naturale e già

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Appendix 2: Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy den natürlichen und gebähnten Fußsteig der niedrigern Begriffe gelangen, die ihn allgemach weiter führen; alles aber derjenigen Verstandesfähigkeit gemäß, welche die vorhergehende Übung in ihm nothwendig hat hervorbringen müssen, und nicht nach derjenigen, die der Lehrer an sich selbst wahrnimmt, oder wahrzunehmen glaubt, und die er auch bei seinem Zuhörer fälschlich voraussetzt. Kurz, er soll nicht Gedanken, sondern denken lernen; man soll ihn nicht tragen, sondern leiten, wenn man will, daß er in Zukunft von sich selbst zu gehen geschickt sein soll.

Eine solche Lehrart erfordert die der Weltweisheit eigene Natur. Da diese aber eigentlich nur eine Beschäftigung für das Mannesalter ist, so ist kein Wunder, daß sich Schwierigkeiten hervorthun, wenn man sie der ungeübteren Jugendfähigkeit bequemen will. Der den Schulunterweisungen entlassene Jüngling war gewohnt zu lernen. Nunmehr denkt er, er werden Philosophie lernen, welches aber unmöglich ist, denn er soll jetzt philosophiren lernen. Ich will mich deutlicher erklären. Alle Wissenschaften, die man im eigentlichen Verstande ler-

cepts. It ought rather to make its way towards them by means of the natural and well-trodden pathway of the lower concepts, which will gradually take it further. But all this should be done, not in accordance with that capacity for understanding which the teacher perceives, or thinks he perceives in himself, and which he mistakenly presupposes in his pupils, but rather in accordance with that capacity for understanding which must of necessity be generated in that faculty by the practice which has just been described. In short, it is not thoughts but thinking which the understanding ought to learn. It ought to be led, if you wish, but not carried, so that in the future it will be capable of walking on its own, and doing so without stumbling. The peculiar nature of philosophy demands such a method of teaching. But since philosophy is strictly speaking an occupation only for those who have attained the age of maturity, it is no wonder that difficulties arise when the attempt is made to adapt it to the less practised capacity of youth. The youth who has completed his school instruction had been accustomed to learn. He now thinks that he is going to learn philosophy. But that is impossible, for he ought now to learn to philosophize. Let me explain myself more distinctly. All the sciences

tracciato sentiero dei concetti inferiori, che lo conducono passo passo nell’ascesa. Tutto ciò dovrà avvenire a misura della capacità intellettiva che il precedente esercizio ha necessariamente prodotto, e non, invece, a misura di quella capacità che l’insegnante riconosce, o crede di riconoscere in se stesso, e di cui, erroneamente, presuppone sia dotato anche il suo uditore. In breve: quest’ultimo non deve imparare dei pensieri; piuttosto, è necessario che egli impari a pensare; e ancora: non lo si deve portare in braccio, ma condurre hper manoi, se si vuole che, in futuro, egli sia capace di camminare da sé con le proprie gambe.

Ora, un tale modo d’insegnamento è richiesto dalla natura stessa della saggezza di mondo [scil.: della filosofia]. Tuttavia, poiché quest’ultima è, propriamente, un affare dell’età adulta, non c’è da sorprendersi se, nel momento in cui si voglia, invece, farvi accedere anche la più inesperta gioventù, emergono delle difficoltà. Il giovane hè appena statoi licenziato dagli insegnamenti scolastici, hdovei era abituato a imparare. Dunque, egli pensa che ora imparerà la filosofia, il che, però, è impossibile, perché invece ora egli deve imparare a filosofare. Voglio

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Appendix 2: Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy nen kann, lassen sich auf zwei Gattungen bringen: die historische und die mathematische. Zu den erstern gehören außer der eigentlichen Geschichte auch die Naturbeschreibung, Sprachkunde, das positive Recht etc. etc. Da nun in allem, was historisch ist, eigene Erfahrung oder fremdes Zeugniß, in dem aber, was mathematisch ist, die Augenscheinlichkeit der Begriffe und die Unfehlbarkeit der Demonstrationen etwas ausmachen, was in der That gegeben und mithin vorräthig und gleichsam nur aufzunehmen ist: so ist es in den beiden möglich zu lernen, d. i. entweder in das Gedächtniß, oder den Verstand dasjenige einzudrücken, was als eine schon fertige Disciplin uns vorgelegt werden kann. Um also auch Philosophie zu lernen, müßte allererst eine wirkliche vorhanden sein. Man müßte ein Buch vorzeigen und sagen können: sehet, hier ist Weisheit und zuverlässige Einsicht; lernet es verstehen und fassen, bauet künftighin darauf, so seid ihr Philosophen. Bis man mir nun ein solches Buch der Weltweisheit zeigen wird, worauf ich mich berufen kann, wie etwa auf den Polyb, um einen Umstand der Geschichte, oder auf den Euklides, um einen Satz der Größenlehre zu erläutern: so erlaube man mir zu sagen: daß man des Zutrauens des gemeinen Wesens mißbrauche, wenn man,

which can be learned in the strict sense of the term can be reduced to two kinds: the historical and the mathematical. To the first there belong, in addition to history proper, natural history, philology, positive law, etc. In everything historical, it is one’s own experience or the testimony of other people which constitute what is actually given and which is therefore available for use, and which may, so to speak, simply be assimilated. In everything mathematical, on the other hand, these things are constituted by the selfevidence of the concepts and the infallibility of the demonstration. It is thus possible in both types of knowledge to learn. That is to say, it is possible to impress either on the memory or on the understanding that which can be presented to us as an already complete discipline. In order, therefore, to be able to learn philosophy as well there must already be a philosophy which actually exists in the first place. It must be possible to produce a book and say: ›Look, here is wisdom, here is knowledge on which you can rely. If you learn to understand and grasp it, if you take it as your foundation and build on it from now on, you will be philosophers‹. Until I am shown such a book of philosophy, a book to which I can appeal, say, as I can appeal to Polybius in order to elucidate

spiegarmi meglio. L’insieme delle scienze che si possono, in senso proprio, imparare, può essere suddiviso in due generi: il genere storico e quello matematico. Del primo genere fanno parte, accanto alla storia propriamente detta, anche la storia naturale, la filologia, il diritto positivo, ecc. Poiché, da un lato, in tutto ciò che è storico, l’esperienza propria o la testimonianza di altri, e, dall’altro, in ciò che è matematico, l’evidenza dei concetti e l’infallibilità delle dimostrazioni, costituiscono elementi che sono effettivamente dati, ossia disponibili, e che quindi, in un certo senso, devono solo essere assunti — per questo motivo in entrambi i generi di scienze vi è la possibilità di imparare, ossia di imprimere nella memoria o nell’intelletto ciò che ci può essere offerto nella forma di una disciplina già compiuta. Quindi, per poter imparare anche la filosofia, dovrebbe, in primo luogo, effettivamente esisterne una — ovvero: si dovrebbe poter esibire un libro e dire: guardate, qui dentro si trovano saggezza e cognizioni affidabili; imparate a intenderlo e ad afferrarlo fino in fondo, costruite sulle sue basi anche in futuro — e sarete filosofi. Ora, finché non mi si mostrerà un simile libro che tratti della saggezza di mondo, al quale io possa richiamarmi, così come ci si può rifare a Polibio per delucidare

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Appendix 2: Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy anstatt die Verstandesfähigkeit der anvertrauten Jugend zu erweitern und sie zur künftig reifern eigenen Einsicht auszubilden, sie mit einer dem Vorgeben nach schon fertigen Weltweisheit hintergeht, die ihnen zu gute von andern ausgedacht wäre, woraus ein Blendwerk von Wissenschaft entspringt, das nur an einem gewissen Orte und unter gewissen Leuten für ächte Münze gilt, allerwärts sonst aber verrufen ist. Die eigentliche Methode des Unterrichts in der Weltweisheit ist zetetisch, wie sie einige Alte nannten (von ζητειν), d. i. forschend, und wird nur bei schon geübterer Vernunft in verschiedenen Stücken dogmatisch, d. i. entschieden. Auch soll der philosophische Verfasser, den man etwa bei der Unterweisung zum Grunde legt, nicht wie das Urbild des Urtheils, sondern nur als eine Veranlassung selbst über ihn, ja sogar wider ihn zu urtheilen angesehen werden, und die Methode selbst nachzudenken und zu schließen ist es, deren Fertigkeit der Lehrling eigentlich sucht, die ihm auch nur allein nützlich sein kann, und wovon die etwa zugleich erworbene entschiedene Einsichten als zufällige Folgen angesehen werden müssen, zu deren reichem Überflusse er nur die fruchtbare Wurzel in sich zu pflanzen hat.

some circumstance of history, or to Euclid in order to explain a proposition of mathematics — until I am shown such a book, I shall allow myself to make the following remark. One would be betraying the trust placed in one by the public if, instead of extending the capacity for understanding of the young people entrusted to one’s care and educating them to the point where they will be able in the future to acquire a more mature insight of their own — one would be betraying the trust placed in one by the public, if, instead of that, one were to deceive them with a philosophy which was alleged to be already complete and to have been excogitated by others for their benefit. Such a claim would create the illusion of science. That illusion is only accepted as legal tender in certain places and among certain people. Everywhere else, however, it is rejected as counterfeit currency. The method of instruction, peculiar to philosophy, is zetetic, as some of the philosophers of antiquity expressed it (from ζητειν [zētein]). In other words, the method of philosophy is the method of enquiry. It is only when reason has already grown more practiced and only in certain areas, that this method becomes dogmatic, that is to say, decided. The philosophical writer, for example, upon whom one

una circostanza afferente alla storia, o a Euclide per spiegare una proposizione della dottrina delle grandezze — ebbene, finché ciò non sarà accaduto, mi si consenta di dire che si sta abusando della fiducia del modo d’essere comune, allorché, invece di ampliare le capacità intellettive della gioventù che ci viene affidata, e di formarla per un futuro, più maturo e suo proprio giudizio, la si raggira, invece, con una presunta saggezza di mondo già bell’e fatta, che sarebbe stata escogitata per essa da parte di altri, la qual cosa dà però origine a un’illusione di scienza, che ha corso solo in un certo luogo, e fra certa gente, mentre in ogni altro luogo essa gode di dubbia fama. Il metodo che, per natura, l’insegnamento della saggezza di mondo richiede, è — come usavano chiamarlo alcuni tra gli antichi — zetetico (dal greco ζητειν), vale a dire ricercante, mentre solo in presenza di una ragione più esperta esso diventerà, in alcune parti, dogmatico, ossia deciso. Inoltre, l’autore filosofico su cui si basa l’insegnamento, non dovrebbe essere considerato come il modello assoluto del giudizio, ma solo quale occasione per portare dei propri giudizi su, e, addirittura, contro di lui. Ciò che l’apprendista propriamente cerca, è l’acquisire abilità in quel metodo che gli permette di pensare e ragionare in proprio; solo ta-

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Vergleicht man hiemit das davon so sehr abweichende gemeine Verfahren, so läßt sich verschiedenes begreifen, was sonst befremdlich in die Augen fällt. Als z. E. warum es keine Art Gelehrsamkeit vom Handwerke giebt, darin so viele Meister angetroffen werden als in der Philosophie, und, da viele von denen, welche Geschichte, Rechtsgelehrtheit, Mathematik u. d. m. gelernt haben, sich selbst bescheiden, daß sie gleichwohl noch nicht gnug gelernt hätten, um solche wiederum zu lehren: warum andererseits selten einer ist, der sich nicht in allem Ernste einbilden sollte, daß außer seiner übrigen Be-

bases one’s instruction, is not to be regarded as the paradigm of judgement. He ought rather to be taken as the occasion for forming one’s own judgement about him, and even, indeed, for passing judgement against him. What the pupil is really looking for is proficiency in the method of reflecting and drawing inferences for himself. And it is that proficiency alone which can be of use to him. As for the positive knowledge which he may also perhaps come to acquire at the same time — that must be regarded as an incidental consequence. To reap a superabundant harvest of such knowledge, he needs only to plant within himself the fruitful roots of this method. If one compares the above method with the procedure which is commonly adopted and which differs so much from it, one will understand a number of things which would otherwise strike one as surprising. For example: why is there no other kind of specialized knowledge which exemplifies so many masters as does philosophy? Many of those who have learned history, jurisprudence, mathematics and so forth, nonetheless modestly disclaim that they have learned enough to be able to teach the subject themselves. But why, on the other hand, is it rare to find someone who does not in all seriousness ima-

le metodo può essergli utile, sicché le conoscenze decise che, eventualmente, vengano acquisite nell’atto di apprenderlo, devono essere viste come sue (del metodo appreso) conseguenze accidentali — conseguenze, per la cui hfuturai ricca abbondanza egli deve h, per ora,i solo piantare in sé la fruttifera radice.

Ora, mettendo tutto questo a confronto con il modo comune di procedere — per molti versi così distante da quanto è stato appena esposto —, si comprenderanno diverse circostanze che, altrimenti, appaiono inspiegabili. Ad esempio, si comprenderà come mai non esista una erudizione dell’artigianato, nel quale pure si trovano altrettanti maestri quanti ve ne sono in filosofia; inoltre, si comprenderà come mai molti di quelli che hanno appreso la storia, la giurisprudenza, la matematica, e discipline simili, ammettano, con modestia, di non avere ancora appreso abbastanza per essere capaci, a loro volta,

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Appendix 2: Kant on the Learning and Teaching of Philosophy schäftigung es ihm ganz möglich wäre etwa Logik, Moral u. d. g. vorzutragen, wenn er sich mit solchen Kleinigkeiten bemengen wollte. Die Ursache ist, weil in jenen Wissenschaften ein gemeinschaftlicher Maßstab da ist, in dieser aber ein jeder seinen eigenen hat. Imgleichen wird man deutlich einsehen, daß es der Philosophie sehr unnatürlich sei eine Brodkunst zu sein, indem es ihrer wesentlichen Beschaffenheit widerstreitet, sich dem Wahne der Nachfrage und dem Gesetze der Mode zu bequemen, und daß nur die Nothdurft, deren Gewalt noch über die Philosophie ist, sie nöthigen kann, sich in die Form des gemeinen Beifalls zu schmiegen. 40

gine that, in addition to his usual occupation, he is perfectly able to lecture on, say, logic, and moral philosophy, and other subjects of the kind, should he wish to dabble in such trivial matters? The reason for this divergence is the fact that, whereas in the former science there is a common standard, in the latter science each person has his own standard. It will likewise be clearly seen that it is contrary to the nature of philosophy to be practised as a means to earning one’s daily bread — the essential nature of philosophy is such that it cannot consistently accommodate itself to the craze of demand or adapt itself to the law of fashion — and that it is only pressing need, which still exercises its power over philosophy, which can constrain it to assume a form which wins it public applause. 41

di insegnare tali materie, mentre raramente si incontra qualcuno che non immagini in tutta serietà di essere perfettamente in grado di tenere, accanto alle altre sue occupazioni, lezioni di logica, morale, ecc., se per caso decidesse di interessarsi di simili quisquilie. La ragione di questo stato di cose è che in quei saperi scientifici esiste un metro comune, mentre [in filosofia] ciascuno ha il proprio. Si vedrà inoltre chiaramente come per la filosofia sia affatto innaturale essere un’arte mercenaria; infatti, è contrario alla sua indole accondiscendere alla vanità della mera richiesta del pubblico e alla legge della moda. Si vedrà, insomma, che solo la morsa dell’indigenza, la cui potenza ancora domina la filosofia, può costringerla a modellarsi secondo i dettami del plauso corrente. 42

40 Immanuel Kant, M. Immanuel Kants Nachricht von der Einrichtung seiner Vorlesungen in dem Winterhalbenjahre von 1765–1766, in: Kant’s Werke, Band II, Vorkritische Schriften II, 1757–1777 (Kant’s gesammelte Schriften, Erste Abtheilung: Werke. Zweiter Band). Berlin: Druck und Verlag von Georg Reimer, 1905, p. 305–308. 41 Immanuel Kant, M. Immanuel Kant’s announcement of the programme of his lectures for the winter semester 1765–1766, in: Immanuel Kant. Theoretical Philosophy 1755–1770, translated and edited by David Walford in collaboration with Ralf Meerbote. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992, p. 291–294. The translation has been modified in three places. 42 Translation by Ivo De Gennaro and Gino Zaccaria.

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3. The End of Philosophy — and Beyond

Where do we find principles? Nowadays, we find them nicely ordered, thoroughly explained, pre-digested and understood for us, in handy manuals and digital tools that are easy to consult and ready to handle. If we reach for a handbook of philosophy, or open the relevant pages of an online encyclopedia, we are led into a gallery of principles, each of which is associated with the name of one or more great figures of philosophy, or with particular »currents« or »schools« of the history of philosophy, for which there is also a gallery. We can take a walk through these galleries of thoughts, of figures and of schools, and observe without further ado what is offered to our sight, gather more information about this or that, maybe follow the links that are suggested in the presentation of these principles and philosophers, so as to establish relevant connections and make ourselves acquainted, at least to some extent, with the »greater picture«. Who can deny that principles are, just like anything else, a certain kind of — certainly complex — information, of which our intelligent minds can take notice, and which consequently they can, to some extent, absorb and elaborate? But what about all we have said regarding principles and their constitutive reference to man’s being, and the fact that it is precisely not up to our will or whimsy whether or not we have access to them? What about the difference between a principle which we must acknowledge, in an attuned thinking, as that to which our being belongs and by which it is claimed, and a principle that our inert being can deal with at will? How can such different notions of what a principle is, and of its reference to us, coexist? How can we at one moment regard it as perfectly obvious and plain that principles are some kind of elaborate information, and actually treat them as such information, and, the next moment, to some extent be drawn into a thinking of principles that involves the innermost trait of our being — a thinking that in the first place frees our being as such? These two »moments« 60 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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seem to be mutually exclusive. Indeed, between those two notions of principle, just as between these two manners of relating to principles, there is no contact whatsoever: they do not touch each other, much less mingle or intersect in any way. Hence, it is not only surprising, but indeed enigmatic, that we are even able to hold ourselves in both these notions of principle. It appears as if each one of us was at once two different thinking beings: the »information-elaborator« and the »origin-minder«. Perhaps the solution to this enigma is in the two manners of being which we have distinguished above: on the one hand, the manner of being in which our native reference to principles is inert, and, on the other hand, the manner of being in which we are alerted to, and thus, to some extent, answer to and bear that reference. Now, it is certainly true that, when we absorb and consume principles as pieces of information, our native openness to these principles is inert and forgotten, while the principles themselves are »given« in a strange (or alien) form that makes them manageable and allows us to operate with them without having to sustain them in our being. Yet, this does not seem sufficient to solve the proposed enigma. To begin with, what is at work when the reference between man and principles has an informative character, is an enormously potentized form of that inertia (to potentize: to raise in power viz. in the capacity for »giving power to power«). Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, what is at the basis of this reference is itself a knowledge, and indeed a knowledge that understands itself as the only true knowledge of principles. In other words: we must admit that, when we indulge in that external, detached, spectatorial manner of relating to principles, in which principles are simply computable information, such indulgence is supported and guided by a certain form of truth, which is not the truth of principles. Thus, the enigma, rather than being solved, deepens: Can it be that we remain in this »unprincipled« truth, while at the same time admitting another truth, namely, the truth of principles? In order to shed some light on this enigma, we need to ask the following: What kind of truth supports and guides us, what lets us trust that our grasp is sufficient, as we »navigate through information«, including the information concerning principles? Before even trying to answer this question, let us recall the rather strong statement made towards the end of the Introduction 43, namely, that the 43

See above, p. 50.

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world in which we exist is a world »without principles and therefore without philosophy«. The sense of that statement was not entirely clear at that point. Presumably, however, this sense has to do with the notion of truth we are presently interrogating. This truth guides our actions, in the sense that it imposes a certain direction on them and gives a consistency to the steps that lead in that direction, showing what is likely and what is not, what is and what, on the other hand, has no being. But there is no action without knowledge. Therefore, that truth in the first place gives rise to a certain form of knowledge, which appears as the only form that is reliable and true. What is the character of that truth, how does it provide a likely, acceptable basis of trust for shaping our knowledge and, consequently, guiding our action? We can provisionally answer this question as follows: The constitutive trait of the truth is its operative character. In light of the thus-determined truth, only what is operative — that is, capable of functioning in view of computable effects, i. e. effects which lead to further operations — appears as true (worthy, worthwhile, befitting, adequate, acceptable, legitimate, as it should be, etc.). Truth is now the same as effectiveness. Hence, only an effective knowledge is a true knowledge, and only an action that produces effects is, in turn, a true action. The domain of knowledge in which truth as effectiveness (or, as we can also call it: technical truth) builds the scope for its reign is the domain of (technology-driven) science and (science-based) technology. Science, scientific knowledge, does not exist »in general«, nor does it have an immutable character and scope. Most importantly, the form of scientific knowledge changes according to the dominant sense of truth. However, that sense is not accessible to science as such, to wit, science cannot, through its own methods, gain a knowledge or an awareness of its implications in terms of truth, given that those methods are in the first place determined by, and implement, that same sense of truth. Thus, science is entirely permeated by and proceeds in accordance with that truth, which in fact defines the very character of scientificity, or of what qualifies as truly scientific knowledge. When the sense of truth is effectiveness, scientific knowledge is effective knowledge. The fact that the sense of truth is effectiveness means: something is truer, the more it is effective; that is, the better performing it is in terms of effectiveness, or of commanding effects. The better a certain instance of scientific knowledge performs in terms of effectiveness, the truer and the more scientific we regard it to be. 62 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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What does this imply for our quest for principles? If only effective knowledge, knowledge that has and gives a command over effects, is true knowledge, then only effective principles are true principles. An effective principle is not only a source or origin of effects, but it is necessarily itself of the same nature as effects. Hence, if an effect is always something, then the effective — and now the only true — principle is also something. However, this contradicts what we have said about principles in their rigorous sense (i. e. the principles of philosophy), namely, that they are not something but rather nothing. If we adhere to the determination of philosophy as a knowledge of principles, which are themselves nothing, and therefore non-effective, then, given that the prevailing sense of truth is effectiveness, philosophy is no longer a true form of knowledge. In other words: A world reigned by truth as effectiveness is a world without philosophy — a world that knows philosophy only as useful information (i. e. as a format) and philosophizing as an effective exercise of elaborating that information. A world reigned by truth as effectiveness recognizes science (again: not science »in general«, but a science moulded to serve the purpose of the enhancement of effectiveness) as the pre-eminent form of knowledge. Indeed, who can deny that, today, in all domains of life, we turn to science in order to establish the truth of things and consequently seek guidance for action? On the other hand, philosophy must conform to the dominant sense of truth, thus becoming itself effective, if it is to have any kind of legitimacy and existence; and indeed, it does so, for instance as a »competence« that helps to enhance the effectiveness of scientific knowledge (i. e. in the form of a philosophy of science, or epistemology), or as a »competence« that helps to enhance the effectiveness of action (i. e. in the form of a philosophy of action, or somehow applied ethics). However, this conforming and thus »conformist« philosophy is a knowledge that has lost its ownmost philosophical, that is, errant character. It is no longer philosophy. Thus, provided that philosophy has ever been the knowledge on which a humanity has grounded its dwelling, it certainly is not anymore. Philosophy has come to an end and has been replaced by seemingly self-standing and self-sufficient science as the guiding knowledge of our humanity. 44 But where does science come from? Answer: 44

The sense of this »coming to an end« of philosophy is stated in more rigorous terms

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from philosophy! In fact, science as we know it derives from philosophy by way of a peculiar detachment that begins in the early days of philosophy itself and obtains its distinctive character at the beginning of modernity thanks to Galilei and Newton. 45 Even though scientific knowledge understands itself as evolving on its own without having to resort to the domain of philosophy for its results, 46 it is not an autonomous form of knowledge, but a derived one. Indeed, it is somehow suspended between philosophy, a knowledge turned towards principles, and immediately operative knowledge, a knowledge turned towards effects. All basic concepts of science are derived from philosophical concepts, which, in the domain of science, take on an operative character and are used in a context of effectiveness. The operative concepts of science are operatively defined and redefined within science itself; however, the concepts which science defines for its own operative purposes it does not find in a scientific manner; rather, it inherits them from philosophy. What is more, science also, in a sense, inherits from philosophy the concept of truth to which it obeys and conforms, including truth as effectiveness. Scientific knowledge is not in tune with truth as such, even though it accords with it and is instrumental to its implementation. When philosophy finally gives way to science, which takes its place as the knowledge of truth, this is in the first place a philosophical occurrence, namely, the occurrence that we can describe thus: philosophy ends, it attains its ultimate configuration, in and as the unfolding of science as the most effective, and therefore true, knowledge of effectiveness.

in Chapter 13. For now, we should specify that the ending of philosophy involves two concurrent aspects: (i) philosophical enquiry, which is seen as being about, or as involving, the humanity of man, is absorbed by »human sciences« (which, on the other hand, increasingly display a neuroscientific imprint); (ii) the investigation of nature, which is seen as being entirely independent of man, becomes an exclusive competence of the (mathematized) »natural sciences«. 45 See below, p. 237 sq. 46 On the other hand, the philosopher Leibniz not only claims, but bears witness to the fact that scientific laws cannot be found without reference to a metaphysical principle (see below, Chapter 10).

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Contingency

3.1 Contingency We now have a more definite notion of what we mean by the end of philosophy, even though we still lack an understanding of the origin of this end and can hardly measure its implications. For the moment, we need to clarify further what exactly it is that ends »into« the unfolding of the reign of science (which, on the other hand, is that ending). In other words, we need to gain anew, and in the simplest terms, a notion of philosophy. Philosophy, the knowledge of principles, as we have said, is not the knowledge of something, but rather the knowledge of nothing. How can we further characterize what is meant with the word »something«? If we think back to the above quoted Heraclitean fragment, we find that this fragment distinguishes between λόγος, on the one hand, and »that which they encounter and with which they deal every day«, on the other. The latter formula indicates a constitutive trait of what we call »something«: »something« is what we »encounter and with which we deal« in an ordinary setting (»every day«); it is what has a direct impact on our lives, what engages and concerns us, and demands and urges us to deal with it in ways that are informed by the immediacy of the task at hand. Thus, it is what is always in the foreground in a pressing manner, what is due before anything else, insisting that something be done with it or in response to it. The peculiar contact with such »things« tends to fill up all time and all space; in fact, it has its own time and space, which is a time and space of »doing«; that is, an operative time and space. We indicate with the word »contingency« the peculiar manner of being of that which occurs, and appears, in the described manner. Contingency comes from Latin contingere, which is composed of cum (»with«) and tangere (»to touch«). In our context we take this word — which commonly means an accident or an unforeseen and unforeseeable event — to indicate the character of immediate (viz. unmediated) impact of things, namely the direct impact on our (inert) life-sphere or »lived experience«. Since contingency will henceforth be a guiding word for our enquiry into philosophical principles, it is important that, from the outset, we take it in the precise sense that we are presently defining. 47 What is the essential trait implied in contin-

47

In the chapter on Leibniz (see below p. 284 sq.) we will encounter the word contin-

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gency? Answer: the fact that in the encounter with what is contingent, the sense of that which is reduced to contingency is not interrogated, not sustained in knowledge, and thus not clarified; indeed, that sense does not, in the first place, ask to be interrogated, clarified, or sustained in sufficient knowledge. In the impact of contingency, the very dimension of sense, as a space of interrogation that man’s being occupies in different ways, is, so to speak, retracted, withdrawn, while its most original trait, namely the one trait that, if experienced and known, gives rise to a sufficient clarity — to wit, the trait of inception —, does not attain us, and is therefore not perceived. Indeed, the fact that the encounter with things has the form of an impact is a consequence of that retraction and withdrawal, which leaves things destitute of any sense. In other words: what we call »contingency« implies the staying away of the most original trait of sense, of the very source and origin of sense: that is, of the principle that, as such, lays claim to our being. Contingency is the way things are, and the way we are, when the knowledge of the principle fails. As long as contingency reigns; that is, as long as the principle of sense stays away, things appear alien, and man is alienated from himself. Let us consider an example. We have all either been, or are presently, or can imagine being, university students. We know from experience (or imagination) that, as we first enter university, we are immediately engaged by a number of duties, tasks, requirements, demands, obligations, opportunities, chances, problems, etc., which impact our student lives and urge us to respond in different manners thanks to the capacities and energies we can and are willing to »mobilise«. While we thus »live« (erleben; viviamo) this manifold impact, and are busy providing adequate responses (according to standards of adequacy and success which we take for granted and to which we conform), we do not interrogate the sense of higher knowledge, or of the institution called the university, or of learning and teaching, etc. We mostly content ourselves with acknowledging that, since that in which we are enrolled is, after all, called a university, as a consequence that with which we are being presented is evidently (university level) knowledge; what we are asked to do in order to pass exams is obviously to learn in an academic sense; the kind of explanations and

gency with a different meaning, which corresponds to the manner in which that word is mostly understood in the philosophical tradition.

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instructions we receive must correspond to what is called academic teaching, and so on. And even when we have reason to be puzzled by or unsatisfied with or critical of any of these aspects of university life, we will perhaps look for improvements, or solutions, or alternatives, but we will never sit down to interrogate precisely what a student is as such, or what a university is as such, or what knowledge is as such, etc. In fact, given the different constraints within which we are struggling to attain our objectives, there is no time or opportunity for such interrogating. After all, we need and want to study something (like economics, or politics, or philosophy), and then study more and eventually get a rewarding and fulfilling job; on the other hand, interrogating the sense of studying seems like a waste of time and a question that only pedagogues or philosophers of education would be interested to pursue, and which it is the University management’s job to answer appropriately. And yet, as we respond day after day to the challenges that our academic existence presents, we never stop presuming that what we are getting is a (good or not so good) education; that what we are doing when we prepare for exams is (more or less successful) studying; that the international ranking that lists our institution at a top position has something relevant to say about universities. We presume all this and much more, we sometimes wonder about it and give it some thought — but we don’t know it. As this example helps to illustrate, contingency is a manner of being of things in their relation to us — a relation in which they impact us with their urgency and compellingness, occupy the center stage of our »reality«, and exact a response directed at countering and eventually overcoming the pressure they exert. For instance, in the example we have just considered, »philosophy«, when it appears as »material that is to be mastered in view of passing an exam«, is contingent; »studying«, when it is seen as an »activity that assures the necessary mastery of a certain material in view of passing an exam«, is contingent; »teaching«, when it is considered as a »service meant to provide knowledge in a form that makes it apt to be stored and elaborated in view of passing an exam«, is contingent; »university«, when the notion of it is that of a »factory that produces lectures in view of exams to be passed and degrees to be obtained for an individual or socio-economic use«, is contingent. In particular, »philosophy«, »studying«, »teaching« and »university« are here considered in the perspective of usefulness, and their ontological status (meaning: the sense of their being) is that of values. While we will not clarify 67 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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further, at this point, what this perspective and this status imply, 48 it is important to acknowledge and to keep in mind that, in the domain of contingency, philosophy as philosophy, teaching as teaching, and so on, are never in view; in other words, no knowledge of these »things« as such and in themselves is involved. 49 However, contingency does not negate knowledge in general. On the contrary, contingency implies, and is the basis for, its own specific form of knowledge. This knowledge — namely the knowledge that has contingency as its only source and as its sole scope and aim —, no matter how complete and how »useful«, is nevertheless not a sufficient knowledge, insofar as it is ignorant of principles: It observes and penetrates things, and to some extent discovers their features and functioning, and hence makes them available for a controlled use; however, in so doing, that knowledge remains blind for the one source of the time and space — that is, of the truth — that gives rise to, and keeps, a whole (ein Ganzes; una sfera d’integrità) of measured relations of things, each of which, in turn, is whole (and therefore fair and true) — namely whole »of« (i. e. thanks to) the wholeness to which it belongs, for whose holding (bergen; recondere) it is built, and which it gathers in its being. Only the principle, in its reference to man, can provide the truth, and thus grant the measure for a whole of measured sense-relations, that is, for a truly human world. And only if man becomes the minder of that principle can he become who he is, namely the only guardian of the truth whence, again and again, a human world is created. Man is — human communities are — at first and for the most part caught up in contingency. The principle and its truth are retracted, man’s true being is inert, and things appear alien. However, it can happen that the reign of contingency, as it were, collapses, due The ontological concept of value will be discussed in Chapter 12. Why do we write »things« in quotation marks? Because »philosophy«, »studying«, etc., are clearly not things, and this not because they are »immaterial« rather being »material«, but because what we are here envisaging (and calling, respectively, »philosophy«, »studying«, etc.) is a trait, namely the ownmost, constitutive trait of »philosophy«, of »studying«, etc. An Italian name for this ownmost, constitutive trait (viz. the trait in which we are in the first place involved and which is in us as that which concerns us in the first place, though usually not at first) is indole (we say: l’indole ›filosofia‹, l’indole ›insegnamento‹, as opposed to philosophy as mere contingency, etc.), while in English we could use the word inscape for indicating that same trait. Both indole and inscape, together with other Italian and English words, are in dialogue with the German word Wesen.

48 49

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to the fact that what is not contingency — let us from now on indicate it as dis-contingency — makes itself known abruptly, and openly claims man as the one he already is, namely, he who acknowledges that knowledge. What we call »philosophy« is one form of the knowledge of dis-contingency: the knowledge of principles. Philosophy breaks (die Philosophie bricht ein; la filosofia irrompe) into the middle of contingency, and of the knowledge of contingency, as the claim of the one sufficient knowledge. However, it does not break »in general«, but always within a human awareness that is capable of receiving, accepting and sustaining it, namely in a man who finds himself addressed and interrogated by that claim, and who cannot but attempt to mind and safeguard its dis-contingent truth. What speaks in this claim is the principle that grants (but also denies) a whole of fairly (or measuredly) jointed things, whose sense it is to hold that fairness within themselves, and this for the sake of the principle itself; that is, for it to hold sway (walten; vigere) as the origin of all sense and measure, but also of all senselessness and measurelessness. The flagrant 50 truth that breaks with philosophy and as philosophy is this: all beings owe their consistency as beings to a sense or being, which, in turn, obtains its truth from the reference to the one ultimate principle that, while having its openness (its open sway) in that truth, gathers all beings into a whole (which we might call »the world«); this circumstance, in turn, implies the following: what »being« (Sein; essere) means is always to be decided once again — if we are to found a human world built on the knowledge that is constitutive of the human being as such; and it can only be decided in reference to that ultimate principle. The awareness of that principle — that is, of the dis-contingent origin of all sense and being — having broken into the form of the Greek onset, or initiation, of thinking, which gave rise to the tradition of philosophy. We are saying here that this tradition is coming to an end in the form of the unfolding of science. Finally, we are saying that we, today, stand within the ending of this tradition as its heirs — and therefore also as those who are defined by their relation to that heritage, namely its »already-been« and its »yet-to-be«.

The word »flagrancy« will be introduced later in this book. Provisionally, we should understand it in its literal sense (»blazing, flaming«) and take as a reference for our comprehension of the peculiar »light« of flagrancy the expression »in flagrant delict«.

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The world »of« the ending of philosophy is a world of »only (or brute) beings«, i. e. of beings without being: an exclusive, time- and spaceless domain of contingency, conceived and implemented by an exclusive knowledge of contingency, namely a knowledge that consists in the computation (securing, planning, monitoring, steering) of what is contingent. »Exclusive« means that any trait of dis-contingency is kept out of the circuits of implementation of contingency, while that which is enclosed in that domain is in its turn excluded from what is other than contingent. The truth of the domain of contingency, we said, is effectiveness. But is it? How does the understanding of truth as that in which the principle »has its openness (or open sway)« justify a notion of truth as effectiveness? In order to tackle this question, let us first give the following, slightly more elaborate determination of truth: Truth is the in itself contentious (in sich strittig; in sé contenziosa) dimension that holds the openness of the principle; as such it grants the sphere of sense-endowed, true things. 51

In light of this understanding of truth, it appears that the domain of contingency, which is a domain without principles, is entirely deprived of truth. Consequently, when we called effectiveness a form of truth, namely the truth that reigns in the domain of contingency, we were clearly mistaken. Here is the place for a consideration that is indicative of the nature of a philosophical phenomenon, and therefore also of what is A more elaborate indication of this same — »elementary« — meaning of truth could read as follows: »Truth is not a universal content hidden in some celestial place, and neither is it the ›secret of the world‹ or the ›mystery of life‹, but that which is always involved when it is ineludible that man determines the sense of things and of himself. […] [F]ar from being a property of objects or propositions (ordinary and/or theoretical) [it] designates, so to say, a playing field, which man, the thinking being, must take care of, and in which the stakes and the law are clear: contending with the chaos of the undecidable for that light which, revealing every time the forces and the powers of (mere) appearance, opens the ways of essential decisions: release the authentic from the jaws of the fictitious and the ostentatious, save what is promising from the unchained violence of the aberrant, set aside what is clear in the oppression of the confused, disentangle the pure from the artifices of the deceptive, elect what is right in the imbalance of the partial, ransom the rigorous from the volubility of the insecure and from the fixity of the pedantic — in a word: free the true (that is, the originally logical) from the multiple distortions of the erroneous (that is, the originally illogical).« (cf. Ivo De Gennaro, Gino Zaccaria, The Dictatorship of Value. Milan: McGraw Hill, 2011, p. 116–117.)

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required from philosophical attention. Assumedly our epoch is a domain of sheer contingency, and this means: nowhere is there shelter for the dis-contingent element that grants a sense to things in whole: the principle stays away, and, along with it, its truth. And yet, here we are, in a perhaps vague, nondescript, yet distinct awareness of precisely this. This very circumstance implies that the principle, in its staying away, is nonetheless perceived in some way, that there is a knowledge of it of which we can be mindful. And what knowledge is that? Answer: the knowledge of the staying away of the principle. If we recall that the knowledge of the principle consists in the first place in the principle itself making itself known, and that human knowledge consists fundamentally in the acknowledgment of that knowledge, then the knowledge of the principle’s staying away is not nothing, but, on the contrary, a knowledge of the principle in its own right, in which the principle makes itself known in its mode, or trait, of refusal (viz. of refusing itself). What does this teach us? In the first place, it teaches us that, in the domain of philosophical thinking, we cannot take as a reference the schemes that serve us in the domain of contingency. Rather, we must always go with what offers itself to our attention, and acknowledge and preserve it as such, even if it does not »make sense« at first. In the present case, we need to acknowledge that what we are calling a »principle«, and what, as we say, is »nothing«, is much weirder than anything odd or unusual we might have known within the domain of contingency. We can give an idea of this weirdness by listing different ways in which the principle can »be« in its constitutive reference to man: 1. 2.

3.

4.

5.

the principle can grant itself together with its knowledge; that is, with its truth — and there grows, among men, an awareness of that truth; the principle can grant itself together with its knowledge; that is, with its truth — and yet there doesn’t grow, among men, an awareness of that truth; the principle can refuse itself together with its knowledge; that is, with its truth — and men are stuck in an obliviousness of the principle and its truth; the principle can refuse itself, but grant a knowledge of this refusal; that is, of the truth of the refused principle — and there grows, among men, an awareness of this knowledge, and therefore of the principle; the principle can refuse itself, but grant a knowledge of this refusal; that is, of the truth of the refused principle — and yet, there does not grow, among men, an awareness of that knowledge, and therefore of the principle.

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This list of »ways in which the principle can ›be‹ in its constitutive reference to man« is not at all exhaustive, nor are these ways to be taken as rigid definitions. On the contrary, the list is meant to help us train our thinking to become more versatile, namely free from insufficient definitions and schemes, and free for that which needs to be thought and for the ways in which it requires to be thought. While it seems that the only result is a growing confusion, we are however overlooking the fact that, meanwhile, we might have shed some clarity on a phenomenon which we noticed earlier, when we said: »It almost appears as if each one of us was two different human beings: the information-elaborator and the origin-minder«. Now we can grasp more clearly who these »two different human beings« are: each single one of us participates in the obliviousness of the principle and its truth (way 3 above), but also in the knowledge (or truth) of the refused principle (ways 4 and 5 above). Insofar as we (namely, each one of us in a unique manner that shapes his or her selfhood) participate in this knowledge, we are faced with the decision between sustaining the growth of an awareness of that knowledge (way 4) and neglecting to sustain such growing (way 5). Finally, this provides us with a hint as to the constellation in which our current efforts around »principles of philosophy« are situated. We are now better equipped to answer the above formulated question, namely: »How does the understanding of truth as that in which the principle ›has its openness‹ justify a notion of truth as effectiveness?« At first it seemed that, in light of the understanding of truth as »the dimension that holds the openness of the principle«, it was not tenable to refer to effectiveness as a form of truth. For if the »epoch of effectiveness« is an epoch without principles, and truth is that which holds the openness of a principle, then effectiveness cannot be (a) truth! However, this conclusion is not at all compelling once we acknowledge that, when a principle refuses itself and its truth, it is not a case of sheer absence. In other words, the proposition »A principle refuses itself« is not the same as the proposition »There is no principle«, when the latter is, in its turn, understood in the same way as the statements »There are no unicorns« or »There are no apples (on the table)«. For our present purposes, the difference between these propositions, and the circumstances to which they refer, can be highlighted as follows: even without unicorns, or without apples, we can still conceive human beings; on the other hand, without a principle, human beings are inconceivable! This implies that the refusal of a 72 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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principle is not the same as its sheer »inexistence«, but a mode of addressing us, and, in this sense, of granting itself! What speaks in the refusal of a principle is still the principle as such, namely: the principle itself as refusal! What does »the principle as refusal« mean? In order to understand this, we need to make an additional step. This step tries us in our capacity of conceiving the principle not as a thing (which can be either extant or inexistent), but as what is never a thing; it consists in acknowledging that refusal (or denial) is a constitutive trait (ein Wesenszug; un tratto costitutivo) of the principle itself, which is therefore not simply »absent« when a principle fails to grant itself with a truth that holds its openness, but rather »at work« as a refusal of such granting. In fact, the flagrant refusal of a principle, such as that which characterizes our epoch, if acknowledged, is a unique opportunity (a space-of-time) to regenerate a knowledge of what a principle is. An analogous consideration can be made for truth: the circumstance that our epoch is an epoch of »truthlessness« is not incompatible (as a »logic of beings« would have it) with defining effectiveness as the truth of that epoch. Indeed, effectiveness is the truth of the flagrant denial of a principle, or — in other words — the openness of the principle as refusal, and therefore (effectiveness is) the flagrant denial of a truth. 52 We thus get a sense of what is meant in the definition of truth as an »in itself contentious dimension«: the trait of being contentious indicates that truth is in fact the dimension of the struggle for (a) truth while the principle plays its game of granting and refusing itself together with its knowledge. This further paradox leads us to formulate an important lesson which we can and need to learn from these preliminary considerations, in view of our enquiry into the principles of philosophy: on the level of such principles, thinking in terms of mutually exclusive opposites — such as »presence (of a being)« and »absence (of a being)« — is not sufficient; whatever we come to know concerning the ultimate source of all sense and all being ought to be interpreted as a trait of that source itself.

In other words: the (shock of the) total regime of effectiveness is a unique opportunity for acquiring an original notion of truth.

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3.2 Why Engage with the Principles of Philosophy? One last point must be addressed before we turn to some of the great thinkers of our tradition in order to let them be the guides of this enquiry. From preceding remarks, it is not at all clear what an ongoing preoccupation with principles would be good for, given that philosophy — that is, the knowledge of principles — has come to an end. Is the sense of our attempt at accessing the dimension of principles that of reviving the principles of the past? Even if that were the case, how could one revive what is coming to an end, and indeed inexorably so? Shouldn’t we rather, as citizens of our epoch, and as »men of knowledge«, who, thanks to our »higher education«, prepare to be leaders within our respective communities, acknowledge that »the time of principles is over«, and that ours is a »time of action« supported by the form of knowledge which is fit to guide and foster action, namely science and technological expertise? While we are, of course, always free to take the road of immediate performance in the realm of effectiveness, it would nevertheless be insufficient to conclude that this road is the only meaningful or responsible one, and this for two reasons: one that is implicit in previous remarks, and a second one that concerns the very concepts of »principle« and of »philosophy«. The reason implicit in the previous remarks is the following: we know that the concepts of science are derived concepts. Scientific knowledge, just like the knowledge of common sense, follows a certain truth, and implements a certain sense, which speaks in, and from, contingency. For instance, if we think of our epoch — the so-called »epoch of globalization« — the sense that speaks in and from contingency is the eternal enhancement of effectiveness in all domains, or, more precisely, the subordination of all domains (and, in the first place, of time and space) to the rule of the enhancement of effectiveness; the direction of »progress« in science and action, the notion of »success« in these fields, is given precisely by that »sense«. However, neither scientific knowledge nor common sense, as (respectively, theoretical and empirical) forms of the knowledge of contingency, can access that very sense; that is, ponder it as such and interrogate its provenance and its implications. Among other things, those forms of knowledge cannot decide whether this »sense« is actually sense or rather utter senselessness. Why? Because for them, any »sense« — that is, the likely directedness and destination of things within the domain defined by an inception — is given, and a matter of fact. (For 74 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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instance, think of statements in an operative context beginning with the phrase: »Under the conditions of globalization …«, which implies fundamental decisions that are never interrogated.) Hence the noncompellingness of the above conclusion: as long as we still wish to mind the sense of our earthly sojourn, we cannot rely solely on scientific knowledge, nor on the »logic of action«. However, there is a more profound reason for the insufficiency of that conclusion, which, as we have said, has to do with the very concepts of »principle« and of »philosophy«. Until now we have been using the word principle both with the indefinite article (»a principle«) and with the definite article (»the principle«); also, beginning with the very title of this enquiry, we have used the plural form »principles«, implying that there is something like principles and that philosophy is the knowledge of these principles. This raises a question that, at this point, we can forego no longer: Is there only one principle or are there many, and, in either case, how is that so? In fact, at first glance, given the definition of »principle« as the »first source« and »deepest origin« of things in whole, it would seem reasonable to assume that there is only one principle. As a matter of fact, each fundamental philosophical position (philosophische Grundstellung; posizione filosofica di fondo), be it that of Plato or Aristotle, of Descartes or Leibniz, of Kant or Hegel, of Schelling or Nietzsche, knows only one principle, even if this one principle (namely, the only thought that each thinker thinks) bears in itself a rich articulation of traits. These different, unique principles are the »principles of philosophy«, in the sense that they constitute the tradition of this form of knowledge. What is each of these principles? Answer: each of these principles is the dis-contingent source, borne in man’s mindfulness, of the truth whence springs, and in which ends, a whole of sense- and measure-holding things. 53 However, the question remains: How can there be more of these principles (one for Plato, one for Nietzsche, etc.)? Must there not be a single source of them, a kind of »principle of all principles«?

The principle itself is not a measure. On the other hand, there is no measure in mere things or beings. From where, then, does the measure that things may eventually hold in themselves come; in other words, from where does the harmony of things come? Answer: that measure is a free consequence of man’s minding and preserving the self-seizing, unseizable origin of all sense. 53

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There is a likely answer to this question, which we need to anticipate at this stage, even though for now its scope is beyond what we are able to understand with sufficient clarity. This answer has the form of the following conjecture: The source of the multiple principles, and of the very form of these principles, which constitute the tradition of philosophy, is to be found in the very inception or onset of thinking in Greek antiquity, in which — as the conjecture goes — the original dis-contingency, in its constitutive reference to man’s being, did not offer itself in its own knowledge and truth, and therefore remained neglected and forgotten. After all that has been said so far, this statement must sound surprising, if not unsettling. And yet, we must now attempt to follow this line of thought. According to the proposed conjecture, the very initiation of thinking in Greece, and consequently the beginning of philosophy, and hence the unfolding of the philosophical tradition (including science as its offspring) is marked by the refusal of the original dis-contingency in its own truth, and therefore by its forgottenness; that is, its not becoming known in its own right and thus remaining unacknowledged. In other words: the awakening of thinking (in the sense of the knowledge of principles) coincides with the withdrawal (Entzug; ritraimento) and the consequent undiscernedness of the primigenial trait of dis-contingency. This statement implies the following: The thinking that begins with Heraclitus and others, and eventually, with Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, takes the form of philosophy, firstly and only knows this one thing: that there is a first ground of beings that has made itself known from beings themselves and that is other, or »different«, with respect to any being; and that therefore a knowledge solely confined to the domain of beings (i. e. a knowledge confined to beings in which this ground has not made itself known, to wit: a knowledge of contingency) is not a sufficient knowledge. Consequently, the same thinking strives for nothing other than this: a dis-contingent principle for beings as such and in whole. And yet, what attunes this thinking, and thus offers itself to, and claims to be thought by, this thinking, is not dis-contingency in its own truth, but each time (i. e. for each fundamental position of philosophy) a »spark« of the original trait of dis-contingency (so to speak, a spark of the only »principle«). While the acknowledgment of that »spark«, and what it entails in terms of a sufficient foundation and basis of beings, informs a knowledge that remains entirely in the sphere of the constitution of senserelations (viz. philosophy), that original trait of dis-contingency, in76 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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sofar as it »creates« its own truth and, as such, entertains a constitutive reference to man, remains unthought (ungedacht; impensato). 54 We must now, albeit in the most concise manner, indicate in what sense in those »sparks« of dis-contingency which are the different principles of philosophy, dis-contingency itself (i. e. in its own truth) remains unthought. For this purpose, let us pay attention to the following: What is each time thought of as a principle in the tradition of philosophy has, as its fundamental trait, that of constituting an origin and a ground of things or beings. However, in a sense, this ground, precisely insofar as it is a ground of beings, maintains in itself the character of a being (ein Seiendes; un ente o essente). In other words: while the principles of philosophy are never mere beings (as are, for instance, the principles of science), they are, however, in a sense, beings. Philosophy strives for dis-contingency, but it does so by starting from beings (that is, once the latter cease to be in the exclusive grip of contingency and show a need for a ground), and for the sake of beings, namely, of offering a ground, or basis, to beings as beings themselves demand. For philosophy (in contrast to scientific or ordinary thinking), beings appear as such (i. e. in their need of a ground for their being) and in whole; in other words, they show themselves in light of a (needed) ground informed by (a spark of) dis-contingency, and the call of dis-contingency is that to which philosophy answers; yet, this light remains merely a supplement of beings, conceived by a thinking that, having in view beings and their need of foundation, caters to beings themselves. In the Greek onset of philosophy, from which the philosophical tradition flows, dis-contingency breaks as the (dis-contingent) whole of dis-contingent beings, but not as itself, that is, so to speak, not independently of beings. Thus, philosophy unwittingly remains entangled in the domain in which beings alone »have say«, or prevail: namely, contingency. As a consequence, philosophy does not attempt to ground the nothing of dis-contingency in its own truth; that is, independently of beings. What remains unthought in the philosophical tradition, and, in its forgottenness, is the source of philosophical principles, is precisely this nothing as such. What is more, the In a sense, we can say that the very circumstance that the original trait of discontingency has, from the outset, been experienced and thought of as a basis of and for beings, marks its initial refusal and its consequent remaining unthought. The following considerations elaborate on this perspective.

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»spark« of dis-contingency that each time attunes and sets off philosophical thinking becomes somehow weaker (for the growing »benefit« of uninterrupted contingency) as it is handed down within the philosophical tradition and through its languages, until it almost extinguishes in the last fundamental position of philosophy, which is that of Friedrich Nietzsche. In Nietzsche’s extreme attempt to save that spark, the philosophical forgottenness of discontingency itself attains an extreme point. We should thus have gained a more distinct notion of what is meant with the »end of philosophy« as the unfolding of (a certain form of) science. What ends in this ending is a certain form of thinking, namely, philosophy as an attempt to ground beings as such and in whole (das Seiende als solches im Ganzen; l’ente in quanto essente nella sua sfera d’integrità). Intrinsic in this attempt is an unthought presupposition, which remains imperceptible precisely insofar as philosophical principles maintain the constitution of a ground of beings as beings themselves demand. Once the growing withdrawal of discontingency has extinguished all knowledge of dis-contingency, we are left in a »world« constituted and saturated by nothing other than contingency. The exclusive reign — or rather regime — of contingency is ruled and driven by that open withdrawal, i. e. by the sense of senselessness. This regime calls for a knowledge capable of enhancing the power of contingency. In answer to that claim, a philosophically potentiated knowledge of contingency unfolds, which we know as contemporary science. However, the end of philosophy does not imply the end of the thinking of dis-contingency; on the contrary. In fact, what kind of thinking of dis-contingency is left once philosophy has found its end in technicized science? What thinking is left once it appears that a principle of discontingency, such as our tradition has known, refuses itself to the point of being inconceivable, thus leaving the world and man in the exclusive will of unleashed contingency? Answer: the thinking of dis-contingency itself in its own truth that is initiated precisely by (the experience of) this unprecedented refusal. This is where we need to put in practice the above-formulated lesson: the refusal of any (philosophical) principle, and the resulting forsakenness of all there is, is not to be taken as a »negative phenomenon«, but is to be experienced precisely as a phenomenon, namely as a manifestation, a knowledge of the »principle of all principles« itself, and thus as an occasion for finally acknowledging the »original trait 78 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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of discontingency in its own truth«. While the thinking whose σχολή is shaped by that occasion belongs to the same tradition as philosophical thinking, it is attuned by, and thinks of, what has remained unthought throughout that tradition. This thinking is not just a theoretical possibility; in fact, it has already begun! In other words, in the instant of its most extreme refusal, the one principle of dis-contingency itself has granted a knowledge of its refusal, namely of itself as refusal, and an awareness, a mindfulness of this knowledge has begun to grow. The circumstance that the thinking of that which has remained unthought throughout (and, so to speak, as) the philosophical tradition has begun is in no way a necessary circumstance, but it is also not a mere accident. In fact, it is fair to think that the instant in which contingency unfolds its exclusive, »principle-resistant« regime is, in a sense, uniquely favorable for an awareness of discontingency itself, in its own truth, to arise. Why? Because now more than ever the »burning need« of a discontingent source, the stress (die Not; lo stringente bisogno, la stretta) of a free origin of sense and being can appear and be acknowledged, while at the same time this very need and stress let the principles of the philosophical tradition appear as attempts at securing a discontingent ground to beings, so that discontingency itself is in play as a »factor« of that ground. We could formulate this thought as follows: Where the rule of contingency is absolute and exclusive, there the flagrancy of that rule, which simultaneously disarms its absoluteness, is, in a peculiar manner, likely. This flagrancy bears in itself the likelihood of an attunement to itself as the refusal of discontingency — a refusal that, as we are now aware, is not nothing, but itself a manner of discontingency’s appearing, and therefore an occasion to learn. What there is to learn can be concisely formulated thus: the exclusive rule of contingency is itself not something contingent, but ruling, discontingent refusal! In other words, the exclusive rule of contingency owes itself to, or rather is, the refusal of discontingency, or discontingency itself in its trait of refusal. Therefore, the appearing of the exclusiveness of contingency is (the same as) the appearing of the refusal of discontingency and is (the same as) the first appearing of discontingency »in its own truth«. As we can see, our epoch, far from being exclusively the »time for action guided by science«, displays, and is, a unique constellation. On the one hand, it is the epoch of the end of philosophy, the time of the exclusive regime of contingency and of the knowledge that per79 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

The End of Philosophy — and Beyond

tains to it; the epoch that does not know the only »nothing«, and in which a knowledge of this nothing is considered not only vacuous but not even true knowledge. On the other hand, ours is the epoch in which the one principle, whose forgottenness is, in a sense, the very source of the philosophical tradition, becomes flagrant in its own truth precisely through the very needlessness of principles displayed by the exclusive regime of contingency, thus initiating an entirely new »knowledge of principles«; an epoch that, in a sense, is a new inception of thinking, and therefore of man’s being. However, these two aspects of our epoch face in opposite directions: their regards do not cross. In order to indicate this circumstance, Martin Heidegger resorts to the image of a Janus face (Januskopf; giano bifronte). This constellation implies that our epoch is, in an unprecedented manner, critical. In other words, it is characterized by a crisis, an either/or that is internal to the principle itself: either an awakening to dis-contingency in its own truth (and the consequent building of a world that is true to the acknowledgement of that truth), or the growing and perhaps definitive needlessness of the exclusive regime of contingency and effectiveness (and the attendant worldlessness which our »humanity« is collaborating with the refused principle to implement). Now, if it is true that man has, as a native endowment of his being, the knowledge of principles, and therefore, we can now add, the knowledge of the principle, then each one of us, in one way or another, must carry in him- or herself the knowledge of that crisis. In fact, this is the more profound sense of the earlier remark about each one of us appearing to be »at once two human beings«. Now we see that this does not refer to some kind of schizophrenia but has to do with the fact that we still are the knowing being. Hence, the one thing we know, as thinking beings of our epoch, is the crisis that runs through us, that is, the either/or of (dis-)contingency, and therefore also the following either/or for each single one of us: either become the blind and deaf functionary of the mere enhancement of contingency, or awaken to a dis-contingency enfranchised from the grasp of brutality, and henceforth know oneself as the minder of its truth. Each one of us is a prisoner of contingency and its uniform (standardized, mechanical) ways; but each one of us carries in him- or herself an awareness of the freedom of dis-contingency, namely the freedom in which contingency has for once »seen« its impregnable end, and thus has been forever mitigated in its will. It is presumably from out 80 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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of this awareness that the French thinker Simone Weil (1909–1943) once wrote the following: »You couldn’t have been born in a better epoch than this, in which we’ve lost everything«. There is a doubt, however, that will necessarily seize us at this stage. If there is some truth to what has been said so far, then what is the point of bothering with the tradition of philosophy? Didn’t we say that, in this tradition, that which ought to concern us in the first place remains unthought? Why don’t we straight away engage in the form of thinking that conceives »dis-contingency itself in its own truth«? The answer to these legitimate questions is twofold: (1) while we have hardly any experience in this latter kind of thinking, on the other hand, the tradition of philosophy is, so far, the attempt man has made at a knowledge of discontingency; as a consequence, reading this tradition now is a unique, and in fact indispensable, opportunity for training our intelligence for the task of acknowledging that element; (2) the prevalent thinking of our epoch (both scientific and prescientific), and therefore the thinking that is, in a sense, natural for each one of us, is in some way derived from philosophy, and owes itself to philosophy; hence, the study of philosophical knowledge is a necessary presupposition for gaining an awareness of our own thinking, insofar as the latter is exclusively confined to contingency and knows nothing outside of that. What does it take to set out on this journey, provided that somewhere along the way we have been seized by the unique self-seizing onset? As philosophy teaches throughout its tradition, it takes a certain number of »virtues« that have to do with man’s being, namely with how he responds to the claim that addresses him from the ground of his native endowment. One of these virtues is courage. What is courage? Courage does not consist in not being affected by anguish (Angst; angoscia) or fear (Furcht; paura). In fact, courage is, in the first place, precisely the courage of anguish, namely, the courage of allowing and bearing it — despite the assault of fear (namely, the fear of anguish). What, however, is anguish? It is the manner in which the nothing attunes man’s being. The nothing (i. e. what is never a being) is, in its turn, a trait of dis-contingency. Therefore, anguish is an attunement (though not the only one) in which we are freed into dis-contingency, while courage (from Latin cor »heart, temper«) is the capacity to let oneself be attuned to, and to bear, the nothing that is dis-contingency. Fear, on the other hand, is when the 81 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

The End of Philosophy — and Beyond

courage of anguish fails and abandons us, and, fearing the anguish of nothing, we rather become (at times fierce) agents of contingency. The peculiar place where we stay, and need to hold out, in our journey through the »principles of philosophy« is, perhaps, finally indicated in the following line of Giacomo Leopardi’s idyll L’infinito (The Infinite; Das Unendliche): … ove per poco il cor [i. e. il coraggio dell’angoscia] non si spaura … wo das Herz [d. h. der Mut zur Angst] der Furcht kaum widersteht … where the heart [i. e. the courage of anguish] almost yields to fear

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Appendix 3 Schelling on the Condition for Attaining the Point of Inception of Philosophy

Also selbst Gott muß der verlassen, der sich in den Anfangspunkt der wahrhaft freien Philosophie stellen will. Hier heißt es: Wer es erhalten will, der wird es verlieren, und wer es aufgiebt, der wird es finden. Nur derjenige ist auf den Grund seiner selbst gekommen und hat die ganze Tiefe des Lebens erkannt, der einmal alles verlassen hatte und selbst von allem verlassen war, dem alles versank und der mit dem Unendlichen sich allein gesehen: ein großer Schritt, den Plato mit dem Tod verglichen. Was Dante an der Pforte des Infernum geschrieben seyn läßt, dieß ist in einem andern Sinn auch vor den Eingang zur Philosophie zu schreiben: »Laßt alle Hoffnung fahren, die ihr eingeht«. 55 Wer wahrhaft philosophiren will, muß aller Hoffnung, alles Verlangens, aller Sehnsucht los seyn, er muß nichts wollen, nichts wissen, sich ganz bloß und arm fühlen, alles dahingeben, um alles zu gewinnen. Schwer ist dieser 55

Thus, he who wants to place himself in the point of inception of the truly free philosophy must abandon even God. Here, the following holds: he who wants to obtain it, will lose it, and he who gives it up, will find it. Only he has attained the ground of his own self, and has recognized the entire depth of life, who had once abandoned everything and had himself been abandoned by everything, for whom everything sunk away [failed] and who saw himself alone with the infinite: a great step that Plato has likened with death. What Dante wanted to be written on the gate of inferno: »Let go of all hope, you who enter«, ought to be written, in another sense, also on the entrance to philosophy. He who wants to truly philosophize, must be rid of all hope, of all desire and nostalgia, he must neither want nor know anything, must feel entirely bare and poor, and relinquish everything in order to win everything. This step is hard,

Sicché colui che voglia collocarsi nel punto d’inizio della filosofia veramente libera deve abbandonare persino Dio. Qui vale quanto segue: chi vuole mantenerlo, lo perderà, e chi lo lascerà andare, lo troverà. Soltanto chi una volta avesse abbandonato tutto, e fosse a sua volta stato abbandonato da tutto, avrà attinto il fondo dell’indole propria, e riconosciuto interamente la profondità della vita: un grande passo, che Platone ha assimilato alla morte. Ciò che Dante ha voluto fosse scritto sulla porta dell’inferno: »Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’intrate«, in un senso diverso deve scriversi anche sull’entrata della filosofia. Chi voglia veramente filosofare, dev’essere scevro di ogni speranza, di ogni desiderio, di ogni nostalgia; non deve voler nulla, saper nulla, sentirsi interamente nudo e povero; deve sacrificare tutto per guadagnare tutto. Tale passo è grave, così come è grave staccarsi, per così dire, anche dall’ultima riva.

Dante Alighieri, Divina Commedia, Inferno, III 9.

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Appendix 3 Schritt, schwer, gleichsam noch vom letzten Ufer zu scheiden. 56

as it is hard, so to speak, to part even from the last shore.

Extract from: Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Über die Natur der Philosophie als Wissenschaft, in: Sämmtliche Werke, Bd. IX. Stuttgart und Augsburg: Cotta, 1861, p. 209–246.

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4. Heraclitus

Heraclitus (6th — 5th century BC) lived in Ephesus, a Greek city located on what is today the west coast of Turkey. Together with Parmenides and Anaximander, he is one of the initial thinkers of our tradition. 57 »Initial«, here, does not have a historical sense, and means more than »early« or »first«. The initial thinkers of our tradition are those whose thinking initiates this tradition as such — not because they intended to give rise to a tradition, but because their thinking preserves the first, in itself initial, 58 breaking of the knowledge of discontingency, which (that initial breaking) remains the source, and, in a sense, the future, of all subsequent thinking to this day. In light of this circumstance we can say that in Heraclitus speaks the very initiation (or onset, or inception) of thinking (der Anfang des Denkens; l’inizio del pensiero). 59 In this initiation, which preserves an earliness All that remains of Heraclitus’s writings are single quotations, namely words or sentences (sometimes in different versions) that are attributed to him by later authors, and which philological and philosophical expertise considers as authentic. While there has been, and still is, some discussion among philologists, as well as philosophers, concerning the authenticity and likely wording of some Heraclitean fragments, here we will not go into the detail of this discussion. 58 »Initial« comes from Latin initium »onset, principle, beginning«, a noun derived from the verb inire »to go in, enter«. An initial thinker is initiated by the onset itself into erring on a path that leads into that onset. 59 We have already been and will continue using »onset«, »initiation« and »inception« to say what is named Anfang in German and inizio in Italian. All three English words indicate, in different ways, the traits that were mentioned in our discussion of the word »principle«. — »Onset« (where »set« is the same word as German setzen, Satz, cf. Ansatz) commonly means »beginning, start«, but also »assault« and »attack«: in the present context, its main trait is that of a sudden, »spontaneous« breaking as the abrupt advent of a free, unrelying self-setting, which, precisely by virtue of such setting, (i) sets a thinking that is alerted to it on a path on which that thinking is asked to answer and preserve the initial self-setting as such, and (ii) according to the manner in which the unrelying self-setting is preserved, at once leaves all beings, that is, by virtue of its own retreating lets them be placed (or posited) as such and in whole, 57

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of thinking that does not cease to come toward us, and hand us over to what is coming, the light of dis-contingency shines in a brightness and clarity (filled with the darkness whence that clarity stems) which we do not find in subsequent philosophical thought. This reminds us that what we call »onset« is not a mere starting point which we soon leave behind (us) (der Anfang ist nicht ein Ausgangspunkt, den wir rasch hinter uns lassen; l’inizio non è un punto di partenza che presto ci lasciamo alle spalle), but, on the contrary, the inexhaustible richness of the only source of all sense and being, which perennially returns into itself and keeps to itself, and thus has always already outreached all that may flow from it. By what is Heraclitus’s thinking awoken, attuned, and claimed? What makes itself known to him, asking to be acknowledged and preserved? We can briefly indicate it thus: In between all beings, there flashes (blitzt, flammt, leuchtet auf; folgora, rifulge, flagra), though invisibly, what is itself never a being (ein Seiendes; un essente), but rather the in-itself scinding-jointing One 60 (das scheidendfügende Eine; lo scindente-fugante Uno), which places (legt; colloca, posa) thus originally constituting them in their gathered appearing. The onset’s setting, however, is a seizing, Latin capere, a term we already encountered in our discussion of the word »principle«. We therefore say that the onset’s setting is an »incepting« (from incept, »undertake, enter upon, begin«; see Latin inceptio, from incipio, »begin, take in hand«; see also Italian imprendere, impresa, incipiente, and German anfangen, Anfang), namely a taking in and undertaking, and in the first place an »undertaking itself« and »taking itself in hand«, which in its turn must be borne as such within the response of thinking. Hence, we can take the word »inception«, which in fact commonly means »origination, beginning, commencement«, as a synonym of onset. Finally, where there is such a setting on and incepting, there obtains (rules, reigns, holds sway) an already broken earliness, which comes toward us as it shows itself while retreating in its own beforeness; in other words: there obtains a self-initiation. This self-initiation, in turn, constitutes the paths on which thinking, and consequently beings, are inceptively set; in other words, it is constitutive of any perceivable sense. — It can be shown how such initiating is the fundamental trait of both inception and onset, insofar as it forms the original space-of-time (namely, the initialinceptive time in its offering the initial-onsetting space) for the sense-relations of the world — or (to introduce a fundamental word of initial Greek thinking) of the one and only κόσμος (kosmos). However, this further step of clarification is beyond the scope of this treatise. 60 The One (Ἕν [Hen]) is jointing insofar as it is scinding, or schismatic. The One is itself the original, discontingently jointing schism. As such, the One ubiquitously obtains (waltet; vige) as the jointing in-between for all things, namely as the gathering that gathers them as such (in their distinction) and in whole (in their constitutive togetherness).

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all beings into their fair, measured, fitting appearing, while in this manner gathering all that appears into a whole; by virtue of the unifying-gatheringplacing unity of the One, everything stands together in the same wholesome jointing, while at the same time each thing is scinded (geschieden; scisso) from, and in its uniqueness clearly stands out against, all other things.

Heraclitus’s regard is in the first place captivated by the unapparent harmony of the whole of beings: not just by these beings as such, nor only by the whole of beings, but by harmony as such, to wit, by the original, discontingent principle of harmonization: what he gathers in his thinking is the ubiquitous harmonizing origin itself, which, by virtue of its own schismatic gathering, frees but also leaves to itself, grants but also denies, lights but also extinguishes, the harmonic, conveniently jointed whole of all there is. His first name for this principle of harmonization, his name for the scinding-gathering, unifying One, which is also the fundamental word of his thinking, is λόγος (logos).

4.1 Logos Because the λόγος is the ultimate principle, and therefore never independent of man, it makes itself known as a claiming need, or stress, 61 which addresses thinking for it to acknowledge the principle as such. In fragment 2 we read the following: 62 διὸ δεῖ ἕπεσθαι hτῶι ξυνῶι, τουτέστι τῶιi κοινῶι· ξυνὸς γὰρ ὁ κοινός. τοῦ λόγου δ᾽ ἐόντος ξυνοῦ ζώουσιν οἱ πολλοί ὡς ἰδίαν ἔχοντες φρόνησιν. Therefore, the stress is this: to follow hthe togetherness, that isi what is common in beings; for the togetherness is what is common. However, while the λόγος reigns as this togetherness in beings, the crowd lives as if anyone had an understanding to himself. This word is not to be taken in its present psychological or physical meaning. Stress comes from Latin stringere »draw tight« and, as a trait of λόγος, indicates the »strait« that pertains to a need (or carency) that cannot be remedied by supplying things or beings, but requires the unreserved and unsupported dedication of man’s being. 62 As above, here and subsequently we adhere to the numeration of Heraclitean fragments established by philologists Hermann Diels and Walther Kranz, while providing our own translations in accordance with our interpretive approach. Again, words in square brackets […] indicate translations, comments or alternative formulations, while chevrons h…i contain explicative additions to the text. 61

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Or, in a more explicit rendering: Therefore, the stressing need is [es tut not; è stringente] to assent to the common, namely to the togetherness in beings, that is, to the initially concerning trait of pure towardness which gathers them into One; however, while the λόγος holds sway as that togetherness in beings — namely, as the discontingent gathering that grants them the being and sense which is for the human being to perceive —, the crowd lives as if anyone had, in the first place, an understanding of things to and for himself, so that no community in the form of a togetherness of unique manners of understanding and holding the same λόγος can arise.

»Following the togetherness« means: keeping close to it, seconding it, so as to keep it close, namely by »sensing it«, assenting to it, seeking an accordance in thinking with it, and preserving that accordance in a saying, so that the togetherness itself can openly hold sway as the gathering, sense-bestowing principle. However, as is said in fragment 72 (see above), »they« do not follow it, but are at odds with it. Again, »they« is not some group or class of people, but »us«, namely the crowd of indistinct human beings, who, in the inertia of the constitutive trait of our being, live as if anyone had an understanding »to and for himself«, that is, an understanding delimitated by, and sufficient for, his contingent being or »lived experience«, and for that reason per se sufficient. This »understanding«, however, is neither true nor unique: in fact, an understanding can be unique only insofar as it gathers what is initially unique, namely the togetherness (or, we could say, the gathering towardness) of the λόγος. The »understanding to and for oneself« is »one’s own« merely for the fact that it happens to be »mine« or »his« or »hers« or »theirs«, because it so happens that »I« or »they« see, or »he« or »she« sees, things in this or that way while being unsuspectingly stuck in inertia; that is, without ever venturing on a path of acknowledgment that is free from that condition. The »own understanding« is thus the set of »personal« (as we would say today) opinions that refer to contingent states of things and their immediate impact on »life«, while a true understanding can arise only by following the (»impersonal«) dis-contingent »togetherness«, which, although it is the same for all, can only be known thanks to the unique relation to it that constitutes each single human being as such, and therefore (can only be known) in a singular, unrepeatable manner, and never once and for all. Independently of whether or not the crowd happens to have ever heard of this »togetherness«, it is deaf with regard to the original 88 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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gathering that constitutes it, i. e. the λόγος; that is, the crowd is incapable of gathering the λόγος in its turn, or, to say it another way, of bearing its dis-contingent gathering. This deafness is, in the first place, a deafness with regard to the stress as which the λόγος claims man to bear it as the unique »togetherness« in beings. In the domain of contingency, there is no such stress, as its space and time is occupied by the exclusive urgencies and needs, wants and necessities, demands and requirements of »life«. The main reference for our study of the λόγος is fragment 50: Οὐκ ἐμοῦ, ἀλλὰ τοῦ λόγου ἀκούσαντας ὁμολογεῖν σοφόν ἐστιν ἓν πάντα εἶναι

En explicating translation of this fragment reads as follows (bold letters mark the »actual« wording): If you do not listen to me; that is, to my words as if they were merely a statement of how things are to me and for me, but rather to what my saying indicates, to wit, the λόγος, that is the gathering; if, as a consequence, you yourself mind it and tune in to it, and indeed tune in with it, thus owning to your being’s native belongingness to it — then an accordance in gathering breaks [a tune in one voice], namely an accordance in which your own gathering [the gathering in which your being consists] belongs to the same with — and indeed gathers the same as — the original gathering, in such a way that your gathering actually gathers the gathering itself, so as to let all things be gathered accordingly; there, in the flagrancy and openness of that accordance, a fitting knowledge of the original gathering holds: the knowledge in which the gathering itself shows as the One atoning 63 all; that is, as the One that, by virtue of its atoning, kindles beings as such and in whole.

Or, in two more concise versions: Provided you listen not to me, but gather yourselves into the gathering itself, an accordance in gathering gives rise to the fitting knowledge: »One atones all«. Listening not to me but owning to the gathering: agreement on the same: fair knowledge breaks: One — all.

We will now elucidate the different parts of this fragment, before enriching our interpretation and understanding through other fragments. »To atone«, here, is to be heard in its original meaning »to bring to or set at one, to bring into accord, to unify«.

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▶ If you do not listen to me, but rather to the λόγος … : The common attitude towards the thinker is not that of listening through his words towards that to which his speaking answers (thus letting oneself be concerned by that which »says itself« through the thinkers words), but to take what he says as his words, as an utterance that emanates from him and ultimately is about him, insofar as it states his point of view or his opinion; in short: the common attitude is to take a thinkers utterances as a sense that is conditional upon the given being he happens to be — a sense that, on the other hand, the given beings that we are might, from our point of view, acknowledge, and reserve the right to accept (in which case he is right), or to reject (in which case he is wrong, while we are right in saying so). In fact, in order to be on the safe side, we like all sense and meaning to be a matter of somebody’s point of view, so that what is at stake in speaking is whose point of view prevails, rather than the clarification of what is common. In this manner, we can forever »philosophize about philosophy« without ever leaving the sure haven of how things are »to us and for us«. At the same time, we accept that, at some level, there is an »objectivity« to things, which, however, does not contradict, but indeed provides the basis for, the existence of a variety of »subjective« points of view on these things. When a domain of speaking and listening is defined in this manner, it is already decided that what can and must take place in this domain is that the advocate of one thesis prevails over the advocate of another thesis. What matters is this prevailing of a point of view, indeed, the prevailing of the fact that everything is conceived in terms of conflicting points of view, while the coming to light of a truth concerning the issue at hand is neglected. In fact, in this domain we are assured against the fact that the issue itself might speak and claim our listening and speaking in a manner that requires us to abandon the safe harbour of competing »personal« points of view, and offer our being to the clarification of a certain sense that is independent of us but requires our attention in order to be acknowledged as such. This is why Heraclitus says: your listening must not focus on me (just as my speaking does not target you, but in the first place answers the logos), because such listening is in fact a deafness; rather, for the time being, forget yourselves and forget me, let yourselves, too, be the openness to the principle that we all (each one of us in his or her unique manner) are, and thus listen to these words as words of the logos itself, i. e. words in which the latter says itself, that is, makes itself known; in 90 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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short: listen in such a manner as to answer the logos yourselves. In fact, such listening that answers the logos implies that you are listening to yourselves insofar as your being natively belongs to the logos; and your being belongs to it precisely as the gathering openness to the logos through which the logos itself comes into the open — and only thus, that is, thanks to its being held and borne in the open, is the logos in the first place; in other words, listening, here, means owning 64 your native belongingness to the logos, gathering yourselves on it, and offering your being to nothing else than this: that the logos may hold sway as such. In offering your being to the logos, you are finally yourself (i. e. you let your unique true self have its say: you »selve«). ▶ Λόγος: What does logos mean? The dictionary lists the following meanings, among others: account, reckoning, measure; relation, proportion, analogy; explanation, argument, discourse; rule, principle, law; reason, ground, definition; narrative, story, speech; verbal utterance, talk, phrase; debate, dialogue, deliberation. According to Aristotle’s famous dictum, man is the »living being that has (i. e. holds himself within) logos« (zōon logon echon), while animal is the »living being without logos«. Logos is derived from the verb λέγειν (legein), which means »to tell, to say, to speak«, but also »to count, to account« (cf. erzählen; raccontare), but also, and in the first place, »to gather«. Legein, in turn, is formed from the same root as Latin legere (Italian leggere) and German lesen, the meaning of this root being precisely »to gather, to pick up, to select« ([ver]sammeln, [auf]lesen, wählen; raccogliere, cogliere, scegliere). Therefore, in order to approach an understanding of logos, we must first ask: what does »to gather« mean? Let us consider, as an example, the gathering of fruit, for instance the gathering of grapes in a vineyard. Grape gathering (grape harIn the present context, »to own« (elsewhere also »to own to«) does not mean »to possess«, but rather »to acknowledge, to admit«. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, meanings of »to own« include: »to acknowledge as affecting oneself«, »to confess to be true«, »to acknowledge as having supremacy over oneself«, »to recognize obedience«. Owning (to) our native belongingness to the logos (which is what »listening to it« actually implies) means acknowledging and admitting to our belongingness to the logos’s sway while letting our being (viz. our own capacity for gathering) be owned (namely, perused and used to its avail) by that sway’s need of being borne and grounded.

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vesting) does not simply consist in plucking grapes and heaping them up somewhere. In fact, if asked to participate in a harvest, a layman wouldn’t know where to start, because for him the vineyard is an indistinct place, where grapes that should be plucked are confused with others that shouldn’t. The regard of the experienced gatherer, on the other hand, can distinguish at first sight between different grapes, stages of ripening, and so on; however, the light that allows for these distinctions comes from the knowledge of the ultimate destination of these grapes, namely different kinds and qualities of wine, grape juice, etc., which in their turn are meant for specific occasions. Thus, gathering implies, in the first place, establishing a clarity and an order where, to start with, there is confusion and disorder. This allows the selection of what is to be gathered. After having been selected and plucked, the grapes are brought together, or collected. This, however, is not the end of the gathering, for now the collected grapes must be recovered and secured in an environment that favours the right fermentation, so that they can eventually turn into the envisaged final product, which in turn is defined by a certain final destination or purpose within the whole of sense-relations that form the sphere of human dwelling (libation, celebration, rite, commemoration, etc.). Thus, gathering involves the following moments: clearing what is confused and hidden (freeing from confusion); furthermore, selecting and sorting; finally, collecting and recovering. These moments form a whole that is guided by (and has its principle in) the anticipating regard over the final recovery, in our example, the recovery of certain grapes needed for the particular quality of wine (in light of the ultimate destination or purpose) which the winegrower is expecting to obtain. It is from there (i. e. from the step that in the factual sequence comes last) that, for the expert, everything in the vineyard »makes sense« in a way it doesn’t to the »blind« regard of the layman. We can now better understand why the Greek language would resort to a verb that means »to gather« in order to indicate the meanings »to count, to say, to speak«. In fact, to say something (just as with etwas sagen or dire qualcosa) 65 means to show it, to let it be seen; this showing consists in clearing and clarifying what, to begin with, does not show; that is, in wresting it from confusion and dissimulation and absconding, and in finally recovering what is thus Etymologically, both sagen and dire (cf. Latin dicere, Greek deiknymi) mean »to show, let see«.

