Foundations of Ancient Ethics / Grundlagen Der Antiken Ethik 9783899716290, 9783862346295, 3899716299

Citation preview

Jo¨rg Hardy / George Rudebusch (eds.)

Ancient Ethics

V&R unipress

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. ISBN 978-3-89971-629-0 ISBN 978-3-86234-629-5 (E-Book) t Copyright 2014 by V&R unipress GmbH, D-37079 Goettingen All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover image: t Jo¨rg Hardy Printing and binding: a Hubert & Co, Go¨ttingen Printed in Germany

Note on Conventions

The abbreviations for Ancient authors and works are normally those used by H. G. Liddell / R. Scott. A Greek-English Lexicon, with a revised supplement, Oxford 1996, and P. G. W. Glare (ed.), Oxford Latin Dictionary, Oxford 1983. Abbreviations for Ancient Indian sources are included in the contribution of J. Bussanich in this volume. All Ancient authors and works cited in the contributions of this volume are included in the general bibliography, section “Ancient sources”, at the end of the volume. All secondary works cited in the contributions are included in the section “Modern works” of the general bibliography (cited by author and date). References to earlier modern philosophers (e. g. Hume, Kant) are normally to recent editions.

Contributors

Mariana Anagnostopoulos is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at California State University, Fresno, USA Julia Annas is Regents Professor of Philosophy at the University of Arizona, Tuscon, USA Ruben Apressyan is Professor of Philosophy at the Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow, Russia Thomas C. Brickhouse is Professor of Philosophy at Lynchburg College, Lynchburg, USA John Bussanich is Professor of Philosophy at the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque, USA Catherine Collobert is Professor of Philosophy and Classics at the University of Ottawa, Canada Sylvain Delcomminette is Professor of Philosophy at the the Universite´ Libre de Bruxelles, Belgium Wolfgang Detel is Professor emeritus of Philosophy at the Wolfgang-Goethe-University Frankfurt, Germany Dorothea Frede is Mills Adjunct Professor of Philosophy at the University of California at Berkeley, USA Lloyd P. Gerson is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Toronto, Canada Christoph Halbig is Professor of Philosophy at the Justus-Liebig-University of Gießen, Germany Jo¨rg Hardy is Research Scholar at the Free University of Berlin and Fellow at the Centre for Advanced Study in Bioethics, Mu¨nster, Germany

8

Contributors

Otfried Ho¨ffe is Professor emeritus of Philosophy at the University Tu¨bingen, Germany Brad Inwood is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Toronto, Canada Michael-Thomas Liske is Professor of Philosophy at the University Passau, Germany Mark. L. McPherran is Professor of Philosophy at Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada Julie Piering is Professor of Philosophy at the Northern Arizona University, Flagstaff, USA Lauren Pfister is Professor of Religious Studies and Philosophy at Hong Kong Baptist University George H. Rudebusch is Professor of Philosophy at the Northern Arizona University, Flagstaff, USA Daniel C. Russell is Professor of Philosophy at the Center for the Philosophy of Freedom, University of Arizona, Tuscon, USA Gerasimos Santas is Professor emeritus of Philosophy at the University of California, Irvine, USA Christopher Shields is Professor of Classical Philosophy at the University of Oxford, Tutorial Fellow of Lady Margret Hall, Oxford, United Kingdom May Sim is Professor of Philosophy at the College of the Holy Cross, Worcester, Massachusetts, USA Nicholas D. Smith is James F. Miller Professor of Philosophy at Lewis & Clark College, Portland, Oregon, USA Christopher Taylor is Professor emeritus of Philosophy at Corpus Christi College Oxford and the University of Oxford, United Kingdom

Contents

Note on Conventions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

5

Contributors

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

7

Jo¨rg Hardy / George Rudebusch Ancient Ethics: Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

13

Eastern Traditions Lauren F. Pfister Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

19

John Bussanich Ethics in Ancient India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

33

Early Greek Thought Catherine Collobert Homeric Ethics: Fame and Prudence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

57

Ruben Apressyan Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

67

Gerasimos Santas The Socratic Method and Ethics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

85

Plato

Christopher Taylor The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

10

Contents

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 Jo¨rg Hardy Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered . . . . . . . . 141 George Rudebusch Knowledge Rules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 May Sim The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic . . . . . . . . . . 183 Mark L. McPherran Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought . . . . . . . . . 197

Aristotle Mariana Anagnostopoulos Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

. . . . . . . . . . . . . 215

Daniel C. Russell Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227 Christopher Shields Goodness is Meant in Many Ways . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 Michael-Thomas Liske Bedeutet Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend eine ethisch-psychologische Determination? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 Dorothea Frede Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

289

Hellenistic philosophy Julia Annas Ethics in Stoic Philosophy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309 Brad Inwood Moral Judgement in Seneca

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333

11

Contents

Julie Piering Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351

Plotinus Lloyd P. Gerson Being as Goodness

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369

Sylvain Delcomminette Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

. . . . . . . . . . . . . 383

General Topics Christoph Halbig ¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems . . 403 Die Einheit der Tugenden. U Wolfgang Detel Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics . . . . . . . 425 Otfried Ho¨ffe Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

. . . . . . . . . 467

General Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 479

Jo¨rg Hardy / George Rudebusch

Ancient Ethics: Introduction

Non-European Tradition: Bussanich interprets main themes of Hindu ethics, including its roots in ritual sacrifice, its relationship to religious duty, society, individual human well-being, and psychic liberation. To best assess the truth of Hindu ethics, he argues for dialogue with premodern Western thought. Pfister takes up the question of human nature as a case study in Chinese ethics. Is our nature inherently good (as Mengzi argued) or bad (Xunzi’s view)? Pfister observes their underlying agreement, that human beings are capable of becoming good, and makes precise the disagreement: whether we achieve goodness by cultivating autonomous feelings or by accepting external precepts. There are political consequences: whether government should aim to respect and empower individual choices or to be a controlling authority. Early Greek Thinking: Collobert examines the bases of Homeric ethics in fame, prudence, and shame, and how these guide the deliberations of heroes. She observes how, by depending upon the poet’s words, the hero gains a quasiimmortality, although in truth there is no consolation for each person’s inevitable death. Plato: Santas examines Socratic Method and ethics in Republic 1. There Socrates examines definitions of justice and tests them by comparison to the arts and sciences. Santas shows the similarities of Socrates’ method to John Rawls’ method of considered judgments in reflective equilibrium. McPherran interprets Plato’s religious dimension as like that of his teacher Socrates. McPherran shows how Plato appropriates, reshapes, and extends the religious conventions of his own time in the service of establishing the new enterprise of philosophy. According to Taylor, Socrates believes that humans in general have the task of helping the gods by making their own souls as good as possible, and Socrates’ unique ability to cross-examine imposes on him the special task of helping others to become as good as possible. This conception of Socrates’ mission is Plato’s own, consisting in an extension of the traditional conception of piety as helping the gods. Brickhouse and Smith propose a new understanding of Socratic moral psychology—one that retains the standard view of Socrates as an intel-

14

Jo¨rg Hardy / George Rudebusch

lectualist, but also recognizes roles in human agency for appetites and passions. They compare and contrast the Socratic view to the picture of moral psychology we get in other dialogues of Plato. Hardy also proposes a new, non-reductive understanding of Socratic eudaimonism—he argues that Socrates invokes a very rich and complex notion of the “Knowledge of the Good and Bad”, which is associated with the motivating forces of the virtues. Rudebusch defends Socrates’ argument that knowledge can never be impotent in the face of psychic passions. He considers the standard objections: that knowledge cannot weigh incommensurable human values, and that brute desire, all by itself, is capable of moving the soul to action. Aristotle: Anagnostopoulos interprets Aristotle on the nature and acquisition of virtue. Though virtue of character, aiming at human happiness, requires a complex awareness of multiple dimensions of one’s experience, it is not properly a cognitive capacity. Thus it requires habituation, not education, according to Aristotle, in order to align the unruly elements of the soul with reason’s knowledge of what promotes happiness. Shields explains Aristotle’s doctrine that goodness is meant in many ways as the doctrine that there are different analyses of goodness for different types of circumstance, just as for being. He finds Aristotle to argue for this conclusion, against Plato’s doctrine of the unity of the Good, by applying the tests for homonymy and as an immediate consequence of the doctrine of categories. Shields evaluates the issue as unresolved at present. Russell discusses Aristotle’s account of practical deliberation and its virtue, intelligence (phronesis). He relates the account to contemporary philosophical controversies surrounding Aristotle’s view that intelligence is necessary for moral virtue, including the objections that in some cases it is unnecessary or even impedes human goodness. Frede examines the advantages and disadvantages of Aristotle’s virtue ethics. She explains the general Greek conceptions of happiness and virtue, Aristotle’s conception of phronesis and compares the Aristotle’s ethics with modern accounts. Liske discusses the question of whether the Aristotelian account of virtue entails an ethical-psychological determinism. He argues that Aristotle’s understanding of hexis allows for free action and ethical responsibility : By making decisions for good actions we are able to stabilize our character (hexis). Hellenistic and Roman: Annas defends an account of stoic ethics, according to which the three parts of Stoicism—logic, physics, and ethics—are integrated as the parts of an egg, not as the parts of a building. Since by this analogy no one part is a foundation for the rest, pedagogical decisions may govern the choice of numerous, equally valid, presentations of Stoic ethics. Piering interprets the Cynic way of life as a distinctive philosophy. In their ethics, Cynics value neither pleasure nor tradition but personal liberty, which they achieve by self-sufficiency and display in speech that is frank to the point of insult.

Ancient Ethics: Introduction

15

Plotinus and Neoplatonism: Gerson outlines the place of ordinary civic virtue as well as philosophically contemplative excellence in Neoplatonism. In doing so he attempts to show how one and the same good can be both action-guiding in human life and be the absolute simple One that grounds the explanation of everything in the universe. Delcomminette follows Plotinus’s path to the Good as the foundation of free will, first in the freedom of Intellect and then in the “more than freedom” of the One. Plotinus postulates these divinities as not outside but within each self, saving him from the contradiction of an external foundation for a truly free will. General Topics: Halbig discusses the thesis on the unity of virtues. He distinguishes the thesis of the identity of virtues and the thesis of a reciprocity of virtues and argues that the various virtues form a unity (in terms of reciprocity) since virtues cannot bring about any bad action. Detel examines Plato’s and Aristotle’s conceptions of normativity : Plato and Aristotle (i) entertained hybrid theories of normativity by distinguishing functional, semantic and ethical normativity, (ii) located the ultimate source of normativity in standards of a good life, and thus (iii) took semantic normativity to be a derived form of normativity. Detel argues that hybrid theories of normativity are—from a modern point of view—still promising. Ho¨ffe defends the Ancient conception of an art of living against Modern objections. Whereas many Modern philosophers think that we have to replace Ancient eudaimonism by the idea of moral obligation (Pflicht), Ho¨ffe argues that Eudaimonism and autonomy-based ethics can be reconciled and integrated into a comprehensive and promising theory of a good life, if we enrich the idea of autonomy by the central elements of Ancient eudaimonism. Some common themes: The topics in Chinese and Hindu ethics are perhaps more familiar to modern western sensibilities than Homeric and even Socratic. Anagnostopoulos, Brickhouse and Smith, Frede, Liske, Rudebusch, and Russell all consider in contrasting ways the role of moral character, apart from intellect, in ethics. Brickhouse / Smith, Hardy, and Rudebusch discuss the Socratic conception of moral knowledge. Brickhouse / Smith and Hardy retain the standard view of the so called Socratic Intellectualism. Shields and Gerson both consider the question whether there is a single genus of goodness, or if the term is a homonym. Bussanich, McPherran, Taylor, and Delcomminette all consider the relation between religion and ethics. Pfister, Piering, Delcomminette, and Liske all consider what sort of freedom is appropriate to human well-being. Halbig, Detel, and Ho¨ffe propose interpretations of main themes of Ancient ethics.

Eastern Traditions

Lauren F. Pfister

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

Prolegomenon to Questions about Human Nature in Ancient China Is human nature inherently good or bad, or initially neutral, or even of a mixed kind so that it can develop either toward excellence or evil? Or are there different kinds of human nature that are based upon a variety of factors that are not universal, even though they may be generalized to a certain extent? These questions involved issues for Chinese intellectuals, ancient and contemporary, that entailed further questions about personal cultivation, public education, religious orientation, and political policies. As a consequence, these questions became themes which all major ancient Chinese thinkers addressed in the years before the initial unification of the Chinese mainland under the Qı´n 秦 emperor (221 BCE). The main arguments regarding whether human nature was good, neutral or evil appeared in what 21st century sinologists and Chinese philosophers consider to be the major classical works reflecting key interpretive trends in pre-Qı´n Ruist (“Confucian”) and Daoist teachings. Though archeological findings in the late 20th century have shed some special interpretive light on these debates, the main arguments are still found in two influential texts: the book associated with Master Me`ng (c. 370-c. 289 BCE), known as the Mencius or Me`ngzıˇ 孟子and the book of essays written by Master Xu´n (340 – 245 BCE), known as the Hsun-tsze or Xu´nzıˇ 荀子. Our approach to these arguments about human nature found in these two major ancient Chinese texts also follows a generally agreed upon historical understanding of the timing of their appearance. The dates related to the texts of the Me`ngzıˇ and the Xu´nzıˇ reflect the dates for the historical persons related to them, and so we will similarly assume that they are properly ordered in this way, the former appearing probably sometime in the early years of the 3rd century BCE (the 290s) and the latter several decades later. As we will see, internal evidence within these texts confirms this historical conclusion.

20

Lauren F. Pfister

As a consequence, then, we will begin by summarizing the arguments presented by Master Me`ng, pointing out in the following section why these arguments appear to be vulnerable to a variety of criticisms. Following this, we will present the counter arguments addressing the question of human nature articulated by Master Xu´n. In our concluding statements, we will compare the basic positions taken by these two ancient Chinese philosophers, and consider the significance of their differences as well as offer a final evaluation regarding the style and character of their argumentation.

I.

The Character of Arguments on Human Nature in the Me`ngzıˇ

Though there is a number of passages within the Me`ngzıˇ which discuss the problem of the status of human nature, there are two key passages which reveal what has been called Master Me`ng’s major arguments related to his position that “human nature is good” (xı`ng sha`n lu`n 性善論). Both passages refer to his theory of the Four “Sprouts” of human nature (sı` dua¯n lu`n 四端論 which D. C. Lau refers to as four “germs”, as seen in the Appendix). In this section we will first of all focus on the development of Master Me`ng’s arguments within the earlier passage, and then compare and contrast those arguments with those in the latter passage. In the following section we will point out certain apparent logical weaknesses that made his arguments vulnerable to criticism. This will lead us into a new section where discussion of Master Xu´n’s self-conscious response to the problematic created by Master Me`ng’s ambiguous claims and insufficiently strong arguments will be described and evaluated. As will be seen by an initial reading of Me`ngzıˇ 2A: 6 (see the first passage in the Appendix), Master Me`ng starts his argument by giving a story in order to explain how it is that no human lacks an inner sensitivity which is not responsive to others’ sufferings. After telling this famous story regarding a man seeing a small child about to fall into a well (which in ancient Chinese settings was always simply an open hole in the ground, without any protecting wall around it), Master Me`ng justifies his claim by offering important counter possibilities. Essentially, he argues that the inner sensitivity of that man, which was catalyzed into consciousness by the perceived danger the young child faced, was generated spontaneously from within him, and not because of other “external” reasons that he would have considered or calculated before taking up that sympathetic concern. On the basis of this story, then, Master Me`ng goes on to argue that all human beings have all four of these “sprouts” or “germs” of moral life within them. Put into a simple chart, they can be summarized as follows:

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

Initial “Sprout” or “Germ” Heart of compassion

Related Virtue or Virtuous Attitude Benevolence / Cultivated Humaneness

Heart of shame Heart of courtesy and modesty

Dutifulness / Right(eous)ness Observance of the rites (or propriety)

Heart of right and wrong

Wisdom

21

When ancient Chinese persons spoke about the “heart” (xı¯n 心), they were referring to an inner organ within the human body that generated feelings, responded to external stimuli, and was capable of rational analysis. Because of this, some English translations of the term in its use within Ruist texts refer to it as “heart-mind”, placing the “heart” first in order to emphasize the emotional dimensions engaged and expressed by this inner human organ. Nevertheless, as we have seen in the chart above, the four sprouts involve not only explicit emotional components that putatively are spontaneously arising in human consciousness in various contexts, but also a rational component that allows for the discernment of “right and wrong”. On further reflection we may suggest that this fourfold basis for moral growth, while being analytically descriptive of different states of orientation toward others as well as toward situations, are not meant to imply that these four “heart-mind” conditions are unrelated to each other. In fact, in another part of the Me`ngzıˇ (4A: 27), Master Me`ng explicitly places these four virtues into two separate levels: benevolence and dutifulness are identified as the foundational virtues specifically nurtured within familial relationships, while propriety and wisdom help to refine these two foundational virtues by adding a panoply of cultured expressions and activities which make it possible to embody them (propriety) as well as justifications and insights into their moral value for personal growth and social engagement (wisdom). Not only are each of these sprouts already within human beings, they are the seeds of moral maturity that can grow within any person’s life. Master Me`ng indicates this first of all by relating each sprout (‘S’) to a virtue (‘V’), describing that initial state of feeling and consciousness as the “S of V”, so that S1 is the S of V1, S2 is the S of V2, and so on. In order to indicate how these sprouts are related to a person, Master Me`ng compares them to a person’s arms and legs; this is to say, these moral sprouts are intimate to that person’s living and acting in the world. This spontaneous capacity for each sprout to mature into a virtuous state is explained by another pair of analogies. If a person “is able to develop” these sprouts, then they will advance toward becoming mature virtues; their growth will be just like a fire that consumes all that is combustible once it is started, and a spring of water that continues to flow once its subterranean source has been tapped, so that the water is made accessible to people on the terrestrial surface. Woven into this argument are two other elements that are not fully explained,

22

Lauren F. Pfister

but are adequately described, so that the direction of Master Me`ng’s argument is manifest. First of all, it is possible for a person not to develop these sprouts, and when this happens, even the most basic attitudes and actions necessary for familial harmony (he specifies “serving one’s parents”) will not be realizable. On the other hand, when a person does cultivate these sprouts so that they become the basis for a virtuous and mature life, the implications are that such a person will be a significant social and cultural agent of stability. For this reason, Master Me`ng also insists that subjects in a country or kingdom should not deny the reality of these sprouts in the life of their ruler or “prince”, because it is by means of such a virtuous life that the leader would be able to provide social stability for all in the country or kingdom. Later in his book (6A: 6, the second passage in Appendix), Master Me`ng once again addresses the problem of human nature by reference to the four sprouts. Yet in this passage there are a few differences from the first passage that are noticeable. First of all, the third sprout is not a “heart of courtesy and modesty”, but one described as “a heart of respect”. In the original Chinese text, the former may be seen as a passive aspect, involving “yielding” to others, while the latter describes an active approach to others through the positive expression of respect. In this sense they appear to be describing the same basic attitude from two different perspectives, and so are not seen as contradictory in any logical sense of the term. Secondly, though the initial statement of Master Me`ng in response to the question he is asked underscores his belief that humans “are capable of becoming good”, and in another passage he defines what is good as “the desirable” (7B: 25). In this way, then, Master Me`ng confirms what would seem to be an awareness of the difference between the potential state of the sprouts and the actualized state of their related virtues. Nevertheless his following statements involve a form of argument which does not appear to coincide with this claim. When put into symbolic formulae to indicate the character of his argument at this point, Master Me`ng writes in Chinese what would be the most simple sentence possible: S1 = V1, S2 = V2, and so on.1 When compared with the formulae employed in the earlier passage (S1 is the S of V1, S2 is the S of V2, and so on), the two kinds of statements are not logically compatible. In fact, this single problem has been a source of discussion among Ruist scholars ever since. While this second passage indicates that the will of a person is central in “seeking” to have these sprouts develop into their virtuous glory, Master Me`ng adds a further clarification about how these seedlings of virtue relate to one’s person. They are not the result of “external” factors, that is, of education or something coerced from outside the specific person. In fact, they are what the 1 The translator D. C. Lau uses a clever locution here, “is pertaining to”, as seen in the Appendix, but this is his interpretive addition to the text.

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

23

translator calls a “native endowment” in one place, and here, something in me “originally”. The problem here is that the term “originally” in the standard Chinese text is not so strong or clearly descriptive; the term’s meaning is more like the word “certainly” or “unquestionably”. But for something to be “in me unquestionably” does not mean that it is necessarily in me “originally”. Here is where a further quandary developed in the history of the interpretations of Master Me`ng’s theory. One of the major tendencies developed by later commentators, particularly a group of famous Ruist scholars who lived nearly 1500 years later during the So`ng 宋dynasty, was to add new metaphysical concepts in order to explain this problem in the manner that is mirrored in the translator’s rendering in the Appendix.

II.

Problems in Master Me`ng’s Argument that “Human Nature is Good”

We started our account of Master Me`ng’s arguments in support of his thesis that “human nature is good” by referring to the story of a person (re´n 人) who responds with emotional concern (“compassion”) when seeing a small child of about two or three years of age (ru´ 孺) in danger. Wandering instably around a public square in a village setting, this young child is apparently unaware of the danger in its immediate environment, and all of a sudden finds itself about to fall into a deep well. Though it is unstated, the possibility that such a child would survive a fall into a well of this sort is unlikely, and so this heightens the tension within the story. Nevertheless, when we consider the details of the story and its related claims, a number of counter-arguments might be raised, particularly once we (as 21st century readers) consider what is being said in this nearly 2300 year old Chinese text. It is significant that the “man” or “person” who observes this small child is presumably an adult, one who is already socially attuned to general human relationships and probably also knows the parents of the child (as would have been the case in any ancient village or face-to-face community). What if we made this observer another child of the same age? Would the reaction be the same? Or would there be a similar lack of self-consciousness that might be relatively or completely unaware of the impending danger? The initial point to consider here, then, is whether the Chinese concept of re´n found here in the Me`ngzıˇ carries the same universalist implications found in our modern concepts of the generic “man”, “human” or “person”. It seems highly possible that a child of a similar age as the one about to fall in the well would not necessarily have the same spontaneous anticipation of perceived danger and compassion (though it may

24

Lauren F. Pfister

respond to some degree with a sense of distress or confusion after the playmate has fallen into the well, survives the fall, and begins crying). The hidden advantage in Master Me`ng’s story is that the observer he chose to include in this vignette is already a mature person, a person who is assumed to be fully socialized into the Chinese lifeworld in which she or he is placed.2 This train of questioning becomes all the more pertinent when we consider other claims made by Master Me`ng about the status of the “four sprouts” of human moral life. On the one hand, he tells us that they can be “lost”, but on the other hand, he insists that they are a “natural endowment” and that every “human” has them. So, we might continue to ask, what happens to a human who “loses” one or more of these sprouts? Is that person then considered to be nonhuman, or a dehumanized humanoid who simply looks like they are human, but in fact are not so? If a “human” in Master Me`ng’s sense of the term necessarily possesses all four sprouts, are there “humans” who do not have all four, or who are so young that they are not yet aware of them, and yet are still human? Is there some calculus which discerns that a human may become non-human because they at any point in time have acted inhumanely or are unable to respond humanely? For example, mentally deficient (“mentally challenged”) persons, senile persons, children below the age of three, those who are ill and unable to respond: Would any or all of these kind of persons be considered vulnerable to this kind of reclassification? Though these kinds of questions reveal a moot point never addressed by Master Me`ng in his extensive writings, the significance of this inquiry leads us toward a more substantial problem. If a child of two or three years of age does not have a “heart of compassion” like an adult, and in fact may not be culturally sensitive and self-conscious enough to demonstrate shame or propriety, much less to be spontaneously aware of what is understood to be right or wrong in any larger social context, then there is a major problem in understanding when and how a person becomes aware of these facets in their life. If these four sprouts are like one’s own four limbs, the fact is (we might argue from a 21st century nonChinese setting) that one may have an accident, lose an arm, and yet still be alive and be considered as fully human. Is that the case also for a humanoid who loses one of these moral sprouts? If it is claimed that these sprouts are internal and not given to one from outside one’s own embodied consciousness, then when do these sprouts become “activated” or “functional” in a normal human being’s experience? Must one be five years old, eight years old, or twelve years old before one has reached the age of moral sensitivity and accountability? Unfortunately, Master Me`ng answers none of these questions, even though we know that his 2 As a side comment it should be noted that the Chinese concept of re´n (“human”) is not necessarily gender oriented, and so might be either a female or a male person.