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cleared and brought to light in a word or in a texture of words, whose saying accomplishes and preserves the indicating or letting see. It is not difficult to show that counting and recounting also consist in a gathering. The same is true for reading (lesen, leggere) — that is, the gathering of letters into syllables, of syllables into words, of words into sentences, of sentences into an argument — and all of this thanks to the fact that the reader has in advance gathered himself into a likely (i. e. expectable, acceptable) accomplished sense that calls for an argument (and hence sentences, words and syllables) to sustain and unfold it. In legein nothing is »done« to, that is, no action is being performed on, what is gathered (namely, in its being) and thus shown. Something, a being, »is there« to begin with, but, in a sense, not completely so, as it is »in abeyance«, still expecting (or »hoping«) to be gathered in its being, yet in anticipation of being recovered in its truth. The saying (legein), then, leaves it laying there, but, in so doing, finally lets it appear as what it is, thus placing it in the light of its gathered appearance: thus, legein is letting something be in the manner of a gathering that lets it lay »there«, where »there« means: in the openness of its being. A poet, for instance, who writes a poem about the Dolomites mountain range, does not perform any action on those mountains; nevertheless, the poem lets them be, namely, it lets them arise as such, places them in their unique appearing. For the poet (as for the painter), that mountain range is never a contingent stone formation, but, precisely, a unique appearance expecting to be »saved« as such. In fact, once things are free from the constriction of contingency, they are at once in need of, and thus anticipating and »hoping for«, a saying that preserves them in their flagrant being. As we have just seen, in order to clarify the meaning of logos as Heraclitus’s name for the one, unitary and unifying principle of everything, we must refer to its fundamental trait, namely, gathering. However, this only helps if, at the same time, we already have a sense or inkling of what a principle is; for the understanding of logos can never be the result of a semantic analysis of a the wordform »logos«. Put differently: if we already think (i. e. if we expect to acknowledge what has the traits of a principle), then looking into the meaning of words, i. e. into their etymology, can be of aid to our thinking. In fact, »looking into the meaning of words« is then a way of setting free the knowledge that is stored within our languages, given that each of them is, in the first place, a unique manner in which 93 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the principle says itself — or, with reference to human speech, the speaking through which the principle has its say over beings by nominating them as such, as holders of the principle’s own truth. The following is our sense of what a principle is: a discontingent source of beings as such and in whole. In what manner is logos such a principle? Answer: as a gathering, and this now means: as a bringing together, or unifying, that does not simply bring a mass of scattered things into a somewhat concentrated and ordered totality, but as a discontingent collecting that, while keeping to itself, gathers things into a harmonic whole, in such a way that (1) the wholeness of the whole constitutes itself only thanks to this discontingent gathering, and (2) things are in the first place laid or placed in(to) the open, and there preserved, in their wholesome and fair (i. e. dis-contingent) being. The latter is wholesome and fair insofar as it holds in itself the wholesomeness and fairness of the whole, so that things themselves, in their irreplaceable uniqueness, befit the whole while at the same time fitting together with all other things. Logos is this gathering placing-into-a-whole, which is everywhere in and between things, but is itself neither a thing nor an emptiness, but a pure schismatic jointing and fitting, thanks to which each being lies »there« (i. e. in an openness of being) as itself and at the same time as »homely« to us. A fundamental trait of logos, which already emerged from our example of grape gathering, is the following: logos is a lightening (lichten [leicht machen]; alleviare, stagliare) of what before was, in its being, »weighted« (burdened, encumbered) by confusion and indistinction. In fact, logos, the gathering, is itself the breaking of an openness, clearance or freeness for the gathered whole of lightened, freed things. Clearly, neither the lightening nor the breaking of an openness are to be intended in a contingent sense. The coming (or irruption) of logos kindles beings into their fair, measured, wholesome being; it disencumbers them from being burdened by the burden of a confused or inaccessible or forgotten sense; however, it does not affect them in any contingent way. ▶ … but (if you listen) to the λόγος … : Is logos some spiritual, perhaps even »mystical« entity that sends messages we should be ready to catch? And again: What does »to listen« mean in this context? To begin with, logos is not conceived as the source of some more or less intelligible »truth« or even information; rather, as logos 94 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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»breaks«, namely breaks out into a knowledge of itself, this breaking addresses and claims the human being as the unique being whose fundamental trait is shown to consist in being open to, and reaching into, that knowledge, namely in the way of having to bear and ground it. Therefore, listening to the logos means, for man, answering that claim, that is, owning to his — now flagrant (offen; flagrante) native belongingness (Zugehörigkeit; ingenitezza) to the logos itself and to its knowledge. Finally, listening to the logos means letting one’s being, which already belongs to it, be claimed and owned by (i. e. of avail to) it and thus, by bearing its knowledge, freely belonging to the logos itself. 66 How does man belong to the logos? Answer: through his own logos. In fact, we need to distinguish between two logoi (logoi being the plural form of logos): on the one hand, logos itself or logos as the unifying One, the principle; on the other hand, man’s logos. 67 Of man’s logos fragment 45 says the following: ψυχῆς πείρατα ἰὼν οὐκ ἂν ἐξεύροιο, πᾶσαν ἐπιπορευόμενος ὁδόν· οὕτω βαθὺν λόγον ἔχει. The outermost ways out of the soul (ψυχή, psychē), as you go you will not find them, even if you walk down every path; such a far-leading [far-showing] logos does it (viz. the soul) have.

Heraclitus here mentions psychē, a word that is usually translated as »soul« (Seele; anima). However, if we merely replace psychē with »soul«, nothing is gained or understood. In fact, who could pretend that we possess a clear and definite notion of what the soul is? And even if we did possess such a notion, who could affirm and take for granted that this notion is identical to the Greek notion of psychē, or even that it comes close to it? If we are honest, we can neither affirm the former nor assert the latter, which is why we must ask: What does psychē mean? As a provisional answer we can say the following: psy66 The human being is, as such, »minded« and »meant« by the logos, which prompts man to bear the native belongingness of his being to the logos itself. Such being minded and meant is indeed another way of saying »to be born«, namely as a human being. »To be born«, in turn, is »to be born to die«, which doesn’t mean that the purpose of being born is to cease to live, but that »being minded by the logos« implies being re-minded of, and claimed for, our finite being. The meaning of this finiteness is indicated i. a. in Fragment 45 (see below). 67 In order to avoid confusion we will from now on write the principle logos with a capital »L«: Logos.

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chē is man’s openness towards the principle, and therefore his constitutive capacity for being attained and concerned by the principle itself! The psychē is the »being« through which man reaches into and is reached by Logos; in fact, the psychē consists in nothing but this: the reaching out into the Logos, which (this reaching out) brings in (recovers) the Logos itself, namely insofar as the Logos in the first place, through psychē, reaches (into) us. Thus, psychē is the Greek name for man’s being, insofar as this being consists in a (knowing) reference to the Logos, namely the »out-reaching bringing in« of what reaches (into) our being. 68 However, this »out-reaching bringing in« corresponds precisely to the sense of gathering or legein. Thus, it is not only the Logos that gathers, but the psychē, too, consists in a gathering. And what does the psychē gather? Answer: the Logos itself! It is only thanks to the logos of his psychē, where man in the first place gathers the logos itself, that he can also gather — that is, understand, and in multiple manners relate to — single beings as they appear, as such, in, and out of, the Logos. Why? Because, if the Logos is not gathered in the first place, and thus borne in its original gathering; if the Logos’s gathering is not met by the gathering of man, namely by man’s gathering of the same that is gathered by the Logos itself; if man’s being does not, so to speak, collaborate with the Logos’s gathering, expectant (»abeyant«) 69 beings cannot come to light in their fair, wholesome, measured sense, and the measure for man’s relation to beings remains wanting. Indeed, grasping something as such means: letting the logos of one’s psychē collaborate with the Logos in order to place that something in the light of its sense. The reference of psychē (thanks to its logos) to the Logos is not a reference between two things. In other words, there is no way to state where the psychē(’s gathering) ends and (the gathering of) the Logos begins: there is no fixed border or delimitation between the two, nor merely an absence of borders and delimitations. In fact, the relation between the two consists in an original limit (a gathering apartness: a A somewhat analogous structure characterizes — albeit in a completely different setting and constellation — the inner life of Leibniz’s monad (see Chapter 10). 69 »Abeyance« comes from Old French abeyance »aspiration, desire, longing« (from abaer »to gape, to open wide, to wait impatiently«). It indicates a (temporary) condition of suspension or latency, specifically, here, the state of what is, as it were, tentatively released from contingency, nearly appearing, and as such claiming and awaiting to be freed into and preserved in its disabscondedness, namely, explicitly gathered in its truth and being, and thus let shine forth in sheer fairness. 68

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schism), which, on the side of man, marks his finiteness (or mortality). The psychē is akin to the Logos (which is not something but nothing): both meet in their constitutive limit while gathering the same. 70 In fact, we can go as far as saying that psychē is the openness of (i. e. belonging to) the Logos by which the latter extends itself to man in the form of a stress and claim for acknowledgement. 71 This is to say: while psychē is man’s being, that very being is »used« by the Logos as the abode to which it (i. e. Logos itself) comes, and through which, so to speak, it »breathes«, while man, the mortal being, through his own logos, needs to be (i. e. bear, suffer, give the needed firmness to) that abode. We can also say this in the following terms: psychē is the ground where man and the Logos meet, but the latter is the owner of that ground, while man is his own self insofar as (by listening to the Logos) he bides as its keeper. The capacity thanks to which man can be the keeper of that ground is man’s own logos, that is, his own manner of gathering the same as that which gathers in the first place. 72 Once we have indicated psychē as the trait of man’s constitutive belongingness to the Logos, we can see how psychē in fact rests within a limit, which is not a border or a line where it stops, but rather an (illocal) schism, or scissure, whence it begins and is nourished and invigorated, or on the contrary diminishes and withers. This limit, which cannot be localized (while on the other hand it assigns each thing to its time and place), is the scissure of the Logos (viz. the scisIn fact, »the Same« is the legitimate name of this limit, which holds apart the two logoi while gathering them within itself. See, in what follows, the characterization of this limit as a »schism« or »scissure«, and its final »identification« with the Logos itself. 71 »To extend«, here, means both to reach and to offer. 72 Notice that »gathering the same« does not mean: »gathering the same things«; rather, »the same« indicates the trait that gathers the two forms of gathering while at the same time holding them apart. So, is there also a third gathering besides the gathering of the Logos and of human logos? This question has far-reaching implications and, in a sense, is the question of questions of the entire philosophical tradition. Here we can only give the following, provisional answer: It is the Logos itself, which, in its original gathering, gathers itself and human logos into the Same that keeps them apart; in fact, logos itself is the Same that, while parting into its own gathering, gathers man’s gathering into itself. Thus parting, the Same keeps itself apart from beings towards (i. e. in favour of) beings, namely by coming as that which frees them as such and in whole. Again, in what follows in the text, the Same is named in the word »schism« or »scissure« (scissura; Schied), and subsequently referred to in the elucidation of ὁμολογεῖν (homologein) as an accordance. 70

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sure that the Logos itself is), which, while gathering onto itself the logos of psychē, at the same time scinds (or schisms) itself from it, so that man can listen to the logos itself only by applying his own logos to that very (gathering-scinding) scissure as such. Thus, the »logical« scissure is »within« psychē, while psychē itself consists in this scissure. Again, the latter bears the fundamental sense in which we can say that man’s being is finite, and that man is truly who he is, namely a mortal being, insofar as he bears his openness to the scissure of (i. e., that is) the Logos. ▶ … an accordance in gathering hbreaksi … : This translates the single word ὁμολογεῖν (homologein). The latter consists of two components: homos, which means »the same«, and legein. Therefore, it means: to gather the same as …, to say the same as … — literally (with a strange sounding but appropriate word): to samesay. In the present context, ὁμολογεῖν refers to the »samesaying« that occurs when the psychē’s gathering (instead of zeroing in on the one who is speaking) lets itself be gathered onto the limit that is the gathering of the Logos, and thus gathers the same as that in which the gathering of the latter consists. Thus, the meaning of homologein can be elucidated as follows: (having tuned oneself into the Logos) gathering (saying) the same as the Logos, and thus being in accordance or in tune with it — more precisely: being one and the same tune with the Logos itself, in short: being a unison (Einklang; unisono). The accordance of the two logoi does not imply that they merge or melt into each other. Thanks to the attuning call of the Logos, man’s logos is tuned in with the former, so that, in the accordance, both logoi are themselves and, within a unison, are parted from each other. But how could the Logos tune man’s logos to itself (i. e. to the Logos itself), if it was not already, as such, the calling accordance of both logoi? And how could man’s logos let itself be tuned in to the Logos, if man’s logos did not already, as such (i. e. natively), belong to the accordance of both logoi? However, this implies that the accordance (the schismatic unison) is the more original phenomenon; that is, more original than the separately considered logoi, and in fact (the accordance is) the original »core«, rather than the mere result of a »tuning process« of two »independent« logoi. What is most original — and thus the only true principle — is the simple Same of the accordance. That accordance, however, »is« the Logos itself as a »relation«, namely, the relation of an attuning call directed to man and 98 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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(man’s logos as) a belonging, tuned-in answer to that call. The tuning-in with the Logos itself, then, consists »only« in this: letting the Logos gather as the accordance (or unison) that it is (and which it never fully is without man’s attuned answer). Thus, the breaking of the Logos (viz. of its knowledge, or openness, or truth) is precisely the breaking of »the Same« in which — provided man listens to its gathering — man’s logos and the Logos are in accordance, or concordant, with each other and attuned to one another. On the other hand, without man’s tuning in to it, without man’s gathering the knowledge of the gathering itself, the Logos cannot hold sway as the gathering that frees (lightens) the wholeness of beings. ▶ … a fitting knowledge holds … : Thanks to the unisonal accordance of man’s logos and the one, unifying Logos, the latter, that is this unison itself, can hold sway as the knowledge that it is in a human knowledge. The knowledge that the Logos itself is, is its own (invisible) openness, its own (invisible) truth, its own (invisible) flagrancy (Offenheit; flagranza). The human knowledge of the Logos is the simultaneous acknowledgement of that knowledge, which (i. e. the acknowledgement) bears and grounds it as such. In that borne, grounded, preserved knowledge, the coming (die Ankunft; l’avvento) of the Logos has its abode, so that it can fully unfold its gathering. The Greek word that is here translated as »fitting knowledge« is σοφόν (sophon), the nominalization of the neutral form of the adjective σοφός (sophos), which the dictionary translates as skilled, clever, prudent, wise, learned, ingenious. The noun σοφία (sophia), knowledge or wisdom, is the second component of φιλοσοφία (philosophia). We translate sophon — the knowledge of the Logos borne in a human acknowledgement — as fitting knowledge, because this knowledge is fitting (schicklich; conveniente) in two senses: on the one hand, it is fitting as the knowledge that grounds the Logos, thus allowing it to openly hold sway; on the other hand, it is fitting as the knowledge in which comes, and is allotted, the measure thanks to which beings are gathered in their fittingness as such, and, simultaneously, in their reciprocal fitting; in other words, the sophon is the knowledge in which is kindled and erected the whole of fitting (i. e. harmonic) beings. ▶ … one [atoning] all: When the fitting knowledge of the Logos obtains in its own openness, it openly holds sway as the gathering 99 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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Same. However, we are now told explicitly what has already been anticipated, namely that the Logos holds sway as »one«; that is, as a unity. As this unity it is also unique (or only). The Logos is one as the uniquely-one, or only-one (das Einzig-Eine; l’in sé unico Uno). The one itself, in turn, consists in unifying or atoning (bringing to one, or unifying [einen; ad-unare]). What does the only-one atone? Answer: πάντα (panta), all. The Greek word panta, which is the plural form of πᾶν (pan) »all, every«, does not just mean the sum or totality of all beings. Rather, it indicates the entirety of beings insofar as these beings are (»in abeyance«, and thus ready, expecting to be) collected and disabsconded into a whole. In other words, panta means (what is ever expecting to constitute and show itself as) the whole of beings, or beings in whole (das Ganze des Seienden bzw. das Seiende im Ganzen; la sfera d’integrità dell’ente, ovvero l’essente nella sua sfera d’integrità). The difference between the sum, or totality, of beings and the whole of beings is that between a contingent matter of fact (which is knowable through some knowledge of contingency) and a dimension of relations of sense that have a dis-contingent source (which is knowable only through legein). Panta indicates the (discontingent) whole of (discontingent) beings as such. 73 This dis-contingent source, which, while keeping to itself, generates and keeps the whole as such, is the Logos as the atoning one, now »unisonally« borne and kept in a dis-contingent knowledge. The beings that are (ready to be) atoned in this whole are in their turn released (or kindled) into their fitting mode and measure. Finally, the fitting measure is the measure thanks to which each single being as such, in its unique manner, gathers and preserves the wholeness of the whole.

4.2 Harmonia When beings fit together, we also say that they harmonize. Harmony is an accord or congruity of parts, which, by virtue of their being in accordance with each other, form a consistent whole. In an ontological

The word »discontingent« is in brackets because both »whole« and »as such« already imply discontingency, so that adding »discontingent« is, strictly speaking, redundant. Here, it is added as a reminder of what has just been recalled, namely that, when we say »whole« and when we say »as such«, contingency has already collapsed giving way to the expectancy of truth and being.

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context, the harmonic whole is more original than the parts, in that it provides to expectant beings the consistency of their being, which, in turn, consists in holding the wholesomeness of the whole. The word harmony comes from the Greek ἁρμονία (harmonia), which means precisely this: an accordance, a measured conjunction or jointing of things gathered into a whole. In fact, the Greek word harmos means »joint« (Fuge; giunzione) or »gap« (Spalte; scissura); in the present context, it indicates what joints together two things without being itself a thing. A jointing is measured (maßvoll; misurato) or moderate when it respects the right measure, namely the measure in which the Logos is held. This implies that, by virtue of their harmonic relation, to each of the jointed beings is assigned a sufficient, or fair, space-of-time for it to »be there« as itself in its fairness: hence, beings are joined together, but at the same time placed at the right distance from each other, so that there is no confusion between them, and none of them has to subdue another, i. e. invade its space and time, in order to impose its own being. In a harmony, each jointed thing »holds its own ground« precisely by »interpreting« in its own, unique manner the harmonizing principle of the whole, and thus, just by being itself, respects the ground of all other things. In a fair jointing, things belong together (i. e. they are gathered) within a whole that the jointing itself grants and constitutes. Wholeness, here, implies the traits of intactness and integrity, soundness and wholesomeness, which also characterize the gathered beings a such (i. e. in their being). Between the thus gathered beings there is a harmony, which belongs to none of them, but rather is the wholegranting, whole-kindling dis-contingent fairness itself which they hold in their being. Again, the circumstance of »being fair« with regard to all other beings, namely of leaving them the space and time for their own (fair, fitting, measured) being, is not the result of good will or good intentions, nor can it indeed be calculated or made. Rather, that circumstance is implied by the very fact that each being, insofar as it belongs to the whole constituted as a measured jointing, preserves in its own mode and measure the wholeness and wholesomeness for the being of all other beings. On the other hand, where this harmonic whole is not granted, and where its wholeness is not preserved in the measure of each thing’s being, beings are bound to clash, and to some extent intrude into each other’s time and space, even when apparently there is no relation between them. In fact, each thing, as it imposes itself on 101 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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(i. e., as it wills) its own time and space, »takes away« the time and space from other beings, thus imposing itself against and on them; put differently: the disharmonic thing can only appear by prevailing over other beings’ attempt to secure the time and space of their own appearing; or again: it can only enforce its presence by overpowering the forceful pushing-into-presence of each other being. Thus, rather than being harmoniously gathered into a whole, beings are now interlinked by relations of (relative) power. The complex of these relations of power defines what, in contrast to a whole, we call a (contingent) totality. Harmonia is one of Heraclitus’s names for the discontingent principle of beings as such and in whole; it indicates the same as Logos, but according to the trait of measured, fair jointing. Fragment 54, which speaks of harmonia, reads as follows: ἁρμονίη ἀφανὴς φανερῆς κρείττων. A harmony that refrains from appearing [is] more vigorous than one that strives to, and attains, an appearance.

Two kinds of harmony are distinguished: one that itself does not appear, but makes itself known as that which withholds its appearing; and another one that, on the contrary, is all in its conspicuousness. The latter is a mere harmony of beings, whose glamorous appearing catches the eye. The immediate conspicuousness of these beings can convey the impression that their fittingness and congruity is a character that belongs to these beings themselves; in other words, it is tempting to believe that a harmonic whole not only can be obtained by way of a certain disposition of beings but is nothing but such a visible disposition. Thus, the appearing harmony carries with it the temptation of conceiving of a harmony as a mere relation of beings, that is, of reducing harmony itself to a being. What is the origin of this temptation? Answer: the very element that grants any kind of conspicuous harmony, namely, the inconspicuous harmony. This latter element, due to its grounding-trait (Grundzug; tratto di fondo), which consists in refraining from appearing in favour of the harmonic appearing of beings, implies the temptation to overlook and forget it, and to content oneself with, and stick to, beings and their relations when attempting to achieve a harmony. However, a harmony that is placed exclusively at the level of appearing is not even a harmony anymore, but merely a more or less appealing (»impacting«) contin102 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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gent arrangement. The attempt to achieve a harmony by way of contingent arrangements is misguided. An example of such an attempt would be to play a piano sonata merely by following previously set »ideal« time specifications (1st movement: 4 minutes and 32 seconds; 2nd movement: 5 minutes and 43 seconds, etc.), and mechanically defined intensities of touch (»piano«, »forte«, »fortissimo«, etc.) The two kinds of harmony are sharply distinguished, and yet, in a sense, they may convert into one another. The one, non-appearing harmony is the lightening and the openness for the appearing harmony in that it is the openness of (i. e. belonging to) the jointing and gathering principle itself. In kindling the appearing harmony — that is, the fairly jointed whole of beings —, the non-appearing harmony, in a way, breaks (and in this sense »converts«) into this whole of beings, namely, it generates this whole as a gift which, in its appearing, preserves what is other than itself, namely its invisible and inaudible source. On the other hand, when the whole of beings stands in its fair and fulgent congruity, it may suddenly »convert« itself — and simultaneously »transport« us — into the invisible and inaudible dimension that, while it withholds itself from shining and sounding, grants and ever regenerates this whole. The mind of the thinker minds precisely this point of conversion of the One into the whole and of the whole into the One. In regard to this conversion, Heraclitus offers the analogy of the conversion of gold into things and of things into gold. In its mindfulness, thinking knows that the inconspicuous harmony is more constitutive and thus more vigorous than a conspicuous one, in that any well-jointed whole of beings appears from out of — as well as disappears into — the non-appearing harmony. While the more vigorous harmony refrains from appearing, in the sense that it doesn’t shine or become visible (viz. sound and become audible), it does however somehow show, make itself known, so that it can be minded by man. Thus, this harmony has its own, inconspicuous, appearing, which is of such a nature that it lets appear all beings in their being and sense, while the latter, in turn, holds (shelters) the non-appearing harmony as the inconspicuous element of the principle itself. Thus, the non-appearing harmony is itself a mindfulness, or rather a mindful openness that breaks as the refraining-fromappearing that lets beings in whole open out into appearance. We must distinguish between this mindfulness and man’s mindfulness just as earlier we distinguished between the Logos and the logos of 103 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the soul. The mindful openness that, in its breaking, lets beings burst into appearance, we now call flagrancy. This word comes from the Latin verb flagrare, to blaze, in a sense which we know from the expressions in (crimine) flagranti and »in flagrant delict«, which are commonly used when someone is caught red-handed (in Flagranti bzw. auf frischer Tat; in flagranza) while committing an illicit activity. The inconspicuous flashing of flagrancy generates the fair shining of beings that show within, and thanks, to this flagrancy. Therefore, we can also translate fragment 53 as follows: An inconspicuous harmony is of a more constitutive flagrancy than a conspicuous one.

The flagrancy of the Logos, the openness of the initial gathering (borne in a fitting knowledge), is the unimposing harmony for the appearing of things in their fair and measured being. Poetry and art, too, know this fairness of appearing; and because they know the difference between a made totality and a whole of beings which is kindled by what is not itself a being, they attempt to save the wholesomeness, the inconspicuous fairness, of the whole. At times, they even indicate not only this whole as a flagrant harmonic whole, but actually the kindling, clearing openness, that is, the truth of this whole itself. This showing can be a naming to the mind — in harmonies of words; a letting-appear to the mindful eye — in harmonies of colours; a letting-resound to the mindful ear — in harmonies of tones, etc. We can sense a poetic naming of the flagrancy of the whole in the first lines of a poem by Emily Dickinson: This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond — Invisible, as Music — But positive, as Sound —

— or in this other poem by the same poetess, which reminds us that the flagrancy of the principle, which engenders a whole of beings (i. e. a world), is itself never a being or a thing: By homely gifts and hindered Words The human heart is told Of Nothing — »Nothing« is the force That renovates the World —

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4.3 Kosmos A word that indicates the same as harmonia, but according to a different trait, is κόσμος (kosmos). We know this name from words like »cosmology« or »cosmopolitanism«, where it means »world«, be it in the wide sense of the universe or in the more restricted sense of the dimension of human dwelling on the earth. However, in Heraclitus, kosmos indicates neither a sphere of beings (the universe), nor a certain sphere of being (the »academic world«, the »world of sports«, etc.), but, once again, the element that, by holding back from appearing, lets beings in whole, and thus each single being, appear in their due light. Fragment 30 reads: κόσμον τόνδε, τὸν αὐτὸν ἁπάντων, οὔτε τις θεῶν οὔτε ἀνθρώπων ἐποίησεν, ἀλλ᾽ ἦν ἀεὶ καὶ ἔστιν καὶ ἔσται πῦρ ἀείζωον, ἁπτόμενον μέτρα καὶ άποσβεννύμενον μέτρα. This kosmos here [i. e. the one that I am indicating, as different from any visible kosmos], the same for anyone and anything within the whole, none of the gods nor anyone of the human beings put it forth [brought it to light, generated, originated it], but it ever was, and is, and will be: fire, foreverrising, kindling for itself measured widths [flagrancies] hand then againi extinguishing for itself measured widths [flagrancies].

Kosmos comes from the verb kosmein, which means to order and to rule, to adorn and to embellish (cf. »cosmetics«), but also to honour, and, finally, to allot or assign (namely, to a certain order or rule). However, by now we are experienced enough to anticipate that kosmos cannot be a contingent order nor an exterior embellishment of what is already given. Rather, kosmos is the original adornment in the sense of the ungraspable and ungrasping fairness that lets the world and every single being shine in its fitting light, in its intense glamour, in its measured grace, because it (i. e. kosmos) is itself the invisible lightening that assigns each thing to its fitting time and place; the inconspicuous glamour that allots the whole in its integrity; the unimposing grace that attributes the measure of appearing in which each thing is deployed as such. In what follows, the fragment indicates a number of essential traits of the thus understood kosmos. ▶ … the same for anyone and anything within the whole … : For the kosmos the same holds true as for the Logos and its knowledge (i. e., the sophon), namely, that it is one and the same for any appearing 105 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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order and array of beings, and the same for all human gathering and minding. This sameness, however, does not reduce everything to a uniform being, but, on the contrary, insofar as it is minded, is the source of the unique and unrepeatable being and notion of things. In other words, the sameness (Selbigkeit; medesimezza) of the dis-contingent One is the (source of the) difference of what is »equally different«. The latter does not mean: in the same degree or manner different, but rather: different while equal as to its apartness from the Same that puts everything on a par (with respect to itself) while releasing it into its scinded uniqueness. In fragment 89 Heraclitus indicates two manners in which the mind can relate to the one and same kosmos: τοῖς ἐγρηγορόσιν ἕνα καὶ κοινόν εἶναι, τῶν δὲ κοιμωμένων ἕκαστον εἰς ἴδιον ἀποστρέφεσθαι. To those who are awake belongs one common kosmos, while, on the other hand, each one of those who are asleep is turned away into his own kosmos [i. e. the self-contained »world« of what is merely »to him« and »for him«].

▶ … none of the gods nor anyone of the human beings put it forth … : This is a critical notion. The one and common kosmos is not a product of man nor a creation of the gods. The reason for this is that whoever — be it a god or a man — might be said to be the origin of the kosmos would have to have »been there« before the kosmos in order to perform that act of creation. But how can anyone »be there«, if there is no »there«, i. e. no flagrancy or openness for the being of beings, in the first place? How can anyone put forth, bring to light, generate the kosmos, in the same way in which one puts forth, say, a table or a plan, when the kosmos itself is the »there«, the flagrancy, the openness in which anything can appear or disappear as such? Not only must man in his being acknowledge the kosmos; the gods, too, need the kosmos in order for them to appear (namely as those who are, in a sense, instrumental to its becoming known to man). On the other hand, men and gods do not merely appear »within« the kosmos, as if the latter were a mere container; in fact, the relation between the being of men and of gods belongs to the very biding of the kosmos as such. In other words: the kosmos is the ever coming spaciousness for the likely encounter of men and gods. However, the way in which man belongs to the kosmos is different from that in which a god is involved in it: in fact, the latter is the flashing 106 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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(das Aufblitzen; lo sfolgorare) of the knowledge of the kosmos’s vigour, in which (that flashing) the former is flagrantly shown as the bearer of its (the kosmos’s) groundless openness. While a god cannot feel the weight of that openness’s need for a grounding, man cannot have the lightness of cosmic knowledge when it is born. ▶ … but it ever was, and is, and will be: In reading this we are tempted to jump to the conclusion that Heraclitus is presenting the kosmos as some »eternal« entity or principle. Just what does eternal mean? According to the common notion, eternal means everlasting, and the latter, in turn, means either »of the same duration as time itself«, or »above and outside of time (namely, as time’s origin)«; in both cases, time is taken as the flux in which a punctual »not yet« passes through a punctual »now« only to vanish at once into a punctual »not anymore«. According to this notion of time, if something was ever, is ever and ever will be, it either is present along this entire flow — that is, in each of its fleeting »instants« — or it is unaffected by this flow. What is there to say about this level of explanation of Heraclitus’s words? While it sounds correct and corresponds to that which we commonly think and already know, it restrains us to a sphere where nothing of what has been said so far concerning logos, harmonia and kosmos is still perceivable. What legitimates our mechanical application of the common notion of time to Heraclitus’s saying? What if, on the other hand, this fragment indicates the experience of a more original time — the time of the principle itself —, with regard to which that common notion of time (which, as mentioned before, reflects an operative concept derived from the ontological determination of time that Aristotle attempts in his Physics) is insufficient and misleading? What if the common notion of time was a notion that imposes itself in the regime of contingency: in other words, what if that notion of time was merely the »time«, namely an operative parameter, of contingency? While here we do not have the space to elucidate the notion of time given voice in this Heraclitean fragment, we can nevertheless put forth the following succinct indication: In Heraclitus, time (or the »aeon«, cf. fragment 52) is close to being thought of as the principle itself in the form of the unitary interplay of »ever was« and »(ever) will be« and »(ever) is«, so that the flashing of the kosmos, in its inextinguishable regeneration, is the unceasingly coming advent (»ever will be«) of the already become instant (»ever was«) of clearing 107 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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and freeness (»ever is«), which, in its impregnable dis-contingency, impends on man as the nearness itself for his world, which (that nearness) ever waits for his mindful bearing response. In a formula: time is the nearness of the coming of the become instant. 74 ▶ … fire, forever-rising … : The kosmos is now called πῦρ (pyr), fire (cf. our words »pyromaniac«, »pyrotechnic«). Does this mean that Heraclitus is imagining fire — one of the so-called »four primitive elements« (fire, water, earth, ether) — as the »driving force« that »lives in« and »gives life to« all that is? It does indeed take some amount of fantasy to believe that a little flame lives in anything that moves. Since, however, Heraclitus is not a fantasist, but a thinker, we must assume that he is not electing a contingent element as a basis and universal explanatory key for the totality of what is contingent. Hence, we ask: What traits of sense does the being of fire imply? Among others, the following: inflaming and extinguishing; blazing and lapsing; clearing and blurring; lighting and obscuring; showing and concealing; kindling and effacing; tempering and burning to ashes; stirring up and stifling; nourishing and consuming; purifying and putrefying; unleashing and mitigating; enlivening and dispiriting; arousing and calming; impassioning and cooling; enthusing and disillusioning, giving sight and blinding. As we can see, these are constitutive traits of rising into, biding in, and sinking away from appearing; however (and this is ever again a decisive point of which to be aware), these traits are what they are not by themselves, but in reference to a unitary source in its relation to man’s being. Thus, fire is — not as a »material element«, but in its truth — the ubiquitous principle of appearing and disappearing, of showing and concealing, which as such is »in« man, and which man is »in«, by virtue of the fundamental trait of his being, namely psychē, and its constituent, i. e. logos. As this principle, fire is »forever-rising«, which means: rising 75 into the open as the absconding element which keeps within itself the source of all arising and founding away of beings, and which indeed is that very source. In fact, fire is this source insofar as no contingency can ever touch or affect it, as it withholds itself in its See our previous determination of the principle as the first self-seizing having begun (above, p. 36). 75 The verb translated as rising (i. e. zēn) refers to the constitutive trait of physis, which will be discussed below. 74

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own dis-contingent illocal »place«. Fire means: ever-glowing, erupting-absconding inception of dis-contingency. ▶ … kindling for itself measured widths, extinguishing for itself measured widths: This phrase tells us how kosmos, the forever-rising fire, holds sway, namely, each time as a certain »measured width«. A »measured width« is the moderation of flagrancy itself (i. e. of the fire of pure dis-contingency) into a measured openness, or space-oftime, 76 for beings in whole; in other words, it is a determined truth that constitutes a whole of beings by providing a certain mode and domain for their appearing. However, while the kindling of such moderated, mitigated flagrancies is the favour (die Gunst; il favore) for the arising of beings in whole, the kosmos does not kindle these moderated flagrancies »for beings« — that is, in response to, or in compliance with, a need of given beings —, but rather »for itself«, namely for its own holding sway. This means: kosmos, the principle as the kindling-and-extinguishing of the measured widths, needs these widths in order for itself to hold sway, as it cannot hold sway if not in these widths as the principle that grants and denies them. These widths are therefore each time a truth for (i. e. in favour of) beings, but as such they are widths of the principle itself. In other words, both kosmos and the measured widths in which the »cosmic principle« allots itself keep themselves scinded (geschieden; scissi) from beings in whole as pure dis-contingency. Indeed, only in this manner can they hold sway as the principle and truth for beings in whole (i. e., thinking back to Emily Dickinson’s poem, as the »species« that »concludes«, i. e. provides the wholesome flagrancy for the »world«). The kosmos, and the flagrancies it kindles and extinguishes for itself (thus letting worlds arise and collapse), keep themselves scinded from beings as the dis-contingent space-of-time for their appearing and disappearing according to the kosmos’s own mode and measure.

This space-of-time is a more rigorous determination of the above-indicated »discontingent space-of-time«.

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4.4 Physis Φύσις (physis) is the name of the original Greek experience of being: that is, of dis-contingency as experienced in the first inception of thinking. Let us therefore say once more what we mean by dis-contingency. Dis-contingency is the free onset (or inception) of sense, the flagrant whole of beings perceived (or minded) in its unsustained source, origin or principle — the schism toward beings in whole. To the knowledge of dis-contingency belongs the following insight: the openness (or flagrancy, or truth) of the dis-contingent principle is at once the fundamental trait of man’s being, insofar as man’s being in its turn consists in the openness to the principle and its need of having its flagrancy borne. In other words: in the case of man, »to be« means: to bear, or suffer, the flagrancy of the dis-contingent principle. The fact that the Greek thinkers initially experience dis-contingency as physis implies the following: both that which shows to them as the principle of beings in whole, and their awareness of man as the being that awakens within the claiming need of that principle (insofar as he finds himself having to bear its truth), remains within the limits that are traced by that experience. For instance, when Heraclitus says that the principle of beings in whole is the Logos, and that this principle is to be sustained through man’s logos attuning to the Logos itself, so that a fitting knowledge of the Logos (i. e. the sophon), consisting in the awareness that the One atones all, may arise, then all of this is said from within the experience of physis. Therefore, we must now briefly outline the sense of this word in the context of Heraclitus’s thinking. Physis comes from the verb φύω (phyō), which means to bring forth, beget, engender, let grow. Usually we understand and translate physis as »nature«, in both meanings this word has for us: the entirety of natural (as opposed to artificial) things, and a given essential character (»I am an honest man by nature«). However, if we simply substitute physis with nature in these given acceptations, not much is gained for our understanding; in fact, this »translation by substitution« implies that nothing new can ever be learned. In order to let physis speak to us according to the manner in which it is heard in Greek thinking, we must pay attention to the grounding-trait that is indicated in this word, namely the trait of spontaneous, self-standing rising into the open (aufgehen; [as]sorgere). Thus, physis indicates the original generosity and favour of the from-itself-arising rising 110 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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into the open, and stable lying (or abiding) in the open, of beings in whole. In this manner, physis is what lets beings in whole rise and stand in the open as such — thus setting them free into their appearing and being —, and what finally keeps or preserves this appearing and being within itself as its source. Finally, physis is what lets beings arise insofar as they disappear and cease to be. In short: physis is the stable rising that holds in itself all appearing and disappearing. Since physis is the pure rising into the open in which beings are engendered as such and in whole, it is furthermore also a name for the entirety of beings, insofar as they are minded in their rising into the open; that is, in their flagrancy as beings. However, for man, when he finds himself in the middle of physis, beings in whole are primarily those beings that already rise and stand in the open, so to speak, »with physis itself«, that is, in a »physical manner«, without man participating in this spontaneous rising into and standing in the open. Thus, physis can finally become the name, in particular, for »natural beings«, which, in terms of Greek understanding, means: beings that spontaneously rise, and self-standingly abide, in the open; in other words, beings having the source of their rising and standing in the open within themselves. Man indwells physis (which he understands in this threefold sense) in that his own being is involved in it: in fact, he finds himself already engaged, in his own being, by physis itself, in the sense that, as the being he is, he needs to obtain a stance within physis while standing his ground vis-à-vis physis, in such a way that physis itself is, in a sense, affirmed as such, and consequently (i. e. from the thence following measure) a human world can be built. In this manner, physis provides the original measure for all human building and dwelling, including all knowledge of things conceived according to their »physical« traits. The most fundamental form of this knowledge is the knowledge of the principle itself that »acts« in physis and indeed as physis itself. For the early Greek thinkers, it is clear that this principle already contains, or rather consists in, a reference to man’s being. As we know, for Heraclitus this principle is Logos; in other words: he conceives of physis as having Logos as its most inceptive and originally concerning trait. However, we now need to consider a richer set of traits of physis — the spontaneous self-standing rising into the open (das Aufgehen; l’assorgenza) — as the original Greek experience of dis-contingency.

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The first trait we need to mind about this rising is that it rises by itself and from out of itself (von sich aus und aus sich heraus; da sé e muovendo da sé). The second trait to which we need to pay attention is that the rising returns back into itself (i. e. into its origin) and, in this manner, recovers itself within and regenerates itself out of itself. The third trait we need to heed is that, by virtue of the aforementioned traits, the rising is a (in it)self-standing source; in other words, it is a dis-contingent stable rising. The fourth trait of which we need to be aware is that this rising has the character of an overwhelming grace and a lightening (alleviating) favour. The fifth trait we need to notice is that, as this grace and favour, the rising has the grounding-tone of a strangeness or weirdness that at once holds off man and draws him to itself, thus attuning him in the sense of astoundment (Erstaunen; stupore). The sixth trait we need to observe is that the flagrancy of the spontaneous and in-itself-standing, stable rising into the open is strange in that it bears in itself the contention (Streit; contesa) with that which is against the openness, but from which the rising rises and from which the openness obtains itself in the first place, to wit, the trait of absconding (das Sichverbergen; il nascondersi). The fact that the rising into the open »bears in itself« that contention implies that the latter is constitutive for the rising itself; as a consequence, we can say that rising into the open is as such — and thus consists in — the contention with absconding; as a consequence, the flagrancy of this rising (the flagrancy in which beings as such and in whole appear and disappear) is in fact the flagrancy of absconding. The seventh trait we need to remember is that the rising into the open brings with itself the openness (i. e. the flagrancy of absconding) into which it rises; in other words, that which in this inception of beings as such and in whole is experienced as openness, is the openness of (i. e. brought about by and for) this spontaneous in-itselfstanding rising of beings. 77 This trait captures the sense of what has been referred to above (see p. 76 sq.) as the initial withdrawal of »dis-contingency in its own truth«. In fact, in the Greek inception, truth (which the Greeks call alētheia) remains the flagrancy of beings in whole; in other words, that truth comes with the spontaneous, from-itself-coming, in-itselfstanding (and, to this extent, dis-contingent) rising of beings as such and in whole, which are conceived in their inceptive, unifying, dis-contingent trait. On the other

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The eighth trait we need to realize is that the rising into the open bears in itself (as a need or stress) the claim of being sustained by man; in other words, it needs man, who, in turn, awakens to himself in (i. e. as the »addressee« of) this claim and need, and knows himself as the being that exists in the expectation of answering it. Having recollected these eight traits, we can now read two fragments about physis. The first one, fragment 123, reads as follows: φύσις κρύπτεσθαι φιλεῖ (physis kryptesthai philei) Physis — to absconding it grants its favour.

We need not dwell on a critique of the common translation of this fragment, which goes like this: »Nature likes to hide itself«. Heraclitus is pointing to the fundamental trait of physis. This trait is the favour that physis as such grants to (the trait of) absconding. In general terms, »granting the favour to« something (in Greek philein, as in the first component of φιλοσοφία) means: letting something else be by offering one’s being to sustain and keep what frees that something to itself — and thus (i. e. while offering one’s being in this manner) being freed to one’s own self. Such letting be is the sense of what we commonly call »love«, 78 and, in this sense, we may indeed say: »the rising into the open loves absconding«. However, it is now clear that such »love« is not a matter of physis having an inclination towards hide-and-seek games, as the common translation, which refers to contingent circumstances, would suggest. Rather, physis as such is fully itself — that is, the spontaneous self-standing rising into the open — thanks to the fact that it admits and keeps within itself the »loving« contention with its source, i. e. that from which the rising is what it is (and which therefore is what is »dearest« to it), to wit: the trait of retreating into abscondedness, or simply: absconding. The more physis abandons itself to this contention — i. e., the more physis offers itself to the trait of retreating and thus lets absconding be — the clearer and fairer physis itself, in gaining itself from absconding, is what it is, namely pure rising into the open. In other words: physis as such consists in, and obtains its purity from, the »loving«, favouring contention with absconding. Thus, the original Greek experience hand, that trait as such, namely the initial schism, remains unthought in its own flagrancy. 78 A dictum on love attributed to Patristic philosopher Augustine reads as follows: »Amo: volo ut sis«, that is: »I love hand this meansi: I want for you to be«.

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of dis-contingency is the rising into the open, physis, which is, as such, perceived as a contention with absconding. This elucidation of physis helps us to approach the Greek notion of ἀλήθεια (alētheia), which is commonly translated as »truth«. Aletheia literally means: dis-abscondedness (Un-verborgenheit; disascosità). It is a primary experience for the Greeks that any openness, clarity or flagrancy, in which beings show as such (namely, as appearing or disappearing), is in the first place wrested from absconding. However, as we just saw, this »being wrested from absconding« does not imply that absconding is negated and eliminated; on the contrary, it is »there«, namely in the very flagrancy of any showing, as the standing provenance and source of that flagrancy, a source that must be admitted for any truth to be obtained and kept at all — despite the danger that this same source might suddenly deny its own flagrancy, thus causing beings to collapse into sense- and measurelessness. Thus, truth (i. e. what grants a measured and integral appearing to beings) is always truth by, and in the measure of, admitted »untruth«. This insight, however, amounts to reaffirming the following rigorous determination: the flagrancy of what is flagrant is nothing other than the flagrancy of absconding (die Offenheit der Verbergung; la flagranza del nascondimento). While this determination may appear awkward and paradoxical at first, to a more attentive regard it shows as the grounding-trait of an experience that is familiar to all of us: the more we let go of all seeming evidence and supposedly assured knowledge, allowing the problematic, puzzling depth of the matter that we are interrogating to unfold — that is, the more we own to and bear its obscure, confusing, inaccessible, intricate traits and aspects — the more sufficient and rich, but also the more promising of future insights, will be whatever understanding of that matter we eventually gain. For the purposes of our recollection of the principles of philosophy, the following should be kept in mind: as already pointed out above in the elucidation of the seventh trait of physis, the Greek experience of alētheia is, so to speak, encompassed (and, in a sense, superposed) by the experience of physis as the rising into the open of beings in whole. Thus, alētheia is the truth, or flagrancy, or openness, of (i. e. belonging to, remaining implied in the vigour of) physis, which, in turn, grants the appearing of beings in whole by granting its favour to absconding. In other words, it is in the first place physis that, in its rising, brings with itself the flagrancy that the Greeks call 114 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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alētheia, dis-abscondedness. Just as logos is minded as the principle, the ›One atoning all‹, within the experience of physis, alētheia is the truth and flagrancy of beings in whole which have in the first place arisen as physis. The contention of flagrancy and absconding is, in the first place, a contention of physis-flagrancy and physis-absconding; that is, the contention as such remains enclosed in the domain of physis as the ever-rising ground that bestows to beings their appearing and disappearing as such. The last Heraclitean word which we will hear is fragment 16. While it does not mention physis as such, the fragment nevertheless indicates two of its fundamental traits. This is how it reads: τὸ μὴ δῦνόν ποτε πῶς ἄν τις λάθοι; The by no means setting, ever: how could anyone remain absconded with regard to it? 79

The first part of the fragment seems to confirm our interpretation of fragment 123. What is meant by »the by no means setting, ever«? Answer: physis! Why, then, doesn’t Heraclitus simply say physis, since this — the »forever rising« — is clearly what is meant? Can we simply substitute physis for the rather clumsy formula »the by no means setting, ever«? The answer is: we could, but we should not. The reason is that the above-mentioned formula indicates a fundamental trait of physis, which the word physis itself does not make explicit. Physis is, for sure, »the forever rising«; however, thanks to fragment 16, we know that this rising is not a mere, or plain, rising, but a rising that obtains itself against (i. e. in contention with) the setting, or the going back into abscondedness. In other words, the rising is a rising from out of and against a setting. However, this implies an original experience of that against which physis obtains itself, namely, the setting, as a constitutive trait of physis itself. Physis, as fragment 16 appears to say, obtains itself by prevailing over and thus averting the setting, which therefore runs as a fundamental trait in the flagrancy of beings in whole. Physis as such brings about the flagrancy of setting precisely because it shows as that which itself, after all, by no means ever sets. The translation respects the word order of the Greek text, in particular the position of the word »ever«. In fact, as will be explained in a moment, it is important to acknowledge that Heraclitus says: »the not at all [or: by no means] setting, ever«, and not just: »the never setting«, or even: »the always rising«.

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The second part of the fragment reminds us of the constitutive, insoluble reference of physis to man’s as well as to the gods’ being: in fact, »anyone« can indicate both »any man« and »any god«, though for the time being we will constrain ourselves to explicating the relation between »the by no means setting, ever« and man. In the question »how could anyone remain absconded with regard to it?« speaks the astoundment of thinking with regard to physis and man’s native engagement in it. On the one hand, it is said that man cannot ever remain absconded with regard to physis, in that the fact of minding his being minded and meant by physis as the one who has to bear it in his being, is the perennial instant of man’s own rising into the open, so that man is who he is only in the flagrancy of this mutual minding. 80 On the other hand, given this astounding constitutive reference to physis and man, it is, now in a different sense, astounding how man can at first and for the most part be, dwell, as if he weren’t who he is only in the flagrancy of this mutual minding; that is, as if he were absconded from, and therefore unrelated to and not engaged and concerned by, this contentious dimension that perennially claims and needs his being. In other words: How can it be that man forgets the unforgettable, the only knowledge he has insofar as he is a human being? We can conclusively read once more the translation of fragment 50, which tells us about the Logos as the principle of beings in whole, experienced as physis, in its constitutive reference to man’s being. The latter consists in man’s own logos, whose ground — be it inert and forgotten or awoken and »at work« in a thought — is the unisonal accordance with the Logos itself: If you listen not to me, but rather to the λόγος [i. e. the gathering], if you mind it and tune in to it, and tune in with it, thus owning to your being’s native belongingness to it, an accordance in gathering breaks [a tune in one voice], in which your gathering belongs to the same with, and gathers the same as, the gathering itself, in such a way that your gathering actually gathers the gathering itself so as to let it gather; in the openness of that accordance, a fitting knowledge of the gathering itself is generated, as it shows as the One atoning all; that is, as the One that, by virtue of its atoning, kindles beings as such and in whole.

In this mutual minding, physis and man originally »eye« each other in the core of their respective biding — which is for both the Same.

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Heraclitus’s initial insights remain a source for thinking throughout the philosophical tradition to this day. 81 However, his thinking is not yet a philosophical thinking in the rigorous sense of the word. As we shall soon see, thinking in the form of philosophy begins, more or less, one generation after Heraclitus, with Socrates, and obtains its definite form with Plato and his pupil Aristotle. Before turning to this beginning, we will however look at another one of the so-called preSocratic thinkers, Parmenides. The discussion of his thinking will provide the opportunity to consolidate and deepen our understanding of some of the key notions that we have encountered in the analysis of Heraclitus’s fragments.

For instance, in Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie (Part 1, Section 1, Chapter 1, D. Philosophie des Heraklit) Hegel writes: »There is not one proposition of Heraclitus which I have not adopted in my Logic«.

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Appendix 4 On Abscondedness

Abscondedness is not about »hidden«, as yet or forever unknown, about somehow lacking, »information«. In fact, the latter (i. e. »lacking information«) is the reduction to contingency of the original phenomenon of abscondedness. That phenomenon itself, on the other hand, is the original »material« of which the truth in which we exist as human beings consists; namely, the (rare) openness and flagrancy of the mindable sense of things, as well as the (rare) manifestness and clarity of the visible experience of things. Abscondedness is the element in which, from which and as which any experienced sense obtains its likely form; in other words, it is the primordial, itself mostly absconded, human experience. The following account of instances in which abscondedness becomes in some way conspicuous has a merely exemplary character; it is meant to convey a sense of the thematic phenomenon and give a first hint at its inextinguishable variety and richness.

1.

In the visible domain:

▶ We »see« things, but hardly ever really see them, or discern them as such: they remain indistinct to our visual (or otherwise sensible) experience. A change of light, an unexpected encounter — and we see a mountain, a house, a hand, a familiar person as if for the first time. ▶ We deal with something or someone often, or even habitually, but our perception is partial, distorted, and lacks in depth: things remain fundamentally withdrawn from our understanding, and we mostly 118 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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rely on impressions, or an »average sense« that we picked up we don’t know how or when. We experience an uncommon situation with someone we thought we knew well, and suddenly he or she shows him/herself in a completely different light; we now wonder about that person’s true character or personality, which, however, remains impenetrable and out of the reach of our understanding. ▶ There is, in us and in others around us, a persistent, though latent, confusion about certain fundamental traits of our world (death — birth; man — woman; natural — artificial, etc.): we have a more or less explicit position in their regard, but this position is shaky and only stable as long as it remains untested. We are called to a referendum on an important social issue: we ponder, collect information, but the issue remains controversial, confused and confusing, and even what the experts have to say appears to be insufficient.

2.

In the mindable domain:

▶ We investigate, for instance, the optimal use of energy in a given economic context: what »optimal«, »energy«, »economic« and »investigation« mean we take as evident and given, and we wouldn’t begin to wonder about the origin and implications of our initial understanding of each of these concepts. In a reflective moment, our operative concept of »optimality« suddenly appears problematic, and with it the nature of the knowledge we produce: we are perplexed, but wouldn’t even know where to start with an interrogation of that concept; eventually, our perplexity fades and things go »back to normal«. ▶ Someone becomes aware of his calling as an artist and knows that what is demanded from him is to »paint the truth« en plein air; yet,

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he feels incapable of doing so, as nature seems to refuse the proximity of the artist and fend off his artistic attempt. After years of »abstinence«, one day the painter goes out with his easel, canvas and paint, and nature appears to him as a unique richness of true motifs that demand to be recreated in a work of art, lest they are nothing. ▶ Someone interrogates the fundamental meaning of »being«: he makes a few steps, and the initial obscurity and confusion seems to give way to a clearer insight, but then the path suddenly breaks off, and everything collapses into obscurity again, before eventually a new approach to the same opens up. He who engages in an attempt of thinking knows he is on a path towards a withdrawn source, and that this path, which he must build every day with his interrogating, is characterized by a peculiar mutual relation between enigmatic instants of clarity and obscurity.

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5. Parmenides

5.1 Preliminary Consideration: the Word »Being« In historical accounts of philosophical thinking, Parmenides (roughly a contemporary of Heraclitus) is known as the thinker of being (Sein; essere). As such he is opposed to Heraclitus, who, in turn, is seen as the philosopher of becoming (Werden; divenire). 82 Together, Parmenides’s and Heraclitus’s thinking, on »being« and »becoming«, form the two conceptual pillars on which the entire tradition of philosophy is built. In our discussion of Heraclitus, the aspect of »becoming« was not mentioned. In fact, it can be argued that the concepts of »being« and »becoming«, used to identify different streams or constellations within historical reconstructions of philosophy, remain at the surface of what Heraclitus and Parmenides saw as the task of their thinking. However, while in Heraclitus’s thinking words that in some sense suggest a »becoming« of beings are present, but do not — at least in the known fragments of his book — occupy a preeminent position, on the other hand in Parmenides the Greek word that we translate as »being« is a, if not the, central notion. This is why we now need to address that notion explicitly and attempt to gain a sufficient understanding of it. By way of introduction, let us note the following: It was mentioned before that, when we say »being« (Sein; essere), it is not at all clear what we mean by that word. In fact, »being« seems to be the most general, vague and undetermined of all notions. This is strange, because, on the other hand, we use the word »being« without hesitation or uncertainty as to its meaning; in fact, we rely on it in virtually every sentence we say and think, and therefore in whatever we do or The dictum πάντα ῥεῖ (panta rei, »everything flows«), though not directly attributed to Heraclitus, is commonly seen as descriptive of the fundamental orientation of his thinking.

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don’t do. Thus, even a cursory enquiry yields the result that the word »being« in fact sustains every aspect of our existence, insofar as we never cease to relate to something meaningful. How can a word so unspecific and lacking in content provide such clear support and secure orientation? How can it be that we are never in doubt as to how we should understand what »being« indicates, and yet, if asked, we don’t know precisely what it means? In addition to this noteworthy and puzzling circumstance, we need to consider that the words related to »being« speak differently in our various languages. In particular, if we consider German, Italian, English and Greek, we note the following: 1. the English word »being« indicates two different (sets of) words, namely a. the verbal noun and the gerund »being« obtained by adding a suffix »-ing« (Old English »-ung«, »-ing«) to the stem »be«, and b. the present participle and the derived adjective »being« obtained by adding a different suffix »-ing« (Old English »-ende«) to the stem »be«; 2. while German, Italian and Greek nominalize the present infinitive without giving it a characteristically nominal form (sein → [das] Sein; essere → [l’]essere; εἶναι [einai] → (τὸ) εἶναι), the same is not true in English (to be → being); 3. in order to indicate »a thing that is«, German, Italian and Greek use the nominalized form of the adjective derived from the present participle of »to be« (sein → seiend → ein Seiendes; essere → essente → un e(sse)nte; εἶναι [einai] → ὄν [on] → ὄν); on the other hand, English does not use this same form, but the mentioned verbal noun: in other words, in the expression »a being«, »being« is not derived from the present participle of »to be«, but from the nominalization of »to be« (be → being → a being); 4. in Italian and English, the verbal nouns of »to be« can also indicate a thing, and therefore appear in the plural form (essere → [l’]essere → un essere → [tanti] esseri; to be → being → a being → [many] beings); on the other hand, German and Greek do not have a word that would even sound like the plural of the verbal noun »being« (i. e., respectively, a plural of Sein and of einai): it is as if these languages had spared the words Sein and einai in order to say the phenomenon of being in its singularity and difference from beings. In fact, the words Sein and einai stand alone in their respective languages, just as the phenomenon they indicate stands alone with respect to all other phenomena. This circumstance, to be sure, has no 122 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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implications as to the possibility of thinking »being« in different languages. However, it points to the aforesaid singularity of being, provided we already have a sense for that singularity; that is, a pre-comprehension of being itself. The differences between languages concerning the verb »being« do not end with what has been indicated above. For instance, consider the words Seiendes and das Seiende, which are nominalized forms of the present participle seiend. Ein Seiendes indicates something that is, where this something is envisaged in its constitutive trait, namely being, i. e. the trait that gathers all beings as such; in other words, ein Seiendes is a being insofar as it is. On the other hand, Seiendes (without the indefinite article ein) means »anything that is«, i. e. anything that shows the trait of being. 83 Similarly, das Seiende (now with a definite article) indicates both a particular being (again, envisaged in its constitutive trait, namely being) and beings collectively, i. e. all that is or beings in whole. 84 Thus, Seiendes and das Seiende are singular forms which indicate a plurality — or rather a collection, a whole — envisaged in its constitutive, unifying trait. How would we say Seiendes or das Seiende in English? If we wish to avoid periphrases such as »anything that is«, it seems that we must resort so the plural form »beings«. However, when we hear »beings« we tend to think in the first place of a plurality, or at most of a collection, of things, whereas the circumstance that this plurality is gathered into one, and thus the reference to the unique unifying trait (i. e. being) is much weaker, if not absent. This difference between das Seiende and »beings« becomes prominent with respect to an expression of which we have made, and will make, frequent use in this text, namely »beings as such and in whole« (or also: »beings as such in whole«). In fact, this expression is intended as a translation of the German das Seiende als solches und im Ganzen (das Seiende als solches im Ganzen). From what has been said above, we can see that in the German expression the words als solches (»as such«) and im Ganzen (»in whole«) actually make explicit the traits that are already indicated in das Seiende, namely (being

The sentence: »Seiendes wird als solches bestimmt durch das Sein« means: »Whatever is [anything that is] is as such determined by being«, or: »All things ›being‹ [all beings] are as such determined by being«. 84 »Das Seiende ist streng zu unterscheiden vom Sein« means: »What is [all things ›being‹, beings in whole] must be strictly distinguished from being«. 83

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as) the constitutive trait and (again, being as) the gathering or unifying trait. Because das Seiende als solches im Ganzen, thanks to the manner in which it refers to what is never ein Seiendes (to wit, das Sein), so fittingly (i. e. fittingly with being itself) names the phenomenon par excellence of metaphysical thinking, we will, in alternative to »beings as such in whole«, also say »the being as such in whole«. In this expression, the word »being« is not the gerund of »to be«, but the (uncommon) adjective derived from the present participle (cf. der seiende Gegenstand : l’essente oggetto : the being object). However, in the nominalized adjective »the being« we need to perceive not merely a certain being thing, or a certain plurality of being things; rather, the singular nominalized adjective »the being« (»all that is«, »all that shows the trait of being«) is to indicate the same gatheredness, the same being-unified-in-a-whole of that which shows the constitutive trait of being, as is heard in das Seiende. Thus, adopting the expression »the being as such in whole« helps us to remember that, in a metaphysical context, »beings« have lost their exclusive contingent character and finally show in light of their being; in other words, they now show in the form of that which awaits (»hopes«) to be determined in its being and (thus) obtain its truth.

5.2 Fundamental Concepts Parmenides was born and lived in the Greek colony of Elea (Velia in Roman times), in the wider region of Naples. He is the main figure of the so-called »Eleatic school«. One of Plato’s dialogues is entitled Parmenides; Parmenides himself, as well as his pupil Zeno, appear in this dialogue as interlocutors of Socrates. The text passages which we will be reading are fragments that belong to Parmenides’s only known writing, a verse poem supposedly having the same title as Heraclitus’s book, namely Peri physeōs (»About physis«), most of which is now lost. In order to distinguish Parmenides’s text from a purely poetical work, it is commonly referred to as a »didactical« poem (Lehrgedicht; poema didattico). As a preparation for the actual reading of selected parts of the poem, we will consider once again the notions of physis and alētheia, which have already been introduced in the previous chapter, and introduce the notions of einai and noein.

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(1) The notion of physis As mentioned above, the word φύσις (physis) indicates the fundamental Greek understanding of being. In other words, when the Greeks say: »to be«, »is«, »was«, »will be«, etc., the sense of what this means is fundamentally attuned and determined by the experience of φύσις. The latter is commonly translated as »nature«. However, we are already alerted to the fact that this apparently clarifying and exhaustive translation does not in fact help to understand what physis means. If we content ourselves with the ordinary translation, the risk is that we simply substitute for φύσις some blurry and poorly interrogated understanding of »nature«. On the other hand, as we will see, in order to enter the sphere of physis it is necessary to leave aside the common understanding of nature. We start our investigation by saying what φύσις is not. Physis, as we have just said, is not »nature« in the sense of a part (notably the non-manmade part) or even the totality of reality; that is, the given world or the universe. In other words, φύσις is not a being or an additive collection of beings. Rather, it is first and foremost »everything together«, or rather »everything gathered into one«, or, according to a now familiar formula, »beings [viz. the being] in whole«. The stress here is on the words »together«, »gathered into one« and »in whole«. The expression »in whole« (which we prefer to the more common »as a whole«) 85 means the same as the German im Ganzen (which in Italian we best indicate by saying nella sua sfera d’integrità). Thus, in physis speaks the experience of the fundamental trait that, on the one hand, attunes what is called »a being« as »what arises (from out of a[n act of] letting arise)«, while, on the other, that same trait has already gathered the thus determined »beings« into an arising whole that it holds and preserves as such. The trait in question is precisely that of phyein, namely rising (aufgehen; sorgere, assorgere), or — as we now say in order to stress the original character of the rising itself — a-rising. However, the »arisingness« of arising consists in letting arise, and in this sense engendering, that which arises. As a consequence, we say, in short, that φύσις is »arising«, 85 What is the difference between »as a whole« and »in whole«, between als Ganzes and im Ganzen? »As a whole« refers back to beings, even if now they are endowed with the quality of wholeness; on the other hand, »in whole« refers to the whole as such, i. e. to that which, without being a being, is constitutive of its wholeness.

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whereas in a more analytic formulation we indicate the meaning of physis as follows: the arising itself in which (or thanks to which) that which arises is let to arise as such and in whole das Aufgehen selbst, worin (oder dank dessen) das Aufgehende als solches und im Ganzen aufgehen gelassen ist l’assorgenza per entro cui (ovvero grazie a cui) l’assorgente è lasciato assorgere come tale nella sua sfera d’integrità

We said above that »in order to enter the sphere of physis it is necessary to leave aside the common understanding of nature«. How does the determination, to which we have now come, leave aside that common understanding? In going from »nature« to »the arising« (in turn understood as a letting arise) we no longer refer to single beings or even to the totality of beings as contingency, but rather we step into the element that constitutes beings as such (thus showing them as »the being«); that is, the element that engenders them and lets them be. This »letting be«-element is the arising itself, and precisely this is the phenomenon that initially engages thinking, demanding to be borne in a sufficient answer. Thus, we are not merely looking at something that arises, but, »within« that which arises, at the arising itself, as it frees and maintains beings in whole in their being. This original freeing is likely only insofar as that which frees, namely the arising, has the character of a principle; specifically, it must be an arising from out of itself or, stated differently, an arising that has its own origin in itself, keeps itself within its own origin and is itself that origin. In other words, the arising can be a form of freeing, a »letting be« (that is, an original »loving«) only if it is an original arising. Thus, the thinking that thinks »about physis«, in a sense, still considers beings; however, it envisages them primarily in their constitutive trait, namely the trait that constitutes or frees their being: the arising. In other words, our consideration has shifted from merely looking at beings to minding that thanks to which they are, namely being, which in turn is experienced as an (or rather, the only) arising. Hence, physis is neither a name just for things (i. e. trees, houses, etc.) nor an abstract name for »being«. Rather, it is the name for the trait that shows and constitutes beings in their being (or beings as such) and in whole, and therefore also a name for that whole and for each single being; that is, each arising thing. This is to say that physis 126 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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names the trait of arising, together with what is gathered in that arising; in other words, physis indicates at once the principle of being, the whole of beings and each single being as such. To put it in a formula: physis: the arising itself of the arising whole of that which arises

At first sight this may seem like a redundant expression. Let us try to break it down by starting from the end — that is, from what is most evident, though not most original. (i) There is »that which arises«. What is this? Answer: everything, namely mountains and clouds, fields and forests, houses and streets, plants and animals, men and gods. In other words, »that which arises« is a name for what we call »beings«, where »what it is to be« (i. e. the trait of being) has been experienced as such and made explicit as that which needs to be interrogated and established in the first place; (ii) There is the »whole« in which »that which arises« is gathered. Each thing is what it is only within this whole and by keeping this whole within itself (viz. in its being), while this whole, in turn, is no single being nor the sum of all beings. However, the whole, in its gathering wholeness, is constituted as such only thanks to the arising; in other words, it is an »arising-whole«. (iii) Finally, there is the fundamental trait (der Grundzug; il tratto di fondo) which releases beings into their being, while at the same time gathering them into an arising whole. This fundamental trait is »the arising itself«. In our interrogation of principles, it is in the first place this arising which we need to mind, without ever losing sight of the entire phenomenon (i–ii–iii). Of the three »there is« definitions (»there is that which arises«, »there is the whole«, »there is the arising itself«), the third is the most original, in that any other »there is« ultimately refers to the »there is« (i. e. the flagrancy itself) of the arising. What, however, does »arising« mean? The verb »to arise« commonly has, among others, the following meanings: to emerge, to offer itself, to originate, to come into being, to wake up, to come out or derive or result from, to come into notice, to show (in the sense of sich zeigen; mostrarsi). From these meanings we extract the following primary traits, which are to be heard in »the arising« when this word translates φύσις: to break open, to come into the open. We need to hear the word »arising« from its prefix »a-«, which is the same as 127 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the German er- and ur- (as in er-stehen [to arise, come into being] or Ur-sprung [origin]) and has the sense of an accomplishment from out of a free (dis-contingent) origin. Physis, the fundamental Greek understanding of being, indicates the arising — das Aufgehen, l’assorgenza — in which beings arise (viz. are let arise) as such and in whole. It is important to understand the difference between the meaning of arising in the »physical« (i. e. visible) domain and in the »metaphysical« (i. e. invisible, but in fact more concrete) dimension. In the physical domain, arising is a singular or repeated movement of something, thanks to which this something undergoes a shift from one state to another (e. g. from being closed to being disclosed, from non-being to being). For instance, the notion »a difficulty arises« means that this difficulty comes into being, and »arising« describes precisely the movement from a situation in which there is no difficulty to one in which a difficulty is present, or the movement from a difficulty being latent to it becoming manifest. As a consequence, in the physical domain it would be absurd to say that a difficulty »keeps arising«, unless we want to say that something arises again and again, which, however, is the mere repetition of a contingent movement. On the contrary, in the metaphysical dimension it is true to say that physis »keeps arising«. This means that arising keeps itself within and as itself, that it self-sustainingly stands and consists in itself while obtaining itself from itself. Hence, the sense of physis can be specified in the following manner: physis is »the from-itself-arising keeping-itself-in-arising (das aus ihm selbst aufgehende Sich-imAufgehen-Halten; il da sé sorgente tenersi nell’assorgenza), or also »the in-itself-standing from-itself-returning arising« (das in ihm selbst stehende aus ihm selbst kehrende Aufgehen; l’in-sé-restante da sé ritornante assorgenza). In the metaphysical dimension, arising is not a contingent movement, but a being-movement in the now elucidated sense. A character of any arising that takes place in the physical domain is that of being a movement from a state A to a state B, which (this movement) is, in turn, caused by another movement. In other words, where there is a movement of arising there is always a chain of movements, namely of causes and effects. However, this kind of chain does not and cannot comprise the arising intended as a metaphysical concept; that is, as a principle. In fact, when arising is not the name of a contingent action or event, but a name of being, it is an arising by 128 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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itself and from out of itself, without any reference to a prior causing movement of which it would be the effect. In other words, arising intended as a principle is its own source and nourishment and keeping. This trait we can in fact »see« in the natural things of the world — provided that we have a sense, and therefore an eye, for their being. A tree, for example, has the origin of its being in itself; the stable source that governs the movements of the tree in its unfolding through the seasons is »in« the tree itself; in fact, the tree itself — that is the tree as it relies on itself in its arising as a tree — is this very source, and as such stands out in what is manifest. Conclusively, we can say that physis as arising consists in stable keeping-itself-in-arising, and that the latter is characterized by the unitary traits of arising by itself, arising from out of itself and resting in (or relying on) itself. Therefore, physis has to do, so to speak, only with itself (which implies its peculiar stability). Physis is the open or flagrant gathered whole of that which arises, minded in its constitutive trait of arising, i. e. as a principle; it is the arising that gathers everything into its own distinct and measured manifestness. The metaphysical meanings of arising, which apply to physis as a principle, are: in-itself-standing arising; resting in itself as arising by itself and from out of itself; from out of itself standing out into the open that arises with the arising itself.

(2) The notion of alētheia Everywhere in physis speaks what we have called the openness or the flagrancy for (in favour of) beings as such and in whole. This openness or flagrancy (Offenheit; flagranza) is named in the Greek word ἀλήθεια (alētheia), whose common translation, as we know, is »truth«. However, as has also been mentioned, the word a-lētheia means what is best said in the German word Un-verborgenheit (viz. Entbergung) or in the Italian word dis-ascosità (disascondimento). We will occasionally write these words with a hyphen, in order to indicate the fundamental unity of the openness with that which this openness, in a sense, overcomes. That which the openness overcomes is named in the component »-lētheia«. In other words, ἀλήθεια is an openness only as the openness of »-lētheia« (or lēthē). What does this mean? The Greek word λῆθη (lēthē), which means »forgetting« and 129 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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»forgetfulness«, 86 comes from a verb lanthanomai »to remain absconded from« (verborgen bleiben; restare nascosto). In our interpretation of lanthanomai we use the verb »absconded« (which is the same as Italian nascosto) rather than »hidden« or »concealed«, which are current translations of this verb. The reason for this choice is that the English words »hidden« or »concealed« indicate that something (i. e. a thing, a being) is out of sight as a consequence of the fact that something (e. g. a hiding place, an obstacle, etc.) protects or prevents it from being seen or spotted. However, alētheia is not something, but rather the dimension in which beings appear as such. This is why, in the present context, we avoid the verb »hiding«, which indicates a relation between already constituted things rather than the condition for their appearing. On the other hand, the verb »absconding« (derived from Latin in-abs–condere; cf. Italian nascondere), while it certainly can also designate a relation between beings, is apt to indicate a circumstance on the level of being, or dis-contingency. This circumstance is the pure, in-itself-sheltered retreat from appearing, which, in turn, can shelter a being as such, that is, in its appearing and disappearing. In fact, the Latin verb condere means to found, to build, but also to preserve and to shelter (verwahren, bergen; custodire, recondere). Consequently, abscondere literally means: to shelter away. 87 Thus, the Greek notion of »truth« — alētheia — has to do with openness and flagrancy as an overcoming of absconding. However, this overcoming does not eliminate absconding: this is a central notion, which we should therefore once again explicate. Alētheia is a notion of openness that maintains a constitutive reference to absconding (which, as said above, we indicate by writing this word with a hyphen: a-lētheia). »Constitutive« means: the openness constitutes itself as such only by way of its reference to absconding — so much so that it is, as such, an openness of absconding, which (this openness) is itself absconded, namely non-apparent. Thus, the Greek mythology knows Lēthē as one of the rivers of Hades, the Underworld. Drinking from the river Lēthē leads to complete forgetfulness. One notable instance of a myth involving this river is found in the final book of Plato’s Politeia (it is the Myth of Er, which concludes the dialogue). Note that in the Underworld we also find the river Mnēmosynē, which on the other hand means remembrance. 87 The Christian tradition (notably, among others, Luther) refers to God as Deus absconditus, which means that God is verborgen, nascosto, absconded, and thus fundamentally unknowable, but also sheltered in his impregnable abscondedness. 86

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openness and flagrancy that characterizes physis is not »mere« flagrancy or openness, but an openness that keeps in itself its own source or provenance, which is absconding. 88 In other words, flagrancy is such only insofar as it brings its own source into a flagrancy. This can also be said as follows: alētheia, disabscondedness, is the dimension of absconding itself remaining absconded and sheltered within, and thanks to, its own flagrancy. 89 In short: alētheia is the shelter of absconding — the flagrancy that absconding, while contrasting it, nurtures for its own sake! Thus, in the notion of a-lētheia, flagrancy and absconding not only do not exclude each other, but they are united and imply each other. In fact, there is no flagrancy, if this flagrancy does not keep within itself its source, which is absconding; and, in turn, there is no absconding, if this absconding does not allow for a flagrancy in which it (namely absconding itself) comes into the open. In conclusion, our English translation for alētheia is »disabsconding« (when the »action« of disabsconding [Entbergung; disascondimento] is meant) or »disabscondedness« (when what is meant is rather the »state« of being disabsconded [Unverborgenheit; disascosità]). In order to become more familiar with the notion of flagrancy we can consider the following image: A child at night gets up from his bed and goes into the kitchen in order to get himself some »forbidden« cookies from a jar which his mother put on the highest kitchen shelf. It is completely dark in the apartment. The mother, who has a vague feeling that something is not quite right, also gets up, comes into the kitchen and suddenly switches on the light, so that the scene there is abruptly illuminated. What does that scene show, and what do we, as spectators of this scene, see? We see the child standing on a chair and, as it were, »frozen« with his hand in the jar, »caught redhanded«. Now, what we need to pay attention to in this scene is the following: in the instant in which the attempt to steal »comes into the open«, this attempt becomes flagrant as an attempt that (until just now) was protected by darkness viz. absconding; in other words, what we see when suddenly the light goes on is precisely a flagrant absconding, namely the absconding itself turned into flagrancy. But »turned into flagrancy« does not mean: »eliminated in favour of«, or, which is the same, »replaced by« flagrancy, but literally: become 88 89

See above our discussion of Heraclitus’s fr. 123. The expression »flagrancy of absconding« refers to this concept.

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flagrant as absconding. The scene of the »frozen« child (who will presumably not get his cookies that night) is literally »dripping« with abscondedness and owes its glaring flagrancy to that abscondedness. This image can, to some extent (and with the caveats that must always accompany the use of images in the domain of philosophical interrogation) 90, serve as a »physical« toehold, or analogy, for our attempt to understand the peculiar relation of flagrancy and absconding. In fact, as long as there is complete darkness, in a sense there is no darkness; on the other hand, as soon as the darkness is gone, namely as soon as the light is switched on, the darkness is flagrantly there, and the visibility resulting from the enlightened darkness is particularly sharp (i. e. »flagrant«). Analogously, in the dimension of being, or metaphysical dimension, flagrancy and absconding do not only not exclude each other, but are in fact intrinsic in each other; in other words, there is no flagrancy if not from out of absconding and there is no absconding if not within flagrancy. In fact, the most original, and therefore less noticeable, phenomenon is precisely the contentious unity of flagrancy and absconding — in Greek: a-lētheia.

(3) The notions of einai and eon Einai is the Greek notion which we translate with the English words »to be« and »being«, the German sein/Sein and the Italian essere. However, it is impossible to grasp the meaning and implications of the word einai simply by looking at these common and automatic translations. The reason is that, firstly, we still do not know what we mean when we say »being«, Sein or essere, and, secondly, we do not know if what we mean by »being« is the same as what is indicated with einai. Moreover, as pointed out in the preliminary remark, in English there is a peculiar problem of translation. In fact, the English language does not have distinct words for saying »being« with the meaning of »to be« (essere; Sein), and »being« in the sense of »a being« (un ente/essente; ein Seiendes). Therefore, it is even more necessary to comprehend the constitutive traits of the Greek words einai and eon in themselves, without resorting to the easy solution of swiftly equating einai with »being« and pretending that, in this way, These caveats are briefly referred to in the discussion of Plato’s myth of the cave in Chapter 6.

90

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everything is clear. For our purposes, we provisionally determine the sense of einai (to be, sein, essere) as follows: einai: to (come to) stay into 91 the disabsconded viz. into disabscondedness

The word that is particularly prominent in the context of Parmenides’s poem is however not einai, but eon, which, grammatically speaking, is the neuter present participle of einai. 92 If we nominalize this present participle, the resulting noun indicates »a being« (seiend → (ein) Seiendes; essente → un essente), which, according to the above determination, means: something that comes to stay into disabscondedness, a disabsconded (ein Unverborgenes; un disascosto). 93 However, when the early Greek thinkers, and more specifically Parmenides, speak of eon (or to eon, where »to« is the definite article), they do not refer to single beings, but to beings as such (i. e. beings insofar as they are) and in whole (das Seiende als solches im Ganzen; l’ente in quanto essente nella sua sfera d’integrità), minded in their dis-contingent principle, in short, they refer to »the being« in the previously specified sense. Hence, in considering the phenomenon named eon we are not looking at beings singularly or in their totality, but with regard to that which constitutes them as beings, at the same time gathering them in whole. In short, we name beings as that which comes to stay into disabscondedness, but, as we do so, we are in fact minding their being, which consists precisely in coming to stay into disabscondedness, and at the principle of this coming to stay into disabscondedness (which, in Parmenides, is the unifying unity of eon itself). As we can see, the notion of einai bespeaks, as its original trait, the sense of physis: in fact, the coming to stay into disabscondedness is stirred by the in-itself-resting movement of the arising, just as, in turn, the arising consists in the coming to stay into disabscondedness of the whole of what is disabsconded. Eon, what comes to stay into

We say »into« rather than »in«, because the former, though unfamiliar, better captures the physis-trait of einai, namely the trait of arising out of abscondedness and into dis-abscondedness. 92 In Plato’s and Aristotle’s Attic Greek, the participle is not eon (which is an Ionian form) but on. For our purposes we can hear the e- (without there being a grammatical basis for doing so) as an indication of the original physis-trait, that is the trait of letting arise. 93 We must resist the reflex of complementing »a disabsconded« with »thing« or »being« and get used to hearing »a disabsconded« as a way of saying »a being«, in which however the Greek sense of being is made explicit. 91

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disabscondedness as such and in whole, perceived and minded in the original, unitary trait of coming to stay into disabscondedness, is the fundamental phenomenon of Greek thinking as thinking primarily attuned and claimed by physis and its alētheia.

(4) The notion of noein Legein, that is »saying« in the sense of gathering something in its being, 94 necessarily goes together with νοεῖν (noein). In other words, there is no true noein without legein, and there is no actual legein without noein. But what does noein mean? In order to answer this question, we ask: What is necessary for saying, if saying is »gathering (a disabsconded in its) being«, »sustaining (a disabsconded’s) coming to stay into disabscondedness«, »letting appear and thus placing (a disabsconded) in the open«, »letting be seen, or showing, (a disabsconded) so as to originate and preserve (it) in its truth«? If we refer back to the example of gathering fruits, 95 we can say that, in the first place, in order to gather I need to become aware of the fruits to pick in light of the ultimate aim (the telos) of present harvesting, and, as I keep gathering, I need constantly to maintain that awareness. In other words: the fruit that is to be gathered in the first place needs to be discerned and noticed and kept in view in its ultimate disabscondedness. If the awareness is lost along the way, gathering remains without guidance and becomes an arbitrary, erratic action. On the other hand, gathering — that is collecting that lets appear — helps this awareness to become ever more what it is, namely attentive and mindful of the being of what awaits to be plucked (or not). This becoming aware and keeping within awareness, this taking notice and keeping in mind, this perceiving and discerning, which both complement gathering and, on the other hand, are sustained by it, can be indicated with the (already familiar) English verb »to mind«. Minding, namely the capacity for going straight to the dis-contingent principle and acknowledging that principle, is the meaning of the Greek verb noein, which otherwise is translated as »thinking«. We, too, will mostly say »thinking« when Parmenides says noein. But in doing so

94 95

See above, p. 91. See above, p. 91 sq.

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we will in our turn remain mindful of the trait of minding that lies in this word. Noein and legein, thinking and saying/speaking, now intended, respectively, as minding and as gathering, play together and help each other; in a word: they »collude« in lightening and preserving something in its sense and being. Gathering needs minding and keeping in mind of what is to be gathered. Minding, in turn, needs gathering in order to keep close and together that which needs to be minded. Thus, in the domain of philosophical interrogation (and not only there), »thinking« and »speaking« always and necessarily go together. A saying of Martin Heidegger reminds us of this essential relation of thinking and saying. Heidegger writes: Echt gedacht ist recht gesagt und echt gesagt ist recht gedacht. 96 Genuinely thought is rightly said, and genuinely said is rightly thought. Genuinamente pensato è rettamente detto, e genuinamente detto è rettamente pensato.

From this motto and from previous considerations, we can conclude that there is no genuine saying without true thinking and no genuine thinking without true saying. To learn how to say things is, at the same time, a school of thought. This, of course, is only true if by »saying« we do not simply mean a technique of uttering words or sentences in an effective, impactful manner, but the original way of letting something appear and preserving it in its true being, i. e., in its disabscondedness.

5.3 Fragment VI: Being’s Need Before we begin to look more closely at the fragment, a few comments will help us to set the scene and prepare an understanding of what is said. The one who speaks in this fragment is a Goddess. This Goddess is not explicitly introduced by name. However, there are reasons to assume that this Goddess is Alētheia herself. 97 In what we 96 Martin Heidegger, Bremer und Freiburger Vorträge (GA Bd. 79). Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1994, p. 47. 97 Greek gods are incomparable with the unique and personal god of the Christian tradition. What or who these gods are becomes understandable only in the context of the experienced need of sustaining the being of beings, and, in the first place, the

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are about to read, she is addressing a man who has set out on a journey through which he will come to know what needs to be thought in the first place; that is, the being of beings in its original traits. To start with, the Goddess makes the thinking man aware of two different paths when it comes to thinking. One of them is the path where truth can be found, and this, she says, is the path that must be taken; on the other path, truth cannot be found, and this path (which, as we shall see, is in fact a non-path) must not be taken. It is in indicating the path of truth that the other path, the path of untruth, must also be indicated. In fact, together with every truth is also generated its untruth, and the apparent paths that proceed in it. We can presume that, at the time when Parmenides was writing his poem, other thinkers were pursuing apparent paths toward knowledge, while in fact remaining excluded from the dimension of being and truth. Fragment VI reads as follows: χρὴ τὸ λέγειν τε νοεῖν τ᾽ ἐὸν ἔμμεναι ἔστι γὰρ εἶναι, μηδέν δ᾽ οὐκ ἔστιν τά σ᾽ ἐγὼ φράζεσθαι ἄνωγα. πρώτης γάρ σ᾽ ἀφ᾽ ὁδοῦ ταύτης διζήσιος hεἴργωi, αὐτὰρ ἔπειτ᾽ ἀπὸ τῆς, ἣν δὴ βροτοὶ εἰδότες οὐδὲν πλάττονται, δίκρανοι ἀμηχανίη γὰρ ἐν αὐτῶν στήθεσιν ἰθύνει πλακτὸν νόον οἱ δὲ φοροῦνται κωφοὶ ὁμῶς τυφλοί τε, τεθηπότες, ἄκριτα φῦλα, οἷς τὸ πέλειν τε καὶ οὐκ εἶναι ταὐτὸν νενόμισται κοὐ ταυτόν, πάντων δὲ παλίντροπός ἐστι κέλευθος. -1- There is the claiming need to say [that is, gather and let appear, namely let lie there by bearing the openness and clearance for its showing] and think [that is, mind and bear in mind] that the being [i. e. the eon] is; for being [einai] his its own likelihood, and as suchi is, -2- while the nothing [the ›not ever one‹] hlacks the likelihood of being and thereforei is not — this I summon [prompt, ask, exhort, bid] you to mind. -3- For this [namely, the path that the ›nothing‹, or ›not ever one‹, is] is the first path of inquiry from which I bar you [for it is not truly a path], -4- then, however, hIi also hbar youi from the path which indeed mortals who do not have an insight into anything -5- make up [concoct] for themselves, two-headed as they are; for inertia in their -6- bosoms makes their erratic minds go straight; and they are driven along, -7- as deaf as they are blind, dazed, an indistinct crowd without judgement, flagrancy of that being, i. e. physis and its alētheia. To begin with, the very fact that, in the poem, a goddess is speaking, implies the following: for the Greeks, there is no »saying being« and »minding being« if not in the encounter with a »god«.

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-8- for whom both being and nonbeing is a current coin, and the same -9- and not the same; and for all of them the way turns around in itself [and thus never leads to the point].

First of all, we need to pay attention to the formulation »there is the need« (es tut not …/ Not ist … ; è stringente bisogno …/la stretta è …). The text does not say that »someone« »feels« a certain »need«, but, simply and sharply: there is the need, and in fact a stressing and claiming need. The expression »there is the claiming need« translates a single Greek word: χρή (chrē). The harsh sound of this word calls and gathers everything into one, in itself unique, need, and thus attunes the endeavor of thinking as a journey that responds to that need. Χρή is the sound of the most fundamental need; that is, the need of the being as such as a need that addresses thinking. Only the initial likelihood of all being is »the« need and as such claims man to sustain it in his own (interrogating, learning) being. In fact, what is called for in the χρή is a manner of being that sustains the being (i. e. the eon) in its openness or flagrancy, and this manner of being consists in the following: to say and to think (viz. to gather and to mind) the eon in its constitutive trait, and thus to raise and preserve it in its truth. The Goddess is the attuning voice of this address, the beholding regard of the in-itself-wanting 98 flagrancy of being: that is, the wanting openness of the eon that gathers beings in whole. What needs to be said and thought (i. e. the original stress of saying and thinking) is simply this: that being, namely the one being, is. »The (one) being« translates the Greek to eon (das Seiende; l’essente), which Parmenides himself characterizes, with regard to its constitutive trait, as Ἕν (Hen), i. e. One. The (one) being does not mean a specific being, but beings as such and in whole, minded in their fundamental trait, namely the circumstance of being — that is,

In the sense of »in want of« (where »want« = »need«), namely in want of, and therefore calling for, a bearing that is for man to take on viz. to »be«. To want means to desire out of a sense of lacking. In the dimension of being, this does not mean that »something« is lacking, so that, if only this lacking »something« is supplied, the sense of lacking (and consequently the desire) goes away. What is at play here is rather the original need of the groundless (i. e. of being itself) to avail itself of a ground that grounds its openness, so that the groundless can finally sway as a ground for beings. This wanted (needed) ground is man’s being. Hence we can say that man is wanted by being itself through its (i. e. being’s own) wanting (not »absent«, but »being in want of«) openness.

98

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of spontaneously coming to stay into, and firmly lying in, disabscondedness — within the unifying unity of the One. Saying and thinking, here, do not mean uttering and conceiving something concerning the object »being«, as if the being, namely the eon, was already there as something given, to which we can always relate in the manner of uttering propositions about it (»the being is this«, »the being is not that«, etc.). In fact, such an understanding misses out on the need that speaks in the being as such, i. e. its constitutive »wantingness«. Thus, what is at stake in this »saying and thinking« is the grounding of the that(-and-not-not) (das Dass [-und-nicht-nicht]; il che[-e-non-no]) of the (trait of) being perceived within the being (i. e. within beings as such and in whole). In other words: in the first place, the being as such — that is, the (trait of) being of beings: the arising itself as the gathering that lets beings come to stand in the disabsconded — »is there« as the attuning want of an answer; by availing itself of an attuned saying and thinking, it is finally grounded as the ground it already is. The attuned »saying and thinking« is the simple acknowledgment (das Anerkennen bzw. das Eingeständnis; il riconoscimento) that »it« (namely the one, unique and unifying, gathering being of beings) is; however, what is thus acknowledged is not a fact that subsists independently of man, but a circumstance that is generated with an »inbuilt« human trait, namely the want of man as him who, in his being, must answer this want and accomplish the foundation of the being. This is what it means when we say that the pure »letting being be«, the »letting the one arising arise«, is needed by the eon itself, viz. that the eon is in want of that letting, and, in this sense, of man. On the other hand, man is who he is only insofar as he answers and bears that want. In the pure that of beings as such and in whole, which saying and thinking need to acknowledge and preserve, speaks the Greek attunement of thinking: θαυμάζειν (thaumazein). This attunement is the original astoundment in the face of the arising as such — that is, of beings as such and in whole steadily arising into their flagrancy and standing in this flagrancy, and all this within an original reference to man, namely his needed being, his being claimed to bear the flagrant wantingness of being itself. That all of this is, in such a manner that man finds himself natively involved in it as its indweller, namely as he who is claimed to be its minder and its guardian, this is what originally gives the tone to man’s very saying and thinking. In the attunement of astoundment, the freeing fundamental trait of the arising 138 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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keeps man at a distance and at the same time attracts and binds him: in fact, astoundment implies that man is held off from being (which remains the other with respect to him) and at the same time is attracted to it (as he becomes aware that his selfhood consists in owning his native belongingness to it). The appropriate, attuned saying and thinking requires that a firm stance be taken in this astoundment, a stance that holds out the astoundment itself and lets it sway as the enduring attunement of thinking. This needed firmness consists in man’s surrendering to the simple »that it is«, in an owning to the belongingness to being that at the same time suffers and bears right down to its absconded provenance that which it owns. We can characterize the »that it is« as the arising that brings with itself its own openness or flagrancy, in which (i. e. in the openness of the arising) each and every being is let to show itself as such. In other words, being (i. e. arising into disabscondedness) is granted to each single being, which, as a consequence, becomes accessible in its unique and rare sense. This that is more original than the later metaphysical distinction between the »that« and the »what« (das Dass und das Was; il che e il che cosa) of beings; namely — as philosophy will begin to say long after the Greek inception of thinking — the distinction between »existence« and »essence«. Therefore, the sheer that of Parmenides’s poem is, formally speaking, pre-metaphysical or prephilosophical. Within later philosophy we find reminders or residues of the original pre-philosophical unity of »what« and »that«. For instance, such a residue is Leibniz’s sufficient reason, which we will come upon later on our path; here, the essence of the ultimate ground of all being implies the existence of this very ground. Reason finds this ultimate ground — the sufficient reason — in a being, namely in the unique highest being: God. In contrast, in Parmenides there is no such thing as a highest being as the ultimate ground of being; rather, the eon itself keeps itself in itself, namely in the unifying One that gathers the being of beings. On the other hand, the Goddess who speaks in the poem is not at all a sufficient reason. Rather, she belongs unto the flagrancy of the arising, namely as the claiming voice and minding regard of that flagrancy, which (that voice and regard) attune the stance that man is called upon to take in the »unshaking heart of fairly rounded Ἀλήθεια« (I, 29), i. e. the eon itself. We shall call this original that the »physis-that«; it is the word that attunes man to his

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native belongingness to the flagrant eon. This very belongingness is indicated as follows in Parmenides’s poem (VIII, 34–36): ταὐτὸν δ᾽ ἐστὶ νοεῖν τε καὶ οὕνεκεν ἔστι νόημα. οὐ γὰρ ἄνευ τοῦ ἐόντος, ἐν ὧι πεφατισμένον ἐστιν, εὑρήσεις τὸ νοεῖν -34- The same is to think and that for the sake of which a thought is [i. e. the eon]. 99 -35- Indeed, not without [independently from] the eon, in which it is already said, -36- will you find thinking …

As we can see, the relation between thinking and the eon (i. e., that which a thought is there to mind and preserve) is not only a tight one, but both are said to be the same. The circumstance that they »are« the same — that is, that they arise in the same arising — does not mean that they are the same thing and therefore indistinguishable and interchangeable with one another. Rather, it means that there is a trait or element, called »the same«, that originally gathers (and simultaneously scinds) them in a mutual inherence. In what does the mutual inherence of thinking and being consist? Answer: the eon is inherent in thinking in that it is only in the thought of it that a thinking, in turn, sustains; on the other hand, thinking is inherent in the eon in that, as the above verses indicate, the thought that thinks the eon »is already said« — that is, shown and disabsconded — in the eon itself. This means that the eon shows and offers itself in a thought of itself and for the sake of itself, which is for human thinking to mind and preserve. Hence, what thinks in the first place is the eon itself. Parmenides says no more about »the same«. Despite the fact that »the same« gathers in itself the eon (viz. einai) and thinking (noein), assigning the former to the latter, and letting the latter belong to the former; despite the fact that it thus bears in itself what is more original than these two, »the same« (which, although it is a different wird, reminds us of the »Same« of homologein) remains unthought of as such. As a consequence of the mutual inherence of thinking and the eon through the same, the dimension of human dwelling (that is, man’s ēthos) is the ingenuous nearness to the eon, which man keeps In fragment III it is thinking (noein) and being (einai) which are said to be the same (to auto).

99

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by offering to that nearness his own being, namely the saying and thinking that bears and grounds the eon in its initial, dis-contingent trait. In this manner the eon is acknowledged in its being (in that it is). However, when we say that man is needed in order to sustain the eon, this does not mean that man makes or produces anything in this respect. On the other hand, the Goddess is clear on this point: thoughts are not made by man, but thinking is already said in the thought in which the eon appears and shows itself in the first place. Thus, the task of thinking, simple and yet the most difficult, is to let appear a thought that appears from out of itself; in other words, to let what shows itself in a thought show itself as such. This letting appear requires, so to speak, a peculiar tactfulness toward the being, an attentiveness in letting oneself be attuned by it and tuned to it, so as to let appear its constitutive thought in all its traits. This is what the Greeks understood in their awakening to the circumstance that man is not only contained »in« physis as one being among others, but, in his being, dwells in an original nearness »with« physis as the one, unique being that natively belongs — within »the same« — to the ownmost trait of physis itself. On the other hand, what the Greeks call ὕβρις (hybris) is the presumption and mischief that misleads man into disregarding the word and the measure of being, so that he falls prey to the illusion of controlling and dominating beings through thinking that »does without the eon«. 100 In Parmenides’s poem, saying and thinking are summoned to »join in« to the arising itself. This joining in is a »being in tune« with physis itself and its that. The knowledge that consists in saying the same as physis and thinking the thought that physis itself offers to thinking (namely, in the first place, the thought that the arising arises), is the highest and pristine knowledge, which the Greeks call 100 Today’s mankind appears to lack an awareness of the fundamental difference between beings that have the origin of their being within themselves and those who do not. Everything, today, appears as »made« and »makeable« and as »calling for making«. As a consequence, our understanding of »life« is that of something that »makes itself« and as such allows man to intervene and reproduce and steer this »making itself«, thus in a sense taking life into his own hands. This is what we do, for instance, in genetic engineering. The Greeks would have considered this knowledge of reproducing and steering »making itself« as hybris and fundamentally flawed, insofar as for them »life« (i. e. physis) is, in the first place, not at all graspable as that which »makes itself«, given that arising involves no making at all. Thus, the faultiness does not consist in the failure to conceive of and obtain a certain effect or result, but in the fact that whatever is obtained is not true life viz. »a disabsconded«.

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sophia. In consideration of this knowledge, we can provisionally draw the following distinction between three different manners of thinking and, consequently, three kinds of thinking men: Sophoi — those whose thinking and saying is in tune (in consonance, in unison) with the sophon; that is, with the physis-that. Sophistai — those whose thinking and saying is in dissonance with respect to the sophon, and who »know« the sophon only by way of its violation and its perversion into a regime of beings. Philosophoi — those for whom the original unison with the physis-that is lost, but who still preserve an inclination (philia) toward it and, in some way, strive for it. 101

The sophoi are the thinkers in whom we recognize the first onset or inception of thinking, namely Heraclitus, Parmenides and Anaximander. The sophistai are a certain number of men who appear as pupils and followers of the sophoi, for whom, however, the reference to the thought and sense of the eon as the unshaking heart of alētheia is already lost. We find some of these sophists as dialogue partners of Socrates in Plato’s works. Finally, the philosophoi are those who attempt to stand up — against the teachings of the sophists — for that which still offers itself, and needs to be thought, as being and truth once the unison with the eon (or, as Heraclitus would say, the original homologia) has withered.

5.4 The Paths of Inquiry We now consider the last part of fragment VI, 1, which sounds as follows: »… to say and think that the being (eon) is; for being (einai) his its own likelihood, and as suchi is«. The unusual and not immediately intelligible word here is »likelihood«, which appears in a parenthetical addendum that is meant to aid our understanding of what It is not up to the thinking man to decide on the manner in which the being calls upon him, and whether it does so in the first place. The beginning of philosophy is marked by a new call of being. While in early Greek thinking we find the experience of a unitary and all-inclusive phenomenon, called physis, which addresses man through its need to be preserved in attuned saying and thinking, the experience of being in the beginning of philosophy, namely in Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, is, as we shall see, of a different order, even though it is still, in a sense, determined and attuned by physis. 101

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otherwise easily appears as a redundant formula, namely »the being is«. How are we to understand this word in the context of our approach to the principles of philosophy? 102 Today the most common meaning of likelihood is probability (Wahrscheinlichkeit; probabilità); in this meaning, the word is also used in the science of statistics. However, this is only one meaning, and more specifically one that applies to contingency. On the other hand, in our use of the term, likelihood is a word of being: it indicates what is likely, where »likely« means: apt, fair, (and therefore) expectable, acceptable, credible, promising, thinkable, true. In order to become more familiar with this meaning, let us consider the following example. 103 All teams of the Italian Serie A soccer league are possible winners of the final title (the so-called scudetto), and all of them have a certain probability of winning it. We can (and betting agencies in fact do) indicate this circumstance by assigning percentages to each team’s chances. However, only some teams are (in the original sense of the word and in a more or less visible manner) likely winners. The latter are those that have »the strongest game«: that is, those whose manner of playing soccer shows them to be superior (in terms of the »idea« of soccer) to most other teams, and is therefore promising and expected to lead them to success, whereas for other teams, in considering their game, it is hardly thinkable that they should come out the winner. Now, the team that actually wins the title might well be one that was not among the likely winners, because its play was poor in terms of what is expected from a good team. Nonetheless, that play was, for some reason, effective (though perhaps not »nice to watch«) in terms of the outcome, or possibly a number of successes were the result of factors that have nothing to do with the quality of their play in the first place. For instance, the owners of the actual winning team might have systematically bribed the referees, or there was illegal doping involved, or more simply, a series of fortuitous circumstances made the championship go the way of the unlikely winner. However, the mere fact of winning does not by itself confer a likelihood to the unlikely team, nor, on the other hand, do the likely 102 The adjective »likely«, as used in some earlier instances in this text, is to be understood in light of the following elucidation of »likelihood«. 103 For a similar example see Ivo De Gennaro, The Weirdness of Being. Heidegger’s Unheard Answer to the Seinsfrage. London: Routledge, 2013, p. 163 (note 65).

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winning teams lose their likelihood because of the mere fact that they did not actually win (which will probably be perceived as an »unfair« outcome of the season). As we can see, likelihood — and this is the decisive trait — is unaffected by contingency; that is, by mere (or »brute«) facts. On the other hand, probability and possibility are affected by contingency, for they are themselves measures of contingency. Thus, if, say, the plane carrying the players of the most likely team to a match crashes and all players tragically die, the probability and possibility that the team will win the title clearly go to zero, while its likelihood as a superior soccer team remains intact, and it will be remembered for its virtuous way of playing by those who have an understanding of soccer. 104 If we adopt the word likelihood in the outlined sense, we can say, for instance, that the likelihood of a baby is to become an accomplished human being — independent of the fact that the baby may tragically die or soon go wrong and become anything but an accomplished human being. Or, we can say that the likelihood of a university student is to grow in his capacity for studying and learning, which is what is expected from such a student — independent of the fact that he might turn out to be a mere fee-paying consumer of academic and didactic services who collects credits and acquires competences that can be sold on the job market. Or, we can say that the likelihood of a university teacher is to let his pupils grow in their autonomous capacity for thinking — independent of the fact that he might limit himself to inculcate ready-made notions in his students or let them believe that what is merely their opinion is already an instance of thinking. The fact that a baby’s death is perceived as tragic; the fact that a student’s mere orientation on effectiveness appears to fall short of what learning is about; the fact that a teacher’s didactic style may raise doubts as to his pedagogical capacity — all this de-

We may note in passing that our epoch is marked by a growing confusion between what is likely and what is merely possible. In fact, the reckoning of what is possible has largely supplanted the judgement of what is likely. This creates the scope and demand for an »ethics« that is supposed to provide an orientation about what, among all things possible, can, and what, on the other hand, cannot be done. However, this »ethics« will necessarily come too late (namely, for restoring the acceptable and approvable) as long as it does not discriminate between the possible and the likely, or, which is the same, as long as it remains on the ground of contingency. 104

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pends on a previous, implicit or explicit understanding of the baby’s, the student’s, and the teacher’s respective likelihood. What we are now calling »likelihood« indicates the same as the German word Möglichkeit and the Italian word attendibilità, when these words, in turn, speak as words of thinking. The circumstance that all three words indicate the same does not imply that their meaning is identical: in fact, each one of them has a different meaning and speaks in a quite different manner, which cannot be reproduced in — nor, in the common understanding of this word, translated into — other languages. However, these different and unique meanings are manners of indicating the (withdrawn, withheld, tacit) same, so that these words can in fact be adopted as translations of each other, even though in the translation a different trait of the same comes into play. »The same«, here, is not a given semantic content or value, which might be signified by means of different signifiers (i. e. the words of different languages, as conceived in the science of linguistics). A similar semantic content can indeed always be determined; however, this determination will be the result of an ex post operation carried out for some definitional (i. e. operative) purpose, and notably at the cost of cutting off the absconded and inextinguishable richness of the same, which different languages say, and leave unsaid, in their unique way of speaking. In conclusion, let us retain that what likelihood, Möglichkeit and attendibilità respectively mean is not affected by contingency, nor does it affect contingency, at least not in the sense of »affecting« which is known within the contingent domain. We are now better suited for understanding in what sense »being his its own likelihood, and as suchi is«. In fact, the one being is its own likelihood, i. e. it is itself the likelihood of being. However, in the Greek experience, being is arising. Thus, the eon, that is, physis, the arising, is itself, and only thanks to itself, 105 the likelihood of arising, and this — namely the arising as the very likelihood of arising — is what arises in the first place and engages thinking in the attunement of astounding. Thus, the arising is itself — as an element alien to the domain of contingency — the source of an openness in which everything appears in its truth and as itself; that is, according to its likelihood. The path that thinking needs to undertake is the path towards and into the eon, that is, the being-trait of the being (der Seinszug des 105 In contrast, no being (Seiendes; essente) is thanks to itself, but rather thanks to being (Sein; essere).

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Seienden; il tratto d’essere dell’essente). Thinking ought to let itself be tuned to the eon, to which it already natively belongs. In contrast to this path, the Goddess points to a path of inquiry that must not be taken. She says: »while the nothing [the ›not ever one‹] hlacks the likelihood of being and thereforei is not«. At first glance, it looks as if the Goddess is pointing out a mere logical fallacy. In fact, saying that the »nothing«, i. e. nonbeing, is, is a patent violation of the principle of non-contradiction: being and non-being cannot both be true at the same time and in the same respect. 106 However, we mentioned before that the rules of formal logic are not sufficient when it comes to the thinking of being; as a consequence, they are also insufficient for understanding what it means that it is necessary to affirm that the nothing, namely the negation viz. the refusal of being, is not. In fact, the Goddess does not merely warn the man who is learning what needs to be thought from committing a logical fallacy. She says: »… this I summon you to mind. / For this is the first path of inquiry from which I bar you.« Why is it necessary to be aware of this path that cannot be taken, as we attempt to sustain the openness of being in our saying and thinking? What does the path that consists in affirming the being of nothing, or the being of nonbeing, imply? Saying that nonbeing is, does not merely mean asserting that there is, so to speak, an emptiness or void of things. What is meant is much more fundamental. According to the notion of being that we have meanwhile elaborated (i. e. the eon in the light of physis viz. the arising), saying that nonbeing is amounts to saying the following: nonarising (namely, the ›no‹ with regard to any arising at all, the negation and suppression of the that of arising) — this »phenomenon« arises, and can thus can be said and thought as such. In other words, the path from which the Goddess bars the thinker is the path that pretends that the annihilation of the likelihood of being (i. e. of the eon) is (i. e. arises as) a likely thought. 107 Now, the point is not so much that the arising of this phenomenon (i. e. the non-arising) negates the phenomenon itself. Rather, the

106 In other words: if the »nothing is« is, then something is, hence it is false to affirm that nothing is. 107 On the other hand, the unlikelihood of being is a likely thought: in fact, this unlikelihood is a constitutive trait of likelihood itself and therefore of the thinking that has to say and think it.

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point is this: such arising cannot be thought, nor can it be said: it is unlikely (unthinkable, unexpectable, unpromising, unconceivable), because it lacks any likelihood and is no likelihood, because it is not a thought in the first place. The thought of the arising of the nonarising is not just a logical mistake, but an annihilation of the same that the arising and thinking are. This shows in the fact that, if we try to think this thought, we cannot — even though we can, of course, always logically and rhetorically manipulate a brute concept that has that »content«; similarly, if we try to say it, we cannot — even though, of course, nothing will stop us from uttering vacuous words that state precisely that notion. Fine, but what about the words of the Goddess? Doesn’t she affirm non-arising or nonbeing, albeit only to say that it is not? After all, if we are to say and think that nonbeing is not, nonbeing must be »something« that can be said and thought. As a matter of fact, nonbeing can be thought — and precisely insofar as it is not, and is not a thought — only within the thinking of being. In other words, only insofar as we think that being is can we also envisage the nonbeing (i. e. the unlikelihood) of nonbeing as the unlikelihood of thinking itself. From this thinking of nonbeing we must distinguish what the Goddess calls »taking the path that nonbeing is«. In taking the »thought« of the being of nonbeing as a path, being itself is voided of its own truth, reduced to nothing, annihilated. This does not mean that all extant things suddenly disappear; it also does not mean that, what seemed to be unlikely (namely, to say that »nothing is«), turns out to be likely after all. What it means is that on this »path« being itself is denied, leaving beings without being (i. e. beingless), so that the sphere of being, the being in whole, is reduced to an indifferent mass of contingent objects and relations, while saying and thinking, in turn, are confined to mere tools for the treatment of contingency. When the arising whole, which gathers beings into their being, is negated, what is left is the indifferent erratic going »from nothing to nothing«. 108 This is the domain in which what will come to be known as sophistic thinking can flourish.

108 When being is negated, what is left is an at most seemingly ordered, but in truth chaotic sphere of contingency, in which sense is surrogated by mere effectiveness. For instance, the evaluation of customer satisfaction involves a thinking reduced to the mere computation of contingent experiences, with the aim of enhancing a certain process in terms of its effectiveness with regard to new contingent experiences. All

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In the following verses, the Goddess indicates yet another path, which also must not be taken by the thinker, namely the path of the »indistinct crowd without judgement«. Hence, the Goddess indicates altogether the following three paths of inquiry: 109 (i) The path of the acknowledgement that being is, which is the path where saying and thinking is the attuned answer to the claiming need (the »strait«) of being. The saying of being says the same as physis and is thus in accord or unison (im Einklang; all’unisono) with it. This saying does not make statements »about« physis but speaks the word (and thinks the thought) of physis itself, so that the latter, held in the sameness with thinking, can fully enure to the benefit of the disabsconded. 110 As he acknowledges and bears the arising in its pure that, man himself eventually recovers his uniqueness and singularity within the whole of beings. (ii) The path of the claim that nonbeing is, which is the path of the sophists, who deny being — that is, the arising — without actually thinking and saying it. In contrast to the unison with physis, the path »that nonbeing is«, is the most strident dissonance (Missklang; dissonanza) with regard to it. 111 Because it consists in claiming that the nothing of arising »arises«, which amounts to thinking and saying deprived of likelihood, it is the very catastrophe of thinking and saying, and thus of all likely sense. This path does not result as an answer to a true need, and no true stance of thinking is taken. As a literally need-less path, on which the unthinkable is »thought« and the unsayable is »said«, it is senseless, and therefore not truly a path, but rather a manner of accomplishing the self-annihilation of being within the unminded and ungrounded arising of being itself. (iii) The path of the »indistinct crowd without judgement«, namely the indifferent mass of those who are content with whatever seems to be »the way things are, and thus ought to be, conceived and done«. While the sophists explicitly claim that nonbeing is, thus effectively affirming the exclusiveness of the chaos of contingency, the this excludes any being-need, any human stance with regard to being and, consequently, any measure for beings as such. 109 As it turns out, the second and third paths are in fact not actual paths, and even less so likely paths of inquiry. 110 Parmenides’s poem as a whole can be seen as the »enurement« (from »en-« + »œuvre«) of the »unshaking heart of fairly rounded Alētheia«. 111 The Latin word absurdus indicates a strident dissonance. Thus, the path of nonbeing can be called an absurd existence or the absurdity of existence.

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indistinct crowd is characterized by its two-headedness, implying that they look at both the path »that being is« and at the path »that nonbeing is« without an insight into what they are saying and thinking. For them, both being and nonbeing are a »current coin« (Allerweltsbegriff; moneta corrente). That is to say, being and nonbeing are obvious, contingent concepts, concepts applied to contingency. Within the domain of contingency, being can turn into the absence of being and vice versa, while being itself is never experienced and grounded as such. The indistinct crowd is »blind and deaf« with regard to being: deaf to the claiming need of being that addresses each human being as such, blind to the flagrant arising in which man is natively engaged. In other words, they are being-blind and being-deaf, and thus not alert to that to which as human beings they necessarily are already alerted. And since they are, however, not alert to it, they are, with respect to it, »without art«: that is, in-ert, i. e. not capable to answer it in accordance with its claim. This inertia »makes their [the crowd’s] erratic mind go straight«. Their mind is erratic, namely without orientation and arbitrary in its movements; it does not know where it is going (in fact, they don’t know what they are thinking or doing), and yet it goes »there« (namely in fact no-where) straight and straight away. 112 Within this maelstrom the crowd is always driven along, as it merely responds to contingent needs or what it is led to consider as such. In the crowd no-one can really be one: that is, a distinct, unique, singular human being. Everyone is exchangeable and replaceable with one another. This is why the crowd is said to be »indistinct«. 113 The crowd’s indistinctness is grounded in their inertia towards being. However, this is the same as saying that the crowd is »without judgement«. In fact, it is the unique ability to judge that distinguishes each one of us as a unique being. For what does »to judge« mean? The German word for judging is urteilen. As mentioned before, the particle ur-/er- indicates an accomplishment from an origin; teilen, on the 112 Since for them there is no original measure and no true end, they merely go from one insufficiency to another, from one beingless thing to the next. In their »world« it can easily be affirmed, and taken as an orientation for action, that everything is possible, and that everyone can at any time do everything in every respect. 113 Being exchangeable and replaceable, of course, holds true not only for human beings but also for things. Because everything is exchangeable, there is a market for everything, and everything has a price.

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other hand, means »to separate«, »to divide«, »to scind«. Thus, to judge is to accomplish an original separation and decision, namely the decision that separates, or rather scinds, being from nonbeing. 114 How so? By acknowledging the original scissure of being and nonbeing. Once being is scinded from nonbeing, and thus established and confirmed as such, beings too are distinguished from each other (a table is a table and is not a chair, which in its turn is a chair and is not a bed, etc.). In fact, it is due to that original scissure, and the consequent preservation of being, that everything can finally be what it is. This also applies to those beings which, in their being, each bear a unique capacity for minding being itself, and whose uniqueness and singularity can therefore unfold only in the exercise of judgement. 115 This gives a hint as to what is meant when the Goddess finally says that, for the indistinct, non-judging crowd any path is such that it turns around in itself. If a path is, by definition, that which allows the attainment of something (in the present context, of the thought of being), a path that turns around in itself lacks the being of a path, i. e. is not a path in the first place.

5.5 Circuits and Cybernetics This Greek experience of »paths that turn around in themselves« 116 is a good occasion for us to ask whether or not, and in what form, our time knows such paths, or rather non-paths. 114 For instance, in order to judge whether or not somebody is a good teacher, I have to know what a teacher is in the first place. In other words, I have to know the difference between who is a teacher and who, on the other hand, is not a teacher, either because he is, for instance, a lawyer, or because he only appears to be a teacher, but actually is an impostor. 115 On the contrary, when judgement turns into mere evaluation (i. e. the computation of the immediate impact on the sphere of life), there is no distinction between being and nonbeing anymore, nor does the being of those who evaluate freely unfold. In evaluating, man’s likely being is inert; that is, man does not engage in deciding between being and nonbeing. What happens instead is that a certain value is attributed to everything in order to compare it on a scale with other values and draw conclusions about its level of effectiveness, utility, or satisfaction, which in turn leads to the compilation of lists and rankings. 116 An example of such an experience is a version of the myth of Tantalus by the Greek poet Homer. Tantalus stands in a pond beneath a fruit tree with low branches, with the fruit always eluding his grasp, and the water always receding before he could take a drink. That was his punishment for betraying and provoking the Gods.

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In this respect, we can, in general, think of processes whose fundamental trait is that of being steerable by other processes, and which thus, in their very conception, respond to the requirement of planning and control in view of a complete automation. Such processes are in fact found everywhere in our world and are structured according to the scheme of the control circuit or control system (Regelkreis; circuito di regolazione). While this latter term stems from electronics, we now take it as a fundamental trait of all courses of action, processes, or procedures that are structured as a circuit of information. A circuit of this kind consists in a process that steers another process: One process gives an input, which runs through the second process, producing a certain effect or output, which in turn comes back as information (i. e. so-called »feedback«) to the point of input. Here it is checked and, eventually, a new process is started, which is now controlled and adjusted (or corrected) for the new input. This model or pattern of control systems is the fundamental trait of what we know as cybernetics. 117 Cybernetic processes run by an automated control system regulated in such a way as to progressively optimize outputs. Optimizing output means: subjecting what enters the process to sustainably increasing degrees of planning and control in view of rising levels of efficiency and effectiveness for the sake of the successive (and, as a matter of principle, eternal) empowerment of automated governance. In other words: while that which visibly takes place in an instance of optimization is a measurable rise in efficiency or effectiveness (i. e. a result that, according to the notion of truth in a cybernetic regime, is universally considered to be good, if not necessary), what takes place at a more fundamental and invisible level is the empowerment of an increasingly coercive »will to steer«. However, the will to steer does not have steering, as such, as its objective; rather, steering is a medium through which the will wills itself. Hence, cybernetic processes are ultimately implemented under the direction and for the empowerment of the will to will. Cybernetic circles are highly structured instances of »paths that turn around in themselves«; that is, paths that merely circle within contingency and exclude any way out from contingency — paths on The word cybernetics derives from the Greek verb kybernaō, which means »to steer«. In the twentieth century the term was notably used by American mathematician Norbert Wiener in his book Cybernetics or Control and Communication in the Animal and Machine (1948).

117

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which the freeness of dis-contingency remains forgotten. A concrete example of such a cybernetic circuit is found in the contemporary idea of education as »lifelong learning«. Education, here, is merely the acquisition of skills. A skill is the capacity for carrying out operations with regard to contingent problems. As a consequence, knowledge that does not function in terms of the resulting skill being applicable to contingent problems, is considered useless and, hence, not regarded as knowledge in the first place. In lifelong learning, education is thought of as successive rounds of certain processes tied together in a control circuit. One process is our »active life«, which runs even before we start working. This process, in turn, controls the process of education. The parametrically grasped »active life« that is us, comes as an input into this latter process and goes through a round of acquisition of skills or competences. »We« come out of this round as an output, namely as active animals endowed with a certain »portfolio of skills«. At this point, »we« start a work-round of the overall process of our active life, within which that output is evaluated. At some point, thanks to appropriate evaluation protocols, information is generated stating that »our« competences are obsolete. This information, acquired in the form of a measured drop in efficiency and/or effectiveness detected within a certain control system, serves as an input for a new learning process, which is controlled and steered in order to generate an output in the form of a non-obsolete, effective competence. This latter output, however, is once again fed back into the controlling process, etc. Each of these »rounds« has its own procedures and control mechanisms designed to produce a certain effect — that is, a certain skill or »learning outcome«, together with appropriate »tests«, as laid down in »module descriptions« or other programmatic documents. Due to their cybernetic nature, a common trait of these industrial production processes is that they are, in different forms and degrees, automated. The human being, conceived as the social active animal, is both an operator of these processes (i. e. the animal that implements them) and, through the information that he carries and provides, himself an input and an outcome of these processes. Consequently, we speak of »human resources«, which need to be appropriately managed in order to become manageable managers, i. e. controlled controllers. The social active animal manages itself as a resource in view of optimizing certain outcomes. By conceiving man as a resource, we say something that is correct, and in a sense even 152 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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true; yet, the resource-character is a derived and distorted form of man as the being whose being consists in the openness to being itself, and to the need through which being concerns us. Running or implementing a control circuit does not require a stance in being and its truth, which (i. e. that stance) is what stirs a human being’s uniqueness and singularity. A life that consists in implementing control circuits involves neither a responsibility for the being of things nor a responsibility for man’s own being, nor, in the first place, a responsibility for being itself. The difference between implementing a circuit of information and taking a stance in answer to the need of being and its truth can be further elucidated thanks to another example. On the one hand, consider a painter who, standing in front of a mountain, attempts to paint it in its truth, and, on the other, someone who produces an image of a mountain with a computer. In the first case there is a struggle with physis, namely the struggle that consists in following it for as much as is needed before freely giving a form to, and thus re-creating, its truth, so as to ground and preserve it; the being in which this grounding and preserving (this enuring) is accomplished we call a »work of art«. 118 In the case of the creation of an image by means of a computer, we feed an input into a machine and use its output (namely the »visual effect« that is obtained) for adjusting the process of image manipulation in view of optimizing the final effect. What is important to note, here, is the difference between these respective stances. In the case of an attempt at painting, a free stance in the flagrancy of being is required; in the case of making a computer image, what is required is, instead, the capacity for effectively implementing a certain device for maximizing visual effect, namely the painting software one is using, which, in turn, is constantly updated and optimized through automated processes which the developers have built into the software. While the artistic attempt begins only where contingency has already collapsed, the inert computation exercise remains within the bounds of contingency and effect-optimization. 119 118 The Swiss painter Paul Klee (1879–1940) writes: »Kunst gibt nicht das Sichtbare wieder, sondern macht sichtbar.« (Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible.) In other words: art does not take advantage of the disabsconded; rather, it offers and grounds the flagrancy in which the disabsconded is finally kindled as such. 119 This elucidation does not imply that there is no way of producing artworks with a computer.

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Parmenides

5.6 Fragment VIII: the Traits of Being We now turn to fragment VIII of Parmenides’s poem. It is still the Goddess Alētheia speaking. In the verses of this fragment she characterizes the eon in its constitutive traits. The eon is what shows on the only path that is open for true saying and thinking: μόνος δ᾽ ἔτι μῦθος ὁδοῖο λείπεται ὡς ἔστιν -1- Thus, only the word of the path -2- is left hthat says the following:i that it is; […]

We recognize what we have called the »physis-that«, namely the that as the word of the spontaneous in-itself-standing arising. The path itself says, i. e. shows, »that it is«, and this saying is itself a path, and indeed the only true path. The »physis-that«, we said, is more original than the later distinction between being as the »what it is« (or »essence«) and being as the »that it is« (or »existence«). The remnants of the original unity of the »physis-that« can be found in later metaphysics, more precisely in the circumstance that, where metaphysics seeks a sufficient ground for beings in whole, this ground must be a being whose essence (or possibility) necessarily implies its existence (or actuality). The traits of the eon, which can be derived from the first verses of fragment VIII, are the following: [The eon — the being as such and in whole, minded in its being-trait — is] 1. »ungenerated«: that is, not coming from or originating in nonbeing; 2. »unperishing«: that is, not going to or vanishing into nonbeing; 3. »whole, a single arising«: that is, integral, not consisting of parts or articulations that compose it; 4. »unshaking«: that is, in itself originally firm, insofar as nothing can unsettle it: Which being could cause the being, that is being itself, to shake? And in what space should it shake, if its truth is, in the first place, the spaciousness for all shaking and quietening? Hence, the dis-contingent eon is resting in itself, and referring itself to itself, 120 as 120

See fragment VIII, 29: »As the same, and resting in the same, coming down from

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the perennial origin and element of beings (namely, of beings »lit up« in their discontingent being), which (that origin and element) cannot be touched or perturbed by that which owes to the eon itself its truth and being; 5. »not unaccomplished«: that is, everywhere and at any time in itself accomplished, perfect, namely such that it never and at no point lacks anything; it neither is »not anymore« nor »not yet« what it ought to be, but always precisely on level with its own need; 121 6. »now, at once, entirely«: that is, the unceasing advent of the instantaneous gathering of »already been« and »yet to be«, which (that advent) addresses man’s experience as the original time, while there is no such thing as a »past« and a »future« separated by an elusive »present«; 122 7. »one«: that is, one-of-a-kind, such that there is nothing outside of it, and, as the unique and only One, unifying (atoning); as there is no outside of what is the only all-comprising One, the Goddess keeps reminding the thinker that the path that »only being can be, whereas nonbeing cannot be«, is the only one that can be taken; 123 8. »holding itself together«: that is, gathering itself from out of itself, hence free from any breaks or intervals, and therefore — in a manner of speaking that belongs to the physical realm — in itself and out of itself »compact« or »solid«; in other words, within the being (i. e. everywhere in the eon) there is no trace of nonbeing or, said differently, there is no »void« of being. Two more traits of the eon, which are not mentioned in our textual passage but come up later in fragment VIII, are the following: 9. »intact«: that is, free from any kind of injury, and thus a sphere that is in itself whole or wholesome (heil; integro); the Greek itself and for the sake of itself it lays« (see below, Trait 10). Note that this trait, as all other traits of the eon, can be found, in a transformed manner, in the tradition of metaphysics. For instance, what here is called »unshakeable« is found in Descartes as the sought-for fundamentum inconcussum, the unshakeable underlying basis for the absolutely certain knowledge of beings. 121 See the notion of »the best of all possible worlds« in Leibniz (below, Chapter 10). 122 As mentioned before, the idea of time as a linear succession of now-points is alien to Greek thinking. 123 Oneness is a feature of being throughout metaphysical thinking. For instance, in Leibniz sufficient reason is necessarily one. In metaphysics, however, this »one« is a being (ein Seiendes; un essente), while the »one« of physis — that is the eon — is not a being, but the from-itself-arising, in-itself-resting whole.

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word here is asylon (see Asyl; asilo), which literally means »uninjured, intact«, thus »a safe place«, namely, in the present context, a place such that cannot be violated by contingency; 10. »as the same, and resting in the same, laying as what comes down from itself and for the sake of itself«: that is, constitutively selfsame and tautological, namely saying itself as the same, and thus in need of being in its turn gathered and minded in its tautological saying. 124 Being is an all-comprising and unique phenomenon (an unicum sui generis). It is the arising whole of the being with nothing outside or apart from it. The eon itself is constituted as an »inside« that has no outside, namely the inside that we mean when we say that the human being exists or dwells in the world, or inhabits the world as its indweller, where this »in« implies a certain relation to the world itself. In fact, when we say that man inhabits the world, the sense of this »in« is not the same as in the sentence »the water is in the glass«. In other words, inhabiting the world does not mean being some contingent content of a contingent container, called »world«. Rather, the »in« indicates a relation of intimacy, or rather intraneousness, of man’s being in the being of the world: in short, a being-relation. The relation between man and the »inside«, called eon, which he inhabits, is the relation between the constitutive trait of man’s being and the eon as such, which (that relation) consists in man having to bear the thought in which his thinking is the same as the eon. For man there is no stepping outside of this sameness: the being-relation with the eon, in which he finds himself as the being he is, cannot be reversed. In other words, each one of us as a unique human being cannot step back from or renounce his being in the eon as one whose being consists in having to accept and ground the eon itself.

124 »Tautological« literally means »saying the same«. Ordinarily, a tautology is a statement that says the same thing with different words and is thus unnecessarily repetitive. Here, tautology is a trait of the eon, in that it is (and thus says, i. e. shows itself as) the same with itself. The question of the meaning of this sameness, which relates to the above-mentioned question of the sameness of thinking and being, is beyond the scope of our discussion.

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The Ontological Temptation

5.7 The Ontological Temptation To the insight into the eon belongs the awareness that the »that it (scil. the eon) is not« is not a true path of thinking. In other words, thinking can conceive the »that it is not« as an unlikelihood (as a constitutive limit), but cannot go further than that; »going further« is to annihilate thinking and speaking. As long as there is thinking, this thinking cannot, without renouncing itself, not conceive »that it is«. The scope of the eon is the widest and most original sphere in which the human being is, where the sense of this latter »is« implies that man is claimed by the need to sustain that sphere: that is, the principle of being. The openness through which he is claimed for this sustaining is the ground of man’s being, independent of our awareness of this claim. Man is the being who, amidst all other beings, stands, in one way or another, in a relation to this widest sphere, which is »the being« as Parmenides thinks it. However, as we see in both fragments VI and VIII, when Parmenides attempts to say what being is, this attempt is repeatedly flanked by the gesture of holding off the path of nonbeing. Why is it not sufficient to simply state the unlikelihood of that path? Indeed, if, instead of being an unlikelihood, the path of nonbeing were merely a logical impossibility or an impossible actuality, it would suffice to demonstrate this impossibility in order to get rid of it for good. On the other hand, the repeated fending-off opposed to the path of nonbeing indicates that being itself is, in a sense, »endangered«, or rather (since, as we have seen, it has no outside that could endanger it) it »endangers itself« through the unlikelihood of nonbeing. In other words, the unlikely path of the »not« bears in itself, or rather is itself, a danger — or, as we can also say, an attempt (ein Anschlag; un attentato) — that seems to belong to being itself. This danger, in turn, implies a temptation. The temptation of which we now need to become aware thanks to the warning words of the Goddess, does in fact lie in being itself. As being endangers itself by saying the unsayable nonbeing, this selfendangering involves man in the temptation of affirming the »not«. The temptation is reinforced by a constitutive trait of being, namely that of withholding from appearing; as a consequence, being, despite its constituting the fundamental trait of man’s being, is most easily overlooked and forgotten. As we can see, the »temptation of nonbeing« is not to be taken in a moral or religious sense, but strictly as a trait of being itself in its relation to man. 157 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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Unlikelihood (Unmöglichkeit; inattendibilità) and nonbeing are constitutive traits of the notions of likelihood and being themselves, and specifically of these notions as finite notions; that is, notions that bear within themselves a relation to man. However, in a Parmenidean context, unlikelihood and nonbeing can be at play in different manners. On the one hand, they can be at play, respectively, as an ultimate likelihood and as a tone of denial within the eon, in which case the awareness of these traits invigorates the thinking of being as the only likely path; on the other hand, unlikelihood and nonbeing can be at play, respectively, as the complete (self-)annihilation of likelihood and being, in which case the »world« (or »the most refulgent kosmos«, as Heraclitus would say) is reduced to a heap of brute beings, namely beings deprived of any likelihood — beings without being! As we can see, it is being itself (which, as we know, is its own likelihood) that tempts man — through its constitutive traits of nonbeing and unlikelihood — to take the path of nonbeing, and thus »to do without being«, to neglect it. The Goddess warns the likely thinker because man is constitutively tempted into thinking that the only »reality« is that of beings, and that consequently our human »being in the world« does not involve, and is not grounded on, the need to say and think being (including its constitutive »other«, namely nonbeing) and likelihood (including the unlikelihood that comes with it) in the first place. After all, what is there to take care of, apart from contingency? Must we not in the first place address the pressing needs we are facing in the short, but also in the medium and in the long and longest run, rather than dealing with rhetorical artifices such as »being« or »likelihood«, which have no counterpart in reality? When Periander of Corinth, one of the so-called »Seven Sages of Greece«, coined his dictum meleta to pan, »take into care the being in whole«, the temptation to discard altogether the notion of a »whole« must have been present — and, as the aggressive character of contingency (the »playground« of the will to will) suggests, it is certainly present, and much more strongly so, in our epoch. Now, philosophical thinking consists precisely in resisting this temptation, which, in light of the fact that it regards being, we call »ontological«. We said before that this temptation comes from being itself; in fact, it consists in an »attempt« of being on itself, 125 in which 125 An implication of this is that being itself, i. e. the constitutive trait of the being in whole, has the character of an attempt.

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the latter involves man through the temptation to which he is exposed. However, one might ask: What is the likelihood of an »attempt of being on itself«? Indeed, that likelihood resides in a constitutive trait of being, namely absconding, or rather in the contention of absconding with (its) flagrancy. In Parmenides, we find this trait — and consequently the likely attempt of being on itself, as well as the ontological temptation for man (as addressed by the Goddess) — within the restrictions that lie in the Greek inception of thinking and the experience of being as physis. On the other hand, the repeated warnings of the Goddess clearly attest to the awareness of the danger that is implicit in the Same in which being and thinking meet. The flagrancy of being, which consists in a contention of clearing and absconding, is characterized by a constitutive fleetingness (Fliehendheit; sfuggevolezza), which is not to be intended in terms of the ephemeral, transient, nonpermanent character that a certain understanding of being and, consequently, of time, attributes to beings. Rather, this fleetingness refers to the instantaneous withdrawal of being itself as shown in the instant of its flagrancy. We can sense this fleetingness in the way in which Parmenides speaks of the eon, even though here it can only concern the flagrancy of the eon (i. e. the flagrancy, or alētheia, brought about by the spontaneously arising, in-itself-standing eon), while the eon itself, on the other hand, remains »fairly rounded« flagrancy’s »unshaking heart«. The above-mentioned fleetingness has nothing to do with an escape or with the fugacity (Flüchtigkeit; fugacità) that, on the other hand, characterizes contingency. Fleetingness is not a character or a quality of the eon, but itself the original element in which and from which the eon constitutes itself as such and takes on its unique discontingent consistency. In fact, the in-itself-resting tautology of the eon consists in pure fleetingness. This constitutive fleetingness tempts man to take it as mere fugacity and inconsistency of the eon, and consequently to dismiss the latter as some vaporous entity and concoction. However, by giving in to this temptation, and thus neglecting and forgetting the eon to the advantage of the seemingly self-sufficient »concreteness« of beings, man is left in a domain of unleashed contingency, which, once turned into the playground of the will to will, asks for nothing other than increased assurance for the implementation of the preordained. Thinking itself — that is, the minding and gathering of being — keeps in mind the path »that it is not« as a path from which 159 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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thinking is barred, drawing from this mindfulness the unique rigour that the grounding and preservation of the eon demands. However, we must presume that there is a kind of thinking that draws its strength precisely from the blindness for being and that, on the other hand, not only yields to the ontological temptation and thus denies being, but pretends to walk the path of nonbeing, feigning that there is in fact a path where, in fact, there is none. This leads to a tenacious and openly or covertly aggressive position of affirming nonbeing (as in the »stance« taken by sophists), which nourishes and fosters this same aggressiveness within the indistinct (and thus mostly indifferent) crowd. What awakens this aggressiveness in the first place (as we shall see more explicitly in our treatment of Plato’s cave) is the mere attempt at sustaining the flagrancy of being, which to some extent reminds those who witness that attempt of their own native belongingness to that truth and its claim, and hence of the task of having to bear that truth, which comes with being born as a human being. Where the original being-relation and the initial need of being appear, the crowd is instantly alarmed, since it is afraid of being disturbed in the reassuring and comfortable circuital control of things that are from the outset assured in their functional appearance. The attempt (Versuch; tentativo) of philosophical thinking, on the other hand, is to offer resistance to, and indeed in, the very fleetingness of being (the fleetingness which, as it were, is being’s own site), so as to think and say being itself, at the same time holding it clear from what, however, necessarily belongs to it, namely the prevalence of nonbeing, and thus constituting itself as a remedy with regard to the knowledge that results from having given in to the ontological temptation. This remedy catches the thinking that is blind for being in its flagrant insufficiency. On the other hand, because being, due to its constitutive fleetingness, remains absconded in its own dis-contingency, the preservation of being does not require any offensive or defensive action to be taken. However, it demands (as a remedy) a sufficient thinking. A thinking is sufficient insofar as it acknowledges and confirms being’s attempt-character, and therefore both unlikelihood and nonbeing as its constitutive traits, thus grounding being as an »asylum (of discontingency)«. While such a grounding cannot eliminate contingency (which would amount to annihilating being itself), likely ways out from its exclusive rule are,

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The Philosophical Question

however, preserved. 126 Sufficiency requires that being be grounded as the sphere that ultimately remains untouched by contingency and is pure discontingency, while man, from the very ground of his being, is claimed as the guardian of that sphere. The sophists are those who build the strength of their insufficient arguments on the obviousness of what is contingent and imposes itself as self-sufficient at first sight. They are paid teachers who provide training in »thinking«, conceived as a mere treatment of contingency and as an asset or tool for the effective management of contingency, and thus for the enhancement of power. Even though they are blind and deaf with respect to being, their inertia is a peculiar one in that they give in to the temptation of being in an »affirmative« manner, and elaborate a knowledge that encases man in the obliviousness of being itself. On the other hand, philosophers, though they are no longer in tune with physis and with the tautology of the eon, strive for a sufficient dis-contingent knowledge, namely the knowledge of a principle of beingness that provides a likely ground for the being. The figure of Socrates appearing as the founder of philosophy amounts to the circumstance that once again being irrupted in the middle of contingency through a need whose form and tone is not for man to decide — and that this irruption was received by thinking that had to attempt to ground its knowledge.

5.8 The Philosophical Question The knowledge Socrates strives for is a knowledge of being that is guided by the question: »What are beings as such, namely in their being viz. insofar as they are?«; in other words: »What is the beingness of beings?«. In order to understand the scope of this interrogation, we must once again conclusively consider the phenomenon that initiates and engages pre-Socratic thinking. This phenomenon is phy-

126 The dangerous illusion of eliminating contingency »for good« is in fact likely only on the feigned path of nonbeing; that is, in a domain characterized by the exclusive rule of contingency itself. Where he sees no likely way out from contingency, man is tempted to think that a way out from contingency consists in devising a system of total control over it. However, a system of total control over contingency is nothing but the ultimate stage of the prevailing of contingency over discontingency; that is, the ultimate attempt of being on itself.

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sis thought of as logos (Heraclitus) and as the eon as hen (Parmenides); that is: the being in whole sensed in its openness and flagrancy and gathered in the trait of its spontaneous, in-itself stable arising. This latter trait is grounded in the saying »that (the) being is«. The first onset of thinking preserves being in an answer to the astounding »that«, which is initially experienced in its want of a grounding. How is this preserving accomplished? By asking in what the only arising of beings as such and in whole consists; that is, by minding, and thus reaffirming in a saying, the only arising of »the arising« (scil. the eon) in its constitutive traits (see fragment VIII). In this inquiry the eon — i. e. physis itself — is retained in its openness, alētheia, and flagrancy. However, while this flagrancy is minded as the »fairly rounded« sphere of the eon, flagrancy as such, openness as such, disabscondedness as such, alētheia as such — are never interrogated. »As such« in this case means: in its own being or biding, in its constituting and generating itself independently of what is flagrant (i. e. manifest, disabsconded) within it. In other words, the first awakening of thinking is so taken by and astounded in the face of physis in its own flagrancy, that the latter does not come into view, so to speak, as a phenomenon in its own right. For the first Greek thinkers, alētheia »comes with« the eon, which, significantly enough, is called the »unshaking heart (or core)« of »fairly rounded Alētheia« itself. The eon is the heart of alētheia because it is what in the first place opens, and holds open, its own openness, and, standing in itself as the impregnable likelihood of arising, is that which truly is. Now, flagrancy as such, disabsconding as such in its own »inner constitution«, is precisely what we call, in a rigorous sense, »being itself«; that is, being in its own right, namely independent of beings, and this also means: independent of any kind of ground that beings may claim for themselves. This phenomenon — being itself — does not speak openly in the original that, though it is in a sense preserved, together with the that itself, when the initial Greek thinking interrogates that in which the eon consists. How is being itself, in a sense, preserved in the original that? As that which refuses, withholds itself in the flagrant »that«, thus remaining unnoticed, and leaving as the first and ultimate task for thinking only the unifying One that gathers the whole of beings. Therefore, in the first onset of thinking, being itself remains forgotten and unminded. Because being itself, the openness as such, retreats in favor of the gatheredness of disabsconded beings, being itself does not claim thinking for itself, and thus 162 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

The Philosophical Question

remains unthought. 127 Everything stands and lies in alētheia, but alētheia as such is never interrogated explicitly and minded in its own right: it remains, as it were, the »light« (i. e. the clearing, the openness, the flagrancy, the truth) that the arising as such and in whole (in one word, the eon) emanates in the perennial »now« of its arising. All this can also be said in the following manner: The withdrawal of being itself constitutes the first onset of thinking as the onset in which physis, the astounding arising of beings in whole, covers up alētheia. As a consequence of this covering up, henceforth thinking will always be engaged and interrogated by beings as such — that is, by beings in their being and in their truth, in what constitutes them as true beings, in their beingness — rather than by being itself. For the sophists, for whom there is no eon, but only »self-righteous« onta — that is, beings without being —, there is no alētheia. When, finally, philosophy stands up to sophistic thinking, the alētheia it attempts to preserve is definitely the stable disabscondedness of beings that are disabsconded (meaning true) thanks to, and by virtue of, their being.

127 Could the sameness of thinking and being be the »retreat« of being itself in the first onset of thinking?

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In the tradition of philosophy, 128 the most fundamental transformation we can conceive of is a transformation of the truth of beings. Such a transformation occurs in the aftermath of the first onset of thinking, which speaks in the words of Heraclitus and Parmenides. The result of this transformation of the truth is the beginning of philosophy itself. This beginning is marked by the emergence of two radically different manners of thinking that have already been succinctly characterized: namely, sophistic thinking on the one hand and philosophical thinking on the other. The transformation of the scope of truth which gives rise to philosophy is the following: the »unison« of thinking with the principle of physis and its truth, i. e. alētheia, is disrupted. We should keep in mind that, according to our hermeneutic hypothesis, the insight into the principle of physis (be it the allgathering logos or the eon in its unifying unity) already takes place in a sphere in which alētheia is, so to speak, deprived of its autonomous vigour, in that it shows as the light of disabscondedness of beings in whole, with the result that the initially contentious trait, and thus the original trait of abscondedness (i. e. λήθη [lēthē]), rather than being acknowledged as constitutive of alētheia as such, is, so to speak, inherited by physis (see Heraclitus, fragment 123). Consequently, the »collapse of alētheia« following the disruption of the unison of thinking and physis does not imply the vanishing of alētheia as a dimension in its own right, but precisely the loss of the reference to alētheia initially perceived as the disabscondedness of the being in whole, or, put differently, of »logical« physis. Nonetheless, the loss of this refer-

128 A tradition (from Latin tradere [trans-dare]) is what issues from an onset, in fact, it is the handing (itself) down of the onset itself. The »tradition of philosophy« is, on the one hand, the tradition of philosophical positions initiated by the foundation of philosophy in the thinking of Socrates and Plato; on the other hand, it is the tradition of the onset of thinking from which philosophy itself derives as a likely outcome.

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ence is a momentous occurrence. While there is no basis for asserting that this loss makes it less likely for thinking to be addressed by alētheia as a dis-contingent principle in its own right, it (that loss) is nevertheless an occurrence that ushers in the decline of Greek thinking insofar as its proximity and attunement to the only dis-contingent inception is concerned. The beginning of philosophy consists in a countermovement, which, though it is somehow aware of this decline, cannot however reverse it. What is the immediate implication of the collapse of the alētheia of physis within the first (Greek) onset of thinking? Answer: all modes and measures which that truth grants to the being, as well as to man’s relation to the being and to himself, are unsettled. As a consequence, things fall back into senselessness and man is left with no way out from the chaos of contingency. However, this contingency is different from the one in which a humanity that has never awoken to discontingency may find itself. In fact, the regime of contingency which is unleashed in the space of a once experienced and now refused truth is, so to speak, more aggressive, and man experiences a »quality« of senselessness which he could not experience had he not been initiated to the knowledge of dis-contingency in the first place. Why so? Because contingency can now, in a sense, avail itself of the knowledge of discontingency, namely of its concepts and ways of thinking — converted into tools for the enhancement of contingency for its own sake, i. e. into tools of power. As mentioned before, two manners of thinking emerge from this situation. We can now add: these two manners of thinking determine our humanity down to the present day. The first, sophistic, manner of thinking consists in renouncing thinking (namely, the thinking that answers the claim of the principle) and in occupying the space of sense granted by the breaking of the principle for the exclusive purpose of securing contingency and enhancing its power. Sophistic thinking, just as philosophical thinking, can emerge only where an onset of thinking has occurred, and it obtains its form and scope from the truth it denies. However, did we not just say that, in the aftermath of the onset of thinking, to which Heraclitus and Parmenides bear witness, the »unisonal« reference to alētheia is lost, so that things precipitate into the chaos of senselessness, while man, still existing within physis, is left without a measure and orientation for his thinking, and, consequently, for the ways of establishing a polis as an abode for the perennial inception of being? How can one think — that is, 165 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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answer the claim of the principle — when the principle and its truth, and therefore this very claim, refuse themselves? It seems that, once the above-mentioned refusal takes place, what we are characterizing as »sophistic thinking« and representing in a seemingly »negative« manner, is in fact the only possibility left, or rather, the only residual likelihood. However, if we keep in mind what we have learned so far concerning the principle and its reference to man, we can see that this conclusion is not at all compelling. First of all, not all thinking that does not answer the claim of the principle is sophistic: sophistic thinking, we said, explicitly denies the thinking of principles. In other words, in the case of sophistic thinking, the knowledge of principles remains inert in a peculiar manner, namely, in a form of knowledge that, while denying principles, occupies the place of the knowledge of principles in a somewhat militant manner. That knowledge tends to establish itself as the highest form of knowledge and gives, as a »proof« of its supremacy, the »disproof« of any dis-contingent principle, as well as its own successful performance within the »only reality«, namely, contingency. Yet, we know that the refusal of the principle and its truth does not at all disprove the notion of a discontingent principle as such: on the contrary, as we have seen with reference to our own epoch, the experience of this refusal may turn out to be the highest stress and the most vigorous wake-up call for thinking that is called upon to answer the claim of dis-contingency. In other words, a refusal of sense — such as is experienced in a tragic age — can be most fertile, provided that there are minds that can recognize in it the very principle that, otherwise, dispenses the colours of the world. To take the fact that, as long as we are immersed in contingency, a discontingent principle does not show and cannot be demonstrated, as an argument for denying dis-contingency as such, and therefore renouncing the thinking of discontingency; in other words, taking our inertia with regard to beings as a basis for proving that there is no such thing as (and therefore, in actual fact, nothing but) inertia — this is precisely what we call a sophistic argument. In other words, sophistic thinking is a thinking that justifies what is unjustifiable, namely the renunciation of thinking, intended as the thinking of the discontingent principle. This renunciation is unjustifiable not on some logical or moral ground, but in light of the insight into man’s native endowment; that is, into his constitution as the thinking being. 166 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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Because humanity that stands in the tradition of the Greek inception cannot not think being and its principle, that renunciation remains unjustifiable even as we are caught in the inertia of thinking, and even if it is not for man to decide what claims his thinking and how, and whether he has to bear the refusal of the principle or is called upon to celebrate the bestowed richness of its truth. The fact that man cannot, as such, renounce thinking has, among its consequences, an implication for modern science as the unfolding of the end of philosophy: science can either affirm to be a self-sufficient knowledge in light of the »fact« that »there is« nothing but contingency, and thus discard as fantastical, or even damaging and dangerous (namely, disruptive for unimpeded operativity), the very notion of discontingency and of a knowledge of discontingency — in which case it constitutes itself as a sophistic science (i. e., as the chief sophistic knowledge of our epoch); or it can acknowledge the groundlessness, on which it stands as a knowledge of contingency, as the »angel« of an unknown discontingent source that, though in enigmatic ways, drives it in all its practices — in which case science is a thinking science. Let us turn back to the beginning of philosophy. We said that, after Heraclitus and the other thinkers that belong to the inception of thinking, the unison with the principle and therefore with the truth of physis breaks down: thinking is no longer in tune with logos and with the eon; the fitting knowledge of logos, the sophon, does not hold anymore, nor do things appear in light of the One that atones them in whole as a kosmos. For the sophists, thinking is no longer an answer to the claim of physis, which is called for so that physis itself and its truth may be affirmed. Man is thrown back onto himself and to the urgency of having to assert himself within a contingent reality through his (now potentiated) contingent powers. As a consequence, for the sophists, the only sound knowledge is a knowledge of contingency, including the knowledge of how to convey the capacities — or, as we would say today, the »competences« and »skills« — that are useful and prove effective in holding one’s ground in a context of contingent relations, independent of all truth. Thus, historically, the sophists were learned men who, for ready money, would instruct young men with the promise of making them fit for rising to high offices and powerful positions in the polis; all the while the »pole« itself, whose abode the polis is destined to be in the first place, would remain entirely unattended. 167 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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Socrates, his student Plato, and Plato’s student Aristotle are the thinkers who stand up against the sophists and their schools. In these three thinkers, too, we do not find the reference to logos and alētheia as they were experienced and preserved in the onset of thinking. However, they are, in different ways, still mindful of an astounding element of dis-contingency that beings themselves (i. e. beings freed into »abeyance«, and thus into the expectancy of their being) show as lying beyond them. It is the element (always in need of being grounded as such) thanks to which beings are what they are, or the element that constitutes them as such: in other words, their beingcharacter, and the principle in which it consists. This character we can call beingness (die Seiendheit; l’essentità) or being (das Sein; l’essere). The former is not merely a »more literal« echo to the Greek word οὐσία (ousia), but a more rigorous indication of the phenomenon that is to be named: to wit, that which grants to beings their status as beings. Indeed, in Greek philosophical understanding, and in the subsequent philosophical tradition, being, understood as beingness, serves as a ground for beings, a ground that, in order to hold as such, needs to be recognized and preserved in its consistency, and thus, in the first place, in that which grants this consistency, i. e. the discontingent principle. The latter keeps the ground clear of the grip of (what is perceived as) contingency, and thus constitutes it as a ground in the first place. Once the awareness of this trace of discontingency has broken — and the fact that it did once again break coincides with the unexpectable appearing of Socrates —, the knowledge of contingency, primarily the knowledge of the sophists, shows in its flagrant insufficiency. In other words, as soon as the exclusive rule of contingency is broken, beings appear as owing themselves to being as a dis-contingent element, which, in turn, implies the claiming need to determine this element in its fundamental trait — that is, in its principle — and to ground and preserve this principle in a unique knowledge, so that all other knowledge, and thus man’s dwelling and building in a human world, may obtain its measure from that ground. Plato himself is aware — though in a manner which we cannot fully appraise — that the knowledge of the principle of beings that are flagrant in their beingness is not a knowledge of the sophon minded and indicated by the first thinkers. However, the knowledge of beings as such maintains a reference to the sophon: it is, in its own manner, an attempt to let the sophon, the initial knowledge of the discontin168 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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gent principle of beings, be. In this sense, it is a love of the sophon. The Greek word for loving, intended as letting be, which we have already encountered as a verb in Heraclitus’s fragment 123, is φιλία (philia). The knowledge that begins with the thinkers who, in the aftermath of the thinkers of the sophon, stand up against the sophists, is a philia of the sophon; in a word, it is: φιλοσοφία (philosophia).

6.1 The Structure and Scope of the Guiding Question of Philosophy The question which stirs and interrogates the thinking of the first philosophers, and which is to become the guiding question (die Leitfrage; la domanda-guida) of the entire philosophical tradition, is explicitly formulated by Aristotle in his Metaphysics. This question reads as follows: 129 τί τὸ ὄν, τοῦτό ἐστι τίς ἡ οὐσία; What is the being has beingi; that is, what is ousia 130, beingness? Was ist das Seiende hals Seiendesi, d. h. was ist (die) Seiendheit? Che è l’ente hin quanto essentei, ovvero, che è (l’)essentità?

What does this question interrogate, and what does it ask for? Visibly, it interrogates beings, anything of which we say: it is. However, beings are from the outset envisaged in a very peculiar manner. The regard is not fixed on what is contingent, and consequently does not investigate contingency as to its contingent features, be they peculiar to single things (»particular«) or common to all of them (»general«). But the regard is, in a sense, dis-located from this usual fixation and re-located where it is concerned with beings as such and in whole, namely, in the first place with the fact that beings are at all and, simultaneously, by what it is to be. In other words, the regard envi-

129 See Metaphysics Z 1, 1028 a 41. »The being«, here, is the nominalized adjective derived from the present participle of »to be« (see above, p. 124); it translates ὄν (on), the neuter present participle of εἶναι (einai), to be. The explicative addition in chevrons is justified by the many places (one of which is quoted in the next chapter) in which Aristotle says precisely this, namely that philosophy is the knowledge that presides over ὂν ᾗ ὄν (on hē on), i. e. the being as being. 130 Ουσία is a nominalization of the present participle of εἶναι, i. e. ὤν (ōn → ousia).

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sages, as it were, tentatively dis-contingent, »abeyant« beings, expectant of their being-character to be grounded and confirmed. However, what are we saying here when we say: »the being« (das Seiende; l’essente)? Beings are that which is. Again, what are we saying when we say »is«? In the beginning of philosophical thinking, the fundamental experience of being (Sein; essere) is still that of physis, though physis is now experienced in a manner that differs from that of the first thinkers. Our previous determination of the Greek meaning of einai, which we usually translate merely as »being«, can be summarised as follows: einai: (from being absconded) rising into the open in a self-standing manner, and thus steadily lying (or standing) in the open (in the dis-absconded [im Unverborgenen; nel dis-ascosto] viz. in dis-abscondedness).

In order to indicate this notion with a single English word, we now say: the Greek einai has the sense of abiding. In other words, we read and interpret the Greek word einai (»to be«) through the English word abiding. 131 While this remains an interpretation, which, as such, can turn out to be insufficient or fallacious, we should be clear about its implication. In fact, understanding einai as abiding implies the attempt to make explicit the experience of being that, to an extent, determines the scope and meaning of being in the philosophical tradition to this day (though that scope and meaning undergo numerous transformations), while the tradition itself remains unaware of this latent determination of its own attempts at grounding manhood upon a knowledge of discontingency. What does »to abide« mean? Ordinary meanings of this word include »to remain, continue, stay, dwell« (verweilen, währen/wesen, sich aufhalten; sostare, stanziarsi, trattenersi). A trait that contributes to making this verb apt to translate the Greek notion of being (a trait we have already come across in the context of the clarification of physis as arising) is that the prefix a- (which, as we recall, is the same as German er-) indicates the provenance and source of the steadiness of this staying, namely, the self-standing rising into the open 131 The interpretation and translation of einai with the English verb »abiding« echoes Heidegger’s translation of this word with anwesen, which, in turn, has influenced the Italian translation adstanziarsi, introduced by Gino Zaccaria. Through their respective prefixes (an–, ad–), anwesen and adstanziarsi indicate the circumstance (which must be heard as an implicit trait in »abiding« as well) that the being of beings is a being towards (i. e. concerning and claiming) the understanding being, i. e. man.

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and into disabscondedness, as well as the self-containedness of that rising (as a trait of discontingency). With (again) a requisite proviso concerning the danger that is inherent in resorting to images when it comes to philosophical notions (which, as such, are never images, but figurations of traits), we can visualize this as follows: a-bide :

→

bide

a

We thus say: the Greek onset of thinking consists in the (first) experience of being as a-biding (die Erfahrung des Seins als An-wesen; l’esperienza dell’essere in quanto ad-stanziarsi). For the dis-contingent regard of philosophy, a being as such shows itself as an abiding (present participle of »to abide«), i. e. in and thanks to its abiding (verbal noun). In other words: a being is a disabsconded or flagrant sense insofar as it abides: when philosophy considers the on, the being (das Seiende; l’essente) it envisages »the abiding« (das Anwesende; l’adstanziantesi). This sense-element is precisely what is overlooked by a regard locked in contingency, or rather, it is never minded as such — despite the fact that even the contingent regard, in a way (i. e. never explicitly), sees a sense, and even the contingent understanding, in a way (i. e. never answering it and bearing it as such), understands and follows a sense. The flagrant sense, or simply the abiding of that which abides, cannot be reduced to a contingent character or quality of a being (or rather, of an abiding). The flagrant sense remains forever unseen and unminded as long as our inert regard and understanding remain enclosed in contingency and try to extract this sense-element from contingency itself. The sense-element, thanks to which a being is a being in the first place, the trait of abiding, is to be found nowhere »on« a being, nor can its »existence« be demonstrated on the basis of some »ontic« givenness; 132 that is, of something else that »is«. Indeed, the sense-element is the pure, »detached« (from beings) being-character, the trait thanks to which we can speak of »a being« — that is, a flagrant sense — in the first place. What are we to call this character or trait? The char-

132 Where »ontological« refers to being (Sein; essere) in its relation to human understanding, »ontic« refers to the being (das Seiende; l’essente) in its brute, »being-less« subsistence.

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acter or trait thanks to which whatever is quiet is quiet, we call quietness; the character or trait thanks to which anyone who is daring is daring, we call daringness. Consequently, we can call the character or trait thanks to which any being is a being with the unusual but fitting name beingness (Seiendheit; essentità). According to our interpretation of what being means for the Greeks, beingness is, in turn, to be understood as abidingness (Anwesenheit; adstanzietà). As soon as the regard is dislocated from contingency into the dimension of beingness, this unusual, uncommon dimension shows as that which in the first place must be interrogated and is worthy of being interrogated. In this manner, it interrogates man. In what sense? In the sense that it claims man as such to suffer it as a question, in its problematic, ever again aporetic 133 character: in fact, who man is, is henceforth decided by how man can, in his being, answer that claim (a task which requires, in the first place, σχολή). Therefore, we can, in turn, answer the question: »What does the guiding question of philosophy interrogate, and what does it ask for?« as follows: triggered by the interrogative character of beingness itself, this question interrogates the being insofar as it is flagrant as such, that is, it interrogates it in its being-character or insofar as it is; in other words, with regard to the being, it asks for that in which the beings’ beingness (i. e. its abidingness) consists. As we said above, thinking is in the first place astounded by the that (das Dass; il che) of beings. However, what is so astounding about this »that«? Nothing indeed, as long as we remain in the domain of extant beings — that is, of contingency — and look for a conspicuous or surprising feature of the mere subsistence of these beings. On the other hand, this phenomenon: the being — flagrant as such; or: beings — in (their) beingness; or again: the abiding — from-itself-in-itself-standing in (its) disabscondedness, this phenomenon is astounding as such, i. e. in its »that«, which is the sheer »that« of the being of beings. The thinking of philosophy answers the claim and need that speaks in the »that« of beingness (namely in its want of being grounded as a ground), and thus preserves what attunes it (thinking) in the first place, through the question: what is beingness, to wit, what constitutes the self-standing steadiness of abiding as a stable ground for that which abides? The guiding question of Greek philosophy (what is the being?, and that is: what is beingness?) is the 133

The meaning of aporia is explained below, p. 223.

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question that arises where thinking is attuned and awoken by the astoundment with regard to the »that« of beings in whole. In short: the »what«-question is a manner of taking a stance (and thus holding one’s ground) vis-à-vis the astounding »that« of beings. This does not mean that the that of beings is not also interrogated in its own right: in fact, it necessarily is; 134 however, in Greek philosophy, the »what«question (with its implicit reference to the that) remains pre-eminent. Greek philosophy interrogates the being in its dis-contingent origin, and it does so through the question: »What is beingness?« Because, as we have just pointed out, asking this »what«-question is a manner of preserving the trait of the original »that« of the being, in the attempt to answer the »what«-question, the »that«, and the need to account for it, is necessarily already in place as well. 135 At this point, we need to remark on a circumstance that was mentioned earlier, without however highlighting its only apparent obviousness: From the beginning of philosophy, the element of dis-contingency that claims to be grounded and preserved in thinking, the element that the Greeks call ousia (i. e. beingness or abidingness), is articulated into the duality of the »what« and the »that« of beings. The »what« and the »that« of beings are that which, in later philosophical terminology, will eventually be known, respectively, as the »essence« and the »existence« of beings. Thus, philosophy interrogates beings with regard to their beingness, which, in turn, for some (not at all obvious) reason exhibits a what-trait and a that-trait. Beingness, the being (Sein; essere) of beings, shows in the two forms of »essence« and »existence«. The »what« that Greek philosophy asks for is the constitutive character of beingness; in other words, it asks: »In what does the steadiness of beings as such — the abidingness — consist?« In this manner philosophical interrogation asks for the principle of the being as such. This principle has, as we know, the character of a ruling origin and ultimate source. Since this ruling origin must be the first origin of what abides; that is, of a spontaneous and in-itself-standing, and See the last section of this chapter. The that-trait and the what-trait imply each other: How can one be astounded visà-vis the (circumstance) that(-it-is) without at once being interrogated by the (problem of) what(-it-is)? How can one interrogate the (element of) what(-it-is) without assuming, together, the problematic character of the (circumstance) that(-it-is)? In fact, the astoundment vis-à-vis the (circumstance) that(-it-is) already envisages precisely the (trait of) what(-it-is). 134 135

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thus stable rising into the open; since, in short, the principle must be the ultimate principle of steadiness, it must itself be constituted as a steadiness that is capable of sustaining the steadiness of the being (namely, its beingness) without needing to be, in turn, sustained by another steadiness. This kind of ultimate steadiness is what we call a ground. When Greek philosophy asks: »What is beingness?«, it asks for the ground of the being; that is, it asks for beingness as a ground. Thus, in the thinking of philosophy, being (Sein; essere) has the character of beingness (Seiendheit; essentità), and beingness, in turn, has the character of a ground, namely, the ground of the (flagrant) being. Philosophy — the interrogation that has the form of the question: »What is beingness?« — answers the need of (the grounding of) a ground that originates from beings themselves once they have become flagrant as such. We can now indicate more precisely the scope of philosophical interrogation, as determined in Greek thinking. Philosophy interrogates the being, but with regard to that which is beyond the being and constitutive of it, namely, beingness; the latter is in its turn interrogated as to its grounding-character, i. e. as to the trait that qualifies it as a ground. In considering not some beings, nor even all beings, but the being as such and in whole philosophy interrogates the beingcharacter of beings, i. e. the original trait, or principle, in which their beingness consists, and which is common to all beings. Thus, philosophy asks: »What is beingness?«. At the same time, this ground is interrogated in its that-aspect; in other words, it is asked: »What is the (ultimate) ground for the astounding circumstance that the being is (viz. the abiding abides)?«, or, put differently: »On what ground does something like being (Sein; essere), namely beingness, abide in the first place?«. The reference to this ground is, in turn, common to all beings; however, by virtue of this reference, beings are gathered into a whole, which is, at any time, the (only) whole of beings. Hence, we can say that philosophical interrogation, astounded by the beingcharacter of the being, asks for the principle that constitutes the being as such and in whole (das Seiende als solches im Ganzen; l’essente in quanto tale nella sua sfera d’integrità). This — »the being as such and in whole« — is the astounding phenomenon that interrogates man as to his capacity for interrogating its principle. As we can see, the phenomenon of thinking has, in a sense, not changed with respect to what we find in Heraclitus or Parmenides: indeed, that phenomenon is still »beings as such and in whole«. And 174 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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yet, a fundamental transformation has occurred: while in the first breaking of discontingency thinking is engaged by »the alētheia of physis«, philosophical thinking is faced with the beingness of beings, which, so to speak, »extends« to the whole of beings as such. This critical observation leads us to a more precise determination of the scope of philosophical knowledge. Philosophy envisages the being, but its regard goes beyond the being and into its being-character, in order to find a ground for the being as such and in whole, and thus bring this ground back to beings, for them to stand firmly on it as such; in this manner, philosophy at the same time grounds a stance for man in the middle of beings. Philosophizing implies this movement from the being to beingness and, once the latter is determined in its ultimate, self-grounding principle, back to the being. We can indicate this same movement in the Greek words, and according to the Greek understanding, in which it first appeared. Here, a being is what rises into the open and stands in the open in the sense of physis; thus, it is something »physical« — in Greek, physikon —, while all beings, beings in whole, are ta physika. Thus, philosophy goes or steps beyond ta physika in order to convey a ground to them in accordance with the physis-character they display as such. The Greek word for »beyond« is meta. Hence, the thinking that interrogates the beingness of beings is a thinking that goes meta ta physika: it is a meta-physical thinking. Philosophical thinking as such, as inaugurated by Socrates and Plato, has this metaphysical character. When, from now on, we speak of philosophy, what we mean is the thus understood metaphysical thinking: in other words, philosophy and metaphysics are, for our purposes, synonyms. On the other hand, not only is the thinking of the first thinkers, rigorously speaking, not philosophical, but neither does the end of philosophy coincide with the end of thinking »in general«. What ends in the end of philosophy is the thinking that consists in the metaphysical determination of the principle of beings as such and in whole; in other words, the peculiar thinking of the beingness of beings that begins with the question: What is ousia?