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

25

understanding of the “goodness” of humans is that they “can become good” at some point. We have already noted above that the two passages in the Me`ngzıˇ portray two different accounts of the relationship between the sprouts and their virtues, so that a logical inconsistency troubles the general theory about these four sprouts. But an even more puzzling problem arises from how Master Me`ng in the first passage deduces his claims about the four sprouts from the story mentioned above. After telling the story about a person who shows a spontaneous “heart of compassion” towards the small child in danger, he draws the reader to a conclusion: “From this it can be seen that whoever. . .” Now the question that comes to mind at this point can be stated as follows: If the story informs us about one of the four sprouts, then how could its helpful lesson be used to indicate that all four sprouts exist in a person? Is the “heart of compassion” somehow involved necessarily with all the others? Since it is not yet a full expression of benevolence (for example, Master Me`ng never says that the observing adult runs over to pick up the child and save it from falling into the well, which a truly benevolent person would do), does it still entail the existence of the other three moral sprouts? From this point of view, it appears that Master Me`ng has not fully justified his claim that the story reveals how all four sprouts exist within human beings, and so we might ask whether there are other stories that might support his case. Unfortunately, there are no easily identifiable and similarly clever stories in the Me`ngzıˇ which provide clear answers to our questions here.3 Ultimately, we are left with a few very basic problems that do not receive clear answers from Master Me`ng’s teachings. Significantly, outside of his explanation of what he means by “good”, we find no guiding definitions for the key terms employed in his argument (particularly “human nature” or “nature”). Beyond this, there is no clear explanation about when the four moral sprouts become activated within a person’s life and consciousness. Are they “inborn” or not? This is never explicitly stated by Master Me`ng in any of his writings. Furthermore, we have shown that his claim that the story’s meaning entails the conclusion that “all four moral sprouts exist in human beings” is not fully justified. It is difficult to understand how he can logically link up the content of 3 Later on in Me`ngzıˇ 6A: 10, Master Me`ng does refer very briefly to two situations – one involving a beggar, and another a poor wanderer or tramp – who both refuse food offered by persons who mistreat them. Though the context reveals this has something to do with “observance of the rites” or a sense of propriety, whether or not it also involves the “heart of shame” or the “heart of right and wrong” is very unclear. More significantly, Master Me`ng did not explain these features of these two illustrations with the same detail that he did with regard to the story of the young child about to fall into a well. Because of this, unfortunately, we cannot reach a comprehensive account of how he justifies the spontaneous and inner nature of all four of the sprouts on the basis of the stories or analogies he provides within the Me`ngzıˇ.

26

Lauren F. Pfister

the story to the other three moral sprouts that are not explicitly mentioned there. Otherwise, if he had offered us some other clever stories to indicate the spontaneous arising of these three remaining sprouts, we would welcome them, but there are no such articulate and demonstrable vignettes in the text. Finally, we are troubled by the inconsistency in the way Master Me`ng relates each of the sprouts to its accompanying virtue. Significantly, we are not the only one’s who finds these problems puzzling or frustrating. These questions were obvious enough to some of Master Me`ng’s readers that they provoked a vigorous and thorough challenge in the writings of his younger contemporary, Master Xu´n.

III.

Master Xu´n’s Response to the Argument that “Human Nature is Good”

Among the 32 chapters of the book prepared by Master Xu´n, one is specifically devoted to the question about human nature raised by Master Me`ng.4 Though the title of the essay by Master Xu´n assumes what appears to be the diametrically opposite position to Master Me`ng’s claims, a more careful study of the key terms as defined by Master Xu´n in the essay suggests that it should be rendered more sensitivity as “[human] nature is bad” (xı`ng e` 性惡). Unlike his predecessor, Master Xu´n defined both “good” (sha`n 善) as “what is correct, in accord with natural principles, peaceful and well-ordered” (zhe`ng lıˇ pı´ng zhı` 正理平治) and “bad” as “what is wrong through partiality, what wickedly contravenes natural principles, what is perverse, and what is rebellious” (pia¯n xiaˇn be`i lua`n 偏險悖 亂).5 As can be seen from these definitions, Master Xu´n is not merely interested in “moral goodness” in some internal virtuous sense, but in a social goodness that stands in contrast to what is disorderly and chaotic. In this regard, he is concerned with what we would generally call “bad”, for it may be morally neutral (“wrong through partiality”), and can be made “good” once it is properly dealt with. Neither is it an “evil” that is incorrigible, as we will see by following his argument carefully.6 4 This is chapter 23, which the most recent translator and commentator to the work, John Knoblock, entitles “Book 23: Man’s Nature is Evil”. We take it, that that this title should be rendered in a different manner. Nevertheless, the paragraph and page numbers of Knoblock’s translation will be the standard English rendering referred to in the following discussion. See Knoblock 1994: 17 – 32. 5 Knoblock 1994: 155, sec. 23.3a. 6 So also Knoblock himself explains that the term we render above as “bad” is not like “evil” because it “does not carry the sinister and baleful overtones of the English word”. Similarly, it does not suggest that humans are “inherently depraved and incapable of good” (Knoblock 1994: 139). For this reason and other reasons developed in further explanations of Master

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

27

The main position argued by Master Xu´n in contrast to Master Me`ng (whom he directly names four times in the essay7), summarized in a statement that is repeated numerous times in the essay, is that “human nature is bad; any good in humans is acquired by conscious exertion”.8 What Master Xu´n intends by the terms “[human] nature” (xı`ng性) and “conscious exertion” (we`i 偽) is made explicit by definition once more. Essentially they are seen to be opposites. The former is “what is spontaneous from Nature, what cannot be learned, and what requires no application to master”.9 He illustrates this claim by pointing out that once born, babies see with their eyes and hear with their ears without having to learn the basic functions of “seeing” and “hearing”; in contrast to Master Me`ng, he goes on to argue that “what is desirable” to the eyes and ears tends to satisfy the selfish desires of a newborn and growing child, and so these natural desires need to be groomed until they respond with appropriate civility and concern for others in order to become “good”. If “nature” is therefore “inborn nature”, its opposite is one that leads to the attainment of goodness. For this reason, Master Xu´n defines we`i 偽 as “what must be learned before a man can do it, and what he must apply himself to before he can master it, yet is found in man”.10 While he also uses metaphors to illustrate this quality of human experience, paralleling the learning from a good teacher or the application of law and punishment by a ruler as actions similar to a carpenter’s shaping of a piece of wood or a potter’s creation of a shapely jar from a lump of clay, Master Xu´n cleverly applies his own specific definitions to indicate how Master Me`ng’s arguments must be wrong. Human nature cannot be good from birth, because a newborn child’s desires are selfish and not yet sensitized to respond to values such as respect and deference to elders and social politeness in the context of competing desires. These must be learned by conscious exertion applied from outside, by either the cultivated means (“ritual and moral principles”) of a good teacher, or by the more forceful means of restrictive disciplines or penalties applied by a ruler, depending on the relative degree of responsiveness or resistance that a particular person may manifest. While agreeing with Master Me`ng that all humans have the same nature, and that they all can become sages, Master Xu´n explains the differences in the characters of human beings on the basis of the varying degrees of their

7 8 9 10

Xu´n’s interest in social order (see Knoblock 1994: 149 – 150), a more appropriate rendering of the term e` 惡 seems to be “bad”. See Knoblock 1994: 152, 155 and 156, at sec. 23.1c, 23.1d, 23.3a, and 23.3b. For the repetitions of this central claim, see Knoblock 1994: 150 – 153, 155 – 158, generally appearing at the very end of a section; specifically secs. 23.1a, 23.1b, 23.1e, 23.2b, 23.3a, 23.3b, 23.3c, and 23.4a. Knoblock 1994: 152, sec. 23.1c. Knoblock 1994: 152, sec. 23.1c.

28

Lauren F. Pfister

realization of their same inner capacities. It is not that they have “lost” something that was internally present as a “germ” or a “sprout”, but their characteristic differences occur because of different levels of “valor” (yoˇng 勇) which lead to different attainments in “knowledge” (zhı` 知), ultimately leading to attained goodness. All humans have the same capacity (ne´ng 能), but they apply their will and thoughtfulness to this capacity in varying degrees. This is what distinguishes the attainments of the sage from the “scholar and gentlemen, the petty man, and the menial servant”.11 Logically, however, there appears to be an Achilles’ heel within this argument, one that appears to generate an endless series of causal assumptions (classically referred to as a reductio ad absurdum) that threatens the justifications employed in Master Xu´n’s argument. If all human beings are inherently bad in nature and require a teacher or guide to teach them how to be good, then even a sage must have such a teacher. But, we need to continue to ask, how did that teacher become good? This teacher must also have a teacher as well, and so the problem of an “originally good teacher” appears. If there is a teacher who is “originally good” and does not require another to teach her or him, then all humans do not have the same nature. So, it seems, Master Xu´n’s argument either leads us into a logical series of unending precedents, or it must admit a contradiction to the main premise of his claim that “all human beings have the same nature”. Does Master Xu´n offer any resolution to this problem? He does. By “accumulating thoughts and ideas” the sage is able to breakthrough the selfish tendencies of inborn nature and so can practice what is acquired by this means, leading to the creation of ritual and moral principles as well as laws and standards needed by other humans.12 This suggests, then, that the sage’s “knowledge” is at another qualitative level than most humans, but it is a form of knowledge possible for all humans to attain. What distinguishes the sage is her or his capacity to “accumulate thoughts and ideas” without the guidance of a teacher. All other human beings still need an “acquired exertion” that leads to the constructive and creative achievement of the ritual and moral standards as well as legal and punitive measures that will lead them to the same kind of awareness. In this sense, then, Master Xu´n’s position is a consistent and carefully thought out alternative to Master Me`ng’s claims.

11 Explicitly described with characteristic straightforwardness and detail in Knoblock 1994: 160 – 161, sec. 23.6b. 12 Quoted and summarized from Knoblock 1994: 153 – 154, sec. 23.2a.

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

IV.

29

Summary and Conclusions

From the accounts provided above, we can see that the differences in Master Me`ng’s and Master Xu´n’s arguments about human nature appear to have some similar conclusions, but they are in principle based upon different basic positions. Both ancient Chinese philosophers argue that human beings are capable of becoming good, and that they may all become sages. But while they agree on these basic points, they disagree on the status of human nature and the means by which human beings are able to become good. For Master Me`ng, one can achieve goodness by cultivating the inner and desirable sprouts of moral attunement already inherent within one’s natural endowment. This Master Xu´n denies in principle, because normal human beings are bad, and the vast majority are unable to realize the goodness that is required of moral life in and of themselves. Though he admits that a sage may do so by the conscious effort of creative thinking and accumulation of experiences from those meditative exercises, the vast majority of human beings cannot do so and therefore require the external guidance of a good teacher or a determined ruler. Precisely in this sense, therefore, these two ancient Chinese philosophers develop overall positions about human nature that carry significantly different implications for personal cultivation and educational development. Though both men argued that education was important for society, these educational institutions were necessary for personal cultivation in Master Xu´n’s scheme, while they are helpful but not necessary in Master Me`ng’s account. Also, Master Xu´n clearly admits that there are human beings who are not only morally questionable but are willfully rebellious, and so his description of the possible negative qualities which human character can develop varies widely from the more limited account of “losing one’s sprouts” as described by Master Me`ng. For this reason, Master Xu´n anticipates the need for rulers to apply laws and punishments to the resistant and most rebellious characters, while Master Me`ng in principle avoids this political implication, believing it would counter his understanding of the nature of benevolent government. On this basis, then, even though they share a hope for the moral amelioration of human beings, the social implications of the arguments of these two ancient Chinese philosophers are significantly different and lead to distinct kinds of institutional development. From the view of the nature of the arguments both Chinese philosophers employ, it has been asserted that Master Me`ng’s style of argumentation lacks thoroughness and clarity. This occurs because his use of stories and analogies are not always consonant with his subsequent claims, even to the point that some deductions are unwarranted. He leaves a reader guessing what he might actually mean in concrete details, and offers very few helpful definitions of the key terms in his arguments. Contrary to these tendencies, Master Xu´n offers a remarkably

30

Lauren F. Pfister

well thought out series of definitions and logical deductions from his basic premise that “human nature is bad”. His engagement of Master Me`ng’s arguments shows that he was aware of the weaknesses in his predecessor’s account of human nature, and that he himself realized that an alternative position must take up a more consistent and alternative way of accounting for the diversities of human character by describing how their shared natures can be developed in conscious ways which differ in the degree of knowledge and valor that they apply to their nature. Rhetorically speaking, Master Xu´n cleverly inserts his own definitions of key terms into Master Me`ng’s arguments. In this way, while he is not being “fair” to his predecessor in trying to explain what he probably meant by those statements, Master Xu´n nevertheless indicates how Master Me`ng’s arguments are inherently contradictory. Intriguingly, both men considered “knowledge” or “wisdom” to be a basic quality of human nature, but it is Master Xu´n’s advantage that he employed it to resolve his own logical problem related to the nature of the sage, and so his general argument appears to be more consistently articulated and carefully considered.

Appendix Relevant Passages from the Mencius (Master Me`ng 孟子) (translated by D. C. Lau) 2A: 613 “My reason for saying that no man is devoid of a heart sensitive to the suffering of others is this. Suppose a man were, all of a sudden, to see a young child on the verge of falling into a well. He would certainly be moved to compassion, not because he wanted to get in the good graces of the parents, nor because he wished to win the praise of his fellow villagers or friends, nor yet because he disliked the cry of the child. From this it can be seen that whoever is devoid of the heart of compassion is not human, whoever is devoid of the heart of shame is not human, whoever is devoid of the heart of courtesy and modesty is not human, and whoever is devoid of the heart of right and wrong is not human. The heart of compassion is the germ of benevolence; the heart of shame, of dutifulness; the heart of courtesy and modesty, of observance of the rites; the heart of right and wrong, of wisdom. Man has these four germs just as he has four limbs. For a man possessing these four germs to deny his own potentialities is for him to cripple himself; for him to deny the potentialities of his prince is for him to cripple his prince. If a man is able to develop all these four germs that he possesses, it will be 13 Lau, D. C. (trans.) 1970: 82 – 83.

Classical Debates about the Moral Character of Human Nature in Ancient China

31

like a fire starting up or a spring coming through. When these are fully developed, he can take under his protection the whole realm within the Four Seas, but if he fails to develop them, he will not be able even to serve his parents.”

6A: 614 “Kao Tzu [Master Ga`o] said, ‘There is neither good nor bad in human nature,’ but others say, ‘Human nature can become good or it can become bad, . . . ’ Then there are others who say, ‘There are those who are good by nature, and there are those who are bad by nature. . . . ’ Now you say human nature is good. Does this mean that all the others are mistaken?” “As far as what is genuinely in him is concerned, a man is capable of becoming good,” say Mencius [Master Me`ng]. “This is what I mean by good. As for his becoming bad, that is not the fault of his native endowment. The heart of compassion is possessed by all men alike; likewise the heart of shame, the heart of respect, and the heart of right and wrong. The heart of compassion pertains to benevolence, the heart of shame to dutifulness, the heart of respect to the observance of the rites, and the heart of right and wrong to wisdom. Benevolence, dutifulness, observance of the rites, and wisdom are not welded on to me from the outside; they are in me originally. Only this has never dawned on me. This is why it is said, ‘Seek and you will find it; let go and you will lose it.’”

Bibliography Knoblock, J. 1994. Xunzi: A Translation and Study of the Complete Works, Stanford. Lau, D. C. (trans.) 1970. Mencius, London.

14 From D. C. Lau, trans., Mencius, London 1970: 162 – 163.

John Bussanich

Ethics in Ancient India

Ancient India is rich with reflection on perennial ethical questions: “How ought I to live?” “What kind of person should I be?” “What are the sources of good conduct?” “What is the purpose of human existence?” However, access to Indian ethical thought for western philosophers is complicated by the fact that much of it does not fit within familiar disciplinary and cognitive categories. In ancient India philosophy was not conceived as a discipline separate from religion or other arts and sciences, nor were rational argument considered to be at odds with tradition, faith, or imagination. With their biases against tradition and extra-rational sources of authority, contemporary western philosophers have often dismissed Indian ethical ideas because of their connections with the soteriological commitments of various religious communities. At the same time, progress has been made in the critical analysis of Indian metaphysics, epistemology, and philosophy of language. Yet beyond the particular interests of contemporary analytic philosophers it is also to be noted that the principles and doctrines of Indian ethical thought display striking affinities to those found in pre-modern western philosophy. Ancient and medieval philosophers also vested authority in tradition, including scriptures in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic philosophy. Greek ethical thought, with its emphasis on community values, virtue-ethics, and philosophy as a way of life, offers many parallels to classical Hindu thought. Of course, cross-cultural comparisons present unique challenges to philosophers, with their penchant for abstraction and analytical precision. Moreover, as Alasdair MacIntyre has pointed out, each tradition “has its own standards and measures of interpretation, explanation, and justification internal to itself” and there are “no shared standards and measures, external to both systems and neutral between them to which appeal might be made to adjudicate between [them].”1 Contemporary western philosophers in particular should be wary of applying a post-Enlightenment, secularized notion of rationality and of the autonomous individual to understanding ethical thought in 1 MacIntyre 1991: 109.

34

John Bussanich

ancient India. This essay is written in the conviction that debate and dialogue between Indian and western ethical philosophies is possible and can be fruitful even if, ultimately, they are incommensurable. Hindus, Buddhists, and Jainas were engaged in ethical reflection beginning from the late Vedic period (ca. 8th c. BCE). The present essay focuses on Hindu philosophy through the classical period, i. e., up to the Muslim conquest at the end of the first millenium CE. Hindu philosophers accepted the authoritative testimony (s´abda) of the Veda (scriptures and other traditionas) as a valid means of knowledge (prama¯na) in the areas of ritual praxis, religious wisdom, cos˙ mology, and social ethics, whereas Buddhists and Jainas rejected the Veda’s authority. While detailed discussion of Buddhist and Jaina thought is not possible here, it should be noted that debate (and mutual influence) among thinkers in the three traditions was continuous throughout the classical period. The six systems or schools (dars´anas) of Hindu philosophy are conventionally arranged into three pairs Nya¯ya-Vais´esika, Sa¯mkhya-Yoga, and Pu¯rva Mı¯ma¯msa¯-Uttara ˙ ˙ ˙ Mı¯ma¯msa¯ (i. e. Veda¯nta). Each school’s philosophers wrote commentaries on ˙ foundational su¯tra texts – or sub-commentaries on commentaries – which critically explored standard topics and problems: Nya¯ya / logic and epistemology ; Vais´esika / realist physical ontology ; Sa¯mkhya / dualistic cosmology & ˙ ˙ metaphysics; Yoga / spiritual practice; Pu¯rva Mı¯ma¯msa¯ / Vedic exegesis; and ˙ Veda¯nta / mystical teachings of the Upanisads. ˙

§ 1. Roots of ethical thought in the Veda: Sacrifice, Order and Dharma The sources of Indian thought and religious practice were roughly divided into two categories: (1) ´sruti (“heard”), the Vedic texts revealed to ancient seers (rsi); ˙ and (2) smrti (“remembered”), later su¯tra and ´sastra texts compiled by sages and ˙ wise men (Dharma books, Epics, and Pura¯nas). Originally considered secondary ˙ revelations, smrti texts appropriated authority in a variety of ways through the ˙ centuries into the first millenium CE, which significantly impacted the development of ethical thought. The early Veda, a remarkably complex web of scriptures written down by four schools (Rg, Sa¯ma, Yajur, and Atharva), was the ˙ authoritative source of Vedic theology, ritual, and magic. Each school progressively compiled texts with distinct concerns: verse Samhita¯ (collections of ˙ mantras and liturgical formulas for sacrifical use, roughly dating from ca. 1500 – 900 BCE) and the subsequent commentaries on them, viz. the Bra¯hmanas, ˙ ¯ ranyakas, and Upanisads (ca. 800 – 200 BCE). These three, mostly prose, A ˙ ˙ compilations contain increasingly elaborate speculations on the meaning of

Ethics in Ancient India

35

ritual actions and their hidden connections with parts of the cosmos, of divinities, and of persons. Vedic religionists, drawing on the magical efficacy of primordial word and sound, praised and supplicated the gods in the pursuit of prosperity and, ultimately, of heaven.2 At the center of a life-affirming ethos was the Vedic fire sacrifice: fire – both element & god (Agni) – connected the domain of sacrifice to the divine and cosmic realms. Another divine-human exchange was conducted in the potent juice from the soma plant (perhaps ephedra or a magic mushroom). Soma, a priestly god, was also the drink in the bowl that inspired the seer, producing visions which transmitted the wisdom of the Vedic hymns. The regular performance of these and other sacrifical actions (karma) ensured that all members of the community received tangible benefits in the form of food, sons, wealth, victory in war, etc. On a personal level, the human self was ritually constructed and its life-phases clearly demarcated through sacrifice and initiatory rites. Reciprocity between gods and humans depended on the correct performance of ordinances and rituals (dharma) in the sacrifice, which maintained order (rta) in the universe. Closely linked to truth (satya), rta symbolized the entire ˙ ˙ cosmic order – the laws of nature, the regulative principles of divine rule of the cosmos, and the moral principles governing human life – which humans supported through sacrifice and recitation of revealed mantras and hymns: “O guardians of order (rta), you whose ordinances are true (satya-dharman), you ˙ ascend your chariot in the highest heavens. . . . Wise Mitra and Varuna, by means ˙ of dharman and your divine power you guard the ordinances. You govern the entire world by means of rta. You placed the sun in the heaven as an effulgent ˙ chariot.”3 Correlations of nature and law are prominent in the late Rg Veda hymn 10.90, ˙ the Purusa-su¯kta (“Hymn to the Cosmic Man”), which recounts how the gods ˙ created parts of the universe and the substances employed in sacrificial ritual. In the primordial disintegration of the cosmic man (purusa), the three regions of ˙ his body corresponded to the three cosmic regions and individual parts of his body to the elements and, notably, with the four social classes (varna). From his ˙ mouth came the priests (bra¯hmans), from his arms kings and warriors (ra¯janya, ˙ ksatriya), from his thighs the common people, i. e. merchants, craftsmen, ˙ farmers (vais´yas), and from his feet servants (s´u¯dras). The hymn concludes: “with the sacrifice the gods sacrificed to the sacrifice: these were the first ritual laws (dharmas)” (RV 90.16). Epitomizing the vertical and horizontal corre˙ spondences between the cosmic totality and individual entities (gods, humans, 2 On Indian conceptions of heaven see F. M. Smith 1998a. 3 RV 5.63.1, 7, tr. Holdrege 2004: 216. ˙

36

John Bussanich

animals, and substances), the hymn concretely depicts the interdependence of metaphysical realities and moral principles and provides a mytho-poetic stimulus to philosophical reflection. The concept of dharma embraced both divine upholding of the cosmos and human support of its order through correct performance of Vedic ritual. The metaphysical and normative aspects of dharma comprise the inherent connections (bandhu) and distinctions among gods, humans, and nature. “All subsequent human dharma is perpetuation and renewal of the primeval upholding…of those primordial cosmic and social divisions and polarizations which are the very condition of ritual and ethics” (Halbfass 1988: 318). The principle of reciprocity was applied in the commentary literature ¯ ranyakas) to explicate the hidden meanings of the rituals and (Bra¯hmanas and A ˙ ˙ trace their resonances deep within the self. Key concepts like dharma, karma, and duty (vidhi) assumed more explicitly ethical meanings. In the early Upanisads, dharma began to be conceived as general moral and religious law: ˙ Brahman (the Absolute) created the Law (dharma), “a form superior to and surpassing itself. And the Law is there the ruling power standing above the ruling power. Hence there is nothing higher than the Law. Therefore, a weaker man makes demands of a stronger man by appealing to the Law, just as one does by appealing to a king. Now, the Law is nothing but the truth (satyam). Therefore, when a man speaks the truth, people say that he speaks the Law…They are really the same thing” (BU 1.4.14). Similarly, a teacher advises his pupil: “speak the truth. Follow the Law” (TU 1.11.11). This admonition to righteous Brahmins includes duties and obligations to gods, ancestors, the guru, and family ; producing offspring, preserving health and wealth, and cultivating common vir¯ ryan tues: “This is the secret teaching of the Veda.” As the linchpin of the A religious and socio-cultural system, dharma was the universal principle of goodness and justice as well as an umbrella concept covering customs and duties calibrated by class, country, and circumstance. This sacrificial discourse was promulgated by priests to legitimate the Brahmanical hierarchical social order. The widely accepted doctrine of karma also originated in the early Upanisads. ˙ Comprising a non-fatalistic nexus of causal relations between actions and results in the wheel of births and deaths (samsa¯ra), it suffused ethical theories of all ˙ Indian schools, including those of Buddhists and Jainas. The impact of the law of karma, with its stress on just deserts, on Indian ethical thought cannot be exaggerated. Max Weber considered it “the most consistent theodicy ever produced.”4

4 Matilal 2002: 39.

Ethics in Ancient India

37

§ 2. From Ritual to Socio-cultural practices In post-Vedic literature (roughly, after 500 BCE) the meanings of dharma and karma extended beyond correct performance of sacrifice (karma = ritual action) to embrace a wide range of ethical and social practices. The emergence of a comprehensive dharma-ethics was fueled by social and cultural changes too complex to discuss here, but they include urbanization and the rise of mercantilism and individualism, the appearance of Buddhism, and the spread of ascetic ideals and practices. In the present context three developments are noteworthy. First, the number and type of sources of dharma increased. Second, the Pu¯rva or Early Mı¯ma¯msa¯ school explicated Vedic dharma as the symbol of ˙ Brahmanical identity. Third, the Dharmasu¯tras and Dharmas´a¯stras wove an intricate fabric of social, political, and legal morality. Vedic legitimacy extended beyond revealed texts (s´ruti) to other traditional (smrti) texts, viz. the Dharma Su¯tras and Dharmas´a¯stras (dating, roughly, from ˙ the third-first c. BCE), Epics, and Pura¯nas. Two justifications were given for ˙ ascribing authority to these post-Vedic texts: (a) they were believed to contain material “remembered” from lost or forgotten Vedic texts; (b) those learned in the Veda themselves became living authorities. The second factor is particularly ¯ pastamba Dharmasu¯tra interesting. For A The Righteous (dharma) and the Unrighteous (adharma) do not go around saying, ‘Here we are!’ Nor do gods, Gandharvas, or ancestors declare, ‘This is righteous and ¯ ryas praise is righteous, and what they deplore is that is unrighteous.’ An activity that A unrighteous. He should model his conduct after that which is unanimously approved in ¯ ryas who have been properly trained, who are elderly and self-posall regions by A sessed, and who are neither greedy nor deceitful. In this way he will win both worlds. (A 1.20).