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6.2 Plato’s Answer to the Guiding Question of Philosophy Plato’s answer to the guiding question of philosophy, »What is beingness?«, reads: the beingness of beings is the ἰδέα (idea). 136 This word has been adopted by all of our languages (English »idea«; German Idee; Italian idea). What does ἰδέα mean? Idea is a common Greek word. Its root is the same as that of Latin videre (Italian vedere, to see) and German wissen (which literally means »to have seen«). In ordinary Greek language, ἰδέα means: what something looks like, its look, its outer appearance (das Aussehen; le sembianze). Plato, however, in a daring gesture, chooses this word, ordinarily used for referring to a character of beings, as the name of what is plainly extra-ordinary (and unknown in contingency), namely, the constitutive trait of the abiding, in other words: beingness or abidingness. Now, as a word of thinking, it no longer indicates the outer appearance, but rather the invisible look that offers the view of a being (an abiding) as such. Thus, the idea is the look as the invisible view-offering element. Only thanks to the fact that we are already beholding the look in which the view of beings — namely, of what a being is — is offered to us, can we see them, perceive them, and deal with them in an everyday manner or as objects of a thematic knowledge. Our ordinary regard constantly looks at beings and, in so doing, always overlooks the foregoing flashing look that offers the view of these beings as such (das vorgängige Aufblitzen, welches den Anblick des Seienden als solchen gewährt; il preventivo colpo d’occhio in cui flagra, ed è offerta, la visione dell’ente in quanto tale). Moreover, that regard overlooks the circumstance that, as man deals with beings, his own being is always already (or rather, had always already been, and still is and will keep to be) engaged with this view-offering element. Can we verify this notion? Let us see. There is a thing lying on the desk in front of me: a fountain pen. I can see its longish shape and recognize its garnet red colour. I can distinguish between the pen’s body, of which only a part is visible, and the cap, which has a clip attached to it. If I take the pen in my hand, I can feel its hard and smooth surface, as well as its weight, which is heavier than I had thought. I am familiar with the function and use of this thing, I know

136 Alternatively, Plato also uses the word εἶδος (eidos), which belongs to the same root as idea.

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where it belongs (e. g., on a desk) and where, on the contrary, it is out of place (e. g., in a glass of water). If I were a physicist, I could give a rigorous account of the forces that act when the pen is just lying there and of the laws that govern the ink flow when an appropriate pressure is applied to the nib. As a chemist, I could give the exact composition of the different materials of which it is made. As a historian, I could retrace the origin of this kind of implement and detail the role it has had, over time, in ordinary life and in certain memorable circumstances. All those features or aspects, and many more, belong to the pen. But what about the pen itself? I now open the pencil case that is also lying on the desk. There is another fountain pen in it. It is black, with a gilded band around the cap. It is thicker, but lighter than the first one. There are many other differences, too. Yet, it is unmistakably a fountain pen just like the first one. Moreover, the black pen resembles a third pen I saw yesterday in a downtown shop. In fact, it is identical to that pen, except for the gilded band around the cap. When looking at the pens that lie in front of me, or remembering the pen I saw the day before, each time I see a fountain pen. What is responsible for precisely this circumstance, namely, the fact that each time I see — so to speak, at one dash — a fountain pen? A common way of answering this question would go more or less as follows: there is, stored in my head, a definition of a fountain pen, which is constituted of a certain number of material and functional elements. The moment I perceive an object that matches with the material features associated with a fountain pen — in other words, an object that has the typical look of a fountain pen — I draw the provisional conclusion that I am looking at a fountain pen. At this point I can verify whether or not it does indeed function in the way a fountain pen is supposed to function. If it does, I can safely affirm that the object in front of me is in fact a fountain pen. But how does that definition get into my head in the first place? Well (so the common way of reasoning would continue), at some point I must have been presented for the first time with a previously unknown object and introduced to its features, use and name (»fountain pen«), while subsequent occasions, in which I had to deal with true or apparent pens, helped to sharpen the thus implanted notion. What is missing in this account, as accurate as it may be? This: any definition of a fountain pen is, after all, the definition of — at one dash — a fountain pen. In other words: working out the definition of a fountain pen, or even simply keeping this definition »in my head«, 177 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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still requires that, in the first place, this be the definition of something, namely, the something that this definition defines: in this case the fountain pen. The meaning »fountain pen« which the definition defines is neither any one of the three fountain pens we have considered, nor any other particular fountain pen, including the first one I ever came across. We are tempted to say: that meaning, or »sense«, is the fountain pen »in general«. It is acceptable to say so, as long as we don’t equate the »general fountain pen« with the general definition of a fountain pen, in which case we would again have to identify the element that the definition defines in a general way. In order to define a fountain pen, it must be already known what that is. We could elaborate this example in many directions and according to different perspectives. However, we can already see where the argument is pointing: no matter how we look at it, we cannot get around the fact that there is, in the first place, the notion of a fountain pen, or rather, of what a fountain pen is, to which all our thoughts and actions that concern something like a fountain pen — be it the pen »in general« or a particular pen — are referred. This notion is such that a definition of a fountain pen may fulfil it in a more or less sufficient manner; that any use of a fountain pen obtains from it its measure; that any perception of such an implement has from there its conspicuousness. Thanks to that notion, the thing there on the desk steadily lies in the open as a fountain pen; that is, it a-bides as a fountain pen. This steady lying in the open, this abiding, consists in the circumstance that the thing steadily offers itself in the look of a fountain pen: it gives itself to be seen, and variously dealt with, in the view of a fountain pen, which is what I see in the first place when I see a fountain pen. The aforementioned »notion« is this ›steady lying in the open as …‹ itself, the ›abiding as …‹ itself, namely, the in-itself invisible view-offering element, the look: the idea. The first, second, … nth time I see or manipulate a fountain pen, I always do so on the basis of the idea of (what it is to be) a fountain pen. If we consider the human world as a whole, from its most ordinary routines to its most outstanding occurrences, we soon realize that always and everywhere ideas are already in place, and man is already related to these ideas, whenever a thought occurs, a perception strikes, or an action is taken. In other words, we realize that the world is in the first place a sphere consisting of interrelated ideas, which are somehow already known and borne by man. We also realize that these ideas are more concrete and »real« than the things and thoughts we 178 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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are accustomed to considering as »reality«, in that they grant the view on these things as such and offer to our thinking what can be thought in respect to them. The realization that the world is fundamentally a whole of ideas, in which man knowingly stands, though the relation to these ideas themselves remains mostly inert, this realization is the »discovery« of Plato, anticipated by Socrates and newly elaborated by Aristotle — a discovery so immense that to this day we are far from having measured its scope and implications.

6.3 The Traits of the Idea and its Reference to Physis A question imposes itself at this point: How does the idea relate to physis, which we have identified as the fundamental Greek experience of dis-contingency; in other words: how is physis experienced in the thinking of the beingness of beings as idea? Is there at all an experience of physis, given that, as we have pointed out before, »[t]he transformation of the scope of truth which gives rise to philosophy is the following: the ›unison‹ of thinking with the principle of physis and its truth, i. e. alētheia, is disrupted«? 137 Before pursuing this question, we shall elucidate the notion of idea through the following eight traits: (1) Steadiness: the idea is the steady underlying view-offering element. While single things which have come into the open (viz. are disabsconded) are subject to change, and eventually fall back into absconding, the idea that steadily shows them as such stands in itself without changing, without having been generated and without perishing (if our garnet red pen is broken, the idea of the fountain pen, nevertheless, remains intact: if this was not the case, we couldn’t even see a broken pen, or hope to have that same pen repaired). This has an important implication: if steadiness is a constitutive trait of ousia or beingness (i. e. abidingness), then, strictly speaking, only the idea itself fulfils the concept of a being; in other words: only of the idea we can say that it truly is. On the other hand, according to the rigorous sense of being (Sein; essere), what we commonly call a being (ein Seiendes; un essente), cannot be said to be, in that it lacks that steadiness (Plato says: beings oscillate between being and non-being).

137

See above, p. 164.

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Moreover, an idea is the site of an invisible, yet refulgent flagrancy, which, while it openly shines to the eye of thinking, is on the other hand dimmed and distorted in the appearing of a thing that appears as such in the light of that flagrancy. In order to accommodate this notion, Plato says: only ideas are, while beings are not. Consequently, there is a chasm or a scissure (ein Riss; una scissura) between the sphere of ideas and the sphere of visible things. However, to say that »beings are not« is not to deny the »existence« of beings (i. e. the brute fact of their subsistence); rather, it is a way of making clear the following point: the thinking that attempts to answer the foundational claim of beingness cannot take mere beings as a reference. (2) Oneness: the idea is the one and unique view-giving element for the innumerable views of a fountain pen. (When, in ordinary language, we speak of »different ideas of something«, what we mean is »different views offered by the same, unique idea«.) (3) Commonness: the idea holds in itself what all beings that appear in its »light« have in common as such; for instance, the idea of the fountain pen is what is common to all fountain pens as fountain pens; that is, to all those things insofar as they are fountain pens. The commonness of the idea embraces all beings that have it as a common source. On the other hand, if we dip all fountain pens in a garnet red colour, they will all have in common that colour, but not as fountain pens (as Aristotle would say: those pens have that colour in common as an accidental feature; that is, a feature that comes along with them, but which, if it shouldn’t come along with them, wouldn’t compromise their »penness«). (4) Richness: the idea as the one look of, for instance, the fountain pen, can engender the views of innumerable different fountain pens, actual and imagined, past, present and future, for this and that style of writing, and so on: the idea is a lavish and indeed inextinguishable source of appearances. (5) A priori: when we encounter a being of any kind, that encounter, even if it is the first, can take place only on the ground of the already established relation to the idea of that being and the whole of ideas to which that idea belongs, to wit, thanks to the fact that the (whole of) idea(s) »is there« »from beforehand« or »from earlier«; in other words, when we come across a particular being, the idea has already, from out of its removedness from appearing, offered the view of that unique being as such, while man’s being has in its

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turn already acknowledged the idea in its »from beforehand«. 138 Now, »from beforehand« or »from earlier« is precisely the meaning of the Latin expression a priori. 139 (6) Wholeness: the one idea is an invisible and simple whole, which grants the fact that each single thing that appears thanks to it is wholly and fully that thing. For instance, my garnet red fountain pen is far from having all features a fountain pen can have; yet, it is wholly and fully a fountain pen, in the sense that nothing is missing for it to be a fountain pen (in the case of a beautiful pen, the Greeks would say, this invisible wholeness shows through in the pen’s appearance). However, this wholeness is not a quality of the single pen: in fact, when my fountain pen breaks, it is the intact wholeness of the idea of a fountain pen that now offers the view of a broken fountain pen. If the wholeness belonged to the single pen, it would be gone for good in the moment that pen broke; moreover, there could be no other fountain pen except for the one I am considering. As a simple, invisible wholeness, which no list of features could ever match, the idea of the fountain pen is the perfection of the fountain pen, viz. the perfect fountain pen, or simply: the pen (or any other being) itself (das Seiende selbst; l’ente in indole), and indeed the only true pen. (7) Dis-contingency: as the previous point goes to show, the idea is not touched by contingency; that is, it remains intact with regard to contingency. The idea of a being is the being-character itself in its inviolable intactness. Only thanks to its remaining intangible through contingency can the idea be the perennial being-measure for beings as such (i. e. insofar as they are what they are). (8) Truth: the idea as steady dis-contingent view-giving beingness is what is in itself in the highest degree manifest (even though mostly overlooked) and in the greatest purity disabsconded or flagrant. Thus, only the idea of the fountain pen is the true fountain

138 This point implies that, in his relation to beings, man is always ahead of himself, or, more precisely, the »me-that-is-caught by-and- catches-the-invisible-look-of-theidea« is ahead of the »me-that-deals-with-the-being-that-appears-as-such-in-lightof-the-idea«: therefore, when the »second me« deals with the being at hand, it does so in coming back from itself as the »first me«. 139 Thus, the determination »from beforehand« does not refer to a »before« »in time« (where time is thought as a linear succession of punctual moments), but to a simultaneous »be-fore appearing«. In other words, the earli(er)ness of the idea refers to what is more original in terms of the constitution, or generation, of sense.

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pen, while any particular pen, if we fix our eyes on it, is a hindrance to seeing the true fountain pen or the fountain pen itself. What do these eight traits show? Answer: they distinctively show that the notion of idea somehow remains within the Greek experience of physis, i. e. the spontaneous in-itself-standing arising as the flagrancy of the being in whole. However, what is left of physis is merely the trait of »offering a view«, of »letting come into sight« and »letting abide in the open or disabsconded«; in other words: the letting appear. This is the most prominent »face« of physis; we could also say it is its surface. What we are saying is that the idea is, so to speak, the »tip« of physis, which (that »tip«) now stands for itself as the dis-contingent origin and ground of beings. On the other hand, physis as the scinded dimension that grants its favour to absconding — that is, physis as bringing with itself the alētheia of logos, whose atoning perennially kindles the whole of beings — is no longer in view. The idea as the beingness of beings has a steadiness of its own (which, as we shall see, is based on the idea of the good), thanks to which it grants the being-ground and the truth or disabscondedness to beings; this truth may be distorted, it may remain inaccessible or forgotten; however, in itself it is an utter flagrancy, a flagrancy without a constitutive reference to absconding. Openness and flagrancy are now characters of the stable look that is the abiding of beings, and which, in a sense, is itself a being; truth as alētheia now belongs to the being-ground that is supplied to beings from out of the beyond of these beings. The idea is invisible, it does not appear; however, it does not consist in a contention with absconding, which (that contention) on the other hand is the original trait of dis-contingency experienced in the first onset of thinking.

6.4 The Idea of the Good In our characterization of the idea as the beingness of beings, two questions have not been addressed. First, it is not clear in what the steadiness of the idea consists, and therefore, how the idea can be a ground for beings as such. Second, nothing has been said about the relation between ideas and man’s thinking; that is, about how ideas regard man, and man, in turn, has access to ideas. Both these questions require that we introduce the notion of the ἀγαθόν (agathon), which, in Plato’s thinking, occupies the place of the ultimate principle. 182 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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We will therefore briefly indicate the meaning of the agathon and then elucidate this notion with reference to the above-mentioned questions. The common translation of agathon is »good«. In the present context »good« is not meant and used in a moral sense. Rather, it is to be understood in the sense of the idiomatic expression »to be good for something« (zu etwas gut sein, d. h. taugen; esser buono a qualcosa). Goodness is Tauglichkeit and bontà in the sense of a trait of fundamental aptness, fittingness, meetness — here in terms of the principle that is constitutive for the being as such and in whole. If we apply this understanding to the idea of the good, we can say that, on the one hand, the good is that thanks to which any idea is »good for being an idea« (namely, for abiding as that in whose light, in turn, an abiding appears as such); in other words, any idea is an idea only thanks to the fact that it consists in and is referred to the good. 140 On the other hand, any being is (or appears as) »good for being the being it is«, insofar as it partakes in the idea that underlies it. This shows us the following about the idea as such: the idea is, in a sense, a medium between the good and beings, in that it »translates« the fundamental character of goodness into a ground (namely, each time the somehow understood idea itself) for the appearing of beings. Insofar as a being partakes in the underlying idea, that being (for instance, a fountain pen) is itself »good«, namely, »good for being the being it is«. 1. The good as the principle of ideas. The idea of the good constitutes any idea as such; that is, any idea obtains its temper (ihre Wesensbeschaffenheit; la propria tempra) from the good. For instance, the idea ›fountain pen‹ is kindled, and provided with an internal measure, by the good. However, in this manner the idea ›fountain pen‹ already finds itself in a measured conjunction with the ideas ›paper‹, ›ink‹, ›hand‹, and so on, which also obtain their temper and measure from the good. The same is true for the ideas ›mountain‹ and ›sky‹, ›house‹ and ›yard‹, ›man‹ and ›god‹, ›man‹ and ›woman‹ and ›child‹, ›life‹ and ›death‹, ›justice‹ and ›freedom‹, and so on, but also for the ideas ›house‹ and ›mountain‹, ›house‹ and ›man‹ and ›woman‹, ›mountain‹ and ›sky‹ and ›god‹, ›man‹ and ›death‹ and ›freedom‹, and so on. In other words, thanks to their common provenance in the good, ideas are not only determined in their peculiar »what«, but at 140 The good bestows on any idea the consistency of an idea. If each idea is a colour, the good is the light.

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once brought into a harmonic whole. Thus, we can say that the idea of the good harmonizes all ideas as such and constitutes them as a welltempered whole. Each idea is what it is within this whole — which we can call »world« —, whose ultimate and constitutive reference is the good. Hence, everything is ultimately for the sake of the good. On the other hand, the idea of the good also constitutes, in each idea, the ground of its »that«-trait. In order to be such a ground, the good itself must display an ultimate »thatness«; that is, a steadiness that is beyond the steadiness of any idea. In its original steadiness, the good is the ground of the »that« of ideas in whole. In this manner, the good offers the view of any idea as such as well as of the whole of ideas. This is why Plato also refers to this notion as the idea of the good and as the idea of ideas. Since the idea is not visible, but only intelligible or understandable, »offering the view« must here be intended in the sense of »offering intelligibility«. In other words, the ideas obtain from the good their capacity for being intellected; that is, minded, known and understood. It is clear that the idea of the good must be something which each human being, in a sense, knows as such. In other words, to be a human being is to hold oneself in reference to the idea of ideas; or, put differently, to be a human being is »to be in the world«. Before we move on, let us go back for a moment to the notion of idea. One of its traits was said to be its richness, namely the inextinguishable profusion of views it provides. Thanks to the notion of the good, we can see another, even more astounding dimension of that richness: in fact, together with any idea comes an immense multitude of relations of sense, in that the idea instantly implies more or less explicit, more or less distinct references to literally all other ideas. For instance, when I see a fountain pen, the idea that offers that view to me has inbuilt, so to speak, the sense relations »not to be eaten«, »out of place when lying on the floor«, »in common with former times«, »precious«, »a likely gift for a friend (but not for a dog)«, and so on. It is clear that these relations are not added to the idea of a fountain pen as we use it or reflect upon it; rather, they arise or become explicit as traits which that idea already had. As a consequence, the provenance of an idea is a whole of sense relations (»the world«) which (scil. those world-relations) the idea carries within it, and of which, in turn, the good is constitutive. And since man, in his being, is primarily in reference to the good — and thus to the world — when he encounters a being, that being is offered to him as such »from before«, namely, 184 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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from that »good-(and-hence-world-)›before‹«, in which man, ahead of himself, is already involved. This leads us to the next point. 2. The good as the yoke between ideas and thinking. As we have just seen, the first fundamental trait of the good is that of being the ground of the flagrancy of ideas, thus enabling them to bide as the view-offering element. At the same time, however, the good awakens human mindfulness towards the element of ideas, thus granting man (that is: him who is natively the minder of ideas) the capacity for thinking. However, if man’s capacity for thinking is awakened by the good, it implies that this capacity is already »akin to« the good itself: to wit, it is constituted as a capacity for being in the first place minded (»eyed«, caught »in flagrant being«) by, and, in turn, minding (»eyeing back«, beholding) and preserving the good; in other words, the fundamental trait of man’s being is the openness to and mindfulness of the good. Thus, man is not the good itself, but he carries within him, as the constitutive trait of his being, this »good-like« trait, or, simply, his »good-likeness«. Plato calls the original relation between ideas as such and man’s capacity for thinking »a yoke«. The idea of the good is itself this yoke, in the sense that it allows for the simultaneity of the idea (in its flagrancy) and thinking (in its alerted, awakened mindfulness). However, the element of that conjunction of ideas (i. e. that which can be intellected) and thinking (i. e. the capacity for intellecting) is alētheia, disabscondedness. In the so-called simile of the sun, the first of the three similes of his dialogue Politeia which are designed to prepare the insight into the good, Plato likens the sun to the good and the light shed by the sun to alētheia. 141 Thus, just as the light is the light of the sun, alētheia is the flagrancy of the good; and just as the light is the »yoke« that links the visibility of what can be seen and the capacity for seeing, alētheia is the element of the relation between ideas and thinking, that is, the element within which they reciprocally attain each other. Moreover, just as in the light of the sun everything is »view« (i. e. the relation of viewing and what is viewable) and »sight« (i. e. the relation of seeing and what can be seen), in the flagrancy of the good everything is »idea« or »look«, namely, the relation of the »inner eye« of thinking and the invisibly eyeing view-offering look. This relation is original (ursprünglich; originaria), in that ideas and thinking do not pre-exist this relation, but are simultaneously origi141

Politeia (Republic), 507 a – 509 b.

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nated as this relation; thus, the flagrancy of the good is the relation between flagrant ideas and awakened thinking. In Plato’s thinking, alētheia is the flagrancy of (i. e. belonging to and emanating from) the good which, as the ultimate source and ground of the beingness of beings, lightens ideas and man’s regard for ideas. Alētheia is »under the yoke« of the good: it is the flagrancy of a ground of beings.

6.5 Paideia In his Politeia, Plato says that »it’s necessary [for a guardian of the polis and its laws] to go around by the longer road, and he needs to work as a learner no less hard than at gymnastic training, or else, as we were just saying, he will never get to the end of the greatest and most relevant study« (504 C — D). 142 The »greatest study« concerns the »greatest learnable thing« (megiston mathēma), 143 namely, »the look of the good, which just things and everything else need in addition in order to become useful and beneficial«, and of which, on the other hand, we must say that »we don’t know it well enough« (505 A). The greatest learnable thing, the look — or idea — of the good, is not any object or theme of learning and knowledge, but is the first and ultimate »thing« that man as such already knows, in that the openness to the good — which (that openness), being in the first place kindled by the flagrancy of the good, in turn minds and shows the good itself — is the ground of his being. This is why the good »is exactly what every soul pursues, for the sake of which it does everything, having a sense that it’s something«. However, the soul is also »at a loss and unable to get an adequate grasp of what it is, or even have the reliable sort of trust it has about other things; because of this it misses out even on any benefit there may have been in the other things« (505 E). The good is what we cannot not know, in that we know it insofar as we are human beings; it is what we must have a knowledge of, because otherwise nothing else in the polis is useful or beneficial, Translations of passages from Politeia are quoted from: Plato, Republic. Translation, Glossary, and Introductory Essay by John Sachs. Newburyport: Focus Publishing, 2007. 143 Mathēma is a »learnable thing« in the sense of what we already have a knowledge of and what we can therefore explicitly get to know, take cognizance of, i. e. apprehend. 142

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and this means: »good (suitable, fit, meet) for« sustaining our attempt to dwell in accordance with the good itself. On the other hand, while we have this knowledge by birth (or natively), we do not at all have it naturally; in other words, it is neither there on display for us readily to grasp, nor do we simply grow into it (as we grow, for instance, into the ability to walk). On the contrary: our soul — our openness to the good — is at first and mostly »at a loss« with regard to it, and unable to have the reliable trust about the good which it has, on the other hand, about immediately graspable things. This circumstance is at the origin of the necessity of what the Greeks call παιδεία (paideia). We usually translate paideia with »education«, but neither this word nor the common translations in other languages (Erziehung, Bildung; educazione, istruzione, formazione) warrant that we are understanding what paideia implies, and, furthermore, that we understand why paideia is a necessity only where the knowledge of a dis-contingent principle has broken. In other words: in a sense, all mankind, and even animals, educate themselves as part of their becoming what they are; however, only Greek humanity as the original philosophical humanity unfolds its being in the sphere of paideia. In paideia we hear the word παῖς (pais), which means child. The trait of the child is the nearness to birth — not, however, in the sense of a chronological closeness to the »point in time« in which we are »biologically« born. Here, birth is to be intended as the instant of generation, and this instant, in turn, is the generation of man’s being within and into the belongingness to the dis-contingent generatingitself (i. e. to the onset) of the being in whole (i. e., in Plato’s thinking: the belongingness to the good). Thus, man is native of, or by birth inherent in, that instant; in other words, his being is generated within an openness to the onset of beings as such and in whole, and as having-to-sustain (ein Auszutragen-Haben; un aver-da-ergere) that openness. However, since that instant of generation, i. e. birth, is not »an event in the past«, but the likelihood itself of the humanity of man (and therefore man’s future), birth or being born, in the thus elucidated sense, is a constitutive trait of man’s being — just as, on the other hand, is the going towards death, namely the »no« (the denial, the unlikelihood) within the »yes« of being born, to which we owe the experience of time and, hence, of being. Birth and death are not the starting point and endpoint of a »duration of life« that stretches between those points. We are born into a closeness to death (i. e. the denial of all likelihood), and, while we sustain that closeness 187 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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(i. e. while we »die it«), we are always yet to retrieve and regenerate our birth (the inception of all likelihood). On the other hand, it is only through regenerating our birth, i. e. through paideia, that we fully attain the likelihood of dying, to wit, of being the mortals that we are. If we understand birth as the instant of generation — that is, the flagrancy of being generated into the openness of the dis-contingent onset of sense (i. e. the flagrancy of the good) —, then we can call the nearness to birth — the trait of the child or pais — ingenuousness, 144 and recognize in this ingenuousness the ground for all human minding and gathering; in other words, the ground of man’s native philosophical trait. 145 Paideia is about gaining a firmness of being in which man can ever again awaken his ingenuousness, and habitually stand in it, and bear it, through mindful thinking. Paideia is about growing into that ingenuousness and preserving it, or letting it be, in an ingenuous knowledge, namely, a tried fitness, a having been enured to ever again finding, and tracing in a recognizable manner, a way out from contingency. The path that leads to that firmness of being is a path within alētheia, and towards the agathon. In so far as man can bear his ingenuousness, he is himself ingenuous: that is, firm in his free-born being, or, simply, free. Thus, the path towards an ingenuous knowledge is in itself a path towards freeness: that is, the path of liberation in which man — the free-born being who is, however, not naturally free — becomes himself. As we can see, paideia is not, in the first place, about becoming an »educated« or »learned« person, nor about merely acquiring useful competences and skills; rather, it is about acquiring the temper of a human being by awakening and consolidating one’s ingenuousness in an ingenuous knowledge, and this according to a likelihood and a measure which we do not choose, but into which we are born. However, the ultimate reference — and indeed the principle — of paideia is the dis-contingent inception of the being in whole — in Plato’s thinking, the good. The path of paideia is necessary for man in order to become who he already is by acquiring the firmness of being in which he can own his ingenuousness and bear and preserve, and thus dwell in, the openness of the good: that is, alētheia. While man is born into a likely ingenuousness, he is not naturally (i. e. »just like 144 The meanings of »ingenuous« include the following: free-born; generous and high-minded; noble and frank. 145 What we are saying is: because man’s being consists in his ingenuousness, therefore he has philosophy as a native endowment.

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that«) capable of letting it be. Such letting be requires that he take on a second nature. The path to this second nature is paideia, which involves an overcoming of the »natural state«, in which man is inert with regard to the path that paideia requires. However, paideia is also a name for the ground of man’s being, in that, where philosophy has broken, to be a human being is to be placed on the path of paideia. While it is true that each human being accomplishes that path according to his or her own likelihood and measure, which must not necessarily imply an explicit knowledge of the good, when it comes to those who are to be the guardians of the polis, it is clear that their paideia must involve the »greatest study«. Why? A guardian of the polis is he who safeguards the polis as such. However, the polis is not just a »city« (or rather a »state«, or even a »city state«, or perhaps after all a »republic«), but, in the Greek understanding, the site where man can become and be a man: that is, free. However, as we already know, this implies that the polis is the site where everything is ultimately for the sake of the good. In other words: as long as the good is clearly seen and kept in view as the »pole« around which everything in the polis turns, or revolves, according to a certain polarity which involves man’s being, the polis itself is preserved in its »polis-ness«, or, in Greek, politeia, and can thus bide as the abode of the good, and, consequently, as a proper dwelling place for man. Now it is clear why the guardians of the polis — those »in whose hands we’re going to put everything« — cannot be »in the dark« (506 A) with regard to the good, and why only someone who has gone through the »greatest study«, and therefore has an insight into the constitutive trait (viz. the pole itself) of the polis, is fit for assuming its leadership. In other words, it is clear why only someone who has acquired, as a second nature, the firmness in his native ingenuousness, and therefore the capacity for thinking, can become a leader of the polis. 146 146 Concerning the notion of polis, we are inclined to quickly substitute this Greek word with our words and notions of »city«, »state«, »city-state«, »republic«, or even »canton«. The substitution can be preceded or followed by a discussion of the main features of the Greek polis as compared to earlier, later or coeval »political formations«. This comparison would stress both common characters and peculiar and possibly unique traits of each of the compared terms. Based on the outcome of the comparison we would finally argue for the (relative) aptness of one translation rather than another. The notion of what a polis is would thus be the result of a comparative analysis of »political formations« guided by operative notions (or formats) of »city«, »state«, »republic«, etc. These notions are operative in that they allow to operate with them; in the case at hand, that one operate a comparison (see Chapter 1 on operative

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The first thing to know in order to acquire this firmness — and therefore the first principle of paideia — is indicated in the following terms in Aristotle’s Metaphysics: »It is ha sign of ai lack of paideia if one is not able to distinguish between that which, in order to be vs. ontological concepts). In contrast, a Platonic dialogue, in particular the dialogue Politeia, is neither based on an operative concept of polis, nor does it strive to obtain such an operative definition. On the other hand, it interrogates the sense of a polis, its »nature« or »inner life«, and therefore its constitutive traits and its principle. The »inner life«, or, to borrow a word from the poet G. M. Hopkins, the »inscape«, of the polis is indicated in the word that gives the title to the dialogue, namely, politeia. All aspects and elements and relations within the polis are what they are in light of politeia, and therefore, in the first place, of the principle of the polis, that is, so to speak, its original »pole« (der Pol; il polo). Now, this »pole« or principle is not at all in view when we determine (and translate) the notion of polis by way of comparison of certain features that, in an operative perspective, are said to be typical of »political formations« at different levels (e. g. leadership, representation, economic and social relations, law and order, etc.). That is why, whatever comes out as a result of this comparison is, in turn, at most an operative notion of polis, but never its constitutive or ontological concept (a concept obtained »as if for the first time«). This holds all the more true as the polis itself is what it is as the location of that principle or »pole«. In other words, the polis, and everything that constitutes it and obtains its sense within it, is for the sake of the principle itself, viz. the good. The polis is the location of the principle that man, whose being consists in grounding and preserving that principle, builds for the purpose of this grounding and preserving, and thus as his (i. e. man’s) own dwelling place; put differently: man’s dwelling place is the place that he builds for himself insofar as it is a location for the principle, i. e. the location in which everything revolves around the only pole! Now, since man can be who he is only as the grounding and preserving indweller of the principle’s location that is the polis; since, therefore, man can be who he is only »in« the polis, he is, as Aristotle says, a »political« being. The peculiar knowledge that is solely dedicated to the original grounding of the »pole« of the politeia of the polis, is called philosophy. The word polis comes from a Greek verb πέλειν (pelein), which means »turn, move«, and thus »become, come into being, be«. Philosophy is therefore the knowledge of the pole or the principle of all being, and as such the constitutive knowledge of the polis. However, it is a knowledge of the polis not for the sake of the polis, but, in the first place, for the sake of that for which the polis, in turn, is what it is. This is why philosophy will always only know the polis within an interrogation, while it will never elaborate or assume an operative definition of it. Now we can begin to see why the problem of the status of the philosopher and of philosophical knowledge in the polis is a central one, namely for the polis itself, insofar as it is to be the location of the principle. In short: if philosophical knowledge is ignored in or even expelled from the polis, how can the polis, and those who dwell in it, ever be what they are required to be? However, for reasons that both the simile of the cave and the text in the Appendix to this chapter thematize, despite its constitutive character, philosophy, and consequently the philosopher, has a difficult standing within the polis.

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known, needs to be demonstrated, and that which, on the other hand, does not need to be demonstrated« (Γ4, 1006 a 6–8). That is to say: paideia consists, in the first place, in the capacity for acknowledging and keeping in mind the distinction between that which needs demonstration and that which can only be minded in an alerted mindfulness. And what is that which can only be minded? Answer: that which we already know as human beings and therefore just need to »remember«, namely the good itself and the mathēmata that come from it, i. e. the ideas. Failing to maintain this distinction implies letting the native ingenuousness, and, with it, the human soul, go to waste. The same notion can be found, in a more elaborate formulation, in the following passage from Aristotle’s Physics: To attempt to demonstrate that physis is, is laughable … To go about demonstrating what shows itself from itself and by itself, and even [which is worse] wanting to demonstrate it by means of what does, on the other hand, not show itself in this manner — well, this is the behaviour of a man who is not capable of the insight into the difference between what is by itself familiar to [already known in] all knowledge and what is not (however, the fact that someone can suffer this incapacity of insight, is by no means something unseen) (193 a 3–7)

Physis is here understood in a more restricted sense than in Heraclitus. Rather than as the arising of beings in whole, it is experienced as a trait of ousia or beingness, i. e. of the dis-contingent ground of beings. We recognize the physis-character in the words »what shows from itself and by itself«. Aristotle says: to go about demonstrating the »that« of physis is laughable. Why? Because, as indicated before, 147 a demonstration implies that we posit as unquestionably given, or immediately evident, something that, by virtue of its evidence, is capable of giving evidence to something else (namely, what is to be demonstrated). Hence, to demonstrate physis would mean to posit something that, through its evidence, gives evidence to physis: to wit, to that which in the first place shows and lets appear anything that is! How could there be something — how could something be disabsconded — »before« physis? How could something be capable of demonstrating physis, when any »something« owes its own appearing to physis itself? Therefore, the very attempt to demonstrate physis is already mistaken. Beyond that, it is an even more serious mis147

See above, p. 35.

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take to use for this demonstration something that does not show itself from itself and by itself: in other words, something that (a) in its turn owes its appearing to (and thus depends on) physis, and (b) is by itself not capable of showing anything. For indeed only that which shows itself from itself and by itself — i. e., what has the »quality« of physis — is capable of showing, or letting appear, something else. What shows itself from itself and by itself, Aristotle says, is »by itself familiar to all knowledge«. Being familiar to all knowledge means: being implicit in all knowledge as the very source from which that knowledge derives — this source being the dis-contingent principle to whose flagrancy man’s being is by birth open. In other words: what is familiar to all knowledge is what we already know as human beings (even though we might not know that we know it) and that only needs to be awoken. Demanding proof of this self-showing and ultimately view-giving element through something that, by itself, is not capable of showing anything (but in its turn depends on that ultimate element in order to appear and, in turn, indicate anything), is therefore not just a »logical« mistake. It is a fallacy that jeopardises the likelihood of grounding a sufficient knowledge, and thus of grounding a human world on that knowledge. If the only way of knowing is by demonstration, and only what is demonstrated is considered known, what cannot be demonstrated but only minded remains forgotten and neglected, while the human capacity for minding (i. e. man’s native philosophical trait) remains inert. However, without a reference to what can only be minded, things are without measure, and no true benefit can come from them. In other words, there is no way of building and preserving a polis merely on the basis of a knowledge that proceeds by demonstration. And yet, the incapacity of minding the distinction between what we already know (as human beings) and what only flows from what we already know, »is by no means something unseen«: in other words, this incapacity is not at all out of this world, but is, on the contrary, the most common condition. This is why any »education« must be based on awakening that distinction and must consist in consolidating the awareness of that distinction. Put differently, in order to fulfil its originally »political« scope, any »education« must have the trait of ingenuousness as its original reference, because no true knowledge or skill can unfold unless this ingenuousness is kindled and preserved. For Plato, the path of paideia can only be philosophical in its constitutive source and orientation. Since there is no paideia 192 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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outside the reference to that source, least of all can the leaders of the polis do without the »greatest study«.

6.6 The Myth of the Cave The so-called myth of the cave is one of three images, or similes, by means of which, in the dialogue Politeia, Plato lets Socrates elucidate the idea of the good in its relation to man’s being. The other two similes are the simile of the sun and the simile of the line, which are contained in Book VI of the dialogue, while the myth of the cave forms the beginning of Book VII. Socrates speaks of the good only through these three similes, on the grounds that, at the point where the dialogue stands, the presuppositions for him to address it directly are not given (506 D — E). On the other hand, the three similes are indicated as an »offspring of the good itself« (507 A). This definition implies three things: (i) the similes are a pure profusion of the good, a gift of the knowledge of the good: if Socrates had no knowledge of the good, he could not liken the good to an image that is a genuine indication of it (just as he can say »I know that I don’t know anything« only in light of his awareness of the »quality« of a sufficient, dis-contingent knowledge); (ii) we need to read these images as »mathematical« images, i. e. as a reminder of a knowledge we already have — even if it might be dormant and not owned — rather than isolate them as informative schemes and keep our understanding on the level of the image and of the »myth« with its manifold interpretive possibilities; this rule implies, among other things, that we need to take every single aspect of the simile as an occasion for, as it were, translating ourselves into the reference to the dis-contingent principle to which our being already belongs; (iii) as figural indications of traits of being, the similes are essentially different from poetical figures, and are to be interpreted accordingly. At the beginning of Book VII, Socrates is talking to a young man called Glaucon. Historically, Glaucon was Plato’s elder brother. The name Glaucon has a meaning which we should keep in mind. The Greek word glaux, from which Glaucon is derived, means owl. The owl has big, round, forward-looking eyes. It is known as a bird that is capable of seeing at night. It is considered the bird of wisdom. Glaux itself is derived from glaukos, which the dictionary renders as »bluish, light-blue, grey-blue«. Its stem *gla or *gal has the meaning »to 193 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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shine, glint, glare, glow, lighten, twinkle« (see German glänzen). Glaucon means »owl-eyed«. The regard of the owl-eyed beholds the invisible refulgence of the deepest night, namely: the flagrancy, which the darkness of the night fills. Flagrancy is more original than both light and darkness: both the former and the latter, as well as their interplay, presuppose it. The eye that, looking into the darkness, can behold its flagrancy, sees the darkness itself as an element from which things appear and in which they disappear. He who is owl-eyed, he who can see like an owl, is capable of a peculiar attentiveness. He is at all times prepared to see and to learn; actually, he cannot help being open to such seeing and learning. He is by birth attuned to astoundment and capable of a firm regard that is entirely open to the flagrancy of absconding, not posing any impediment to its coming. This is why this regard goes straight to what is dis-contingent. In the regard of the owl-eyed, the alluring appearances of contingency are disarmed. Thus, this regard is at once disarmed and disarming. In this manner, it aids and encourages the attempt of he who leads the interrogation. Owl-eyedness, we could say, is a Greek name for the (in itself erotic) capacity for ingenuous seeing. With this in mind, let us see how the simile of the cave begins (514 A): »Next«, I [Socrates] said, »make an image of our nature as it involves education [paideia] and the lack of it, by likening it to a condition such as the following: picture human beings in a cavelike dwelling underground, having a long pathway open to the light all across the cave. They’re in it from childhood on with their legs and necks in restraints, so that they’re held in place and look only to the front, restricted by neck-restraint from twisting their heads around. For them, the light is from a fire burning up above and a long way behind them, and between the fire and the prisoners there’s an upper road. Picture a little wall built along this road, like the low partitions puppeteers use to screen the humans who display the puppets above them. »I see it«, he [Glaucon] said. »Then see the humans going along this little wall carrying all sorts of articles that jut out over the wall, figurines of men and other animals fashioned out of stone and wood and materials of all kinds, with some of the people carrying them past making appropriate sounds and others silent.« »You’re describing a bizarre image and bizarre prisoners«, he said. »Like us«, I said.

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the following: …‹«. Thus, the simile’s theme is man’s physis, insofar as it involves, as its constitutive traits, paideia and the lack of paideia. Man’s physis — that is, his being — is likened to the condition Socrates is about to describe, or, conversely, all that follows is, in its entirety, a figure of the constitutive traits of man’s being. This is a first important directive for our reading: although we will be presented with different places inside and outside the cave, and with human beings occupying or going through these places, the myth as a whole is not an indication of different kinds human beings, but of the fundamental traits of man’s being as such. In short, the simile is (not only, but also) an image of the idea of man. However, as we shall see, the idea of man implies a constitutive reference to what is not manlike: notably the reference to ideas and ultimately to the idea of the good and, as a consequence, the reference to alētheia or disabscondedness. More precisely, man’s being is shown as consisting in a path of paideia that, in turn, involves a changing relation to both beingness (i. e. ideas) and disabscondedness, that is, (the path involves) different degrees of being and disabscondedness on the side of things which are related to different modes of being on the side of man. With regard to these changes in man’s relation to ideas and truth, which constitute the core of the simile, we identify four stages of paideia, and divide our discussion accordingly. 148 First stage: inescapable imprisonment (514 A3 — 514 C3) 149. The first stage shows what above has been called the »natural« condition of man’s being. It is a condition of inescapable imprisonment. Why inescapable? Because the prisoner in the Platonic cave is not aware of being a prisoner. Since, as Socrates explains, his present condition is all he has experienced from childhood, he has no sense or sufficient notion of freedom as opposed to imprisonment: he might believe that he is free rather than bonded based on some shadownotion of freedom, however, in truth he cannot judge whether he is free or not, as he has no means for discriminating between freedom and its lack. 150 In their inescapable imprisonment, the prisoners do 148 As a reference for the following discussion see Martin Heidegger, Vom Wesen der Wahrheit. Zu Platons Höhlengleichnis und Theätet (GA Bd. 34). Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 21997. 149 Line numbers refer to the quoted English translation. 150 Freedom, bondage and their difference will be for him, just like everything else, shadows cast on the wall in front of him. What remains precluded to him is the notion that freedom is the freedom with regard to shadows.

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not see themselves and each other: at most, one could argue, they see shadows of themselves and of each other, insofar as they, too, are carried as figurines by the men behind the wall; but again, they would not be able to diagnose these shadows as such. Similarly, the prisoners only see shadows of visible things, and hear reflections (i. e. echoes) of the sounds made by those who carry these things behind their backs, without being in any way capable of suspecting that these are merely the shadows of visible things and that the sounds they hear do not originate from these shadows themselves. However, these »bizarre prisoners«, who look at shadows and talk about shadows, but without a clue as to what shadows are, are, as Socrates points out, »like us«, and this means: they are us, namely, each single one of us — seen in a certain manner of being. The cave described in this part of the simile is, as a whole, the visible world; that is, the world in which we habitually exist. The fire that illuminates the cave is the sun we somehow see (but hardly ever actually see) every day, while the shadows are the beings (including ourselves) as we mostly encounter them in our everyday experience, namely as mediated appearances (viz. appearances reduced to silhouettes) which, however, we perceive in a peculiar immediacy. We also mostly know light only as that which gives conspicuousness to given things which, in truth, are shadows. The distinctive trait of the first stage is a certain relation between man and visible things, namely, the kind of abscondedness that characterizes this relation. In fact, while at this stage there is a minimal degree of disabscondedness, this residual disabscondedness does not even appear as such. In other words, what we have is an abscondedness that refuses its flagrancy to the point that it perfectly masks itself as perfect truth and clarity. In fact, in the immediacy of his encounter with them, man has no constitutive relation to the shadows; his involvement in the contention between abscondedness and flagrancy is reduced to the sharpness of his sight as he spots and keeps track of and accounts for the erratically passing (lapsing, transient) shadows. We can say that in this first stage we are presented with the preponderant form of what we have come to know as the sphere of contingency, which, as we know, indicates a certain relation between man and beings. Contingency will return in a different modality in the second stage, which still takes place in the visible world. Indeed, the Greeks, and Plato in particular, understand what we, in a diagnostic perspective, call contingency, as the sphere of the visible. Even the 196 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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third stage, which is located outside the cave in the sphere of the intelligible, in its phase of hypothetical viz. mathematical knowledge maintains a reference to the impact of the visible, and thus remains insufficient. For Plato, only in the final, supreme phase of »anhypothetical« viz. philosophical intellection, a sufficient knowledge, namely the insight into the discontingent principle itself, is attained. However, according to our interpretive hypothesis, Plato’s »world of ideas«, despite its being severed from the visible sphere, as a ground of that given sphere remains abscondedly affected by contingency. Thanks to this first stage, we see how, in Platonic terms, the sphere of contingency, though habitual and natural, is however not the original relation between man and beings. In the first stage, marked by the lack of paideia, man’s being is perfectly inert, »frozen« in an inertia that cannot experience itself as such. Consequently, there is no constitutive relation of man’s being to truth as such, nor to beings as such; that is, to their beingness: the abiding of beings, their appearing (both in its that-character and in its what-character), is not experienced and borne as such. Thus, man, without being aware of it, is a mere spectator, or witness, of things that for him are just given and — literally — obvious. 151 They appear and disappear without this appearing causing any astoundment. Moreover, from the height and detachment of his prison-balcony anyone can at any time be a spectator of anything, and express opinions about anything, without having to bear it in its sense. Finally, man is in a position in which he does not have to exhibit the sufficiency of his regard on things, as this regard is for him the only likely regard and therefore necessarily the regard that everyone else has, too. This regard is the point of view each man happens to have on the bypassing shadows. What the prisoners say to each other, namely the scope of speaking in this relation between man and beings, is entirely confined to exchanging impressions about shadows as they appear from »my« as opposed to »your« point of view. As the image makes clear, the beings man sees, deals with, speaks of, accounts for, and so on, are not the visible things themselves, but 151 Obvious is formed from Latin ob »against, towards« and via »way, path«. Thus, the obvious is the (first) thing that comes toward us on the way; the (first) thing we »encounter« and that »comes to mind«. In fact, it is so immediately »encountering« and »toward« that it appears to be already »with us«, wherefore there will arise no need to question the circumstances of this encounter, let alone to watch out for what might come from further up the way.

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shadows of these visible things (which, to begin with, are not the things themselves, i. e. ideas, but »artefacts«). The shadows — including the shadows we know as »ourselves« — are visible things as they appear, and have an impact, by virtue of a made light and made sounds. The light is made in the sense that it is the natural light (i. e. the light of the sun) used as a means to project a certain visible image. On the other hand, sounds are made in the sense that they are natural sounds (not those of the things carried by, which do not have a voice of their own) used as a means to obtain a certain acoustic conspicuousness in which these visible images appear. Thus, the appearing of things — meaning their sense — is a made appearing, an appearing that is produced by placing things into a certain form of light-andsound (in view of an effect): in other words, the appearing (and thus the sense) of visible things is produced by an act of in-formation; indeed, what appears to the prisoners is information and nothing else. The truth and the relation of man and beings that characterize the first stage imply their own form of knowledge, namely, a(n unsuspecting) knowledge of shadows. This knowledge consists in a more or less sophisticated manner of grasping the shadows; that is, of producing and consuming and elaborating information. It can be a merely anecdotic and somehow cumulative knowledge of the order in which shadows appear and of the frequency of their appearing. On the other hand, this knowledge can be potentiated thanks to the use of mathematical tools. Another kind of knowledge — again, either in an anecdotic manner or through the use of formalized methods — can focus on the light-features and shapes of the shadows, or on the distinctive characters of their sounds, or even on the wall itself, which seems to contain all these shadows. And so on. Clearly, the more knowledge proves to be reliable and effective with regard to what appears as the only, given reality, i. e. the more it provides an apparent control over shadows, the more useful it will appear, and the more highly the one who disposes of this knowledge will be valued among his fellow prisoners. Second stage: failed liberation (515 C4 — 515 E5). The imprisonment of the first stage, we said, is inescapable, in that no prisoner is capable of releasing himself, nor can anyone else (prisoner or free man) release him. A release can indeed happen, but only, Socrates says, »by physis«. While in the first stage »the shadows of artificial things« are considered »to be the truth« (515 C2), this release implies a fundamental change in the relation to being and truth, which, how198 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ever, in itself lacks the necessary firmness. In fact, should the released prisoner be »suddenly required to stand up, and turn his neck around, and walk and look up toward the light«, he would, on the one hand, be »somewhat nearer to what is [viz. the ideas] and turned toward the things that have more being«, and he would now see »more accurately« than before. On the other hand, he would »suffer pain« and »wouldn’t have the power to get a clear sight of the things whose shadows he’d seen before«. As a consequence, he »would believe the things he’d seen before were truer than the ones pointed out to him now«, and finally »escape by turning back toward those things he was able to make out, and consider them clearer in their very being«. The transition from the first to the second stage is critical: this transition consists in the fact that a likely difference in the domain of truth and being, as well of their experience, breaks. In other words, man is suddenly, albeit in an obscure manner, thrown into the contention of truth, and into the struggle for truth and for being, and therefore between these two — namely, between more and less truth, greater or lesser nearness to what is (i. e. the ideas). This struggle, however, implies a stress on man’s being, on his capacity for standing in this contention and bearing it; here already, it is ultimately a matter of his capacity for bearing what claims his intelligence through his native ingenuousness, namely, the good and its flagrancy (i. e. alētheia). At this stage, man apparently decides against truth, against that which is, against his own freeness, and turns back to face the shadows. However, this is not a »choice« between two »options«. Actually, man »escapes« from the decision that his precarious position in the in-between implies, into the former decisionlessness and inertia, where there is no »truer« versus »less true«, but only »true«, and so on. And he escapes because his being (i. e., ultimately, his having-tobear the dis-contingent openness of the principle) lacks the necessary firmness and strength. In fact, this firmness and strength cannot be acquired within the cave, that is, within the visible sphere, alone. Hence, within the cave, there is no freedom. 152 What the transition between the first and second stage shows is that there is no stable, well-grounded, habitual stance in which one can perceive actual visible things, or even the light in which they appear, without an awakening of the relation to another sphere. As 152 This is also true for those who carry figurines etc. behind the wall: they are shadow-makers, and yet they do not see the shadows as such.

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long as this relation is inert, the allurement of the shadows is likely to get the upper hand. This is not due to a mere weakness of man, but to the fact that, as long as man does not receive and answer the »goodliness« and »lovableness« of being, man is not himself, and therefore likely to fall prey to the attractiveness of shadows, and to the increasing need for (or rather addiction to) their comfortableness and assurance. The more withdrawn and forgotten the awakening dis-contingency, the deeper man’s benumbedness and his addiction to readily consumable high-impact shadows — or, for that matter, the more advanced his reduction to a consumer of information who is less and less capable of any kind of experience, including the experience of the visible, sensible world. In this passage of the myth of the cave we find the sign of a fundamental transformation that is not tied to this particular stage of paideia, but rather to Plato’s philosophical position as such and to the subsequent tradition of philosophy. As the released prisoner is forced to turn his head, he is said to see »more accurately« than before. The Greek word that is here translated with »accurate« is ὀρθός (orthos), which means »straight« (gerade, aufrecht; retto, diretto) as well as »right« (richtig; corretto). Thus, while that whose shadows are cast by the underground fire (i. e. the things of the visible word) is truer, namely, more disabsconded (in the sense of alētheia), the seeing that is turned towards them is, in turn, »more right« or »more correct«. We have said before that, in Plato, alētheia is no longer experienced as the contentious openness or flagrancy that kindles the being in whole, but as an emanation of the good: in other words, as a brightness and clarity that has the good (that which shows itself as the most bright-shining) as its source and ground. However, while Plato’s thinking maintains a relation to alētheia — that is, the disabscondedness of beings —, at the same time a different notion of truth emerges, namely, truth as orthotes or correctness (Richtigkeit; correttezza) of seeing. Thus, on the one hand, truth (namely, as alētheia) is still a matter of the appearing of beings, while, on the other hand (namely, as orthotes), it becomes a matter of the correctness of seeing, even though that correctness clearly implies that what is to be viewed correctly be in some way disabsconded in the first place, so that correctness ultimately relies on alētheia. Consequently, orthotes is a derived concept of truth. According to this derived concept, truth is a quality of the manner of seeing and its (more or less heeded) relation to alētheia: truth now belongs to the sphere of seeing, or, concerning 200 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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invisible things, to that of thinking and judging, and eventually to the domain of propositions about visible and invisible things. 153 The coexistence of these notions of truth in Plato points to a major shift, namely the definitive vanishing of an experienced relation to alētheia. As a consequence of this vanishing, in later philosophy truth becomes more and more a matter of the intellect (which must be well-directed to its objects) and of propositions (which, in turn, must be correct), while the initial disabscondedness and manifestness of beings — without which there wouldn’t be anything toward which to direct our senses or our thinking in the first place — is no longer minded. In short, truth eventually becomes a condition (ein Zustand; uno stato) of man’s thinking of beings, which unawares relies on, and uses, alētheia in order attain that condition. All of this, however, does not take place as the result of human will, but according to how a principle of being shapes man’s understanding of truth and of beings in the first place. The ultimate form of truth as orthotes is attained in the present epoch, when — in compliance with an uninterrogated sense and truth of being — »true« means »cut out for unrestrained makeability«, and the cutting out (which still is a form of disabsconding) that achieves this »truth« is itself cut out by means of processes structured as cybernetic circuits. Third stage: successful liberation and freedom in the good (515 E6 — 516 E2). The transition to the third stage, which involves the exit from the cave, consists in the access to »the things now said to be the true ones«. These things — in the simile those of the outside world of earth and heaven — are beings themselves as well as images thereof; that is, respectively, ideas and the hypotheses of mathematical disciplines. 154 This access begins with the forceful journey »along the rough, steep road up«, involves new and prolonged dazzlement, 153 Correct seeing, or reasoning, gives rise to a correspondence, or resemblance, with what is true. This correspondence consists in taking as true the same that truth itself shows as being true. The Greek name of this concordant response to the truth is homoiōsis (»likeness, resemblance« viz. »establishment of a resemblance«; from homos, the same, and oiesthai, to take something as something). Insofar as alētheia can be found in homoiōsis, the latter »represents« alētheia and, in a way, is alētheia. As a consequence, the problem of truth shifts to the interrogation of the conditions of homoiōsis. 154 The precise relation between ideas and mathematical hypotheses can be seen from the simile of the line, 509 D — 511 E. Hypotheses such as those used in geometry are said to be obtained by using visible things (i. e. those of which there exist visible reflections) as images (or icons) of invisible ideas. In other words, mathematical hy-

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and pain to the eyes, caused by the brightness of daylight, and is accomplished when the eyes eventually become accustomed to the sight of things outside and of the sun itself. Socrates himself eventually reveals (517 B — C) that the outside world, the bright place as opposed to the dark underground, stands for the invisible, intelligible realm of ideas, while the sun, which brightens this sphere and has »its own realm«, is the visible figure of the good, and the sunlight, in which things themselves appear, is alētheia. He who finally, and »with great effort« (517 B9), beholds the sun, will gather »that this is what provides the seasons and the years, and has the governance of all things in the visible realm, and is in a certain manner the cause of all those things they’d seen«, 155 namely, the things which the former prisoners had seen back in the cave. That which the sun is in the two spheres of the simile (i. e. the outside world the and underground cave), so is the good with regard to the intelligible and the visible realm, so that we must conclude that the good is the very cause, for all things, of all things right and beautiful, that it generates light and its source in the visible realm, and is itself the source that bestows truth and insight in the intelligible realm. Anyone who’s going to act intelligently in private or in public needs to have sight of it.

In this manner, the good is determined as the principle of the being as such and in whole in its relation to man’s thinking. The good is »over and beyond being[ness]« (ousia) (509 B9–10). It is that to which the intelligible (i. e. the ideas) owes its truth or disabscondedness, namely, both the steady »that« of its biding and the tempered »what« in which this biding consists. All of this is borne in man’s intelligence, whose ground is the original intelligence of the good. The good is called the »cause« of the sun and of light (and therefore of all things) in the visible realm, and the »source« of truth and insight in the intelligible realm (literally, that which brings about and safeguards truth and insight). »Cause« and »source« here mean the same, namely, the initself-retreating, stirring discontingency to which a thing owes itself and from which it obtains its consistency and biding, in that the »cause« and »source« free this thing to its own being and preserve it in its being. (The essential trait of light as well as of truth is that of potheses are iconized (thus computable) ideas built by means of an idealization (or, as Kant would say, a schematization) of certain aspects of visible things. 155 See the characterization of the sun in the simile of the sun, 507 D — 509 B.

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liberating, freeing, releasing, lightening.) 156 However, this cause and this source — the principle — is of a different, in itself unique kind with regard to what is caused, engendered and kept in it. As Plato makes clear, the ideas bear in themselves the trait of the good (the idea of ideas); truth has the temper of the good; man’s being is, in its innermost trait, good-like — and yet, neither ideas nor truth nor man’s capacity for minding is indeed the good, which remains scinded from these and »in its own place«. The good stands as the ultimate engendering cause of and as the stirring discontingency for all things invisible and visible, and this while it tunes man’s being to itself, and never independently of man’s response or lack of response to its need for being acknowledged and borne. The good is not any of these beings, nor is it man himself, nor does it abide in the manner in which beings abide; yet, in its beyondness and uniqueness, it remains akin to these beings insofar as it is their (withdrawn, removed, in-itself-absconding) ground. It is important to note both the emphasis which Plato places on affirming that the good is not beingness, but is beyond beingness, as well as the fact that nothing is said of the biding of the good as such, or of the beyondness in which it withholds itself. We can now better understand why Socrates says that the soul does everything »for the sake« of the good (505 E), and why we, in turn, said that the polis as such is defined by the fact that in it everything is ultimately for the sake of the good. To state this being for the sake of the good, is only to acknowledge and own the principle to which man as such and, in another way, beings as such owe themselves in the first place. In other words, being »for the sake of« the good — namely, for the preservation of its self-absconding bidance 157 — is a determination of the most original, fundamental trait of beingness: that is, an essential determination, which is independent of any factual circumstance and of any contingency. The fact that, in a polis, things may not be conceived so as to be about the good, or the fact that man, in what he thinks and does, may be oblivious of the good and may outrightly deny it, does not disprove that essential determi156 »Natural« light is not, in the first place, a beam of energy that illuminates given beings (as it appears to the eye of contingency), but the trans-parency (or, with a word of Greek derivation, the dia-phaneity) that lets beings appear as such, i. e. as what they are (although the what itself retreats in favour of the visibility of the respective being). In other words (as the simile of the cave suggests), the visible sun is itself of an »alethic« constitution — a circumstance painters know very well. 157 We use the form »bidance« when referring to the biding of the principle itself.

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nation; rather, it attests to the circumstance that the particular polis in question is not a true polis, and that man falls short of what always, from out of its beyondness, bides toward him and awaits his response: namely, his freedom in the preserved freeness of the principle. When man, having been released »by nature«; having resisted the temptation of escaping back to the apparent clearness of the shadows; having let himself be dragged up the steep path to the entrance of the cave; having suffered the dazzlement and pain caused to his eyes by the light in the cave, and the even greater dazzlement and pain of the light outside; having become gradually accustomed to the sight of bright things (rather than their shadows and reflections) and eventually of the sun itself to the point of having acquired this sight as a habit and a second nature, in which the first nature, namely the natural habit of a blind relation to mere shadows, is overcome — when all of this has happened, here, in the brightest truth of what, remaining beyond being, is more than anything else and above and beyond anything else, man’s being is finally and steadily released into the relation to which it already (i. e. natively) belongs, namely the suffered, sustained nearness of the principle. In other words: in committing to the freeing openness of the principle, man himself is free in his ingenuousness. Thus, the transition from the second to the third stage marks the crossing to the »other side« — the side where the relation between the good (and consequently truth and being) and man’s being is such that the latter is finally handed over to the erotic attractiveness 158 of the good, for the latter to openly avail itself of man’s being for its own sake: that is, for the guardianship of the relation of the good itself through the (politeia of) the polis. How could man, once he has attained this condition, desire anything other than to remain in it forever, and never again return to the cave, where his former fellow prisoners still know only how to strive for the most effective possible knowledge of shadows, and give rewards and honour and power to those who possess that knowledge? In fact, whoever has attained that freedom would »submit to enduring everything rather than live in that way«. While this is certainly true, the path of paideia, however, does not end at this stage, but involves yet another, final, transition. Fourth stage: the return to the cave (516 E3 — 520 D6). While the greatest nearness to being and truth is attained in the third stage, 158

See Appendix 6 at the end of this chapter.

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the accomplishment of the path of paideia requires that man be able to sustain being and truth in yet another manner. This, in turn, implies going through a different form of pain than that which characterizes the way up to the cave entrance and the habituation to the light of the sun. According to Socrates, it is legitimate to ask those who have been brought up in the polis, and who, thanks to this upbringing, have attained a knowledge of ideas, to return to the cave and join those who used to be their fellow prisoners. There is, therefore, a political motive in the return to the cave. The transition from bright daylight to the darkness of the underground cave will fill their eyes with this darkness and cause their sight to be dimmed until they are once again accustomed to the light of the cave. Thus, what these returners have to say about things themselves and about the shadows (which they will actually call thus) will sound laughable to those who know nothing but shadows; moreover, it will appear useless if compared to what those who display a seemingly unfailing knowledge of shadows (which they will actually call beings) have to offer. The entire journey out of the cave — paideia as such — will therefore appear to be of no avail, and even harmful, in that it manifestly ruins the eyes and lessens the capacity for holding one’s ground in the cave. However, as soon as the returners’ eyes settle back in, they will attain a condition in which they can firmly and distinctly envisage shadows as shadows and visible things as visible things, meaning both shadows and visible things as different from ideas. Thus, they will be free of shadows; that is, not entangled in their exclusiveness and measurelessness, untouched by them insofar as they pretend to engage the whole of man’s being with their exclusive truth. As a consequence, since their soul is firmly and entirely »turned around« and »converted« to bearing a habitual relation to the good, the returners are (or rather would be) capable of setting laws and establishing measures that are neither affected by contingency nor functional to contingency, but rather derived from the good and for the sake of the good. The accomplishment of paideia is this sense of remaining turned towards the good even amidst shadows and visible things. Thanks to his ingenuous intelligence, the returner is capable of acting in a measured, mitigating, moderating manner, where, on the other hand, measureless contingency tends to escalate to destructive extremes. Thus, he stands among his fellow men as a living reminder of man’s native belongingness to the good: that is, of his ingenuous205 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ness. The returner can therefore liberate his fellow men — not by taking off their restraints, which are placed there by physis and which only physis can remove, but, in the first place, by his example, and by assisting those who, having been released by nature, show a likelihood of accustoming themselves to the daylight after completion of a painful and trying ascent. What happens to the man who, once back in the cave, can elucidate what the shadows are as such, and hence show the insufficiency of any knowledge that is based on shadows and that envisages shadows, thus interrupting the rule of contingency? Not only will the other indwellers of the cave laugh at him at first, Socrates says, but when they realize that what he has to say cannot simply be declared confused and useless, and thus dismissed, they will actually feel inclined to kill him, if given the chance to do so. The fact that the prisoners would kill the liberator indicates one thing: what becomes flagrant through the liberator (that of which he reminds them, to some extent), is not indifferent to them (for it is indeed unforgettable for the human being as such). On the contrary, it concerns them so profoundly — no matter how this concern is masked — that they cannot bear being reminded of it and thus try to eliminate the one who reminds them. What, however, becomes flagrant through the returner? Answer: man’s being »as it involves education [paideia] and the lack of it«, that is, his being in its constitutive, mostly inertial, reference to the good and its want of man’s bearance of its truth: in other words, the circumstance that (i) man is a free-born but not naturally free being, who needs to be converted to his freedom and (ii) this conversion requires him, in the first place, to offer his being to the freeing element as such — that is, the good. Historically, Socrates died by drinking poison after having been tried on two charges: namely, corruption of the youth and the introduction of unknown gods. What is the true driving force behind his conviction on these charges? Answer: the will to affirm that the regime of contingency shall prevail. In this regime, all that counts are usefulness and effectiveness in merely contingent, apparently evident terms. Therefore, all knowledge remains a matter of conflicting or concordant points of view on what remains undetermined — even though (or rather, precisely because) in this manner no sufficient knowledge is ever attained. The fact that no measure and no truth are ever attained is not seen as a condition of distress (even though it silently strains and eventually wears out man’s being). On the con206 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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trary: what matters is not which effect is pursued in view of which end, but (the brute fact) that only effects are pursued, because this is precisely the way in which the regime of contingency — which has its own, operative notions of the true, the good and the beautiful — affirms and perpetuates itself; analogously, what counts is not which point of view prevails, but that every »truth« be just a matter of points of view, because this is precisely the way in which the regime of contingency imposes and, as it were, eternalizes itself. The killing of the liberator does not consist, in the first place, in his physical elimination, but in the fact that what he says is evaluated in contingent terms (i. e. in terms of shadow-effects) and admitted only as one point of view among others. However, what the returner to the cave has to say is not a prisoner’s point of view on the shadows of artificial things, but rather the attempt to provide an answer about the common principle for the sake of which the soul does everything that it does. As the simile of the cave suggests, paideia, or the path of man to himself, consists in a turning around — a conversion — of the whole soul (518 C8), in which man’s capacity for minding the indemonstrable good, which is beyond the visible realm, is awakened and enured. Paideia is about this awakening and an alertness with which the soul is already endowed. However, this awakening is not sufficient. The capacity for minding the ground and principle of beings as such and in whole must be sustained in a firmness of being (including bodily being) in which it becomes second nature. Only then will the freed man be able to bring the measure-giving, moderating light of the good and its truth back into the cave. Thus, only he who has accomplished paideia through its four stages is fit to be a ruler of the polis. And so the city will be governed by you and by us awake, and not in a dream the way most are governed now by people who fight with each other over shadows and form factions over ruling, as though that were some great good. But the truth is surely this: that city in which those who are going to rule are less eager to rule is necessarily governed best and with the least divisiveness, while the one that gets the opposite sort of rulers is governed in the opposite way. (520 C — D)

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6.7 Plato and the Onto-theo-logical Constitution of Metaphysics A closer consideration of Plato’s metaphysical position allows us to recognize and formulate the fundamental trait of all metaphysical thinking, meaning all philosophy. This fundamental trait consists in the constitutive character of what we call a philosophical principle. Even though all philosophical principles share this character, the latter is as such not visible to, and from within, philosophy itself. In other words, it only shows within a diagnosis that is itself no longer philosophical, and yet stands in the same tradition that gave rise to philosophical thinking. We said that Plato’s answer to the guiding question of philosophy (as metaphysics) — his answer to the question: »What is beingness?« — is: beingness, or abidingness, consists in the idea; ideas in their turn spring from the idea of ideas; that is, the good. The idea itself is the look, the view-giving element. For instance, the idea ›fountain pen‹ is the invisible look of a fountain pen, and, as such, the element that offers the view of a(ny) visible fountain pen. Because the idea is what a fountain pen is, or what it is to be a fountain pen, the idea ›fountain pen‹ is common to all fountain pens as such. The circumstance that the idea is the view-giving element means: in the idea, in the invisible look, something becomes visible (i. e. appears, shows itself, is disabsconded) as something: for instance, as a fountain pen. The »as« in »something as something« indicates the occurrence of a disabsconding or disabscondment (Entbergung; disascondimento). However, the capacity of letting appear, of releasing and freeing into the open and disabsconded — in short, the alētheia-character which the idea has —, is something different from the single idea, even though without this alētheia-character the idea wouldn’t be an idea, namely, the view-giving element for all beings that appear as such in its light. Thus, we can see that alētheia, disabsconding, itself emanating from the good, kindles any idea as such, in that it bestows on the idea the flagrancy of aptness or meetness in which the idea itself consists. In short, »appearing« means »showing as being apt, fit, meet, suitable for …« (and, in this sense, approvable). This determination of the idea is clearly stated both in the simile of the sun and in the simile of the cave. In both similes, the ideas are likened to things that become visible in the light, or rather things that owe their visibility to the light. What the light is for things, alētheia 208 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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(disabscondedness) is for ideas. Without light, things wouldn’t be visible as what they are; that is, they wouldn’t be disabsconded for the human eye to see them as such; in other words, they wouldn’t be these things. In the same way, without alētheia, ideas wouldn’t be intelligible as such; they wouldn’t be disabsconded for the human mind to intellect or think them; in other words, they wouldn’t be these ideas. However, just as light has the sun as its source, alētheia has the good as its origin. The good, the gift of goodness, is what firstly brings about the flagrancy that kindles ideas as the view-giving elements of beings. In this manner, the good is the first ground of beings themselves in their harmonic conjunction. Moreover, just as the sun awakens man’s sun-like capacity for seeing, the good awakens man’s good-like capacity for minding the good itself and thus the ideas in their »alethic« biding. In fact, as we have seen, the good as the first ground of beings kindles the truth of ideas while simultaneously awakening man’s intelligence. Put differently, the good is the first ground — the principle — of beings as such, insofar as it silently breaks as the original yoke of ideas and intelligence. Thus, we have known the good insofar as it grants abidingness in the sense of »abiding as something«. It does so in a manner that is to some extent analogous to the way in which light generates colours, just that, instead of kindling colours, it kindles ideas, which constitute what beings are. If we say that the idea is the Platonic answer to the question: »What is ousia?«, then the good, which kindles ideas as such, cannot itself be an idea, or, for that matter, an ousia. Or rather, it must be a unique idea and ousia, namely, the idea- and ousia-generating idea: the idea of ideas. Because this idea originates, defines the scope of, and reigns over ousia — that is, over »what it is to be (as something)« —, it is, in a sense, »more« than anything else that, in some way, is; namely, in the first place, ideas (of which one can say that they truly are) and, in the second place, beings (of which one cannot say the same). Consequently, the good is the »most being« (das seiendste; il più essente) of all beings. However, this is not the only character of the good. If we are to determine the configuration and scope of the principles that, in the wake of the Greek beginning, constitute the tradition of philosophy, we must turn our attention to another character of the first metaphysical principle. Plato insists on the fact that nothing else — not even truth or knowledge — can be compared to the good, which »requires that it be 209 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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held in still greater honor« than any other thing (509 A5–6). In other words, the good is different from truth and from the human soul (and its capacity for thinking), just as, being the first ground of beings as such, it is different from what they are as beings. This is, however, not the only manner in which the good differs from truth or knowledge, nor (and this is what we must consider now) is it the only manner in which it is a ground. Once again, the analogy of the sun can help us. As Socrates points out, the sun »not only endows the visible things with their power of being seen [their visibility], but also with their coming into being, their growth, and their nurture, though it’s not itself coming into being [genesis]« (509 B1 sqq.). An analogous relation applies to the good (509 B6 sqq.): Then claim as well that the things that are known [scil. the ideas] not only get their being-known furnished by the good, but they’re also endowed by that source with their very being [einai] and their being what they are [ousia], even though the good is not being [ousia], but something over and above being, beyond it in seniority and surpassing it in power.

The good not only provides ideas with their being-known by yoking human intelligence to their truth and knowableness; beyond that, it endows the ideas with two constitutive traits. One of them we know already: thanks to the good, ideas are endowed with »what they are« as looks of the »what«; that is, with their ousia as goodness-mediating looks, which let beings appear as such by winning man’s being over to the good itself for the sake of which his soul does everything that it does. The second one is new: the good endows the ideas in regard to their einai or being. »Being«, here, does not mean beingness in the sense of that which constitutes ideas as such; rather, it means the »that« of their steady disabscondedness as ideas, the »that« of ideas as such. In other words, the trait that now comes into view is the that of what beings are (das Dass des Was; il che del che-cosa), and indeed not just the that of a single what, or of a single being itself, but of beings as such in whole. Thus, the good is not only »the most being« of beings, but, insofar as it grants to that which truly is, i. e. ideas, and consequently to »beings«, their thatness, it is also the »highest« being (das höchste Seiende; il sommo essente). However, we could ask: Why should the good be responsible for grounding the »existence« of beings (i. e. of the abidings in their abidingness)? Are there no other candidates for the being that serves as this ultimate ground? It is clear that no ordinary being can occupy 210 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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this position: indeed, how could any of the beings of the world be the steady source of the circumstance that beings are as such and in whole? The sought-for being can only be an absolutely unique being; namely, a being that is endowed with a »thatness« thanks to which it can, in turn, endow all look-kindled beings with their that or »existence«. On the other hand, we need to consider the following: the idea of ideas, the good, has its own that, its own »existence«; however, the latter cannot be based on the existence of another idea (which, as such, depends on the idea of ideas itself). Consequently, the that of the idea of ideas, i. e. the existence of the good, is necessarily an ultimate that. The result of these considerations is that only the good, in its unique, ultimate, self-standing and self-relying thatness, can be the source of the that of each single idea and of ideas in whole. When the good is envisaged in this sense — namely, as the »highest being« that, from beyond, grounds beings as such and in whole — Plato calls this sense of good τὸ θεῖον (to theion), which we usually translate as »the godly« or »the divine«. We must, however, be careful not to simply equate the good as theion with some ready-made later and un-Greek notion of god and the divine that risks distorting what Plato thinks and sees in this word. What helps us to avoid this kind of conflation of differences is the insight that the theion is indeed a constitutive trait of beings as such and in whole; that is, a form or mode of ground that is implicit in the very interrogation of the beingness of beings. The theion is, in other words, a »structurally« necessary trait of the chief phenomenon of metaphysical interrogation, i. e. of the flagrancy itself of »the being as such in whole« which metaphysics interrogates in the guiding question: »What is beingness?« This question interrogates beings as to their being-character — as to the what of their being. However, the very same interrogation that establishes the first ground and source of this what, and therefore of beings as such, grounds the that (the »existence«) of any what, and therefore of beings in whole, in the that of that same first ground. Consequently, the interrogation of beings, in which philosophy as metaphysics consists, implies that beings be grounded in this twofold manner, namely with regard to the ground of their being-character (»what«), and with regard to the ground of their being (»that«). We can now return to the question of the fundamental character of the Platonic principle, which, as we have said, is also the character of all subsequent principles in the metaphysical tradition. In Plato, 211 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the principle is the idea of the good. However, the good is this principle in a twofold sense, or, according to two different traits which imply one another. On the one hand, the good is the first ground of all beings as such: as »the most being« of beings it gathers all beings (onta) into their being-character or beingness, where this gathering (legein; logos) has precisely the sense of a grounding. The good is therefore in itself onto-logical. The knowledge of the good as this principle is, in turn, the gathering and grounding of this ontological ground, and can therefore itself be called ontological. On the other hand, the good is the ultimate ground of the being in whole; as »the highest« of beings (theion), it gathers all beings into their being, where this gathering has, again, the sense of a grounding. The good is therefore in itself theo-logical. Finally, the knowledge of the good as this principle is, in turn, the gathering and grounding of this theological ground, and can therefore itself be called theological. 159 The two traits of the good — ontological and theological — are not just coexistent; rather, as said before, they imply one another. This duplicity derives (in ways that are all but manifest) from the initial phenomenon of Greek thinking — i. e. physis in the original sense of the flagrancy of beings in whole —, together with the regard in which this phenomenon claims to be interrogated: namely, the regard of its grounding principle. Thus, the principle for which metaphysics asks is in itself twofold, at once ontological and theological — in a word, it is onto-theo-logical. Plato’s thinking, the beginning of philosophy, determines the good as the onto-theo-logical principle of beings. Philosophy itself is shaped by its very »theme« as an ontotheo-logical knowledge. Even outside of the Greek element, philosophy as metaphysics maintains this onto-theo-logical constitution. For its entire tradition, philosophy remains the knowledge that attempts to ground the being as such and in whole by determining a being that is at once the (essence-granting and therefore) most being and the (existence-granting and therefore) highest of beings. Philosophy as metaphysics is onto-theo-logic. The principles of philosophy are onto-theo-logical. 159 Here we must understand the word »theological« in the rigorous philosophical sense that has just been established, and not conflate it with the meaning in which this word is commonly used. The fact that a later discipline called »theology« can find in philosophy a useful, or even necessary, support for providing the content of a religious belief with a logical or rational basis, is an implication of the theo-logical trait of philosophy as such.

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Appendix 5 Plato on the Uselessness of Philosophy

The following is an extract from a dialogue between Socrates and his pupil Adeimantus in Plato’s Politeia. 160 While at an earlier stage of the text the conclusion had been reached that »the cities will have no rest from evils before the philosophers rule in them«, in the lines that precede our reading, Adeimantus states that, according to some, philosophers are useless to the cities. Oddly, Socrates answers that he thinks that those who say so are telling the truth. Adeimantus is puzzled: he sees a contradiction between these two statements and asks Socrates for a clarification on this point. However, in light of the arduousness of a philosophical treatment of this question (i. e. an elucidation through a series of discourses, or logoi, clarifying all traits that need to be considered as well as their interrelations), Socrates argues (what the economy of learning seems to suggest, namely) that the point calls for being cleared up by means of a philosophical likeness. »Then how,« he [Adeimantus] said, »can it be good to say that the cities will have no rest from evils before the philosophers whom hon the other handi we agree to be useless to the cities, rule in them?« »The question you are asking,« I [Socrates] said, »needs an answer given through an image.« »And you, in particular,« he said, »I suppose, aren’t used to speaking through images.« »All right,« I said. »Are you making fun of me after having involved me in an argument so hard to prove? At all events, listen to the 160 Plato, Politeia, Book VI, 487 e 1 — 489 a 7. The translation is quoted from: The Republic of Plato, transl. Allan Bloom. Sine loco: Basic Books, 1968, p. 167–8; additions in brackets are mine. — Note that Adeimantus literally means »fearless«. After having heard about owl-eyedness, we are now told that learning to philosophize requires the freedom from fear, i. e. the capacity not to be overwhelmed by it.

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image so you may see still more how greedy I am for images. So hard is the condition suffered by the most decent men [i. e. those who are most true to what, in the first place, ought to govern a polis] with respect to the cities that there is no single other condition like it, but I must make my image and apology on their behalf by bringing it together from many sources — as the painters paint goatstags and such things by making mixtures. — Conceive something of this kind happening either on many ships or on one. Though the shipowner surpasses everyone on board in height and strength, he is rather deaf and likewise somewhat shortsighted, and his knowledge of seamanship is pretty much on the same level. The sailors are quarrelling with one another about the piloting, each supposing he ought to pilot, although he has never learned the art and can’t produce his teacher or prove there was a time when he was learning it. Besides this, they claim it isn’t even teachable and are ready to cut to pieces the man who says it is teachable. And they are always crowded around the shipowner himself, begging and doing everything so that he’ll turn the rudder over to them. And sometimes, if they fail at persuasion and other men succeed at it, they either kill the others or throw them out of the ship. Enchaining the noble shipowner with mandrake, drink or something else, they rule the ship, using what’s in it; and drinking and feasting, they sail as such men would be thought likely to sail. Besides this, they praise and call ›skilled sailor,‹ or ›pilot,‹ and ›knower of the ship’s business‹ the man who is clever at figuring out how they will get the rule, either by persuading or by forcing the shipowner, while the man who is not of this sort they blame as useless. They don’t know that for the true pilot it is necessary to pay careful attention to year, seasons, heaven, stars, winds, and everything that’s proper of the art, if he is really going to be skilled at ruling a ship. And they don’t suppose it’s possible to acquire the art and practice of how one can get hold of the helm whether the others wish it or not, and at the same time to acquire the pilot’s skill. So with such things happening on the ships, don’t you believe that the true pilot will really be called a stargazer, a prater and useless to them by those who sail on ships run like this?« »Indeed, he will,« said Adeimantus. »Now,« I said, »I don’t suppose you need to scrutinize the image to see that it resembles the cities in their disposition toward the true philosophers, but you understand what I mean.« »Indeed I do,« he said. 214 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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A Note on Usefulness Plato’s image shows the constitutive insufficiency of the knowledge of contingency, i. e. a knowledge that is based on contingency and has contingency as its objective or interest. In this context, an important point is made concerning the notion of usefulness, which has already emerged in the discussion of the good: as the image of the ship shows, usefulness is not an autonomous concept; to wit, a concept that has the source of its sense within itself. Because the implications of what is »useful« (or »beneficial«, or »profitable«, etc.) depend on the end in view of which usefulness is stated, putting »useful« on the same level with »good«, or citing »usefulness« as a sufficient justification for anything, is fallacious. Hence, invoking usefulness in itself and for itself as a criterion of sense amounts to opening the floodgates to senselessness, i. e. to a chaotic regime of contingency. Hence, the apparently trivial claim that usefulness is not a first order concept, has the following momentous consequence, which Plato points out in the Politeia: without the kind of insight that only the »greatest study« can provide — that is, without an interrogation of the good — nothing in the polis can »become useful and beneficial«; in fact, the lack of a proper dimension in which the notion of usefulness can be contested necessarily leads to an arbitrariness that makes that notion senseless. Let us expound this point in more detail. Useful is what can be used, is apt for, or is of value for something; what is capable of being put to use; what is helpful for doing or achieving something; what brings profit and advantage in some respect. Thus, usefulness implies the fact of being instrumental in something, in the achievement of a certain goal or in view of a certain end. In short, what is useful is a means to a certain end. Since men, in all they do, pursue some kind of end, the concept of usefulness is naturally a very important and familiar one, and considerations on usefulness are omnipresent in everyday life. Consequently, the knowledge of what is useful is considered to be relevant, and itself useful. In fact, it might seem that this knowledge, since it is itself useful, is the one that matters most, and, in some sense, the only true knowledge. Generally speaking, when we consider usefulness in contrast to uselessness, we are not focusing on the end, but on the instrumentality with regard to a given end. However, the perspective on usefulness and the very understanding of usefulness varies according to how we 215 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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relate to the end in question and how we understand that end in the first place. In fact, we can distinguish between an understanding of usefulness which is entirely guided by the attention to the pursued end in its very own sense, and an understanding of usefulness that is guided by the fixation on an end that, on the other hand, has the character of a mere effect. In the first case (»attention«) there is, in some respect, an awareness of and care for the sense of all that is involved in pursuing the end in question — in short: there is an openness to sense all along the path on which the end is pursued. As a consequence, even what is »only« useful and instrumental has, to some extent, the nature of an end. In fact, what proves to be a useful means, »ends« — that is, it has its accomplishment (Vollendung; compimento), and consequently its sense and measure — precisely in the achievement of a particular end. The latter, in turn, is either itself a means to another end or is an »end in itself«, namely an end that does not refer to a further end, but is »ultimate«, and, since it isn’t helpful or serviceable for anything else, useless. In the second case (»fixation«) there is a neglect of sense all the way through and for all that is involved. The focus is on the mere fact of instrumentality and the mere fact of achieving an end, which in its turn is a mere fact. In other words, the focus lies on the effectivity in view of a certain effect. Thus, both means and ends appear as brute facts, as mere effectivity. Consequently, in this understanding and perspective, not sense but effectivity is what counts, or rather: sense itself coincides with mere effectivity, i. e. with the achievement of a certain effect; the latter, in turn, leads to a further effect, and so on, without a true end ever being attained. Now, when we speak of usefulness, of something being useful or useless, it is not clear, from the outset, in what perspective and according to which understanding we are doing so: is it the perspective of an openness and attention to sense, or rather the perspective of a refusal and neglect of sense? (Note that both perspectives imply a relation to sense.) More importantly, any knowledge that remains exclusively on the level of usefulness — that is, of the distinction between useful and useless — cannot by itself establish a criterion that discriminates between the two ways of understanding usefulness, and the relation to sense which they imply. Thus, as long as we remain on that level, we may be more or less aware of that difference, and behave and act accordingly; also, we may at times find ourselves in a situation that 216 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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is »rich of sense« and at times in one that is »poor of sense« or even senseless; however, as long as our knowledge is only a (useful) knowledge of usefulness, we ultimately remain blind with regard to what discriminates between »sense« and »mere effectivity«; however, the incapacity of grounding our dwelling on a relation to sense is in itself a condition of indigence with regard to sense. On the basis of previous considerations, it can be argued that within the polis there is the necessity for a knowledge that is not limited to the domain of usefulness. This necessary knowledge should allow us not only to distinguish more clearly between true usefulness and usefulness that is only brute instrumentality (a distinction of which we are at times unaware), but also, and in the first place, to ground the relation of man with the source of sense. Of what kind is this knowledge? Provisionally, we can say the following: it must be a knowledge that is about what is an end in itself (and never just a means); and: it must itself be an end in itself (and never just a means). In other words, speaking from the point of view of brute usefulness, this necessary and most fundamental knowledge, which does not imply any relation of instrumentality, is a useless knowledge of the utterly useless. Since it refers to nothing outside itself and has in itself (and not in a further and higher end) the ground that sustains it, we call this knowledge a sufficient knowledge.

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Appendix 6 Heidegger on the Eros of Being

The following is a comment by Heidegger on the erotic power of the idea as the condition for »remembering being«; that is, for philosophizing. 161 Indeed, if, on the one hand, the initial attunement of Greek thinking is thaumazein (i. e. astounding), on the other hand, the »traction« towards being, which unfolds in this attunement, is eros. Sobald der Mensch sich in seinem Blick auf das Sein durch dieses binden läßt, wird er über sich hinaus entrückt, so daß er gleichsam sich zwischen sich und dem Sein erstreckt und außer sich ist. Dieses Über-sich-hinweg-gehoben- und vom Sein selbst Angezogenwerden ist der ἔρως [erōs]. Nur soweit das Sein in bezug auf den Menschen die »erotische« Macht zu entfalten vermag, nur so weit vermag der Mensch an das Sein selbst zu denken und die Seinsvergessenheit zu überwinden.

As soon as man, in catching sight of being, lets himself be bound by it, he is dislocated over and above himself, in such a way that, as it were, he extends between himself and being, and is thus outside of himself. This being carried over and above, and away from oneself, while being attracted by being itself, is erōs. Only insofar as being is capable of unfolding the »erotic« power with regard to man, is man in his turn capable of thinking of being itself, thus overcoming the oblivion of being.

Non appena l’uomo, adocchian-do l’essere, si lasci vincolare da quest’ultimo, egli viene dislocato oltre sé, sicché, per così dire, si estende tra sé stesso e l’essere, ed è dunque fuori di sé. Tale »essere elevati oltre sé hverso la vaghezzai, lasciandosi attrarre dall’indole ›essere‹« è l’eros. Soltanto nella misura in cui l’essere è capace di dispiegare, nel suo contratto con l’uomo, la potenza «erotica», l’uomo è a sua volta in grado di ripensare all’indole ›essere‹, e di scampare la trascuranza d’essere.

In the passage of the dialogue Phaedrus that Heidegger is discussing in the pages from which this comment is taken, Plato refers to ideas simply as τὰ ὄντα (ta onta), i. e., the beings, namely that which truly is. Heidegger himself, however, in his comment speaks of das Sein selbst (being itself; l’indole ›essere‹) and of Seinsvergessenheit (oblivion of being; trascuranza d’essere). On the one hand, we can indeed 161

Cf. Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche I. Pfullingen: Neske, 51989, p. 226.

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say that »beings«, — i. e., here, ideas — are, in a sense, being itself, so that the oblivion of being is overcome once the soul extends into the erotic traction of ideas, and, ultimately, of the good. On the other hand, according to Heidegger, ideas, including the good, are themselves an instance of the oblivion of being, when the latter means »being itself« in the sense of the original contingency-free principle; in fact, when being is conceived as the ground of beings, the »principle of principles« keeps its biding to itself and, consequently, remains unthought. The consideration of the »erotic power« of τὰ ὄντα leads us to the following conjecture: Could ἔρως itself, i. e. ἔρως not perceived, as in Plato, as a »quality« of ideas, but as a principle in its own right, be a name of the unthought »principle of principles«? In that case, ἀλήθεια, i. e. disabscondedness, would not be an emanation of the good as the ground of beings, but the flagrancy of the in-itself absconding, »sheer« (schismatic) erotic traction, while the abiding (das Anwesen; l’adstanziarsi) of beings would freely constitute itself within the relation of man’s being to that initial traction. Perhaps one of Parmenides’s fragments (B 13, Diels-Kranz) points in the direction of this conjecture: πρώτιστον μὲν Ἔρωτα θεῶν μητιάσατο πάντων As the first of all gods Erōs she [scil. the godhead that is the origin of all gods] conceived in her mind.

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7. Aristotle

Our treatment of Aristotle will largely be limited to a commentary on a short extract taken from a set of notes for a lecture series today known as the Metaphysics, which first appeared about three hundred years after Aristotle’s death (322 B.C.). 162 At the beginning of the fourth book (or Book Γ), Aristotle characterizes philosophical knowledge as follows: 163 ἔστιν ἐπιστήμη τις ἣ θεωρεῖ τὸ ὂν ᾗ ὂν καὶ τὰ τούτῳ ὑπάρχοντα καθ᾽ αὑτό. αὕτη δ᾽ ἐστὶν οὐδεμιᾷ τῶν ἐν μέρει λεγομένων ἡ αὐτή: οὐδεμία γὰρ τῶν ἄλλων ἐπισκοπεῖ καθόλου περὶ τοῦ ὄντος ᾗ ὄν, ἀλλὰ μέρος αὐτοῦ τι ἀποτεμόμεναι [25] περὶ τούτου θεωροῦσι τὸ συμβεβηκός, οἷον αἱ μαθηματικαὶ τῶν ἐπιστημῶν. ἐπεὶ δὲ τὰς ἀρχὰς καὶ τὰς ἀκροτάτας αἰτίας ζητοῦμεν, δῆλον ὡς φύσεώς τινος αὐτὰς ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι καθ᾽ αὑτήν.

There is a kind of science which looks into the being as being and hthusi into what inceptually determines and rules it from the ground up according to and as per itself. That science is itself not the same as any of the so-called »in-part«sciences; in fact, none of those other sciences looks upon the being in whole and as being; rather, having cut off some part of it, they do their looking into the resulting attributes, such as, for instance, do the mathematical sciences. As we, however, interrogate the ruling inceptions and the ultimate causes, it is clear that the latter are necessarily hcausesi of a certain physis according to and as per itself.

162 Originally a merely editorial designation (meta ta physica, i. e. »after the physical hbooksi«), implying that the relevant lectures follow those on »physics«, the title Metaphysics was later taken as an indication of the contents involved: on the basis of the knowledge obtained through a »hearing« (ἀκρόασις; akroasis) of physical things, metaphysics is the epistēmē concerned with that which lies beyond physical things, namely in the direction of the principles of their »physical« abiding (see above, p. 175). 163 Metaphysics Γ, 1.1003 a 21 sq. The Greek text follows the edition by W. D. Ross (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924), available online at www.perseus.tufts.edu.

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Aristotle εἰ οὖν καὶ οἱ τὰ στοιχεῖα τῶν ὄντων ζητοῦντες ταύτας τὰς ἀρχὰς ἐζήτουν, ἀνάγκη καὶ τὰ [30] στοιχεῖα τοῦ ὄντος εἶναι μὴ κατὰ συμβεβηκὸς ἀλλ᾽ ᾗ ὄν: διὸ καὶ ἡμῖν τοῦ ὄντος ᾗ ὂν τὰς πρώτας αἰτίας ληπτέον.

Now, if those who used to interrogate the elements of beings were also interrogating these ruling inceptions, those must necessarily be the elements of the being not according to resulting attributes, but hof the beingi as being. Thus, we too must grasp the first causes of the being as being.

In what follows, we will go through the text step by step, thereby elucidating the central notions on which Aristotle builds his determination of philosophical knowledge. – There is a kind of science … : »Science« is the common translation of Greek ἐπιστήμη (epistēmē). However, this translation is easily misleading, especially if we have the modern notion of science in mind. Epistēmē literally means something like »upon-stance«: it indicates the fact of »standing upon« something, in the sense of presiding over it (einer Sache vorstehen; presidiare qc.); such presiding, in turn, takes place by virtue of a knowledge that grasps the thing according to a certain trait that defines its being. In fact, grasping the constitutive trait of something places us in a certain position of advantage over it: insofar as we »see« and, in a sense, »escort« it as it constitutes itself as such, and thus, as it were, take a stand inside its very abiding — in short: insofar as we under-stand it, we are capable of dealing with it in accordance with the different circumstances, needs and intentions that arise. However, this »presiding« position is not one of wilful mastery, as it is maintained only thanks to the attention to, and the mindful perception of, the considered constitutive trait, which needs to be acknowledged as such and cannot be established at will. In this manner, epistēmē, a stable stance in the abiding of abidings, lays the basis for any attempt to build a human world. On the other hand, without epistēmē man is left with an utterly unreliable knowledge, and thus in an unstable position with regard to things he does not truly inhabit — that is, know as things of a hospitable world; as a consequence, he is largely reduced to coping with their somewhat chaotic impact on his immediate life. In other words, epistēmē is the knowledge thanks to which the relation between man and beings is recovered from contingency. When Aristotle says that »there is« a thus determined epistēmē, he is not simply stating the fact that such a knowledge exists. The 221 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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word ἔστιν, in this sentence, indicates a likelihood (Möglichkeit; attendibilità), which is perceived in a pre-comprehension of being. In other words, Aristotle is saying: apart from the manner in which beings appear to the different forms of knowledge that investigate them on the basis of the evidence of their givenness as beings, there is, in the appearing of beings, another aspect, namely their appearing as beings in the first place, which, as all appearing, is an appearing to man; to wit, an appearing that in some way or another involves man’s capacity to perceive. Now, since man as such is »already there« where this »appearing as a being« takes place, there is a likelihood for the »being already there«, or »being already involved«, to become a stance of explicit knowledge, i. e. a peculiar and unique epistēmē. Finally, given that all other manners of the appearing of beings depend on this most fundamental one, the likelihood of such an epistēmē implies the necessity of attempting to build it; in fact, without such a knowledge, the most fundamental relation of being (namely, that between the constitution of beings as such and man’s participation in that constitution) would remain in the dark, leaving man and the world, once again, without a stance in the likely way out from contingency. – … which looks into … : The Greek verb here is θεωρεῖν (theōrein), which is related to our word »theory«. It means »to look«, but in the distinctive sense of looking into something, and through its immediate meaning and appearance (whose »validity« remains, so to speak, suspended). This looking into is attuned to catch sight of what, in the first place, looks at us (and has in fact already caught sight of us, giving rise to an implicit understanding or pre-comprehension) from »inside« itself, namely from the constitutive trait of its very abiding, or, in other words, of its standing/lying there as that certain disabsconded thing. Thus, the theoretical look, or insight, is a sight cast into the invisible, which lets the invisible itself »light up« as such, for it to be kept in sight, and said, and, in this way, eventually »saved«. Epistēmē is therefore the firmness of theōria, which in its turn is what gives consistency to epistēmē. However, both theōria and epistēmē in the first place require, or rather are themselves manners of, sustaining the space-of-time in which being and sense become accessible and offer themselves in their need to be preserved in thought and word; in other words, theōria and epistēmē have their ground of likelihood in σχολή (scholē). – … the being as being … : We have meanwhile learned to hear 222 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the phrase »the being« as »all of which it is said that it is, with a perception of the ›taking place‹ and the ›quality‹ of this ›is‹«. Now, with respect to the being, the theoretical regard focuses precisely on the »is« by asking what constitutes it as such. Hence, the interrogation concerns the being-character, namely, the traits involved in constituting the being as such. According to the Greek understanding of being, this means that what is interrogated are the traits of the steady abiding-in-disabscondedness of that which abides, or, put differently, the traits of the steady disabsconding of the disabsconded; thus, in the phrase »the being as being«, the word »as« indicates the stable disabsconding as such. The interrogation of »the being as being« is not just »a process« of »asking questions in order to get answers«. In fact, that interrogation implies delving into a dimension (and this also means: into a »place« in — or a limit of — man’s being) that consists in a selfabsconding — a dimension in which any path that promises to lead into a greater depth can be traced only by advancing on that same path, which (that path) might however suddenly break off where there is nowhere else to go. The Greek name for the circumstance in which there is »no way to go«, the name for this peculiar »pathlessness« in which the attempts of philosophy time and again find themselves to be stuck, is ἀπορία (aporia; from a- »without« and poros »path«). This is why Aristotle describes the »perennial« character of philosophical interrogation as follows: καὶ δὴ καὶ τὸ πάλαι τε καὶ νῦν καὶ αἰεὶ ζητούμενον καὶ αἰεὶ ἀπορούμενον, τί τὸ ὄν, τοῦτό ἐστι τίς ἡ οὐσία. 164 »And thus, the of old, and now, and ever sought-for, and that with regard to which, time and again, [because of the very element in which the interrogation proceeds] we find ourselves with nowhere to go, is the question: ›What is the being [the abiding]: that is, what is beingness [abidingness]?‹« – … and thus into what inceptually determines and rules it from the ground up according to and as per itself: The traits on which the theoretical regard of this peculiar epistēmē focuses are now explicitly indicated as ta toutō hyparchonta kath’hautō. The verb hyparchein is formed by hypo »under, below« and archein »to originate, to initiate, to bring about«, and consequently »to rule in the way in which the inception rules that which it initiates«. We can therefore call these traits »the underlying principles«. The latter, however, do not under164

See Metaphysics Ζ, 1.1028 b 2 sqq.

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lie as a given substratum or underlayment, but as a ground that has the form of a free (from-out-of-itself arising, in-itself absconding) origin. Moreover, these principles (and, eventually, the ultimate principle) are not sought elsewhere with respect to the on, the being, but retraced »along« the on itself, namely, by following (»downward«, as it were) the path of its constituting itself as such from out of its own origin (this »following« is what above has been referred to as »escorting«). That is to say that the interrogation rigorously adheres to what the being itself has to say concerning its provenance; in short, the theory that informs the philosophical stance consists in minding the being insofar as it is just this: being (seiend; essente), and in re-saying what the being as such says (i. e. shows, offers to be seen) as it comes about from out of its own origin. – That science is itself not the same as any of the so-called »inpart«-sciences: This sentence introduces the differentiation of philosophical interrogation from certain other kinds of epistēmē. The latter are referred to as »in-part« sciences. This characterization does not mean that they are only »in part«, but not entirely scientific; rather, as we shall see, the scientific character of these forms of knowledge is determined by the circumstance that they constitute themselves by means of an »inaugural operation« aimed at obtaining »a part« of the being, to which, as sciences, they subsequently apply their »partial« manner of investigation. What, however, are the implications of this constitutive operation? – … in fact, none of those other sciences looks upon the being in whole and as being; rather, having cut off some part of it, they do their looking into the resulting attributes … : The specific character of philosophy is to look into the being as being, and to look upon it in whole. The verb we translate as »look upon« is episkopein, which can also be rendered with »watch, oversee, consider, regard« (cf. episkopos = bishop; Bischof; vescovo), the prefix epi- being the same as in epistēmē. Now, differently from the philosophical epistēmē, other sciences neither look into the being as being, nor do they oversee it in whole. Rather, their regard in the first place cuts off a part of the being, in order to subsequently »theorize« about its »attributes«. In what, however, does this cutting off consist and result? What the theoretical regard of the other sciences cuts off from the being is precisely what can be cut off and, as it were, snatched: namely, a certain profile, or image, of the being itself. In fact, when that other theoretical regard (other with respect to the philosophical one) investigates a 224 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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being, it has already applied its peculiar manner of profiling, which cuts that being off from what it is as such and in whole, i. e. from its being; as a result, what becomes visible in the first place is this ›not as such and in whole‹-part, this certain »take« on the considered being. However, this »take« has an operative character, in that it produces »a part« on which theory can now operate according to its peculiar modes of operation (computing, explaining, predicting, etc.). If we apply this analysis to modern science, we can recognize, for instance, how economics never encounters beings as the beings they are, but invariably as values: in this case the relevant profile, or »take«, is the profile ›value‹, which produces the part of any being that is considered within the science of economics; in other words, what to economics appears as an »economic thing« in the first place (i. e. an object to which the modes of operation of economic theory can be applied) is the result of an anticipatory operation of profiling, which, from any being x as such, has in advance (i. e. before the actual investigation begins) cut off the part »x as a value« (or »x according to the profile ›value‹«), thus leaving unnoticed the original trait of x; that is, the »as-trait« that is constitutive for x as such (i. e. the trait that is in view when »x as x« is considered). As the example makes clear, the »partiality« of the »in-part«sciences derives from what we know as their basic assumptions, or hypotheses: any »in-part«-science constitutes itself as such by virtue of the initial operation of hypothetical partitioning, which makes beings as such available to its »partial« theoretical regard according to a certain profile. For instance, geometry obtains in this manner the geometrical objects (triangle, cone, etc.) on which it bases its successive investigations. What marks the difference of philosophical theory with respect to such partiality is not its totality, as if the regard of philosophy consisted in an encompassing view of all parts as opposed to just one. Because the »cutting off« is, so to speak, vertical, so as to eradicate a being from the ground of its appearing as such (i. e. from its disabsconding-ground), the relevant »antonym« to partiality is »wholeness«, as philosophical epistēmē is indeed a »whole« science in two respects: (i) it looks upon the being insofar as it constitutes itself as such, and thus in its wholeness-character, or as a whole; (ii) it looks upon the being insofar as it is (as such) in the first place, and therefore in whole. What exactly does an »in-part« science look into, once the operative basis for that looking has been laid by obtaining the relevant 225 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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part via basic assumptions (e. g. the assumption: »nature is a certain value viz. function of values«)? The translation says: the »resulting attributes«. The Greek word here is τὸ συμβεβηκός (to symbebēkos), literally, »what has come« (bebēkos) »with« or »together« (syn) 165. Hence, to symbebēkos is what stands with, and is attached to, the part, having come along together with it. But having come along from where and in what occasion? Considering that we are still in the Greek element, in which the fundamental experience of being is physis, the answer can only be: having come along in and with the arising (or coming into appearing) that results from the mentioned »partitioning via assumption«, which, relying on original arising, as it were, cuts out the part that is to form its theme of investigation. In fact, while the »x in part« is obtained, a number of characters flow into that part, and the part itself, once it is disabsconded, carries »on« itself and with itself these characters into which the »in-part« science can now look. For instance, economics looks into the way in which a certain being, disabsconded as an economic thing or value, and defined by a number of parameters, behaves in changing circumstances. Or geometry looks into the attributes of certain triangles. These parameters certainly characterize that thing, they belong to it in the sense that they are attached to it from the very first and have their place inside the abiding of that thing; however, they do not characterize it as such, namely, in regard to that in which its value-character (or triangle-character) consists. – … such as for instance do the mathematical sciences: Aristotle chooses mathematics, with its different fields, as an example for an »in-part« science. In order to substantiate this example, we can turn to Plato’s characterization of geometry in the simile of the line: Now I imagine you know that people who concern themselves with matters of geometry and calculation and such things presuppose in accord with each investigation the odd and the even, the geometrical shapes, the three kinds of angles, and other things related to these; treating these as known and making them presuppositions, they don’t think it’s worth giving any further account of them either to themselves or to anyone else, as though they were obvious to everyone, but starting from these things and going through the subsequent things from that point, they arrive at a conclusion in agreement with that from which they set their inquiry in motion. 166 When ν is followed by β, it changes to μ. Politeia, 510 C (see Plato, Republic. Translation, Glossary, and Introductory Essay by Joe Sachs. Newburyport: Focus Publishing, 2007, p. 207–9). 165 166

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Geometry, as an »in-part« science, does not investigate the geometrical shapes as such; rather, it »treats them as known« and »makes them presuppositions«; that is, it assumes them as hypotheses. On that basis, it »arrive[s] at a conclusion in agreement with that from which [it] set [its] inquiry in motion«; that is to say, it finds out those features, say, of a triangle, which are implicit within the triangle itself once it has been assumed as a certain geometrical shape. This is what is called geometrical knowledge. What the latter does not do, or even conceive of, is to give »any further account« of the geometrical shape ›triangle‹, or of any other presupposed geometrical being. In what would such a »further account« consist? Once we have given the geometrical definition of a triangle — which can be found in any handbook of geometry —, what more is there to say? Answer: the »more« can be interrogated in questions such as: »What is a geometric shape as such; that is, what kind of ›cutting off‹, or partitioning, does the geometrical regard execute in order to constitute that shape as its theme of investigation?«, and further: »What is the triangle itself (viz. the idea of it), before the partitioning that is constitutive of the geometrical epistēmē produces the geometrical icon ›triangle‹ ?«. Because these questions do not have a geometrical answer (i. e. an answer that could be attained by means of the concepts and methods of geometry), geometry itself does not think it worthwhile to ask them. In other words, something that is a question for philosophical theory, for geometry is an obvious starting point. – As we, however, interrogate the ruling inceptions and the ultimate causes, it is clear that the latter are necessarily hcausesi of a certain physis according to and as per itself: »Ruling inceptions« translates the plural form of ἀρχή (archē), which, as previously mentioned, has the following meanings: 1. inception, onset, origin, source, first principle; 2. sovereignty, realm; 3. command, rule, sway. Thus, archē is the origin and principle of something, but also the domain in which the originated thing abides and unfolds its sense, but also the rule that governs that abiding from beginning to end. On the other hand, »causes« translates the plural form of αἰτία (aitia), which indicates that to which something owes itself. Aristotle distinguishes four such »causes«: for instance, a vase owes itself 1. to the clay of which it is made (»matter«); 2. to the form of a vase (as opposed to the form of a jar or of a glass) (»shape, form«); 3. to the potter’s actions in accord with his vase-making skills (»movement«); 4. to the vase’s being made for ornament (»purpose, end«). 227 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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When the interrogation concerns the ruling inceptions, and that is 167 the ultimate causes of the being, it cannot remain confined to the domain of beings, their attributes and their relations, including the laws that govern these relations. Why? Because in this domain the »question of owing« (»what does a being owe itself to?«) never attains an initial, or an ultimate, point. A true »source of owing« (not to speak of the »source of sources of all owing«: the ultimate »to which« of owing) — notably, the source to which the being owes itself as such — cannot be sought for in that which, while it arises from something else, has been cut off from it; in other words, it cannot be sought for in the domain of »parts«, as all that can be found as sources in that domain are merely further parts that are in their turn cut off from that to which they owe themselves in the first place. Instead, the search for an actual source of owing must look into arising and disabsconding, i. e. into the »as-trait« itself; in other words, it needs to look into some kind of physis or arising and consider it as such, namely relative to its arisingness, so as to detect in what exactly that arising consists. That in which the arising consists is that to which the being as such initially and ultimately owes itself. The circumstance that Aristotle speaks of »inceptions« and »causes« (in the plural form) does not contradict the uniqueness of the metaphysical principle (and of the knowledge that interrogates in the direction of that principle). Rather, it affirms an apparently trivial point, which, however, has implications that go far beyond those that, presumably, Aristotle himself intends: any inquiry into the ultimate principle of being depends on the manner in which the being (namely, the being as such, i. e. beingness) shows itself and is envisaged in the first place; conversely, this means that different principles give rise to different forms of beingness, abidingness, disabscondedness. More than twenty-two centuries after Aristotle, this insight will return as the seed for a mode of thinking that, precisely because it is initiated by a »principle of principles« whose inner »turns« give rise to different constellations of abiding, is no longer metaphysical. 168

167 In the present case, the Greek καί (kai) »and«, can be interpreted as an »explicative ›and‹«, and translated as »and that is«. In fact, as Aristotle explains elsewhere (Γ, 2.1003 b 22 sqq.), ἀρχή and αἴτιον are the same (or rather, they imply each other while belonging to the same), even though their notions do not coincide. 168 See the last chapter of this book.

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– Thus, if those who used to interrogate the elements of the beings were also interrogating these ruling inceptions [i. e. these principles], those must necessarily be the elements of the being not according to resulting attributes, but haccording to the beingi as being. Thus, we too must grasp the first causes of the being as being: The reference is to the pre-Socratic thinkers whose positions Aristotle discusses, and with respect to whom he is determining his own attempts with regard to the »kind of epistēmē« for which there is, in the first place, a need. The word στοιχεῖον (stoicheion), which is commonly used a. o. to designate letters as constitutive elements of the capacity for speaking words, indicates an elementary principle, namely an ultimate source, or fundamental trait, that holds within itself the sense of the being which consists of that element. In the tradition of the inquiry into principles in terms of στοιχεῖα, Leibniz, as we shall see, refers to monads as »the true atoms of nature«. 169 The immediately following chapter of Book Γ further specifies the nature of philosophical epistēmē. Here is the opening of that chapter, together with an explicative translation. τὸ δὲ ὂν λέγεται μὲν πολλαχῶς, ἀλλὰ πρὸς ἓν καὶ μίαν τινὰ φύσιν καὶ οὐχ ὁμωνύμως ἀλλ᾽ ὥσπερ καὶ τὸ [35] ὑγιεινὸν ἅπαν πρὸς ὑγίειαν, τὸ μὲν τῷ φυλάττειν τὸ δὲ τῷ ποιεῖν τὸ δὲ τῷ σημεῖον εἶναι τῆς ὑγιείας τὸ δ᾽ ὅτι δεκτικὸν αὐτῆς, καὶ τὸ ἰατρικὸν πρὸς ἰατρικήν […]

While the being is indeed said [i. e. gathered and indicated] in many ways, it is, however, always said with regard to one, and to some unique physis, and this not just by way of homonymy [i. e. not in the sense that different circumstances are being indicated with the same word] 170, but in the same way in which healthy is always said with regard to hthe onei health — either as preserving it, or as bringing it about, or as being a sign of it, or as being receptive of it — and medical is always said with regard to the honei

See below, p. 269. In the present context, it is important to specify that in whatever way or sense we address the being (for instance: either as such, or according to its attributes, or according to its likelihood, etc.) we always refer to the same and unique phenomenon, and not to different things that simply happen to be called alike. On the other hand, when asking where the »spring« of a river is located and on which weekday the »spring« begins, we are in both cases asking about something called »spring«; however, the first and the second »spring« do not share the same physis (viz. arising) and are not one and the same. 169 170

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[5] οὕτω δὲ καὶ τὸ ὂν λέγεται πολλαχῶς μὲν ἀλλ᾽ ἅπαν πρὸς μίαν ἀρχήν: τὰ μὲν γὰρ ὅτι οὐσίαι, ὄντα λέγεται, τὰ δ᾽ ὅτι πάθη οὐσίας, τὰ δ᾽ ὅτι ὁδὸς εἰς οὐσίαν ἢ φθοραὶ ἢ στερήσεις ἢ ποιότητες ἢ ποιητικὰ ἢ γεννητικὰ οὐσίας ἢ τῶν πρὸς τὴν οὐσίαν λεγομένων, ἢ τούτων τινὸς [10] ἀποφάσεις ἢ οὐσίας: διὸ καὶ τὸ μὴ ὂν εἶναι μὴ ὄν φαμεν.

καθάπερ οὖν καὶ τῶν ὑγιεινῶν ἁπάντων μία ἐπιστήμη ἔστιν, ὁμοίως τοῦτο καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων. οὐ γὰρ μόνον τῶν καθ᾽ ἓν λεγομένων ἐπιστήμης ἐστὶ θεωρῆσαι μιᾶς ἀλλὰ καὶ τῶν πρὸς μίαν λεγομένων φύσιν: καὶ γὰρ ταῦτα τρόπον τινὰ [15] λέγονται καθ᾽ ἕν. δῆλον οὖν ὅτι καὶ τὰ ὄντα μιᾶς θεωρῆσαι ᾗ ὄντα. πανταχοῦ δὲ κυρίως τοῦ πρώτου ἡ ἐπιστήμη, καὶ ἐξ οὗ τὰ ἄλλα ἤρτηται, καὶ δι᾽ ὃ λέγονται. εἰ οὖν τοῦτ᾽ ἐστὶν ἡ οὐσία, τῶν οὐσιῶν ἂν δέοι τὰς ἀρχὰς καὶ τὰς αἰτίας ἔχειν τὸν φιλόσοφον.

art of medicine […] Thus, the being, too, is said in many ways, but always with reference to one [unique] ruling inception: for some things are indicated as beings because they are hthemselvesi a kind of beingness, others because they are that in which a beingness incurs, again others because they are a path hon whichi beingness his attainedi, or forms of the demise, or the privation, or the constitution, or the bringing about, or the generation of it, or of what is said with regard to it; or, again, they are negations of some of these, or of the beingness itself — which is why even of the non-being we say that it is non-being. And so, just as there is one science of all things healthy, the same is true for all other things. For not only of what is said according to one is the lookinginto that of one science only, but also of that [namely, ousia] which is said with regard to one hand the samei physis, for in some way that, too, is said according to one. Hence, it is clear that beings as beings [i. e. beings considered with regard to their beingness] also belong to one looking-into [one »theorizing«] only. Now, everywhere science is principally about what is first, namely that from which everything else flows, and through which everything else is said. Thus, if that which comes first is beingness, the philosopher ought to have cognizance of the ruling inceptions and the causes of hdifferenti beingnesses.

The theoretical regard that, concerning beings, pays attention to their beingness, is always involved in gathering and »escorting« one and the same physis. Insofar as the latter is one, the theorizing that looks into it, and the gathering that lets it appear, are also unique: to the oneness, or uniqueness, of the inquired trait corresponds the oneness, 230 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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or uniqueness, of the theoretical regard that, having been attracted by it in the first place, interrogates that trait. Such is the law of the one, which also allows us to determine the uniqueness of the human being: insofar as the human being minds (perceives, is aware of) what is essentially one, and therefore unique, the being that has the likelihood of that minding as the original trait of its own abiding is, in its turn, unique. The relation to the oneness of the one is itself, and in the first place, unique. That relation has the form of an initial reciprocal minding, an original perceived perceiving, an instantaneous mutual »eyeing« or »catching sight of one another«, which absconds in its own flagrancy. However, the attempt to demonstrate this oneness and uniqueness is just as laughable, and as much a symptom of »uneducatedness«, as the attempt to demonstrate the being of physis. The metaphysical regard is engaged by the circumstance that, while »the being is indeed said in many ways«, »it is, however, always said with regard to one, and to some unique physis« as well as »always with reference to one ruling inception«. This engagement prompts the philosopher to interrogate that in regard to which the being is said in view of an ultimate principle, whose form is conceived of as that of a ground of beings as such and in whole. In order to serve as a ground, the principle must be such that, once it is determined, the interrogation comes to a halt — not, however, in the sense of an aporetic break-off, but because that grounding principle, being its own ground and thus leaving no »beyond« to be interrogated, satisfies the initial claim which metaphysical thinking has to answer. In Aristotle’s own words, this claim, in which speaks the constitutive need of metaphysics (namely the stress that initially alerts and relentlessly binds it), sounds as follows: ἀνάγκη δὴ στῆναι (anankē dē stēnai) 171, »there is the stressing need to come to a standstill«.

171

Metaphysics Λ, 1070 a 4.

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8. Transition to Modernity (On Method)

After the end of the classical Greek world, the tradition of philosophy is transposed into the Roman element, and later it eventually becomes subservient to the thinking that gives a rational ground to Roman Catholic beliefs. In late antiquity (with important exceptions such as Neo-Platonism), as well as in the Middle Ages, the language of philosophy is Latin. The thinker who marks the beginning of modern philosophy, René Descartes (1596–1650), still writes his main treatises in Latin, while only a few are translated or written directly in French. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716) also begins by writing in Latin, but later switches to French, in order to facilitate dialogue with the followers of Descartes, who formed the most important philosophical school of the time. Only a few of Leibniz’s minor works are written in German. At the time of Leibniz’s birth, almost exactly two thousand years have passed since Plato’s death. While the innumerable events and occurrences during these two millennia are of no concern to us in this context, we do need to acknowledge two fundamental transformations that take place with regard to Greek thought. (1) As repeatedly mentioned, when philosophy leaves its native Greek element, the constitutive reference to physis as the fundamental experience of being (or discontingency), which claims man’s thinking as a grounding and preserving answer, is lost. In other words, the transposition into the Roman element not only leaves the reference to physis behind (which is expectable, given that that reference is a Greek one), but does not open and engage with a different, but analogously original reference of its own. This implies that, from that moment on, thinking, while remaining meta-physical, is, in a sense, left ground- and bottomless, or, more precisely, in want of a (new) ground. In the Middle Ages, this lack of a ground or soil is not as much satisfied as covered up, or surrogated, by the guiding belief in the revealed truth of the Christian religion. Here, thinking is re232 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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quired, in the first place, in order to guide and support the correct recognition of what is already revealed (i. e. manifest, »flagrant«) as having been established by virtue of the will of the highest being; that is, God. 172 This constellation changes radically when the revealed truth ceases to hold sway as a world-shaping power. This novelty in fact marks the onset of the »modern age« or the »new time« (Neuzeit; tempo nuovo). In the beginning of the modern age, or modernity, man himself, in the newly found freedom of his powers, is required to step in in order to »fill« the resulting gap with his thinking, and thus establish (himself as) a new ground for the being as such and in whole. Henceforth, man’s thinking (and not, in fact, alētheia borne in a consonant thinking) is the element in which the ground of being is constituted. 173 Man’s being — more precisely, his knowing himself as the knowing being — is, in this sense, that which underlies beings, poses itself as, and is itself their ground: the principle of being is now a principle of thinking, by means of which thinking itself acts as a ground. This circumstance is indicated in the word that, alone, names the fundamental trait of modern philosophy, namely, subjectivity (from the Latin sub-iectum = what is thrown, and thus lies, under: the underlying). 174 Descartes’s cogito ergo sum (i. e. »I think, I cogitate, and this is in what my being consists«) is the onset and, so to speak, the upbeat of modern philosophy as subjectivism. The fact that »the revealed truth ceases to hold sway as a world-shaping power« does not mean that the belief in God fails, and that God is no longer conceived of as the principle of being; however, this God is now decidedly the God of philosophy; that is, he is a trait of the subjectivist (not just »subjective«) onto-theo-logical thinking of beings as such in whole. (2) The second transformation is tightly linked to the first one and concerns the notion of truth. As we have seen, Greek thinking 172 Things have their being in their createdness: they are what they are, and are in the first place (rather than not being), by virtue of the design of divine providence. 173 However, even if it does not experience alētheia as such, thinking cannot not, in some manner, avail itself of alētheia. 174 In a sense, in the entire unfolding of metaphysics the constitution of the beingness of beings is that of a subiectum — in short: beginning with the idea, being is »subjectity«. Only in modern thinking, however, the place of the subiectum is progressively taken by the self-assured self-knowledge of man (see Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche II. Pfullingen: Neske, 51989, p. 450 sq.).

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consists in the experience of physis and alētheia and has as its ruling onset the attunement of astoundment. While in Plato alētheia has become the flagrancy granted by the good as the ground of beings, the image of the cave — with the central role of the contrast between the dark underground cave and the bright outside world — shows to what extent this thinking is still dominated by the phenomenon of abscondedness and coming out from abscondedness (even though the latter is no longer seen as the constitutive trait of flagrancy). In later thinking, the notion of truth which in Plato coexists with alētheia, namely truth as correctness (orthotes), becomes dominant. We can now better understand the reason for this: when beings as such and in whole are no longer obtained from physis as a sphere of disabscondedness; when, instead, thinking has the task of serving as the ground that brings beings to light — that is, into an openness in which they are accessible to man’s pervasive insight and, eventually, control —, in this constellation it is understandable that truth, the manifestness and evidence in which beings appear as such, becomes a matter of the correctness, or well-directedness, of thinking. However, this new beginning of thinking, as with any beginning, is not a beginning »in general«, but, once again, an attuned beginning; in other words, it is a beginning that has an attunement as its ruling onset. While the attunement of Greek thinking is astoundment, the onset of modern thinking, on the other hand, is doubt (Zweifel; dubbio). Moreover, while astoundment claims thinking to sustain the ground of the flagrancy (openness, truth) of beings as such and in whole, doubt, instead, claims thinking to sustain, or rather to be, the ground of certainty of beings. The beginning of modern philosophy, which encompasses the tradition of thinking from Descartes to Nietzsche, is the beginning of subjectivism, to wit, of man’s self-assured thinking constituting itself as the absolutely certain ground of beings in whole. Thus, the modern notion of truth is truth as correctness, but not simply in the sense that the mind is correctly directed towards a given being. Rather, this correctness in the first place constitutes the givenness of beings as a certain givenness (viz. a givenness in certainty), and thus beings themselves as certain beings. For this reason it is not sufficient to say that the transformed notion of truth is truth as correctness. Rather, the modern notion of truth is truth as certainty (Gewissheit; certezza). Truth as certainty means that thinking (beginning with Descartes’s ego cogito) constitutes itself as the absolutely certain subjective 234 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ground on which to base the absolutely certain abiding of beings. In constituting itself as this absolute ground (or: as the absolute subject), thinking poses things in such a way that they face, or stand against, thinking itself in their certain, assured, givenness. Beings are thus set as that which lies over, and stands against, thinking in an absolute certainty; in other words, absolute subjectivity poses beings as absolutely certain objects (Gegenstände; oggetti). However, what allows thinking to constitute itself as the absolutely certain positing of certain objects is doubt. In fact, the latter, when conceived as the manner in which what now counts as a ground of beings initially attunes modern thought, is not a generic scepticism or indecisiveness, but in itself a call for certainty; to wit, a call that urges foundational thinking to »sort out« anything that can be doubted, until that which is absolutely indubitable, and therefore an unshakably certain ground, is attained. We can now understand why, with the onset of modern metaphysics, the problem of method (Greek μέθοδος [methodos], »way of pursuit«) becomes fundamental. Method, here, does not simply mean a certain, more or less adequate, way or path (hodos) by which (meta) a given aim or end is pursued. This is in fact the common understanding of method today. But a similar notion of method could have applied in a philosophical context of the Middle Ages: on the basis of the revealed truth of things, which are thus given in their essence as created beings (ens creatum), a method is what is required, in terms of a logically consistent chain of arguments, in order to demonstrate this truth in an incontrovertible manner. Entirely different is the notion of method in the context of modern philosophy: in fact, method is now the answer to the compelling need of establishing (a ground of) absolute certainty in the first place; in other words, through the implementation of method, thinking responds to the claim of configuring itself in such a manner as to constitute certain objects. Thus, the »modern mode« of methodical thinking implies that it is no longer a given beingness of beings which suggests a certain »way« of proceeding, and provides the measure for a »path«, through which a true knowledge of these things can be achieved. Rather, method as the way of and for certainty, as the path informed by absolute assuredness, decides what true thinking and true knowledge are in the first place, and in view of securing that knowledge aptly constitutes, as such, the objects of which such knowledge is to be obtained. The constitutive role of method in the thus specified sense is 235 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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reflected in the very titles of some fundamental treatises of the founding thinker of modern philosophy, René Descartes: Regulae ad directionem ingenii (»Rules for the directing of the mind« — namely, for directing it in such a way that it answers the claim of an absolutely certain knowledge), Discours de la méthode (»Discourse on method«), Meditationes de prima philosophia (»Meditations on first philosophy« — i. e. not just »First philosophy« — that is, knowledge of principles — but, in the first place, considerations on the manner in which a philosophical knowledge that satisfies the need of certainty can be built). Leibniz’s treatise on calculus, in turn, bears the title Nova Methodus Pro Maximis Et Minimis (1684). Here, too, method is not just »a way by which« to carry out a given task, namely the task of calculating maxima and minima; rather, method is the manner of thinking, namely, of calculating, in which speaks the metaphysical principle that, as we shall see, insists that beings be determined as such in terms of maxima and minima. Almost two and a half centuries after Descartes’s death, Friedrich Nietzsche wrote the following note, which was published posthumously: Nicht der Sieg der Wissenschaft ist das, was unser 19. Jahrhundert auszeichnet, sondern der Sieg der wissenschaftlichen Methode über die Wissenschaft. 175 It is not the victory of science which marks our nineteenth century, but the victory of scientific method over science.

This statement attests to Nietzsche’s own insight 176 into the end of philosophy as the unfolding of (methodical) science. It shows that this occurrence is not a scientific one, nor one that can be explained in terms of some kind of »theory of knowledge«. Rather, it is the accomplishment of the tradition that issued from the Greek onset of thinking and of the new inception of this tradition that begins with Descartes. About eighty years after Nietzsche’s note was written, Heidegger elucidated this note as follows:

175 Friedrich Nietzsche, Nachlaß 1887 — 1889. Kritische Studienausgabe, Bd. 13. Herausgegeben von Giorgio Colli und Mazzino Montinari. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1999, p. 442 (15 [51], Frühjahr 1888). 176 That is to say: the insight informed by this fundamental metaphysical position, or his answer to the guiding question of philosophy.

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Transition to Modernity »Methode« meint hier nicht das Instrumentum, mit dessen Hilfe die wissenschaftliche Forschung den thematisch festgelegten Bezirk der Gegenstände bearbeitet. Methode meint vielmehr die Art und Weise, wie im vorhinein der jeweilige Bezirk der zu erforschenden Gegenstände in ihrer Gegenständlichkeit ausgegrenzt wird. Die Methode ist der vorgreifende Entwurf der Welt, der festmacht, woraufhin allein sie erforscht werden kann. Und was ist dies? Antwort: die durchgängige Berechenbarkeit von allem, was im Experiment zugänglich und nachprüfbar ist. Diesem Weltentwurf bleiben die einzelnen Wissenschaften bei ihrem Vorgehen unterworfen. Darum ist die so verstandene Methode »der Sieg über die Wissenschaft«. Der Sieg enthält eine Entscheidung. Sie besagt: Als wahrhaft wirklich gilt nur, was wissenschaftlich ausweisbar, d. h. berechenbar ist. Durch die Berechenbarkeit wird die Welt dem Menschen überall und jederzeit beherrschbar gemacht. Die Methode ist die sieghafte Herausforderung der Welt auf eine durchgängige Verfügbarkeit für den Menschen. Der Sieg der Methode über die Wissenschaft begann seinen Lauf im 17. Jahrhundert durch Galilei und Newton in Europa — und nirgendwo sonst auf dieser Erde. 177

»Method«, here, does not mean the instrumentum [means, tool], with the help of which scientific research treats the thematically determined domain of objects. Rather, method means the mode and manner in which, in advance, is outlined the particular, respective domain of objects in their objectivity, which are to be investigated. Method is the anticipatory project of the world, which fixes in what regard only this world can be investigated. And what is this regard? Answer: the pervasive computability of everything which is accessible and verifiable in an experiment. 178 The single sciences remain subjected [liable] to this worldproject in their way of proceeding. This is why method, in this understanding, is »the victory over science«. The victory implies a decision, which reads thus: only what can be scientifically accounted for; that is, what is computable, is considered as truly effective. By means of this computability, the world is made everywhere and at all times masterable [controllable] for man. Method is the victorious challenging [provoking] of the world in view of a pervasive availability for man. The victory of method over science began its course in the seventeenth century in Europe, with Galileo and Newton, and nowhere else on this earth.

What Galileo and Newton began in the domain of science finds a metaphysical ground in the thinking of Descartes and Leibniz. This is not to say that Descartes and Leibniz provide the philosophical

177 See Martin Heidegger, Die Herkunft der Kunst und die Bestimmung des Denkens, in: id., Denkerfahrungen. Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1983, p. 135 sqq. 178 In a letter to Gabriel Wagner (30 October 1697), Leibniz mentions »the art to interrogate nature itself and, so to speak, to place it on the rack, Ars Experimentandi …« (»die kunst die Natur selbst auszufragen undt gleichsahm auff die folterbanck zu bringen, Ars Experimentandi …«).

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foundation for Galileo’s and Newton’s scientific theories. 179 Rather, it means that the same principle that prompts the initiators of modern science to conceive their mathematical project of the world is answered in Decartes’s and Leibniz’s attempts to lay the metaphysical ground for the construction of a human world on earth. With reference to this sameness we can say that the »victory of method over science«, which begins in the seventeenth century and is accomplished in the nineteenth century (whose consequences are unfolding to this day), has an explicit correspondence in the metaphysical genesis of modern philosophy as subjectivism. Why explicit? Because philosophical interrogation offers a ground to the truth of the principle that science, on the other hand, merely executes, or, we could say, translates into an operative form irrespective of the grounding of its metaphysical truth. Consequently, only an interpretation of the fundamental positions of modern philosophy promises to shed light on the origin and the implications of the progressive »victory of method over science« at the level of the fundamental relations of being (man — truth — world). As we shall see, Nietzsche’s philosophy itself brings subjectivism (the thinking of subjectivity) to its extreme form. In the second half of the eighteenth century, while the victory of method over science is unfolding, the science of economics is born. Neither the metaphysical presuppositions of this science, nor the conditions that determine its evolution and scope, are visible from within this science itself, or in a merely historical perspective. On the other hand, these presuppositions and conditions become visible to some extent in the fundamental positions of Leibniz and Nietzsche, whose thinking is precisely the attempt to ground a truth of beings as such and in whole in answer to the claim of such a grounding that comes from the being itself in its fundamental relation to man’s being. Without these attempts in the realm of philosophical principles we would have no way of knowing which truth and which sense of being are implicit in the operative

179 Philosophy is never a foundation of science in this sense. In fact, Leibnizian physics, for instance, is radically different from Newtonian physics in that the laws of the former are obtained within, and from out of, an explicit stance in the highest principle of being, whence those laws obtain their basic determinations; most importantly, this rootedness in the relation between man and being provides the scientific laws with their fundamental ethical trait; that is, it explicitly informs them as laws at the service of a human world.

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theories that constitute economic thought — or, for that purpose, in the theories of all other modern sciences. In what follows, we should focus our attention on how, through the different principles, through the changing notions of being, truth, and man, which characterize modern metaphysical positions, the selfassertion of a unique will becomes visible: the will that wills itself in the form of the ever more self-contained computability and makeability of the world, which implies that the latter »is made everywhere and at all times masterable [controllable] for man«. Insofar as modern man is summoned to serve as the subject — and thus, as it were, as the focal point of the self-conscience — of the self-contained computability of the world, he cannot but think of himself as the one who must become the master of the world. Consequently, the different positions of philosophy which follow each other in the tradition of subjectivism respond to this need for man to become the master of the world for the sake of the will that wills itself in the form of the absolute computability and makeability of the world. What hands itself down in the tradition of subjectivism, as well as in the victory of method over science, is in fact the ascendancy of the will to will.

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Appendix 7 From Galilei’s Discorsi

The following is an extract from Galileo Galilei’s Discorsi e dimostrazioni matematiche intorno a due nuove scienze (Firenze 1638). It allows us to catch a glimpse of method as »the anticipatory project of the world, which fixes in what regard only this world can be investigated«. Mobile super planum horizontale projectum mente concipio omni secluso impedimento, jam constat ex his, quae fusius alibi dicta sunt, illius motum aequabilem et perpetuum super ipso plano futurum esse, si planum in infinitum extendatur.

In a first translation: I conceive in my mind a mobile body projected on a horizontal plane with all impediments excluded, and so it results from what elsewhere is said more diffusely that its movement over that plane would be even and perpetual, if the plane was extended into infinity.

Or, in an explicating rendering: As soon as through my methodically directed mind I conceive a mobile body that is projected on a plane in such a way that all impediments — as could come from visible or invisible nature — are excluded, and considering other assumptions and considerations that are made elsewhere, I get what my mind was asked to provide, namely an operative, perfectly calculable version of its being, namely movement, which can now be effectively defined as uniform and perpetual under the additional assumption that the plane on which it occurs is extended into infinity.

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9.1 The Meditations as First Philosophy Descartes’s Meditations are the grounding-book of modern philosophy. »Grounding-book« (Grund-Buch; libro fondamentale) means that this book lays the ground for the entire philosophical tradition of the epoch which we call modernity or, if we take the German name Neuzeit as a reference, »new time« (tempo nuovo). 180 At the same time, this book stands within the tradition initiated by Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. Considering in more depth the metaphysical scope of this book will allow us to envisage once again the methodical character of modern thinking. The title of Descartes’s book, Meditationes de prima philosophia, suggests by itself that this book is of a fundamental nature. The expression prima philosophia refers to the philosophical reflection in which philosophy lays its own ground, namely, in which it founds itself as a ground-giving knowledge. 181 In other words, the »first philosophy« is the philosophy in which the principles of philosophy itself, and therefore the highest principles in general, are sought. Therefore, there is no interrogation that is more fundamental than that of a »first philosophy«. However, the title of Descartes’s book is not simply Prima philosophia, but Meditationes de prima philosophia, that is meditations 180 The »new time« is new not only because of the novelty of its attunement and its fundamental traits, but also, and in the first place, because one of these traits is precisely the »need for novelty«. Neuzeit means: a time characterized by the need for creating the conditions for constant novelties in the domain of beings, so that »novelty« eventually becomes itself a name for the being of beings. 181 The expression prima philosophia can be traced back to Aristotle’s notion of πρώτη φιλοσοφία (prōtē philosophia); cf. a.o. Metaphysics Κ 1061 b 18–33, where Aristotle also states the difference between the »first science« and mathematics discussed above in the chapter dedicated to his determination of philosophy.

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»on« or »about« (a likely, and now to be established) first philosophy. Thus, at first sight the meditations don’t seem to be of the kind that are developed by a first philosophy when philosophy envisages the task of giving itself its own ground; rather, they appear to have first philosophy as its object. How so? If it is true that this is a groundingbook, then first philosophy cannot be a given object on which the book meditates. Instead, the first philosophy must be a result of these meditations. In other words, the meditations seem to be, in some way, a preparation for a first philosophy: they are thoughts that concern the conditions for building a first philosophy, or the characters that a philosophy must have in order for it to be truly »first«. This is strange, because such thoughts must necessarily be more fundamental than the thoughts of first philosophy itself, which seems to contradict what was said before about first philosophy as the most fundamental knowledge. Indeed, the meditations on first philosophy are more fundamental than first philosophy itself, or rather: they are themselves the true first philosophy. The meditations are not only thoughts in which philosophy founds itself by clarifying its own nature and establishing its own principles. They are — this is the decisive point — a thinking in which philosophy lays its own ground, and therefore the ground of everything, through thinking (»meditations«) itself. What does this mean? »Through [thinking]«, here, is not another way of saying »by means of [thinking]«, as if thinking were some sort of tool; rather, it literally means through, as in »going through something«. Therefore, when we say that thinking lays the ground of thinking »through itself«, this means that thinking, so to speak, travels through itself, opens, builds and follows through itself a way of thinking. In short: Thinking travels through itself in order to constitute itself as a way of thinking. However, it doesn’t do so »just like that«, but in response to a need. This need prompts thinking to pursue something, to be after something — a something which, in turn, shapes thinking for itself; that is, for its own purpose. When thinking traces a way through itself, it does so in pursuit of something. Of what? Answer: of the highest principle and the beginning of beings in whole. This highest principle and beginning of the whole is now (i. e. in the manner of interrogation that marks the »new time«) pursued through thinking, and this means that it is a principle such as can and must be found thanks to the appropriate building of a proper path of thinking through thinking itself. The building of the appropriate path (through 242 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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thinking) thus becomes what matters in the first place, namely before any particular »object« of thinking is envisaged. In a nutshell: the initial need prompts thinking to pursue itself as and in view of something, namely of itself as the site of the ground of beings in whole. Now we can see that the title Meditations on First Philosophy does not mean, in general, that »certain considerations« on first philosophy are being developed. Instead, it means that the first philosophy — the self-grounding of philosophy in its highest principles — takes place according to a way of pursuit of the ultimate ground, a way which thinking itself traces through itself so as to become what it needs to become. Thus, the ultimate ground is now such as can be identified as a result of this tracing of a way of pursuit of thinking through itself. As mentioned before, the Greek word for »way of pursuit« is methodos. Thus, the Meditations on First Philosophy are the grounding-book of modern philosophy insofar as they inaugurate methodical thinking viz. thinking as method. In fact, as we have already seen, »methodical thinking« does not mean that thinking now »uses« or »applies« certain methods in view of a given end, while before it supposedly didn’t have any methods (or at least not proper ones) and was, on the whole, less rigorous. Rather, the circumstance that the modern onset of philosophy is marked by methodical thinking means that now the tracing of a way of pursuit, and more specifically the tracing of a way of pursuit by thinking itself through thinking itself, and therefore, ultimately, the fact that thinking constitutes itself as a way of pursuit, determines the givenness of the end itself, namely, the needed, appropriate givenness of an object, and of a whole of objects, as such. Methodical thinking means: thinking itself, in constituting itself as a way of pursuit, now decides on the end, in the sense that only what appears on such a way, and according to such a way, and for the purpose of building this way is a legitimate end (i. e. an end that satisfies the initially attuning need) in the first place. More specifically still: thinking itself (that is, as we shall see, the cogitating I, or the subject), insofar as it constitutes itself as a way of pursuit, now becomes the element wherein the first philosophy, and therefore the highest principles, constitute themselves as such. Being and truth now have their place in the method: that is, in methodical thinking.

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9.2 What is Old and what is New in the Philosophy of the »New Time« We shall now indicate again and in more detail how Descartes’s foundation of modern philosophy, or of the metaphysics of the »new time«, on the one hand inherits its fundamental traits from the tradition in which it stands, while on the other it exhibits characters that distinguish it from previous philosophy, notably from Greek and from medieval thinking. Rigorously speaking, Descartes’s philosophy, precisely insofar as it is a philosophy (i. e. a metaphysical position), is the same as philosophy before and after Descartes; nonetheless, this »same« begins anew and in this new beginning philosophical thinking undergoes a fundamental transformation. Therefore, when in the following we distinguish »old« and »new« traits of Descartes’s metaphysics, we should think of this distinction as a manner of determining a transformation of the same, and not as an additive list of features that is composed partly of unchanged and partly of modified characters.

(a) What is old ▶ Descartes’s thinking remains an answer to the guiding question of philosophy, that is: »What is (the) being(ness of beings)?«, which Greek thinking (notably Plato and Aristotle) established as the only and time-and-time-again attempted metaphysical question. ▶ Answering this question implies interrogating the ultimate ground or principle of the being as such and in whole; that is, of what beings are as such and of the circumstance that beings are rather than not being. ▶ Philosophical knowledge in Descartes, in a sense, remains a preservation of alētheia; that is, of flagrancy or truth. However, while Greek thinking arises within a native experience of (the) alētheia (of physis) whose philosophical preservation (which, as such, implies that the reference to the »first shining« of alētheia has withered) is Plato’s idea of the good, alētheia ceases altogether to be the element of philosophy when Greek thinking is translated into the Roman sphere. From the moment of this translation, truth as flagrancy is, in fact, forgotten; and yet it remains a necessary, though implicit, presupposition of metaphysical interrogation. This is why, in Descartes as in 244 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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other thinkers, it always appears, in some form, as a character of true being. Notably, in Descartes we find the »alethical« trait (and therefore a »reminder« and »spark« of alētheia) in the fact that true being appears in the light of reason; more specifically, we find it where the criterion for true being (namely, for truth in the sense of certainty) is said to consist in the fact that something is perceived clearly and distinctly (in Latin: clare et distincte). 182 ▶ The withdrawal of alētheia gives way to the ever more open prevalence of will as the fundamental trait of beings as such and in whole. Will, here, is command in the already elucidated sense. 183 With Descartes’s renewal of the onset of philosophy, this fundamental trait makes a decisive step from latency into an open rule over beings; that rule attains its culmination in the metaphysics of Nietzsche, whose thinking is at the same time the culmination of the philosophical forgottenness of the truth of being itself. ▶ Truth in Descartes still has the form of medieval adaequatio intellectus ad rem (»adequation [to adequate = to bring into correspondence] of the mind to the thing as such«; Angleichung des Verstandes an das Ding; adeguamento dell’intelletto alla cosa), which is a transformation of the Greek notion of homoiōsis, that is, the establishment of a resemblance or correspondence. 184 Truth as a correspondence of mind and thing has the character of rectitudo (correctness), which in turn derives from Greek orthotes. Moreover, in the medieval context this rectitudo is, in a specific sense, certain, the character of certainty being assured by the certainty of salvation whose highest guarantor As we have seen, the preservation of alētheia in Greek philosophy actually implies a negligence of it, in the sense that alētheia is not elected as such. From this »negligent preservation« (of alētheia) we must distinguish the »preserving oblivion« of later philosophy, or, put differently, the philosophical forgottenness of the original phenomenon of alētheia: in fact, in philosophical thinking after the Greeks, including Descartes’ philosophy, alētheia is forgotten, and yet, in this forgottenness, it is, in a way, preserved, namely through the »reminders« of which we just saw an instance. A fundamental trait of philosophical thinking, which bears witness to the fact that it is a manner of preserving the reference to alētheia, is its aporetic character as noted by Aristotle. On the other hand, scientific forgottenness of alētheia might lose the capacity to preserve the reference to alētheia altogether — notably as a consequence of the »victory of method over science«, insofar as the criterion of scientificity is eventually seen in the capacity for securing the total availability of the world as computable information. 183 See above, p. 239. 184 See above, p. 201 (note 153). Homoiōsis, in turn, points back to homologia as discussed in the chapter on Heraclitus. 182

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and ultimate ground is God. As we shall see, Descartes’s notion of truth, and the modern notion of truth overall, maintains the character of certainty, albeit in a substantially transformed guise. ▶ Descartes’s philosophy also arises from and within an attunement. In other words, it has an attunement as its ἀρχή (archē). While the initial, and in a way perennial, attunement of philosophy is θαυμάζειν (thaumazein; astoundment; Erstaunen; stupore), the fundamental and prevailing attunement of the onset of modern philosophy is, however, different. ▶ As with all metaphysical thinking, Descartes’s philosophy thinks within the dual scheme of the material (or sensorial) and the immaterial (or supra-sensorial), and of body and soul, where man’s true nature, his actual self, is seen in the immaterial and non-perishable (and thus, in the metaphysical, dis-contingent) substance that is the soul, notably in the human capacities for thinking and willing. ▶ Descartes’s notion of truth necessarily maintains a reference to freedom. In Greek thinking, we explicitly encountered this reference in Plato’s simile of the cave, where the path towards alētheia is seen as a path of liberation and increasing levels of truth correspond to increasing degrees of freedom. Analogously, Descartes’s Meditations are structured as a path of liberation from an initial enchainment, notably the enchainment produced by the fallacious (uncertain) knowledge based on sense perceptions, as opposed to the infallibly certain knowledge which is accessible to the mind.

(b) What is new ▶ While truth maintains the character of certainty, this certainty is no longer ensured, in the first place, by the assurance of salvation which characterizes the reign of divine providence. Independent of the circumstance that (Christian) religion and faith persist among human beings, at the end of the Middle Ages this religious reference loses what we can call its world-shaping power, namely, its capacity for offering a dimension of truth in which the whole of sense-relations finds its harmonic shape and measure. As a consequence, man finds himself with a new freedom: he is now, in a sense, »on his own«, »thrown back on his own resources«, »left to his own devices«. This implies that he must find the certain ground of beings in whole not only on his own, but in and through his own, fully unfolded capaci246 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ties, and, in this sense, within himself. The establishment of a »resemblance« with what is given, the striving for an »adequation to things«, no matter how certain, do not satisfy the new notion of certainty. Thus, in Descartes, truth is certainty (certitudo), but the assurance of this certainty is now to be pursued entirely in and through an appropriate, path-breaking thinking, and by an act of free will. In this manner, man steps in as the guarantor of the certain ground of beings. ▶ As a consequence, thinking now takes on the methodical character, and the question of method becomes the primary concern of philosophy: first philosophy itself becomes, in an unprecedented sense, methodical. By contrast, in the Middle Ages method simply referred to the correct use of reason in order to attain and affirm explicitly, and finally to demonstrate, a revealed truth: that is, a truth that is already constituted, and has its ground, outside of thinking, namely in a God known through faith. Simply put: what was to be thought was already »there« (i. e. revealed, though not grounded in a knowledge), and thinking consisted in taking and completing the correct path for getting »there« and measuring up with the already provided truth of beings. ▶ Thinking responds to the need of attaining an absolutely certain ultimate ground by tracing through itself a way of pursuit of this truth, namely a way that assures that what is ultimately found along this path is absolute certainty. Thinking responds to this need insofar as it is in the first place attuned by doubt and tuned to doubt. Doubt is the original attunement of the philosophy of the new time. This doubt, however, has nothing to do with a generic perplexity or uncertainty. Doubt as the fundamental attunement of modern philosophy is from the outset methodical doubt, to wit, doubt tuned to certainty. In other words, it is the attunement that compels thinking to constitute itself as a method (as a way of pursuit) of certainty itself. Doubting now describes the action of thinking by which thinking rids itself of everything that hinders it from being a pure pursuit of certainty, a pure affirmation of what is absolutely certain. In other words, doubt, while dismissing (i. e. saying ›no‹ to) what does not display the character of certainty, is a positive assenting (a saying ›yes‹) to the attuning voice of truth as certitudo: because the fundamental claim is that of the certainty of thinking, therefore everything is tuned to doubt; in other words, everything is dubitable until (or up to the level at which) it proves to be absolutely indubitable, while thinking itself, in order to 247 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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constitute itself as a method of certainty, must assume the form of doubting. In short, doubting is the manner in which thinking is effectively constituted as a method of certainty. ▶ Philosophizing is a path of liberation and of the attainment of the full selfhood of man. However, this path is now a path within thinking as a way of pursuit of the ultimate ground, which is not only a ground in thinking, but also the ground of thinking. In the attainment of the ground of thinking in thinking itself, man is fully himself: that is, free. ▶ The circumstance that »being and truth have their place in the method« implies that the meaning of being (Sein; essere) undergoes a fundamental transformation. In the Greek onset of philosophy, being had the sense of physis and ousia, the self-sustained stable rising into the open, the steady uprightness in a self-showing that must ever again be obtained (wrested) from absconding and grounded as such, so that the thing which is dis-absconded stands firmly »in flagrant absconding«. On the other hand, in the Middle Ages the sense of being was that of createdness (Geschaffenheit; esser-creato), whose revealed truth was to be affirmed and confirmed through reason. Finally, with Descartes, the sense of being is that of being thought or represented. In short: »to be« is »to be represented« (Sein ist Vorgestelltsein bzw. Vorgestelltheit; essere è esser-rappresentato o essere-addotto). ▶ The very character of thinking is transformed. Its fundamental character now corresponds to the fundamental trait of being — namely, will — and, specifically, to the will to certainty as the character of will at the beginning of the new time (in fact, will requires that the conditions under which it operates be at any time certain; that is, secured for the manifold manners of commanding in which it wills itself). Consequently, thinking has as its primary trait that of assurance (Sicherung; assicurazione), namely the absolute assurance of itself as an absolutely assured method for the absolutely certain assurance of beings in whole. As we shall see, this trait of assurance informs the sense of thinking in its triple articulation of doubting, perceiving and cogitating. ▶ Together with the notion of truth, that of falseness is also transformed. In the reign of alētheia, what we call falseness was conceived as ψεῦδος (pseudos), which refers to a phenomenon that pertains to the sphere of appearing (namely, to the phenomenon of a somehow distorted appearing): in the Greek understanding, »falseness« is itself 248 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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an instance of appearing, in which, however, a thing shows as something that it is not. Thus, a thought and a proposition can be false only on the basis of the fact that appearing itself can be either a true appearance or a mere appearance, a dissimulation, a distortion, etc.; in other words, falseness has its »place« in the dimension of appearing itself. On the other hand, in the modern sense, falseness is a failure of thinking, and its proper place is within the proposition that formulates a judgement. As Descartes shows in the fourth Meditation, falseness is a result of the fact that the faculty of (free) will extends further than, and thus outreaches, the capacity for thinking. As a consequence, we are free to formulate judgements on matters on which our thinking has not attained the necessary clarity. However, when we decide to make a judgement on something that we have not clearly thought through, this judgement may well turn out to be false; that is, it can fail to correspond with the thing that is the object of the judgement itself, and thus fall short of establishing the required assurance.

9.3 Descartes’s First Principle The first and highest principle of Cartesian thinking, and therefore the principle of modern thinking as a whole, reads as follows: ego cogito, ergo sum

In his Principia Philosophiæ, Descartes himself says the following concerning this principle: Ac proinde hæc cognitio, ego cogito, ergo sum, est omnium prima & certissima, quæ cuilibet ordine philosophanti occurrat. 185 This notion, ›I cogitate, therefore I am‹, is of all notions the first and most certain, which occurs to anybody who philosophizes in a sound hmetaphysicali manner. 186

What does this proposition say? The common understanding of this proposition can be summed up in the following argument: I think 185 Principia Philosophiæ, I,7. Cf. Œuvres de Descartes. Publiées par Charles Adam & Paul Tannery. Vol. VIII. Paris: Vrin, 1996, p. 7. 186 The last part of the quotation makes clear that what it says is the highest and most certain proposition not for any thinking, but for the one that, in the manner of metaphysics, asks what beingness is and wherein the unshakeable truth of beings consists.

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and, since in order to think one needs to exist, the fact that I think is a proof of my existence. This way of reasoning is called a syllogism, 187 whose formal structure, applied to Descartes’s dictum, can be written out thus: Premise 1: To think is to exist (i. e. thinking implies existence). Premise 2: I think. Conclusion: I exist.

However, if we consider that the sentence »I cogitate, therefore I am« is supposed to be a principle, we must conclude that this cannot be its real meaning. Why? Because a principle is a ground precisely in the manner that it constitutes itself as this ground, without recurring to anything outside of it. 188 As a consequence, if our dictum is to be a A syllogism »is the inference of one proposition from two premises. […]. Each premise has one term in common with the conclusion, and one term in common with the other premise. The term that does not occur in the conclusion is called the middle term. The major premise is the premise containing the predicate of the conclusion (the major term), and the minor premise contains its subject (the minor term)« (Blackburn, S., Oxford dictionary of philosophy. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1996). If the two premises are true, the conclusion must be true as well. 188 The conclusion »I exist« seems to be obvious, and common sense is content with having »understood« that we have thus successfully proven »existence«. However, there are several reasons that make it impossible to interpret Descartes’s saying as a syllogism. To begin with, we may recall that the cogitating I is already present in cogitating itself in the highest certainty. As we discovered before, cogitating is itself the clearest and most distinct way for the cogitating I to be present. Thus, deriving an existence from the »I cogitate« would only lead from a clear and assured notion to a less distinct notion of »existence«. Moreover, what it means to exist and to think becomes clear and is originally established only in the saying »I cogitate, therefore I am«. As a consequence, the sentence »anyone who cogitates, exists« can never serve as a »major premise« and thus as a ground for the supposed conclusion »I cogitate, therefore I am«. (In other words, the sentence »anyone who cogitates, exists« is undetermined as long as it has not obtained a determined sense thanks to the »I cogitate, therefore I am«.) In fact, the »I cogitate« already includes the »I am« in its indubitable certainty. The cogitation is the ground of everything in that it implies that the one who represents is himself assuredly represented in the representation. In other words: in the indubitable certainty of the »I cogitate« — there the I finds the certainty of his being. This suggests the tone in which we need to hear the Cartesian saying. Not: »I think, and from there I derive by logical inference that I certainly am«, but rather: »I cogitate — and here I find what my being consists in and that I exist (namely as the cogitating being)«. Or again: »I cogitate — and this is what my certain, unshakeable being consists in; here is where, and how, I find myself as the needed indubitable ground and measure of all being«. 187

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principle, it cannot take for granted what existing and cogitating means; in other words, it cannot operate with existing and cogitating as premises. On the contrary, it must itself set (or posit; setzen; porre) the meaning of these terms; more precisely: it must itself be this setting (positing). We will need to clarify what cogitating means, which, in turn, will allow us to see in what sense the cogito constitutes itself as the very sense of being. Provisionally, we can say that the dictum ego cogito, ergo sum is to be read as follows: I cogitate — and this, as I realize while I am cogitating, is that in which my being (namely, that being which is from the outset claimed to function as an absolutely certain ground, and which, in the response to this claim, I recognize as mine) consists.

This sentence is the positing of man as the ground of himself in the act (and as the act) of grounding the beingness of beings as such and in whole. It implies that man knows himself as the being whose being, which clearly and distinctly perceives itself as an act of cogitating, is the most certain, and the ground of all certainty. Man, retraced to the ego cogito, becomes the ground and the measure, set by man himself, for all truth — that is, certainty — of beings. Any other way of laying a ground of beings is, so to speak, prohibited. As the ground for all certainty, man has to underlie all beings as such. He constitutes all beings (not »materially«, not »factually«, but) in their absolutely certain beingness (i. e., in what they are, and in that they are). In other words, man is now the subiectum in an eminent sense: his being obtains the character of subjectivity; as mentioned before, sub-iectum (from Latin sub, under, and iacere, to throw) literally means: »that which is thrown under«, hence »that which lies under«, »that which underlies« (das [Daruntergeworfene und also] Darunter-und-zugrunde-Liegende; il [»soggettato« e dunque] soggiacente). Man had never been »the subject« before, if we take this word in a rigorous sense. In fact, in medieval thinking, any being, including man, was seen as a subiectum, namely as something that, by virtue of its having been created, »already lies there« and, in this sense, underlies, where this lying, however, does not have the specifically modern sense of the ground-giving subject: in the latter sense, only modern man, the cogitating being, is a subject. 251 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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The things that man’s cogitating posits, projects, and conceives for itself and with respect to itself in a certain and masterable beingness (namely, in an objectivity), in their turn become objects. Obiectum (cf. Latin ob, »towards, against«) literally means »that which is thrown against«, and, as such, lies in front of the cogitating I. In this case, the object is what is placed in an opposition that faces (i. e., is directed towards) that which has placed it, namely the subject. An object is such on the ground of a subject that places it opposite to itself and relatively to itself; that is, as standing against itself (cf. the German translation of Latin obiectum, namely Gegen-stand).

9.4 What Does »to Cogitate« Mean? In order to give a sufficient interpretation of the first principle of Cartesian thinking we need to gain a reliable understanding of the meaning of »cogitating«. Descartes himself distinguishes (see the third Meditation) between different forms or manners of cogitation. Here, however, we will not examine these different forms, but rather indicate three fundamental traits that characterize all forms of cogitating. These three traits are: ▶ ▶ ▶

(cogitating as) perceiving (cogitating as) doubting (cogitating as) »I cogitate myself cogitating«

(i)

Cogitating as perceiving (percipere)

Instead of saying cogitare (»to cogitate«) Descartes often says percipere, which can be translated as »to perceive«. However, »perceiving« here does not mean: I sense something that appears from itself and by itself and grasp it in this appearance. Rather, »to cogitate« now has a more »active« character and means »to take possession«, »to seize«, »to capture« (Latin capere). This implies that the cogitating I firmly places the envisaged thing in front of itself, relative to itself and for itself. When I cogitate, I anticipate the appearing of the thing in that I posit that appearing as firmly oriented towards myself and thus establish the thing’s steady presence relative to myself in order to place it at my secure disposal. Thus, »to perceive« (and more particularly, to 252 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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perceive clearly and distinctly) means: to place something in front of me so as to have it at my secure disposal. »Secure disposal«, here, means that I have full (per-vasive, i. e. thorough) control of it in its (clear) thatness and (distinct) whatness, so that I possess it as such in a complete availability (for inspection, manipulation, etc.) and computability. As a result of this interpretation, we translate cogitare as »to re-present« and cogitatio as »re-presentation« (Vor-stellung; rappresentazione o adduzione). Thus, »I represent« literally means: I establish something in front of me in a steady presence (i. e., I »present« it) which is relative to me (»re-«). Cogitation means representation both in the sense of the act of representing and in the sense of that which is represented. Note that, in addition to »cogitation« and »perception«, Descartes also uses the word »idea«. The »beheld look« in which something becomes visible as the being that it is, now has the form of perceived perception or cogitated cogitation. We can at this point usefully consider the literal meaning of »to cogitate«, which is a loanword from Latin cogitare. The latter is a contraction of co-agitare, which, in turn, comes (namely, as a socalled »frequentative form«) from co-agere. Co-agere literally means »to bring, push, urge, drive (agere) together (cum)«. Thus, there is a sense of urging something, of compressing it so as to bring it into a firmly established position. This implies that a force is applied, namely the force performing the process of placing the thing in front of me so as to let it abide at my secure disposal. As we can see, in this modality of thinking there is no more »letting something appear, by itself and from itself, as itself« thanks to an original relation to physis and alētheia as the dimension for all appearing. Now there is a forcing into appearing (namely, into a clear and distinct appearing), and this appearing consists in »staying put« in absolute certainty; that is, in being, at any given time, thoroughly masterable and controllable in a computation.

(ii) Cogitating as doubting (dubitare) Now we know that something that is cogitated is steadily, firmly and assuredly posited or put »there« for man as something he can master in the domain of his willing, disposing and acting. In fact, what is cogitated is available in an unequivocal, clearly defined way which leaves no space for any doubt or reservation. According to the initial 253 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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need (the need of an absolutely unshakeable groundedness), this presence must involve no trace of doubt or uncertainty; everything must be secured and assured in an absolutely certain manner. »Cogitating« therefore responds to the primary necessity that what is set and stabilised in an availability be free from any kind of doubt. Only what is stands on an indubitable ground and is itself completely free from all doubts can be admitted as a being. Thus, »to cogitate« means: to arrange and to calculate everything in advance in such a way that any doubt is eliminated before that thing is admitted to being something and in order for it to be (in the required sense of »being«) in the first place. In other words, »cogitating« implies a »polishing« of the element of being: the latter must be cleared from any doubt, in such a way that we obtain the doubtless givenness (i. e. »representedness«) of things, namely the certain and doubtless objective abiding that is the only acceptable form of being. Thus, doubting is not a generally doubtful attitude, but the very path and manner by which doubtlessness is achieved. Any cogitating is essentially an act of doubting, because any cogitating is an answer to the need of the initial I-grounded certainty, and therefore has in view this doubtlessness. In short, doubting is functional to obtaining a doubtlessly certain knowledge about things. Doubt itself is the fundamental attunement of modern thinking.

(iii) Cogitating as »I cogitate myself cogitating« (cogito me cogitare) or as self-assuring assurance In order to understand the third trait of cogitating we need to see that any »I cogitate« is always and necessarily an »I cogitate myself cogitating«. However, since the latter always cogitates something, namely »the cogitated« (viz. that which is eventually represented), the full meaning of »I cogitate« is »I cogitate myself cogitating (i. e. as I cogitate) the cogitated« (cogito me cogitare cogitatum). As we know, the fundamental trait of cogitating consists in making the cogitated available by putting it securely in front of the one who cogitates. Thus, the one who cogitates acquires a mastership and control over what is cogitated: he places it at his disposal and availability. The one who cogitates thus calls to account (zieht zur Rechenschaft; chiede conto a) what is represented for the purpose of further representing; that is, in order to assure the likelihood of a 254 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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further step in this computational representation. This representation is everywhere willed as assuring and aims at establishing beings in whole as that which is secured for any intent man may pursue within this assurance. In this sense we can say that cogitating proceeds against things, »feeding« them as certain »data« to the ongoing computational representation. A calculator or computer is a machine that implements precisely this kind of feeding, which requires that things be made available in an unequivocal and certain form. What is pursued in the cogitation is that anything be in any moment and univocally accountable (i. e. such that one can count with it and count on it while carrying out a computation) for the sake of the ultimate will of this cogitating itself. Cogitating implies assurance as indubitable security and availability of things as such in whole. In other words, everything is insofar as it is assured for a further assurance. However, the cogitating (re-presenting) does not only assure the things that are cogitated, but also, and necessarily, the one who cogitates. How so? In fact, each representing at the same time represents me as the one who represents, even though this representation is different from the representation of the represented thing. In the act of cogitating, the cogitating I performs, so to speak, a co-representation (Mit-Vorstellung; co-adduzione) which comprises the cogitated and the cogitator himself; in this co-representation both the cogitated and the cogitator are assured in their »cogitative« relation. Thus, in any cogitating the one who cogitates »is in the picture«, too. We can see this if we consider the following: »placing in front« is always, in itself, a placing in front of me; »assuring a mastership« is always, in itself, an assurance to me. In other words, the »of me« and »to me« is part of the cogitation as such! In order to understand what this means, let us consider the example of the cogitation of a table: »I cogitate this table« means that I represent the table, and, in so doing, I also (co-)represent myself as the one who is representing it. However, this does not mean that the cogitator, to wit, the »I«, becomes an object in the same way as the represented thing. In other words, the representation of the cogitating I is not a »thematic« one (I don’t turn to the table and at the same time to myself, but »only« to the table); the representation takes place without me »picturing« myself in my cogitating the table. (On the other hand, such »picturing« is what the philosophical regard performs as it envisages the act of cogitation as a whole). Rather, the cogitating I is represented to itself as that relative to which, or with 255 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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respect to which, or back (»re-«) to which the represented object is represented. This manner of representation is different from the representation of the object, but it is not less of a representation and an assurance. In positing an object of representation I necessarily also posit myself as that with respect to which the object is an object in the first place. From this example we derive a deeper understanding of the representation: each human representing also represents itself, that is: each assuring subject-object-relation is subjectively re-assured. It follows that each cogitating I is, in the very act of cogitation, assured to itself, and thus certain of itself, and thus placed in security. In other words, the cogitating I places the cogitation of the cogitated on the firm and secure basis of the cogitating I itself. 189 As the cogitating I thus assures itself of itself, it lays the ground — in other words, it is the underlying condition — for the certain representation of things. There could be no representation such as the need of certainty requires if, while the representation is taking place, the cogitating I were not at the same time positing itself as the certain and assured reference for the representation. Another way of saying this is the following: human consciousness is now essentially and explicitly a self-consciousness. Self-consciousness (in the outlined, non-thematic sense) is the necessary structure of any consciousness in the specifically modern meaning of this word. The word of this self-consciousness is: ego cogito.

9.5 The Cogitating I as Subiectum The insight into the self-assuring character of any cogitating assurance of cogitated objects implies that the human self, i. e. man in his biding (der Mensch in seinem Wesen; l’uomo nel suo stanziarsi), not only lays the ground, but in fact is itself the ground for all representation; in other words, the human self bides as the sub-iectum, which means that there is no representation without the simultaneous, ground-laying self-representation of the representing self. In this manner the relation to the representing self, and this self as such, become the yardstick and measure for any representation or perception, which consequently obtains the character of making objects as 189

The cogitating subject assures itself by positing itself on itself.

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such available for man. Man is now the measure of things insofar as they abide in, and through, a representation. 190 The elucidated structure of cogitating does not only concern thinking, knowing, willing, perceiving, and imagining, but also feeling. In fact, all manners of being of man are enacted according to the same scheme of a self-positing position, or a self-ascertaining placing as certain; in other words: they are all instances of the same self-consciousness. 191 As a consequence, »feeling« means that I feel myself feeling something, thus making this something available subjectively as an object for my feeling. Feeling, which is clearly not a manner of thinking, is however a form of cogitating; to feel is, so to speak, to »cogitate feelingly«. By laying a ground for representation, man himself constitutes the source of the disabscondedness of beings, thus establishing (himself in the form of the ego cogito as) the primary dimension of sense. The representation as a whole, namely in its full structure and with its ground in the ego, places itself in openness and flagrancy, which it occupies and measures without minding or grounding it as such. 192 The representation itself is the subject for all being and truth; the cogitating I functions as the ultimately certain ground — even as the ground of the represented highest being, which is represented as a necessary ground. The cogitating self, i. e. the human being in his taking on subjective cogitation, is thus the subject »in« the subject that is subjective cogitation viz. representation. Only now, and in this manner, the human being becomes what he has never been before, namely »the subject«. The subjective character of the

190 This character is in no way implied in, and therefore must not be conflated with, the content of Protagoras’s dictum »Man is the measure of all things«. In fact, Protagoras thinks within the experience of being as physis, so that beings appear (or arise) by themselves, though within the limits (and, in this sense, according to the measure) of human perception. 191 In his Principia Philosophiae (I, 9) Descartes writes: »By the name of ›cogitatio‹ I understand everything that for us, who are at the same time conscious of ourselves, occurs in us, insofar we have a consciousness of it in us. And thus not only knowing, willing, imagining, but also feeling is here the same as that which we call ›to cogitate‹«. 192 The natural light (lumen naturale) of cogitating not only does not mind flagrancy, but in fact covers it with itself, insofar as that light is, in its turn, the evidence of the beingness of beings. Ever since the »subjugation« (to subjugate = to bring under the yoke) of alētheia by the idea of ideas, the light of truth has the limited scope of the clarity of beings as such.