The same view was promoted in the most celebrated of the dharma books, the Manu Smrti or Ma¯nava Dharmas´a¯stra (compiled from the 2nd c. BCE to 3rd c. ˙ CE). “Learn the Law always adhered to by people who are erudite, virtuous, and free from love and hate, the Law assented to by the heart” (2.1). “The root of the Law (dharma) is the entire Veda; the tradition (smrti) and practice (s´¯ıla) of those ˙ who know the Veda, the conduct (a¯ca¯ra) of good people, and what is pleasing to oneself” (Manu 2.6). But in the Dharmas´a¯stras the conduct of the good was not an independent source of knowledge of dharma because the Veda remained the ultimate source of ethical principles. And, “what is pleasing to oneself” is not, despite appearances, an appeal to subjective inclination. The objectivity of Vedic principles remained unchallenged, while increasing prominence was given to state of mind and intention in moral evaluation, a trend encouraged, perhaps, by the silence of Vedic texts on many issues and because of the inward turn of

38

John Bussanich

renouncers. Manu cites the dharmic person’s assent to right action in terms which recall both Kant and Aristotle. “What a man seeks to know with all his heart and is not ashamed to perform, at which his inner being rejoices – that is the mark of Goodness (sattva-guna)” (12.37). Pleasure should not be construed ˙ here as sensual or aesthetic satisfaction, but rather as joy in fulfilling Vedic duties. Manu’s point recalls Kant’s claim that people feel self-contentment, which is distinct from their happiness, when they do their duty for its own sake not for their own satisfaction.5 Affinities with Greek virtue-ethics are also noteworthy. Manu’s dharmic Brahmin can be compared to Aristotle’s man of practical wisdom, who exercises moral authority because he feels the proper emotions and judges difficult situations correctly, when moral rules and maxims are unavailable. For Aristotle the right course of action “is determined by reason and in the way the man of practical wisdom would determine it” (NE 1107a1 – 2). He knows the good, chooses good actions for their own sakes, has an unshakeable character (1105a30 – 33), and takes pleasure in just actions (1099a10 – 20).6 That Aristotle, and Plato too, embed the individual’s pursuit of the good within the broader context of communitarian ethics also recommends comparing these traditions.7

§ 3. Justification of Dharma in Pu¯rva or Early Mı¯ma¯msa¯ ˙ The great Indologist Wilhelm Halbfass observed that although “the Hindu philosophical systems show a lack of critical reflection upon the specific contents of dharma; yet the concept of dharma has been taken up in a variety of ways in theoretical and philosophical discourse” (Halbfass1988: 324). While the six systems shared many views – the authority of the Veda, the Brahmanical scheme of values, liberation as the goal of human existence – they usually addressed distinct problems. Each school’s primary works were commentaries on foundational su¯tra texts, which possessed an almost revelatory status. Because su¯tra texts are notoriously terse and ambiguous, interpreting them generated considerable disagreement. The Pu¯rva Mı¯ma¯msa¯ school was preeminent in its de˙ fence of the Brahmanical system of dharma, partially in response to the wide dispersion of Buddhist teachings about dharma under the emperor As´oka in the third century BCE. Taking enlightened beings rather than scriptures as au5 Kant, The Metaphysics of Morals. 377 – 378. 6 The moral ideal of developing one’s ethos or character by cultivation of the virtues is also central to Buddhist ethics. See Harvey 2000: 50 – 51. 7 Mohanty’s comparison of Greek and Hindu dharma ethics argues, unconvincingly in my view, that neither grounds ethical theory in their respective metaphysics. Cf. Mohanty 1997: 295 – 296.

Ethics in Ancient India

39

thoritative, the non-orthodox Buddhists (and Jainas) rejected the validity of the Vedas, Brahmanical claims to authority, and the linkage of heredity and ethical goodness. The Pu¯rva Mı¯ma¯msa¯su¯tra attributed to Jaimini (c. 300 – 200 BCE) begins ˙ with the definition of dharma as “a beneficial end (artha) indicated by an injunction (codana¯).” For Mı¯ma¯msa¯ the Veda was eternal and authorless. Thus, its ˙ prescriptive statements were considered intrinsically true without verification and could be relied upon as authoritative guides to happiness and salvation. However, the two great 7th century CE Mı¯ma¯msa¯ philosophers differed on the ˙ character of an injunction. Kuma¯rila argued that Vedic injunctions served as means towards desired ends and so motivated agents in conjunction with desired results, while Prabha¯kara saw them as unconditional obligations, as ends in themselves; for him, hearing an imperative was sufficient motivation to act.8 The latter formulation resembles Kant’s categorial imperative, but the comparison shouldn’t be pressed too far. First, Vedic injunctions differ from Kantian imperatives in not being universally applicable: Vedic dharma applied only to ¯ ryans who lived in the Brahmanical homeland (roughly, north-central India) A ¯ ryan barand who were conversant with the Sanskrit text of the Vedas. Non-A barians were excluded. Moreover, even within Brahmanical society, duties and proper conduct varied considerably by class and birth. Second, neither Mı¯ma¯msa¯ nor the other systems sought theoretical, rational grounds independent of ˙ revealed truth for concepts of the good or principles of conduct. Kant’s notions of human dignity, moral freedom, and the “good will,” by contrast, are grounded in rational agency. Certainly, for most Hindu philosophers, reason (yukti) and argument (nya¯ya) could be employed to defend Vedic injunctions and traditional norms. The Vais´esika Su¯tra even claimed that Vedic injunctions were ˙ based on logical inference (anuma¯na). But, generally, without reliance on Vedic truth the power of logical reasoning was limited. Manu’s perspective is typical: “The Veda is the eternal eyesight for ancestors, gods, and humans; for Vedic teaching is beyond the powers of logic or cognition” (12.94). “Perception, inference, and treatises coming from diverse sources – a man who seeks accuracy with respect to the Law must have a complete understanding of these three. The man who scrutinizes the record of the seers and the teachings of the Law by means of logical reasoning (tarka) not inconsistent with the Vedic treatise – he alone knows the law” (12.105 – 106). A more universalist attitude to moral principles emerged in Buddhism and among Hindu renouncers, though the latter continued to accept the truth of the Veda. Compare Mı¯ma¯msa¯ and the Buddhists on the principle of ‘non-violence’ ˙ (ahimsa¯). For Kuma¯rila the truth of ahimsa¯ did not depend on rational justifi˙ ˙ 8 See further Taber, J. A. 1998.

40

John Bussanich

cation or social acceptance but solely on the authority of the Veda. Hence, Buddhist critiques of sacrificial violence towards animals sanctioned by the Vedas were refuted by Mı¯ma¯msa¯ thinkers, on the grounds that Buddhist reliance ˙ on reason and conscience blinded them to the axiomatic religious truths taught by the Veda. Kuma¯rila also criticized the Buddha’s compassion because it did not pertain to the class-duty (varna-dharma) of the princely class (ksatriya). In˙ ˙ terestingly, the tendency to universalize principles like non-violence to all regardless of caste and birth, so prominent in Buddhism, also appeared in popular Hindu literature like the Maha¯bha¯rata and Pan˜catantra.9

§ 4. Individual and Social Ethics The Dharmas´a¯stras, which embodied emerging cultural patterns, worked out the varna¯´srama-dharma, the new ethics of class (varna) and stages of life (a¯´s˙ ˙ rama). Echoing the Hymn to the Cosmic Man cited earlier, Manu endorsed the Veda’s divine-cosmic legitimation of the four classes (varna): “For the pro˙ tection of the whole creation, that One of dazzling brilliance assigned separate activities for those born from the mouth, arms, thighs, and feet” (1.87); “The four social classes, the three worlds, and the four orders of life, the past, the present and the future – all these are individually established by the Veda” (12.97). The classes, with their respective characteristics, duties, and virtues, were not contingent social constructions, but rather were rooted in the nature of things. Commencing at age five with the rite of initiation, “twice-born” males of the three highest classes entered the four stages of life: (a) the celibate life of the Vedic student (brahmaca¯rya); (b) the householder married life (grhastha), ˙ which included performance of sacrifices and household duties; (c) withdrawal from society to live as a forest-dweller (vanaprastha); and, finally, (d) the life of a complete renouncer (samnya¯sa). The fourth stage involved total renunciation of ˙ household, fire, and thus of sacrifice and cooking. The present context does not permit a detailed consideration of the origins and complexities of the a¯´srama system.10 Classical Hindu social ethics organized normatively the increasing variety of choices in life. The earliest texts conceived the latter three a¯´sramas as distinct ways of life, each one of which a twice-born ¯ pastamba male could enter after completion of the initial student-phase. A Dharmasu¯tra 2.21.1 – 5, for example, recognized that each of the alternatives could lead to “peace” (ksema). But by the beginning of the common era, the ˙ Dharmas´a¯stras (see Manu chs. 2 – 6) canonized the four as successive phases in 9 Cf. Halbfass 1988: 330. 10 See Olivelle 1993, the definitive work on the subject.

Ethics in Ancient India

41

an idealized sequence for the high-caste man. Yet, Manu valorized householders because they supported the others (Manu 3.77 – 78, 6.87 – 90). The householder’s life was the best for “anyone who desires undecaying heaven (svarga) and happiness (sukha) on earth” (3.78), a view shared by the influential Maha¯bha¯rata.11 In ancient Brahmanical society class-duties and life-stages did not answer all aspects of the question “how should I live?” Also significant was the cosmic law of karma, according to which each individual is propelled from one life to the next, determining both the objective circumstances of one’s life, i. e. birth and class, and the internal constituents of one’s own nature, a unique mixture of qualities and dispositional tendencies (samska¯ra) accumulated over countless ˙ incarnations. The early Upanisads state the principle clearly, echoed later by the ˙ Gı¯ta¯ : People say : “A person here consists simply of desire.” A man resolves in accordance with his desire, acts in accordance with his resolve, and turns out to be in accordance with his action: A man who’s attached goes with his action, to that very place to which his mind and character cling. Reaching the end of his action, of whatever he has done in this world – From that world he returns back to this world, back to action. (BU 4.4.5 – 6) As a man discards worn-out clothes to put on new and different ones, so the embodied self discards its worn-out bodies to take on other new ones. (BG 2.22)

Reliance on the invisible, causal law of karma and on the human and cosmic participation in dharma enabled Indian thinkers to connect non-moral facts and moral goods, the metaphysical and normative, shunning the fact-value distinction enshrined in western philosophy since Hume. But a pre-modern analogy can be found in Platonic ethics: “wise men claim that partnership and friendship, order, self-control, and justice hold together heaven and earth, and gods and men, and that is why they call this universe a world-order (kosmos)” (Gorgias 508a). Individual and social ethics depend on the Indian metaphysics of the self. According to Hindu cosmological doctrine the reincarnating self is composed of three qualities (literally “strands” = gunas) of nature or matter (prakrti): ˙ ˙ (1) pure being, light, or truth (sattva); (2) energy, activity, or passion (rajas); and (3) darkness or inertia (tamas). This tri-guna scheme had wide applications ˙ from medicine to metaphysics, e. g., the divine realm is purely sattvic whereas rajas permeates the human world.

11 Cf. Olivelle 1993: 148 – 51.

42

John Bussanich

One should understand Goodness (sattva), Vigor (rajas), and Darkness (tamas) as the three attributes of the embodied self (a¯tman), attributes by which Mahat, “the Great,” remains pervading all these existences completely. When one of these attributes thoroughly suffuses the body, it makes the embodied self dominant in that attribute. Goodness is knowledge, tradition tells us; Darkness is ignorance; and Vigor is passion and hatred. These are their pervasive forms that inhere in all beings. (Manu 12.24 – 26) In Manu’s scheme, the three qualities had links to the three basic values in ancient Indian society : wealth or worldly success (artha), sensual or aesthetic pleasure (ka¯ma), and righteousness (dharma). “Pleasure is said to be the mark of Darkness; Profit, of Vigor ; and Law, of Goodness” (12.38). The one-to-one correspondence among the three qualities and three goals was complicated by the addition of the fourth goal, moksa, discussed below. ˙ When combined with the three qualities, varna (literally ‘color’) symbolically ˙ represented the social classes: Brahmans – white for purity, Ksatriyas – red for ˙ passion and energy, Vais´yas – yellow, for earth, and S´u¯dras – black, for darkness and inertia. General dharma applied to all members of society in the form of universal virtues such as non-violence, truthfulness, abstention from anger, purification, self-control, not stealing, hospitality, gift-giving, and freedom from envy (Manu 10.63). Distinctive virtues, occupations, rituals, and obligations were specified for each class and caste (ja¯ti, literally ‘birth’) and even for different regions, clans, guilds, and one’s historical age. These latter stipulations fall under the rubric of particular dharma (svadharma), which is relative to the psychological mixture produced by one’s class and one’s nature. The entire scheme is summarized in the Gı¯ta¯ : There is no being on earth or among the gods in heaven free from the triad of qualities that are born of nature. The actions of priests, warriors, commoners and servants are apportioned by qualities born of their intrinsic being. Tranquillity, control, penance, purity, patience, and honesty, knowledge, judgment, and piety are intrinsic to the action of a priest (Brahmin). Heroism, fiery energy resolve, skill, refusal to retreat in battle, charity, and majesty in conduct are intrinsic to the action of a warrior (ksatriya). ˙ Farming, herding cattle, and commerce are intrinsic to the action of a commoner (vais´ya): action that is essentially service is intrinsic to the servant (s´u¯dra). Each one achieves success by focusing on his own action (svakarma); hear how one finds success by focusing on his own action. By his own action a man finds success, worshiping the source of all creatures’ activity, the presence pervading all that is. Better to do one’s own duty (svadharma) imperfectly than to do another man’s well; doing action intrinsic to his being (svabhava) a man avoids guilt. (BG 18.40 – 48)

Ethics in Ancient India

43

One notices immediately in this famous passage that distinctive virtues and proper behavior are ascribed only to the two highest classes (priests and warriors), whereas the two lower classes are characterized exclusively by their social activities. The ethical pyramid had rather steep sides, even more so for women and ´su¯dras. They also were subject to svadharma, but since the stages of life strictly applied only to twice-born males, women and ´su¯dras occupied the periphery of the classical varna¯´srama-dharma system: neither could study the ˙ Vedas, offer sacrifices, nor become renouncers, though of course they could marry. The Dharmas´a¯stras were quite explicit about criminal penalties for vi¯ rya woman, his penis should be cut off and olations: “If a s´udra has sex with an A all his property confiscated… [I]f he listens in on a Vedic recitation, his ears shall be filled with molten tin” (G 12.2, 4). Women’s svadharma required deference to and service of males, e. g., procreation in marriage and assisting husbands in meeting family obligations. When a wife fulfilled her dharma by serving her husband as a god (Manu 9.31 – 55), she was deemed an embodiment of S´ri, the goddess of prosperity, and thus was to be venerated in turn as the source of good fortune for the family. For high-caste women the paragon of female virtue was Sı¯ta¯, the loyal, modest, and devoted wife of Lord Ra¯ma.12 Lest it be thought that classical Indian social ethics was an exotic Oriental growth without western parallels, recall Plato’s account of justice in Republic IV. Having divided the state’s citizenry into three classes – guardians/philosophers, auxiliaries/warriors, and producers (slaves don’t comprise a distinct class) – Socrates argues that the top two classes should have distinct virtues and that the lowest has none – just as the Gı¯ta¯ does. Similarly, Plato’s concept of justice links hereditary endowment with moral excellence to promote virtue and happiness in the whole society : “everyone must practice one of the occupations in the city for which it is naturally best suited” (433a5 – 6); “the city is just because each of the three classes in it is doing its own work” (441d8 – 10). Note also the Platonic counterpart to Hindu svadharma. Manu: “Far better to carry out one’s own Law (svadharma) imperfectly than that of someone else’s perfectly, for a man who lives according to someone else’s Law falls immediately from his caste” (10.97). Plato: “each one of us in whom each part [of the soul] is doing its own work will 12 Stephanie Jamison summarizes a complex situation: woman “plays a crucial role in knitting together her community. By producing sons, she insures the linkage of generations and the continued veneration of the ancestors. By dispensing food and hospitality, she forges harmonious links between different segments of secular Aryan society. By her role in the srauta ritual (and by making such ritual possible), she links gods and men and allows the religious life of the community to proceed.” But, she continues, “this is a very rosy picture of the life of an ancient Indian wife,” which “puts a deceptively positive spin on the conceptual position of the wife.” “[A]ll the linkages just mentioned are perilous and anxiety producing. Allotting the woman important roles there essentially make her into cannon fodder” (Jamison 1996: 254).

44

John Bussanich

himself be just and do his own” (441d12-e2). The Republic also echoes Manu’s strictures against mixing classes: “meddling and exchange between the three classes is the greatest harm that can happen to the city” (434b9-c1). The parallels are compelling despite the fact that Plato’s theory of justice reflected contemporary social realities less than did Hindu class-dharma.

§ 5. Well-being and the goals of life Living a dharmic life was not simply a matter of fulfilling Vedic duties and obligations. Both philosophical and non-theoretical texts also analyzed the role played in a happy or successful life by intrinsic and instrumental goods, which motivated by attraction. Traditionally, the four values or ends of human life (purusa¯rthas) were: wealth or worldly success (artha), sensual and aesthetic ˙ pleasure (ka¯ma), righteousness (dharma), and liberation (moksa). Apart from ˙ liberation, the first three goals circumscribed an embodied person’s active engagement (pravrtti) in everyday life.13 ˙ The conception of happiness (sukha) as artha and ka¯ma is generally descriptive, things as they are, but since one was expected to pursue them rightly, that is, in accordance with varna¯´srama-dharma and one’s svadharma, the ˙ scheme is also prescriptive, things as they should be. Manu is inclusivist: “Some say that Law (dharma) and Wealth (artha) are conducive to welfare (s´reyas), others Pleasure and Wealth; and still others, Law alone or Wealth alone. But the settled rule is this: the entire triple set is conducive to welfare” (2.224). Pragmatically, dharma, both as excellence in ritual performance and as correct behavior, probably functioned for many primarily as the means to obtain pleasure and prosperity. And while each of the three arthas is intrinsically good, Manu and other authorities also saw them as instrumental for the attainment of the chief good, viz. heaven or “equality with the gods” (12.90). As cited earlier : “Pleasure is said to be the mark of Darkness; Profit, of Vigour; and Law, of Goodness. Each later one is superior to each preceding” (12.38). Ideally, Law and Goodness were best exemplified by Brahmins, whose Vedic knowledge, priestly virtues, and exemplary conduct “are the highest means of securing the supreme good.” (12.83). Lending further support to the analogies drawn earlier between Hindu and Greek ethics, I suggest that the virtuous Brahmin is not unlike the 13 Deviating from the consensus, the threefold scheme was rejected by the Ca¯rva¯ka philosophers, atheistic materialists, who repudiated dharma and championed artha and ka¯ma, thus promoting a form of sophisticated hedonism not unlike Epicureanism, with the notable difference that Epicureans defined the highest pleasure as simply the absence of pain, which is superior to the episodic ‘kinetic’ pleasures championed by the Ca¯rva¯kas.

Ethics in Ancient India

45

Platonic-Aristotelian philosopher, allowing for the fact that the latter is not a sacerdotal type. With respect to the teleological dimension of Hindu ethics, Nya¯ya-Vais´esika ˙ philosophers analyzed the concepts of desire, pleasure, and happiness more precisely than Manu. Pras´astapa¯da (c. 550 CE) employed the general term for pleasure, sukha, to designate both ordinary sensual gratification and the “happiness of the wise.” Here sukha was “a dispositional happiness based on the inner resources of a person. Its condition is not the gratification of desires, but their transformation and transcendence.”14 Another Nya¯ya thinker, Uddyotkara (6th c. CE), argued that the four goals were not independent motivational ends, but rather were reducible to the pursuit of happiness and avoidance of pain.15 Thus dharma, an intrinsic good, was also the means to generate good karma and heavenly reward. The three types of good – artha, ka¯ma, and dharma – and the general concept of happiness depend on the prudential principle that everyone desires the good. Aristotle’s eudaimonism presents an analogous teleological ordering of the goods of pleasure/wealth, honor, and rational virtue directed to the final end, i. e. the highest good (cf. Nicomachean Ethics I.4 – 7). Like Aristotle, Manu and many philosophers thought dharma and cultivation of the virtues to be constitutive of well-being. It would be a mistake to conclude, however, that Hindu eudaimonism was egoist, that is to say, that all reasons for action were to maximize the agent’s own good. As we have seen, altruistic values were deeply embedded in the social fabric and in the individual’s conscience (if the term is not anachronistic) through class-duties: care for others (e. g., the virtue of compassion), active promotion of the well-being of others, as well as respect for gods, gurus, and other superiors. Thus, the scope of agency in Hindu ethics lacks the individualist framework of modern western philosophical morality, whether it be Kant’s deontology, Mill’s consequentialism, or Nietzsche’s romantic perfectionism, to name a few well-known alternatives.

§ 6. Dharma and Moksa ˙ While dharma literature regulated samsa¯ric, embodied existence by stipulating ˙ imperatives, goals, and virtues, renouncer traditions focused intensely on the fourth goal of liberation from the wheel of births and deaths, i. e. from all suffering and all worldly goods as well as from afterlife rewards and punishments. Though conceived differently by Hindus, Buddhists, and Jainas, moksa or ˙ 14 Halbfass 1997: 152. 15 Nya¯yava¯rtikka 1.1.1, cited in Halbfass 1997: 158 – 59.

46

John Bussanich

mukti represented an extreme perfectionist ideal incapable of attainment by the practice of dharma ethics. Since a superhuman effort was required to completely deconstruct one’s nature, renouncers invariably pursued the virtues of celibacy, nonviolence, poverty, truthfulness, and nonstealing as means towards the ultimate end. The attenuation of self-interest and the pursuit of altruism are familiar in western moral theories, but the complete annihilation of the individual self and its total absorption by a personal divinity or in an impersonal absolute as ends in themselves are found only in a few western mystics, e. g. Meister Eckhart. In India, conceptions of moksa and its relationship to dharma differed in im˙ portant respects. I shall consider Manu’s Dharmas´a¯stra, the renunciant traditions, exemplified by Sa¯mkhya-Yoga and Veda¯nta, and the Bhagavad Gı¯ta, which ˙ synthesized several competing ideals. Manu acknowledged the renunciant’s way of life and liberation as the fourth goal of human life, but marginalized its importance: it counseled that one should pursue moksa “only after he has studied the Vedas according to rule, fathered ˙ sons in keeping with the Law, and offered sacrifices according to his ability,” otherwise “he will proceed downward” (6.36 – 37). Householders’ engagement (pravrtti) with sacrificial duties and the pursuit of prosperity was contrasted ˙ with the detachment (nivrtti) of renunciants (samnya¯sins) who pursued lib˙ ˙ eration: “Acts prescribed by the Veda are of two kinds: advancing (pravrtta), which procures ˙ the enhancement of happiness (sukha); and arresting (nivrtta), which procures the ˙ supreme good. An action performed to obtain a desire or in the hereafter is called an ‘advancing act’, whereas an action performed without desire and prompted by knowledge is said to be an ‘arresting act’. By engaging in advancing acts, a man attains equality with the gods, by engaging in arresting acts, on the other hand, he transcends the five elements” (12.88 – 90).

Manu accommodated within dharma ethics the quest to transcend it by limiting yogic practice to the last phase of life. Still, it acknowledged that through suppression of the senses, practice of austerity and meditation (dhya¯na-yoga) (6.79), “freed from all the pairs of opposites, he comes to rest in Brahman alone” (6.81). “For a Brahmin, ascetic toil and knowledge are the highest means of securing the supreme good; by ascetic toil he destroys impurity and by knowledge he attains immortality” (12.104); “When a man thus sees by the self all beings as the self, he becomes equal towards all and reaches Brahman, the highest state” (12.125). Even in Manu, not an explicitly Veda¯ntic text, the monistic metaphysics of the self shapes the conception of the highest good. The Upanisads and post-Vedic ascetic movements generally promoted re˙ nunciation of the householder’s life, external values, and the life-affirming ethics

Ethics in Ancient India

47

which ordered them. Aspiring to moksa as quickly as possible, rather than only ˙ in the final stage of life, renunciants sought to realize the absolute: “‘Ours is this self, and it is our world. What then is the use of offspring for us?’ So they gave up the desire for sons, the desire for wealth, and the desire for worlds, and undertook the mendicant life.”… From this perspective, moksa is the state of being in ˙ which the individual realizes identity of the self (a¯tman) with the absolute reality (Brahman), having transcended the illusions of duality, e. g. birth and death, ordinary goals, and egotism. This immense, unborn self…there, in that space within the heart, he lies – the controller of all, the lord of all, the ruler of all! He does not become more by good actions or in any way less by bad actions. (BU 4.4.22)

Other Hindu philosophical schools disagreed with Veda¯nta on the metaphysics of the self and thus conceived of liberation in different terms. Committed to a plurality of selves, Sa¯mkhya-Yoga, for example, defined liberation as “isolation” ˙ (kaivalya) of the individual self or pure consciousness (purusa) from the suf˙ fering (duhkha) caused by association with matter or nature (prakrti), which ˙ ˙ includes the mind, faculties, the three qualities (guna), and all their trans˙ formations. Liberation was conceived in negative terms by Sa¯mkhya-Yoga, ˙ Mı¯ma¯msa, and Nya¯ya. The individual self must be freed from both pain and ˙ pleasure, because pain (duhkha) and pleasure (sukha) are inextricably linked: ˙ both are transient and produce anxiety. Buddhists too located the roots of suffering in desire and impermanence. Some western interpreters have attacked this ideal of liberation of the individual self as a form of extreme egoism.16 In the classical Advaita-Veda¯nta of S´amkara (8th c. CE), absolute reality ˙ (brahman) was non-dual, without attributes, infinite, unmanifest, inactive, and conceived as being, consciousness, and bliss. The realization of one’s essential nature as the absolute could only be achieved through knowledge (jn˜ana) and by abandoning all action. Besides moksa all other values (artha, ka¯ma, and dhar˙ ma) were the product of ignorance (avidya¯). However, S´amkara agreed with the ˙ Pu¯rva Mı¯ma¯msa¯ school in accepting the validity of Vedic injunctions and duties: ˙ “knowledge of virtue and vice is derived from the scriptures…Vedic rites are pure since they are practiced by good people” (BSBh iii.1.25). Indeed, far from rejecting the varna¯´srama-dharma, Vedantins, as Halbfass has pointed out, ˙ considered it “the precondition for the possibility of liberating oneself from it. Only a person who is entitled to study the Vedas and to carry out the Vedic sacrifices can be entitled to liberate himself from these. The samnya¯sin [re˙ nouncer] continues to draw his legitimation from that very dharma from which 17 he is liberating himself.” Advaita-Veda¯nta’s twofold concept of the truth, which distinguished the absolute (parama¯rtha) and the conventional (vyavaha¯ra), 16 A notable example is Danto 1972. 17 Halbfass 1991: 384.

48

John Bussanich

enabled the school to ascribe legitimacy to dharma with respect to the goals and activities of samsa¯ric existence. Viewed from the absolute perspective of the true ˙ Self, “rites and duties enjoined by the Vedas are meant only for one who is unenlightened and is possessed of desire”; “The Lord Himself…saw that the coexistence of knowledge and rites and duties (karma) is not possible in the same person, they being based on the convictions of nonagentship and agentship, unity and diversity (respectively).”18 Strikingly, S´amkara asserts that “even ˙ dharma is injurious or harmful to a seeker of liberation as it causes bondage.”19 “Action does not constitute the means to the highest good. Nor do knowledge and action in combination. Further, knowledge, which has liberation as its result, can have no dependence on the assistance of action, because, being the remover of ignorance, it is opposed to action.”20 From the absolute perspective, therefore, responding to Vedic injunctions and pursuing goals are functions of ignorance (avidya¯), which superimposes duality, ego, and agency on the real self which is itself devoid of all qualities and activities. Nevertheless, a limited preparatory role can be ascribed to the performance of Vedic rites and duties since they can create “the tendency to turn towards the in-dwelling Self. Although the means be unreal, still it may be meaningful in relation to the truth of the purpose it serves.”21 S´amkara’s paradoxical formulation did not go unchallenged by later Ve˙ da¯ntins, many of whom conceived dharma and moksa in more complementary ˙ terms. Ra¯ma¯nuja (11th c. CE) claimed that brahman with attributes as personal God and supreme Person was superior to S´amkara’s notion of brahman without ˙ attributes. Having also rejected his predecessor’s view that the world and individual selves are illusions, he argued that dharma can lead to moksa. Since ˙ God’s nature is morally perfect and liberation is the realization of the self as a part of the absolute (but not identical, as S´amkara held), those seeking moksa ˙ ˙ should act in accord with dharma in order to attain the final goal. Nevertheless, he agreed with S´amkara that action is not the cause of moksa. But righteous ˙ ˙ action is effective “for works enjoined by Scripture have the power of pleasing the Supreme Person, and hence, through his grace, to cause the destruction of all mental impressions obstructive of calmness and concentration of mind. Hence calmness of mind and the rest are to be aimed at and practised by householders also.”22 In his commentary on the Gı¯ta¯ Ra¯ma¯nuja asserted that karma-yoga is superior to jn˜a¯na-yoga because it is easier.23 Meditation (dhya¯na) also con18 19 20 21 22 23

S´amkara on BG 2.11, tr. p. 39. ˙ kara on BG 4.21, tr. p. 143. S´am ˙ kara on the BG 18.66, tr. p. 743. ´Sam ˙ kara on the BG 18.66, tr. p. 759. ´Sam ˙ ¯ sya 3.4.27, tr. p. 701. S´rı¯bha ˙ Ra¯ma¯nuja, Commentary on BG 18.48, p. 582.

Ethics in Ancient India

49

tributes to the quest for freedom by eliciting divine favor: “Meditation is originated in the mind through the grace of the Supreme Person, who is pleased and conciliated by the different kinds of acts of sacrifice and worship duly performed by the devotee…so knowledge, although itself the means of release, demands the cooperation of the different works.”24 Ra¯ma¯nuja’s position, therefore, lies between S´amkara and the Gı¯ta¯, whose devotional orientation ˙ influenced him greatly. The state of liberation itself was described in very different terms among Hindu thinkers. Contrary to Sa¯mkhya-Yoga, Mı¯ma¯msa, and Nya¯ya philosophers’ ˙ ˙ negative conception of liberation as freedom from pain and suffering, Veda¯ntins espoused the Upanisadic doctrine that the true self (a¯tman) consists of pure bliss ˙ (BU 3.9.28, cf. BG 6.27). Nya¯ya philosophers raised pragmatic and theoretical objections against the Veda¯ntic view. First, if liberation were just a more intense form of happiness, the extirpation of desire, a necessary precondition for liberation on their view, would be impossible. The Naiya¯yika Va¯tsya¯yana stressed the psychological challenge involved in conceiving liberation as an attractive goal like pleasure: “Unless we abandon our attachment to eternal happiness, final liberation cannot be attained, because attachment itself is known to be bondage.”25 Likewise, Udayana raised concerns that the desire for liberation qua happiness would inevitably attach to more worldly objects of satisfaction.26 Only if moksa were completely devoid of both pleasure and pain could one be assured ˙ of achieving purity and non-attachment. Second, on logical grounds, Va¯tsya¯yana argued that if the bliss of liberation had a beginning it must also have an end. Udayana, echoing Meno’s paradox, also raised ethical objections to the Veda¯ntic identification of brahman and a¯tman : “Since it is said to be eternal it cannot be sought. One does not search for what one already possesses.”27 Later Veda¯ntins responded sarcastically that the Nya¯ya’s notion of liberation was like the unconsciousness of a stone. How, they asked, could such a negative state of liberation motivate anyone soteriologically? Which is the more attractive goal: absence of pain or complete bliss? It is an old question, and one debated also in western thought. Among Greek philosophers the choice would be between Epicurus and Plotinus. In some respects the Veda¯ntic position is more appealing, but it is not without difficulties, for it depends simultaneously on rejecting our goal-oriented psychology while also insisting that liberation be pursued ceaselessly without hope of results. For Veda¯nta everything depends on the conviction that all desires of the embodied self – excepting the desire for moksa – are ˙ 24 25 26 27

S´rı¯bha¯sya 3.4.26, tr. pp. 699 – 700, cited in Perrett 1993: 58. ˙ ¯ sya 1.1.22 quoted in Halbfass 1997: 155. Nya¯yabha Nya¯yadars´˙ana p. 459 cited and discussed in Chakrabarti 1983: 170 – 72. ¯ tmatattvaviveka p. 442, cited in Chakrabarti 1983: 175. A

50

John Bussanich

delusional and that only by the removal of ignorance and duality can the underlying nature of the true self be revealed. It is also to be noted why the yogic isolation (kaivalya) and dispassion (Vaira¯gya) idealized in the so-called negative conception of liberation is attractive: “Vaira¯gya is a very special feeling or cognitive emotive state which is absolutely central to the Indian religious/spiritual attitude towards life…It is the quiet and profound recognition of the valuelessness or emptiness of the transient goods of this finite physical world…It does not consist in any hatred towards this world, or any yearning for a heavenly or beatific hereafter. It is a state beyond hatred and yearning, a state of ‘colourlessness’ – loss of concern – for everything transitory.”28 Again, Greek ethics offers an analogy in the Stoic conception of the highest good as passionlessness (apatheia). Perhaps the most influential attempt to reconcile dharma and moksa, at least ˙ in classical Indian theological texts, was the Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯, which is an episode in the massive epic poem Maha¯bha¯rata. Indebted to both the Dharmas´astras and renunciant traditions, the Gı¯ta¯ proposed a multi-faceted solution to a horrible moral dilemma. The great warrior Arjuna flinches at the prospect of killing his own relatives in battle, which he claims would violate family-dharma (BG 1.31 – 45). In his response, which comprises the rest of the Gı¯ta¯, Krsna, the Lord of ˙˙ ˙ creation, teaches Arjuna that he can fulfill his warrior’s svadharma and also win moksa if he practices internal renunciation and detachment from praise and ˙ blame, honor and disgrace (6.7, 12.18 – 19): “a man cannot escape the force of action by abstaining from actions; he does not attain success just by renunciation” (3.4). The only solution, Krsna advises, is to achieve yogic detachment ˙˙˙ from normal human emotions through identification with the eternal true self: You grieve for those beyond grief, and you speak words of insight; but learned men do not grieve for the dead or the living. Never have I not existed nor you, nor these kings; and never in the future shall we cease to exist. (2.11 – 12) He who thinks this self a killer and he who thinks it killed, both fail to understand; it does not kill, nor is it killed. It is not born, it does not die; having been, it will never not be; unborn, enduring, constant, and primordial, it is not killed when the body is killed. (2.19 – 20) Beginningless, without qualities, the supreme self is unchanging; even abiding in a body, Arjuna, it does not act, nor is it defiled. (13.31)

28 Chakrabarti 1988: 333.

Ethics in Ancient India

51

Following the Veda¯nta, the Gı¯ta¯ distinguishes the true self (a¯tman), which as pure consciousness never acts, from the active, embodied self (BG 15.16 – 17). If Arjuna can realize his identity with the supreme self, which is Krsna himself, he ˙˙ ˙ can act without attachment. What does the killing, then, is the embodied self, which is composed of nature (prakrti) and its transformations. ˙ He remains disinterested, unmoved by qualities of nature; he never wavers, knowing that only qualities are in motion. Self-reliant, impartial to suffering and joy… the resolute man is the same to foe and friend, to blame and praise. The same in honour and disgrace, to ally and enemy, a man who abandons involvements transcends the qualities of nature. (14. 23 – 25)

This state of being praised by Krsna would strike philosophical moralists like ˙˙ ˙ Kant or Mill as schizophrenic or morally incoherent. It may be so. But the Gı¯ta¯ and Veda¯nta respond that the liberated agent has achieved a unity of self far beyond that assumed by Enlightenment individualism. The Gı¯ta¯’s insistence on doing one’s duty without considering results certainly has Kantian overtones, but the similarity is limited. Kantian morality appeals to the autonomous rational self of the moral agent, whereas the devotee of Krsna abandons in˙˙ ˙ dividuality and rationality through devotion. A man who sees inaction in action and action in inaction has understanding among men, disciplined in all actions he performs. The wise say a man is learned when his plans lack constructs of desire, when his actions are burned by the fire of knowledge. Abandoning attachment to fruits of action, always content, independent, he does nothing at all, even when he engages in action. …and performs actions with his body only. …impartial to failure and success, he is not bound even when he acts. (4.18 – 22)

Krsna, combining knowledge and action, a possibility rejected by S´amkara, ˙˙ ˙ ˙ identifies a path to liberation open to all seekers which leads through Himself. When one gives up the delusion that “I am the doer” (3.5), the devotee can see the true Self in the supreme Person of Krsna: ˙˙˙ Whatever you do – what you take, what you offer, what you give, what penances you perform – do as an offering to me, Arjuna! You will be freed from the bonds of action, from the fruit of fortune and misfortune; armed with the discipline of renunciation, your self liberated, you will come to me. (9.27 – 28) If they rely on me, Arjuna, women, commoners, men of low rank, even men born in the womb of evil, reach the highest way. (9.32)

In pursuit of moksa as the ultimate goal of human existence, the Gı¯ta¯’s bhakti˙ yoga meets the ethical requirements both of karma-yoga in the Dharmas´astras

52

John Bussanich

and of jn˜ana-yoga (knowledge) in the renunciant traditions. The Gı¯ta¯’s ethical universalism prepared the way for new developments in the medieval period with the spread of tantra and bhakti of various types (devotion to Visnu, S´iva, or ˙˙ the Goddess). Especially prominent was the Bha¯gavata Pura¯na, which devalued ˙ the Veda, ritual, and the ascetic demands of the renunciant traditions (11.12.1 – 2) and identified Krsna-bhakti as the “highest dharma,” the supreme path to ˙˙ ˙ liberation in the Kali Yuga (12.3.52).29 In movements throughout the sub-continent, “bhakti achieved liberation from yoga and programmatic practice. As populist religious ideals and practices infiltrated brahmanical … thinking and practice, a distinction between bhakti and bhakti yoga was directly forged.”30 This ethics of devotion extends beyond the scope of this essay, but it should be recognized as a prominent religious-ethical factor in modern and contemporary life in India.

Abbreviations A BG BU BGBh G Manu S´rı¯bha¯sya ˙ TU RV ˙

¯ pastamba Dharmasu¯tra, tr. Olivelle 1999. A Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯, tr. Miller 1986. Brhada¯ranyaka Upanisad, tr. Olivelle 1996. ˙ ˙ ˙ Bhagavad-gı¯ta¯-bha¯syam of S´amkara, tr. Gambhirananda 1984. ˙ ˙ Gautama Dharmasu¯tra, tr. Olivelle 1999. Ma¯nava Dharmas´a¯stra, tr. Olivelle 2004. Brahma-Su¯tras or Veda¯nta-Su¯tras with the Commentary of Ra¯ma¯nuja, tr. Thibaut 1971. Taittirı¯ya Upanisad, tr. Olivelle 1996. ˙ The Rig Veda, tr. O’Flaherty.

References Chakrabarti, A. 1983. “Is liberation (moksa) pleasant?”, in: Philosophy East and West 33.2: ˙ 167 – 82. Chakrabarti, A. 1988. “The End of Life: “A Nya¯ya-Kantian Approach to the Bhagavadgı¯ta¯””, in: Journal of Indian Philosophy 16.4: 327 – 334. Danto, A. 1972. Mysticism and Morality: Oriential Thought and Moral Philosophy, New York. Gambhirananda, S. 1984. Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯ with the Commentary of S´amkara, Calcutta. ˙ Halbfass, W. 1988. India and Europe, Albany. 29 See Lorenzen 2004. 30 F.M. Smith 1998b: 27.

Ethics in Ancient India

53

Halbfass, W. 1991. Tradition and Reflection, Albany. Halbfass, W. 1997. “Happiness: A Nya¯ya-Vais´esika Perspective”, in: P. Bilimoria / J. N. ˙ Mohanty (eds.), Relativism, Suffering and Beyond: Essays in Memory of Bimal K. Matilal, New Delhi: 150 – 63. Harvey, P. 2000. An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics, Cambridge. Holdrege, B. 2004. “Dharma”, in: S. Mittal/ G. Thursby (eds.), The Hindu World, New York: 213 – 48. Jamison, S. 1996. Sacrificed Wife, Sacrificer’s Wife: Women, Ritual, and Hospitality in Ancient India, Oxford. Kant. The Metaphysics of Morals, Bd. 6, Berlin, New York. Lorenzen, D. 2004. “Bhakti”, in: S. Mittal / G. Thursby (eds.), The Hindu World, New York: 185 – 209. MacIntyre, A. 1991. “Incommensurability, Truth, and the Conversation Between Confucians and Aristotelians about the Virtues”, in: E. Deutsch (ed.), Culture and Modernity : East-West Philosophic Perspectives, Honolulu: 104 – 122. Matilal, B. K. 2002. The Collected Essays of Bimal Krishna Matilal: Ethics and Epics, New Delhi. Miller, B. S. 1986. The Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯, New York. Mohanty, J. N. 1997. “The Idea of the Good in Indian Thought”, in: E. Deutsch / R. Bontekoe (eds.), A Companion to World Philosophies, Oxford: 290 – 303. O’ Flaherty, W. D. 1981. The Rig Veda, London. Olivelle, P. 1986. Upanisads, Oxford. ¯ ˙´srama System, Oxford. Olivelle, P. 1993. The A Olivelle, P. 1999. Dharmasu¯tras. The Law Codes of Ancient India, Oxford. Olivelle, P. 2004. The Law Code of Man, Oxford. Perrett, R. 1998. Hindu Ethics. A Philosophical Study, Honolulu. Ra¯ma¯nuja. 1991. S´rı¯ Ra¯ma¯nuja Gı¯ta¯ Bha¯sya, Ramakrishna Math. ˙ Smith, B. K. 2001. “Hinduism”, in: J. Neusner (ed.), The Life of Virtue, Belmont: 85 – 105. Smith, F. M. 1998a. “Indian Conceptions of Heaven”, in: E. Craig. (ed.), Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Vol. 4, New York: 253 – 56. Smith, F. M. 1998b. “Notes on the Development of Bhakti”, in: Journal of Vaisnava Studies 6: 17 – 36. Taber, J. A. 1998. “Indian Conceptions of Duty and Virtue”, in: E. Craig (ed.), Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Vol. 3, New York. 183 – 87. Thibaut, G. 1971. The Veda¯nta-Su¯tras with the Commentary by Ra¯ma¯nuja, Delhi.

Early Greek Thought

Catherine Collobert

Homeric Ethics: Fame and Prudence1

The view of time in Homer is crucial for elucidating Homeric ethics because the latter is structured around the former. Time is regarded as a destructive force, which manifests itself in human life as the process of aging and death. For human beings time means finiteness: they are fragile and short-lived creatures comparable to leaves (Od.18.130). There is, however, a way to overcome finiteness and death by being an exceptional individual who leaves his mark for future generations. This heroic exceptionality requires not only a challenging life filled with suffering, but also a poet to sing that life (Il.VI.357 – 358). The song gives individuals an immortality by which they continue to live as memories. The quest for immortality – an earthly one – amounts to a quest for being the subject of a song. Poetic immortality is that for which a hero strives and thus what drives him to act in certain ways, that is, to perform glorious deeds. In this sense, Homeric ethics is based on fame, which is the ultimate goal to be attained by a hero in order to be immortal. Homeric heroes experience time in two ways: first, as finitude and second, as a source of uncertainty. These two modes of experience constitute the basis for two ethical responses: the search for kleos on the one hand and prudent behaviour on the other. Focusing on finitude, the Iliad emphasizes kleos, combining the two experiences of time, while the Odyssey regards the two resonses as being connected – the latter being a condition for the former. In what follows I shall examine in the first place the heroic search for fame as a response to the destructive force of time and therefore as a means to attain immortality. I must specify first that the search is not egoistic. A hero is not an isolated individual insofar as his deeds only make sense within the community. In consequence, to achieve glorious deeds requires a specific attitude based on a sense of aidos (shame and respect). I shall in the second place argue that prudence is critical for the hero to face uncertainty. Prudence is a key to success, which is of paramount

1 For a comprehensive discussion of the topic of this essay see Collobert 2011.

58

Catherine Collobert

importance since success promises fame. I shall finally consider some of the ways in which the poet calls this search for kleos into question.

I.

The search for kleos: a response to time’s destructive force

The quest for immortality as a response to time’s destructive force is achieved by a search for kleos, which allows a hero to leave after his death imperishable memories, that is, not to be forgotten. The desire for immortality consists of a desire to stay alive in the human community through memories, that is, for fighting against the oblivion wrought by time. In fact, attaining immortality requires for a hero to eliminate forever the threat of obscurity and anonymity. Odysseus’ adventures incorporate various expressions of this threat, e. g., his captivity by Calypso: By giving Odysseus the gift of immortality, Calypso – whose name is derived from kalupto (to hide away) – tries to make him stay hidden away from humans. His encounter with the Cyclops is another instance: for his name to be attached to the victory over the Cyclops, he must reveal his identity for the sake of the heroic fight against anonymity.2 A glorious deed whose agent is unknown is an oxymoron. The destruction of the cattle of the Sun by Odysseus’ companions amounts in a way to a negation of time, which leads to their death.3 Likewise, the Lotus-eaters lull Odysseus’ companions into forgetfulness by suppressing their capacity for memory. Taking risks and imperilling his life by facing hazards are the conditions for a hero to accomplish memorable deeds which deserve to be transmitted from generation to generation through the song of the poet. This is why eris is pervasive in the heroic world from the heroic way of life to the heroic individuality. A life-threatening situation is an eristic situation, which manifests itself in any confrontational relationship to others that allows a hero to distinguish himself from his fellows, past and present, and demonstrate his superiority over others. To be superior to others is the condition for gaining fame: “he might prove himself preeminent among all the Argives, and win glorious fame (kleos)” (Il. V.2 – 3).4 Eristic situations through which the search for kleos is performed are numerous, from that of Achilles’ conflict with Agamemnon to that of Hector’ s aiming to kill an agathos so that his fame will not perish (Il.VII.90) to that of Odysseus’ pursuit by Poseidon’s anger and that of Penelope’ pursuit by the Suitors. 2 On the wordplay between meˆtis and outis, see W. G. Thalmann 1992 : 86, J. Barnouw 2004: 58 – 59. Strauss Clay 1983: 119 – 120. 3 Austin 1975: 137. 4 Translations are from A.T. Murray, revised by W.F. Wyatt, for the Iliad, and from A.T. Murray, revised by G.E. Dimock, for the Odyssey.

Homeric Ethics: Fame and Prudence

59

Eris calls for great deeds because combat gives a hero the opportunity to demonstrate his arete and find his heroic stature. Glory and fame are attained through fighting because it results in victory and triumph, which are the necessary steps to fame. The process is as follows: fighting, victory, glory, fame (VIII.176). As Hector says: “Now surely is evil death near at hand, and no more far from me, nor is there a way of escape. So I imagine long since this was the pleasure of Zeus, and of the son of Zeus, the god who strikes far afar …; but now again has my fate caught up with me. Not without a struggle let me die, nor ingloriously, but having done some great deed for men yet to be born to hear” (Il. XXII.300 – 05).

1.1.

Heroic arete and its recognition

This brings me to elucidating the heroic arete. In Homeric society, arete is primarily a natural disposition: one is born aristos. One belongs to the group of aristoi, which means that arete is based on the oikos. In a society built on aristocratic birth, genealogy has a prominent role: one excels from father to son. This is why a hero is proud of his lineage, which partly defines his identity (Il. XX.208 – 209). Comprising a set of virtues like prudence, courage, endurance, valor, arete is not only a disposition, but also an activity that entails a kind of expertise. Nestor is expert at war (Il.IV.310). An aristos receives an education appropriate to his rank and status, that is, his time, within the community, and learns not only the arts of war and speech but also how to excel at them (Il. I.258).5 Heroic arete is superiority : to be aristos means to be superior, to be better : “Old Peleus charged his son always to be bravest and preeminent above all” (Il. VI.208 also XI.784). Arete is measured against others’ and therefore linked to recognition. One’s arete not only must be known, but also acknowledged by peers. Nestor gets recognition for his excellence at counsel, Odysseus for his metis, Achilles for his warlike ability. As Agamemnon reminds Odysseus and Diomedes, a basileus should be courageous and put his life at risk in return for public acknowledgement of his arete (Il.IV.338 – 346, 370 – 375). Conversely, Glaucos and Achilles complain about Hector’s and Agamemnon’s failure to acknowledge their arete. However, a hero’s worth is not exclusively judged by peers, that is, it is not tantamount to peer evaluation. A hero is aware of his worth and this awareness produces conflict in the case of a lack of recognition. In this regard, the most serious and exemplary conflict is that between Achilles and 5 Adkins 1970: 33.

60

Catherine Collobert

Agamemnon. Recognition is a sensitive issue, and a hero must fight for it, that is, for what he believes his personal worth to be. A hero’s identity is to a certain extent a social construct. This is why acknowledging a hero’s arete is not sufficient; it has to be expressed at a social level by attributing a time that corresponds to a hero’s arete (Il.VI.193). In various contexts Homer shows Achilles claiming a share of time that corresponds to his personal worth. Achilles complains about Agamemnon’s unfair distribution of gera, which does not take into account a warrior’s excellence at war so that the same prize is given to a poor as to a good warrior (Il. IX.319). This recognition is crucial for two reasons: first, a lack of it amounts to dishonor, and secondly, kleos is built upon it. Indeed, for a hero to attain the desired fame the exceptional features of his achievement must be acknowledged. In proportion to the greatness of deeds (Il.XVIII.121), that is, to the exceptionality and uniqueness of a deed, fame is that which is deserved according to a hero’s arete: not every hero is capable of accomplishing exceptional deeds, which secure him fame like that of Achilles, which will be great (l´ca) if he returns to fight (Il.X.212). A hero’s fame may efface another’s, but it may also enhance it, as in the case of Penelope whose fame will be greater and more beautiful if Odysseus returns (Od.18.255). Although it is not possible to accomplish glorious deeds without possessing areˆte, since fame is grounded in arete, for a deed to be glorious it does not suffice for it to be exceptional and unique. This is the case because a hero strives for a noble kleos – a bad kleos being an oxymoron.

1.2.