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human being, as conceived by Descartes at the outset of modern thinking, 193 establishes a new manner of man’s being. Thus, what lies at the ground of everything as the highest, ultimate principle is the self-cogitating cogitation; to wit, the cogitation which has its absolutely certain ground in the cogitating I. Man himself, in his being, is called to be a subject in this subjectivity; that is, to sustain »by and with himself« the first principle which is subjective cogitation. In this manner, man is the subject for the representation of all other beings, as the certainty of the ego cogito becomes the truth and unshakable ground of everything. From the first principle, and only from here, we can derive the sense of being and truth, but also the being of man as the representing being. The self-assured underlying ground of all being is created by the »reflexive union« of the cogitation and the one who cogitates himself within the cogitation. As soon as the »I« becomes the subject, man becomes himself: he realizes his full being. Subjectivity is thus the beingness in which the human being finally rises to his freedom. Descartes’s first principle traces a path towards the fulfilment of the humanity of the human being, who, by virtue of methodical doubt, attains his true self. An analogous path was depicted in Plato’s myth of the cave as the path from shadows to ideas, on which the »revolution of the whole soul« and the acquisition of the habit of bearing the brightest »eyeing« of the good is completed. While in Plato the severing of the bonds »by physis« is the initial condition for the freeing of those who are imprisoned from birth, and the »erotic« light of ideas is the element in which actual freedom may be attained, in Descartes the element in which a human being becomes free is the subjectivity of the subject and its »natural light«. Descartes’s most fundamental saying — ego cogito, ergo sum — can finally be interpreted thus: »Cogitation, and therefore the cogitating I — this is the certain sub-iectum of all being (which consists in being cogitated), and insofar as I become the subject of this sub-iectum, offering my being for its grounding, I am at the fullest of my being: that is, myself.« However, not only my own being is determined by such cogitating or representing; rather, this representing decides on the presence of anything that is represented; that is, on its being or abiding: the Instead of modern thinking we can also say »newtimely thinking« (neuzeitliches Denken; pensiero del tempo nuovo o pensiero »temponovista«).

193

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representing I decides on the being of beings by setting in advance the measure for their being in its representation. This act of representing, which always also represents itself, posits being as objective »representedness« (Vorgestelltheit; essere rappresentato) and truth as certainty. Thus, man’s representedness in the representation forms the certain and indubitable ground for the being in whole. The saying »I cogitate — I am« posits the cogitation itself as subiectum, in which the one who represents and can say »I« is a subject in an eminent sense, namely the subject within the claiming principle of subjectity. Subjectivity thus becomes the inaugural principle of newtimely philosophy. Once we have grasped the scope of the »I cogitate — I am«, we can understand in what sense Descartes distinguishes two categories of finite beings: cogitating being (res cogitans)

extended being (res extensa)

The only cogitating being is man, namely the cogitating I. All other beings, animated or not, living or not, are extended beings (ausgedehntes Seiendes; indoli estese). The human body, too, is a res extensa. »Extension«, here, means the space, or dimension, of certain calculability, in which the being of any represented being consists. Extended beings belong to this dimension of assured calculability, where they are entirely graspable in a univocal representation. A graphic transposition of this dimension is the so-called Cartesian coordinate system, a space in which anything that is can be represented by a set of coordinates {x, y}. On the plane defined by the Cartesian axes, we can represent any extended being and dispose of it in this computed and computable form. In other words, in this system we have the entire world at our disposal in a certain computability. How is the essence of truth established in the domain of cogitation? Truth from the outset has the character of certainty and assurance: it is the »will to certainty« that guides the path of doubting which eventually finds the ego cogito as its already operating and indubitable ground. Thus, truth now belongs to the domain of indubitable masterability (Beherrschbarkeit; dominabilità) and assuredness. Together with the change in the notion of truth there is a change in the notion of being. The decisive being-character of beings is no longer found in their being created (by God as the highest of beings) as was the case in the thinking of the Middle Ages; rather, this beingcharacter is now determined on the basis of subjectivity and certainty. 259 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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»Being« now means: representedness in the manner of the aboveclarified certainty. The truth of beings is thus based on the principle ego cogito, ergo sum; that is, on subjectivity as self-representing representation. Descartes’s saying is a principle in that it posits itself on itself and, while doing so, posits the notions of which it consists, namely those of cogitating and — as a consequence — of being. The preceding analysis seems to suggest that in Descartes the cogitating I has taken the place of the highest being, so that, in a sense, the ego has taken the place of God. However, this is not the case. As Descartes shows in his Meditations, the cogitating I exists because of, and thanks to, God as the highest being: the I is a finite and dependent being in that it depends on the infinite being »God«, whose idea the I finds within himself as a necessary presupposition of himself. However, if we consider the status of God in medieval thinking, notably in Scholasticism, we are justified in saying that God is now in some sense disempowered, in that he no longer sets the tone of being and truth, and of the selfhood of man, but is, in a sense, debased to a presupposition which the absolutely certain subject finds within itself and needs to assert for its (the subject’s) own sake. What sets the tone for truth and being is now the cogitating I in its selfassured certainty. However, this tone itself does not have its origin in the human being, or in the cogitating I. According to our reconstruction, what calls for the foundation of the being as such and in whole in the modern subject is in the first place the bottomlessness in which metaphysical thinking has unfolded ever since its egression from the element of physis.

9.6 Recapitulation of Descartes’s Metaphysical Position In what follows we can sum up the fundamental traits of Descartes’s philosophy by stating how his thinking answers the four questions which define any metaphysical position. 194

This account follows the one presented in Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche II. Pfullingen: Neske, 51989, p. 168 sqq.

194

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1)

How is man himself and how does he know himself? In Descartes’s first principle, man becomes the subject and the underlying ground for any representation. Everything must be placed on this ground in order to have a consistency and a stable abiding, and thus be true. Being placed before the cogitating I (i. e. the subject) in an assured position of masterability, every cogitated, or represented, thing becomes an object relative to the subject itself. It follows that objectivity as such is based on subjectivity (hence there is no such thing as »objectivity in itself« or »brute objectivity«). Objectivity is being represented in an »objecting« cogitation. Within the sphere of subjectivity, man is the master of his own self-assurance. In his self-assured being, he has no restrictions in making available to himself the sphere of represented objects: he is entirely free in the full unfolding of his (subjective) powers.

2)

How is the being of beings (i. e. beingness) determined? Beingness means to be represented in the representation of the representing subject. This does not imply that, according to Descartes, beings are a mere »product« of human thinking or imagination. Beings are indeed of themselves and by themselves. However, the dimension in which beings present themselves and become securely accessible to man, the dimension in which beings appear as such — in short, the being of beings — is »representedness«.

3)

How is the essence of truth determined? In the domain of metaphysics, the essence of truth lies in the correspondence (adæquatio) of knowledge and things (i. e. being). In other words, truth is correctness. However, this truth now acquires a new sense and a unique character as a consequence of the fact that both the understanding of being and the nature of knowledge has changed. In fact, the sphere of Cartesian cogitation recognizes and allows as a knowledge only what is represented without any doubt by the subject and can thus be recomputed at will, namely at any time and under any circumstance. Only that which, due to this integral computability, is completely and assuredly available »for all intents and purposes«, is seen to be effective, (because in a certain way) knowable, and (eventually) known. 261 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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Knowing directs itself towards things or beings; however, »a being« is only that of which the subject can be certain. As a consequence, the true is only that which is certain and assured. Truth is certainty, in which the subject itself is in the first place certain of itself. The yardstick for correctness is absolute certainty, and I myself must be assured in the directedness of my cogitating towards that which is certain. In fact, I must be this directedness, namely the certain path to certainty. Thus, truth as correctness obtains a distinctly methodical character. Correctness, namely the establishment of a correspondence or accordance, now means enacting a method which ensures that something be known in certainty. When I know something with absolute certainly, I know it correctly; that is, I have grasped what is expected as its truth. »Method«, in the specific newtimely sense, is the conquering advance towards beings which secures them as objects for the subject. Hence, adequation is correct — that is, certain and self-ascertained — objectivization. Compared to alētheia, this form of truth is not a dimension that bides from itself and by itself; rather, it is based on the cogitating I in the form of »light« shed by the I itself. Whatever falls in this light, is certain and therefore masterable. In its specific methodical character, truth obtains the tone of a conquest. 4)

In what manner does man give and take the measure of the truth of being? By virtue of his being (namely, sustaining with his powers) the subject, or subjective ground, man represents beings in their truth as certainty, and thus disposes of them. In this manner he provides the measure for the true beingness of all beings, deciding what can and cannot be considered as a being. Thanks to this measure-giving power, the representing subject has no limits, restrictions, boundaries to itself and to its conquering advance towards things. Having complete freedom of action without any limits (or rather, within the limitless boundaries of subjectivity), man is placed in the middle of things and set on a path towards becoming what, in principle, he already is, namely the conqueror and master of the entire earth.

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Appendix 8 From Descartes’s Meditations

Descartes’s First Meditation, entitled De iis quae in dubium revocari possunt (»Concerning what can be called into doubt«) begins as follows: 195 [1.] Animadverti jam ante aliquot annos quàm multa, ineunte aetate, falsa pro veris admiserim, & quàm dubia sint quaecunque istis postea superextruxi, ac proinde funditus omnia semel in vitâ esse evertenda, atque a primis fundamentis denuo inchoandum, si quid aliquando firmum & mansurum cupiam in scientiis stabi-

[1.] Already some years ago I have noticed 196 how many false things I, going into my youth, had admitted as true and how dubious were whatever things I have afterwards built upon them, and therefore that once in my life all things are fundamentally [from the ground up and in whole] to be demolished [upset] 197 and that I have

195 The English translation is quoted from René Descartes, Meditationes de prima Philosophia / Meditations on First Philosophy. A Bilingual Edition. Introduced, edited, translated and indexed by George Heffernan. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1990, p. 87–88. Additions in square brackets are mine. 196 »I have noticed« (animadverti): This refers to awareness kindled by the principle of discontingency. As the initial »beam« of the principle, which attains, awakens and pre-engages the thinking of a thinker, is unique, the occasion in which the thinker himself finally embraces the instant of his having been pledged to the belongingness to this principle, is also unique (semel in vita »once in [my] life«). Due to the uniqueness of the instant of the attuning call which initiates thinking, we can say that — as Heidegger formulates — »each thinker thinks only one unique thought«. Incidentally, Heidegger’s Beiträge zur Philosophie (Vom Ereignis), in which his own »only thought«, in a sense, comes to fruition, open with the following dictum: »Hier wird das in langer Zögerung Verhaltene andeutend festgehalten als Richtscheit einer Ausgestaltung« »What has been withheld in a long hesitation is here retained [in writing] in a first hint, hso as to providei a gauge for hfuturei circumstantial development« (Martin Heidegger, Beiträge zur Philosophie (Vom Ereignis). Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1989, p. XVII). 197 »… all things are fundamentally to be demolished« [funditus omnia … esse evertenda]: Where so far there were just beings, now beings as such and in whole appear. And how do they appear? Answer: as fundamentally dubitable, and therefore in need of being finally and for the first time established on solid ground. Thus, the light in which the (yet to be found and grounded) principle lets all beings appear calls for the

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Appendix 8: From Descartes’s Meditations lire; sed ingens opus esse videbatur, eamque aetatem expectabam, quae foret tam matura, ut capessendis disciplinis aptior nulla sequeretur. Quare tamdiu cunctatus sum ut deinceps essem in culpâ, si quod temporis superest ad agendum, deliberando consumerem. Opportune igitur hodie mentem curis omnibus exsolvi, securum mihi otium procuravi, solus secedo, seriò tandem & libere generali huic mearum opinionum eversioni vacabo.

[2.] Ad hoc autem non erit necesse, ut omnes esse falsas ostendam, quod nunquam fortassis assequi possem; sed quia jam ratio persuadet, non minus accurate ab iis quae non plane certa sunt atque indubitata, quàm ab aperte falsis assensionem esse cohi-

to begin again from the first foundations if I were to desire ever to stabilise [establish] something firm and lasting in the sciences. But the task seemed to be a huge one, and I waited for that age which would be so mature that none more fit for the disciplines to be pursued would follow. Thus I have delayed so long that I would now be at fault if by deliberating [pondering] 198 I were to consume that time which remains for what is to be done. Today then I have opportunely rid the mind of all cares and I have procured for myself secure leisure, 199 I am withdrawing alone and I shall at last devote myself seriously and freely to this general demolition of my opinions. 200 [2.] Yet to do this it will not be necessary that I would show that all my opinions are false, which I could perhaps never achieve anyway. Because reason already persuades me that assent is to be withheld no less accurately 201 from the opinions that are

»demolition« of their previous manner of being, as well as of the previous relation of man to beings; in other words, that light (as it were, the »pre-flagrancy« of the ego cogito) demands the explicit abolishing of the already collapsed contingency and the reconstruction of the being in whole on the new basis of the »I think«. 198 Namely, by deliberating or pondering whether or not I should take the ineludible step, or leap, into the yet ungrounded principle of discontingency. 199 See above, p. 22, the discussion of σχολή as the time for thinking. 200 Opinio (»opinion, view«) is the Latin word for what the Greeks call δόξα (doxa), i. e. the way in which we see things at first sight, that is with contingency firmly in place. In Parmenides’s poem (see fragment B 1, verse 30), βροτῶν δόξας (brotōn doxas) are »the opinions of mortals, which do not have within them πίστις ἀληθής (pistis alēthēs), true reliability«; these opinions are the mutable views of the »indistinct crowd« (see above, p. 148 sq.). Where Parmenides seeks »true reliability«, namely what can be trusted based on its »physical« disabsconding, Descartes strives for the absolute certainty of what is »clearly and distinctly perceived« within methodical thinking. 201 »Accurate doubting« is another name for »rigorous methodical thinking«. Note that Latin dubium comes from duo »two« and thus indicates the oscillation between different and possibly contrary thoughts, which again brings to mind the condition of Parmenides’s »indistinct crowd«, namely those who are without judgement and admit

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Appendix 8: From Descartes’s Meditations bendam, satis erit ad omnes rejiciendas, si aliquam rationem dubitandi in unâquâque reperero. Nec ideo etiam singulae erunt percurrendae, quod operis esset infiniti; sed quia, suffossis fundamentis, quidquid iis superaedificatum est sponte collabitur, aggrediar statim ipsa principia, quibus illud omne quod olim credidi nitebatur.

[3.] Nempe quidquid hactenus ut maxime verum admisi, vel a sensibus, vel per sensus accepi; hos autem interdum fallere deprehendi, ac prudentiae est nunquam illis plane confidere qui nos vel semel deceperunt.

not fully certain and indubitable than from the ones that are overtly false, rather will it suffice to reject all my opinions if I shall have found any reason for doubting in each one. And therefore nor will these opinions have to be gone through individually, which would be an infinite task. But because — the foundations having been undermined — whatever has been built upon them will collapse spontaneously, I will go right for those principles upon which rested all that which I have once believed. [3.] Namely, whatever I have admitted up until now as maximally true I have accepted from the senses or through the senses. 202 Yet I have found that these senses sometimes deceive me, and it is a matter of prudence never to confide completely in those who have deceived us even once.

both being and nonbeing. Doubting consists in obeying the command of the ultimate distinctness that speaks in the subjective principle; such obeying, in turn, persistently detects any indistinctness, and endures it in an effort to accurately purge it, up to the point in which, thanks to the thus achieved cleansing (Latin putare) of what is (more) distinct, the indistinctness is overcome and finally gives way to a purified, pure distinctness, whose contents are, in turn, distinct and gathered in distinctness, i. e. computed and computable. 202 Descartes shares with the Platonic tradition the metaphysical understanding of contingency: in this tradition, what our phenomenological reconstruction of philosophical principles indicates with the diagnostic name »contingency« is largely conflated with sense perception and the opinions that are derived from it, viz. any knowledge based on the senses, as opposed to the »pure« knowledge of νοῦς (nous), or, in Descartes, ratio (»reason«). While in Plato the visibility of a thing obfuscates the invisible idea that offers the view of the thing as such (i. e. insofar as it is what it is), in Descartes the senses themselves are deceptive, i. e. subject to give rise to false views and propositions, where »false« means: in itself vacillating and »fallen«, and therefore such as to cause those who rely on such views to fall in their turn. While Greek thinking attempts to overcome entanglement in dissimulated ideas so as to take a sufficient stance in and vis-à-vis physis, modern thinking sets out to eliminate any falseness that encumbers the absolute subject, thus preventing it from looming as the unshakeable ground of the being in whole.

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10. Leibniz

10.1 Leibniz’s Answer to the Guiding Question of Philosophy The main reference for our study of Leibniz’s metaphysics will be two short writings entitled, respectively, Monadologie (or Principes de la Philosophie) and Principes de la Nature et de la Grace fondés en Raison (Principles of Nature and Grace Based on Reason), both written in 1714. 203 The latter title shows clearly that we are in a modern metaphysical setting — a setting to whose establishment this work itself contributes. In »nature« we hear the echo of physis; that is, the being as such and in whole, while »grace« reminds us of the highest being that is the principle of nature: namely, the ground of the beingness of beings in its two traits (i. e. whatness and thatness). However, as the remaining words of the title indicate, both the being and its ground rest on principles which are, in turn, based on reason, which brings us back to the characterization of modern philosophy as subjectivism. In order to get a rough measure of the distance between this metaphysical position and the (not yet metaphysical) thinking of Heraclitus, we can recall the dimension of the Logos, i. e. the gathering which attunes man so that the logos of the human soul — namely that which in modern terms we call »reason« — may in its turn tune in to it. This said, we must, however, keep in mind that, despite the distance (in terms of the respective experience of being) between the Greek onset of thinking and the metaphysics of Descartes, Leibniz or Nietzsche, the thinking of these philosophers remains within that onset and derives from it. Where Plato’s answer to the guiding question of philosophy is: idea, Leibniz’s answer to this same question reads: the beingness of 203 Both texts were originally written in French. The French text is quoted after the bilingual edition G. W. Leibniz, Vernunftprinzipien der Natur und der Gnade. Monadologie. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 1982.

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beings is the monad. According to Leibniz, the beingness of beings consists in their monadic constitution. Hence, we must ask: what is a monad, what are its fundamental traits? We can once again begin the elucidation of this notion by looking at the word and its primary meaning. Leibniz himself gives us an indication at the beginning of his Principes de la Nature et de la Grace (hereafter P.): »Monas est un mot grec, qui signifie l’unité ou ce qui est un« (»Monas is a Greek word, which indicates unity or that which is one«; P., § 1). In fact, Greek μονάς (monas) comes from μόνος (monos), which means one, unique, only, alone, by oneself. At the beginning of the Monadology (hereafter M.), Leibniz explains: »La Monade dont nous parlerons ici, n’est autre chose, qu’une substance simple, qui entre dans les composés; simple, c’est à dire, sans parties« (»The monad which we will discuss here is nothing other than a simple substance which enters into composites [into composite substances]. Simple means without parts«; M., § 1). Thus, the notion of monad, in turn, refers to the notion of substance. What, however, is a substance and what kinds of substances are there? Again, the Principes provide an indication: La substance est un être capable d’action. Elle est simple ou composée. La substance simple est celle qui n’a point de parties. La composée est l’assemblage des substances simples, ou des monades. Monas est un mot grec qui signifie l’unité, ou ce qui est un. Les composés, ou les corps, sont des multitudes; et les substances simples, les vies, les âmes, les esprits sont des unités. Et il faut bien qu’il y ait des substances simples partout, parce que sans les simples il n’y aurait point de composés; et par conséquent toute la nature est pleine de vie. Substance is a being capable of action. It is simple or composite. The simple substance is one that does not have parts. The composite substance is the assembly of simple substances, or monads. Monas is a Greek word, which indicates unity or that which is one. Composites, or bodies, are multitudes [multiplicities]; and simple substances, that is, lives, souls, minds, are unities [ones]. And there have to be simple substances everywhere, because without them there would be no composites. As a consequence, the whole of nature is full of life. (P., § 1)

Substance comes from Latin substantia, which, in turn, comes from the verb sub-stare, to stay under, to underlie. Substantia is the Latin transposition of Greek ὑπόστασις (hypostasis) which means the same as ousia, beingness. A substance is what underlies, in other words, it is what already stays or lies there (and is by us somehow understood) in our encounter with beings. Thus, the word substance 267 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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captures anything that, in some way or another, »is there«: that is, it captures beings as such and in whole, albeit on a level that still lacks a metaphysical determination. The only determination for something to be a substance is that its »already lying there« must be an active or actual lying; that is, it must have the capacity to act, the capacity for action. Where there is action, there is life; where there is life, there is a cosmos. Two kinds of substance are distinguished: simple and composite. Simple substances are monads (ones, unities), composite substances are bodies (corps). Both monads and bodies are beings, and each of them has its specific form of action. The distinction between simple and composite is not merely quantitative (1 vs. [1 + n]), but a distinction in kind. It is the distinction between the material world, whose action is movement, and the immaterial world, whose action consists in pursuing ends. At this point, a question must arise: how can composites — that is, assemblies of monads — be different in kind from those things of which they are constituted; that is, the monads themselves? In other words: how can the assembly of substances that are not bodies bring about a substance that is a body? It seems that, no matter how we put together non-bodies, and no matter how many of them we put together, the result of this putting together can surely never be a body. Yet, this is precisely what Leibniz is claiming: »The composite substance is the assembly of simple substances, or monads.« 204 Are we missing something? Clearly yes! Our difficulty is the result of the fact that, when we read »assembly of simple substances«, we think of the result of this assembly, namely a body, and therefore look upon the simple substances that compose it as being bodies themselves. Our thinking refuses to change over from composite to simple and thereby switch from body to non-body. What if, however, we consider the following: composites are multitudes, and on the level of composites, or bodies, we can only find bodies; in other words, on the level of multiplicities we only find multiplicities, and never what is necessarily that of which a multiplicity consists as such, namely,

204 A composite substance is the assembly of simple substances; however, by dividing a composite substance in its parts, or components, one never obtains a simple substance; in other words: what has no parts can never be a part, or a component, of a composite substance. Hence, the assembly of monads and the composition of composites are two different phenomena.

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ones: 205 no body can ever be a one, hence, a body can ultimately not be composed of bodies, but must necessarily consist of what is not a body. Put differently: the world cannot consist merely of bodies, because, no matter how small and »elementary« a body may be, it is still (namely, by definition, or rather by metaphysical determination) a multiplicity: that is, it has parts! Moreover, given that, as a consequence, a body must consist in what is not a body, a body cannot consist of just one non-body (i. e. of one monad), because then that body would itself be one, and therefore not be a body. In short: where there are bodies, there must be non-bodies; without non-bodies, no material world. Is all of this just a logical gimmick? Or is it possibly the simplest manner in which our sense for dis-contingency can awaken (although this does not mean by any stretch that we are out of the cave yet)? In fact, in order for this native knowledge of ours to awaken, it suffices that we acknowledge this: while bodies necessarily consist of ones (i. e. of what is constitutively one), in the domain of bodies we simply cannot find any ones; that is, we can find no monads. For this reason Leibniz can say (M., § 3): »And these monads are the true atoms of nature, and, in a word, the elements of things«. An atom (from Greek ἄτομος, [atomos]) is what cannot be divided — that is, something which has no parts; indivisibility is one of the characters of the monad. The distinction between composite and simple substances, between bodies and atoms, is the difference between beings and their beingness, of which we can become aware if only we adopt a rigorous notion of unity and recognize the latter as constitutive of things as such. 206 What constitutes a thing as such is its thingness; if, instead of thing, we use the Latin word res, the same proposition reads: what constitutes a res as such is its realitas, its reality. Hence, simple substances (monads) enter into aggregate substances (bodies) as the very reality of these corporal things, or as the invisible beingness of visible beings. Without the existence of monads, composites would lack any reality. … je croy que là où il n’y a que des estres par aggregation il n’y a pas même des estres reels. Et la raison est, que tout estre par aggregation suppose des estres doués d’une veritable unité, puisqu’il ne tient sa realité que de celle de Or also: on the level of multitudes we never find what constitutes one multitude as such. 206 The difference itself does not fall into the scope of Leibniz’s thinking. 205

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ceux dont il est composé, de sorte qu’il n’en aura point du tout, si chaque estre dont il est composé est encore un estre par aggregation, ou il faut encor chercher un autre fondement de sa realité, qui de cette manière, s’il faut tousjours continuer de chercher, ne se peut trouver jamais. 207 … I think that where there are only beings by aggregation, there aren’t even real beings. The reason is that any being by aggregation presupposes beings endowed of a veritable unity, for it obtains its reality only from that of the beings of which it is composed, so that there won’t be any hrealityi if each being of which it is composed is in its turn a being by aggregation, or else one still needs to search for another ground of its reality, which in this manner, even if one keeps searching forever, can never be found.

For Leibniz (as in pre-metaphysical and previous metaphysical thinking) oneness, or unity, is constitutive of being (Sein; essere); therefore monads (much like Plato’s ideas) are that which is in the first place: they are the true beings. On the other hand, beings (das Seiende; gli enti o essenti) are (or »have being«) only to the extent to which they can be said to be one; that is, according to the monads that compose them. In the same letter from which the preceding passage is drawn, Leibniz writes: Pour trancher court, je tiens pour un axiome cette proposition identique, qui n’est diversifiée que par l’accent: savoir que ce qui n’est pas veritablement un estre, n’est pas non plus veritablement un estre. On a tousjours crû que l’un et l’estre sont des choses reciproques. Autre chose est l’estre, autre chose est des estres. Mais le pluriel suppose le singulier, et là où il n’y a pas un estre, il y aura encore moins plusieurs estres. Que peut on dire de plus clair? To bring the matter to a point, I hold the following identical proposition, which is diversified only by the accent, for an axiom: namely, that what isn’t veritably one being, isn’t veritably one being either. 208 We have always thought that »one« and »being« are reciprocal things. One thing is being, another thing is beings. But the plural presupposes the singular, and where there isn’t one being, it is even less possible for there to be several beings. What can we say that would be clearer than that?

Apart from being indivisible, monads necessarily also have »no extension or figure« (ibid.). Moreover, they can neither begin nor perish naturally (M., §§ 4 and 5) since, in the natural world, »beginning« From a letter to Antoine Arnauld (30. 4. 1687). In English one would instead say: »… isn’t veritably a being either«. In French, »one« and »a« are the same word (un).

207 208

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means the same as »being formed by composition«, while »perishing« means the same as »decomposing«. As a consequence, monads can only come into being and end »all at once« (tout d’un coup [at one blow; mit einem Schlag; d’un sol colpo]; M., § 6); that is, they can only begin by creation and end by the opposite of creation, which is annihilation. Furthermore, the monad’s oneness and partlessness implies that it »has no windows« (M., § 7); in other words: nothing outside of it that is itself created, be it of monadic or bodily nature, can have an influence on it; the reason for this is that such an influence implies that what is influenced is made of parts whose relation changes as a result of external action, which, however, cannot apply to the (partless) monad. The monad, which has no parts and no windows, does however have qualities which determine it and which are unique, so that no two monads are identical (M., §§ 8 and 9). Also, the monad, like any created thing, is subject to change (M., § 10), and this change can only be caused by an internal principle (M., § 11). However, if the monad is to change, it must contain a variety of distinguished features (détail in the original, »a complexity« in our translation), for the notion of change implies that something is modified while something else remains stable. This variety of distinguished features form a multitude or multiplicity within the unity or the simplicity. However, this multiplicity is not a sum of parts (if it were, this would contradict the very definition of a monad), but that which is unified by the monad itself. In other words, it is a multiplicity that is one. The monad itself is a unified, and, as such, simple multiplicity (M., §§ 12 and 13). The unified multiplicity is subject to constant change; therefore, at any moment it finds itself in a state that has just come to be and is about to be modified. Leibniz calls such a transitory state, which »envelops and represents a multiplicity in the unity«, (M., § 14) perception. 209 Perception, here, does not refer to perceiving through the senses or through the mind, even though such perceiving, too, belongs to what Leibniz calls perception; the meaning of the latter is 209 »L’état passager qui enveloppe et represente une multitude dans l’unité, ou dans la substance simple, n’est autre chose que ce qu’on appelle la Perception, qu’on doit distinguer de l’apperception ou de la conscience.« »The transitory state, which envelops and represents a multitude in the unity [viz. of the respective monad], or in the simple substance, is nothing other than what one calls Perception, which one must distinguish from apperception or consciousness.« The word »apperception« will return in our treatment of Kant in Chapter 11.

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instead much vaster and much simpler. In fact, the sense of this perceiving is that of unifying, and, more precisely, of a unifying that, as Leibniz says, »envelops and represents« that which it unifies. A monad consists of constantly changing, transient states of perception, or simply of perceptions, in which it envelops and represents — namely, envelops and thus represents — its own multiplicity, and thus the multiplicities of all other monads outside of it. Why do we say »envelops and thus represents«? Indeed, enveloping (or enfolding) and representing appear to be contrary movements: enveloping or enfolding (einwickeln oder einfalten; inviluppare o implicare) is a drawing in that involves and includes, while representing (vorstellen; rappresentare), is a putting out and »positing there in front«, and therefore an opening and, in a sense, a letting be. However, in any simple perception of the monad these two movements are one and the same: an enveloping by representing and a representing by enveloping. Perception in the form of enveloping representation is the manner in which the monad takes what is outside and makes it its own (eignet sich an; rende addetto a sé), at least insofar as what is outside is perceptible in the monad’s action of unifying, i. e. relative to the monad; at the same time — namely, in the same act of unifying — the monad lets what is outside be, at least insofar as the act is that monad’s own and unique representation; that is, again, relative to it. Thus, there is a trait of perceptive relativity in the monad’s perception; in other words, due to the uniqueness of its various qualities and the peculiar character of the multiplicity which it unifies, each monad has its own particular mode of perception. Leibniz calls this mode of perception modus spectandi: the mode of regarding, looking, beholding. We can see clearly that, in Leibniz (as in all pre-metaphysical and metaphysical thinking), unifying or gathering into one never implies a reduction to uniformity; on the contrary, unification is the condition for the preservation of variety and uniqueness. Given that each perception is a state of the monad, and that monads undergo constant change caused by an internal principle, there must be a specific form of action that brings about the transition from one perception to another. Leibniz calls this action appetition, which we can translate with »appetition« or »appetite« (M., § 15). We need to hear in this word the literal meaning of »striving toward« (Latin ad-petere; see for instance centri-petal = striving toward the centre). In any state it reaches, the monad strives for a new percep272 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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tion; that is, a new state of unified multiplicity. As Leibniz points out, »appetite cannot always attain altogether the whole perception to which it tends, but it always attains some part of it, and so attains new perceptions« (M., § 15), which appetite, the action of the internal principle, will immediately surmount in view of a further change. Monadic appetite, the change of perceptions driven by an internal principle, is the being of beings. However, Leibniz distinguishes between perceptions of different clarity and distinctness, and therefore between different manners of being and kinds of simple substances. At the lowest level of perceptive distinctness, there are lives. A stone, a river, a star, a tree — in short, what we call natural beings — are lives. But also, all things built from and after natural beings — for instance, a house, a road, a table — are lives. At a higher level of distinctness — more precisely, at a level of perceptive clarity involving memory — there are animals; that is, beings endowed with a soul (anima). At the highest level of distinctness, which involves what Leibniz calls »apperception« or »consciousness«, there are minds. While a life is never an animal or a mind, a mind is, in certain states of dimmed perceptive distinctness, also an animal and a life. For instance, when dinner time is approaching after a long afternoon of studying, it may well be that life and animality join forces, and blind hunger for that leftover pasta we remember someone put in the refrigerator is nearly the only thing we perceive. Multiplicity unified in a simple substance is not an abstract notion, but can be experienced, for instance, »when we find that the slightest thought of which we are conscious in ourselves envelops a variety in its object« (M., § 16). Our simple monadic consciousness can unify its own multiplicity by enveloping and representing, for instance, the notion of a fountain pen. Within the appetition that strives for the perception of the perfect essay, we envelope and represent, according to our unique mode of perception (i. e. our very own »complexity«) and depending, i. a., on the present perception of the broken laptop, the simple monad ›fountain pen‹. The simplicity of the thus enveloped and represented object, however, includes a variety of traits, such as the capacity for being held in the hand, the capacity for tracing signs on certain surfaces, and so on. These traits are unified in the simple substance ›fountain pen‹ as enclosed and represented in the unity of our mind. Perception, and what depends upon it — that is, the whole action and content of any monad — »is inexplicable on mechanical princi273 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ples [or reasons]; that is, by figures and motions« (M., § 17). This is a decisive notion. In order to elucidate it, Leibniz offers the following image: In imagining that there is a machine whose construction would enable it to think, to sense, and to have perception, one could conceive it enlarged while retaining the same proportions, so that one could enter it, as if into a windmill. Supposing this, one should, when visiting inside it, find only parts pushing against one another, and never anything by which to explain a perception. Thus, it is in the simple substance, and not in the composite or in the machine, that one must look for perception. (M., § 17)

What is said in this passage reminds us of the Aristotelian distinction between a knowledge that needs to be demonstrated and a knowledge that neither can nor needs to be demonstrated, as it can only be minded. 210 The distinction Leibniz draws in this example lies between, on the one hand, the observation of a mechanical process that is involved in the act of perception, and an explanation of this process in terms of mechanical laws, and, on the other hand, an explanation that understands the perception as such. No matter how detailed and proven the account of the mechanics of a perception, as long as the explanation remains on this mechanical level, strictly nothing is understood of the perception itself. The monad as an »incorporeal automat« (M., § 18) is entirely alien to anything mechanical; that is, to that which concerns the relations between bodies and the forces that are involved in these relations. For instance, there is a monadic state which we call speaking. The act of speaking is a manner of perception; that is, of enveloping representation. We briefly considered the uniquely Greek notion of speaking that is legein. There is, for sure, a mechanics of speaking. It involves the vocal chords, different parts of our mouth, and so on, as well as, on a supposedly more fundamental level of causality, innumerable and complex neuronal events that occur in our brain. If we could take a walk through our throat and mouth and brain (which present day technology, in a sense, actually allows us to do), we would observe »parts pushing against one another«. We could start collecting data on these parts and their pushing, and eventually elaborate a demonstrable and tested knowledge of the causal relations that determine this reciprocal pushing. We will thus have explained the pushing, and yet, nothing will have been gained with regard to our under210

See above, p. 190 sqq.

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standing of what it is to speak. Such understanding requires that we mind the enveloping representation in which speaking consists. On the other hand, our explanation of the bodily substance »of speaking« is merely the explanation of mechanical relations. The very fact that these are movements of speaking is unknowable on the level of mechanics. Thus, when, for instance, a scientist pretends to explain speaking in terms of a certain brain activity, he is in fact only explaining a mechanism of what, from the outset of his investigation, he assumed speaking to be. This previous assumption, however, had to assume the notion of speaking in an operative concept, or format, that allows for it to be explained by taking a (virtual) walk through the brain. In other words, it had to assume that which can only be minded as something that can actually be demonstrated. Simple substances — created monads — are further characterized as entelechies. Entelechie is a word of Greek (and, more particularly, Aristotelian) origin, which Leibniz elucidates, according to its literal meaning, 211 as »having [within itself] its accomplishment« or »perfection«, or, as we could also say, as »having itself [i. e. holding itself, being] within its accomplishment« or »perfection«. The monad implies accomplishment or perfection. The trait of perfection was already mentioned in our discussion of the idea. 212 Monadic perfection is independent of any contingent influence. For instance, the simple substance ›seed‹ has within itself (and holds itself within) its perfection, namely, the fully developed tree, independent of the fact that — for instance, due to adverse climatic conditions — the tree might never attain the accomplished perception for which it strives. Or, a new-born has within himself his perfection, namely, the unique accomplished human being he is, independent of the fact that, through successive changes, his being might take a turn for the worse and become somehow flawed. And so on. Also, while the successive perceptions of a monad are intertwined with the perceptions of all other monads, each monad is itself the source of its internal actions. In this sense, each monad is self-sufficient (or autarchic), namely, as mentioned above, an »incorporeal automat«. Automat is another word of Greek origin and indicates that which becomes by itself and from out of itself. However, the monad being a created substance, its self-suffi211 The word is formed from en »in«, telos »end, accomplishment«, and echein »have, hold«. 212 See above, p. 181.

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ciency and automatic character are also created, and therefore not absolute. Due to the monad’s autarchic nature, successive perceptions are engendered from one another according to internal laws of appetition; that is, according to the final causes of good and evil with which the act of creation endows the monad. A final cause (Zweckursache; causa finale) is a purpose, end, aim or goal (Latin finis, Greek τέλος [telos]), or that for the sake of which something is what it is. The final cause is an accomplishment (or perfection), which as such is the steady and ruling onset of what finds its accomplishment in the purpose or end itself. For instance, being a human being who is capable of the peculiar kind of perception that is called »learning« (which, as we know, requires the awakening of the awareness of the mathēma in things) is the final cause of a university student. Thus, the goal of learning causes him to engage in studying as necessary and in a critical manner, participating in classes with a vigilant and constructive spirit, acquiring habits that sustain his efforts: in other words, whatever learning demands, he will provide, and the more he learns what it is to learn, the more he will offer his being to learning. Thus his more or less distinct awareness of the perfection of learning will cause him to strive for an ever more accomplished experience of learning. On the other hand, in the domain of bodies all changes take place according to the laws of efficient causes; that is, according to the laws of movement. An efficient cause (Wirkursache; causa efficiente) is a body that has a certain effect on another body, causing its movement or rest. For instance, my hand is the efficient cause for the fountain pen (insofar as its action consists in movement) being lifted from the desk where it was lying, while the pen, in turn, is the efficient cause for the pain that it caused to my eye when it was lifted too quickly and made contact with my face. And so on. 213 What is the relation between the realm of monads and the realm of bodies: in other words, between the system of final causes and the system of efficient causes? Answer: there is no direct relation be213 It should be noted that, as will be mentioned below, bodies are »indifferent« to movement, i. e. there is no strict necessity in the manner in which bodies move. In fact, we need to distinguish between the forces that drive bodies, on the one hand, and what we perceive as their movement and try to capture in its lawful regularities, on the other. Put differently: whatever we discover as »laws of movement« is not a (necessary) character of nature but an addition to nature: nature as such is not lawful at all, but simply »behaves« according to the design of the monad of monads, i. e. God.

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tween these two realms or systems; neither can a monad be an efficient cause — that is, cause the movement or rest of a body — nor (as we know from the definition of monad as a simple substance that »has no windows«) can a body be a final cause — that is, cause an internal action of a monad. Thus, the mechanical laws that govern the movements of bodies are entirely independent from the monads and the laws that drive their changing perceptions. On the other hand, as we have seen, there is a relation between the two realms or systems, which is given by the fact that the simple substances or monads in their perceptions represent what is outside of them. For instance, when my eyes see a fountain pen, or even when I simply use one, the simple substance that I am represents the body ›fountain pen‹ (the bodily being; das Seiende; l’ente) as well as what a fountain pen is (the monadic being; das Sein; l’essere); while the body ›fountain pen‹ is represented through the infinite monads that form the composite substance that is the organ ›eye‹, the fountain pen’s being is represented by the central monad that is the mind. On the other hand, the representation of the bodily states of a fountain pen in, say, a chemical perspective, requires a peculiar collaboration of the eye and the mind. This manner of conceiving beings as such and in whole has two implications: (i) since each body is connected, through a chain of efficient causes, to all other existing bodies, and since the movements of bodies are represented in the monads, »it follows that each monad is a living mirror — or a mirror capable of internal action — that represents the universe according to its point of view [its modus spectandi], and just as regulated as the universe itself« (P., § 3); in other words, each monad is, literally, a microcosm; (ii) since there is no influence between the two realms, while one represents the other, »there [necessarily] is a perfect harmony between the perceptions of monads and the movements of bodies, pre-established from the outset between the system of efficient causes and the system of final causes, and this is that in which the accord and physical union of soul and body consists, without one being able to change the laws of the other« (ibid.). What distinguishes reasonable souls, or minds, or »spirits«, from other simple substances, and more particularly from animals, is »the knowledge of necessary and eternal truths«, such as those of logics and geometry (M., § 29). This knowledge »provides us with reason 277 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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and the sciences, elevating us to a knowledge of ourselves and of God« (ibid.) through »Reflexive Acts« (M., § 30). These acts »enable us to think of what is called I« (ibid.). The first and fundamental reflexive act is the act of self-reflection of the ego. This act implies, as further objects of reflexive reasoning, the thought of being, of substance, of simple and composite, of the immaterial, and, finally, by conceiving of what is limited in us and without limits in him, of God himself (ibid.). Hence, all reflection is, in itself (i. e. by its own constitutive structure), self-reflection; that is, a reflection in which the reflexive mind — the I — at the same time reflects itself, thus forming the subjective ground for all thought objects (in other words, the »I think« is implicit in any thinking of something). However, all reasoning, Leibniz says, is in turn founded on two great principles: the principle of contradiction and the principle of sufficient reason. Both of these principles are principles of thinking and at the same time principles of being.

10.2 The Principle of Sufficient Reason In the Principes, after having introduced the notions of monads and bodies, perception and appetition, final and effective causes, and after having distinguished different kinds of monads according to the nature of their perceptions, Leibniz writes (P., §§ 7 and 8): 7. Jusqu’ici nous n’avons parlé qu’en simples P h y s i c i e n s ; maintenant il faut s’elever à la M e t a p h y s i q u e, en nous servant du G r an d p r i n c i p e peu employé communement, qui porte, q u e r i e n n e s e f a i t s a n s rai s o n s u f fi s a n t e, c’est-à-dire, que rien n’arrive sans qu’il seroit possible, à celui qui connoitroit assés les choses, de rendre une Raison qui suffise pour determiner, pourquoi il en est ainsi, et non pas autrement. Ce principe posé: la première question qu’on a droit de faire, sera, p o u r quoi i l y a p l u s t ô t qu e l q u e c h o s e q u e r i e n . Car le rien est plus simple et plus facile, que quelque chose. De plus supposé, que des choses doivent exister, il faut qu’on puisse rendre raison, p o u r-

7. Up to this point we have talked only as mere P h y s i c i s t s ; now it is necessary to rise to M et a p h y s i c s, by availing ourselves of the commonly little used G r e at p r i n c i p l e, which states the following: t h at n o t h i n g comes about without a suffic i e n t r e a s o n ; that is, nothing happens without it being possible, for someone who knew things well enough, to give a Reason that is sufficient for determining why it is so and not otherwise. Given this principle, the first question one has the right to pose is this: w h y [ f o r what] i s t h e r e r a t h e r s o m et h i n g t h an n o t h i n g ? For the nothing is simpler and easier than something. Moreover, supposing that some things must ex-

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The Principle of Sufficient Reason quoi e l l e s d o i v e n t e x i s t e r a i n s i , et non autrement.

8. Or, cette Raison suffisante de l’Existence de l’univers, ne se sauroit trouver dans la suite des choses contingentes; c’est à dire des corps, et de leurs representations dans les Ames: parce que la Matière étant indifférente en elle-même au mouvement et au repose, et à un mouvement tel ou autre; on n’y sauroit trouver la Raison du Mouvement, et encore moins d’un tel mouvement. Et quoique le present mouvement, qui est dans la Matière, vienne du precedent, et celui-ci encore d’un precedent; on n’en est pas plus avancé, quand on ira aussi loin qu’on voudroit: car il reste toûjours la même question. Ainsi, il faut que la R a i s o n Suff i s a n te, qui n’ait plus besoin d’une autre Raison, soit hors de cette suite des choses contingentes, et se trouve dans une substance, qui en soit la cause, et qui soit un Etre necessaire, portant la Raison de son existence avec soi. Autrement on n’auroit pas encore une raison suffisante, où l’on puisse finir. Et cette dernière raison des choses est appellée D i e u .

ist, it is necessary that one be able to give a reason [to account for] w h y t h e y m u s t e x i s t t h u s and not otherwise. 8. Now, this sufficient Reason for the Existence of the universe couldn’t be found in the sequence of contingent things; that is to say, of bodies and of their representations in the Souls: for, since Matter is in itself indifferent to movement and rest, and to such and such other movement, one wouldn’t be able to find the Reason of Movement, and even less of such a movement. And even though the present movement, which is in the Matter, comes from the preceding one, and the latter, in turn, from one that precedes it, even by going as far as one wants one won’t have made any progress: for the same question always persists. Thus, S u f f i c i e n t R ea s o n , which doesn’t need yet another Reason, must be outside this sequence of contingent things, and must lie in a substance which is its cause, and which is a necessary Being that bears within itself the Reason for its own existence. Otherwise, one wouldn’t yet have a sufficient reason, hthat is, a reasoni where one could stop. And this latter reason for things is called G o d .

What does the first sentence indicate? »Talking as a physicist«, here, means: talking about »physis«; that is, beings as such and in whole, without, however, (as, on the other hand, beings in this already discontingent state expect) indicating and grounding their principle, namely, the first cause of what they are and, at once, the ultimate ground of the circumstance that they are. Only the step (or leap) into the knowledge of the principle of beings elevates thinking to the metaphysical level. In order to rise to this level, thinking avails itself (Leibniz says: se servir [sich bedienen; servirsi]) of a principle that is called the »great principle«. How can we indicate the difference between a principle and a great principle? What can be greater than a principle? Answer: a principle that, in its character of being first and 279 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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ultimate, determines, in the first place, the character itself of a principle of beings. In other words, the great principle is its own principle and, as such, the principle of principles. This self-sufficient principle is formulated thus: »t h a t n ot h in g c om e s about w i thout a s uffi c i ent r eas o n ; that is, that nothing happens without it being possible, for someone who knew things well enough, to give a Reason that is sufficient for determining why it is so and not otherwise.« We can elucidate the content and implications of this determination of the great principle as follows: 1. The principle presupposes a certain experience of beings, namely, an understanding of what they are, while at the same time it concedes that there are such beings. In other words, the principle implies an experience of beings as such and in whole (an experience that is analogous to, but fundamentally different from, the experience of physis for the Greeks). We already know the character of this what from the very beginning of the Monadology: a substance (i. e. anything that »is already there«, or any stable abiding) is a being »capable of action«. The internal action of simple substances (or monads) takes place in the form of appetitions, which cause the monad to change from one perception to the next. The principle of these appetitions is what Leibniz calls »primitive active force«. 214 The primitive active force, with its appetite, is the beingness of the monad. More precisely, it is the unity of what a monad is (i. e. its essence or possibility) and that it is (i. e. its existence or actuality). How so? The primitive active force, the principle of the monad’s internal action, is the monad’s essence or possibility (for instance, the essence or possibility of a student), which, however, in itself (i. e. as an essence), is inclined and strives to come to existence, to become actual. The monad’s actuality, on the other hand, is such that, as soon as a certain actuality is attained, this actuality calls for (or exacts: fordert heraus; esige) a new possibility (i. e. what is not yet, but still can become actual) for it to strive for, and give rise to, another actuality. And so on. As we can see, the primitive active force, in which the action of the monad consists, has the character of an actuality that enacts itself, or, in one word, of a self-enacting actuality. This implies that, while the beingness of beings still has its two aspects — whatness and thatness, or essence 214 Apart from the primitive active force (vis primitiva activa), the monad is also characterized by a primitive passive force (vis primitiva passiva), which we will not treat here.

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and existence —, compared to Plato’s experience of being as idea (i. e. what something is), the primary accent has shifted towards the thataspect, which, in turn, now has the distinct character of actuality or capacity for action. 2. With regard to that which is in the just elucidated manner, the great principle says that it must have a sufficient reason. Sufficiency implies that a complete account or explanation can be given for why something is (rather than not being), and why it is thus (rather than otherwise); in other words, why it exists in a certain state rather than in another state. Completeness of the account, in turn, implies that nothing is left unexplained or unaccounted for, and that the account be such that it does not require to be itself accounted for (or that the explanation be such that it does not require to be explained in its turn; or again, that the reason does not need a further reason that acts as its ground). In other words, as Leibniz says, the reason or account is sufficient only when it reaches the (only) point »where one can stop«. Only completeness in the sense of the attainment of this ultimate halting point satisfies the notion of sufficiency. Even though in most cases we do not actually know the sufficient reason, it must, however, as a matter of principle, always be possible to know it. Hence, the great principle states that the trait of being thoroughly explainable — meaning available for man in an explanation — characterizes beings as such. The principle of sufficient reason exhibits both the methodical and the subjective character of Leibniz’s foundation of the being as such and in whole. The methodical trait shows in the claim of exhaustive explainability; that is, in the fact that the ground of beings is an explanatory ground, or a ground of (complete) explanation, where explanation implies that what is ex-plained is made »plain« and thus bare of what would impede its availability for man; moreover, thanks to its sufficiency, this ground or reason is certain. The subjective trait shows in the circumstance that it is reason that must set out to find this ground and, in a sense, to be this ground, even though the sufficient reason is eventually found by reason itself in a being called God. In other words, man must — in answer to the exacting claim of method — offer the fundamental trait of his being, i. e. reason (Vernunft; ragione), not only in order to recognize a sufficient reason (Grund; ragione) which is already given, and waiting to be discovered, as the ultimate ground and first principle of everything; rather, man must be instrumental to substantiating the »spot« of subjectivity, and thus, 281 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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in a sense, underlie beings in whole as a their sufficient reason, to the extent to which, through reason, he posits the actual sufficient reason (God) according to the claims of method and of its truth: namely, certainty. Thus, reason — the manner of being in which man recognizes his true self; in a word: man’s true »selving« — constitutes the ultimate basis for the principles of being (i. e. the principles of nature and grace), and therefore the subject for objects given in a certain and perfectly known objectivity. 3. After the great principle has been spelled out, the text continues with what is called »the first question one has the right to pose« once this principle is stated, namely the question: »Why is there something rather than nothing?«. This question asks for the ultimate ground of existence of beings as such in whole; that is, for the ground on which rests the that of the wholeness of beings, or the circumstance that there are beings at all. Why is this »the first question one has the right to pose«? We can answer this question by considering once again what the »great principle« itself presupposes and states. As to what the principle presupposes, the following holds: according to the initial experience of thinking, there are beings, beings exist, beings are actual; these existing, actual beings are beings capable of action, or beings »in action«. More precisely, these actual beings are self-enacting actualities, namely possibilities of action which, in themselves, strive to actuality; in other words: they are self-enacting or self-actualizing possibilities. We can now consider again what the principle states. In the above outlined initial experience of beings in whole is heard the attuning claim of a certain ground, namely the claim that each perception or state of a self-actualizing possibility must have a sufficient reason. The latter, in turn, implies that, as a matter of principle, that state must be entirely explainable through a chain of causes that, from the most immediate cause, goes right down to a first or ultimate cause; that is, a cause that is itself not the effect of a further cause but rather its own cause (in Latin: causa sui). All of this given, it is clear that, in the first place, a first ground of actuality (or: a ground-laying, »grounding« actuality) must be established. For, unless there is a certain ground for action-capable beings to exist at all, the principle of sufficient reason cannot be satisfied. Or, put differently: What the principle of sufficient reason demands in the first place is that an actual ground of the actuality of what is actual 282 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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be found. Moreover, this ground will need to be an actuality that is absolutely self-enacting or self-actualizing; in other words, it will need to be a possibility that relies entirely on itself for its own actualization, or, likewise, it will need to be a being whose possibility (or essence) implies its actuality (or existence) — in a word: it will have to be a necessary being. Thus, it becomes understandable why, once the great principle is stated, the first question one has the right to ask is: »Why is there something rather than nothing?«. The right to ask this question comes directly from the principle itself. It is not a right in general, but a right that can be claimed by a thinking for which »it is necessary to rise to Metaphysics«; in other words, for a thinking which answers the need to constitute the subjective ground for beings in whole, and which, in order to do so, in the first place avails itself of — and thereby obeys — the ground-giving and ground-shaping principle of sufficient reason. 4. The question »why is there something rather than nothing?« asks for the ground of the circumstance that there are beings at all, and thus for the ground for beings in whole. More precisely, it asks for an explanation for this circumstance. The alternative to the existing of things is that nothing exists; that is, the absolute failing of any existence. What kind of experience of this alternative; to wit, what experience of the nothing, do we find in Leibniz? What is this nothing in the first place? The answer to this question lies in the following proposition: »For the nothing is simpler and easier than something«. Thus, the actual challenge for thinking lies in giving an explanation for the existence of something that exists, while accounting for the failing of existence is »simpler and easier«: non-existence is in itself simpler, and easier for thinking, in that it does not ask for an explanation, or for an explanatory ground, in order to become an object that is thoroughly available to man (i. e. to the being that, via the principle of sufficient reason, provides the subjective ground of everything): concerning the nothing there is not much to explain! This tells us that in Leibniz there is no experience of the nothing as the other with respect to the being as such and in whole; that is, as pure discontingency. The nothing as a phenomenon of discontingency, in the sense of that which can never be a thing, does not appear within the scope of this thinking — as indeed it never does within the scope of metaphysical thinking. Within this scope, beings find their principle in themselves; namely, in the fundamental trait of discon283 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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tingency (or rather, in the »spark« of discontingency, as we have been calling it) that constitutes them as such, and which, according to the paradigm set by Plato, has the form of a being »beyond beingness«: a being that is, in a sense, completely other with respect to (or towards) all beings, and yet still a being. The circumstance that the other with respect to (or towards) beings (das Andere zum Seienden; l’altro verso l’essente) is, so to speak, touched in passing, but never experienced nor originated as a phenomenon in its own truth, is confirmed by the next sentence: »Moreover, supposing that some things must exist …«. This implies that a phenomenon that is entirely independent of existing beings is not thinkable. At this point the principle of sufficient reason — and therefore the fundamental traits of the wanted ground that can actually serve as a sufficient reason — can be formulated in a more complete manner: »… it is necessary that one be able to give a reason why they must exist thus and not otherwise«. The wanted sufficient reason is twofold, in that it has to explain (i) why existing things must exist at all rather than not existing (in other words, it is the cause of the existence or actuality of each thing in every one of its perceptive states), while at the same time it must act as the reason (ii) why existing things must exist precisely thus and not otherwise (in other words, it is the cause of the essence or possibility of each thing in every one of its perceptive states). It is not clear, at this stage, in what sense the sufficient reason is the cause not only of the circumstance that things exist at all and thus (rather than otherwise), but of the circumstance that they must exist at all and precisely thus. In other words, it is not clear what kind of necessity is implied in the manner in which the sufficient reason acts as a ground for beings. 5. The following paragraph leads up to the indication of the sufficient reason. It begins with the following statement: »Now, this sufficient Reason for the Existence of the universe couldn’t be found in the sequence of contingent things; that is to say, of bodies and of their representations in the Souls«. The wanted reason must be a sufficient ground for the being as such and in whole; that is to say: for both the domain of material things (»bodies«) and the realm of monads (»representations in the Souls«). Leibniz refers to the whole of these two spheres as »contingent things«. The meaning of the word »contingent« in Leibniz is different from the one we have introduced within our diagnostic perspective. For now, it suffices to know that, for Leibniz, »contingent« is anything that is not strictly necessary. And what 284 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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is that? Everything except for God and the eternal laws of logics and mathematics (on the other hand, the laws of physics, for instance, are not necessary, but contingent). Thus, not only beings are contingent, but also their monadic being. Both being and beings are created by God, and there are no stringent reasons why they couldn’t also not exist; their necessity is, as we shall see, not a strict one, and not comparable to the necessity of God and of the eternal truths. A body is defined in terms of movement and rest. Each bodily state can be seen as the effect of a preceding movement, which, in turn, has its cause in a movement that comes before this movement, and so on. In this manner, the domain of bodies is characterized by sequences of bodily constellations that are linked to each other by relations of cause and effect. Since these sequences are represented by the monads according to the pre-established harmony, there must be corresponding sequences in the monadic realm. These sequences, however, are not determined by efficient causes, but rather by final causes. Together, these two kinds of sequences constitute the »sequence of things«, of which Leibniz says that it cannot contain sufficient reason. In order to show why this is so, it suffices to give a proof in the domain of matter and movement, for, if a sufficient reason cannot be found in that domain, there cannot be one in the realm of representations either, since, as we know, these representations represent the movements of bodies. The proof of the fact that the sequence of contingent things cannot contain a sufficient reason — that is, a reason »which doesn’t need yet another Reason«, or, in different terms, a reason »where one could stop« — is quite straightforward. To begin with, one must mind that »Matter is in itself indifferent to movement and rest«. What does this mean? In order to understand this, we must, in the first place, acknowledge the following: matter is not movement and movement is not matter. Matter moves and is moved, but movement is not something material; matter rests, but rest (i. e. the »null case« of movement) is not an instance of matter. In other words, movement is the action in which matter, as such, consists: whether it be moving or resting, it is always already »matter in movement«, and movement is what is expected from it in terms of action. Now, while movement is ruled by mechanical laws of cause and effect, these causes, however, are not intrinsic in matter itself; put differently: matter, which has the capacity to move and to be moved, does not move itself! Moreover, for any given moving matter there is no stringent (necessary) reason 285 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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why it should move in a certain way rather than in another. As a consequence, in our search for a sufficient reason of the existence of the universe, we must turn to movement and ask: what initiates and determines movement (and precisely this or that movement), what is its primary source or first cause; in a word: what it its principle? It soon becomes clear that, while movement in general is caused by movement, and a particular movement by another particular movement (or a number thereof), as long as we stay at the level of movement, the search for a first cause is doomed to failure. In other words, at this level we are bound to incur an infinite regress, a going backward which leads from one movement to the preceding one, from there to the one before that, and so on ad infinitum. The problem of infinite regress, which in Leibniz appears both in the domain of efficient causes and in the realm of final causes (see M., § 36), is a metaphysical problem. We rise from physics to metaphysics when, in acknowledging this infinite regress, we can actually follow it to its end, which requires that we are in the first place stricken by the need for an ultimate cause where this regress comes to an end and whence it springs. In this need speaks the cause itself; in other words, the need is already a manner in which the cause itself shows, and it shows precisely in a difference with regard to movement. Becoming aware of this difference is a primary metaphysical experience, i. e. an experience in which the metaphysical domain alerts us to itself. The already quoted passage from Aristotle’s Metaphysics (Λ2, 1070 a4): ἀνάγκη δὲ στῆναι (anankē de stēnai), »it is, however, necessary to come to a standstill«, bears witness to the original motivation of metaphysical thinking: if the point of standstill, or halt, is not attained and founded in thinking, beings remain without a ground: that is, senseless. 6. The experience of what is beyond »contingent things« (in the Leibnizian sense of »contingent«) as a ground of contingent things is always an attuned experience, in which thinking itself is attained by a likely ground and claimed to offer itself to sustain and ground it. In Leibniz, the attunement of thinking calls for a certain foundation of the existence of the universe — a foundation whose certainty is in its turn based on the absolute certainty of the fundamental (self-)reflexive act of the thinking I. This ground, the sufficient reason which lies outside the sequence of contingent things, »must lie in a substance, which is its cause, and which is a necessary Being that bears in itself the Reason for its own existence«. Thus, the sufficient reason lies in a 286 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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substance (i. e. in a being capable of action), which is the cause of the sequence of contingent things, while it is itself not contingent, but necessary. What is the reason for the necessity of this necessary substance? Answer: the principle of sufficient reason! If the ground is to be sufficient, then it cannot be contingent, but must be necessary. Moreover, in order to be sufficient, the necessary substance must bear in itself the reason for its own existence. In other words, the substance that acts as the sufficient reason must be its own cause (causa sui), to wit, it must effect itself, or actualize itself, without depending on another source of actualization. The self-effecting being, the only sufficient reason, is the being we identify as God. The principle of sufficient reason is the self-imposing thought of a simple, primitive substance, which, as the ground of all contingent things, is itself necessary and self-effecting. To be necessary and self-effecting is the essence of this ground, its possibility, or that in which this ground consists. But does this essence also exist, does this possibility become actual? It does, and indeed necessarily so, provided that anything exists. On this assumption, the very essence of the sufficient reason implies its existence, or, in other words, its possibility implies its actuality; in short: given that it can exist (i. e. that its existence is thinkable), it must exist. In this manner, the principle of sufficient reason — as a principle that rules over all thinking based on the self-reflexive »I think« of reason — provides a proof of the existence of God, which is, however, contingent, or dependent, on the existence of something. This kind of proof is called an a posteriori proof. 215 A posteriori means »from after«, namely, in this case, from after (i. e. based on the previous assumption of) the existence of contingent things, or once this existence is admitted: given that contingent things exist, and given the principle of sufficient reason, God (i. e. the being which exhibits the traits required from sufficient reason) must exist. Moreover, since all contingent things are linked with one another, there is only one God, and he is sufficient. God is the unique, universal, necessary substance that »has nothing outside it that is independent of it« (M., § 40) and is a simple consequence of its being possible. This implies that this substance »must be incapable of limits and must contain as much reality as is 215 The existence of God can also be proven a priori on the basis of the principle of non-contradiction (see M., §§ 43–45).

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possible« (ibid.). God is the most real being (in Latin: ens realissimum). »Real« here does not mean »existent«, but rather: having the consistency of a thing (Latin: res), having that »thing-like« content that makes a thing a thing. God is, so to speak, more of a thing than any other thing; in fact, he contains all possible thingness. Why? Because a thing cannot cause another thing if it is »less of a thing« (i. e. less real) than the thing it is supposed to cause. And since God causes (the existence of) all things, he must be endowed with all the thingness possible, only some of which is actualized in existing things. This, in turn, implies that God is the most perfect being (Latin: ens perfectissimum); in other words, it implies God’s absolute perfection, perfection being the reality one gets if one puts aside »the limits or bounds in the things that have them. And where there are no bounds at all, namely in God, perfection is absolutely infinite« (M., § 41). However, God is not only the source of existences (actual things), but also of essences (possible things), »insofar as they are real« (M., § 43). In other words, God is the source of that which is real in a possibility, of the thing-consistency it contains, of the what-it-is of that which is possible. The reason for this is that, »if there is a reality in essences or possibilities (…), this reality [must] be founded in something existent and actual, and consequently in the existence of the Necessary Being, in whom essence includes existence, or in whom being possible suffices for being actual« (M., § 44). Why must the reality of possibilities be founded in something existent and actual (and thus, ultimately, in the existence of the necessary being)? Because the reality of possibilities (i. e. their what-content) has an existence of its own, and therefore needs an existing origin, which ultimately can only be the necessary existence of the being whose possibility strictly implies its actuality. This existing origin is God’s mind, which contains all possible reality in itself. In conclusion, without God, not only would there not be anything existent, but neither would there be anything possible. Thus, »God alone is the primary unity or the simple substance of which all the created or derivative monads are products. They originate, so to speak, through continual fulgurations 216 of the divinity 216 While in Heraclitus the lightning that »steers the being in whole« is a trait of fire, to which man is alerted by the god Zeus, in Leibniz fulgurations emanate from God as the sufficient reason.

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from moment to moment, limited by the receptivity of the created being, to which it is essential to be limited« (M., § 47). God, the monad of all monads, contains in himself three (or a triad of) fundamental traits, which characterize him as the monadic principle: »Power, which is the source of all«, namely God’s being the ground as a centre of force, from which the monads’ primitive active force, and thus their subject-character is derived; »Knowledge, which contains the detail [or complexity] of the ideas of things« — this is God’s being the ground of all capacity of perception, from the less distinct up to the (self-)consciousness of spirits; »finally, Will, which effects changes or products according to the principle of the best«, and which is the ground of all capacity of appetition that is found in the monads (M., § 48).

10.3 The Original (Harmonic) Economy of the World Given the triadic constitution of God as the monad of monads, and the fact that the attributes of power, knowledge and will are, in him, »absolutely infinite and perfect« (ibid.), the principle of sufficient reason demands that the following question be posed: »Now, as there is an infinity of possible universes in the ideas of God, and as only one of them can exist, there must be a sufficient reason for God’s choice, which determines him to one rather than another« (M., § 53). In other words: given that God can create any universe he likes, why does he, in each instant, create precisely this (i. e. the actually existing) one and not one that is different? The answer to this question has already been anticipated in the characterization of God’s will and is now spelled out in detail in the next two paragraphs. The sufficient »reason can only be found in convenance [meetness, suitability; Angemessenheit; convenienza] or in the degrees of perception which these worlds contain, each possible world having the right to lay claim to existence to the extent of the perfection it envelops« (M., § 54). »And this is the cause of the existence of the best: that his wisdom [i. e. his perfect knowledge] makes it known to God, his goodness [i. e. the perfection of his will] makes him choose it, and his power [i. e. his capacity to actualize whatever he wants] makes him produce it« (M., § 55). Thus, as a consequence of the onto-theological determination of the principle of beingness in light of the great principle of sufficient reason, the existing world is, in each moment, 289 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the best of all possible worlds, coming from the best of all possible worlds and leading to the best of all possible worlds. As we can see, this is not an »optimistic worldview«, but an ontological necessity: in fact, there would be no way to account for a »sub-optimal« world without violating the perfection of God and, consequently, invalidating his status as the only sufficient reason. In short: given the principle of sufficient reason, any actual world must be the best of all possible worlds. 217 The necessary character of the optimal world does not dispense us from doing all we can in order to actualize the best of all possible worlds. On the contrary, that necessity awakens in each one of us (according to the created perfection of his or her monadic being) the appetite for collaborating in the actualization of that optimality. Due to the fact that each monad has its own modus spectandi and is a unique living mirror of the universe, each monad sees a different world from that of any other monad. But the world is only one, namely the best possible one. Thus, »through the infinite multitude of simple substances there are, as it were, just as many different universes, which, however, are only the perspectives of a single one according to the different points of view of each monad« (M., § 57). »And this is the way to obtain as much variety as possible but combined with the greatest possible order; that is to say, it is the way to obtain as much perfection as can be (M., § 58). 218 Thus, the world, and each single thing that is in it, is in any moment the result of a divine calculation, by which God thinks through all possible combinations of monadic and bodily states, as ruled by final and effective causes respectively, chooses the best, most perfect (i. e. most diverse and most orderly — in a word: the most harmonic) combination, and actualizes it. As Leibniz writes else-

217 The perfection of God’s will does not lie in an unrestrained arbitrariness: in fact, God is restrained in his choice, in that, once he has recognized the best (most convenient, »meetest«) constellation of monads, he cannot but choose it over any other. However, this does not imply that, since he is bound by the outcome of his calculation to discard all sub-optimal choices, even God is not free in his actions; in fact, the contrary is true: God’s freedom, too, is perfect, or rather, God is freedom. (In fact, the thought that freedom is attained precisely when, notwithstanding the infinite number of choices and possibilities, there is no alternative, is not alien to the human mind.) 218 »As much variety as possible, combined with the greatest possible order« is one way of characterizing convenance or meetness.

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where: »Cum Deus calculat et cogitationem exercet, fit mundus«; 219 that is: »As God calculates and puts his thinking into effect, the world arises«. What guides God in his choice is the principle of the best, or, put differently, the principle of meetness or convenance. Since God cannot but choose what is best or most suitable, there is, in each perceptive state of each monad, a certain necessity based on its sufficient reason. However, this is not a necessity in the strict sense of the word, since actualized (created) things are, after all, ontologically contingent. Only eternal truths — which do not even depend on God’s will, but only on his mind (insofar as they form the content of his mind) — are strictly necessary. Now, the actualized perfection of the world can be broken down into a series of elements which are combined in it: in the plan God has chosen, which comprises at once all monadic states from the beginning to the end of the world, there will be, as we have seen, the greatest variety along with the greatest order, but also »the best arranged [managed] land, place, and time; the maximum effect produced by the simplest means; in created things the highest levels of power, knowledge, happiness and goodness which the universe could allow« (P., § 10). While, in God’s understanding, all possible things can claim to come into existence according to their degree of perfection, the actual world will always be the one outcome of these claims in which the use of land, place and time, effects relative to means, power, knowledge, happiness and goodness, are maximized. Only a thus determined world has a sufficient reason for its existence and for being thus and not otherwise. We have seen how Leibniz elaborates an answer to the guiding question of metaphysics: »What is beingness?« on the basis of the principle of sufficient reason, which is implicit in his experience of the being in whole. His answer is: the abidingness of the abiding is the monad — as determined in its monadic substance by the monad of all monads, which, based on the principle of sufficient reason, is the being that creates all monads (rather than leaving them in the state of mere possibilities), and creates them in the way they are created (rather than otherwise) according to the principle of convenance or meetness. This insight into the ontological constitution of beings must of course be respected in the manner in which we acquire a 219 The phrase is a handwritten note by Leibniz found on a page of his text entitled Dialogus (1677).

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specific knowledge of things both in metaphysical terms and in the sciences. In other words, from the answer to the guiding question of metaphysics we can derive maxims of knowledge which reflect the content of that answer. One of these maxims, which is spelled out in one of Leibniz’s Latin works (De rerum originatione radicali — »Of the radical origination of things«), reads as follows: Semper scilicet est in rebus principium determinationis quod a Maximo Minimove petendum est, ut nempe maximus praestetur effectus, minimo ut sic dicam sumptu. In fact, there is always within things a principle of determination which must be sought for on the basis of the maximum or the minimum, and precisely in such a manner that the maximum effect is made available, so to speak, at the minimum cost.

We can see how this maxim for seeking the principle of the determination of things — to wit, the principle that determines them from a metaphysical point of view — is a direct consequence of the principle of meetness or of the best choice that shapes God’s plan: since God, according to that principle, can only have produced things in such a way that, in their being, the maximum effect is made available at the minimum cost, when it comes to finding the principle of the determination of beings — in other words, when it comes to establishing the truth of things — this principle must respect the criterion »maximum effect combined with minimum cost«. Put differently, the specific being of a thing can be found by looking for the principle that determines it in the sense of effect maximization and cost minimization. While in any created being this trait of meetness will have some limitation, in God himself effect maximization along with cost minimization is actualized in perfection. In fact, in his Discours de métaphysique, Leibniz writes: Il est vray que rien ne couste à Dieu, … puisque Dieu n’a que des decrets à faire pour faire naistre un monde réel. It is true that God doesn’t have any cost, … for God simply needs to make decrees in order to produce a real world.

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character of the best arrangement of time and of place, of the highest level of power and of happiness, and so on. However, in letting ourselves be guided by this criterion for a sufficient principle of the determination of contingent things, we need to take into account its metaphysical nature and its full metaphysical scope. This implies that beings cannot be determined in terms of maximum effectiveness and efficiency on a merely bodily level. Why so? The answer is known: a sufficient reason cannot be found on this level. In the Principes, Leibniz reaffirms this point with regard to the laws of motion, which are studied in physics. God’s supreme wisdom without doubt enabled him to create forces that result in the most well-adjusted, adequate laws of motion: to wit, those that are most convenient with regard to metaphysical grounds. Such a well-adjusted law states, for instance, that action is always equal to reaction, and that the total effect is always equal to its full cause (P., § 11). Now, Leibniz says, it »is surprising that, if one considers only efficient causes, or matter, one cannot demonstrate these laws of movement« (ibid.). In order to do so, one needs to resort to the final causes, because »these laws do not depend on the principle of necessity, as do the logical, arithmetical and geometrical laws, but on the principle of meetness; that is, on the choice of wisdom« (ibid.). 220 This statement implies the following: in order to find the laws of all things mechanical — that is, of things belonging to the domain of bodies, whose movements are ruled by efficient causes — one cannot do so without resorting to the reign of final causes, and thus, ultimately, to the first metaphysical ground. In the case of sciences which investigate the material circumstances that go along with the pursuit of final causes, such as a science of economic needs, it is even clearer that a reference to a harmonizing, measure-giving principle is necessary. Without such a reference, the criteria for the best choice are lacking, and what is optimal in terms of maximum effect and minimum cost cannot be determined. There is a moment, in the form of knowledge we call science, which contains, though implicitly, the reference to the original economy based on the principle of meetness or of the best choice. This is the moment in which a science defines its scope and object starting from basic assumptions which it takes as evident. In economic theory, 220 Leibniz in fact states that he couldn’t have discovered the laws of physics which he did find without taking as an initial reference the principle of convenance.

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for instance, the realm of final causes — that is, the monadic truth of man — is in some way assumed in the form of »individual preferences«, in the appetite that strives to »maximize utility«, and so on, while the principle that warrants the »best of all possible worlds« is hidden in the assumption of the »invisible hand«, according to which, if each individual only pursues the optimal outcome (i. e. the maximum effect at minimum cost) for himself (in terms of his interests and appetites), then the optimal overall outcome is assured. Both final causes and their harmonizing principle are thus assumed in operative concepts. Leibniz’s metaphysical position, his attempt at answering the guiding question of philosophy, alerts us that, in regard to this scientific endeavour, it is necessary to ask: What guides economic theory, in its present technical-mathematical form, when it makes its assumptions on the human being, on nature, on laws, on art and artefacts, etc.? To what extent is the sufficiency of the principle of determination, in terms of the maximization of effects at the minimum cost, sought in the realm of final causes, and therefore in the principle of meetness which harmonizes beings as such and in whole? Finally: What kind of truth does economic theory pursue, given that, according to Leibniz, there are two kinds of truth: namely, the eternal truths, determined by the principle of necessity, and the contingent truths, determined by the principle of meetness, or of the best choice?

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11. Kant

Our brief discussion of Kant’s metaphysical position will be guided by the reference to a notable character of his thinking, namely its finitude or finiteness (Endlichkeit; finitudine o finitezza). Focusing on this character will allow us to retrieve some of the main keys of our reconstruction of the tradition of the metaphysical thinking of principles. To what does the finitude of thinking refer? It refers to the finite character of the knowledge of beings of which man, the knowing being, is capable. But not only this: the same character also applies to what is to be known, namely the being of things, or, in Kantian terms, their objectivity. In fact, the finitude of knowledge coincides with the finitude of the objectivity of known objects; or rather: both knowledge and objectivity belong to the same trait of finiteness from which their relation originates. This limit we call »the limit of transcendence«. Accordingly, we speak of a »transcendental finitude« of knowledge, in order to distinguish this character from a merely one-sided limitation caused by a supposed limitedness of our capacity for knowing (one might think that it can never know everything, and is therefore, in a quantitative sense, always »finite«), or by a supposed limit which has its cause in the very knowability of things (which, one might be inclined to assume, are by nature never completely knowable, so that knowledge finds itself to be »finite« in a qualitative sense). Transcendental finitude consists in that which originates and rules the relation between beings as such in whole on the one hand, and the experience of these beings on the other. In other words, it consists in the principle of being. Note that, in Kant, »experience« (Erfahrung) is the name for the primary, empirical form of the knowledge of things. In a more elaborate determination, experience is the objective knowledge of (given) things resulting from the synthetic 221 unification of perceived 221

A unification is synthetic when it unifies, or gathers in one, what is, at the outset,

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appearances (Erscheinungen) by virtue of understanding (Verstand; usually rendered as intelletto). Because all knowledge begins with experience (even though, as we shall see, it does not originate from experience), the latter remains a necessary and constant reference — a »teacher«, Kant says — for all attempts at determining the scope and principles of the knowing encounter with beings. The trait of finitude of the transcendental principle, the finiteness of the limit of transcendence, tacitly informs the following dictum, which is often referred to as containing, in a nutshell, the »revolutionary« finding which the Critique of Pure Reason sets out to establish: »The conditions of the likelihood of experience in general are at the same time the conditions of the likelihood of the objects of experience«. 222 In fact, this finding reverses the approach of the metaphysical positions according to which it is our knowledge that must adapt to that which is there to be experienced in the first place; on the other hand, according to Kant, it is the things themselves that, in order to be experienced, need to conform to the structure of our experience. In other words, that which appears (to us) and is experienced (by us) can be a likely appearance and a likely object of experience only in accordance with the mode and manner of our capacity for letting appear and our capacity for experiencing! On the other hand, what remains beyond the limit that, by defining the likelihood of experience, also defines the likelihood of being an object of experiseparated. On the other hand, a unification that gathers in one what is already, though implicitly, linked together is called analytic. Consequently, we distinguish between analytic and synthetic judgements: while the former display a relation that is already present in the unified terms (e. g., to take a Kantian example: »All bodies are extended« — when I think of a body, I already think of something extended, and my judgement is merely making this circumstance explicit), the latter produce a »new« knowledge in the form of a relation that was not implied by the terms now linked in a judgement (e. g. »All bodies are heavy« — the character of heaviness is not already contained in that of a body, so that the judgement adds to that notion). Establishing the conditions of the likelihood of synthetical judgements a priori (i. e. before any experience takes place) is the central question of the Critique of Pure Reason. 222 »Die Bedingungen der Möglichkeit der Erfahrung überhaupt sind zugleich Bedingungen der Möglichkeit der Gegenstände der Erfahrung.« (»Le condizioni dell’attendibilità dell’esperienza in generale sono al contempo condizioni dell’attendibilità degli oggetti dell’esperienza.«) Immanuel Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 1990 (henceforth KrV). Quotations are given according to the original page numbers of the first edition (A) and the second edition (B) (here: A 158/B 197). The quoted proposition is the highest principle of all synthetical judgements (see previous note).

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ence, cannot be known. The thing, insofar as it is for us, i. e. in the first place an appearance, can be known, whereas, insofar as it is in itself, 223 i. e. other than an appearance, it eludes our knowledge. While the circumstance of depending on the (subjective) conditions of the likelihood of experience places the entire domain of knowable things (i. e. beings as such and in whole, insofar as they are knowable) on the ground of the knowing subject, the latter, in turn, displays its finitude in that it relies on the fact that, in the first place, something (Kant says: »an X«) gives or offers itself to our experience, i. e. enters the subjectively shaped sphere of appearance. Without this initial »gift«, the human capacity for knowing lacks a likely object of knowledge, as that capacity cannot produce (the experience of) an object by itself, so to speak »spontaneously«. Now, the human capacity for receiving such a gift, when it presents itself — namely the receptive capacity, or capacity for being affected 224 — is what Kant calls Sinnlichkeit, for which we say »sentience« (sensibilità), while the representation that is offered thanks to this receptivity he calls Anschauung, which is usually rendered as »intuition« (intuizione). Hence, intuition is the initial, or, as we should say more cautiously, the immediate relation to given knowable things. In fact, the very first sentence of the main body of the Critique of Pure Reason bears witness to this primacy of the receptive trait: Auf welche Art und durch welche Mittel sich auch immer eine Erkenntnis auf Gegenstände beziehen mag, es ist doch diejenige, wodurch sie sich auf dieselbe[n] unmittelbar bezieht, und worauf alles Denken als Mittel abzweckt, die A n s c h a u u n g . 225

In whatever manner and through whatever means a knowledge may refer to objects, the knowledge through which it refers to them immediately, and for which all thinking aims as a means, is i n t u i t i o n .

The text continues as follows: Diese findet aber nur statt, sofern uns der Gegenstand gegeben wird; dieses aber ist wiederum, uns Menschen we-

However, the latter [i. e. intuition] takes place only insofar as the object is given to us; this, in turn, is likely, at

223 »In itself« translates the German an sich: »the thing in itself« (or, we might say, »the thing [not »on its own« but] on itself«), das Ding an sich, cannot be experienced, and hence remains unknowable. 224 Kant uses the verb affizieren in order to indicate that our senses are »touched« by things (which gives rise to intuitions). In the present context, the English words »to affect« and »affection« are to be understood accordingly. 225 KrV, A 19/B 33.

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Kant nigstens, nur dadurch möglich, daß er das Gemüt auf gewisse Weise affiziere. Die Fähigkeit (Rezeptivität), Vorstellungen durch die Art, wie wir von Gegenständen affiziert werden, zu bekommen, heißt S i n n l i c h k e i t . Vermittelst der Sinnlichkeit also werden uns Gegenstände g e g e b e n , und sie allein liefert uns A n s c h a u un g e n ; durch den Verstand aber werden sie g e d a c h t, und von ihm entspringen B e g r i ff e. Alles Denken aber muß sich, es sei geradezu (direkte) oder im Umschweife (indirekte), vermittelst gewisser Merkmale, zuletzt auf Anschauungen, mithin, bei uns, auf Sinnlichkeit beziehen, weil uns auf andere Weise kein Gegenstand gegeben werden kann.

least for us human beings, only thanks to the fact that it in some way affects the mind 226. The capacity (receptivity) to obtain representations through the manner in which we are affected by objects, is called s e n t i e n c e. Thus, by means of sentience, objects are g i v en to us, and sentience alone provides us with i n t u i t i o n s ; on the other hand, through the understanding these objects are t h o u g h t , and from the understanding itself spring [originate] c o n c e p t s [conceptions]. However, all thinking must ultimately — either straightforward (directly) or roundabout (indirectly), through certain marks — refer to intuitions, hence, as far as we are concerned, to sentience, in that an object cannot be given to us in any other way.

Unlike sentience, which is receptive, thinking — namely the capacity to form concepts (or conceptions) through the understanding — is spontaneous: it rises from itself, and concepts »spring from it«. Receptivity and spontaneity collaborate in view of a likely experience: the former, as it were, has the lead in the formation of knowledge, insofar as, to begin with, an affection (viz. the circumstance that our senses are touched) must take place; however, whenever the mind is immediately affected, which results in an intuition of a given object, the capacity for conceiving (i. e. for building concepts) is already there to provide the conceptual form and firmness which shapes the actual experience and perception of something, i. e. the knowledge of it. Both sentience and understanding have a pure and an empirical part, where »pure« means a priori, namely before any experience is triggered by the actual gift of an object. 227 Consequently, there are empirical and pure intuitions as well as empirical and pure concepts; 226 »Mind« here translates Gemüt, which indicates the overall capacity to feel and think; or, we could also say: Gemüt is man’s capacity to »endure« the encounter with the being, which takes the forms of feeling (sensing) and thinking. 227 A priori refers to the receptive-conceptual constitution of the subject — the constitution which the subject itself brings to the encounter with appearing things by shaping their knowability, and thus these things themselves insofar as they are knowable.