Aidos and kleos

The relationship between arete and kleos entails a contrasting relationship between kleos and aidos. Odysseus’ arete, which is superior to that of others (4.724 – 726 = 814 – 816) brings him fame. Base conduct does not deserve to be preserved for posterity : “Men are short-lived. He who is himself hard, and has a hard heart, on him do all mortal men invoke woes for the time to come while he still lives, and when he is dead all mock at him. But if one is blameless himself and has a blameless heart, his fame stranger-guests bear far and wide among all men, and many praise his name” (Od.19.328 – 33). Fame is for those who are blameless and outstanding. The choice lies between the two alternatives: mockery and fame. Those who deserve fame are those who are noble. Note the first line of the passage, which addresses the ephemeral quality of any human life. It means in the first place that memories left after death should be a concern for anyone. The Suitors, Aegisthus, and Agamemnon are cases in point. Seen as

Homeric Ethics: Fame and Prudence

61

hubristic, their behaviour is due to a lack of aidos (II.203).6 This is why Agamemnon returns with no fame (dusjk´a); his leadership will be a subject of shame for the men to come (II.115 – 119). Successful and famous deeds are opposed to shameful actions. Those who fail to accomplish noble deeds leave shameful memories. In fact, shame is the outcome of failure, as Hector’s experience shows (Il. XXII.104 – 09). His failure is due to a miscalculation of the strength of the enemy. Hector finds himself in the same position as Agamemnon: he fails his people out of a lack of prudence. In other words, they have not lived up to their rank and status.7 However, in contrast to Agamemnon, Hector feels the weight of his failure, the awareness of which is not only a prospective consciousness. The condemnation of others is justified with respect to his failure: failing his people is blameworthy without qualification. This is why aidos is linked to nemesis. Nemesis means primarily indignation for behaviour that aidos could not prevent. It could be felt towards oneself and others. In the former case, nemesis is almost synonymous with aidos. A hero invokes his awareness of what people think about him as a kind of action-guiding principle, which in this sense internalizes aidos.8 Although a shameful action has a negative impact upon fame, it could be cancelled by a glorious deed, hence Hector’s decision to fight against Achilles. Kleos cannot be pursued to the detriment of others, except in the case of the enemy, because on the one hand, the hero’s self-interest coincides with that of his community, as Hector and Agamemnon discover, and on the other hand, acting exclusively for the sake of his own interest without regard to that of others when circumstances demand leads to shame and thus no fame. A hero’s arete manifests itself not only in eristic behaviour that allows a hero to secure his time and to exhibit the qualities that distinguish a hero from the others, but also in cooperating with and protecting others (XVI.74 – 75, V.561)9. Satisfying his self-interest in a society founded on mutual recognition requires on the part of a hero inhibitory attitudes like aidos, which help in preserving the interests of others and the community ; otherwise, sanctions from the community follow.

6 Hubris and aidos are mutually exclusive. See Cheyns 1967. 7 D. L. Cairns 1994: 82. J. Redfield 1975: 119. As B. Williams puts it, “shame looks to what I am” (Williams 1994: 93). 8 As D. L. Cairns argues, “one can be one’s own audience” (Cairns 1994: 18). For the distinction between shame and guilt, see the works of D. L. Cairns and B. Williams mentioned above and E. R. Dodds 1956. 9 See C. Rowe 1983: 268.

62

Catherine Collobert

II.

Prudence: a response to uncertainty

The search for kleos is difficult and complex because of the element of uncertainty that pervades the practical sphere. I define uncertainty as that which is inpredictable, be it a course of action or its consequences. In both cases uncertainty is linked to the opacity of the future. An event is the product of uncertainty when it was not intended or caused by the hero. In other words, uncertainty is what a hero does not make happen, an unforeseen event that he has to face. I shall argue that prudence is a way to overcome uncertainty and to be immune to it as much as possible. However, Homeric prudence is not an answer to the Socratic question: “How should I live to be uncertainty-free?”.10 In other words, it is not a question of not being morally and psychologically affected by uncertainty. Invulnerability is not attainable either through rational self-sufficiency, as Socrates argues, or through prudence.11 A hero has no other choice but to live at the mercy of uncertainty, as Odysseus’ life exemplifies. Prudence is that which allows a hero to have control over events.12 It is the ability to live successfully in a changing and variable world in which the possibility of losing one’s social rank and status, and accordingly of becoming atimos and a beggar, as in the case of Achilles and Odysseus, is ever present. The aim of prudence is similar to the one of a techne in the sense that the latter implies foresight, planning and provision.13 In this regard, prudence does not pertain to the moral sphere: it aims at success in action, not at moral rightness.14 Homeric prudence includes a capacity for judgment that ensures the rightness of the means but not of the ends. In the Odyssey, prudence allows a hero to define the means to secure his time and kleos.

2.1.

Prudence and success

As a necessary condition for success, prudence consists of the following set of abilities: (1) knowledge about the features of a given situation, that is, grasping the full picture, (2) self-knowledge by which a hero knows whether or not he can successfully cope with the situation, (3) self-control, which allows a hero to make a prudential decision. In fact, having a full picture of a given situation and 10 11 12 13 14

B. Williams 1985: 5. B. Williams 2006: 45 – 46. M. Nussbaum 2001: 1 – 21. M. Nussbaum, ibid.: 95. In this regard, prudence is morally neutral as Kant argues (cf. Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten, Section II). A prudent action is not the result of moral obligation. See, e. g. Williams 2006: 185 ff.

Homeric Ethics: Fame and Prudence

63

realizing one’s capacity to cope with it is impossible without controlling one’s emotions, which often blur the judgment. (4) Anticipation, which is part of the process of decision-making. The making of a prudential decision is based upon the consequences of an action. A hero faces a dilemma that he resolves through inferential reasoning. It has the form of if I do X, then A will occur, if I do Y then B will occur. Hector decides to fight against Achilles rather than to supplicate him because in the latter case Achilles would kill him like a woman (Il. XXII.125).15 The desire for prudential actions is tantamount to the desire for success, which is the desire both for not losing face and for attaining fame. Odysseus faces hazards successfully and then becomes famous as a result of his prudence. He has an unrivalled metis among men because of his excellence in various cunnings (Od.3.119 – 22). Odysseus’ metis is an expression of his prudence. Meˆtis allows a hero to compensate for his weakness over an enemy and to be successful. This is the case of Odysseus facing the Cyclops, of Antilochus facing Menelaus in the chariot race (Il. XXIII.425). There is a sense of machination close to treachery in meˆtis and hence its association with dolos: the crowning of his meˆtis consists of an exceptional dolos, namely, the storming of Troy (8.494).16

2.2.

Prudence and time

Insofar as prudence is defined as an ability to anticipate, to be prudent means to be able to infer the future from the past, that is, to “see both past and future” (XVIII.249 – 250).17 The formula expresses the idea of taking into account past experiences to forecast the future in order to avoid failures (III.109 – 110). This ability is exemplified by Polydamas who is able in any circumstances to give sensible advice (IXVIII.249 – 250), contrary to Agamemnon who is incapable of thinking “before and after”. This synchronic vision is attributed to an elder, Halitherses in the Odyssey, as a man of experiences (24.452). Although the poet does not explicitly attribute to Odysseus a synchronic vision, he belongs to those who are highly capable of escaping from hazardous situations. Not only is it not possible to avoid every danger, but it is also not desirable for those looking for fame. Confronting mortal danger gives a hero the opportunity to demonstrate his prudential behaviour. From this perspective, the Cyclops’ story is interesting since Odysseus seems to demonstrate twice a lack of anticipation and thus of prudence. First, he does not seem to anticipate that he and his comrades run a risk in staying in the Cyclops’ cave and, second, in telling 15 See C. Gill 1996: 85. 16 Cf. dolometis (Od.1.300). Detienne / Vernant 1974: 20; Chantraine 1984. 17 See M. Schofield 1986: 20.

64

Catherine Collobert

his name to the Cyclops he compromises his return. Alternatively, Odysseus may know all too well what he is facing soon but decides to stay because of his eristic personality, curiosity, desire for knowledge and, finally, his confidence in rising successfully to the challenge on account of his metis. Homeric prudential behavior does not imply not facing dangerous situations and not rising to the challenge that a situation has to offer, since otherwise prudence would contradict the heroic ideal. A prudent man considers both the immediate and the remote consequences of a course of action. Failing to take into account the latter means possessing a weak meˆtis like Antilochos (keptµ l/tir: XXIII.590). Aiming at victory at all cost, Antilochos is not able to project himself into the future.18 A prudent man postpones a desire in cases where a situation is not favorable to fulfilling his desire and where this desire contradicts in the long term his overall desire for success. The long term is in fact a temporal aspect of prudence. In this sense, Achilles demonstrates a prudential attitude in heeding Athena’s advice (I.218). Accepting temporarily to lose part of his time, he secures it in the long term, which is not the case with Agamemnon taking Briseis away from Achilles. In sum, prudence constitutes an ability to respond to uncertainty insofar as it allows a hero to move in an unstable world with changing circumstances and gives him versatility and adaptability. A prudent man directs his behavior towards the future, that is, towards the realization of his final end. Determined, able to seize opportunities that further his goal, he is aware of what could impede it and able to overcome obstacles to attaining it.

Conclusion: Criticisms of the heroic way of life I shall conclude with ways in which the poet calls the heroic ideal into question. The heroic ideal and its code are questioned in various ways. The heroic code works as a prescriptive collective morality which comprises norms and rules of conduct that are defined according to a hero’s time as it delineates his role within the community. Maintaining this role is demanding, and a hero should act according to the rules. However, it is worth pointing out in the first place that there are various ways of maintaining the role, and in the second place, that Homer introduces some heroes who are not up to the role, like Agamemnon, and finally, that the way in which a hero maintains his role is subject to criticism on the part of the community’s members. According to Achilles, by regarding the purpose of war as exclusively directed towards the interests of the Atreides’ clan, Agamemnon does not respect two 18 Detienne / Vernant 1974: 23.

Homeric Ethics: Fame and Prudence

65

basic rules of the heroic code: the respect for others’ time and reciprocity. His criticism demonstrates that heroes do not always comply with the rules. This implies that there is a kind of flexibility in the heroic code. The flexibility manifests itself in heroes’ awareness of the code and its norms, as the dialogue between Glaucos and Sarpedon as well as Achilles’ reflections exemplify (Il. XII.322 – 325). From this perspective, Achilles’ calling into question the belief about the legitimacy of the search for kleos is worth mentioning. This questioning is ultimately a reflection upon the meaning of life (XVIII.107), which is echoed in the Odyssey where it is stated that kleos cannot be regarded as a consolation for death on the grounds that no consolation is possible (11.488). Achilles has two incompatible fates: dying on Pthya and dying in Troy. He is not, however, the only one to have two fates and to know about them. Odysseus faces two paths to immortality, one human and one divine, and chooses the former, that is, to be sung among humans. As to Achilles, his alternatives are to be or not to be immortal. In the former, he is fated to a brief life, that is, a premature death.19 Thetis bemoans the brevity of Achilles’ life, which she, like any god or human, views as a misfortune.20 Achilles’ fates are introduced as follows: “If I remain here and fight about the city of the Trojans, then is my return home to my dear native land, lost then is my glorious renown (kleos aphthiton), yet will my life long endure, and the doom of death will not come soon on me” (IX.410 – 416). Away from the fight, Achilles realizes how valuable life is (401). The worth of life makes its loss for the sake of fame hard to endure (11.488 – 91). The fact that it is the main protagonist of the Iliad who pursues this reflection is not without consequence for the overall view of the heroic values that the epic conveys even though it remains the case that the search for kleos defines the heroic ideal and gives life its meaning.

References Adkins. A. W. H. 1970. Merit and Responsibility : A Study in Greek Value, Oxford. Austin, N. 1975. Archery at the Dark of the Moon: Poetic Problems in Homer’s Odyssey, Berkeley. Barnouw, J. 2004. Odysseus, Hero of Practical Intelligence: Deliberation and Signs in Homer’s Odyssey, Lanham. Burgess, J. 2004. “Untrustworthy Apollo and the Destiny of Achilles: Iliad 24.55 – 63”, in: Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 102: 21 – 40. 19 Same of Hector (XV.612). See I.352 – 353. 20 Cf. J. Burgess 2004.

66

Catherine Collobert

Cairns, D. L. 1994. Aidoˆs. The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature, Oxford. Chantraine, P. 1984. Dictionnaire e´tymologique de la langue grecque, Paris. Cheyns, A, 1967. Sens et valeur du mot aidos dans les contextes home´riques, in: Recherches de philologie et de linguistique I: 3 – 33. Collobert, C. 2011. Parier sur le temps: la queˆte he´roique D’immortalite´ dans l’e´pope´e home´rique, Paris. Detienne, M. / Vernant, J. P. 1974. Les ruses de l’intelligence, la me`tis des Grecs, Paris. Dodds, E. R. 1956. The Greeks and the Irrational, Berkeley. Gill, C. 1996. Personality in Greek Epic. Tragedy, and Philosophy : The Self in Dialogue, Oxford. Nussbaum, M. 2001. The Fragility of Goodness, Cambridge. Redfield, J. 1975. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hecto, Chicago. Rowe, C. 1983. “The Nature of Homeric Morality”, in: C. A. Rubino / C. W. Shelmerdine (eds.), Approaches to Homer, Austin: 248 – 275. Schofield, M. 1986. “Euboulia in the Iliad”, in: Classical Quarterly 36: 6 – 31. Strauss Clay, J. 1983. The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in the Odyssey, Princeton. Thalmann, W. G. 1992. The Odyssey : An Epic of Return, New York. Williams, B. 1985. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, Cambridge. Williams, B. 1994. Shame and Necessity, Berkeley. Williams, B. 2006. The Legacy of Greek Philosophy. The Sense of the Past. Essays in the History of Philosophy, Princeton.

Ruben Apressyan

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

The Iliad starts with Homer’s exclamation on Achilles’ wrath: “The wrath sing, goddess, of Peleus’ son, Achilles …» (1, 11) – the wrath, which he is overtaken not in front of a battle with an enemy, but in a discord with Agamemnon, the King of Achaean kings and their military leader, because he arbitrarily decided to start repartition of prey degrading for Achilles. However, at the last episode related to Achilles we discover him quite different. This episode is about a meeting with Priam, the King of Troy, who steals into Achilles’ tents to get back for ransom the body of his beloved son Hector. Absolutely implacable until quite recently Achilles accepts Priam’s supplication and shows amicability and careful regard for him. Along with the epic narration Achilles is going through a moral change – from wrath to gracious compassion. This change occurs with one character, but inadmissibility of unbridled anger, anger in arbitrariness and the urgency of compassion is a dominating motif in both the Iliad, and the Odyssey. Achilles is in the focus of this emotional and communicative controversy. Achilles’ actions are by no means unusual either in the first episode, or in the second. And yet, his decisions in both cases are extraordinary. Achilles flew into a rage in a dispute with Agamemnon, because in violation of the existed order he decided to take away a lovely concubine Achilles had received in fair distribution of prey after a recent raid. Achilles rose against him and gave vent to his anger in drastic withdrawal from the battle. This decision jeopardized vast efforts attended by countless war losses, because without Achilles, and this had been definitely predicted sometime before, the Achaeans would not be able to take Troy. So, this decision doomed the Achaeans not only to trouble, but to numerous new sacrifices. As to Achilles he was willing to do everything possible to humiliate Agamemnon responsively to the caused disgrace. Redemption of the body of a relative or friend perished in a battle was a common thing in the world of Homer, as well as a millennium later. The corpse of 1 Translations from Homer. The Iliad, tr. A. T. Murray, rev. W. F. Wyatt, Cambridge, Mass. 1999.

68

Ruben Apressyan

a fallen enemy, freed from the armor, was pulled off the battlefield in order to return for a ransom, or to dishonor. Priam did not just come with ransom, prostrated oneself before Achilles and begged him for mercy. This humble supplication was also a ritual act, which according to the standards of the Homeric society required to be positively responded. However, Achilles’ favor towards Priam completely fell out of scope and internal logic of the situation – in particular configuration, taking into account the relationship of Achilles and Hector, and in general, making allowance the fact that Priam himself secretly appeared in Achilles’ camp could be considered as a prey potentially much higher than the ransom he brought for his son’s body. Achilles acted partly in the logic of existed morals and partly in contradiction to them, completely relying on his own choice and his own will. Still, Achilles’ decisions and actions were neither unique, nor single. There are enough cases in the Iliad and the Odyssey positively echoing Achilles’ decisions and actions proving the trends in value orientations, deeds, and relationship conjectured in the ‘pleats’ of the Homeric world. In this chapter I would be interested to trace these trends, specifically those which were leading to the formation of the type of consciousness and social discipline later identified by philosophers in the terms of ethics and morality. Such presentation of the chapter’s task makes clear that I consider the Homeric society as a society of arising morality. A different issue is how to distinguish in the Homeric ethos arising morality and what in this approach should be a subject matter for a researcher’s consideration?

Method The answer to this question depends upon a concept of morality a researcher relies on. The variety of research attitudes and thus interpretations of ethical or, broader, value-normative composition of the Homeric epic have been reflected quite well in the Homer studies of several recent decades. Since the 1950s value and ethical studies has been developed into a special, pretty impressive branch within Homer literature. Fundamental investigations by Moses Finley, John Ferguson, Arthur Adkins, Hugh Lloyd-Jones and others contributed a lot. Though one can trace different research programs in value-ethical studies in Homer, most of the authors have seen their task mainly in reconstruction of norms and values of the Homeric society (See Adkins 1965; Ferguson 1958; Finley 1977; Lloyd-Jones 1971; Yarkho 1963; Avanesov 2010). Though the modern value and ethical studies in the Homeric epic have become more and more synthetic they are still different in methodology and the variety of approaches is determined by different scholarship background. Some

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

69

of them present purely literary analysis aimed to reconstruction of value or moral world of the Homeric epic as internally self-sufficient and concentrated in the Iliad and the Odysseus as great monuments of ancient literature. Other present a historical analysis aimed to detect in the text of the poems in relation to other literary sources and archaeological data the traces and evidence of existed mores and habits. Another approach presents a social-anthropological analysis based on the perception of the Homeric world as a particular socio-cultural formation comparable with typologically similar, though geographically and chronologically different societies. I remember warning expressed by a Russian classicists Victor Iarkho’s pointed that the Homeric poems “should be understood as the masterpieces of their own time and the method of poetic depiction of reality […] should be explained in terms […] of the time, when they were created” (Iarkho 1962: 3). According to Iarkho it was inadmissible to introduce to an epic ideas and concepts emerged “at the later stages of cultural development” (Ibid.). However, one should take into consideration that we actually know very little about those times besides what we have been told by the epic itself. Largely based on the results the Homer studies I am developing another research program aimed to restore an early genesis of moral forms at the level of behavioral and communicative practice. Morality is taken in a configuration known and familiar to the modern person of the Judeo-Christian cultural tradition, though in a particular aspect of the content of decisions and actions (rather than forms of motivation and personal self-determination). This content is positively expressed in (a) refraining from causing unnecessary harm, (b) pursuit of justice, (c) benevolence, (d) cooperation, (e) friendly partnership, (f) thoughtful participation and negatively – in (a’) indifference, (b’) malevolence, (c’) injustice, (d’) destruction, (e’) hostility, (f ’) ruthlessness. All these dispositions could be realized on different and not only categorical-imperative (in Kantian sense) basis. In terms of normativity this content is given in the Golden Rule, Lex Talionis, and the Commandment of Love as well as in derivative principles and rules. These principles and rules as such are absent in the texts of the Homeric epic. But they are present in them prospectively – in rudiment forms. Their identification is possible owing to a method of conceptual explication of rudiment normative content. I have already sampled this method in exploration the proto-forms of the Golden Rule thinking in different texts (See Apressyan 2009a, 2009b). The method is in an analysis of syncretic in their value-normative content and specifically conceptualized texts on the basis of modern ethical notions. The proposed genealogical consideration is focused on dominant storylines of confrontation, firstly, between Achilles and Agamemnon, the King of Achaeans and, secondly, between Achilles and Hector, the military leader of

70

Ruben Apressyan

Toyans and Priam, his farther, the King of Troy. Although in one case we are talking about a fellow-companion and in the other about enemies, the value positive dynamics of these confrontations are basically similar and this very resemblance is ethically significant, indeed.

Discord and Reconciliation The Iliad narration starts with the outbreak of hostility between Achilles and Agamemnon. The King of Achaeans is certainly guilty for this discord. He seems doubly responsible for what happened: by stubborn care of his own time¯-honor he has caused untold disasters sent to Achaeans by Apollo and during the discussion of the possibility of getting rid of them struck a deep insult to Achilles, demanding redistribution of the loot. Still, the first words of Homer are on the Achilles’ wrath and the innumerable sufferings he had brought the Achaeans. The injustices Agamemnon committed against Achilles actually touched Achilles only. Achilles’ response aimed at Agamemnon touched everyone in the Achaean Army. Achilles’ decision had its own terrible motive to humiliate Agamemnon as the King of kings and the leader of the Achaean army, to weaken Achaean army by his withdrawal and to bring it to the risk of “shameful ruin” (1, 341) to make all Achaeans understand Agamemnon’s helplessness and feel necessity to approach Achilles with supplication to return to the battle. Nestor, the oldest and most experienced among the Achaean kings well understands the fatal character of quarrel and the urgency of reconciliation. The quarrel has not erupted in its full measure while Nestor before the last accusations were hurled is trying to cool down leaders inflamed with emerging hostility. He encourages them to mutual indulgence, recognition of merits and reconciliation (1, 276). Nestor was not alone concerned with keeping peace between the Achaean leaders. Then, at the culmination point of the controversies, when Achilles in response to Agamemnon’s another word bitter and painful for his time¯ is ready to grab the sword from its scabbard, Athene approaches him invisible to anyone else and on behalf of Hera translates Achilles her command: “But come, cease from strife, and do not grasp the sword with your hand. / With words indeed taunt him, telling him how it shall be” (210 – 211). Achilles, obeying without wrangling, leaves the sword in its scabbard, and continues a verbal duel with Agamemnon.2 Though Athene could not stop the 2 The fact that Achilles was able to contain his anger and leave the sword in its scabbard, did not contradict his nature. In anger, he is awful (cf. 9, 426; 16, 654), but he is able to control his anger (22, 345 – 347). From different episodes one can conclude that he understands himself in a state of anger and depending on the circumstances allows himself to be given to it or not.

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

71

discord, she prevented bloodshed. And Nestor failed to gain reconciliation. However, the inadmissibility of discord and the need for restraint, mutual respect and the favor were definitely declared, and, in fact, entire subsequent epic narration confirmed the rightness of the wise elder’s persuasion. The flared up discord is really peculiar. Achilles is feeling deeply insulted and eager to punish Agamemnon to compensate himself. But his position is ambiguous. On the one hand, he became a victim of injustice, on the other hand, it was him, who initiated the discord. And breaking with Agamemnon he decides for himself the conditions of his possible return to the battle, one of which – Achaean’s ignominious defeat – does not depend upon Agamemnon’s will at all and even if does by its inner sense no way could be provided by him. Agamemnon’s retribution is close. But at the same time, the events develop in a way, Achilles too had to pay for quarrel, for his unbridled anger, because of which it flared up, for his arrogant pride and stubbornness. Achilles’ stubbornness was in refusal to forget an insult and return to the battle to support the Achaeans, who were suffering in severe battles with the Trojans one defeat after another. He enjoyed observing Achaeans’ troubles and imagining them appealing to him to return to the battle. Achilles continues persisting in his decisions even visited by an honorable embassy Agamemnon sent to him following Nestor’s advise. The members of the embassy – the most respected kings Odysseus, Phoenix and Ajax – pass Achilles Agamemnon’s proposal of “glorious gifts” (apereisi’ apoina; 9, 121) in exchange to forgotten offences and return to the battle. Agamemnon’s gifts are indeed glorious, but Achilles rejects them suspecting Agamemnon in hidden desire to confirm his supreme status and thus to disparage Achilles. The conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles is aggravated by the fact that Agamemnon offering gifts and Achilles looking forward for the gifts see differently the nature and meaning of such compensation. Agamemnon was offering Achilles ransom-apoina. And this is what least suits Achilles: he expects reparation-poine¯.3 Agamemnon’s envoys feel well the ticklishness of the situation. But at the same time, Phoenix and Ajax act not only as envoys, but also as warriors – the recent cohorts of Achilles. They appeal to his fellow-feeling, mercy, compassion, and leniency for perishing under the pressure of the Trojans 3 The fundamental difference between these two types of compensation has been disclosed by Donna Wilson. General and functionally unspecified designation of transmitted good was the Greek word do¯ra. Both apoina and poine¯ may be translated as ‘gift’. However, their semantics in the Homeric epic is more specific; they reflected different types of relations (see Donna 2002: 16). Thus in the conflict we are considering Agamemnon was offering apoina, though glorious, but did not wish anybody would think about it as reparation-poine¯ for Achilles. Such gifts Achilles could not accept because he was expecting reparation, which would have restored his honor and symbolized Agamemnon’s recognition of his own wrong.

72

Ruben Apressyan

Achaean warriors, not tiring to reproach him for forgetting about the friendship for the insensibility of heart, for bringing “to fury the proud heart within him” (628 – 629) and for “a heart that is obdurate” (636 – 637). In order to touch the soul of Achilles Odysseus reminds him that his father, Peleus, seeing him on the battle admonished him to “curb thy proud spirit in thy breast, for gentlemindedness is the better part; and withdraw thee from strife, contriver of mischief” (254 – 259). Phoenix, though in a somewhat different vein, also resorts to the theme of paternal care. Addressing Achilles as father4 Phoenix as a matter of fact repeats the Peleus’ admonition rendered by Odysseus: “Wherefore Achilles, do thou master thy proud spirit; / it beseemeth thee not to have a pitiless heart” (496 – 498). In other words, straightforward or for some clear pragmatic reasons either Odysseus, or Phoenix, or Ajax appeal to the sense of community, kinship, fellowship, point to the unacceptability of wrathfullness or arrogant pride in the relationship between friends and fellows, to the need of support them in trouble, and so forth. All of them, without saying a word, consider these arguments as the most powerful and by this way are trying to oppose resentment and bitterness suffered by Achilles because of unfairly trampled honor, a sense of community, kinship and co-fellowship. The embassy comes to grief in the sense that it failed to realize the goal set before it by Agamemnon: to return Achilles to the battle offering him glorious gifts. But in general the envoys’ paraeneses do have consequences and appear to become a prerequisite (though not dominant) of changes in Achilles’ soul. As Samuel Basset emphasized, one of the undoubted success of the embassy was that Achilles refused the intention to leave the Achaeans and to sail back home, but left in the camp, even refraining until the time of the battle (Bassett 2003: 201). Meanwhile, Achilles’ disposition soon changed, because of a dramatic event for him. In a fierce battle in which Achilles himself equipped Patroclus heeding his persuasion, his friend was perished by the hands of Hector. Overwhelming Patroclus by a fatal blow, Hector captured the fallen armor Achilles had given to Patroclus for that very battle and vested in them. The news of the death of his friend that is what made Achilles to change his mind and return to battle. With the death of Patroclus Achilles comes to understanding that if no quarrel with Agamemnon, it could turn a different way : he would not have come out of the battle, Patroclus would not have appeared face to face with Hector, Achilles could help him, and not only him (18, 102 – 103). Just recently desiring the death of many Achaeans, Achilles, having lost his amiable friend, bitterly regrets not being able to protect Patroclus as well as many other Achaean warriors, his

4 On a role of fathers and farther analogy in the Iliad see Finlay 1980: 267 – 273.

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

73

recent companions.5 Through the death of Patroclus Achilles found commonality with those whom Patroclus had come out to defend and actually extended towards them the feelings he had in relation to his friend. With the death of Patroclus Achilles comes to understanding of how destructive was his quarrel with Agamemnon. Moreover, Achilles is condemns not only himself for the quarrel with Agamemnon, but damn any hostility, both among gods and among men, and anger, which generates it (18, 107 – 108). In measureless regret regarding Patroclus’ death and completely determined to avenge him Achilles gets rid of his wrath toward Agamemnon and decides to reconcile. Reconciliation with Agamemnon becomes a prelude to Achilles’ return to the battle and its victorious fight with Hector, which radically changed the situation in the Trojan War.

Hatred and Condescension However, Achilles is not relieved of anger. His soul is torn apart even greater anger – now against Hector who has slain Patroclus. Achilles is thirsty for revenge. And even if in the clash with Agamemnon his fellow in arms and the King over kings, it was not about the proportionality of retribution, then what to say on Achilles’ retaliation to Hector for the blood spilled and the death of his friend? Achilles’s grief is understandable, and his desire to avenge for Patroclus is clear too. But Patroclus was killed in a battle. War is filled with the deaths of soldiers, thousands of soldiers. Patroclus is one of the war victims. But this is a tragic victim. But Patroclus joined the battle instead of Achilles, disguised as Achilles, as if replacing his friend. And before the battle, he begs Achilles in his armor certainly not because he has no his own, and not to show off. He wishes to look like Achilles, reasonably believing that the Trojans will take him for Achilles, stop fighting, and this will allow repelling them from the Achaean ships. In the heat of the battle Patroclus delivers the Trojans blow by blow, hitting many soldiers and Sarpedon among them. Dying, he urges companion in arms to take revenge for himself. Hector enters into a battle with Patroclus, particularly being inclined to revenge for Sarpedon. A picture of Patroclus’s death in some moments is very much similar to the death of Sarpedon (16, 559 – 561). The narratively mutual episodes indicate the essence of actions committed by heroes: they are reversible, they are reciprocal. When Achilles “like a lion, a ravening lion” (20, 164 – 165) rushed in the 5 A little later Thetis will tell him: “Aye, verily, as thou sayest, my child, it is in truth no ill thing to ward utter destruction from thy comrades, that are hard beset” (18, 128 – 129).

74

Ruben Apressyan

battle, he directed primarily to a meet Hector strike him, but on his way he was hitting one after another numerous Trojans. Some of the Trojans fallen under Achilles’ blows are mentioned by Homer by names, but many others fallen in Achilles’ attack, which the poet compares with a terrible forest fire, have been left unknown. Achilles continues fighting, while in a deadly fight Hector himself was not struck by Achilles’ decisive blow. These are not just particular episodes of individual fights in the battle. As a matter of fact a spiral of vendetta is unfolding in these episodes. Revenge for the killed fellow is a common thing, it is run either by Achaeans or by Trojans (13, 384; 402; 414; 446). Achilles was not the very one, who started it, and he was not the last one, who concluded it. Numerous participants of confrontation are reciprocal, often indirectly, and confidently respond evil for evil with single wish – not to belittle the damage in response to damage, but if possible, to exceed it. However, the reciprocity between enemies may in exceptional cases be manifested in actions called to demonstrate the opposite relation to the enemy – the respect for his time¯. In other words, along with reciprocity as a retributionneme¯sis there were possible different relationship of reciprocity in favor, even among enemies. Anyway, Hector admits it. Coming out to the last personal battle with Achilles Hector proposes before starting fighting an agreement that the winner, whoever that was, does not dishonor the body of the vanquished one: “I will do unto thee no foul despite, if Zeus / grant me strength to outstay thee, and I take thy life; / but when I have stripped from thee thy glorious armour, / Achilles, I will give thy dead body back to the Achaeans; and so too do thou” (22, 252 – 259). Hector thus seems to be making some changes in the existing ethos of war and sets a new model of relations based on the specific type of reciprocity. There is no requirement, demand or expectation for the action. Hector enounces that in the case of his victory he will take the armor and will not dishonor the body. And only on the basis of this statement he expresses the expectation of similar conduct of Achilles if he were killed in the battle. By his proposal Hector tells, how he would like to be treated, and in the meantime he enounces that he will act in the same way – how he expects the other behaving towards him. Hector’s proposal is not a situational impromptu arose out of his incertitude in the result of the strike. He proposed the like idea a few days earlier, when in the middle of a suspended battle he invited someone from the Achaeans to come out to fight him one on one and offered almost the same: in case of a victory to take the trophy, and to return a body for a suitable burial (7, 76 – 86). Although this proposal is different in construction comparatively with the one suggested for Achilles – first he offers this model of behavior to the enemy, and then takes on the like commitments – in fact, it is identical to the above: Hector initiatively

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

75

proposes to arrange emerging relations according to a scheme that is different from the one habitual for the existing mores. Apparently Hector does not represent a different ethos. He is a child of his time. In the confrontation with Achilles his proposal is situational. Even if it expresses the character of Hector, than only partly. Just the day before in the battle with Patroclus his behavior was absolutely ordinary : capturing the armor that had fallen from Patroclus, he was going to desecrate his body in a usual for that times manner (11, 125 – 127). But Hector and Patroclus had no prior agreement. And in general we do not know about other single case of the like proposal Hector made to his opponents. Achilles angrily rejects Hector’s proposal (20, 253 – 267). This does not mean that Achilles is not capable of relating to the other as to himself. He is capable, but so far only if the other is a close friend, for instance, Patroclus (18, 81 – 82). In a short fight Achilles delivers a deadly blow to Hector and triumphing revenge, previses him: “Thee shall dogs and birds rend in unseemly wise”, but to Patroclus “shall the Achaeans give burial” (22, 336). Achilles rejects Hector’s plea to return his body to the Trojans in exchange for a ransom more strongly than the agreement recently proposed by Hector. From defeated Hector Achilles tears armor returning of his own – the gift of Peleus. And Achaeans run up to the place of the fight, zealously strike their spears into the Hector’s lifeless body as if continuing the act of retribution. This starts a series of actions taken by Achilles for the greatest possible humiliation of Hector in his death. Owing to the gods’ care Hector’s body remains imperishable (23, 184 – 191), but this only aggravates the exorbitance of Achilles’ outrage against Hector’s body. Zeus lets Achilles know that he should leave the body of Hector in peace and sends Iris to tell Priam that he should go to Achilles with abundant ransom. And he adds about Achilles: “not without wisdom is he, neither without purpose, nor yet hardened in sin; / nay, with all kindliness will he spare a suppliant man” (24, 157 – 158). Iris repeats the same words to Priam (186 – 187). With the help of gods Priam steals into Achilles camp, and genuflected imploringly asks him to return Hector’s body. Priam does not appeal to tradition, custom, or for patterns given by heroes. As an argument, he asks Achilles to remember his father Peleus and, therefore, to treat Priam as he himself would have to react to Peleus, were he in the same situation (24, 503 – 504). These words touch the heart of Achilles, who is, as we can see in a number of episodes, not strange to sympathy. Though Priam is the ruler of Trojans, his enemies, Achilles treats him like his father – he agrees to return Hector’s body. Having accepted the gifts he entertains Priam and then puts him carefully on the night. Compassion

76

Ruben Apressyan

rather than ransom motivates Achilles to respond graciously to Priam’s supplication6. I find difficulty in sharing a view that Achilles agrees to return Hector’s body, feeling guilty for outrage he committed Hector’s body (See for example, Losev 1960: 97). This conclusion does not follow from the text of the poem. The guilt Achilles feels is only before Patroclus, that by the decision to return Hector’s body, even for enormousransom, and shared meal he as if would betray the memory Patroclus. I cannot accept a view that Achilles’ conduct towards Priam “demonstrates a selfconscious abuse of the conventions of balanced reciprocity and an assertion of his own authority by means of generalized reciprocity” rather than altruism (Postlethwaite 1998: 93 – 94). No, Achilles is filled with compassion, which is caused by Priam’s plea to treat him as his father. There is no reason to speak here about moral victory over Achilles of his enemies. The very situation, though localized in time, is such that hostility has been overcome – by genuflected Priam, his supplication to Achilles and by Achilles’ own inclination. Though bent by Zeus, Achilles sincerely responds to Priam’ plea, gives back Hector’s body, and performs a series of actions that demonstrate not only his mercy, but also actual respect for Priam. As pointed out by Hektor Yan, in treatment of Priam Achilles behaved quite differently from what was expected by the heroic ethic of glory, honor, and the acquisition of the victories (See: Yan 2003: 24). It is suffice to compare the situation of Achilles and Priam (24, 509 – 512, 633) with the characteristics of friendship given by Aristotle (Aristotle, EN 1158Q, 1) to understand that Achilles and Priam in this situation are friendly according the highest standards of classical Greece. It is obvious that Priam and Achilles are not equal, at least formally : while Priam is in a position of supplicant, kneeling, wick, he is, however, actually ‘designates’ the mode of behavior to Achilles – a strong, powerful, master of the situation. And this mode of behavior is the very one, which later would be enshrined in the formula of the Golden Rule.

Conclusions The analysis of the epic plotlines of confrontation and reconciliation of Achilles, on the one hand, with Agamemnon and on the other hand, with Hector and Priam (in this case, confrontation and reconciliation are split in their personal focus), allows drawing some conclusions about the tendencies in the development of the archaic moral consciousness. 6 On supplication in Homer and, broader, Ancient Greek literature see Gould 1973, Naiden 2006.

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

77

First. The Homeric epic clearly insists on desirability of peace and undesirability of hostility. This thought largely trivial for the later developed moral systems is accentuated by Homer and passes through the Iliad as a single thread. Homer glorifies heroic warriors both, Achaean and Trojan, but he never eulogizes the war. The descriptions of the Trojan War combats are expatiative and sometimes almost naturalistic detailed, but there is no admiration of fights, confrontation and hostility in these details. On the contrary, one can hear in the poem more than once the words of condemnation, direct or indirect, of discord and enmity. To the igniting quarrel of Achilles and Agamemnon Nestor responds not only trying to cool down the leaders and calling for their reconciliation, but also by admonition expressed in explicit universal modality : “A clanless, lawless, hearthless man is he that loveth dread strife among his own folk” (9, 63 – 64). Here we can hear even double condemnation of discord: not only it is terrible in itself, but he, who is seduced by it and is ready to engage in it is inhumane. A similar condemnation we hear from Agamemnon’s lips, when in fierce altercation with Achilles he blames him “for always strife is dear to you, and wars and battles” (1,177). Internecine strife is not admitted. But enmity between strangers is also undesirable. The war is recognized as inadmissible in relations both between people and between nations. In bitter lamentations of Achilles over the death of Patroclus this thought is risen even to greater height: he curses every feud, both among gods and among men. Second. The principle of retribution is fundamental for morality of the Homeric society. At that the reward is immediate and unrestricted. We have seen that all persuade Achilles to temper his anger, to cool down, to reconcile. But nobody, even Nestor, even Thetis and Athena, who often have given Achilles wise advises, do not blame him for redundancy response to injustice caused by Agamemnon. His anger and pride are excessive. But the measure of retribution is determined by Achilles according to his own feeling of the injury inflicted to him. So, in the Homeric world we find a different ethos comparatively to the one we know from the Pentateuch. Here one can distinguish some hints of Lex Talionis (9, 613 – 615). But these resembling Lex Talionis features are a subordinate part of a different regulatory mechanism, namely, the mechanism of unmeasured revenge Third. Although the principle of ‘evil for evil’ (specifically, unmeasured evil in response to committed evil) is common in the archaic Greek society, Homer describing the discord between Achilles and Agamemnon, in fact, cautions against the desire the other evil, particularly excessive responsive evil. Most notable in this regard are the words of Achilles recognized the loss of any sense of his reposal on Achaeans defeat, so far it turned into Patroclus’ death. With this

78

Ruben Apressyan

insight the story of his discord with Agamemnon is revealed in its deep ethical meaning. This meaning has not been purposefully articulated in the Iliad, much less it has become an occasion for didactic instruction. However, not being formulated in the Iliad in normative modality, this meaning is revealed in a form of various maxims expressed on particular and partial occasions (14, 139, 141 – 142; 20, 250) and is implicitly present in epic, which by the very fact of its presentation played admonitory-moralistic role. This moralistic theme – along the lines: do not wish/cause evil and you will not suffer harm – will be multiply rendered in the literature of different ancient peoples. Possibly it was present in the pre-Homeric epic tradition, which has not come down to us. However, from what we know, this is historically the earliest example of such narrative. And because the normative figures of this type are an essential intermediary link between the rule of reciprocity and the Golden Rule7, the presence of such narrative in the Homeric epic considering analytically the traced normative dynamics towards the Golden Rule should be recognized a fundamental fact for the epic as such and for historical genesis of moral consciousness. Fourth. Retribution is a special case of a more general relationship, namely, reciprocity. Reciprocity is the dominant ethical orientation in the Homeric epics (See Zanker 1998: 73; Postlethwaite 1998: 105 – 126; Donlan 1982: 137 – 175). The relations of favor and benevolence like that, which Achilles demonstrated in his treatment of Priam are ethically the most significant, although partial, expression of reciprocity. Strictly speaking, the episode of the meeting of Priam and Achilles gives us a glimpse of a prototype of ‘the Golden rule’ in its behavioral and communicative, but normative version. Here is no rule as such, all the more, the Golden one, super-situationist or super-personal generalization of communicative experience. However, if we try to reconstruct the normative content of the emerging relationship, the latter is higher than just quid pro quo relation. We have here a kind of exteriorized Golden Rule. One can distinguish its varieties in Hector’s proposal to Achilles before the strike, as well as in Priam’s appeal to Achilles. Both cases present one’s attitude towards the other according to the pattern of other’s desired attitude towards oneself. But this relation is imaginary reciprocal. Its potential reciprocity is manifested in the kind of action Achilles committed in response to Priam’s plea and with full benevolence towards Priam. Fifth. At the same time Achilles’ attitude toward Priam is by no means equal. According to the epic plot, Achilles knows that by perishing Hector he gives rise the foretold by gods prerequisite of his own death. In this sense this relation from 7 Logic of normative transition from Lex Talionis to the Golden Rule I reconstructed in (Apressyan 2002: 46 – 64).

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

79

the party of Achilles is higher than just an exchange of services or gifts. From the side of Priam we have a foretype of thinking in terms of the Golden Rule and from the side Achilles – an action in terms of agape¯, generous mercy, the Commandment of Love. Achilles seems to be archetypical in this sense to ancient Greek mode of thinking. As Graham Zanker showed, disinterested, selfless behavior for the sake of others, usually relatives, one can easily see in various characters of Euripides and Sophocles. A theme of selfless behavior with reference to Achilles was touched by Thucydides, Plato, and Aristotle (Zanker 1998: 76 – 77). In contrast to the later Christian ethics in Greek ethics the idea of agape¯ is often combined with the idea of philia. It is distinctive that in the Greek texts of classical period Achilles’ self-sacrifice aimed to recover time¯ of fallen Patroclus is often presented as an example of selfless behavior. Meanwhile Achilles’ treatment of genuflected Priam contradicting to adherence in friendship to the memory of Patroclus demonstrates a different pattern – benevolence to an alien and out of any hope for reciprocity8. According to Aristotle, such actions inter alia is an embodiment of the beauty and the noble, i. e. the good in itself, (Aristotle, Rhet, 1366Q 33 – 34) namely, actions for the sake of others and not the one, who acts (Aristotle, Rhet, 1367Q 4 – 5). As to benevolence Aristotle puts it more definitely in his Ethics, where it is limited by actions in relation towards ours – mainly friends. Achilles’ behavior during the meeting with Priam falls out of this logic. Zanker pointing to extraordinary character of Achilles’ behavior in the context of the Iliad (and, should be added, classical Greek thought till the Stoics) finds only one analogy to this episode, namely, the parable of the Good Samaritan, in which the beneficence was committed by a complete alien (Zanker 1998: 81). Thus understood this episode leads to the conclusion regarding perhaps the highest ethical standard in the archaic moral thinking. But this conclusion must be limited in view of two conditions inherent to this very episode and the archaic thinking in general. First, the supposed scenario of thinking and behavior of Priam and Achilles not only heterogeneous in content (one actualizes the logic of the Golden Rule, the other – the Commandment of Love), but they are also different in reflective statuses of Priam and Achilles. The position of the former is reflexive, moreover, it is doubly reflexive (22, 419 – 420) and, hence, perhaps, is principled, too; but Achilles is just kindly sympathetic and generous and we can only guess regarding ethical reflexivity of the actions he commits. Second, neither the one nor the other position has not been generalized by the very agents – the participants of communication, or by gods or through gods, or by the epic poet himself and thus has not been brought up to the level a standard. 8 For the role of eleos-pity in warrior society and specifically the eleos motif in the plot of Priam’s supplication see Crotty 1994.

80

Ruben Apressyan

This makes the episode essentially different from the parable of the Good Samaritan, which albeit is a narrative, but the narrative, which was originally built with admonitory purpose, with the possibility of prescriptive conclusion that seamlessly woven into the general normative context and the conceptual composition of the Gospel of Luke. Sixth. Archaic moral consciousness that is the kind of moral consciousness revealed to us in the Homeric world is non-normative. And yet, it is intrinsically imperative. It is advisable to distinguish between a prescriptive function that performs some text (written or oral), and the ways in which it occurs. The moral imperativeness does not always function in normative form, i. e. being executed in the form of objective, or super-personal, universal, or addressed to all rules. It may be manifested in the form of a reaction to another person – through adaptation to the other, including the overcoming confrontation with the other. An epic singer is not the only one who acts as a ‘locutionary source’ of epic imperativeness. Epic is filled by imperativeness also at the level of particular narratives. Epic poet does not moralize, but epic characters – gods, heroes, noblemen-agathoi – constantly enounce addressing each other value and imperative (in its broadest sense, not specifically moral) judgments, expressing expectations, recollecting the past experience, recalling the existing traditions, giving examples of worthy deeds of great men. The imperativeness of archaic moral thinking is of narratively-situational nature, most judgments about what is preferred, expected or seemed appropriate are expressed regarding individual cases. Double-level nature of epic imperativeness – inner-epic and super-epic – reflects in its own way the structure of morality as such, presented, on the one hand, in a form of direct communicative reactions, and on the other – in a form of universalizable and rational norms. This is not directly related to the moral change in Achilles. But the mere fact of such character of epic imperativieness certifies ‘embryonic’ integrity of the Homeric morality, without which the representation and description of such moral change would be impossible.

References Adkins A. 1965. Merit and Responsibility : A Study in Greek Values, Oxford. Apressyan R. 2002. “Talion and the Golden Rule: A Critical Analysis of Associated Contexts” (Translated by James E. Walker), in: Russian Studies in Philosophy 41, No. 1: 46 – 64. Apressyan R. 2009a. “Zolotoe pravilo v etike Aristotelia” (“The Golden Rule in Aristotle’s Ethics”), in: Filosofia i etika (Philosophy and Ethics), Moscow, Alfa-M: 157 – 170; Apressyan R. 2009b. “Nastavlenia i istoria Ahikara” (“The Story and Precepts of Ahiqar”), in: Suschnost i slovo (The Essence and the Word), Moscow: 96 – 114.

Homeric Ethics: Prospective Tendencies

81

Aristotle 1991. Aristotle on Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse, Newly translated with Introduction, Notes, and Appendixes by George A. Kennedy, New York; Oxford. Aristotle 2000, Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Translated and Edited by Roger Crisp, Cambridge. Avanesov S. 2010. “Aksiologicheskie motivy v poemah Gomera” (“Value Motives in the Homeric epic”), in: SWOKG: Filosofskoe antikovedenie i klassicheskaya traditsia (SWOKG: Classical Studies in Philosophy and Classical Tradition), [Yekaterinburh, Russia], 4. Issue. 2: 260 – 290. Bassett S. E. 2003. The Poetry of Homer, new ed. With an introd. by Bruce Heiden, Lanham et. al. Crotty K. 1994. The Poetics of Supplication: Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Ithaca. Donlan W. 1982. “Reciprocities in Homer”, in: The Classical World 75 No. 3: 137 – 175. Ferguson J. 1958. Moral Values in the Ancient World, London. Finlay R. 1980. “Patroklos, Achilleus, and Peleus: Fathers and Sons in the «Iliad»”, in: The Classical World 73, No. 5: 267 – 273. Finley M. 1977. The World of Odysseus, [1956], 2nd ed., London. Gould J. 1973. “HIKETEIA”, in: The Journal of Hellenic Studies 93. Homer 1999. Homer, Iliad, Translated by Augustus T. Murray, Cambridge, Mass. Iarkho V. 1962. “Vina i otvetstvennost s gomerovskom epose” (“Guilt and responsibility in the Homeric epic ”, in: Vestnik drevney istorii (Bullitin of Ancient History), [Moscow, Russia] 2: 18 – 22. Iarkho V. 1963. “Problema otvetstvennosti i vnutrenniy mir homerovskogo cheloveka” (“The Problem of Responsibility and the Inner World of the Homeric Man”), in: Vestnik drevney istorii (Bullitin of Ancient History), [Moscow, Russia], 2: 46 – 64. Lloyd-Jones H. 1971. The Justice of Zeus, Berkeley. Losev A. 1960. Gomer (Homer), Moscow. Naiden F. 2006. Ancient Supplication, Oxford. Postlethwaite N. 1998. “Akhilleus and Agamemnon: Generalized Reciprocity”, in: / C. Gill, / N. Postlethwaite / R. Seaford (eds.), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece, Oxford: 93 – 104. Wilson D. 2002. Ransom, Revenge, and Heroic Identity in the Iliad, Cambridge. Yan H. 2003. “Morality and Virtue in Poetry and Philosophy : A Reading of Homer’s Iliad XXIV”, in: Humanitas 16, No.1: 24. Zanker G. 1998. “Beyond Reciprocity : The Akhilleus-Priam Scene in Iliad 24”, in: C. Gill, / N. Postlethwaite / R. Seaford (eds.), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece, Oxford: 73 – 92.

Plato

Gerasimos Santas

The Socratic Method and Ethics

“Moral Philosophy is Socratic” (John Rawls) Consistency or Truth? The Debate on the Socratic Elenchus The issue is old, but it was given new life a quarter century ago by Gregory Vlastos, who was a genius at spotting puzzles in Plato’s texts and pursuing them (as Parminides says of Socrates) “like a Spartan hound.” Vlastos thought that he found several texts in which Socrates claims to have shown his opponents’ beliefs false or his own view to be true. But the arguments Socrates made against his interlocutors, called by Vlastos elenctic, were of a sort (formal, epistemological, and doxastic)1 which could not, seemingly, produce these results. Given an interlocutor’s belief, usually about some virtue, Socrates elicits by questions other beliefs from the interlocutor, and then proceeds to show that these other beliefs, for which no reasons or evidence has been produced, are inconsistent with the original belief. But this, Vlastos argued, does not show that the original belief is false, only that the interlocutor has inconsistent beliefs: either his original belief is false or some other of his beliefs elicited during the argument are false. How then can Socrates claim that he has shown the interlocutor’s belief false or his own (usually contrary) belief true? Vlastos called this “the problem of the elenchus.”2 Now I do not believe that in every argument Socrates constructs he claims that he has shown the interlocutor’s original belief false or his own true (and Vlastos eventually reduced his claims on scope). Sometimes he only says or implies that he has shown that the interlocutor does not know what he claimed in the be1 Formal in the sense of having a structure designed to show inconsistencies; epistemological in that the argument tests the interlocutor’s claims to knowledge; and doxastic in the sense that an argument is elenctic only if it tests what the interlocutor says and believes, not what he may say but not believe or what someone else may believe. 2 Vlastos 1983, reprinted in Fine 1999; see especially p. 40 for the four conditions by which Vlastos defined the elenchus. For the inconsistencies being shown see Young 2006.