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pure concepts are also called »categories«. As to intuitions, the empirical ones, deriving from a »material affection«, are called sensations, while the pure ones are the intuition of space and the intuition of time. In other words, space (the pure intuition of the outward sense) and time (the pure intuition of the inward sense) 228 are intuited a priori, namely, before an object is perceived empirically and recognized as such by means of proper concepts provided by the understanding. Finally, retracing the understanding to its unconditional sources and principles is the work of (pure) reason. When we speak of »pure« understanding, we do not imply that, because it is a priori, it is severed from intuition; in fact, »pure« understanding always means understanding immersed (namely, »as a means«) in pure (immediate) intuition: no matter how »detached« we may be from the actual experience of an object, reason is after all considering the conditions of likelihood of such an experience; now, these conditions come before the latter — not, though, in terms of a chronological succession, but, as it were, in their foundational rank, namely as the constant »enlikelying« (making likely; ermöglichen; rendere attendibile) 229 of that experience itself, from which reason, therefore, cannot abstract. Likelihood does not precede, and is not replaced by, actuality, but rather constitutively sustains it as such: it is the likelihood of an actuality. As we can see, when it comes to translating Kant’s expression Bedingung der Möglichkeit, it is not only preferable, but necessary not to stick to the common translation of Möglichkeit with »possibility« (possibilità): 230 the fact that reason examines the conditions of the likelihood of experience, and hence the conditions of the likelihood of objects of experience, without and, in a sense, independent of any empirical experience, does not and cannot imply that, when such an experience takes place, its likelihood suddenly fails — turns into an unlikelihood — while at the same time what is perceived turns 228 The inward sense is the intuition of the mind intuiting itself: time, for Kant, is not an object in itself, nor a character of objects, but the structure of our intuitive consciousness in terms of intuited succession, intuited simultaneity and intuited persistence. 229 In order to make this newly coined word more acceptable to the ear, consider the example of the adjective »ugly«: ugly – to ugly (= to make ugly) – uglying; the prefix »en-« (Latin in), here, has the sense »to bring or to come into a certain condition or state«, and thus aptly responds to the meaning of German »er-«. 230 On likelihood see above, p. 143 sqq.

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into an unlikely object of experience. Thus, even when reason explores the original principles of the pure capacity for forming concepts, it must »ultimately refer« to intuitions, and hence to (pure and empirical) sentience.

11.1 The Transcendental Experience The deeper our consideration of the collaboration of sentience and understanding penetrates the region of pure intuitions and pure concepts, the closer we get to the limit of transcendence, which, as the highest principle, is, for us, the marker of the finitude of knowledge. For Kant, the finitude of our encounter with beings is itself, in the first place, a fundamental experience, through which thinking is attained precisely by that principle: hence, it is not the empirical experience of an object, but an initial or, we might say, transcendental experience, which concerns the conditions that, a priori, constitute the likelihood of any experience. The transcendental experience is the experience of the principle which fundamentally attunes, and thus (as we know from Plato’s reference to the ἀρχή of thinking) initiates, defines the scope of, and rules Kant’s metaphysical thinking. Heidegger indicates this initial attunement as follows: 231 Worauf Kant stieß und was er als Grundgeschehnis immer neu zu fassen sucht, ist dieses: Wir Menschen vermögen das Seiende, das wir nicht selbst sind, zu erkennen, obzwar wir dieses Seiende nicht selbst gemacht haben. Seiend zu sein inmitten eines offenen Gegenüber von Seiendem, das ist das unausgesetzt Befremdende. In Kants Fassung heißt das: Gegenstände entgegenstehen haben als sie selbst, obzwar das Begegnen-lassen durch uns geschieht. Wie ist

What Kant came upon, and what he attempts to grasp ever anew as the fundamental becoming [to wit, the coming of the ground itself viz. the limit of transcendence], is this: We humans are capable of knowing the being that we ourselves are not, even though we have not ourselves made this being. »To be being« in the midst of an open vis-à-vis [a counterpart] of beings: this is what incessantly surprises, inducing a sense of strangeness. In Kantian terms this

Ecco la cosa in cui Kant si imbatté, e che, in modi sempre nuovi, egli tenta di cogliere nel senso del generarsi del fondamento: noi uomini siamo in grado di conoscere gli enti diversi dall’indole uomo che noi siamo, sebbene non siamo stati noi, in quanto indole uomo, ad aver fatto quegli stessi enti. Essere essenti nel bel mezzo di un flagrante fronte di enti che si fa incontro – ecco ciò che non cessa di colpire nella sua estraneità. In termini kantiani, tale stato di

Martin Heidegger, Die Frage nach dem Ding. Zu Kants Lehre von den transzendentalen Grundsätzen. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1962, p. 188.

231

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The Transcendental Experience solches möglich? Nur so, daß die Bedingungen der Möglichkeit des Erfahrens (Raum und Zeit als reine Anschauungen und die Kategorien als reine Verstandesbegriffe) zugleich Bedingungen des Gegenstehens der Gegenstände der Erfahrung sind.

means: Having objects countering [standing against] us as themselves [my emphasis], even though the lettingencounter takes place through us. How is such a thing likely? Only thanks to the fact that the conditions of the likelihood of experience (namely, space and time as pure intuitions and the categories as pure concepts of the understanding) are at the same time the conditions of the standing-against of the objects of experience.

cose suona così: avere costantemente di fronte degli oggetti che si fanno incontro in quanto indole oggetto, sebbene il far sì a cui si deve tale farsi incontro si generi hproprioi mediante noi huominii. Come è attendibile che accada una cosa simile? Soltanto in virtù della circostanza che le condizioni di attendibilità dell’esperire (spazio e tempo in quanto intuizioni pure e le categorie in quanto puri concetti dell’intelletto) sono al contempo le condizioni dello stabile farsi incontro [l’obstare] degli oggetti dell’esperienza.

The encounter with beings, when they are experienced as such and in whole, implies in the first place the experience of what is neither us nor things, but is rather in between man and things. This weird inbetween is that to which man is primarily exposed, namely immediately through the pure intuitions of his sentience and, in a mediated manner, through the pure concepts (categories) of understanding. The »highest principle of all synthetic judgements« 232 is the manner in which Kant’s metaphysical thinking responds to the transcendental experience — the experience of the transcendental limit — by positing man, with his cognitive faculties (intuition and understanding), 233 as the subjective ground of the knowledge of beings. 234 The constitution of this ground is such that the likely knowledge of beings (as See above, note 222, and the last sentence of the quotation from Heidegger. A third faculty, namely empirical and pure (or transcendental) imagination (Einbildungskraft) — the faculty to represent an object without it being present in an intuition —, will not be treated here. Of this faculty, which is crucial in that, through a primary (pre-conceptual) synthesis of multiple representations, it builds the bridges (empirical ones, or »images«, and pure ones, or »schemes«) between intuitions and concepts, Kant himself writes the following: »This schematism of our understanding, with regard to appearances and their pure form, is an absconded art in the depths of the human soul, whose true hand movements we will hardly ever guess from nature, and place unconcealed in front of our eyes.« (KrV A 141/B 180–1). 234 The insistence on the problem of knowing and knowledge should not lead us to reduce the Critique of Pure Reason to a »theory of knowledge«: knowing, here, in232 233

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contained in synthetic judgements) is in principle limited by the gift of things whose likely »that« and »what« the subject itself provides as its way of accepting that gift. In fact, the subject with its cognitive powers dwells on this very limit, which is the unmakeable affording of the experience of what is other than the knowing subject, and thus a perennial source of strangeness. Kant’s metaphysical position is built upon — and in response to — this enigmatic gift of experience. At first sight, the highest principle of all synthetic judgements seems to imply that appearance, and thus experience, as a whole is, so to speak, an in-house affair, namely a matter exclusively confined to the subject, whose intuiting-understanding constitution not only determines the subjective experience of things, but also what experienced things are as such. However, what such an assessment overlooks is that constituting the likelihood of objects of experience is not the same as making these objects: insofar as the latter are experienced as themselves, their experience (namely the cognition of the fact that they are and of what they are) maintains a trait of otherness, which is for the subject to ground and constitute. When? Answer: in the very instant in which it grounds and constitutes itself as the site of the conditions of likelihood of objects that are given by an »extraneous hand«. Hence, pure reason needs to trace the source of the otherness which attains us in the unmakeability of experienced things themselves, at the very origin of the constitution of the self; to wit, right at the limit of transcendence which is, at the same time, the limit of pure reason. Kant stands in the tradition of metaphysics and of modern subjectivism, with its guiding methodical trait and latent will-character. In the Preface to the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason (1787) he writes: »Now, the business of this critique of pure speculative reason consists in the attempt to correct the previous procedure of metaphysics and to perform a complete revolution with it following the example of geometers and natural scientists. It [the critique] is a treatise on method, not a system of science [i. e. the whole building of metaphysical knowledge] itself; yet, it traces the latter’s entire outline, both in consideration of its limits and regarding its whole internal build.« 235 The trait of finitude is nothing but the »perennial« oridicates the fundamental relation between man (»the knowing being«) and beings. See above, p. 30 sqq. 235 KrV, B 23.

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ginal trait of discontingency (or rather, as we have been saying, a »spark« of that trait), »retrieved« in the determination of the transcendental conditions of knowledge. In fact, the strangeness of the transcendental experience originates from an appearance, and thus, ultimately, from what other than — ἀλήθεια? In light of this diagnosis, we shall now consider more closely the structure and implications of the human capacity for taking a stance of knowledge in the encounter with the flagrant whole of beings.

11.2 The Position of Being and the Original Unity of Apperception Intuition, pure and empirical, is the source of knowledge in which the immediate encounter with the things of the world — that is: with meaningfulness, with sense — takes place. Intuition is, so to speak, the medium for this immediate encounter, which is further mediated by the unifying, synthesizing power of the pure and empirical concepts springing from understanding. The verb »to intuit« (which translates Kant’s anschauen) comes from the Latin intuèri, formed by the prefix in-, »inside«, and the verb tuèri, »to look«. Intuition is a looking-into, an insight of the »eye of the mind«, characterized by immediacy, i. e. the absence of those operations of mediation (distinguishing, joining, comparing, placing in a causal order, etc.) which define what we call understanding or simply thinking. What is intuited is received, apprehended at once and as a singularity, 236 as opposed to the general and encompassing character of pure concepts or categories (which, however, are supposed to preserve the perceived singularity as such). What is seen in the immediate receptive insight is always already a sense — not only in the domain of pure intuition, but also in that of empirical intuition: that is, in the affection by the »material« aspect of things: what is obtained in such affection is never merely »sensorial data«, but already an element in which a clear and distinct knowledge of what is can grow (this letting grow being precisely the »job« of understanding). As we have seen, that element 236 This also concerns the pure intuition of time and space, which makes it such that both time (as well as every portion of it) and space (as well as every portion of it) are always one. In other words, time and space have parts, but these parts do not make up time and space.

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carries in itself the trait of »natural« strangeness (which, for the Greeks, was the astoundment in the experience of φύσις), which reason is called to master, in order for man, in turn, to become the master of nature. However, even if this mastery — whose theoretical conditions Kant’s Critique sets out to establish — is achieved, this does not change the fact that man finds himself abiding within a simultaneous, already biding otherness of abiding things, which (that biding otherness) man’s own abiding, as such, keeps open. In other words, man’s very abiding irrevocably implies, or rather is, »a breach« (eine Bresche; una breccia) for the irruption of the unmakeable, »weird« gift of being. The freeness of this gift is what bides »in between« man and the beings other than himself. The breach, or in-between, is what man needs to bear, and keep open, in his being. The fact of being, in a sense, delivered to this freeing in-between is the aprioristic and unmasterable ground of the relation of man and things. When the intuitions of human sentience instantly — and abscondedly — receive, in the first place, this in-between, which is the same as the limit of transcendence, they are always already assisted by the tools of synthetical conception provided by understanding. In this manner, both intuition and understanding concur in establishing a horizon for the likely appearing of objects of experience, a horizon in which the very objectivity of objects can be established at (or »on«) the limit of transcendence itself. In fulfilling its collaborative function, thinking is, in a sense, even more finite (or limited) than intuition, in that it can only work in its spontaneous, synthetical ways with the »material« that is offered to it by, or through, the latter. While intuition is taken in by the immediacy of its affections, thinking bears the urgency and gravity of its unifying function. For Kant, human knowledge implies the constitution of an object as such (i. e. from a likely horizon of objectivity) by virtue of the simultaneous constitution of the subject in its freeness, and this means: (the constitution of the object) on the ground of the aprioristically received and conceived limit of transcendence, which the subject, in a sense, carries inside. The notion of sentience, understood as a uniquely human faculty, indicates the circumstance that the humanity of man (his »first transcendence«, as it were) consists primarily in his being entrusted to the intuition of an offering viz. to a multiplicity of offered sense — which, incidentally, is why humans are endowed with so-called senseorgans: the latter are what they are, namely organs of intuitive trans304 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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cendence, in light of man’s »thrownness« into the need of finite receptivity. However, as repeatedly mentioned, both pure and empirical intuitions are from the outset regulated by the synthesizing power of concepts (such a synthesis being, for instance, the relation of cause and effect). The manner in which thinking and intuition coact shows in the (already discussed) German word that names an object of knowledge, namely Gegenstand. Within Kant’s transcendental perspective, the component Gegen- names the pure trait of (yet undetermined) encountering or encounterance, the pure coming-towards and -against of what we encounter. On the other hand, the component -stand (Stand meaning both the fact of standing, the state, and that which stands) names the trait of formal stability and determined constancy which this coming-against must acquire in view of the constitution of a likely or actual object. Thus, Gegenstand is literally that which is standing-against (namely, against the subject) in its (frontal, now stabilised) standing-against, or, with a word of Latin origin that indicates the same, (Gegenstand is) the obstant in its obstancy. 237 It is the understanding’s function to establish as a Gegen-stand — as an obstant or object — what our sentience receives as a mere multiplicity of apparitions: Only once the understanding’s power of synthesis has moulded an intuited (perceived) multiplicity into the steady unity of an object, can an objective knowledge arise. What is an objective knowledge? Answer: a knowledge that concerns a thing which (rising straight from the limit of transcendence) exists independently of and yet for the subject; in short: an experience. Objective knowledge is more than just a conceptual grasp of something: it implies that, beyond the concept of a thing, the thing itself be posited as such; namely, in its existence. The judgement »water is liquid« merely establishes a connection between a certain determined thing, called »water«, and a certain quality, called »liquid«, which is seen to belong to what water is, i. e. to its concept. On the other hand, the statement »water is« posits the being, or existence, of something, and is therefore referred to as an existential proposition, whose general form is: »S is (exists)«. With regard to the position of being in an existential proposition, Kant observes the following: It is instructive to compare the traits of the notion of Gegenstand with the determination of τὸ ὄν in light of φύσις. In fact, Gegenstand, too, names a manner of abiding, and hence of disabscondedness.

237

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Kant Durch das Prädikat des Daseins tue ich nichts zum Dinge hinzu, sondern das Ding selbst zum Begriffe. Ich gehe also in einem Existentialsatz über den Begriff hinaus, nicht zu einem anderen Prädikat, als was im Begriffe gedacht war, sondern zu dem Dinge selbst, gerade mit denselben, nicht mehr, nicht weniger Prädikaten, nur daß die absolute Position über die relative noch dazu gedacht wird. 238

Through the predicate of being-there I don’t add anything to the thing, but hI addi the thing itself [namely, insofar as it exists] to the concept. Thus, in an existential proposition I go beyond the concept — not, though, to another predicate than those halreadyi thought in the concept, but to the thing itself with the very same — neither more, nor less — predicates, only that the absolute position is thought in addition to the relative one.

Position (the action of positing) can be relative or absolute. A relative position places the subject of a proposition (»water«) in relation to a predicate (»liquid«). When the verb »being« is used to perform this relative position, Kant speaks of a logical use of »being«. 239 On the other hand, an absolute position, which characterizes an existential statement, posits the thing itself as »being there« or existing; in other words, it posits the circumstance that the thing is, thus going beyond the mere concept of what it is. This position establishes a different relation, as it does not place a real or what-relevant predicate in relation to the subject of a proposition; 240 rather, it places the subject of the proposition, as an existing object, in relation to the I-subject. The objective knowledge (the experience) gathered in the proposition »this water is liquid«, in which a certain appearance is recognized as an independent Gegenstand coupled with a certain predicate, implies the existential proposition »water is«; however, the latter, in turn, implies the intersection of two relations: 241 on the one hand, the (I-) 238 Undated note, quoted from Martin Heidegger, Kants These über das Sein, in: id., Wegmarken (GA Bd. 9). Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1976, p. 454 sq. (Heidegger indicates the following source: WW Akademiausgabe XVIII, n. 6276). 239 The »is« which joins together, or couples, subject and predicate, is called »copula«. The relative position in propositions of the general form »S[ubject] is P[redicate]« can be either analytic or synthetic: in the latter case, we go beyond S by adding to its real content. 240 In the present context (see also the discussion of the notion of reality in Leibniz, above p. 269 and p. 288), »real« does not mean »actual«, »true« or »effective«, but, in accordance with its Latin root word res (thing), it means »pertinent to the res (or thing) as such«, »pertaining to the res–(or thing-)content«. Consequently, the »is« used in an existential proposition is not a »real predicate«: in fact, joining a concept with the predicate »is« does not add anything to the content of that concept. 241 See Martin Heidegger, Kants These über das Sein, l. c., p. 455.

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subject-object-relation, which places the object itself (»water«) in front of the I-subject; on the other hand, the subject-predicate-relation, in which the subject (»water«) is given, or assigned, the predicate of being or existing (»is«). In an objective knowledge (»this water is liquid«), the I-subject transcends the concept by adding to it what the I-subject itself does not have, but can only acknowledge and state according to the subjective conditions of likely objects of experience, namely the givenness, or existence, of a thing that exhibits the characters conceived in the concept. In this manner, the subject steadily places in front of itself the object »of« a concept: in other words, it posits the thatness of a certain what. 242 The »beyond«, to which the I goes for the sake of the position of being (namely, the position of the obstancy of an obstant), is the limit of transcendence, whence the gift of givenness comes. In fact, this coming is itself the transcendental limit which originates the relation of the given thing and its objective position by the subject. The absoluteness of this limit calls for the absolute position of being in an existential proposition. Absoluteness, here, is an indicator of discontingency. However, insofar as the absoluteness of the limit is only in the absolute position of being, the relation as a whole is finite. The I-subject could not go to the limit of transcendence if it was not already placed there both as an intuiting and as an understanding being. If the immediate dwelling on that limit is intuitive, the original one, in the sense of a grounding (or foundational) mediation, is rather of the order of understanding. In fact, it is understanding — more precisely: pure understanding immersed in pure intuition — that, through the subject’s original stance in the limit of transcendence, constitutes the original unity that lays the ground for all likely experience, and thus, as we have learned, also for all likely objects of experience. This original stance of transcendence, by which the subject constitutes itself as the ground, or principle, for the objectivity of objects placed vis-à-vis the subject itself, is the »I think«.

242 Note that the »what«, too, is primarily determined by aprioristic concepts, or categories, which go beyond (i. e. transcend) the empirical sphere. Thus, while it is true that the position of being (»that«) goes beyond the concept (»what«), both pure thatness and pure whatness transcend the empirical sphere: together, they form the subjectively established beyondness, i. e. the transcendental (discontingent) horizon of objectivity for likely objects of experience. The highest level of transcendence is found in synthetical judgements a priori.

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In fact, the »I think« constitutes the »consciousness [being-conscious; Bewusstsein] of oneself«, or self-consciousness, without which no other knowledge or experience would be likely. The consciousness of oneself, which Kant calls »apperception« (Apperzeption), is the »original synthetical unity« on which all other synthetical functions (all other connections of representations) are based. 243 At the beginning of § 16 of the Critique of Pure Reason, entitled »Of the original-synthetic unity of apperception«, Kant writes the following: Das: Ich denke, muß all meine Vorstellungen begleiten können; denn sonst würde etwas in mir vorgestellt werden, was garnicht gedacht werden könnte, was ebensoviel heißt, als die Vorstellung würde entweder unmöglich, oder wenigstens für mich nichts sein. Diejenige Vorstellung, die vor allem Denken gegeben sein kann, heißt Anschauung. Also hat alles Mannigfaltige der Anschauung eine notwendige Beziehung auf das: Ich denke, in demselben Subjekt, darin dieses Mannigfaltige angetroffen wird. Diese Vorstellung aber ist ein Aktus der Spontaneität, d. i. sie kann nicht als zur Sinnlichkeit gehörig angetroffen werden. Ich nenne sie die reine Apperzeption, um sie von der empirischen zu unterscheiden, oder auch die ursprüngliche Apperzeption, weil sie dasjenige Selbstbewußtsein ist, was, indem es die Vorstellung Ich denke hervorbringt, die alle anderen muß begleiten können, und in allem Bewußtsein ein und dasselbe ist, von keiner weiteren begleitet werden kann. Ich nenne auch die Einheit derselben die transzendentale Einheit des Selbstbewußtseins, um die Möglichkeit der Erkenntnis a priori aus ihr zu beziehen. Denn die mannigfaltigen Vorstellungen, die in einer gewissen Anschauung gegeben werden, würden 243

It is necessary that the hrepresentationi »I think« can escort all my hotheri representations; for otherwise something would be represented in me, which could not be thought, which means that the representation would be unlikely, or at least it would be nothing for me. The representation which can be given before all thinking is called intuition. Therefore, all multiplicity of intuition has a necessary relation to the »I think« in the same subject in which this multiplicity is found. However, this representation is an act of spontaneity, i. e. it cannot be found as pertaining to sentience. I call it pure apperception, in order to distinguish it from the empirical one, or also original apperception, since it is the self-consciousness, which, by bringing about the representation »I think« — of which it is necessary that it can escort all other representations, and in which all consciousness is one and the same —, cannot be escorted by any other representation. Moreover, I call its unity transcendental unity of self-consciousness, in order to derive from it a priori the likelihood of knowledge. For the manifold representations, which are given in a certain intuition, would not, altogether, be my representations, if they did not altogether belong to a self-

The »I think« is the original (initial, inceptive) synthetic judgment a priori.

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The Position of Being and the Original Unity of Apperception nicht insgesamt meine Vorstellungen sein, wenn sie nicht insgesamt zu einem Selbstbewußtsein gehörten, d. i. als meine Vorstellungen (ob ich mich ihrer gleich nicht als solcher bewußt bin) müssen sie doch der Bedingung notwendig gemäß sein, unter der sie allein in einem allgemeinen Selbstbewußtsein zusammenstehen können, weil sie sonst nicht durchgängig mir angehören würden. 244

consciousness; in other words: as my representations (although I am not conscious of them as such) they must necessarily conform to the condition under which alone they can [are likely to] stand together in a general selfconsciousness, for otherwise they would not continuously belong to me.

The reference to the original-synthetic unity of apperception allows us to characterize conclusively Kant’s metaphysical position based on our chosen interpretive key, the trait of finitude. Transcendental apperception contains »the ground of the unity of different concepts in judgements, and thus of the likelihood of understanding, even in its logical use« 245 (KrV, B 131); as such, it is »the highest point to which one must tack all use of understanding, even the entire logic, and, finally, transcendental philosophy has suchi; in fact, this faculty is understanding itself« (KrV, B 134 [footnote]). Without the »stable flagrancy« of the limit of transcendence in the form of the »light« of self-consciousness, without the original transcendental unity of the »I think«, the understanding would have no basis for uniting »S« and »is« for »me«; that is, for posing in front of, and against, the I-subject an object (i. e. a connection, or union, of manifold given intuitions) that exists independently of the subject itself. 246 Consequently, no true judgement, i. e. no proposition stating an objective knowledge, would be likely. 247 KrV, B 131–4. See above the logical use of »being«. 246 The »I think« is the transcendental point of intersection of the (I-)subject-objectrelation and the subject-predicate-relation. (Note that this characterization of the foundational character of the »I think« is not complete, as it does not encompass the transcendental unity of both the »objective [or that-]beyond« and the »conceptual [or what-]beyond«, as is in play in such simple a proposition as: »This body is heavy«; see following note.) 247 To use Kant’s own example (see KrV, B 142): we could only say subjectively valid things like: »When I carry a body, I feel a pression of heaviness«, but not: »It, the body, is heavy«. The unification of manifold apparitions into an object, namely an object for the subjective unity of intuitions that is me, is likely only through the »openness« of the limit of transcendence, i. e. on the basis of the original unity of the »I think«. While the first statement characterizes empirical consciousness, the second 244 245

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However, the »highest point« of »all use of understanding«, the transcendental, original unity for all unifications of intuited appearances operated by understanding, only »escorts«, or accompanies, the pure and empirical intuition of what is given; that is, it does not itself spontaneously produce the representations that it ultimately unites, but must rely on the gift of that which sentience, according to its own conditions, perceives in likely intuitions. On the level of pure intuition, the original-synthetic unity of apperception primarily escorts, as its transcendental ground, the manner in which, in the inner sense of time, the mind intuits itself as it is affected by understanding’s operations of synthesis on the given manifold. Thanks to the »I think«, what would otherwise be an entirely undetermined and unclear consciousness — a perception of oneself in the perception of chaotic (unsynthetized), merely subjective appearances 248 — is raised to the full awareness of a self-conscious encounter with an objective reality. And yet, the original unity, while it is the light of reason and of knowledge, depends on an initial gift, the gift of time, which, so to speak, sleeps in the immediacy of pure (transcendental, dis-contingent) intuition. Unsere Vorstellungen mögen entspringen, woher sie wollen, ob sie durch den Einfluß äußerer Dinge, oder durch innere Ursachen gewirkt seien, sie mögen a priori, oder empirisch als Erscheinungen entstanden sein; so gehören sie doch als Modifikationen des Gemüts zum inneren Sinn, und als solche sind alle unsere Erkenntnisse zuletzt doch der formalen Bedingung des inneren Sinnes, nämlich der Zeit unterworfen, als in welcher sie insgesamt geordnet, verknüpft und in Verhältnisse gebracht

Our representations may spring from where they want: no matter if they were effected through the influence of exterior things, or through interior causes; no matter if they arose a priori, or rather empirically as appearances — in any case, as modifications of the mind, they belong to the inner sense, and as such hmodificationsi, all our cognitions are ultimately subjected to the formal condition of our inner sense, namely time, in which they must altogether be ordered, linked and set in relation to

one originates from transcendental consciousness. In as simple a proposition as: »This body is heavy«, we now recognize the foundational function of the »I think« as the transcendental unity (the unifying limit) of absolute and relative position, namely of the »objective (or that-)beyond« (which, as we have seen, is itself constituted as the intersection of the [I-]subject-object-relation and the subject-predicate-relation) and the »conceptual (or what-)beyond«. 248 The »I think« is the representation thanks to which the subject transcends, on the one hand, merely subjective intuition and, on the other hand, merely conceptual understanding.

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The Position of Being and the Original Unity of Apperception werden müssen. Dieses ist eine allgemeine Anmerkung, die man bei dem Folgenden durchaus zum Grund legen muss. 249

249

each other. This is a general remark, which must be consistently taken as a basis for the following considerations.

KrV, A 98–9.

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Appendix 9 Schelling on the Desirableness of Philosophy

At the onset of thinking stands Parmenides’s (or rather, Alētheia’s) dictum: »There is a stressing need to say and think that the being is«. This same need still speaks, albeit with a different scope, in the guiding question of philosophy: »What is beingness?«. The metaphysical interrogation of the being as such and in whole asks for the principle of being. According to its onto-theo-logical character, it enquires into the unique ultimate ground both of the fact that the being is in whole and, simultaneously, of what the being is as such. While the beginning of philosophy is marked by the prevalence of the what-question, in modern philosophy the that-question comes to the fore. For Leibniz, the first question one has the right to ask in light of the principle of sufficient reason is: »Why is there something rather than nothing?«. This question returns, about one hundred and thirty years later, in Schelling’s philosophy. However, as the following extract from Philosophie der Offenbarung (Philosophy of Revelation) shows, the tone in which it is posed, and thus the initial attunement of philosophical interrogation, has markedly changed. Denn, wenn ich die Thaten und Wirkungen dieser Freiheit im Großen betrachte — und auch in die Geschichte habe ich wenigstens einen allgemeinen Blick geworfen, ehe ich mich zum Studium der Philosophie gewendet — diese Welt der G e s c h i c h t e bietet ein so trostloses Schauspiel dar, daß ich an einem Zwecke, und demnach an einem wahren Grunde in der Welt vollends verzweifle. Denn wenn jedes andere Wesen der Natur an seiner Stelle oder auf seiner Stufe das ist, was es seyn soll, und demnach seinen Zweck erfüllt, so ist vielmehr der

For if I observe on the whole the deeds and achievements of this freedom — and I have taken at least a general look at history too before turning to the study of philosophy —, this world of h i s t o r y offers such a desolate spectacle that I completely despair of a purpose, and thus of a true ground in the world. For if any other being of nature, at its place or at its level, is what it should be, and thus fulfils its purpose, man, on the other hand, since he can attain what he should be only through consciousness and freedom, is, at least for himself, purpose-

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Appendix 9: Schelling on the Desirableness of Philosophy Mensch, weil er das, was er seyn soll, nur mit Bewußtseyn und Freiheit erreichen kann, solang’ er, seines Zweckes unbewußt, von dieser ungeheuern, nie ruhenden Bewegung, die wir Geschichte nennen, gegen ein Ziel fortgerissen wird, das er nicht kennt, wenigstens für sich selbst zwecklos, und da er der Zweck alles andern seyn soll, so ist durch ihn auch alles andere wieder zwecklos geworden. Die ganze Natur müht sich ab, und ist in unaufhörlicher Arbeit begriffen. Auch der Mensch seinerseits ruht nicht, es ist, wie ein altes Buch sagt, alles unter der Sonne so voll Mühe und Arbeit, und doch sieht man nicht, daß etwas gefördert, wahrhaft erreicht werde, etwas nämlich, wobei man stehen bleiben könnte. Ein Geschlecht vergeht, das andere kömmt, um selbst wieder zu vergehen. Vergebens erwarten wir, daß etwas Neues geschehe, woran endlich diese Unruhe ihr Ziel finde; alles, was geschieht, geschieht nur, damit wieder etwas anderes geschehen könne, das selbst wieder gegen ein anderes zur Vergangenheit wird, im Grunde also geschieht alles umsonst, und es ist in allem Thun, in aller Mühe und Arbeit der Menschen selbst nichts als Eitelkeit: a l l e s ist eitel, denn eitel ist alles, was eines wahrhaften Zweckes ermangelt. Weit entfernt also, daß der Mensch und sein Thun die Welt begreiflich mache, ist er selbst das Unbegreiflichste, und treibt mich unausbleiblich zu der Meinung von der Unseligkeit alles Seyns, einer Meinung, die in so vielen schmerzlichen Lauten aus alter und neuer Zeit sich kundgegeben. Gerade Er, der Mensch, treibt mich zur letzten verzweiflungsvollen Frage: warum ist überhaupt etwas? warum ist nicht nichts? —

less, as long as, unconscious of his purpose, he is carried away by this tremendous, never resting movement, towards a destination that he doesn’t know; and, since man is supposed to be the purpose of everything else, through him everything else has, in its turn, become purposeless. The whole nature toils and labours ceaselessly. Man, too, doesn’t rest, and, as an old book says, everything under the sun is so full of toil and labour, and yet one doesn’t see that something is fostered or truly achieved; namely, something where one could stay. A generation goes by, another one follows, only to go by in its turn. In vain we expect that something new arises, where this unrest finally finds its destination; all that occurs, occurs only so that something else can, in turn, occur, which itself, with respect to the next, again becomes the past; thus, in the end everything takes place for nothing, and in all doing, in all toil and labour of men there is nothing but vainness: e v e r y t h i n g is in vain, for everything that lacks a true purpose is vain. Consequently, man and his deeds are far from making the world comprehensible: on the contrary, he himself is the most incomprehensible, and inevitably he drives me to the notion of the wretchedness of all being, a notion that has manifested itself in so many a distressed sound of old and new times. It is He, man, who drives me to the ultimate, despairing question: why is there something at all? why is there not nothing? —

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Appendix 9: Schelling on the Desirableness of Philosophy Daß es nun eine Wissenschaft gebe, die auf diese Frage antworte, uns jener Verzweiflung entreiße, ist unstreitig ein dringendes, ja ein nothwendiges Verlangen, ein Verlangen, nicht dieses oder jenes Individuums, sondern der menschlichen Natur selbst. Und welche andere Wissenschaft sollte die seyn die dieß vermag, wenn es nicht die Philosophie ist? Denn alle anderen unter den Menschen bekannten, von ihnen erfundenen oder ausgebildeten Wissenschaften haben jede ihre bestimmte Aufgabe, und keine antwortet auf diese letzte und allgemeinste Frage. Und so wäre denn kein Zweifel darüber: die Philosophie ist die an sich und zu jeder Zeit begehrenswertheste Wissenschaft, weil durch sie sogar alles andere Wissen erst seinen höchsten Bezug und seinen letzten Halt bekommt. Kann ich jene letzte Frage nicht beantworten, so sinkt alles andere für mich in den Abgrund eines bodenlosen Nichts. 250

Now, that there be a science that answers this question and wrests us from that despair, is indisputably an urgent, or rather a necessary yearning; a yearning not of this or that individual, but of human nature itself. And which other science should have this likelihood, if not philosophy? For all other sciences known among, invented or cultivated by men each have their determined task, and none of them answers this last and most universal question. And so there should be no doubt about the fact that philosophy is, in itself and at all times, the most desirable science, in that through philosophy itself all other knowledge obtains, in the first place, its highest reference and ultimate base. If I cannot answer that ultimate question, everything else sinks, for me, into the abyss of a bottomless nothing.

250 Quoted from: Friedrich Wilhelm Josef Schelling, Filosofia della Rivelazione. Saggio introduttivo, traduzione, note e apparati di Adriano Bausola. Milano: Bompiani, 2002, p. 10–12.

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12. Nietzsche

According to our definition, philosophy or metaphysics is the thinking of a principle of the being of beings. The being of beings we also call beingness. 251 The principle of beingness which metaphysics thinks has the character of an ultimate ground, which, from »beyond the being« (in Greek: meta ta physika), grounds all beings in what they are and in that they are. In Plato, this principle is the idea of the good, which is the origin of beings themselves — that is, the ideas — both in their unique view-giving trait and in their abiding. In Leibniz, the metaphysical principle is the highest, most perfect and most real being, called God, who is the origin of beings themselves; that is, the monads, both in their possibility and in their actuality. Based in reason, the principle harmonizes the world according to the criterion of convenance, which we render as meetness or suitability. After Leibniz, notably in German Idealism, other answers are given to the guiding question of philosophy. According to our hermeneutical hypothesis, the observable variety of metaphysical positions is not merely a consequence of the fact that single philosophers happen to have different »views« on certain general and abstract problems, with the result that the »history of philosophy« turns out to be a conglomeration of discordant and often contradictory statements, which, for the most part, are fatally inconclusive. Rather, the variety of fundamental metaphysical positions originates from the transformations of the truth of beings as such and in whole, in that these positions are anIn Politeia, Plato distinguishes between ousia and einai, beingness and being, where the former indicates what being consists in and the latter indicates that something is, while both have the idea of ideas as their principle (see above, p. 211). However, we can, in a wider perspective, adopt beingness as a name for the metaphysical notion of being in both of its traits or aspects. In this way, we retain the circumstance that, in whatever manner metaphysics thinks being, it never envisages being itself (das Sein selbst; l’indole ›essere‹), but always in the first place the being (das Seiende; l’essente) in its demand for being grounded as such and in whole. 251

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swers to the changing configurations of that truth and its onto-theological principle. Early on in this book, we indicated the latent source of these transformations, which claim to be sustained in an attuned thinking, as follows: »The source of the multiple principles, and of the very form of these principles, which constitute the tradition of philosophy, is to be found in the very inception or onset of thinking in Greek antiquity, in which — as the conjecture goes — the original dis-contingency, in its constitutive reference to man’s being, did not offer itself in its own knowledge and truth, and therefore remained neglected and forgotten«; as a consequence, [t]he thinking that begins with Heraclitus and others, and eventually, with Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, takes the form of philosophy, firstly and only knows this one thing: that there is a first ground of beings that has made itself known from beings themselves and that is other, or »different«, with respect to any being; and that therefore a knowledge solely confined to the domain of beings (i. e. a knowledge confined to beings in which this ground has not made itself known, to wit: a knowledge of contingency) is not a sufficient knowledge. Consequently, the same thinking strives for nothing other than this: a dis-contingent principle for beings as such and in whole. And yet, what attunes this thinking, and thus offers itself to, and claims to be thought by, this thinking, is not dis-contingency in its own truth, but each time (i. e. for each fundamental position of philosophy) a »spark« of the original trait of dis-contingency (so to speak, a spark of the only »principle«). While the acknowledgment of that »spark«, and what it entails in terms of a sufficient foundation and basis of beings, informs a knowledge that remains entirely in the sphere of the constitution of sense-relations (viz. philosophy), that original trait of dis-contingency, insofar as it »creates« its own truth and, as such, entertains a constitutive reference to man, remains unthought (ungedacht; impensato). 252

Nietzsche, who was born in 1844 and died in 1900, is the thinker who elaborates the last fundamental position within this tradition. Despite the fact that other notable philosophers have come after him, it is he with whom this tradition ends, giving way to the seemingly »solitary« 253 unfolding of modern science (in its relation with technology) under the rule of method. Nietzsche himself is, in a sense, aware of this end, but his awareness is the awareness of a thinking that is itself, See above, p. 76 sq. »Solitary«, namely unaccompanied by a thinking that responds to the will which that unfolding executes. 252 253

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once again, metaphysical. In other words, his diagnosis of the end of metaphysics is, in turn, a metaphysical diagnosis. More precisely, it is the diagnosis of a metaphysical thinking that understands itself explicitly as the ultimate (and the first sufficient) philosophical thinking, or rather as the inception of this ultimate thinking. Again, in its own understanding, this thinking differs in a decisive manner from all philosophical thinking that has preceded it. And in what does this difference consist? Answer: in the fact that this thinking is no longer metaphysical! It seems that we have run into a contradiction: in fact, a metaphysical thinking that claims not to be metaphysical any more is a mere contradiction in terms, and therefore impossible. What if, however, in its two occurrences, the word »metaphysical« had different meanings? Indeed, we need to distinguish between Nietzsche’s understanding of metaphysics and the notion of metaphysics which we have been employing in our reconstruction of the path of philosophy. For Nietzsche, metaphysical thinking is characterized by the fact that this thinking attempts to establish an ultimate, ground- and sensegiving cause of the world in a dimension beyond this (viz. the physical, material) world: namely, in some ideal or transcendent sphere. With his stable and unchangeable reign of ideas, ruled by the idea of the good and constituting the whole of what truly is, Plato is, for Nietzsche, the thinker who set the paradigm for philosophical thinking. Since this paradigm has, through a number of modifications, determined the fundamental character of the entire tradition of philosophy, Nietzsche also refers to this tradition simply as »Platonism«. For Nietzsche, metaphysics is Platonism, while he understands his own thinking as an emancipation from Platonism. The latter also includes the fundamental belief within the Christian religion; that is, »the hypothesis ›God‹« (see below, p. 343). The trait of beyondness that characterizes Nietzsche’s understanding of metaphysics refers to some (in his perspective, merely hypothesised) ideal, transcendent, or supernatural dimension in which the principle of the world is placed. On the other hand, in the understanding of metaphysics to which we have been referring, metaphysics is the thinking of a principle of the being as such in whole, where this principle is beyond beings in the sense that it is their discontingent source and cause. Hence, whether or not this beyondness is placed in some supernatural sphere, is, in this latter understanding, not decisive with regard to the characterization of thinking as meta317 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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physical. On the other hand, what is decisive in this respect is that what attunes thinking and determines its scope is the interrogation and foundation of the ground of the being in whole. Thus, according to his own understanding of metaphysics, Nietzsche would never call himself a metaphysical thinker. In fact, in his fundamental experience, and within the truth to which his thinking is an answer, there is no »ideal«, »supernatural« principle of beings as such, nor is there a whole of beings seen as a sphere that is other with respect to the totality of beings themselves — nor are there, rigorously speaking, any »beings« at all, insofar as the very notion of »a being« refers to a (merely imagined) stable, eternal sphere of »being«. On the other hand, according to our concept of metaphysics, Nietzsche is indeed a metaphysical thinker, insofar as he thinks things in light of a principle that informs them as such and in whole — and in this sense stands beyond them, even if, according to Nietzsche’s position, this beyond is not located in some supernatural sphere, but rather in the being, or rather, »in the living« itself. Thus, Nietzsche gives his own answer to the guiding question of philosophy. As we shall see, this answer is the culminating point of modern thinking as subjectivism. Nietzsche’s experience of the end of metaphysics is the experience that Platonism, in his understanding of this word, has come to an end, and with it all sense-giving references which our manhood has established in its thinking. Accordingly, the task which Nietzsche sees for himself to accomplish is enormous: while the dissolution of Platonism stands as evidence, this dissolution must be brought to light from its source, namely from the overt fundamental insufficiency of this form of thinking; this shedding of light, in turn, must occur in combination with the founding of an entirely new, finally sufficient principle of being. 254 However, this task requires an entirely new style 254 Again, Nietzsche himself would not, with reference to his own thinking, speak of a »principle of being«. However, his use of traditional metaphysical language remains iridescent, and this for an essential reason: because all language is metaphysically »charged«, in that its words become meaningful within the dominant metaphysical schemes, Nietzsche sees himself as having to achieve an »anti-metaphysical« revolution (i. e. one that aims at demolishing those — already decrepit — schemes) within a language that a long tradition has forged to resist precisely that revolution. As a consequence, it can happen that a certain notion is dismissed (e. g., the notion of »philosopher«, when »philosopher« means »Platonist«), but then, in a different context, that same notion is adopted in another, »valid«, sense. As a first orientation, the following should be noted: if metaphysical thinking has, for Nietzsche, a dual structure (»yes« vs. »no«, »good vs. bad«), his own thinking typically leads him to take one of the two

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of thinking, namely a thinking that no longer resorts to ideal and supernatural principles, and for which man, who for more than two thousand years has cultivated forms of thinking in the style of Platonism, is not at all ready and prepared. Nietzsche works incessantly, and in perfect solitude, at the preparation and enacting of this necessary transformation of thinking — and therefore of the human being as such — until his breakdown in 1889. Much of his work, especially in his last productive decade, consists of notes and sketches published only after his death, while the writings that appeared during his lifetime (with the notable exception of Also sprach Zarathustra) rather have the nature of by-products of this ongoing reflection. These notes, especially those from the second part of the 1880s, when Nietzsche had come to a clear awareness of his task, were meant as preparation for a major work, a kind of summa of his thinking, which however never came to fruition. In these notes we also find various ideas for the title, as well as sketches of prefaces, for that planned major work. One of these sketches is particularly significant, in that it offers a concentrated overview of Nietzsche’s fundamental experience and of the central themes and keywords of his thinking. 255 Vorrede 1. Große Dinge verlangen, daß man von ihnen schweigt oder groß redet: groß, das heißt cynisch und mit Unschuld.

Preface 1. Great things demand that one remain silent about them or speak of them with greatness; »great« means: with cynicism and innocence.

2. Was ich erzähle, ist die Geschichte der nächsten zwei Jahrhunderte. Ich beschreibe, was kommt, was nicht mehr anders kommen kann: die Heraufkunft des Nihilismus. Diese Ge-

2. What I tell hin this booki is the weird 256 of the next two centuries. I describe what is coming, what can no longer come otherwise than thus hnamelyi: the upcoming of nihilism.

sides (namely, the »no« or »bad« one), where the implication of this thinking is however not that one should stick to that side while the dual structure remains in place, but that the duality itself must be eliminated, and its terms reconfigured according to a new criterion. 255 All quotations are from: Friedrich Nietzsche, Kritische Studienausgabe, herausgegeben von Giorgio Colli und Mazzino Montinari. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1999. References have the form »KSA Vol. number/page number«. The present quotation is from KSA 13/189 sq. 256 See below for an explanation of this word.

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Nietzsche schichte kann jetzt schon erzählt werden: denn die Nothwendigkeit selbst ist hier am Werke. Diese Zukunft redet schon in hundert Zeichen, dieses Schicksal kündigt überall sich an; für diese Musik der Zukunft sind alle Ohren bereits gespitzt. Unsere ganze europäische Cultur bewegt sich seit langem schon mit einer Tortur der Spannung, die von Jahrzehnt zu Jahrzehnt wächst, wie auf eine Katastrophe los: unruhig, gewaltsam, überstürzt: wie ein Strom, der ans Ende will, der sich nicht mehr besinnt, der Furcht davor hat, sich zu besinnen.

This weird can already be told now, for what is at work here is necessity itself. This future already speaks in a hundred signs; this destiny announces itself everywhere; for this music of the future, all ears are already pricked up. Our entire European culture has for a long time been moving towards a catastrophe, with a torture of tension that grows from decade to decade: restlessly, violently, precipitately: like a stream wanting to get to the end, and which does not bethink itself any more, which is frightened of bethinking itself.

3. — Der hier das Wort nimmt, hat umgekehrt Nichts bisher gethan als sich zu besinnen: als ein Philosoph und Einsiedler aus Instinkt, der seinen Vorteil im Abseits, im Außerhalb, in der Geduld, in der Verzögerung, in der Zurückgebliebenheit fand; als ein Wage- und — Versucher-Geist, der sich schon in jedes Labyrinth der Zukunft einmal verirrt hat; als ein Wahrsagevogel-Geist, der zurückblickt, wenn er erzählt, was kommen wird; als der erste vollkommene Nihilist Europas, der aber den Nihilismus selbst schon in sich zu Ende gelebt hat — der ihn hinter sich, unter sich, außer sich hat …

3. — He who here rises to speak, on the other hand, has until now done nothing but bethinking himself: as a philosopher and recluse out of instinct, who saw his advantage in apartness, in the outside, in patience, in delaying, in remaining behind; as a spirit of daring and — temptation, who has once already lost his way in every labyrinth of the future; as the spirit of a soothsayer-bird, who looks back when he tells what will come; as the first accomplished nihilist of Europe, who however has within himself already outlived nihilism — who has nihilism behind himself, below himself, outside of himself …

4. Denn man vergreife sich nicht über den Sinn des Titels, mit dem dieses Zukunfts-Evangelium benannt sein will. »Der Wille zur Macht. Versuch einer Umwerthung aller Werthe« — mit dieser Formel ist eine Gegenbewegung zum Ausdruck gebracht, in Absicht auf Princip und Aufgabe: eine Bewegung, welche in irgendeiner Zukunft jenen vollkommenen Nihilismus ablösen wird; welche ihn aber voraussetzt, logisch und psycho-

4. For one should not mistake the sense of the title with which this gospel of the future wants to be named. »Der Wille zur Macht. Versuch einer Umwerthung aller Werthe« [»The Will to Power. Attempt at an Inversion of the Polarity of all Values«] — this formula expresses a countermovement, in regard to its principle and to its task: a movement that in some future time will supersede that accomplished nihilism; which, however, presupposes

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Nietzsche logisch, welche schlechterdings nur auf ihn und aus ihm kommen kann. Denn warum ist die Heraufkunft des Nihilismus nunmehr nothwendig? Weil unsere bisherigen Werthe selbst es sind, die in ihm ihre letzte Folgerung ziehn; weil der Nihilism die zu Ende gedachte Logik unserer großen Werthe und Ideale ist, — weil wir den Nihilismus erst erleben müssen, um dahinter zu kommen, was eigentlich der Werth dieser »Werthe« war … Wir haben, irgendwann, neue Werthe nöthig …

this nihilism logically and psychologically, and which can by all means only come after it and from out of it. For why is the upcoming of nihilism now necessary? Because it is our very hitherto valid values which, in this nihilism, draw their last consequence; because nihilism is the logic of our great values and ideals, thought to its end — because we must first live through nihilism in order to find out what actually was the value of those »values« … At some point we will need new values …

Apart from noticing the recurrence of certain words, at first we cannot make much sense of what is being said here. Nietzsche calls the content of the book, to which this text is meant to serve as a preface, »the weird of the next two centuries«, namely the weird concerning the fundamental configuration of Europe and therefore, in a sense, of the (»Europeanized«) world. But what is »the weird«? Nietzsche says die Geschichte, which the dictionary translates as »history« or »story«. Accordingly, this fragment, which was written at the beginning of 1888, would tell in advance the unfolding of history up until 2088. But how can a philosophical book foretell the future? Answer: it cannot. Namely, it cannot offer more or less precise predictions of contingent events that are yet to occur. That is why, in spite of the chronological reference, die Geschichte, here, is neither »the story« nor »the history«, but rather »the weird«. The English word »weird« literally indicates »that which comes«; its meanings span from »the principle, power, or agency by which events are predetermined; fate, destiny«, to »that which is destined or fated to happen to a particular person, etc.; what one will do or suffer; one’s appointed lot or fortune«, to »a happening, event, occurrence« and »predetermined events collectively«. 257 The meanings of the verb »to weird« and of the adjective »weird« are in line with those of the noun. Today, the word is current only as an adjective in the sense of »uncanny, odd, strange«. The root *wer- »to turn, bend«, from which »weird« is formed, is the same as that of the German werden »to become«; indeed, the notion of werden can be inter257

All definitions are taken from the Oxford English Dictionary.

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preted as »to come in a [sudden] turn«, which can be further understood as »to come in, and as, an instantaneous disabsconding«. 258 In the present (i. e. Nietzschean and therefore metaphysical) context, we take the noun »weird« to translate Geschichte in the strict meaning of the self-generating generation of sense from out of a principle of being, which (that principle) acts as the law of that generation and of its unfolding or enuring. 259 In the broader context of our reconstruction of the tradition of principles of philosophy, however, »weird« translates Geschichte as the generation of principles of the being as such and in whole — or, in other words, the generation of subsequent configurations of the truth of the being —, in which and as which the »principle of principles« holds off and remains unthought. As Nietzsche himself says, his foretelling concerns the unfolding of a (in our sense) metaphysical necessity — not the unavoidable occurrence of a sequence of »facts«. However, a metaphysical necessity can appear only in light of the insight into a metaphysical principle. Indeed, it appears that Nietzsche is saying this: the one (new) sufficient principle of the being in whole is the fundamental reason, the inner »logic«, the source and end; in a word: that which, with its necessity, moves »European culture« — namely, the course of the generation of sense which goes under that name — and has »for a long time« imparted direction to this movement (or becoming); and as the previous movement becomes transparent as to its principle, and therefore with regard to its destination, so does the time that is still needed in order for this movement to attain that destination according to that same principle, which is the true »agent« of the movement, or becoming, itself. Thus, »the next two centuries« is not the time span of a contingent scenario, or a certain interval on the »arrow of time«, but an indication of the scope of the becoming of a worldshaping sense in terms of the »time« (i. e. the offering of spaces which can receive that sense) that this movement, which has already begun, needs in order to come to the end which is already decided in its beginning. Therefore, »time« is here a measure for a scope of senseunfolding — notably, the sense-unfolding which in our text is called »nihilism« — indicated in terms of »counted time«. In fact, since we 258 English also has the now obsolete verb »to worth«, which is the same as werden, and means »to come to be, come to pass, come about, happen, take place«. 259 An Italian word capable of indicating the same as Geschichte and »weird« is genitura.

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are in the context of a fundamental metaphysical position, nihilism does not take place »in time«; rather, it originates the »time« it needs for itself, namely the space-of-time required by its becoming. This time, in turn, can have an (incalculable) analogon in terms of measured time: in the present case, this analogon is »two centuries«. Because Nietzsche’s »two centuries« are an indication of the scope for the full unfolding of the principle that has governed, still governs, and will keep governing the movement of »European culture«, we need to focus on this principle, rather than looking out for correctly forecasted facts that might have occurred since the text was written, or that might still occur between now and the late 21st century. The »story« which Nietzsche tells is nothing other than the insight into the weird of a principle, and of the truth in which this principle »acts«, thereby governing the becoming of the world. In Also sprach Zarathustra Nietzsche writes the following: Die stillsten Worte sind es, welche den Sturm bringen. Gedanken, die mit Taubenfüssen kommen, lenken die Welt. 260 It is the stillest [quietest] words that bring the storm. Thoughts that come on doves’ feet steer the world. Sono le parole più fermamente silenti a portare la tempesta. I pensieri che arrivano con passi di colomba governano il mondo.

Two of the words that stand out in the quoted sketch are »nihilism« and »value«: they belong to those »stillest words«. But are »value« and »nihilism« not common notions? Don’t we all »have values«, and opinions on which values should be more important than others? And is it not well known that, where all values fail, »nihilism« ensues? So, it appears that Nietzsche is one of those intellectuals who, at a given moment, notice a »decay of values« and call for »new values« in order to thwart the »nihilistic« threat. However, if it is so natural for us to think in terms of values, this is precisely due to the circumstance that Nietzsche is the first and last philosopher who elaborates a fundamental metaphysical position through thinking in terms of values: for Nietzsche, thinking consists in establishing values, and being means »being or having a value«. Nietzsche’s unique fundamental experience — the experience of being in which he awakens as a thinker, who is addressed by an origi260 Friedrich Nietzsche, Also sprach Zarathustra (Part two, »Die stillste Stunde«), KSA 4/189.

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nal need — is that the philosophical tradition consists in the establishment of different principles of valuation: to wit, principles which are themselves highest values and, as such, in their turn set values and hierarchies of values. For instance, Plato’s idea of the good is, for Nietzsche, one (namely, a now unnecessary) manner of establishing a highest value which, in turn, is the source and origin of the valuecharacter of all other values, and thus of these values themselves. The same is true for Leibniz’s monad of monads, God, who is also a highest value and the ultimate reason for all other values. And so on. However, neither Plato nor Leibniz thinks of his respective principles in terms of values. The thought that »being« is the same as »being or having a value« (and thus a matter of valuation and estimation), and therefore that the principle of the being in whole is a value-setting principle, is entirely alien to them. As we shall see, for Nietzsche — the thinker who, from the outset, understands being as value — the insufficiency of the tradition that issued from Plato resides in the circumstance that, all throughout this tradition, highest values and hierarchies of values were established without a clear awareness of the only value-setting principle, which, on the other hand, a future manhood will need to be able to recognize and embrace. These provisional remarks should in the first place prevent us from taking the matter of values, as it appears in Nietzsche’s thinking, as obvious. In this thinking, values have an ontological status. Before Nietzsche, no thinker had ever thought of being as value, hence the limited role of values in previous metaphysics. On the other hand, in our epoch the word »value« has, for the first time, become a near synonym for »sense«, and it is perfectly natural for us to equate the being of things with their (material or immaterial) value, and to perform what we call thinking as an act of setting values, or evaluating, by some form of computation. The fact that everything is a value and a matter of evaluation is for us so natural that it does not demand any kind of interrogation as to its provenance and implications. However, whenever a concept presents itself in such unquestionable obviousness, the time of philosophical interrogation has come. Nietzsche’s thinking is certainly not the cause of the status of values and evaluation in our epoch. Yet, it is apparent that thinking in terms of values has become widespread only after Nietzsche. Presumably, this is due to the circumstance that Nietzsche’s thinking has brought to light the principle which, while giving to being the form of values, determines not only Nietzsche’s epoch, but, to an extent, ours 324 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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as well. This implies the following: studying Nietzsche’s metaphysics of value is an eminent occasion for us to become aware of the metaphysical provenance and implications of the beingness of beings and, accordingly, the manner of thinking, that inform our epoch. On the other hand, ordinary and scientific thinking, which already obtain things as values, and are themselves constituted as thinking through values, cannot interrogate value and valuation as such.

12.1 Nietzsche’s Answer to the Guiding Question of Philosophy: Life and the Will to Power For Nietzsche, being is value, and thinking has the character of setting values or evaluating. This circumstance is based on the experience that being is life, and life, in turn, is from the outset experienced according to a fundamental trait that is the will to power. 261 In short: being is value because being bides as will to power in the form of life. Consequently, everything is according to how much it counts for life and in terms of life; that is, according to its value, where the latter is a measure of power. Thus, all other sense-supplying instances having failed, »life itself« — the last configuration of φύσις in the tradition of metaphysics — stands up so as to have its say at last and, as it were, to speak for itself with its own voice. Nietzsche’s thinking is the medium of this uprising. Concerning the equation of being, life and will to power, Nietzsche writes the following: (1) Das Sein — wir haben keine andere Vorstellung davon als ›leben‹. — Wie kann also etwas Todtes ›sein‹ ? (KSA 12/135) Being — we don’t have any other idea of it than ›living‹. — How, then, can something dead ›be‹ ? (2) das innerste Wesen des Seins [ist] Wille zur Macht (KSA 13/260) the innermost essence of being [is] the will to power

Two further notes allow us to understand more clearly the character of life, and to state the link between life, will to power, and value:

261 While for the tradition thinking, as distinct from the living body, is the specific trait of man’s being, in Nietzsche it is an extension of the living body itself.

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(3) das Leben ist nicht Anpassung innerer Bedingungen an äußere, sondern Wille zur Macht, der von innen her immer mehr ›Äußeres‹ sich unterwirft und einverleibt. (KSA 12/295) life is not the adaptation of internal conditions to external ones, but will to power, that from the inside subdues and incorporates more and more of what is »outside«. (4) Es giebt nichts am Leben, was Werth hat, außer dem Grade der Macht — gesetzt eben, daß das Leben selbst Wille zur Macht ist. (KSA 12/215) There is nothing of life that has a value except the degree of power — given that life itself is will to power.

Since Nietzsche experiences the will to power as the principle of the being as such in whole, being (Sein; essere) — both organic and inorganic, both natural and artificial — is life, where »life« means precisely this: a becoming (ein Werden; un divenire), ruled by the principle of the will to power. Life has, as its ruling onset, the will to power; therefore everything — tree and stone, house and table, God and animal, science and philosophy, art and the State — is life. It is important to see that Nietzsche is not, on the other hand, simply extending a generic meaning of »life« or »living being« to all beings, including »inanimate« ones. While in Leibniz the universe is »full of life«, in Nietzsche all beings (or rather, all »becomings«) »live«, which now means: they become according to the will to power. However, what does will to power mean? It is clear that our understanding of Nietzsche’s thinking depends crucially on an adequate comprehension of this notion. When we hear the expression »will to power«, immediately the image of some power-greedy, power-craving, power-accumulating being appears in front of our inner eye. In general, we understand »will to power« as a limitless aspiration to power, as a striving for power paired with the determination to seize it. However, when it comes to the will to power as a principle of beingness, this understanding is misleading. Will to power is not the will to gain and maintain power; it is, in the first place, not a faculty or even an instinct of a certain given being. Indeed, if the will to power is to be understood as a metaphysical principle and as an ontological concept, there cannot be already given beings that have, as one of their characters or faculties, this peculiar will. Rather, we need to understand the will to power as a principle that is constitutive of the beingness of beings; that is, of life. »Aspiring to power« is an observable contingent char326 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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acter of certain beings; it is one of the contingent objectives which the »faculty of willing« may envisage — however, it cannot be a principle of determination of the beingness of beings; namely, of what they are. In Nietzsche’s posthumous notes, we read the following: (5) Am Anfang steht das grosse Verhängniss von Irrthum, dass der Wille Etwas ist, das wirkt, — dass Wille ein Vermögen ist … Heute wissen wir, dass er bloss ein Wort ist … (KSA 6/77) At the beginning stands the great fatality consisting in the error hof thinkingi that the will is Something that acts [that is effective], — that the will is a faculty … Today we know that it is nothing but a word.

In order to approach the notion of will to power as the principle of the becoming of life, we can consider the following passage, taken from Also sprach Zarathustra (KSA 4/147 sq.): (6) Wo ich Lebendiges fand, da fand ich Willen zur Macht; und noch im Willen des Dienenden fand ich den Willen, Herr zu sein … Und diess Geheimniss redete das Leben selber zu mir. ›Siehe, sprach es, ich bin das, was sich immer selber überwinden muss …‹ Where I found something living, there I found will to power; and even in the will of the servant, I found the will to be master … And this secret life itself spoke to me. ›Look, it said, I am that which must always outdo itself [by overcoming any resistance to such outdoing]‹.

This passage gives us a simple determination of that in which will consists: namely, will is (in general, and even in the servant) the will to be master (Herr; padrone). If we read the passage attentively, it is not said that the servant wants power, and therefore strives to switch his status as servant (a state of relative powerlessness) with that of a master (a role that involves relative power); rather, it is said that, given that the principle of all that lives, insofar as it lives, is the will to power, even in the will that determines the beingness of the servant (i. e. what it is to be a servant) one finds this fundamental character of will: namely, the will to be master. In what manner can we understand what determines the servant as servant in terms of the will to be master? Like this: the more the servant is a servant, the more he serves the master, the more the master cannot do without his services, until the point in which the master becomes dependent upon the servant. In this manner, the servant masters himself into becoming more and more of a servant, thereby mastering the (use of the) master for

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his (the servant’s own) self-mastering. This is how the servant as such wills to be master, without ever aspiring to »become a master«. Nietzsche says: will as such is the will to be master. What does our example tell us about being master? It tells us that being master requires, in the first place, mastering oneself. The servant needs to master himself in the sense that he constantly needs to drive his own being-servant (his life in the form of serving) to outperform itself. In pursuing mastery, he needs to command his being (his »serving-force«) to outgrow itself. He needs to be able to command himself (sich selbst befehlen; ingiungere a se stesso) this »more«. Only he who is capable of mastering himself — that is, of commanding himself the more, in the sense of the outperforming of his own »level of being« — is truly master, while the mere fact of being given the right to »give orders« does not make a master in this sense. The true master is he who can obey the need of commanding himself the more, the increase, the »plus«. 262 On the other hand, those who cannot obey this necessity need to be given orders by others (which is always easier than true commanding). On will, understood in this sense, Nietzsche writes the following: (7) »wollen« ist nicht »begehren«, streben, verlangen: davon hebt es sich ab durch den Affect des Commando’s (KSA 13/54) »willing« is not »craving«, striving, desiring: from all that it distinguishes itself through the affect 263 of command 262 Will is command. But what is command? Even if Nietzsche here takes the human sense of commanding as a reference, we should not forget that he thinks will, and therefore command, as a fundamental trait of the being as such. Command is not merely the fact of exerting authority over others, of imparting orders to them. Commanding implies holding oneself above, being on top, upholding oneself in order rise above (others) and supervise a domain that is, as a whole, pre-established (or subjected) in such a way as to be kept under control and therefore ready to receive commands and directives. However, even before that, commanding also implies that one command oneself, that one be on top of oneself: If I don’t have myself under my command, I cannot establish a regime of control and command others. Command is, therefore, fundamentally self-command, the command in which I command myself to rise above myself and stay on top of myself, and thus have myself under control as I command what is under me. In all this there are two traits that we need to see and keep in mind: the trait of coercion and the trait of assurance. Will as command is characterized by coercion in the sense that what is to be commanded must be previously seized and stabilized. Moreover, command requires previous and constant assurance of itself and of its conditions. 263 An affect is a disposition, namely, in the present context, a »trial of force« endured by a form of life.

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What have we learned by characterizing will as such as the will to be master? This: willing implies commanding, which is, in the first place, commanding oneself, and this, in turn, implies the command for the »more«; that is, the command to outperform, to enforce, potentiate, overpower one’s own being. Now we understand the last part of quotation (6): life is that »which must always outdo itself«. We also understand that the will to power does not merely indicate the craving for force or power. Power is not the end or aim of the will; it is not what stands at the end of a successful pursuit of power. The reason is that will as will, true will, is already the will to become more, the will to overpower, and, in this sense, a will to power. In other words, will as such (true will) implies empowering the more of power. Thus, will as such belongs to the domain of power and, in this sense, is power. However, if will as such is already will to power in the sense of empowering the more of power, what, then, is power as such? Power is not just the fact of holding a certain quantity or degree of power; that is, of the capacity to control effects. Power itself implies the trait of mastering, namely of mastering any attained level of power. We can see this by considering the example of a powerful car. A car is powerful as long as, at any attained level of power, it still maintains a reserve of power; in other words, as long as, at a given level of speed, it maintains the capacity for increasing that speed; that is, for accelerating. Thus, to power as such belongs the capacity of mastering itself, of being able to command itself an increase, a plus of power; in short: power is power only as long as it maintains the capacity for overpowering itself. A power (for instance, a political power) that consists merely in exerting a certain degree of force, but lacks the capacity for empowering a plus of power, is no longer a true power, but is in fact on the verge of collapsing into powerlessness. However, if power as such implies its own overpowering — that is, the capacity for commanding itself an increase of power; if, in other words, power is essentially the power to power; if, therefore, power as such implies the mastery of a plus of power, and, in turn, mastery, with its trait of command, is what characterizes will, then the following is true: power as power is always and necessarily will to power. Hence, we can see that the will to power is not the combination of a »will« — intended as the faculty of aspiration, desire or craving — with an end or aim of this will, namely »power« — intended as a certain quantity or degree of force. Rather, will as such and power as such already imply, as their original trait, the will to power, whose 329 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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sense is: giving the command to power, empowering power, or, in a diagnostically more explicit formulation: empowering the overpowering. 264 The fact that Wille zur Macht, will to power, is the handing of all power to power, implies that the will to power has only one aim and end, namely itself, to wit, the empowering of overpowering. As a consequence, any other aim, or end, or objective which is pursued »on the way« is in fact only an occasion for the empowering of power, a means through which the will to power pursues itself. In other words, there is no such thing as an »end in itself«, an aim that is pursued for its own sake and in view of some sort of stable τέλος (telos) or perfection; rather, perfection is in the will that exclusively wills itself. This is what Nietzsche makes clear in the following passage: (8) dass alle ›Zwecke‹, ›Ziele‹, ›Sinne‹ nur Ausdrucks-weisen und Metamorphosen des Einen Willens sind, der allem Geschehen inhärirt, der Wille zur Macht; daß Zwecke, Ziele, Absichten haben, wollen überhaupt soviel ist wie Stärker-werden-wollen, wachsen wollen, und dazu auch die Mittel wollen. (KSA 13/44) … that all »purposes«, »aims«, »senses« are merely manners of expression and metamorphoses of the One Will, which is inherent in all occurring, hnamelyi the will to power; that having purposes, aims, intentions, that willing in general is the same as willing to become stronger, willing to grow, and for that end also willing the hnecessaryi means.

The will to power is the principle that is inherent »in all occurring«; that is, in the becoming of the being as such and in whole; it is the principle of life that drives the becoming of the world. In fact, there is no stable being, no ultimate point of rest, no point »where one could stop« or stay, but only a becoming, a constant flow, which however is not senseless, because its sense is, for each single »being« and for »the being« in whole, the empowerment of power. For instance, the servant pursues certain aims, such as the aim of learning the »art« of perfect household management. However, neither household management nor any other aim the servant might pursue are »ends in themselves«, but rather occasions, ways and means for the servant to become master. And even this becoming master is not an end in 264 If Wille zur Macht were a will that has, as its aim or end, the acquisition of power, a legitimate Italian translation of this expression would be: volontà di potenza. However, since the only aim of the will to power is power itself; that is, since »will to power« means handing all power to power, it appears that a more fitting translation of Wille zur Macht would be volontà per la potenza.

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itself, but, in turn, a means for the empowering of power in the form of the servant becoming more and more of a servant by constantly outperforming his power of serving. In other words, the servant’s life, as a form of the will to power, is at the same time a means and an end. The willing that acts in all becoming is always willing something, namely, something on occasion of which the »becoming more« is performed. This is the same as saying that the will to power always has an aim, which, as we know, is an aim only insofar as it serves the one and only true aim, namely the empowerment of power. Without an aim, the will would have nothing to will, the will to power would be unable to implement itself, the becoming would, as it were, »idle«, and cease to be what it is. Therefore, the will to power cannot tolerate the absence of an aim, the absence or void of something to will; in a word: the nothing. This »allergy to nothing« shows in the fundamental trait of man’s being, namely, the horror vacui or horror of the void. Thus, the will must will, it cannot not will, and, rather than not willing, it wills the annihilation of everything. (9) [der Wille] braucht ein Ziel, — und eher will er noch das Nichts wollen als nicht wollen (KSA 5/339) [the will] needs an aim, — and rather than not willing, it wills to will the nothing

12.2 Values as Conditions of the Will to Power The manner in which the will to power implements itself can be seen as a circuit, namely a circuit of conservation and increase. In fact, the implementation of the empowerment of power requires that any attained level of power be secured, maintained, conserved, so as to act as a solid basis for the attainment of a higher level of power. Thus, we can speak of a circuit of power, in which any moment of conservation (which, by itself, does not satisfy the notion of power) occurs in the perspective of an increase, while, in turn, any moment of increase must already anticipate the conservation of the level of power for which it is aiming. Thus, any movement of increase is in itself conservative, while any conservation is characterized by the trait of increase. While implementing itself, the empowering of power must therefore command, simultaneously, conservation and increase. This

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simultaneity defines the sense in which the will to power is a circuit of power. The circuit of power itself sets, or posits (setzt; pone), the conditions of increase and conservation. Condition, here, means that which is needed, and must be given, in order for the circuit to implement itself. What sort of conditions are these? Nietzsche gives the following answer: (10) Der Gesichtspunkt des ›Werths‹ ist der Gesichtspunkt von ErhaltungsSteigerungs-Bedingungen in Hinsicht auf complexe Gebilde von relativer Dauer des Lebens innerhalb des Werdens … es giebt keinen Willen: es giebt Willens-Punktationen, die beständig ihre Macht mehren oder verlieren. (KSA 13/36) The viewpoint of ›value‹ is the viewpoint of conditions of conservation increase with regard to complex configurations of a relative duration of life within the becoming … there is no will: there are punctuations of will, which constantly increase or lose their power.

The conditions which the will to power sets for its own empowerment are viewpoints. These viewpoints are constituted as such by virtue of a particular view, or perspective, which consists in a punctuating or point-setting. Punctuating, the character of the will’s view, is what constitutes a point (from Latin punctum, the past participle of the verb pungere »to pierce, to punctuate«). Anything that »is« within the becoming, becomes, or is »a flagrant becoming«, by virtue of a punctuating view; in other words, everything is a view-point. 265 Such viewing, as which the will to power implements itself, traverses the entire becoming. However, it does so not in general, but rather »with regard to complex configurations of a relative duration of life within the becoming«. We will come back to these »complex configurations«; for now, suffice it to say that these configurations are complex, relatively stable perspectives of a rather wide scope, which make the becoming, or a certain domain within the becoming, visible and accessible according to their particular regard.

265 We can safely assume that Nietzsche, who was a professor of Classical Philology, hears the Latin pungere, which speaks in the German Punkt and the English »point«. In our own interpretive perspective, we recognize in this punctuation a spark of φύσις in the element of late subjectivity. In other words, punctuating is a manner of disabsconding. The viewpoint of the will to power stands at the end of the tradition initiated by the view-offering idea of ideas.

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The viewing of the will to power goes through the becoming as an anticipatory regard; that is, a regard that is capable of anticipating, calculating in advance, and in this sense controlling the becoming itself. What the will looks out for in its viewing, what it anticipates and calculates in advance, and eventually punctuates or sets as viewpoints, are »conditions of conservation hand simultaneouslyi increase«, namely the conditions for its own implementation as a circuit of power. Why is this viewing anticipatory? Because this regard precedes (is already in place for) the constitution of something as a condition, in that it determines in what respect and how that condition appears as such, namely as a given viewpoint in the perspective of a certain instance of becoming. We can illustrate this notion by turning to our example of the servant. A servant is an instance of becoming, whose »movement« has the character of a peculiar, unique circuit of power, this uniqueness being determined by the kind and degree of force that is acting in the form of this specific servant. The servant as such is the point of irradiation of a panoramic regard, which consists in the capacity to calculate, and thus to »see«, access, and understand anything insofar as it is an occasion, a means, and, in this sense, a condition for his own becoming stronger and outgrowing himself as a servant. For instance, the servant as a servant will never see a car »in general«, but something like a car will, in the first place, appear to him as a more or less adequate means for carrying out his service. The dimension for the car appearing as a condition for the conservation and increase of power is precisely the servant’s force’s calculative scope that is already in place for the car to appear as a condition: if the servant has a driving licence and is a good driver, his force’s calculative scope, which allows him to spot conditions of empowerment, will cause the car to appear to the servant as an excellent occasion, as an adequate »material« for commanding himself a more of power (in other words: the car will be and have, for him, a high value). On the other hand, if the servant is a bad driver or doesn’t even have a driving licence, the calculation performed by this lower force (lower as far as the value of driving is concerned) will cause the car to appear as not so opportune a condition for the conservation and increase of power (in other words: the car will be and have, for this servant, a rather low value). In this manner, each pole of irradiation of a punctuating viewing — Nietzsche also calls these poles »centres of force« — is and produces a sphere of appearing, in which, according to its peculiar computing regard — that is, to the perspective of its own force — 333 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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things (i. e. the being as such and in whole) appear as viewpoints or conditions for the becoming of that centre of force, i. e. for its will to growth. In our example we have already indicated the specific nature of these conditions: they are such that the anticipatory calculating regard can count with them and account for them and thus count on them. Hence, these conditions have the character of what is countable and computable, of what can be appraised in a count; in other words, they are values. We can therefore give the following ontological determination to a value: a value is the viewpoint of the calculating perspective of the will to power. Since the will to power only »sees« values; since it needs values as the conditions for implementing itself as a circuit of power; since computing values is thus the very selfconsciousness of the will to power, the condition for it to »feel« itself — therefore, where the principle of the being as such in whole is the will to power (and only there), »to be« is to be or have a value. This is why Nietzsche’s metaphysics, as a metaphysics of the will to power, is necessarily a metaphysics of values, and it is why only in this thinking we find a determination of value as a concept of being, or an ontological concept. Two further fragments can consolidate our understanding of this concept as tied to the will to power: (11) Woran mißt sich objektiv der Werth? Allein an dem Quantum gesteigerter und organisierter Macht, nach dem, was in allem Geschehen geschieht, ein Wille zum Mehr … (KSA 13/40) On what is value objectively measured? Only on the quantum of increased and organized power, on that which occurs in all occurring, hnamelyi a will to more … (12) Alle Werthschätzungen sind nur Folgen und engere Perspektiven im Dienste dieses Einen Willens: das Werthschätzen selbst ist nur dieser Wille zur Macht … (KSA 13/45) All valuations are only consequences and narrower perspectives at the service of this One Will: valuing itself is only this will to power …

What traditional metaphysics used to consider a being with its stable, sufficiently grounded »what« (or »essence«) and »that« (or »existence«), is now a centre of force and a pole of valuation, which perceives everything else according to its particular perspective. In reading the following, we are in some ways reminded of Leibniz’s modi

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spectandi of »microcosmic« monads, even if now the universal becoming lacks any substantial supernatural point of standstill: (13) jedes Kraftcentrum hat für den ganzen Rest seine Perspektive d. h. seine ganz bestimmte Werthung, seine Aktions-Art, seine WiderstandsArt (KSA 13/371) each centre of force has for the entire rest its own perspective; that is, its precisely determined valuation, its kind of action, its kind of resistance

The whole of universal life; that is, the whole becoming of the will to power, is now the totality of these perspectives, so that each centre of force is at once the source of a peculiar perspective and the viewpoint of an infinite number of other perspectives. This totality of crossing perspectives forms what Nietzsche calls perspectivism. (14) [Perspektivismus ist dasjenige], vermöge dessen jedes Kraftcentrum — und nicht nur der Mensch — von sich aus die ganze übrige Welt construiert d. h. an seiner Kraft mißt, betastet, gestaltet« (KSA 13/373) [Perspectivism is that] by virtue of which each centre of force — and not only man — 266 construes from out of itself the entire remaining world, i. e. measures, feels and frames it according to its own force

The same that in Heraclitus shows as the inconspicuous cosmic harmony; the same that for Leibniz appears as the pre-established harmony of monads, is now experienced as a totality of relations between valuating poles, held together by the central polarity of the will to power, which (that central polarity) is, or acts, in each one of these poles. Man, in his future, finally established form, is the animal that says yes to this central polarity. He — and this now means, in the first place, the »will to more« as which his body knows itself — is the subject of the subjectivity that is the will to power. Thus, subjectivity is now not just the absolutely certain »I think« as the ground of certainty of all objects of consciousness. In fact, rational certainty is just one value among others, neither the ultimate nor the highest one. In certain domains of empowerment, the will to power does indeed require certainty in order to implement its circuit of conservation and increase. But in other domains of empowerment, possibly more valuable ones (because more capable of opening horizons of empower266 As we can see, Nietzsche is, so to speak, on the side of Leibniz, for whom »the whole of nature is full of hmonadici life«, and not on that of Descartes, who strictly divides »the whole of nature« into res cogitans and res extensa.

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ment), the will to power sees certainty as a limitation for its free play, and therefore sets other values, which are more promising in terms of empowerment. Thus, the subject of the will to power is a subject that must knowingly sustain the polarity of the will to power as the only value-setting polarity, and thus assure that will’s unrestrained circuital play of empowerment — whichever may be the values which the will to power sets for itself. On this basis we can understand the following claim: (15) Die Frage der Werthe ist fundamentaler als die Frage der Gewißheit: letztere erlangt ihren Ernst erst unter der Voraussetzung, daß die Werthfrage beantwortet ist. (KSA 12/311) The problem of values is more fundamental than the problem of certainty: the latter obtains its gravity only under the presupposition that the problem of values has found an answer. 267

12.3 The Will to Power as the Cause of Universal Becoming and the Absence of a »True World« The will to power wills the empowering of power in all becoming. Universal becoming is the self-implementation of the empowerment of power. The flagrancy and sense of things is now grasped in terms of how, and to what extent, they implement the empowerment of power, and this means: flagrancy (sense) is now value. Without will to power, there would be no becoming, no development, no movement: (16) [der Wille zur Macht ist] die Ursache dafür, daß es überhaupt Entwicklung giebt (KSA 13/17) [the will to power is] the cause for the circumstance that there is any development at all 267 For Nietzsche, thinking (i. e. reason, ratio) is just a function of the body, in turn understood as will to power. The fact that now any self-willing will — and not just, and not in the first place, the »will to certainty« of the »I think« — functions as an absolutely justified subjective ground of being marks the ultimate form of subjectivism as a metaphysics of will. How do we recognize that this form is »ultimate«? Answer: for instance, thanks to the fact that whatever the will to power wills »makes sense« (namely, as a value). As we shall see, Nietzsche’s metaphysical project is an extreme attempt to provide a way out from the impending »total senselessness«, i. e. what he calls »nihilism«; however, the only metaphysical (in our acceptation of the word) way out from, or remedy to, total senselessness is to reconfigure it as »total sense«.

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Furthermore, given the infinity of time, there is necessarily only becoming: the becoming is eternal and, so to speak, unstoppable. This implies that there is no ultimate state of the world toward which the becoming is moving, and which serves as a reference point for its relative justification and value: (17) Wenn die Weltbewegung einen Zielzustand hätte, so müßte er erreicht sein. Das einzige Grundfaktum ist aber, daß sie keinen Zielzustand hat … Ich suche eine Weltconception, welche dieser Thatsache gerecht wird: das Werden soll erklärt werden, ohne zu solchen finalen Absichten Zuflucht zu nehmen: das Werden muß gerechtfertigt erscheinen in jedem Augenblick (oder unabwerthbar: was auf Eins hinausläuft). (KSA 13/84) If the world-movement had a final state, it would have to have been halreadyi reached. The only fundamental fact, however, is that it has no final state … I am seeking a concept of the world that does justice to this matter of fact: the becoming [the whole of what is becoming] is to be explained without resorting to such final purposes: the becoming must appear justified in each instant (or, which amounts to the same, hit must appeari undevaluable).

Thus, the becoming in whole has its justification and value in itself, and not in a state outside and independent of it, which is why that justification and value are absolute and, in each instant, perfect. 268 In other words, the becoming of perspectivism attains the fullness of power in each instant, and is therefore always accomplished. This accomplishment is different from the perfection of an unchanging, eternal state that is unaffected by becoming and change. Indeed, within the becoming of the world there is no such steadiness, no eternity of being; in other words, there is, strictly speaking, no such thing as »a being«, in the sense of a stable, unchanging, substantial, accomplished, perfect abiding. In fact, a being in this sense (such as we find, for instance, in the Platonic idea) contradicts the innermost »essence of being«, and devalues that in which »being« consists, namely life, change, and becoming. If we admit a being in the traditional sense, which involves an unchanging, substantial wholeness and perfection, all becoming will necessarily, by comparison, appear to be less than this being, namely as an unsubstantial imperfection. That is why, according to Nietzsche, it is inadmissible to qualify anything as »a being«: 268 Nietzsche’s concept of justice (Gerechtigkeit; giustizia) is based on this justification.