86

Gerasimos Santas

ginning to know: what courage is, for example. This result his elenctic arguments are capable of producing. And indeed this may be thought to be the essence of Socratic aporia or puzzlment: there is no aporia in showing something to be false; but there is aporia, Socrates and Plato thought, if we believe, say, that we are friends but have come to realize by Socratic arguments, testing successive accounts of friend, that we do not know what a friend is (Lysis 223B). And we should certainly not underestimate this Socratic achievement: showing us that we didn’t know something important in our lives, but only thought we knew it. Both such results and the instrument that produces them can change our lives and our pursuits. I think that Hugh Bensons’ wonderful book shows us what a large part of Socratic philosophizing this is.3 That Socrates sometimes claimed to have shown the interlocutor’s beliefs false, or his own true, is one of the two anchors on which Vlastos grounded his problem. And it has been a subject of dispute, with some scholars finding some good texts for it and others finding ways to discount these texts.4 The other anchor was Vlastos’ claim that the other beliefs (beside the original belief “targeted for refutation,” called by some “auxiliary beliefs”) which Socrates elicits from the interlocutors during the argument, these “agreements to further premises” are “ad hoc: Socrates argues from q and r, not to them.” (Vlastos, in Fine 1999: 46, 51) Vlastos went all the way back to two nineteenth-century “landmark studies” to find one or another of these two anchors disputed or ignored: George Grote thought that the Socratic elenchus aimed only at exposing inconsistency of beliefs and false pretensions of knowledge (now days this view is called nonconstructivism), while Zeller uncritically accepted Xenophon’s view that in his arguments Socrates “proceeded from the most generally accepted opinions.” On Grote’s view Vlastos’ problem does not arise (and similarly with Benson’s view); Zeller’s mistake, Vlastos says, “is fatal to the elenchus”, and accounts for the fact that in Zeller, and Guthrie who follows him, “the elenchus disappears without a trace.” (Vlastos in Fine 1999: 47 – 8). Now as I said the first anchor has been the subject of much dispute. I myself 3 Benson, examines many Socratic arguments and shows convincingly that in many of them Socrates aims only at exposing inconsistencies in the interlocutor’s beliefs and refuting his claim or pretension to knowledge. There are indeed many such “non-constructive” arguments. I disagree with Benson only in his claim that Socrates never aims beyond that in some of his so called elenctic arguments. See especially Benson 2000, ch. 4. Benson also seems to ignore the analogies and inductions that Socrates often uses to decide ethical issues, perhaps agreeing with the way Vlastos discounts them. See below. 4 E.g., Vlastos 1983. Benson (2000) tries to discount some of these passages. Santana (2003) finds a considerable list of passages where Socrates says explicitly that he is examining whether a definition or thesis is true; see his Appendix B for a long list of such passages. See also below my examination of relevant passages in Republic I.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

87

think that Socrates sometimes does claim to examine the truth of a belief, not only its consistency with other beliefs of the interlocutor ; and these occasions are not confined to the Gorgias.5 ; we shall find them also in Republic Book I. But certainly not always; in many significant elenchi both the aim and the result are the exposure of inconsistency, the deflation of pretension to knowledge, and the production of aporia. In these cases Vlastos’ problem does not arise. The other anchor (that Socrates does not argue for the auxiliary premises— that they are ad hoc) has been less attended to, surprisingly in view of its importance. Its importance is that if Socratic arguments have the form that Vlastos supposed (the showing of an inconsistency between an original belief – definition of a virtue or moral thesis – and other beliefs of the interlocutor), then such arguments give no reason to reject the original belief of the interlocutor as false, unless at the very least some evidence is produced for the truth of the other beliefs of the interlocutor.6 Further, as Vlastos rightly feared, if no reasons or evidence are given for these other beliefs, Socrates is in danger of being dogmatic if and when he claims that the interlocutor’s original belief is false or his own true.7 Vlastos says that Socrates “has reasons” for these premises but he does not give them.8 But why not? If he has reasons but does not give them, he may not be dogmatic but he will certainly seem to be. Why would Plato want to make Socrates appear dogmatic? To be sure, there has been discussion whether the other beliefs (besides the original belief at issue) and premises of Socratic arguments are Aristotelian endoxa, or Xenophon’s “the most generally accepted opinions” (Bolton 1993, Polanski 1985); with no consensus emerging, perhaps because Plato does not usually characterize these other premises one way or another. He does have 5 See Santana 2003: Appendix B. 6 Vlastos 1983 (in Fine 1999: note 47) says that some of them are endoxa but they can’t all be since Socrates holds anti endoxic views. Well, just so if endoxa are only the views of the many ; but Aristotle’s endoxa include the views of the wise, and Socrates’ anti-many views would still be endoxa. See notes 12 & 13 below. 7 “I could not reconcile myself to Grote’s missionary of the examined life, who was a dogmatist himself.” (Vlastos 1983, in Fine 1999: 52). It is impossible not to sympathize with the spirit of this beautiful statement. If the unexamined life is not worth living, should not its chief examiner investigate his own beliefs about what life one should lead, beyond the exposure of inconsistency and the clearing of our heads? Exposing inconsistencies will not by itself answer this fundamental question of ethics. 8 See Vlastos’ own solution to the problem of the elenchus, the problem as he himself set it up Vlastos 1983, in Fine 1999: 58 – 61. It should be noticed that Vlastos’ solution does not proceed by the most obvious and plausible route: in cases where Socrates aims at showing the falsity of the interlocutor’s original belief or the truth of his own, he offers evidence for the auxiliary premises. Vlastos cut himself off from this solution by his too general view that Socrates does not ever offer evidence for the auxiliary premises of his arguments. This is the solution I argue for in some cases of the arguments against various theories of justice in Republic I.

88

Gerasimos Santas

Socrates deliberately laying aside the opinions of the many at some crucial places, such as the Crito and Laches, and this counts against Xenophon’s “the most generally accepted opinions,” at least as being premises Socrates would accept. As for endoxa, Aristotle’s definition is so broad9 that both the opinions of the many and Socrates’ own unusual opinions count as endoxa: for example, on Aristotle’s definition, the beliefs the many in the Protagoras, that the good is pleasure and that knowledge can be overcome by the passions, are endoxa; but then so are Socrates’ opposite beliefs since he is among the wise, and so are Protagroras’ beliefs since he too counts among the wise. For our problems, this seems to get us nowhere.10 But what has not been examined is the idea at the core of Vlastos’ second anchor : that Socrates does not give reasons or arguments or evidence for these auxiliary premises which he shows to be inconsistent with the original belief. In Vlastos’ lifetime Irwin pursued this matter on at least one important occasion: he points out that while in the Laches and the Charmides a crucial premise is used without reasons or evidence, Plato has Socrates give arguments for it in the Gorgias (Irwin 1995): Socrates’ inference from a virtue being admirable or noble to its being beneficial is taken for granted in the former dialogues, but disputed in the Gorgias and Socrates is made to argue for it. Within the Gorgias itself Polus’s admission that justice is praiseworthy or admirable is disputed by Callicles and Socrates has to argue for it. We can add other examples: in the Gorgias Socrates takes if for granted as a premise that we desire good things and do not desire bad things, but in the Meno Plato makes him argue for it. So if we look at the whole of the Socratic elenchi in the relevant dialogues before the Republic we find that some beliefs or premises that are not argued for in some elenctic episodes are argued for in others. Looking at the totality of Socrates’ arguments (in Plato’s relevant dialogues) is important for this issue, since it seems irrational to require that within any given totality of arguments there must be arguments for all the propositions that occur as premises in that totality. This at least holds if all the arguments are demonstrative or deductive. So it seems irrational to require Socrates to give arguments for all the premises he uses in his arguments. (Kraut 1983). The most we can demand is that he give reasons or evidence for some of his premises. And it might be a matter of dispute as to which premises need argument and which not; this may be relative to the civilization of a particular time and place, its state of knowledge, its arts and sciences, its widely held beliefs. 9 In Topics I, 1 100aff. Aristotle characterizes endoxa as the views of all or most people or all of the wise or most of the wise or the most reputable of the wise. 10 For a recent account of how Aristotle tries to handle the problem of inconsistent endoxa, see Bolton 2003: 157 – 60.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

89

On the other hand, if Socrates never gives reasons or evidence for the premises of his elenctic arguments, as Vlastos seems to have supposed, then Vlastos’ problem or puzzle becomes acute, on the assumption that the other anchor is sometimes correct, i. e. sometimes Socrates does claim falsehood for his opposition or truth for his own view and thinks he has argued for it. Moreover, on this hypothesis, Vlastos’ other important and related concern would also seem acute: if Socrates never gave evidence or reasons for any of the premises of his arguments, Socrates would seem to be a dogmatist, a strange thing for a man of reason who is supposed to have made ethics amenable to reason. If these two extreme hypotheses are rejected (that it is rational to demand reasons or evidence for all one’s premises and that Socrates never gives reasons or evidence for the premises of his elenctic arguments), we are left with a middle of the road reasonable expectation: that sometimes Socrates gives reasons for premises and sometimes not, or reasons for some premises and not for others. And of course we might still disagree with Plato’s choice of when reasons or evidence or arguments are needed and when not. I think this is what we find when Socrates says that he has shown a belief false or his own true, as we shall soon see, but it can be obscured by several things. One of them is some dispute about what is an elenctic argument and what is not. Vlastos set up the original problem as if all of Socrates’ arguments in the relevant dialogues are elenctic.11 Yet even Vlastos did not include all of Socrates’ arguments in all the dialogues before the Republic II, since he excluded the elenchus from the Lysis, the Hippias Major and the Euthydemus, on the ground that the interlocutors did not propose the original belief tested (that it was put up by Socrates himself, instead); or that interlocutors did not agree to the other premises. These are doxastic necessary conditions for an argument being adversarial and elenctic. Vlastos defended vigorously two rules for an argument being elenctic: it is the interlocutor’s beliefs that are being tested, and they are to say or agree to only what they believe (Vlastos, in Fine 1999: 38 – 45, 61 – 63). But I think these doxastic restrictions are too artificial12 relative to the problems. If one problem is to see how Socrates can claim to show some important ethical belief false and/or or some of his own true, why should we not look at arguments he constructs when his own belief may be at sake, as according

11 Vlastos 1983, in Fine 1999: 51: “My interpretation of the standard elenchus, taken as a whole, and applied vigorously, conceived as the only rational support Socrates offers his moral doctrine, has no precedent in the existing literature, to my knowledge.” See also his response to Irwin in note 47. 12 And not always present either ; Vlastos was aware of the exceptions but he either used them to try to prove the rule or simply excluded the arguments therein from being elenctic.

90

Gerasimos Santas

to Vlastos is the case in, say, the Euthydemus?13 And if another problem is the danger that Socratic arguments leave Socrates a dogmatist when it comes to his own unusual moral beliefs, as Vlastos feared, why should we not look at arguments in which the interlocutors do not necessarily agree with the auxiliary premises but Socrates seems to provide reasons for them, as is the case in some of his arguments against Callicles and Thrasymachus? There is no good a priori reason to believe that reasoning about morals must be restricted to elenctic arguments, as Vlastos conceived them. And no one has examined all of the arguments about morals in the relevant dialogues (i. e. dialogues before the Republic II) and found that it supports such a view. Another obscuring issue about Vlastos’ second anchor, his view that the auxiliary premises are ad hoc and not argued for, is that when Socrates uses apparently inductive or analogical reasoning to elicit some crucial agreement, there is a tendency to somehow discount it. When Irwin, for example, pointed to the frequent Socratic analogies between the virtues and the technai as supporting some agreements, Vlastos responed that he sees “no sound reason for putting this analogy outside the elenchus; all of the arguments which draw conclusions from that analogy are pure elenctic arguments.” (Vlastos in Fine 1999, note 47). But this tendency should, I think, be resisted in the present context. When within a whole argument Socrates himself produces examples either for an apparently analogical inference or for an apparently inductive generalization, which in turn is treated as a premise in the argument, this must be seriously considered as evidence for that premise. It may be weak or strong evidence, but that is beside the point. The point is that in such cases it just isn’t true that the interlocutor’s agreement to that premise is ad hoc or not argued for. And if the premise that is supported is an empirical proposition, this kind of support for it, analogy or generalization from examples, is one kind of proper support for it. There is a narrower and a wider issue involved in this dispute. The narrower one is whether Socrates ever used probabilistic inductive arguments. Richard Robinson and Vlastos have argued that he did not; that all of Socrates arguments that seem that way are really elucidations of a concept or inductions by complete enumeration.14 We shall look at this matter again in Republic I. But we now have an illuminating study by Mark McPherran,15 which reviews Robinson’s and Vlastos’ arguments, corrects several mistaken identifications of probabilistic inductive arguments,16 and finds some genuine examples of probabilistic in13 Elsewhere, Vlastos correctly treats some important parts of the Euthydemus as containing genuine Socratic views (Vlastos 1991: 216 – 20). 14 Robinson 1953: 37 – 45, Vlastos 1991: 267 – 9. 15 McPherran 2009. 16 Most of these mistakes are my own, in my 1979.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

91

ductive generalizations.17 The wider issue is whether Socrates ever gives any evidence whatsoever for the auxiliary premises; and here clearly we can allow not only probabilistic inductive arguments, analogies or generalizations, but also inductions by complete enumeration and deductive arguments themselves. If we find that sometimes Socrates does produce any such argument for the auxiliary premises, this opens the way to the most direct and plausible solution to Vlastos’ problem: in such cases Socrates does provide evidence for the auxiliary premises, and this evidence is the reason why in such cases the initial belief is rejected when it is found inconsistent with such auxiliary premises. Such evidence gives Socrates good reason for claiming to have shown the initial belief false or his own true, at least provisionally till reason is produced for further examination of it. And this Socrates is no dogmatist about the examined life; he is rather the sort of man who said in the Crito (46b3 – 6) that he is persuaded by “the argument that seems best to me when I reason about the matter.” Perhaps all sides can agree that this issue – whether Socrates ever gives reasons or arguments or evidence for the auxiliary premises of an elenchus, should be decided one case at a time, rather in a wholesale or a priori manner. And what we shall find, I try to show, when we look at this matter case by case, is that Socrates often gives analogies or inductive generalizations to support some premises within an overall elenctic argument; while at other times whole free standing and self-contained arguments are analogies or inductive generalizations. Indeed, such arguments are so prominent in the Socratic dialogues that Aristotle gives them a place of their own in his comments on Socrates’ contribution: (Met, 1078b18 – 30): “There are two innovations which may be justly attributed to Socrates, inductive reasoning and universal definitions [of the virtues]….” This is strikingly distant from Vlastos’ conception of the Socratic elenchus; but not inconsistent with it if we take an inclusive view of the Socratic method in ethics. The Socratic method in ethics includes the search for definitions of the virtues, elenctic arguments testing such definitions and other ethical views about virtue and happiness, and inductions and analogies relevant to ethical issues. This inclusive approach is what I wish to argue for in this paper, and I claim to find in Republic I.

17 McPherran analyzes Charm. 159b-160d, and Charm. 167c-168b and offers convincing evidence (textual evidence as well as analyses of the arguments themselves) that they are probabilistic inductions. He also points out that such passages count heavily against the nonconstructivism interpretation of Socratic method in ethics. Carpenter and Polansky (in Scott 2002), who show convincingly the variety of Socrates’ philosophizing, show several passages in which Socrates argues explicitly that some thesis is “likely”.

92

Gerasimos Santas

The Socratic Method in Republic I When I looked again at Republic I, with these elenctic controversies in mind, I was surprised a few times, and certainly found evidence for the more inclusive approach to the Socratic method. The first surprise came in Socrates’ round with Cephalus about justice. Cephalus himself does not come up with an account of justice; rather, Socrates himself proposes one (possibly suggested by Cephalus’ remarks about the chief use of wealth being to compensate for any wrong done to man or god); so there is no question here of exposing inconsistencies in Cephalus’ beliefs, nor of deflating his pretension to knowledge since he makes not such pretension. Moreover, Socrates introduces his counter example by saying, “as everyone would agree,” indicating a kind of support for it. Further yet, Socrates concludes from the counter example that “Then this is not the definition of justice: to tell the truth and return what one has received” (Republic 331cd). Here, in 15 Stephanus lines, we have Socrates, not the interlocutor, producing an account of justice, Socrates producing a counter example to it to which he claims everyone would agree, and concluding that the definition is not true. Cephalus agrees to the counter example, but he was not even given a chance to agree or disagree with Socrates’ definition; so this is not an argument exposing inconsistencies in Cephalus’ beliefs; though it does show, if the counter example is accepted by everyone, that no one knows this to be the definition of justice. These features are in striking contrast to Socrates’ refutation of the first definition of courage in the Laches: Laches himself proposes the definition and thinks he knows it, Socrates does not appeal to anyone else’s opinions for his counter example, and the elenchus does deflate Laches’ claim to knowledge.18 But are we to say on account of these differences that Socrates’ examination of justice as telling the truth and returning what one has borrowed is not Socratic? The essence of the examination is the same in both cases: the testing of a general definition of a virtue by examples; who believes the definition and who agrees to the counter examples is not irrelevant, but they are secondary matters; these doxastic restrictions are more relevant to the examination of a particular person than to the examination of a view. And even though this personal aspect of some Socratic examinations is important, who among us would care about the particular moral beliefs of Cephalus or Polemarchus or Laches, unless they repre-

18 The counter examples may be individual examples or kinds of examples, as Nahamas and others have pointed out. For the point I am making this does not matter ; if Socrates’ example of showing courage in retreat is a kind of example, it still functions as a counter example that shows Laches’ definition to be too norrow.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

93

sented more than their personal beliefs and unless their examination made a difference to our lives also? In our texts, we actually see this widening of the of the circle of belief in the round with Polemarchus: he attributes the definition of justice as rendering to each man what is due or appropriate to him, harm to enemies and benefit to friends, to the poet Simonides; it is Simonides whom Socrates characterizes as “wise and divine”, and it is Simonides’ reputation, not pretension, of wisdom that is deflated. Polemarchus acts as an interpreter of the poet and contributes beliefs, but the definition that is criticized has been given a much wider following than Polemarchus: at Republic 334b Homer as well is included in the refutation: “So justice, according to you and Homer and Simonides, seems to be a kind of stealing.” But Homer and Simonides were not present to agree to the auxiliary premises of the argument; so plainly we cannot say that Socrates has shown any inconsistency in their beliefs. At the very end of the round the final version of the definition refuted is attributed by Socrates to “Periander or Perdicas or Xerxes or Ismenias the Theban or some other rich man“ (336a). Here Plato is not just after a particular person, but is bent on examining a widely held belief about justice. The last and most famous argument against Polemachus breaks nearly all the rules of the Socratic elenchus as recently conceived. The argument proceeds by testing a clear implication of the last version of the definition of justice, that it consists in benefiting friends who are good men and enemies who are bad men: namely that it is just for a man (“the part of a good man” – Shorey) to harm those who are bad men and his enemies (335ab). The argument proceeds by Socrates offering three sets of analogies in support of its various premises. 1. S suggests19 and P agrees that when horses are harmed they are made worse horses, and worse in respect of the excellence or virtue or horses, not that of dogs. 2. S suggests and P agrees that when dogs are harmed they are made worse dogs, and worse in respect of the virtue of dogs. 3. Socrates suggests and P agrees that “similarly” when men are harmed they are made worse in the human virtue. 4. They agree that the human virtue is justice. 5. They conclude that when men are harmed they are made more unjust (or less just). 6. S suggests and P agrees that musicians do not make men unmusical by the art of music. 7. S suggests and P agrees that horsemen do not make men unfit for horses by the art of horsemanship. 19 We could say, “Socrates asks,” but he is clearly directing and constructing the argument; “suggests” captures better what is happening, so I think.

94 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Gerasimos Santas

They conclude that similarly just men do not make men unjust by justice, or more generally good men do not make men bad by virtue. They agree that it is not the function of heat to cool, but to do the opposite. They agree that it is not the function of dryness to moisten but to do the opposite. They conclude that similarly it is not the function of the good man to harm, but to do the opposite. They agree that the just man is good. They conclude that it is not “the function of the just man to harm, neither friend nor any other man, but [the function] of the opposite man, the unjust man [to harm]”.

Socrates immediately draws a further conclusion: “If, then, anyone affirms that it is just to render to each his due and he means by this that harm is due to his enemies by the just man and benefit to his friends, he is not a wise man who said this; for what he meant is not true. For it has made clear to us that that in no case is it just to harm anyone” (Republic 335e). Notice the generality of this conclusion; it is not only about Polemarchus’ beliefs about justice, but about a whole theory of justice (as reciprocity). In this last passage we see that Vlastos’ first anchor is secure here: Socrates says that anyone who maintains that it is just to harm anyone is not wise because what he maintains is not true. This is good enough for me. Socrates plainly takes the above argument to have shown that the definition of justice is false because it has an implication that has been shown to be false (that it is just to harm some one’s enemies). And from this falsity he concludes that anyone who maintains such a definition does not know what justice is. The inference is impeccable, and understandable to us since in the Gorgias (454d) Socrates pointed out that unlike opinion knowledge does not admit of falsehood. Does Plato then take this argument by his Socrates to deflate false pretensions to, or reputations of, knowledge, or does he take it to aim at reaching truth? The plain answer is that it does both these things; and that it proceeds first by showing falsehood and then inferring lack of knowledge from it. Further, it is difficult to see that this argument purports to show any inconsistency at all, since it uses analogical inferences at three crucial points (the inferences to 3, 8, and 11); it is logically open to Polemarchus to agree to the premises of these inferences but not to their conclusions; or to offer counter analogies. Now when we look for the other anchor that created the problem Vlastos tried to solve, we find that some of the premises are argued for, and others not. The first conclusion, that harming a human being makes him worse with respect to human virtue, is supported by the analogy to horses and dogs; the second conclusion, that just men do not make others unjust by their justice, is also

The Socratic Method and Ethics

95

supported by the two analogies to music and horsemanship; and the conclusion, that it is not the function of a just man to make others unjust or of good men to make others bad, is supported by the analogies of heat and dryness. And each of the three conclusions in turn becomes a premise. Indeed, the only crucial premise that is not argued for is that justice is the human virtue; but when we look at the next round with Thrasymachus, we see that a part of this premise is disputed by him (since he disputes that justice is a virtue), and Socrates is made to argue for it. We see here the importance of looking at more than one argument when we make the demand that Socrates argue for his premises. So how can we say that Socrates does not argue for the premises of his argument in this instance? Well, we could still say that he has not argued for ALL the premises of the argument; notably he has not argued for the premises about horses, dogs, music, horsemanship, heat and dryness. But now we run the risk of making the irrational demand that Socrates argue for all his premises. And if we are not doing that, then we may be disagreeing with Socrates or Plato’s choice about what needs argument and what may be taken for granted. But none of this, I submit, presents us with Vlastos’ problem. The problems we are now left with are problems we can encounter with any argument aiming to show the truth or falsity of some view or belief. Further, when we look at the premises that have not been argued for, about horses, dogs, music, horsemanship, heat and dryness, we see that they are not necessarily moral beliefs; some may reflect general evaluative practices and aims of some arts and sciences in Plato’s day ; others may be empirical propositions (some may foreshadow the functional view of good and virtue put forward at the end of Book I). To find out whether they are true we ourselves would look at the aims and practices of the relevant arts and sciences; we might go to an expert on horses to inquire whether harming a horse is always making it worse with respect to what he takes to be the virtues of horses (alternatively, we might go to an evolutionary biologist or ecologist for evidence, if it is not domesticated horses that is at issue); and to a chemist or physicist or an engineer to find out whether heat can cool. In this argument we see clearly that Socrates goes beyond removing inconsistencies in our beliefs and clearing our heads: he tries to show that a theory of justice is false. The Vlastos problem is solved here if the argument is thought to be elenctic, since Socrates does support crucial premises and this support gives reason to reject the original belief; or Vlastos’ problem does not arise at all, if the argument is thought to be not elenctic but a free standing argument by analogies. But this case is by no means unique. When we look at the round with Thrasymachus (T) we find a number of interesting innovations, which provide more piecemeal solutions to Vlastos’ problem and can fruitfully broaden our conception of the Socratic method.

96

Gerasimos Santas

To begin with, Plato has Thrasymachus give an argument FOR his account of justice as the advantage of the stronger, and display a method by which he obtains it.20 The ruling party in each kind of constitution (regime), whether tyrannical, aristocratic, or democratic, he says, is the stronger party (this is an elucidation of what T initially means by the stronger). In each case the stronger party makes laws whose obedience is to its own advantage; and in each case, the stronger party declares justice to be the observance of these laws. Therefore, he says, “if one reasons rightly, it works out that the just is the same everywhere, the advantage of the stronger” (Republic 339a, Shorey). Here, on the assumption that justice in each state consists in the observance of its positive laws, Thrasymachus claims that an empirical generalization is true, namely, that in each state the ruling party enacts laws to its own advantage; and from these two premises (and his first elucidation of the stronger) he concludes to his account of justice as everywhere the advantage of the stronger party. He does not conduct the empirical investigation which would confirm his generalization, but Aristotle may have and others can.21 Socrates says that he now understands Thrasymachus’ account of justice, but “whether it is true or not,” he says twice, they must try to learn and think about (Republic 339a, 339b). Once more, Vlastos’ first anchor is secure here. It is not only the consistency of T’s beliefs that is being tested, but also the truth of his account of justice. (And, once more, it is not T who claims to know this account of justice to be true, or that he is wise, but S that attributes to him wisdom). Socrates first argument against Thrasymachus is considered an elenchus: Socrates asks and T admits that legislators (the ruling party) can sometimes make mistakes in thinking that a given law which they enact is to their own advantage; and in such cases, Socrates points out, observance of that law (by the subjects) would be both just and unjust: just by the assumption that in each state the ruling party declares justice to be the observance of its laws, and unjust by T’s definition of justice as what is to the advantage of the ruling party. From T ’s definition of justice, his assumption, and his new admission Socrates derives a contradiction. This looks like a perfect example of exposing inconsistency. And it is. 20 It is very much worth remarking that this is a most unusual move in Plato up to this point in his dialogues: to present the view of the opposition as a result of reasoned argument. Socrates puts words in Cephalus’ mouth about what justice is, and Plato has Polemarchus simply appeal to the poets; but he has Thrasymachus give a remarkable argument for his theory of justice; an argument that an empirical political scientist might give now days for a similar theory. 21 Aristotle Politics, Book. III, ch. 6 concedes that there are actual constitutions which satisfy T’s definition of justice, he calls them “deviant” and argues against them, as Plato does also in the Laws 714 – 15.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

97

But it is too weak to say that this argument shows only an inconsistency in Thrasymachus’ beliefs. Thrasymachus’ admission that rulers can make mistakes about what laws would be to their own advantage is indeed not argued for here; but it needs no argument; it is true and its truth is supported by lots of experience. In Thrasymachus’ view, laws are seen as means to promoting the interest of the ruling party ; and human fallibility certainly includes making mistakes about means to ends. The argument establishes that within Thrasymachus’ own view, the justice of each state cannot be identical with observance of the laws made by the ruling party ; this is the assumption that made Thrasymachus’ empirical method of determining what justice is possible. Not only this, but even if we go to Plato’s own implied view, later in the Republic 420BC, that laws are means for promoting the interests (or happiness) of all the citizens, not only the ruling party, the same result follows, since human beings can and do also make mistakes about what laws would promote the interests of all the citizens. In our far more complex societies such mistakes (e. g. tax laws intended to stimulate growth, or laws raising the minimum wage intended to help the poor) are unfortunately commonplace. It is crucial to see that what matters here is whether this premise is true and we have of evidence for it, not only whether Plato has anyone agree to it without argument. Thus, this elenchus does a lot more than show inconsistency in Thrasymachus’ beliefs: it opens up some logical space between justice and positive law, a result that in the rest of the Rep. is taken for granted, notably in Plato’s revolutionary proposals for the equality of women, which were against the positive laws of every known state.22 In sum, this first argument against Thrasymachus is indeed an elenchus as Vlastos conceived the elenchus, and Vlastos’ problem does arise: the argument produces an inconsistency in Thrasymachus’ beliefs, but this by itself does not tell us which belief Thrasymachus should give up; why then does he give up the belief that justice in a state is identical with the positive laws enacted by its de facto rulers? In this case the answer is clear : he gives up this belief because it is true, and we have lots of experience for it, that de facto rulers sometimes make mistakes about what laws are to their own interest. De facto rulers are human beings and human beings are fallible about means to ends. Vlastos was correct that neither Thrasymachus nor Socrates has argued for this premise, but this is not the end of the matter for his problem in this case. Of course in other cases of showing inconsistency we may not know what belief is false and the Vlastos problem maybe harder to solve. Thrasymachus tries to repair the damage to his argument by recourse to his 22 For Plato’s argument that equality of social functions with respect to gender is just, see Santas 2001: 95 – 103.