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(18) man darf nichts Seiendes überhaupt zulassen, — weil dann das Werden seinen Werth verliert und geradezu als sinnlos und überflüssig erscheint (KSA 13/35) one cannot in any way admit anything that is, — for then [i. e. if, on the contrary, something that persists outside of the becoming is admitted] the becoming loses its value and really appears as senseless and superfluous

In the tradition of Platonism, that which is, namely the »world of ideas«, the world of the perfect »thoughts of God«, and so on, is the only true world. In Nietzsche’s diagnosis, the hypothesis of such a true world has formerly been able to provide humanity with a stable hierarchy of values, with a certain (assured) knowledge of things, while assigning to man — namely, to his undying soul — an infinite value. However, the »price« for this has been the devaluation of »the honlyi world that we are«. Hence, the »true world«, which is already showing its falseness (insofar as it pretends to be the only true world, when in fact it is only a point of view), must be explicitly abolished; that is, overcome in our thinking. (19) Es ist von kardinaler Wichtigkeit, daß man die wahre Welt abschafft. Sie ist die große Anzweiflerin und Werthverminderung der Welt, die wir sind: Sie war bisher unser gefährlichstes Attentat auf das Leben. (KSA 13/ 281) It is of crucial importance that one abrogates the true world. She is the great doubtress and value-reduction of the world that we are: she was up to now our most dangerous attack on life.

Within the purview of the will to power there is no truth: not because everything is false, but because, together with the true world, the very distinction between true and false is abolished. This distinction is replaced by the degree of the empowerment of power of which each centre of force, or each »complex configuration of a relative duration of life within the becoming«, is capable; in other words, it is replaced by relative values. The issue of truth and falseness is no longer an issue. We can now indicate that in which the above-mentioned »complex configurations« consist. They are themselves values, namely domains of the will to power that, in different manners, open wider perspectives for the empowerment of power within the becoming. Nietzsche distinguishes five in particular, namely the State, religion, science, philosophy, and art. The duration of life of these configurations is relative to their capacity for empowering power. For instance, 338 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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when a religion loses its capacity for letting life grow — that is, when its capacity for giving value to life ceases — this religion loses its value and »dies«. What is decisive in the encounter of these configurations is not which one of them is true, but which life-enhancing force prevails over the other, which centre of force gains and which loses in power. Let us take art and science. Traditionally, art is the reign of (beautiful) »appearances«, while science is the reign of (verifiable) »truths«. However, neither truth nor appearance are absolute notions anymore; rather, both are relative to the will to power. In fact, both art and science are configurations of the will to power: art is will to power in the form of a will to shining beauty, while science is will to power in the form of a will to certain, reliable knowledge. As one of the »complex configurations of a relative duration of life within the becoming«, art, which is not bound to things like exactness, verification, repeatability of its attempts, and so on, has a higher capacity for projecting horizons of life enhancement and thus for value generation. As a consequence, Nietzsche says, art is »worth more«: that is, it has a higher value than science. In fact, art is, for him, the highest form of the will to power. The insight that »nothing is, while everything becomes«, and that, within the becoming, there is no such thing as a »true world«, has far-reaching implications. For instance, all thinking in terms of »natural laws« loses its sense. If Leibniz made clear that natural laws, such the laws of physics, are not necessary laws but configurations of movement which God chose on the basis of the principle of convenance, and which therefore have their ground in the reign of final causes, for Nietzsche »laws« are but the product of a certain will to power, namely a life-weakening will to (eternal) truth. Certainly, Nietzsche says, we can observe regularities and repeating patterns in events. However, the fact that we observe that the encounter of two forces turns out again and again in a certain manner, does per se not imply that this is due to some underlying law or relation of cause and effect. The »underlying law« is a thought that is not in nature, but rather a thought we put into it; in other words, it is the thought of a will to knowledge that wills stable, unchanging laws — in short: a being — to rule over the becoming of nature, thus reducing that becoming (i. e. life itself) to something which is independent of all will to power, and therefore to something »dead«.

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12.4 Becoming as an Approximation of Being Up to this point we have characterized Nietzsche’s metaphysical position — to wit, his answer to the guiding question of philosophy — in terms of »the innermost essence of being«, namely the will to power. For Nietzsche, there is no beingness of beings in the traditional sense, but only the becoming-character of that which becomes; this character is the will to power. However, this answers the question: »What is beingness?« only in one regard, and precisely in the regard of what being is, or rather, in what becoming consists. On the other hand, this answer leaves out the aspect of the that of becoming. If it is true, as we claimed, that Nietzsche is the last metaphysical thinker, and that metaphysics as such is an onto-theo-logical knowledge of beings, Nietzsche’s thinking must necessarily interrogate the ultimate ground of the that of beings, and eventually answer the question regarding that ground. Without such an answer, his thinking would not attain the rank of a fundamental metaphysical position. As we know, in modern metaphysical thinking, the ultimate actuality that is the ground of the existence of the being as such in whole, is the actual being God, the only being whose actuality follows from his possibility. For Nietzsche, this highest being is but the thought of a manhood that has not yet explicitly become the manhood of the will to power (and thus, we add, the subject of the ultimate form of subjectity). Yet, since Nietzsche thinks the principle of becoming life as such (i. e., the cause of life in terms of what life is), there must be, related to this principle, the thought of an ultimate ground of the that of this becoming. In fact, we can assume that this thought is Nietzsche’s first and most profound thought, 269 even though it appears as this first and most profound thought only at the beginning of the 1880s, and first becomes public in his book Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Gay Science). This thought is the eternal recurrence of the like; in German: die ewige Wiederkehr (or: Wiederkunft) des Gleichen, for which in Italian we say: l’eterna rivenienza dell’uguale. We do not have the space, here, to do full justice to the notion of eternal recurrence, and must content ourselves with little more than 269 This assumption is based on the conjecture, formulated in the introduction to Appendix 9 (see above, p. 312), concerning the priority of the need to recognize the ground for the circumstance that things are.

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the statement of this thought. It is, however, important to bear in mind that this is, in fact, a metaphysical thought, and this means: a thought that names and preserves the ground of an experienced flagrancy of the being as such in whole. Now, the eternal recurrence of the like implies just this: given the infinity (or endlessness) of time as the domain of actual occurrences, any actual instant — that is, any constellation of actuality that characterizes an instant of time — must necessarily have already occurred an infinite number of times, and is bound to occur yet another infinity of times. As a consequence, every thing and every thought (including, of course, the very thought that thinks the eternal recurrence of the like), in short: every total configuration of forces, is eternal — not, though, in the sense of an unchanging steady actuality, but precisely by virtue of the eternity, or endlessness, or unstoppability of its recurring. The circumstance that this recurring is each time a becoming of »a relative duration of life« does not invalidate the eternal recurrence of the that of this becoming. As we can see, the eternal recurrence of the like provides a stable ground of actuality precisely »by means of« the infallible recurrence in time of any conceivable constellation of the world (or: the recurring »thus and not otherwise«, as Leibniz would say, of any likely configuration of the becoming). When the recurring occurs is of no importance. What is important is the experience of the instant as an eternally recurring one. And what takes place in this instant is, as it were, a steadiness »by force of recurring unsteadiness«; in other words, it is being by becoming. In this regard, Nietzsche himself writes the following: (20) Dem Werden den Charakter des Seins aufzuprägen — das ist der höchste Wille zur Macht … Daß Alles wiederkehrt, ist die extremste Annäherung einer Welt des Werdens an die des Seins: Gipfel der Betrachtung. (KSA 12/312) To impress upon (the) becoming the character of being — this is the highest will to power … That Everything recurs is the most extreme approximation of a world of becoming to that of being: hthis is thei topmost summit of the consideration.

This passage tells us that the will to power itself impresses upon (the) becoming (i. e. upon ceaseless change) the character of being (i. e. eternal steadiness or stability). However, the will to power can impress this character upon (the) becoming only because, as the fundamental character of all becoming, it is itself, in the first place, the same as the 341 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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eternal recurrence. The latter is »the highest will to power« not in the sense of a particular will to power (a particular life) as opposed to others, but in the sense of the fundamental character of the will to power as such; the highest will to power is the ultimate thought (or »topmost summit of the consideration«) that lies at the ground of all will to power, and which finally becomes explicit in Nietzsche’s thinking. Only as the highest will to power; that is, within the eternal recurrence, the will to power becomes what it already is, namely, the principle of the being as such and in whole. Thinking the will to power as the principle of things in the sense of the fundamental trait of their essence, implies the thought of the eternal recurrence as the ground of their existence, and vice versa: the eternal recurrence can be conceived as the ultimate that of things only where their what is conceived as will to power. Without the ground of actuality given by the eternal recurrence, it is not thinkable that, in every instant of the becoming, something, namely the perfect will to power is actually attained, and that, as a consequence, each single instant is undevaluable. In Nietzsche’s metaphysics of the will to power, everything, no matter how small and precarious, is accomplished and eternal. This is his pantheistic yes to life: the eternally recurring »best of all possible worlds« as the only possible and therefore necessary world. 270 In this metaphysics, »becoming« and »necessarily becoming« is the same. In conclusion, life itself is the will to power of that which recurs eternally, or, in other words: life is the highest will to power. In this manner, universal becoming has found its onto-theological grounding.

12.5 Nihilism and the Necessary Inversion of the Polarity of Values The insight into the principle of being allows a diagnosis of the becoming of »European culture«, or what is commonly called »Western civilization«. It is the becoming of Platonism as the intertwining of metaphysics and the Christian religion. From early on in his thinking, Nietzsche also calls this tradition the moral tradition. »Morals« is his name for man’s establishing supernatural, eternal principles of 270 This »yes«, which overcomes the moral dichotomy of good and evil, is also a yes to Platonism, which (see below) has its own necessity and justification.

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valuation — and therefore rankings of values — which however negate the will to power, and therefore life itself. Nietzsche draws a concise sketch of the becoming of European culture as a moral tradition in a posthumous text entitled Der europäische Nihilismus (KSA 12/211–217). In his diagnosis, that tradition is based on the »moral hypothesis«: namely, the hypothesis of God as the highest being and source of value. In Nietzsche’s diagnosis, the moral hypothesis was a counteragent or remedy (ein Gegenmittel; un antidoto) against nihilism, or, more precisely, against the first nihilism. It gave an absolute value to man (as opposed to his smallness and accidental being in the flow of becoming); it left to the world the character of perfection, despite all suffering and evil; finally, it assigned to man a knowledge of absolute values. In this manner, it saved man from being abandoned to the senseless flow and the powers of contingency 271, and therefore from self-contempt, from turning against life, from despair in the face of the unknowable character of things: in a word, it saved him from nihilism, and in this it had, for that manhood (namely, in the context of that peculiar economy of force), its justification. However, Nietzsche argues, among the forces which the tradition of morality nourished was, in the first place, veracity (Wahrhaftigkeit): that is, man’s sense for, and reliance on, the truth. This force eventually turned against morals by unveiling the latter’s interested character; that is, the fact that its values were not at all absolute, but, on the contrary, wilfully established by man as remedies against uncertainty, senselessness, the accidental character of occurrences, and therefore, as mere means which, according to their own logic, are false. Thus, man recognizes his need for absolute truths as a need for something that is in fact untrue (as the absolute truth is, in truth, only a means); on the other hand, it is precisely this need for absolute truths that, for him, remains the only one to guarantee true values: in fact, only thanks to what is found in response to this need is life bearable. As a consequence, an »antagonism« arises: man cannot value the falseness or untruth he recognizes, while at the same time he is no longer allowed to value the truths to which he would like to resort. 271 For Nietzsche, senselessness consists in the absence of value, one instance of which is the contingency (in the current meaning, which differs from that of our diagnostical word) of what occurs accidentally or by chance, and therefore »eludes« the will to power.

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This antagonism, Nietzsche says, eventually leads to a process of dissolution — and thus prepares, and indeed kindles, a new nihilism. In this way, the remedy against the first nihilism carries in itself the presupposition of its own invalidation. In fact, the moral tradition is nothing other than a new nihilism preparing itself within, and as a consequence of, the very attempt to overcome that first nihilism. This new nihilism, for which the old remedies can no longer apply, is Nietzsche’s fundamental experience; and his radical diagnosis, or rather the necessity which this diagnosis implies, constitutes an attempt to overcome it. Nietzsche asks: (21) Der Nihilismus steht vor der Thür: woher kommt uns dieser unheimlichste aller Gäste? (KSA 12/125) Nihilism is at the door: whence does this most uncanny of all guests come to us?

According to his fundamental metaphysical position, Nietzsche can understand the failing of traditional metaphysical truths only in terms of a devaluation of the hitherto valid highest values, and of the systems of values which were based on them. This devaluation is, in fact, the very definition of nihilism: (22) Nihilism: es fehlt das Ziel; es fehlt die Antwort auf das »Warum?« was bedeutet Nihilism? — daß die obersten Werthe sich entwerthen. (KSA 12/ 350) Nihilism: the aim is lacking; the answer to the »Why?« is lacking. What does »nihilism« mean? — hAnswer:i that the supreme values devalue themselves.

We understand now why nihilism (the »new« nihilism) is »the logic of our great values and ideals, thought to its end«, and why »it is our very hitherto valid values that, in this nihilism, draw their last consequence«: in fact, the last consequence which values — namely, values whose constitution is that of eternal, absolute truths — must draw, is their own dissolution. Overcoming the newly mounting senselessness, the absence of a »why«, the hardly bearable awareness that everything is in vain and »for nothing«, in short: the experience that everything is nothing (Latin nihil) — overcoming this nihilism requires living through it, that is, actively experiencing, owning and furthering the inevitable devaluation of the hitherto valid highest values, and thus losing the long-acquired reliance on those values. This lived experience, in turn, is possible only if a new system of 344 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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values, and, in the first place, a new principle of valuation (namely, the long denied and now finally acknowledged and affirmed only true principle) is already in view. (23) Die moralischen Werthe waren bis jetzt die obersten Werthe: will das jemand in Zweifel ziehen? … Entfernen wir diese Werthe von jener Stelle, so verändern wir alle Werthe: das Princip der bisherigen Rangordnung ist damit umgeworfen … (KSA 12/507) Up to now the moral values have been the highest values: would anyone want to doubt that? … If we take away those values from that place, we transform all values: the principle of the previous ranking is thus overturned …

It is decisive that we appreciate the following: the remedy against the new nihilism cannot be a mere replacement of old (now devalued) values with new ones, as long as these new values are of the same kind as the old ones, namely, once again, moral values (with their implicit negation of the will to power, and therefore of life itself). What is required is that a new principle of valuation be established, which overturns the old ranking not in moral terms, but according to itself as a non-moral principle, namely the only principle of life itself. The new ranking, which cannot be yet another moral ranking, must be a ranking in which the rule of a non-moral or extra-moral principle is finally explicit and acknowledged. This principle can only be the will to power, namely, the oldest and only value-setting principle, which, however, is now, for the first time, recognized, borne, and grounded as such. On the other hand, the attempts to escape from nihilism which do so without actually overcoming it, and merely substitute the devalued values with moral surrogates, are not only ineffective, but in fact dangerous: (24) die Versuche, dem Nhihilismusi zu entgehn, ohne jene Werthe umzuwerthen: bringen das Gegentheil hervor, verschärfen das Problem. (KSA 12/476) the attempts to escape nhihilismi, without inverting the polarity of those values: htheyi produce the opposite, hand thusi aggravate the problem.

The inversion of the polarity of all values (die Umwertung aller Werte; l’inversione della polarità di tutti i valori) means that values which used to rank high now rank low and vice versa — not, though, as the result of a mere inversion of rank, but as a consequence of the 345 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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fact that the central polarity of valuation is now the will to power. Hence the title of Nietzsche’s planned major work: »Der Wille zur Macht. Versuch einer Umwerthung aller Werthe« — »The will to power. Attempt at an inversion of the polarity of all values«. Which are the values that, based on the highest value »God«, used to rank in the highest position: that is, which were the most positive ones? Among these highest moral, and therefore life-negating, values were being, steadiness, truth, harmony, the soul, resignation. By virtue of the inversion of the polarity of values, these formerly positive values now rank low, while the values which, in contrast to them, were formerly valued negatively — namely, becoming, change, appearance, conflict, the body, the will to power — now rank at the top. The new ranking is no longer a moral ranking: in fact, the old values (for instance, truth) are abolished only as absolute values; however, they do appear — and thus are justified — in the new ranking in their relative value; that is, according to the value they have relative to the principle of the will to power. It thus turns out that the value of the old values (i. e. their capacity to favour the growth of life, the »more«) was not high, or rather, that those values were valid and necessary only for a relatively weak manhood. What about modern man: that is, us? On the one hand, Nietzsche says, man has meanwhile grown stronger; that is, more capable of bearing his own limited value and whatever appears as accidental and senseless viz. valueless. 272 On the other hand, he is not yet strong enough or prepared to acknowledge and embrace the will to power as the one principle of life. As a consequence, he experiences the upcoming of nihilism in a merely passive manner; that is, he either succumbs altogether to the fact that everything is worthless and in vain; or, being incapable of saying yes to the senseless becoming (thus drawing from it the conditions and occasions for the empowerment of power), he turns against it in a mere will for destruction and, ultimately, self-destruction; or, finally, he tries to fill the void of values either by holding on obstinately to devalued values, or by replacing them with new moral values and aims, both of which (i. e. the defended old ones and the new ones that replace them) become ever more life-negating. Nietzsche calls this situation — in which man remains inert and only suffers nihilism, but is not yet 272 In the perspective of the will to power, »accidental« can only mean: factually (but not in principle) outside the range of evaluated conditions.

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capable of setting the inverted values — incomplete nihilism. However, as long as nihilism is incomplete — that is, not accomplished — it cannot be overcome. As long as man is stuck in incomplete nihilism, the escape from life, from experience, from thinking, ensues; the need for continuing distraction, the use of ways and means of narcotization increases; the habit of a merely reactive and historical, mediated relation to a world captured in images, and thus kept at a distance, spreads ever further. While the devaluation of the formerly highest values progresses, the absence of an aim, of an answer to the »why?«, becomes more and more manifest; man — the »not yet established animal« 273 — is not capable of facing this moral senselessness, let alone set it as a condition for his growth, embrace and justify it; he is in fact stuck between being no longer capable of setting values according to a moral version of the will to power, and not yet capable of setting values according to the finally liberated, openly swaying will to power. As a living being, man cannot but implement the one principle of becoming; however, as a hostage of nihilism, he does so passively; that is, while his being remains inert.

12.6 The Overall Economic Management of the Earth and the Overman We now understand better what nihilism means: the devaluation of the highest values (or, as Nietzsche also says: the death of the moral God as the value of values), while man’s being is still oriented towards those dissolving values. Hence we find the lack of an aim, of an answer to the »why?«, the senselessness of what appears as being nothing and in vain. However, nihilism is also already the unfolding of the finally liberated, blunt will to power, waiting for man to turn to it, to say yes to it, to justify it, to embrace the principle at work within it — and consequently shake off all moral, life-negating habits. In other words, implicit in nihilism is the need of a transformation of man. While nihilism is the coming to an end of the moral tradition, and of

273 If for Schelling (see above, Appendix 9) man has not yet attained »what he should be«, according to Nietzsche, among all animals man is the one that has not yet entered its proper type, namely the type that says yes to the will to power.

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the man who belongs to that tradition, it bears in itself the promise of a new, life-affirming humanity. The unfolding naked will to power shapes the universal becoming according to itself. This means that the will to power envisages and moulds the earth in such a way that it can serve the unrestricted rule and dominance of the empowering of power over the earth itself, namely, over the earth disabsconded as a value. The manner in which the earth is set as a condition — or resource — for the unrestricted rule of the empowering of power, implies the complete machinalization of the earth, that is, the circumstance that the latter abides insofar as it is fed into machinal processes (processes of energy extraction, of particle acceleration, etc.). The machinalized earth is the earth that is through and through available and computable as a condition for the increase and conservation of power. By virtue of the rule of the will to power, man is in his turn trained as the animal capable of projecting and performing this machinalization. Man as the trained functionary of the machinalized earth is himself a part of the machinery; indeed, manhood as a whole becomes itself a kind of machinery. The machinal character of this becoming consists not so much in the widespread use of machines. Rather, we need to mind the metaphysical sense of the machine, which Nietzsche, for his part, recognizes with clarity and foresight. What is the machine, or rather, what does the machine teach? 274 It teaches the interlocking of specialized, simple actions — actions in which each thing and each man has only one thing to do, one function to accomplish, and, thanks to the fact of being reduced to the simplicity of this function, does not obstruct the pursuing of a single aim: namely, the empowering of power granted by this interaction. The most general effect of the machine, Nietzsche says, is to teach the use (or advantage) of centralization. Centralization does not imply, in the first place, a central place or entity, but the ubiquitous centrality of the unique aim of the enhancement of power. If in Plato the good harmonizes the whole of ideas, if in Leibniz convenance harmonizes the cosmos of monads and bodies, now the machinal will to power wills itself in the unimpeded running of a total network of mobilised forces. 275 Machinalization assures the most efficient and effective — in short, the most 274 See the aphorism Die Maschine als Lehrerin (»The Machine as Teacher«) in »Der Wanderer und sein Schatten« (1880), in: KSA 2/653 (see also KSA 2/674). 275 A constitutive trait of machinalization is that likelihood (Möglichkeit; attendibili-

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economic — use of resources, which are at all times and in all respects perfectly manageable in the perspective of the mastery which the will to power exerts on them. In this manner, the unfolding of power, which goes together with, and in fact is, the upcoming of nihilism, transforms the becoming (i. e. the earth as a whole, life itself) into a machinal economy of power. The manhood that is trained and used for this machinal economy of power, the manhood that is adapted to the unfettered rule of the will to power, is a manhood of reduced vitality, of diminished life and value. In accordance with the sense of machinalization, the adapted man is a being of reduced needs and forces, largely downsized to a simple function, and trained to implement effectively — thanks to periodically updated competences — changing mechanized tasks. He occupies his functional role, his place in the machinery, in a smooth, frictionless, efficient manner. He is content with serving in his spot of an operative production circuit and does not demand much »sense«. He is a suitable, apt means for the unfolding of the rule of the empowerment of power over the earth, while unwittingly bearing the »cost« of this unfolding through the reduction of his own value. As »the first accomplished nihilist of Europe«, Nietzsche already observes, and thus foresees, this development towards a machinal economy of power. He does so in light of his insight into nihilism as the driving principle of the becoming of »European culture«. However, for reasons we now understand, he does not pass a moral judgement on this becoming, and therefore neither hails nor condemns it. The machinal economy of power is neither a blessing nor a curse. Rather, it is a necessity. This necessity, in turn, is not a fatality that man, whether he likes it or not, must »simply accept«. Indeed, truly accepting this necessity implies experiencing its principle, and thus awakening to the claim of the need that speaks within the necessity itself: namely, the need of a transformation of man. Thus, while the management of the being as such and in whole as a machinal economy is in itself neither good nor evil, this economy can fully unfold into a condition of man’s will to power only if man himself can justify it; that is, explicitly set it as such a condition. This man, the man who can say yes to the machinal economy; to wit, the man who liberates the earth (life and the becoming as a whole) into serving as this matà) is transformed into, viz. from the outset disabsconded as (computable, controllable, steerable, plannable, makeable) force.

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chinery, and therefore into the acknowledged rule of the empowering of power, is then himself the master of the earth. 276 On the other hand, as long as man is only the adapted functionary of this economy; as long as he implements it inertly at a minimum level of force and vitality; as long as he cannot embrace and sustain what is already the only earth-shaping reality, and rather clings to late surrogates of moral values which can hardly dissimulate their valuelessness; as long as he cannot bear, and therefore see that the machinal mastery of the earth calls for him to say yes to it and to its principle — as long as this phase of nihilism persists, man is not ready to be the master of the earth; that is, the subject of the will to power. Nietzsche sees in all its sharpness this problem of man staying behind and not living up to that which already is. Commenting on Nietzsche’s diagnosis of our epoch, Heidegger writes: 277 Nietzsche stellt als erster die denkende, d. h. hier die im Metaphysischen ansetzende und dahin zurückweisende Frage, der wir folgende Fassung geben: ist der jetzige Mensch in seinem metaphysischen Wesen dafür vor-

Nietzsche is the first to ask the thinking question — that is: a question taking up in the metaphysical domain and referring back to that domain —, which we formulate thus: is present man in his metaphysical biding pre-

276 Nietzsche experiences the end of metaphysics as a devaluation of the hitherto valid highest values. To him, the being that does not show itself as such and in whole, and thus in need of being grounded as such — in short, the being reduced to contingency, appears as the devalued, valueless being. But the devaluation and valuelessness only concerns moral values, i. e. values that refuse the will to power which already »lives« in things, and in fact is life itself. Therefore, not negating, but finally acknowledging that will is a way out from, a remedy to valuelessness — in fact, it implies that in what now only appears as valueless (viz. as naked, senseless life) is discovered (and, so to speak, »tapped«) the source of value itself, the principle of absolute justification and undevaluability of all becoming. In the diagnostic perspective that we have been proposing throughout this book, this extreme metaphysical remedy, whose likelihood resides in the experience of being as life and value, amounts to the attempt of extracting discontingency from contingency, insofar as the only likely »sense« is now the empowerment of contingency as such. However, Nietzsche’s thought is by no means a mere »knowledge of contingency«, but yet another — the last — metaphysical attempt at providing an »antidote« to the exclusive rule of contingency. Because this attempt takes place in the tradition of modern subjectivism, the principle of justification accordingly demands (in order to enure as the subjective truth of the being in whole) to be accepted and validated by the self-consciousness of the subject; in other words, it requires a novel »revolution of the soul« (or rather, of the body), i. e. the transformation and establishment of the animal ›man‹ as the will-affirming being — in short: it needs the appearing of the justifier viz. the overman. 277 Martin Heidegger, Was heißt Denken?. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1984, p. 64 sq.

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The Overall Economic Management of the Earth and the Overman bereitet, die Herrschaft über die Erde im Ganzen zu übernehmen? Hat der jetzige Mensch schon bedacht, unter welchen Wesensbedingungen eine solche Erdregierung überhaupt steht? Ist die Wesensart dieses Menschen dafür geeignet, diejenigen Mächte zu verwalten und diejenigen Machtmittel zu verwenden, die aus der Entfaltung des Wesens der modernen Technik frei werden und den Menschen zu bisher ungewohnten Entschlüssen zwingen? Nietzsche verneint diese Fragen. Der jetzige Mensch ist für die Gestaltung und die Übernahme der Erdregierung nicht vorbereitet. Denn der jetzige Mensch hinkt nicht hie und da, sondern seiner ganzen Art nach auf eine befremdliche Weise hinter dem her, was längst ist (…) Die Organisationen im Sozialen, die Aufrüstung im Moralischen, die Schminke des Kulturbetriebes, dies alles gelangt nicht mehr bis zu dem, was ist. Diese Bemühungen bleiben bei aller guten Meinung und unablässigen Anstrengung nur Notbehelfe und Flickwerke von Fall zu Fall. Warum? Weil das Vorstellen von Zielen, Zwecken und Mitteln, von Wirkungen und Ursachen, dem all jene Bemühungen entstammen, weil dieses Vorstellen es zum voraus nicht vermag, dem sich offen zu stellen, was ist.

pared to take on the mastery of the earth in whole? Has present man already considered under which constitutive conditions such a governance of the earth stands in the first place? Is the manner of biding of this man apt for managing those powers, and using those instruments of power, which are liberated by the unfolding of the biding of modern technics 278 and which force man to hitherto unusual decisions? Nietzsche answers these questions in the negative. Present man is not prepared for giving a form to, and taking on, the governance of the earth. For present man strangely and disconcertingly lags behind that which is and has long been, and not just here and there, but according to his entire manner of being (…) The organizations in the social domain, the moral upgrading, the make-up hsupplied byi the cultural industry, all this no longer attains that which is. Despite all good intentions and incessant endeavours, these efforts remain merely makeshift and patchwork from case to case. Why? Because the representation of goals, aims and means, of effects and causes, from which these efforts stem, because this kind of representation is in advance not capable of openly facing that which is.

The more nihilism advances, the louder becomes the call for a man who can live up to that which is, the more stringent becomes the need for this man which is implicit in the very necessity of the becoming. The machinal economy is — in Platonic terms — an imprisoning cave, but a cave that is, so to speak, more and more ready to give 278 Technik, here, refers neither to one or more techniques nor to the apparatuses of technology, but, in the first place, to the knowledge of a manner of disabscondment of the being. Modern technics, whose fundamental trait shows in the »victory of method over science«, enures through the cybernetic coalition of technicized science and machinal technology.

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way to a sphere of freedom, if only a new type of man can finally justify it »beyond good and evil«. This cave, namely the machinally managed earth, which is already ripe and ready for the coming of its justifier and redeemer, and thus for becoming an unprecedented value for life, is foreseen and described by Nietzsche in an untitled posthumous text to which we shall refer as the »Economics fragment«. Here is the text: 279 Die Nothwendigkeit zu erweisen, daß zu einem immer ökonomischeren Verbrauch von Mensch und Menschheit, zu einer immer fester in einander verschlungenen »Maschinerie« der Interessen und Leistungen eine Gegenbewegung gehört. Ich bezeichne dieselbe als Ausscheidung eines Luxus-Überschusses der Menschheit: in ihr soll eine stärkere Art, ein höherer Typus ans Licht treten, der andre Entstehungs- und andre Erhaltungsbedingungen hat als der Durchschnitts-Mensch. Mein Begriff, mein Gleichniß für diesen Typus ist, wie man weiß, das Wort »Übermensch«. Auf jenem ersten Wege, der vollkommen jetzt überschaubar ist, entsteht die Anpassung, die Abflachung, das höhere Chinesenthum, die InstinktBescheidenheit, die Zufriedenheit in der Verkleinerung des Menschen — eine Art Stillstand im Niveau des Menschen. Haben wir erst jene unvermeidlich bevorstehende Wirthschafts-Gesammtverwaltung der Erde, dann kann die Menschheit als Maschinerie in deren Diensten ihren besten Sinn finden: als ein ungeheures Räderwerk von immer kleineren, immer feiner »angepaßten« Rädern; als ein immer wachsendes Überflüssigwerden aller dominirenden und commandirenden Elemente; als ein Ganzes von ungeheurer Kraft, dessen einzelne Faktoren Minimal-Kräfte, 279

The necessity must be shown that to an ever more economical usage of man and humanity, to an ever more tightly interlaced »machinery« of interests and performances, there belongs a countermovement. I designate this countermovement as the secretion of a luxury-surplus of humanity: within the latter, a stronger kind, a higher type is to come to light, a type that has other conditions of generation and sustainment than the average man. As is well known, my concept, my likeness for this type is the word »overman.« On that first path, which can now be entirely overlooked, there comes to be the adaptation, the flattening, the higher Chineseness, the modesty of instinct, the satisfaction in the shrinking of man — a kind of standstill in the level of man. Once we have that overall economic management of the earth, which is inevitably in store, humanity can find its best sense as a machinery at the service of this management: as an enormous wheelwork of ever smaller, ever more finely »adapted« wheels; as an ever growing becoming-superfluous of all dominating and commanding elements; as a whole of enormous strength, whose single factors represent minimal forces, minimal values. In contrast to this shrinkage and adaptation of man

KSA 12/462 (Nachlaß 1885–1887).

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The Overall Economic Management of the Earth and the Overman Minimal-Werthe darstellen. Im Gegensatz zu dieser Verkleinerung und Anpassung der Menschen an eine spezialisierte Nützlichkeit bedarf es der umgekehrten Bewegung — der Erzeugung des synthetischen, des summirenden, des rechtfertigenden Menschen, für den jene Machinalisierung der Menschheit eine DaseinsVorausbedingung ist, als ein Untergestell, auf dem er seine höhere Form zu sein sich erfinden kann …

to a specialized usefulness, there is the need for the inverse movement — the production of the synthetic, summing, justifying man, for whose existence that machinalization of humanity is a precondition, as a base frame on which he can invent for himself his own higher form of being …

Er braucht ebensosehr die Gegnerschaft der Menge, der »Nivellirten«, das Distanz-Gefühl im Vergleich zu ihnen; er steht auf ihnen, er lebt von ihnen. Diese höhere Form des Aristokratism ist die der Zukunft. — Moralisch geredet, stellt jene GesammtMaschinerie, die Solidarität aller Räder, ein maximum in der Ausbeutung des Menschen dar: aber sie setzt solche voraus, derentwegen diese Ausbeutung Sinn hat. Im anderen Falle wäre sie thatsächlich bloß die Gesammt-Verringerung, Werth-Verringerung des Typus Mensch, — ein Rückgangs-Phänomen im größten Stile. — Man sieht, was ich bekämpfe ist der ökonomische Optimismus: wie als ob mit den wachsenden Unkosten Aller auch der Nutzen Aller nothwendig wachsen müßte. Das Gegentheil scheint mir der Fall: die Unkosten Aller summiren sich zu einem Gesammt-Verlust: der Mensch wird geringer: — so daß man nicht mehr weiß, wozu überhaupt dieser ungeheure Prozeß gedient hat. Ein wozu? Ein neues »Wozu?« — das ist es, was die Menschheit nöthig hat …

He needs just as much the opposition of the multitude, of those who are »leveled«, the feeling of distance in comparison to them; he stands on them, he lives on them. This higher form of aristocratism is the future one. — In moral terms, that overall machinery, the solidarity of all wheels, constitutes a maximum in the exploitation of man: but it presupposes those in favor of whom this exploitation has a sense. Otherwise it would in fact be merely the overall reduction, the value-reduction of man as a type, — a phenomenon of regression in the greatest style. — As one can see, what I fight is economic optimism; as if the fact that everybody’s expenses rise necessarily implied that everybody’s benefits rise as well. It seems to me that the opposite is true: the expenses of all add up to an overall loss: man becomes less — so that one no longer knows what this enormous process was good for. A what for? A new »what for?« — this is what humanity needs …

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of the insight that the ultimate »what for?«, and therefore the sufficient measure for any method of optimization, requires a reference to the reign of final causes and its harmonizing principle; that is, to the realm of metaphysical thinking. In Nietzschean terms, economic optimism is a manner of implementing the inevitable overall economic management of the earth from a »moralistic« position, that is, without an awareness of what this uncanny, enormous process is for; without an awareness of its (metaphysical) principle and only aim, namely the empowering of power; without a sense of the necessity of the inversion of the polarity of values and the need of a man who can set new values. The economic optimist, on the other hand, is a passive nihilist who relies in too extreme a manner, if not exclusively, on the computation of quantitative values, to which he delegates his judgement. In other words, he arbitrarily assigns to these values moral qualities (often dissimulated in a merely preparatory or instrumental function) which they cannot have. What is the way out from the cave of economic optimism? For Nietzsche, the thinker of the most extreme subjectivism, in which metaphysics finds its end, this way out cannot be the transition to a dimension beyond the visible sphere. The way out is now (viz. in this ultimate form of subjectivism) man himself, namely the type of man who is beyond the moral man, the type that overcomes that man, and who can therefore be called »overman«: der Übermensch — l’oltreuomo. The overman is the metamorphosis of man into himself: to wit, into what is already his own, yet unattained type. In other words, the overman is himself, as a path of transformation, the way out from the cave. In fact, as Nietzsche says in Zarathustra, by virtue of his capacity for justifying, the overman is the sense of the earth. What sounds like an anthropocentric and possibly elitist worldview, is in fact an implication of subjectivity. The overman is the sense of the earth because only through him, thanks to his necessary appearing and yes-saying, called for by nihilism itself, can the will to power (viz. the ultimate subject) finally fully unfold its rule over the earth. Only through him, who minds the new and only »what for«, and sustains it as such in his justifying yes, can the earth as a whole and the manhood that inhabits it once again have a sense, namely a life-heightening value, for man. On the other hand, the overman is not the sense of the earth in a moral sense: to wit, as an »ideal« end in himself. Nietzsche is not advocating a new, or, for that matter, any social order. He is, however, saying that the present manhood cannot find 354 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495823699 .

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the way to itself if, amongst it, there are not those who, in their singularity and uniqueness, are capable of transforming themselves into the subjects of the will to power, so that the empowering of power can unfold its rule through their sentiment of power. These men are not at all power-maniacs. In fact, as the original economists of the will to power, they characterize themselves by a typical prudence and frugality, by their sobriety and moderation, within a mostly measureless world. Heidegger finally indicates the nature of the overman as follows (loc. cit., p. 67): »Der Übermensch« übertreibt nicht einfach die bisherigen Triebe und das Betreiben der bisherigen Menschenart ins Übermäßige und Maßlose. Der Übermensch unterscheidet sich also nicht quantitativ, sondern qualitativ vom bisherigen Menschen. Für den Übermenschen fällt gerade das Maßlose, das bloß Quantitative des Immerzu des Fortschritts dahin. Der Übermensch ist ärmer, einfacher, zarter und härter, stiller und opfernder und langsamer in seinen Entschlüssen und sparsamer in seiner Rede.

»The overman« does not simply carry into the excessive and measureless the previous drives and the actions of the hitherto existing kind of man. In other words, the overman does not distinguish himself from the hitherto existing man in a merely quantitative, but rather in a qualitative sense. For the overman, precisely the measurelessness, hto wit,i the merely quantitative character of the incessantness of progress, loses its relevance and compellingness. The overman is poorer, simpler, more tender and at the same time tougher; he is quieter and more offering, and slower in his decisions, and more frugal in his speech.

As with all metaphysical positions, Nietzsche’s thinking, too, can be seen as an original economics; that is, as a knowledge capable of building (itself as) a house (oikos) for the principle (nomos) of the being in whole, which, as such, constitutes an abode (ēthos) for the dwelling of man; this original economics, in turn, provides the measure for an economy in the sense of a prudent management of the earth, where »prudent« means: such as to sustain, in the first place, that building and dwelling. Thus, the overman is the bearer of likely »maxims of prudence« within an »uncannily« measureless economy.

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13.1 The End of Philosophy Nietzsche’s metaphysical position marks an extreme point not only of modern subjectivity, but of metaphysical thinking — the thinking of »subjectity« 280 — as a whole; that is, of the thinking which, following the pre-Socratic onset, begins with Socrates and Plato, and whose guiding question is formulated by Aristotle. Nietzsche himself was aware that the »reversal of Platonism« (die Umkehrung des Platonismus; l’inversione del platonismo), namely of the binomial constituted by the supra-sensible (»the world of ideas«, whose knowledge reaches »beyond being«) and the sensible (»the world of things«, where no sufficient knowledge can be found), implied not only a dissolution, but an unhinging of the metaphysical (i. e., for him, the moral) tradition as a whole, and, consequently, an entirely new foundation of thinking. It is not clear, however, to what extent it might have dawned upon him that the end and the unhinging he experienced already came from a need which, on the other hand, that tradition (namely, both Platonism and its reversal) does not experience as its own, and which therefore requires an entirely different style of thinking. As far as we can see, Nietzsche’s attempt remains an experience of the end of metaphysical thinking from within this thinking itself. As a consequence, that attempt marks the extremity of metaphysics. The end, or achievement, of metaphysics implies that metaphysical thinking ends with Nietzsche. This does not mean that, after Nietzsche, metaphysical thinking came to a halt. On the contrary, after Nietzsche, humankind has kept thinking in the manner of metaphysics and through categories derived from those of metaphysics, notably so in the domain of science. Rather, the end of metaphysics 280

See above, p. 233 (note 174).

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implies that, with the reversal of Platonism (which, as such, remains in its turn a form of Platonism), the scope of metaphysical thinking is exhausted, so that a new onset of thinking can no longer occur in the manner of metaphysics. The reason for this does not reside in an insufficiency or failure on the part of metaphysics itself, but in the circumstance that the initial, attuning need of our epoch, if it is to be said and minded as such, requires a thinking which is no longer metaphysical; on the other hand, that thinking can only rise from an original experience of the end of metaphysics (again, Platonism and its reversal), and a dialogue with metaphysics itself. 281 What we are saying, then, is that the need of the overman, which Nietzsche perceives in the rise of nihilism, is the last original metaphysical need. As productive as metaphysical thinking has been in the new time up to this day, and as productive as it most likely will continue to be for some time to come, without a specific need this thinking is, by itself, no longer fertile. As a consequence, as long as man keeps thinking metaphysically, his thinking is bound to remain, in a constitutive sense, sterile. The preceding considerations are more rigorously expounded, and placed in a wider context, in the following extract from Heidegger’s conference The End of Philosophy and the Task of Thinking, which at the same time introduces us to a final consideration about »thinking after philosophy«: 282 Philosophie ist Metaphysik. Diese denkt das Seiende im Ganzen — die Welt, den Menschen, Gott — hinsichtlich des Seins, hinsichtlich der Zusammengehörigkeit des Seienden im Sein. Die Metaphysik denkt das Seiende als das Seiende in der Weise des begründenden Vorstellens. Denn

Philosophy is metaphysics. The latter thinks the being in whole — the world, man, God — with regard to hitsi being, hand at the same timei 283 with regard to the togetherness [the belonging together] of the being in hitsi being. Metaphysics thinks the being as the being in the manner of a

281 An original experience is one that shares with metaphysics the same onset, and yet experiences this onset in another, in a sense more original, manner. Only this other experience of the same and unique onset of thinking can »see metaphysics to its end«. 282 Das Ende der Philosophie und die Aufgabe des Denkens. Written in 1964, first published in: Martin Heidegger, Zur Sache des Denkens. Tübingen: Niemeyer 1969, p. 61 sqq. All footnotes have been added by me. 283 As before, angle brackets h…i indicate insertions that should be read as part of the text, while square brackets […] indicate synonyms, original expressions or explanatory notes, all of which have been added by the translator. Round brackets (…) are in the original text.

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Heidegger das Sein des Seienden hat sich seit dem Beginn der Philosophie und mit ihm als der Grund (ἀρχή, αἴτιον, Prinzip) gezeigt. Der Grund ist jenes, von woher das Seiende als ein solches in seinem Werden, Vergehen und Bleiben als Erkennbares, Behandeltes, Bearbeitetes, ist, was es ist und wie es ist. Das Sein bringt als der Grund das Seiende in sein jeweiliges Anwesen. Der Grund zeigt sich als die Anwesenheit. Ihre Gegenwart besteht darin, daß sie das jeweils nach seiner Art Anwesende in die Anwesenheit hervorbringt. Der Grund hat je nach dem Gepräge der Anwesenheit den Charakter des Gründens als ontische Verursachung des Wirklichen, als transzendentale Ermöglichung der Gegenständlichkeit der Gegenstände, als dialektische Vermittelung der Bewegung des absoluten Geistes, des historischen Produktionsprozesses, als der wertsetzende Wille zur Macht.

ground-giving representation. For, ever since the beginning of philosophy, and with this beginning, the being of beings has shown itself as the ground (ἀρχή [archē], αἴτιον [aition], principle). The ground is that from which the being as such, in its becoming, in its passing and persisting as what is knowable, handled, or worked upon, is what it is and how 284 it is. Being, constituting itself as the ground, brings the being into its respective (»abeyant«) abiding. The ground shows itself as the abidingness. The presence, or rather the towardness, 285 of the latter consists in the fact that it brings about, and forth into the abidingness, that which, at any one time, abides according to its own manner. According to the respective imprint of the abidingness [i. e. on the basis of how the abidingness is initially experienced], the ground has the character of a grounding in the form of the ontic causation of the effective; of the transcendental origina-

284 This »how« refers to the so-called modalities of being, i. e. actuality, possibility and necessity. 285 Gegenwart (literally: what is turned toward or against) is usually translated as »present« (the present time as opposed to the past or the future; il presente) or »presence« (as in: »in the presence of«; la presenza). In common language, Gegenwart, in the sense of presence, and Anwesenheit, whose common translation is also presence, are synonyms. In this passage, however, Heidegger speaks of die Gegenwart der Anwesenheit, which does not seem to make sense if we translate it as »the presence of presence« (or even as »the present of presence«). In light of our understanding of Anwesenheit as abidingness, we can gather that Gegenwart characterizes the original trait in which the latter consists, namely the trait of disabsconding, which, within Anwesenheit, concerns (i. e. touches and engages) man in the first place. In order to indicate this trait, we translate Gegenwart with »towardness«, a word whose older meaning is »[a] condition or appearance of approaching in time, coming on or impending; imminence; likelihood, prospect« (see the entry »towardness« in the Oxford English Dictionary). Speaking of the towardness of abidingness does not imply that abidingness is merely imminent or impending, but not yet fully and actually present; rather, it indicates, with regard to abidingness itself, the favourableness and likelihood of the disabsconding that informs it, as well as its lightening and alleviating character (namely, alleviating from the encumbrance of contingency).

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The End of Philosophy

Das Auszeichnende des metaphysischen Denkens, das dem Seienden den Grund ergründet, beruht darin, daß es, ausgehend vom Anwesenden, dieses in seiner Anwesenheit vorstellt und es so aus seinem Grund her als gegründetes darstellt. Was meint die Rede vom Ende der Philosophie? Zu leicht verstehen wir das Ende von etwas im negativen Sinn als das bloße Aufhören, als das Ausbleiben eines Fortgangs, wenn nicht gar als Verfall und Unvermögen. Dem entgegen bedeutet die Rede vom Ende der Philosophie die Vollendung der Metaphysik. Indes meint Vollendung nicht Vollkommenheit, derzufolge die Philosophie mit ihrem Ende die höchste Vollkommenheit erreicht haben müßte. Uns fehlt nicht nur jeder Maßstab, der es erlaubte, die Vollkommenheit einer Epoche der Metaphysik gegen eine andere abzuschätzen. Es besteht überhaupt kein Recht, in dieser Weise zu schätzen. Platons Denken ist nicht vollkommener als das des Parmenides. Hegels Philosophie ist nicht vollkommener als diejenige Kants. Jede Epoche der Philosophie hat ihre eigene Notwendigkeit. Daß eine Philosophie ist, wie sie ist, müssen wir einfach anerkennen. Es steht uns jedoch nicht zu, eine gegenüber der anderen vorzuziehen, wie

tion of the likelihood of the objectivity of objects [cf. Kant]; of the dialectical mediation of the movement of the absolute Spirit [cf. Hegel], or of the historical process of production [cf. Marx]; of the value-setting will to power [cf. Nietzsche]. The distinctive character of metaphysical thinking, which originates the hneededi ground for the being, 286 consists in the fact that, starting from that which abides, it represents the latter in its abidingness and thus posits it, from out of its ground, as hsomethingi grounded. 287 What does the talk of the end of philosophy mean? All too easily we understand the end of something in a negative sense; to wit, as a mere ceasing, as the failing of a continuation, if not as a decay and an incapacity. On the contrary, the talk of the end of philosophy means the achievement of metaphysics. However, achievement, in turn, does not mean perfection [the state of being consummate], which would imply that philosophy, with its ending, had attained its highest perfection. Indeed, not only do we lack any kind of measure that would allow us to evaluate the perfection of an epoch of metaphysics as compared to that of another: there is no right to evaluate in this manner in the first place. Plato’s thinking is not more perfect than that of Parmenides. Hegel’s philosophy is not more consummate than that of Kant. Each epoch of philosophy has its own necessity. That a philosophy is the way it is, is a circumstance which we must simply acknowledge. On the other

In the sense that it originates the ground that the being as such demands. This is the characteristic »movement« of metaphysics: starting from the being — beyond it towards its grounding principle — back to the (now grounded) being. 286 287

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Heidegger solches hinsichtlich der verschiedenen Weltanschauungen möglich ist. Die alte Bedeutung unseres Wortes «Ende» bedeutet dasselbe wie Ort: «von einem Ende zum anderen» heißt: von einem Ort zum anderen. Das Ende der Philosophie ist der Ort, wo dasjenige, worin sich das Ganze ihrer Geschichte in seine äußerste Möglichkeit versammelt. Ende als Vollendung meint dieses Versammlung.

Durch die ganze Geschichte der Philosophie hindurch bleibt Platons Denken in abgewandelten Gestalten maßgebend. Die Metaphysik ist Platonismus. Nietzsche kennzeichnet seine Philosophie als umgekehrten Platonismus. Mit der Umkehrung der Metaphysik, die bereits durch Karl Marx vollzogen wird, ist die äußerste Möglichkeit der Philosophie erreicht. Sie ist in ihr Ende eingegangen. Soweit philosophisches Denken noch versucht wird, gelangt es nur noch zu epigonalen Renaissancen und deren Spielarten. Also ist das Ende der Philosophie doch ein Aufhören ihrer Weise des Denkens? Dies zu folgern, wäre voreilig.

Ende ist als Vollendung die Versammlung in die äußersten Möglichkeiten. Wir denken diese zu eng, solange wir nur eine Entfaltung neuer Philosophien des bisherigen Stils er-

hand, it is not for us to prefer one to another, as one may do with regard to different world-views. The old meaning of our German word Ende [end; fine] is the same as that of Ort [place, spot, site, point; luogo]: von einem Ende zum anderen [from one end to another] is the same as saying: von einem Ort zum anderen [from one point, or place, to another]. Thus, das Ende, the end, of philosophy is der Ort, the point 288 wherein the whole of its tradition is gathered in its ultimate likelihood. End in the sense of achievement means this gathering. Throughout the entire tradition of philosophy, Plato’s thinking remains, in varying forms, decisive [in the sense that all metaphysical positions obtain their scope from the reference to that onset]. Metaphysics is Platonism. Nietzsche characterizes his philosophy as an inverted Platonism. With the inversion of metaphysics, which is already implemented by Karl Marx, the ultimate likelihood of philosophy is attained. The latter has entered its ending [it has »come to the point«; la metafisica è giunta al (suo) punto]. Insofar as philosophical thinking is still attempted, all it attains to are epigonic renaissances or varieties thereof. So, is the end of philosophy a ceasing of its manner of thinking after all? To conclude this would be premature. The end, intended as achievement, is the gathering in the ultimate forms of likelihood. We think the latter too narrowly as long as we merely expect hthem to show asi an unfolding of

288 Note that the German word Ort originally means blade, edge, angle, head (as in spearhead), the fundamental trait being that of something acute, sharp and pointy. In other words, Ort is where all lines of something come together into a point. The proposed translation of Ort (place, spot, site) with »point« is to be understood in light of this trait.

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The End of Philosophy warten. Wir vergessen, daß schon im Zeitalter der griechischen Philosophie ein entscheidender Zug der Philosophie zum Vorschein kommt: es ist die Ausbildung von Wissenschaften innerhalb des Gesichtskreises, den die Philosophie eröffnete. Die Ausbildung der Wissenschaften ist zugleich ihre Loslösung von der Philosophie und die Einrichtung ihrer Eigenständigkeit. Dieser Vorgang gehört zur Vollendung der Philosophie. Seine Entfaltung ist heute auf allen Gebieten des Seienden in vollem Gang. Sie sieht aus wie die bloße Auflösung der Philosophie und ist in Wahrheit gerade ihre Vollendung. Es genügt, auf die Eigenständigkeit der Psychologie, der Soziologie, der Anthropologie als Kulturanthropologie, auf die Rolle der Logik als Logistik und Semantik hinzuweisen. Die Philosophie wird zur empirischen Wissenschaft vom Menschen, von allem, was für den Menschen erfahrbarer Gegenstand seiner Technik werden kann, durch die er sich in der Welt einrichtet, indem er sie nach den mannigfaltigen Weisen des Machens und Bildens bearbeitet. Dies alles vollzieht sich überall auf dem Grunde und nach der Maßgabe der wissenschaftlichen Erschließung der einzelnen Bezirke des Seienden. Es bedarf keiner Prophetie, um zu erkennen, daß die sich einrichtenden Wissenschaften alsbald von der neuen Grundwissenschaft bestimmt und gesteuert werden, die Kybernetik heißt. Diese Wissenschaft entspricht der Bestimmung des Menschen als des handelnd-gesellschaftlichen Wesens. Denn sie ist die Theorie der Steuerung des möglichen Planens und Einrichtens menschlicher Arbeit. Die Kybernetik bildet die Sprache um zu einen

new philosophies of the previous style. We forget that already in the age of Greek philosophy a decisive trait of philosophy comes to light, namely the forming of sciences within the horizon opened up by philosophy itself. The forming of sciences is at the same time their detachment from philosophy and the establishment of their self-standing character. This occurrence belongs to the achievement of philosophy. Its unfolding is today in full swing in all fields of the being. That unfolding looks like the mere dissolution of philosophy, when in truth it is precisely its achievement. It suffices to refer to the self-standing character of psychology, of sociology, of anthropology in the form of cultural anthropology, to the role of logic as logistics [i. e. symbolic or mathematical logic] and semantics. Philosophy becomes an empirical science of man, a science of all that can become for man an experienceable object of his technics, through which he establishes himself in his world by working it according to the manifold ways of making and forming. All of this is everywhere performed on the basis, and according to the measure, of the scientific opening up of the single domains of the being. It does not require a prophecy to recognize that the sciences which are now establishing themselves will soon be determined and steered by the new fundamental science called cybernetics. This science corresponds to [i. e. implements and unfolds what is already known as] the determination of man as the active social animal. For hcyberneticsi is the theory of the steering and possible planning and arranging of human labour. Cybernetics recon-

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Heidegger Austausch von Nachrichten. Die Künste werden zu gesteuert-steuernden Instrumenten der Information. Die Ausfaltung der Philosophie in die eigenständigen, unter sich jedoch immer entschiedener kommunizierenden Wissenschaften ist die legitime Vollendung der Philosophie. Die Philosophie endet im gegenwärtigen Zeitalter. Sie hat ihren Ort in der Wissenschaftlichkeit des gesellschaftlich handelnden Menschentums gefunden. Der Grundzug dieser Wissenschaftlichkeit aber ist ihr kybernetischer, d. h. technischer Charakter. Vermutlich stirbt das Bedürfnis, nach der modernen Technik zu fragen, im gleichen Maße ab, in dem die Technik die Erscheinungen des Weltganzen und die Stellung des Menschen in diesem entschiedener prägt und lenkt. Die Wissenschaften werden alles, was in ihrem Bau noch an die Herkunft aus der Philosophie erinnert, nach den Regeln der Wissenschaft, d. h. technisch deuten. Die Kategorien, auf die jede Wissenschaft für die Durchgliederung und Umgrenzung ihres Gegenstandsgebietes angewiesen bleibt, versteht sie instrumental als Arbeitshypothesen. Deren Wahrheit wird nicht nur am Effekt gemessen, den ihre Verwendung innerhalb des Fortschritts der Forschung bewirkt. Die wissenschaftliche Wahrheit wird mit der Effizienz dieser Effekte gleichgesetzt.

figures language into an exchange of notifications. The arts become steered-steering instruments of information. The unfolding of philosophy into the self-standing sciences — which, however, communicate among themselves in an ever more decided manner 289 — is the legitimate achievement of philosophy. Philosophy ends in the present age. It has found its point [Ort] in the scientificity of socially active humanity. However, the groundingtrait of this scientificity is its cybernetic — that is, its technical — character. Presumably, the need to interrogate modern technics dies off to the same extent that the latter imprints and steers ever more decidedly the phenomena of the world-whole and the position of the human being within that whole. The sciences will interpret everything that in their structure is still reminiscent of the provenance from philosophy according to the rules of science itself: that is, technically. The categories on which each science remains reliant for the articulation and delimitation of its thematic domain [the domain of its objects of investigation] are understood by science itself in an instrumental manner, namely as working hypotheses. The truth of these hypotheses is not only measured in terms of the effect which their utilisation achieves within the progress of research. Scientific truth is in fact equated with the efficiency of these effects.

289 This communication is referred to today as »interdisciplinarity«. Interdisciplinarity, which links sciences in a sort of coercive mutual assistance, is in fact a symptom of their insufficiency. Enhancing communication between sciences is in fact an attempt to surrogate the missing shared reference of these sciences to the same origin of sense whose truth each one of them is called to guard and foster in its own way.

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The End of Philosophy Was die Philosophie im Verlauf ihrer Geschichte stellenweise und auch da nur unzureichend versuchte, die Ontologien der jeweiligen Regionen des Seienden (Natur, Geschichte, Recht, Kunst) darzustellen, dies übernehmen jetzt die Wissenschaften als eigene Aufgabe. Ihr Interesse richtet sich auf die Theorie der jeweils notwendigen Strukturbegriffe des zugeordneten Gegenstandsgebietes. «Theorie» bedeutet jetzt: Supposition der Kategorien, denen nur eine kybernetische Funktion zugestanden, aber jeder ontologische Sinn abgesprochen wird. Das Operationale und Modellhafte des vorstellend-rechnenden Denkens gelangt zur Herrschaft. Indes reden die Wissenschaften bei der unumgänglichen Supposition ihrer Gebietskategorien immer noch vom Sein des Seienden. Sie sagen es nur nicht. Sie können zwar die Herkunft aus der Philosophie verleugnen, sie jedoch nie abstoßen. Denn immer spricht in der Wissenschaftlichkeit der Wissenschaften die Urkunde ihrer Geburt aus der Philosophie. Das Ende der Philosophie zeigt sich als der Triumph der steuerbaren Einrichtung einer wissenschaftlich-technischen Welt und der dieser Welt gemäßen Gesellschaftsordnung. Ende der Philosophie heißt: Beginn der im abendländisch-europäischen Denken gegründeten Weltzivilisation.

What philosophy, in the course of its weird, has at times, and even then only in an insufficient manner, attempted — namely, to outline the ontologies of the various regions of the being (nature, history, law, art) — is now assumed by the sciences as their own task. The interest of the sciences is directed to the theory of the at-any-one-time necessary structural concepts of the assigned thematic domain. »Theory« now means: supposition of the categories which are granted only a cybernetic function, but denied any ontological sense. The operational- and model-character of a thinking that consists in representing and computing becomes dominant. However, while ineludibly supposing their domain-defining categories, the sciences still speak of the being of beings. They just don’t say so. They can deny their provenance from philosophy, but never shake it off. For the scientificity of the sciences always bears witness to their birth from philosophy. The end of philosophy shows itself in the form of the triumph of the steerable arrangement of a scientific-technical world and of the social order that is commensurate to that world. »End of philosophy« means: beginning of the world civilization that has its ground in Hesperian 290-European thinking.

»Hesperian« here translates abendländisch, from Abendland, which literally means »evening-land«. The Greek word ἑσπέρα (hespera; cf. the Italian esperide, as well as the Italian vespro and the German Vesper) means precisely evening. Note that the choice of translating abendländisch with »Hesperian« (instead of »Western«) is not based on the mere will to be literal; rather, that choice reflects the fact that in the present context Abendland does not refer to a culturally or geographically or historically determined region, but to the space of a unique tradition, of which — one can assume — »morning«, »midday«, »evening«, and »night« are defining instants.

290

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Heidegger Ist nun aber das Ende der Philosophie im Sinne ihrer Ausfaltung in die Wissenschaften auch schon die vollständige Verwirklichung aller Möglichkeiten, in die das Denken der Philosophie gesetzt wurde? Oder gibt es für das Denken außer der gekennzeichneten letzten Möglichkeit (der Auflösung der Philosophie in die technisierten Wissenschaften) eine erste Möglichkeit, von der das Denken der Philosophie zwar ausgehen mußte, die sie jedoch als Philosophie nicht eigens erfahren und übernehmen konnte? Wenn dies der Fall wäre, dann müßte in der Geschichte der Philosophie seit ihrem Anfang bis zu ihrem Ende verborgenerweise dem Denken noch eine Aufgabe vorbehalten sein, die weder der Philosophie als der Metaphysik noch gar den aus ihr herkommenden Wissenschaften zugänglich wäre.

However, is the ending of philosophy, in the sense of its unfolding into the sciences, also the complete actualization of the entire set of likelihoods into which the thinking of philosophy was placed? Or is there, apart from the characterized last likelihood (i. e., the dissolution of philosophy into the technicized sciences), a first likelihood for thinking, from which the thinking of philosophy had to start out [as an absconded assumption], but which, as philosophy, it could not experience and take on as its own? If that were the case, then the weird of philosophy, since its inception and until its end, would hold in store another task for thinking: a task which would not be accessible to philosophy as metaphysics, nor, even less so, to the sciences that stem from it.

What Heidegger has named (his) Denkweg, or thinking-path, is from the outset dedicated to that »other task« of thinking — a task not »accessible to philosophy as metaphysics«, nor to science as we know it. As a consequence, a delineation of that path does not belong, strictly speaking, to the scope of a treatise that, like the present one, has attempted to offer a diagnostic perspective on the principles of philosophy that constitute the metaphysical tradition. And yet, it is necessary to hint, if not at the path itself, at least at the task that prompts it and within which it unfolds. Why? Because it is precisely that task, and the first exploration of its scope in the form of Heidegger’s Denkweg, which provided the interpretive space for our own endeavour. This is why the perspective anticipated in the Preface, presented in the Introduction, and variously recalled in the subsequent chapters of this book 291, should have prepared us to appreciate, or at least receive an inkling of, that in which the »other task« consists. However, we are likely to be in any way concerned by that task only insofar as we experience, in the first place, the need, or stress, to

291

See especially p. 74 sqq.

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The Task Held in Store

respond to the unique towardness of the abidingness of the abiding in our own time.

13.2 The Task Held in Store In the above-quoted conference, Heidegger indicates the task of thinking held in store by the metaphysical tradition as follows: Lichtung und Anwesenheit, that is, Lichtung and abidingness (Lichtung e adstanzietà). Lichtung — which he derives from licht and leicht, i. e. light, free and open, as opposed to heavy and encumbered — is elucidated as the original »lighting«, namely the freeing freeness, or openness, which both light (hence brightness and darkness) and sound (hence resounding and trailing off) require as the original element within which their play constitutes the abidingness of the abiding. For Lichtung we say, in English, »clearing« or »clearance«, in Italian stagliatura. 292 This clearance is the same as that which, throughout this book, has been referred to as »openness« and »flagrancy«. This element (i. e. clearance as freeness, openness and flagrancy) is in some way experienced in the Greek onset of thinking, notably in Parmenides, as ἀλήθεια or disabscondedness — and yet, because ἀλήθεια itself remains an offering of the spontaneity of φύσις (i. e. the arising of the being in whole) and thus, as it were, embedded in it, it does not concern thinking as such (namely, as an element in its own right), and hence as that which, for thinking itself, carries the need of being taken on as its prime, and, in a sense, only task. This same element still sets the tone of thinking in the Greek foundation of metaphysics — and yet, it is now restrained by the ultimate ground and principle of the abidingness (conceived as a vested supplement) of the abiding, for instance by the idea of the good, which informs the brightness of ἀλήθεια wherein ideas and intelligence attain each other. This same element is presupposed where the word of the highest and most being of beings, God, reveals the truth of the being in

This Italian translation was introduced by Gino Zaccaria; see i. a. his books L’inizio greco del pensiero. Milano: Christian Marinotti Edizioni, 1999, and L’inizio e il nulla. Colloquio di un logico, di un aiutante e di un pittore. Milano: Christian Marinotti Edizioni, 2009; see also Ivo De Gennaro, Gino Zaccaria, Dasein : Da-sein. Tradurre la parola del pensiero. Milano: Christian Marinotti Edizioni, 2007.

292

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Heidegger

whole, letting it appear in the light of its (i. e. that being’s) createdness — and yet, it is withdrawn in favour of the word and the powers of the supreme being, which disposes of it in the form of the created light that reveals his creations. This same element is, again, presupposed where the reason of modern subjectivity, in the light of self-consciousness, sets itself not as the principle of the being in whole, but as the site of the principle of that principle, and of its capacity to let the abiding abide — and yet, it increasingly gives way to (itself in the form of) the will which only wills itself, and which for that willing also wills for the abiding to abide in the »light« of its being willed. Finally, the same element is still presupposed in the effective computations of the technicized sciences — and yet, it is now (namely, thanks to its staying-away in the form of an unprecedented exclusiveness of contingency) a tool and a resource for the unhindered total steerability of ever growing quanta of information. Heidegger illustrates the manner in which the initial clearance or disabscondedness is presupposed (but not experienced as such) in the thinking whose task is the foundation of the abidingness of the abiding, with reference to Husserl’s and Hegel’s metaphysical positions. 293 For both of these thinkers, the Sache, or, as we can legitimately say in English, the »sake« of thinking (namely, that which thinking is firstly and ultimately for), is subjectivity. 294 In the context of this illustration, we find the following quotation from Husserl, in which the latter declares the »principle of all principles« — a principle which, as we shall see, given the programmatic ties of Husserl’s late modern position to that of Descartes, has a distinctly methodical character: jede originäre gebende Anschauung (ist) eine Rechtsquelle der Erkenntnis, alles, was sich uns in der »Intuition«

any original giving insight is a source of law of knowledge; everything which offers itself to us in an original

See Zur Sache des Denkens, p. 67 sqq. The German Sache and the English »sake« are the same word; older English still has this word in the meaning »thing, affair, cause, suit, strife, contention«. (One way of saying the same as die Sache des Denkens viz. »the sake of thinking« in Italian would be la cura del pensiero). In Zur Sache des Denkens (p. 67), Heidegger elucidates the meaning of Sache like this: »When we ask after the task of thinking within the ken [scope] of philosophy, this means the following: [asking after that task is] determining that which concerns thinking, that which is still contentious [strifeful] or the subject of contention [the strife] for thinking. This is what the German word Sache indicates. It names that which thinking has to do with in the case at hand, in Plato’s words: τὸ πρᾶγμα αὐτό [to prāgma auto; »the matter itself«] (cf. the seventh letter 341 c 7).« 293 294

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The Task Held in Store originär (sozusagen in seiner leibhaftigen Wirklichkeit) darbietet, (ist) einfach hinzunehmen, als was es sich gibt, aber auch nur in den Schranken, in denen es sich da gibt … 295

manner (so to speak, in the flesh) in an »intuition«, must simply be accepted as that as which it gives itself, but also only within the boundaries in which it gives itself …

The following extracts from Heidegger’s subsequent comments prepare our final consideration on the task that is still in store for thinking, while at the same time revisiting some moments of our phenomenological approach to the tradition of the thinking whose only sake is the principle of the abidingness of the abiding: 296 »Das Prinzip aller Prinzipien« enthält die These vom Vorrang der Methode. Dieses Prinzip entscheidet darüber, welche Sache allein der Methode genügen kann. »Das Prinzip aller Prinzipien« verlangt als die Sache der Philosophie die absolute Subjektivität. Die transzendentale Reduktion auf diese gibt und sichert die Möglichkeit, in der Subjektivität und durch sie die Objektivität aller Objekte (das Sein dieses Seienden) in ihrem gültigen Aufbau und Bestand, d. h. in ihrer Konstitution, zu begründen. So erweist dich die transzendentale Subjektivität als »das einzige absolute Seiende«. (Formale und transzendentale Logik, 1929, S. 240.) Von der Art des Seins dieses absoluten Seienden, d. h. von der Art der eigensten Sache der Philosophie, ist zugleich die transzendentale Reduktion als die Methode »der universalen Wissenschaft« von der Konstitution des Seins des Seienden. Die Methode richtet sich nicht nur nach der Sache der Philosophie. Sie gehört nicht nur zur Sache wie der Schlüssel zum Schloß. Sie gehört vielmehr in die Sache, weil sie »die Sache selbst« ist. Wollte man fragen: Woher nimmt denn »das

»The principle of all principles« contains the thesis of the priority of the method. This principle decides which sake alone is able to satisfy the method. hAs a consequence,i »the principle of all principles« demands absolute subjectivity as the sake of philosophy. Transcendental reduction to that subjectivity gives and ensures the likelihood of laying a ground, within and through subjectivity, for the objectivity of all objects (i. e. for the being of such beings) in its [objectivity’s] valid make-up and consistency; that is, in its constitution. Thus, transcendental subjectivity shows as »the only absolute being«. (Formale und transzendentale Logik, 1929, p. 240.) Transcendental reduction, the method »of the universal science« of the constitution of the being of beings, is of the kind of the being [Sein] of that absolute being [i. e. subjectivity], i. e. of the kind of the ownmost sake of philosophy. hIn other words:i The method does not only conform to the sake of philosophy. It does not merely belong to the sake in the way the key belongs to the lock. Rather, it belongs to — or into — the sake in that it is »the sake itself«. If one were to ask: From where

295 Ibid., p. 70. The passage is taken from Edmund Husserl, Ideen zu einer reinen Phänomenologie und phänomenologischen Philosophie (1913), § 24. 296 See Zur Sache des Denkens, p. 70–74.

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Heidegger Prinzip aller Prinzipien« sein unerschütterliches Recht, dann müßte die Antwort lauten: aus der transzendentalen Subjektivität, die schon als die Sache der Philosophie vorausgesetzt ist. […] Husserls Methode soll die Sache der Philosophie zur letztgültigen originären Gegebenheit, dies heißt: in die ihr eigene Präsenz bringen. […] [D]ie originäre Intuition und ihre Evidenz [bleibt] auf die schon waltende Offenheit, die Lichtung, angewiesen. Das Evidente ist das unmittelbar Einsehbare. Evidentia lautet das Wort, mit dem Cicero das griechische ἐνάργεια übersetzt, d. h. ins Römische umdeutet. Ἐνάργεια, darin der selbe Stamm wie in argentum (Silber) spricht, meint das, was in sich selber aus sich her leuchtet und sich ins Licht bringt. In der griechischen Sprache ist nicht von der Aktion des Sehens, vom videre, die Rede sondern von solchem, was leuchtet und scheint. Es kann aber n ur scheinen, wenn schon Offenheit gewährt ist. Der Lichtstrahl schafft nicht erst die Lichtung, die Offenheit, er durchmißt sie nur. Solche Offenheit allein gewährt überhaupt einem Geben und Hinnehmen, gewährt einer Evidenz erst das Freie, worin sie sich aufhalten können und sich bewegen müssen.

[…] Die Philosophie spricht zwar vom Licht der Vernunft, aber achtet nicht auf die Lichtung des Seins. Das lumen naturale, das Licht der Vernunft, erhellt nur das Offene. Es betrifft zwar die Lichtung, bildet sie jedoch so wenig, daß es vielmehr ihrer bedarf, um

does »the principle of all principles« draw its unshakeable right, the answer would have to be the following: from transcendental subjectivity, which is already presupposed as the sake of philosophy. […] Husserl’s method [i. e. transcendental reduction] is meant to bring the sake of philosophy to its ultimately valid original givenness, and this means: to its own presence. […] [T]he original intuition and its evidence are reliant on the already reigning [swaying; vigente] openness and clearance. The evident is the immediately visible, that which offers an immediate insight. Evidentia is the word with which Cicero translates — that is, reconstrues in and thus reinterprets according to the Roman element — the Greek ἐνάργεια [enargeia]. Ἐνάργεια, in which speaks the same stem as in argentum (silver), indicates that which shines in itself from itself, and in itself from itself brings itself to light. The Greek language does not refer to the action of seeing, of videre, but to that which shines and flashes. However, the latter can shine only if an openness is already granted. The beam of light does not create the clearance or the openness, but only passes through it. Only such openness in the first place grants to a giving and accepting, as well as to an evidence, the free scope in which they can stay and must move. […] Philosophy speaks about the light of reason, but does not mind the clearance of being. The lumen naturale, the light of reason, only lights up that which is open. It does indeed concern [apply to] the clearance; however, not only does it not form this clearance,

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The Task Held in Store das in der Lichtung Anwesende bescheinen zu können. Dies gilt nicht nur von der Methode der Philosophie sondern auch und sogar zuerst von ihrer Sache, nämlich von der Anwesenheit des Anwesenden. […] Alle Metaphysik samt ihrem Gegenspieler, dem Positivismus, spricht die Sprache Platons. Das Grundwort seines Denkens, d. h. der Darstellung des Seins des Seienden lautet εἶδος, ἰδέα: das Aussehen, worin sich das Seiende als ein solches zeigt. Aussehen ist aber eine Weise der Anwesenheit. Kein Aussehen ohne Licht — dies erkannte schon Platon. Aber es gibt kein Licht und keine Helle ohne die Lichtung. Sogar das Dunkel bedarf ihrer. Wie könnten wir sonst in das Dunkle geraten und es durchirren? Gleichwohl bleibt in der Philosophie die im Sein, in der Anwesenheit waltende Lichtung als solche ungedacht, wenngleich in ihrem Beginn von der Lichtung gesprochen wird.

but in fact requires it in order to be able to shine on that which abides in the clearance itself. This is true not only of the method of philosophy, but also, and in the first place, of its sake; to wit, the abidingness of the abiding. […] All of metaphysics, including its antagonist, i. e. positivism, speaks in the way Plato did. The grounding-word of his thinking — that is, of the account of the being of beings — is εἶδος, ἰδέα; to wit, the look in which the being shows itself as such. However, the look is a modality of the abidingness. No look without light — as Plato himself already recognized. However, there is no light and no brightness without the clearance. Even the dark needs it. How else could we get into the dark and traverse it as errants? And yet, hwithiin hthe scope ofi philosophy the clearance which sways within being, i. e. within the abidingness, 297 remains unthought as such, even though in the beginning of philosophy the clearance is spoken about.

While Heidegger, at this point in his discussion, introduces the theme of ἀλήθεια in Parmenides’s poem, we turn our attention to the following: For Husserl, method is about the original giving or offering itself in, and of, an intuition which, however, as we have just seen, unawares presupposes the clearance as that wherein a coming to light, a shining, a showing »in the flesh«, can occur; even though the metaphysical »environment« of Husserl’s position is that of absolute subjectivity, its provenance from the spontaneous self-standing arising of φύσις as the ground-like principle of beings that brings about the disabscondedness in which beings are placed, is easily discernible. 298 297 A hint concerning that which sways »within the abidingness« is given above, when Heidegger draws the attention to the towardness of the abidingness. 298 This is true not only for metaphysical thinking, but also for Parmenides: in fact, the »unshaking heart of fairly rounded Ἀλήθεια«, mentioned in fragment 1 of his poem, is most likely to be interpreted as the ἐόν, i. e. the being as such in whole experienced as the arising (see above, p. 139).

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On the other hand, the giving, or according, of the otherwise presupposed clearance is as different from that metaphysical giving as is the light of metaphysical shining from the clearance itself. In fact, the giving, or according, of the latter consists in a weirding that does not in any way pertain to the being as such in whole, or to a principle of it, just as it is alien to the consistency of a ground such as metaphysics has perceived, interrogated and known it along its entire tradition.

13.3 Being and Time The inauguration of the thinking which takes on the task that can be indicated with the words »clearance and abidingness« is the book Sein und Zeit (Being and Time). 299 In this treatise, published in 1927, Heidegger explicates the »sense« of »being itself« as »time«. What, however, is »time«? Answer: the same as (not, however, the »identical thing« to) the clearance that frees things into a dis-contingent abidingness, namely an abidingness not abscondedly occupied (as is the case throughout the weird initiated by the Greek onset of thinking) by the demand of beings as such and in whole to be supplied with a light-giving ground for their givenness. And what, on the other hand, is »being itself«? Answer: not the being of beings seen in »isolation« or »abstraction«, but this: – (»being itself« is) the unbuttressed, abysmal onset or inception — abysmal in the sense of a pure, unhalted descending which, while descending into itself, calls (upon man) for being borne precisely as such, and thus (that is, by virtue of such bearing) raised and confirmed in its descendance from itself (in other words: being itself is the sheer descending in itself which calls for being confirmed as pure ascendancy; the offered clearance of this ascendancy is — the world); – (»being itself« is) the self-giving — namely, the fact of giving, or weirding, itself (das Sich-Schicken; il generarsi) while absconding into its own clearance — of the only initial trait of discontingency, which as such is in need of being acknowledged and sustained by that unique being whose abiding, in turn, consists in the receptivity for that trait and for the need of its clearance to avail itself of that receptivity for its own biding; – (in a word, »being itself« is) the other (with respect to the Greek one), unoccupied (by the being) onset of thinking, which attunes the latter not for 299

Martin Heidegger, Sein und Zeit. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 192006.

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the task of laying the ground as which the abidingness of the abiding engages it, but rather as an assenting answer to the silent word of its (that very onset’s) self-ensconcement in the clearance of its own withdrawal.

The thus characterized phenomenon of »being itself« we might indicate with the English word »schism«. The »schismatic trait« characterizes the inceptiveness of an onset which is the same as the Greek one, and yet — by virtue of the now flagrant clearance of being itself, which bides as »the sheer difference« with regard to beings and their being — is entirely other with respect to it. 300 Accordingly, »time« as the »sense« of »being itself« (i. e. as the element wherein the latter holds sway, viz. bestows and denies itself, as the truth for a world) now means: the clearance of the initial schism (the schismatic inception), perceived and borne by man, which constitutes itself as the freeing freeness, as the giving (of itself as clearance and disabscondedness) for (towards, in favour of) the abiding of things as their own selves. The attempt to think in the epoch of the achievement of philosophy answers the need to prepare an unprecedented style of thinking. This preparation is itself inhabitual; it implies, in a sense, the unlearning of metaphysical thinking, which however can only be achieved by learning to think »more metaphysically« than metaphysics itself, namely, in a manner that rethinks metaphysics from out of its unthought assumption. As long as we adhere, so to speak, »passively« to the thinking habits inherited from the metaphysical tradition, we are deaf to the initiation which speaks in the expression »being itself«; that is, we somehow acknowledge that, in that expression, the pronoun »itself« indicates being independent of beings, and yet pertinaciously imagine »being itself« as a somehow free-floating, groundgiving super-being, oddly relinquished by the beings for which it provides a ground — something like a vacated snail shell open for inspection. In other words, we keep presupposing what instead is waiting for us to let go of it as an implicit presupposition, so as to be finally free to engage as our own selves with our native capacity of 300 What in Being and Time announces itself in the name »being itself« (das Sein selbst; l’indole ›essere‹) soon (i. e. from the early nineteen thirties on) unfolds as Ereignis, which becomes the grounding-word of the Denkweg. Ereignis is the initial »giving« of the clearance in which the schism — i. e. that as which Ereignis itself bides while assigning its openness to what thus shows as the biding of man — calls man into his belongingness to the schism itself and its need that its own openness be borne in a biding that only man, being native in it, can take on.

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bearing it as the openness, or flagrancy, of the only schism and its initially attuning stress. 301 For the time being, the thinking of the »other onset«, inaugurated by Being and Time, remains as weird and unintelligible, and likely to be interpreted according to the metaphysical schemes of which it is itself free, as it was in 1927. While this weirdness, on the one hand, is a trait that belongs to the constitutive thinking of all times, on the other hand it has now become — for the first time, and with a necessity of its own — the sake itself of thinking. 302

301 The bearing of the openness of the schism is what Heidegger refers to as Da-sein, or there-being, where the »there« indicates precisely that openness, i. e. the clearance or Lichtung. 302 For some introductory analyses in this respect see Ivo De Gennaro, The Weirdness of Being. Heidegger’s Unheard Answer to the Seinsfrage (see above, p. 143 [note 103]).

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Greek Alphabet

Lower case

Upper case

Name

Transliteration

Pronunciation 303

α

Α

alpha

a

father

β

Β

beta

b

being

γ

Γ

gamma

g

gather 304

δ

Δ

delta

d

deep

ε

Ε

epsilon

e

let

ζ

Ζ

zeta

z

zeal

η

Η

eta

ē

grey

θ

Θ

theta

th

think

ι

Ι

iota

i

sit or meet 305

κ

Κ

kappa

k

keep

λ

Λ

lambda

l

light

μ

Μ

mu

m

measure

ν

Ν

nu

n

never

ξ

Ξ

xi

ks

ax

ο

Ο

omicron

o

boat

π

Π

pi

p

sap

ρ

Ρ

rho

r

Rigoletto

σ (ς)

Σ

sigma

s

sister 306

τ

Τ

tau

t

time

303 This does not correspond to the likely ancient Greek pronunciation, but to common pronunciation in English. 304 γ is pronounced »n« (as in sing) before γ, κ, ξ, χ: ἄγγελος (angelos), ἀνάγκη (ananke), etc. 305 ι and υ can be short or long. 306 Pronounced like zoo before β, γ, δ, μ.

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Greek Alphabet Lower case

Upper case

Name

Transliteration

Pronunciation

υ

Υ

upsilon

u or y

tu (F) or über (G)

φ

Φ

phi

ph

physics

χ

Χ

chi

ch

J. S. Bach

ψ

Ψ

psi

ps

lips

ω

Ω

omega

ō

caught

Diphthongs

Pronunciation

αι

aisle

Accents λόγος

acute

ει

eight

grave

τιμὴ

οι

joint

circumflex

σῶμα

αυ

cow

ευ

enwind

ου

soothe

υι

queen

rough

οἱ (hoi)

ᾳ, ῃ, ῳ

—

smooth

ἐν (en)

Breathings

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