98

Gerasimos Santas

strict notion of a ruler, by which, contrary to what “everyone says” (Republic 340), a ruler is not a ruler when he makes the relevant mistake. Initially, Thrasymachus elucidated his notion of the stronger as the de facto rulers of a society ; he plausibly enough chose de facto political power as a criterion of strength, since this power extends over property, liberty, and even life itself. But now he adds knowledge about what is to one’s own good as another necessary condition for being the stronger, on the reasonable supposition that in so far as one makes a mistake as to what is to one’s own good one is not strong but weak (340C). But new damage to his view appears with this new conception of a ruler, because now neither an investigator into what justice is nor a ruler’s subjects would know when a positive law determines just behavior and when not. The empirical investigation into what justice is could not be carried out successfully, since an investigator would have no way of telling when an actual law might turn out to be a mistake.23 And the strict ruler’s subjects would not know which of the still de facto ruler’s laws it is just to obey, since they too (the subjects) are fallible about means to ends and cannot be presumed to know any more than de facto rulers about what actual law might turn out to be a mistake. This might be an intolerable uncertainty with respect to requiring compliance to the laws and with respect to the stability of a constitution. In his second argument against Thrasymachus, Socrates takes up the modified view, in which the ruler is understood in the strict sense, since Thrasymachus has now added knowledge to de facto political power as definitional (or as necessary conditions) of the stronger. This is an argument by analogy, intended to show that Thrasymachus’ other premise, the empirical generalization is false. If ruling, on Thrasymachus’ own reformed view of a ruler in the strict sense of making no relevant mistakes, requires knowledge of what is to the rulers’ interest, and if ruling is thus an art in the strict sense (an art that contains no relevant mistakes), then we can compare it to other recognized and established arts, such as medicine and navigation, and thereby test Thrasymachus’ empirical generalization, that in every state rulers makes laws to their own advantage (rather than to the advantage of their subjects). Socrates suggests and T agrees that medicine and the physician, in the strict sense, is the stronger party and the human body of the patient the weak 23 An empirical investigation into what justice is, which proceeded by looking into the positive laws of a given society, would no longer be assured that its results would determine what justice is, since it is still de facto rulers who enact laws and they still can make mistakes (remembering that on T’s new notion the stronger must be strict rulers who are also de facto rulers). An investigator would have no way of telling which of the present positive laws might turn out to be mistaken, any more than de facto rulers have, or telling when a de facto ruler is also strict ruler and when not. This may be an intolerable uncertainty for such an investigation.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

99

party : “That is the reason why the art of medicine has now been invented, because the body is deficient” (341e). Similarly, in navigation, the pilot, in the strict sense, is the stronger party and the passengers the weaker party, since he knows what is to their safety at sea and they don’t. Then, Socrates suggests, the physician qua physician aims at healing the patent, since qua physician he has no need healing and the patient qua deficient body does have such need; again, the pilot qua pilot aims at the safety of the passengers at sea. These are the functions of these arts: being perfect, as arts in the strict sense, they seek to make up the deficiencies of their imperfect or deficient subjects. Similarly, since ruling is an art, in the strict sense, and rulers are the stronger party and subjects the weaker, Socrates draws the conclusion that the function of ruling is not to promote the interest of the rulers but of those the rulers have charge over, the ruled. This is not an elenctic argument: it does not have the structure or design of an argument for exposing inconsistencies; it is a free standing self-contained argument by analogy designed to show that Thraymachus’ empirical generalization (that rulers always enact laws to their own advantage) is false. It uses premises from the other arts, which are not moral propositions but pertain to the identity conditions, the aims of, and the rationale for these arts, — for example, that the aim of medicine is health; and it supports analogically the positive view that the function of ruling is the advantage of the ruled. (It even supports inductively the larger view that the function of the human arts and sciences is to promote the good of subjects over whom they have charge, not the good of their practitioners, except incidentally). Of course, it is not a conclusive argument, as arguments by analogy are not; and as such it cannot show inconsistency. We can confirm the point by observing that Plato has T reply with a counter analogy to Socrates’ second argument: “… in politics the genuine ruler regards his subjects exactly like sheep, and thinks of nothing else, night and day, but the good he can get out of them for himself” (343B).24 Of course Socrates’ argument uses an idealized conception of the arts, since it is testing T’s modified view with the notion of a strict ruler ; and Socrates gives the idealized notion a basis, a rationale for inventing and using the arts in the first place; we prize the arts in so far as they are making no mistakes. It is the right kind of argument to use for testing T’s generalization with the strict notion of a ruler. Once more, we see Socrates trying to show that a theory of justice is 24 Socrates’ argument could also be interpreted as an inductive generalization from the arts of medicine and navigation, since Socrates speaks of “every art” several times; in that case the shepherd’s art that T brings up would be considered a counter example to the generalization. Later, 345CD, Plato has Socrates trying to account for the shepherd’s art case by distinguishing the function of an art from the motive a practitioner may have for practicing it, namely making money by selling or slaughtering the sheep, confirming that Plato sees T’s shepherd case as a counter analogy or counter example to Socrates’ second argument.

100

Gerasimos Santas

mistaken, not by exposing inconsistencies, but by arguing by analogy or generalization from substantive premises about the human arts and sciences. It should be noticed that this argument (with rulers in the strict sense) does not show that T’s generalization is false of merely de facto rulers; that it is false of actual rulers and their legislative aims and practices. For that we would need an actual empirical investigation of de facto rulers’ legislative aims and practices by political scientists doing comparative government across nations and historical periods. But if T were to revert to his original notion of the stronger, as simply a de facto ruler, Socrates’ first argument would come into play and disarm the empirical generalization: even if that generalization turned out to be true, and simply de facto rulers did legislate with a view to their own advantage, still it would not follow that justice is the advantage of that stronger party, but at most that what de facto rulers think is to their advantage and so at most what they think justice is. We can now see why Plato had T reject this way out of the first argument (340BC), when Cleitophon suggested that what T meant (to begin with) is that justice is what the stronger thought was to their advantage. Given that de facto rulers sometimes mistake what laws are to their advantage, which is true and no longer disputed, even a successful (from T’s point of view) empirical investigation would at most determine what de facto rulers think justice is. Though such a result might be useful for many purposes, why should anyone suppose that it is identical with what justice is? After all people disagree about justice and have opposite thoughts about what justice is. The subjects of T’s de facto or strict rulers may well be expected to disagree with their rulers about what justice is; after all the justice of these rulers is not to their, the subjects’ advantage but often contrary to it. Further, why should we take the de facto rulers’ word (or thought) for what justice is, even if they were unanimous? After all, they are fallible like the rest of us. Let us consider one more Socratic argument, the last one against Thrasymachus, purporting to show that the just man and only the just man is happy. Here, where one of Socrates’ most characteristic moral beliefs is at stake, Socrates begins with a definition of two kinds of functions: “… the work (ergon) of a horse or anything else [is] that which one can do only with it or best with it. …”; and again, “… when I asked whether that is not the work (ergon) of a thing which it only or it better than anything else can perform.” (353a7). I call the first kind of function exclusive and the second optimal; Socrates gives seeing as the exclusive function of eyes (since only with the eyes can we see), and hearing as the exclusive function of the ears (since we can see only with the ears); and he gives pruning as an optimal function of a pruning knife, since, he says, “we can use a dirk to trim vine branches and a knife and many other instruments… but nothing so well as a pruning knife fashioned for that purpose” (353a).

The Socratic Method and Ethics

101

Next, Socrates proposes that there is (an) appropriate virtue(s) for each thing that has a function, and characterizes the appropriate virtue(s) of a thing with a function as that by which it performs its function well, and its vice(s) that by which it performs it poorly (353bc). He rounds out the theory by pointing out that things with functions are good of their kind and have the appropriate virtues when they perform their functions well. Finally, Socrates claims that this theory applies to “all other things” (presumably to all things with functions), and immediately applies the theory to prove to Thrasymachus that a just man is happy and an unjust one unhappy. (353d – 354a). This immediate application proceeds by supposing that the soul has the exclusive functions of managing, ruling, and deliberating, and that justice is the virtue of the soul and injustice its vice; from the theory and these premises Socrates then concludes that the just soul will do these functions well, the unjust one badly, and that the soul that does these things well will live well, the unjust will live badly ; and further that the soul that lives well is happy and the one that lives badly unhappy. I have discussed the theory of function and virtue and its applications in detail elsewhere.25 Here I look briefly at Plato’s probable sources for this theory. I think we can see from the examples that Socrates gives that the theory generalizes from practices, including evaluative practices, in medicine and the productive arts. The medicine of Plato’ s day had determined that the human body has a natural division of parts (especially organs, but also fluids, tissues, and bones – see the long discussion of the human body in the Timaeus 72 – 79), and a natural division of physical labors matched to those parts; eyes and ears are natural parts of the human body and each has a unique task matched to it; we can understand the human eye by understanding what that function is and by finding out what qualities, such as structure and composition, enable it to perform that function well. Further, we evaluate the human eye by how well it performs that function, and we can think of the qualities that enable it to perform that function well as its virtues. It is then a truism that an eye that performs its function as well as possible is a completely good eye and that a completely good eye has all the virtues appropriate to eyes (i. e. the virtues relative to that function). The theory for human artifacts is similar, except that here it is the productive arts from which the account of optimal function is taken, and that account is different: any artifact can be used for many purposes, but usually it is the best instrument (better than others) for the purpose or use it was designed for (rather than other uses); and it is good of its kind and functions well when it

25 Santas 2010: ch. 6, and Santas 2006: 132 – 41.

102

Gerasimos Santas

has the virtues appropriate to its function. Plato has a dualistic theory of function taken from medicine and the productive arts.26 This last argument against T is not designed to show any inconsistency in T’s beliefs, since Plato makes it clear that T is no longer agreeing only to what he believes (Republic 350E, 354A). Rather, Socrates is arguing for the truth of one of his most characteristic ethical beliefs, that justice and only justice brings happiness, and he is doing so by constructing definitions and relying on premises he extracts from concepts and findings in the medicine of the day and the productive arts.

Rawls’s Methods and the Socrates’ Methods in Ethics In nearly all of Socrates’ arguments in Republic I, we have seen that he goes beyond issues of consistency and clarity, to arguing for the falsity or truth of substantive views about justice and its benefits. For the truth of, or evidence for, some of his premises, a philosopher doing ethics may have to go to the arts and sciences, as Socrates was doing throughout the first book of the Republic. How widespread and appropriate this is, we can see by skipping all the way to John Rawls who, in A Theory of Justice, does this frequently quite explicitly : in his contractarian methodology of the original position he appeals to economics, rational decision theory, and psychology (to name a few) for many of his assumptions, as he himself explicitly tells us.27 And of course Plato himself shows awareness of the social contract methodology, which uses many empirical assumptions about men’s motivations and rational powers, in the theory of justice he has Glaucon expound in the second book of the Republic. But it is in Rawls’ method of “considered judgments in reflective equilibrium”28 that we find a closer comparison to the Socratic method. It is here that Rawls tells us that “moral philosophy is Socratic” (Rawls 1971: 49). To do moral philosophy, we need in the first instance to examine our own beliefs about right and wrong, to clear our heads, to detect inconsistencies, and not fool ourselves in thinking we know something when we don’t. And this Socrates does, for others 26 For recent discussions of function in biology see Hull / Ruse 1998: 221 – 293; for a dualistic theory of function (for organs and artifacts) still in play in contemporary philosophy of biology, and parallel to Plato’s dualistic theory of function, see Preston 1998. 27 Rawls 1971; see Sections 3,4, 9, & 26, especially p. 41: “Moral philosophy must be free to use contingent assumptions and general facts as it pleases.” As Rawls points out, utilitarianism too relies on general facts, such as the principle of diminishing marginal utility to assure us that the principle of utility will not result in too great inequalities in the distribution of income and wealth; see, e. g. 158 – 60. Ch. III of the book shows amply many of the contingent assumptions and general facts to which Rawls appeals. 28 Rawls 1971, especially Sections 4 & 9.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

103

and for himself, in the arguments exposing inconsistency of beliefs and deflating false claims to knowledge. However, Socrates’ search for definitions of the virtues, another part of the Socratic method, goes beyond the search for consistency and clarity ; it is an attempt to find true general principles (in the form of “real definitions”) that underlie and explain our less general judgments about examples and kinds of examples of the virtues.29 In trying to understand the virtues Socrates typically puts together proposed (by others or by himself) definitions and judgments of examples or kinds of examples of the virtues; and in testing the definitions he does not rest the search unless he finds that the judgments and the definitions agree with each other and the definitions explain and help us understand our more specific judgments. Rawls’ methodology of considered judgments in reflective equilibrium does both of these things, I believe, though in a somewhat different way. To begin with, we have two semi technical notions we don’t explicitly find in Plato. Considered judgments about what is just and unjust are not all judgments we make to that effect, but only a sub-set of them: those we make when our own interests are not at stake, when we are not frightened or upset, and we have confidence in.30 The first step is to identify these among our judgments or beliefs, to reflect on them, look for possible inconsistencies and clear our heads. The second step is to try to find general principles (corresponding to Socratic “real definitions”) of justice, which would explain these judgments and our ability to make them; in Rawls’ terms, the principles would explain our “sense of justice,” our capacity to make judgments about what is just and unjust and to give reasons for them, as well as some motivation to act in accord with them (Rawls 1971: 46). Finally, we need to compare our considered judgments not only with one underlying principle, but with several alternative sets of principles of justice, indeed all the ones known to us from the various traditions of moral philosophy and perhaps several cultures; and try to find the best match between our considered judgments and some one set principles (among the alternative sets of principles at hand). In this process 29 Commentators have paid a lot of attention to the form of Socratic definitions and the fact that it is definitions that are sought. But we must not forget that it is real definitions that are being sought, not nominal or lexical definitions; and, in the case of justice certainly, they play a similar role to what we might alternatively call principles of justice. This I think is absolutely true of the accounts of justice offered by Polemarchus, Thrasymachus, Glaucon and Socrates himself later on in the Republic. All these are substantive theories of justice, not nominal or lexical definitions, even though the theories must have sufficient connection to the main uses of the relevant terms. 30 Rawls 1971: 19 – 20, 47 – 8. Considered judgments are of course also less general than principles of justice themselves; for example, that racial discrimination is unjust. The auxiliary premises by which Socratic definitions are tested in elenchi are also usually less general than the definitions themselves.

104

Gerasimos Santas

neither the considered judgments we start with nor the principles have any absolute epistemic priority.31 We work back and forth, sometimes giving up principles, sometimes giving up some of our considered judgments, till we reach an equilibrium: we have found the best match between some set of principles and some considered judgments we are not willing to give up (a “fixed point” in our considered judgments)32 ; the principles of the best match helps us understand better why we make these judgments, they help us see why we have given up some considered judgments, and they illuminate our hesitation and doubts in other more difficult cases. This equilibrium is relatively stable but not final; new cases and problems might come up that would lead us to revise it. We do not claim of course that we find all these Rawlsian concepts in Plato’s Socratic dialogues. But technical notions and technical innovations aside, the process of identifying our considered judgments about what is just and unjust (the judgments of Cephalus, for example, about breaking promises and lying being unjust), and of trying to discover some underlying principle that explains our beliefs, are indeed Socratic examinations of ourselves that serve to expose inconsistency and bring clarity into our beliefs and new understanding of the reasons for our judgments in more specific cases. The third step in the methodology of considered judgments in reflective equilibrium, however, goes beyond consistency and clarity, to an attempt to find the most adequate set of principles of justice among all the known ones. Here too we may have an analogue in the Socratic dialogues: the successive search among several proposed definitions, the attempt to eliminate false ones, and to find a general principle that is supported by our more specific fixed beliefs and that helps us understand them. We see such a parade of successive definitions in the Laches, the Charmides, the Euthypro, and Republic I (in the last work the parade continues in Books II and IV). Indeed, every Socratic dialogue of definition – whether of courage, temperance, piety, justice, or virtue – exposes the participants and the readers to several alternative general definitions, an attempt to eliminate false 31 This presents an interesting solution to the paradoxes of the so-called Socratic fallacy. Paradoxes are generated if we suppose that Socrates thought that we cannot have knowledge of examples unless we knew the definition while at the same time he invites interlocutors to generalize to a definition from examples and is willing to test definitions by examples. With the focus on such epistemic problems, one tends to forget that both the Socratic search for definitions and Rawls’ method of considered judgments aim at reaching greater generality that has explanatory power. That can be done even if there is no epistemic priority of one over the other to begin with. 32 Even some of our considered judgments may contain errors that may be revealed to us when we compare our judgments with several alternative sets of principles; Rawls gives the judgment that slavery is unjust as one we would not be willing to give up; or that racial discrimination is unjust; these are fixed points in our considered judgments. On the other hand, we are less confident about what distribution of wealth or authority is just. Rawls 1971: 19 – 20, 48 – 51.

The Socratic Method and Ethics

105

ones, and a search for one that would illuminate our fixed and more specific relevant beliefs. In both Rawls and Socrates the third step goes beyond bringing consistency into our beliefs and clearing our heads, to the discovery of what justice is, though with some important differences. In Rawls, the third step, reflective equilibrium, is an attempt to find the most adequate conception of justice, at least among those known to us: most adequate in the sense that it best explains our more specific considered judgments that we are not willing to give up and helps us understand more problematic judgments – it explains best and even corrects our sense of justice. In Socrates, the search for definitions as general principles underlying less general judgments is a search for true general principles; and the testing of such definitions, when it goes beyond exposing inconsistencies, as in arguments by analogy or inductive generalization, is an attempt to exclude false general principles. Unlike Rawls, Socrates and Plato were ethical realists about justice and the other virtues: there is a kind (or a separate form, in middle and later Plato) of justice, which exists independently of human beliefs, desires, and choices; while for Rawls justice is that set of principles that best explains our sense of justice and the result of a rational choice in appropriate circumstances (the original position).33 But this difference, and the new technical notions, should not hide from us what the Socratic method and Rawls share in common. To do moral philosophy well and fruitfully, we need not only to reflect on our beliefs, to spot inconsistencies and clear our heads, but also to reach substantive conclusions about justice and the other virtues; and to do that we may need to and should rely on substantive assumptions and premises from the human arts and sciences. I have argued that the first book of the Republic offers us good evidence that Socrates was doing ethics in both of these fundamental ways.

33 It is important to realize that Rawls wants to use both methods, of considered judgments in reflective equilibrium and rational choice in the original position, to find the most adequate principles of justice; indeed the theory of justice as fairness is “the hypothesis that the principles of justice which would be chosen in the original position are identical with those that match our considered judgments and so these principles describe our sense of justice.” Rawls 1971: 48. His Ch. II tests different principles of justice by fixed points in our considered judgments, while his chapter III uses rational decision theory and the original position to argue for the same principles that have been selected in the previous chapter. Plato of course shows awareness of the contractarian methodology in the theory he puts in the mouth of Glaucon, but never sponsors it, and does not use it as an analytic device by which to test other theories of justice, such as his own or that of Thrasymachus. He has his own method for discovering what justice is, what I call the functional method; but he also compares the results he reaches by the functional method to our less general judgments about what is just and unjust, the so called vulgar tests, in Republic 442. For more discussion of this, see Santas, 2006: 141 – 145.

106

Gerasimos Santas

References Aune, B. 1997. “The Unity of Plato’s Republic”, in: Ancient Philosophy 17: 291 – 308. Benson, H. 2000. Socratic Wisdom, Oxford. Bolton, R. 1993. “Aristotle’s Account of the Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 11: 121 – 152. Bolton, R 2003. “Aristotle: Epistemology and Methodology”, in: Ch. Shields (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Ancient Philosophy, Oxford: 151 – 162. Brickhouse, T.C. / Smith, N.D. 1984. “Vlastos on the Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy : 185 – 195. Carpenter, M. / Polansky, R. M. 2002. “Variety of Socratic Elenchi”, in: G. A. Scott (ed.) Does Socrates Have a Method? Rethinking the Elenchus in Plato’s Dialogues and Beyon, Pennsylvania: 89 – 100. Hull, D. / Ruse, M. (eds.) 1998. The Philosophy of Biology, Oxford. Irwin, T. 1995. Plato’s Ethics, Oxford. Kraut, R. 1983, “Comments on Vlastos”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy I: 53 – 70. McPherran, M. 2011. “Santas, Socrates, and Induction”, in: G. Anagnostopoulos (ed.), Socratic, Platonic and Aristotelian Studies: Essays in Honor of Gerasimos Santas, Dordrecht: 53 – 74. Polansky, R. 1985. “Professor Vlastos’ Analysis of Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy : 247 – 259. Preston, B. 1998. “Why is a Wing Like a Spoon? A Pluralist Theory of Functions”, in: Journal of Philosophy vol. 95, no. 5.: 215 – 254. Rawls, J. 1971. A Theory of Justice, Cambridge, MA., Harvard University Press. Robinson, R. 1953. Plato’s Earlier Dialectic, Oxford. Santana, A. 2003. The Problem of the Socratic Elenchus, Irvine. Santas, G. 1979. Socrates, London. Santas, G. 2001. Goodness and Justice: Plato, Aristotle, and the Moderns, Oxford. Santas, G. 2006. “Methods of Reasoning about Justice in Plato’s Republic”, in: G. Santas (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Plato’s Republic, Oxford: 125 – 145. Santas, G. 2010. Understanding Plato’s Republic, Oxford. Vlastos, G. 1983 (1999). “The Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 1: 27 – 58, reprint. in: G. Fine (ed.), Plato 1: Metaphysics and Epistemology, Oxford 1999: 36 – 63. Vlastos, G. 1991. Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher, Cambridge. Vlastos, G. 1994. Socratic Studies, Cambridge. Young, Ch. 2006. “The Socratic Elenchos”, in: H. Benson (ed.), A Companion to Plato, Oxford: 55 – 69.

Christopher Taylor

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

Plato’s Apology is not a work of ethical theory. It is not Plato’s object in this work to establish any ethical thesis, to seek the definition of any ethical concept, such as that of a virtue, or to undertake the critical examination of anyone’s ethical beliefs. As opposed to such abstract theoretical aims, his aim in this work is the quite specific one of establishing the injustice of Socrates’ condemnation on charges of impiety towards the gods and of corrupting young people. But the particular form of Plato’s defence of Socrates creates a work which, though its subject-matter is not ethical theory, is permeated by Plato’s deepest ethical beliefs. For Plato’s defence of Socrates consists in the attempt to present the life which Socrates had lived, i. e. a life devoted to the critical investigation of human values, as the best human life, both for Socrates himself and for those whose beliefs he examined, and thereby as the perfect service of the divine. It expresses, then, Plato’s beliefs about the value of philosophy, including its relation to human good and to the fulfilment of religious obligation. The claim that Socrates’ unique way of life was the fulfilment of a divine mission is the heart of Plato’s version of his defence, but the presentation of that claim in the Apology is deeply puzzling. First, while explicitly disclaiming any kind of wisdom, great or small (21b), and apparently denying that he knows anything fine and good (21d), Socrates nevertheless claims that “the god” has commanded him “to live in the pursuit of wisdom and in examining myself and others” (28e), and twice (29b, 37b) asserts that he knows that abandoning that divine mission would be bad and shameful. Moreover, his conviction that he has this mission is so strong that he is literally prepared to stake his life on it, in his famous insistence (29c-d) that if the charges against him were dismissed on condition of abandoning his philosophical activity he would refuse the offer, since “I shall obey the god rather than you” (d3 – 4). This situation raises two questions: first, what precisely is it that Socrates is enjoined by “the god” to do? Second, whatever it is, how does Socrates know that he is enjoined to do it? The Apology appears to answer these questions, but critical consideration of the

108

Christopher Taylor

answers given in the text indicates that Plato cannot have considered them adequate to explain, much less justify, Socrates’ way of life. In the Apology Socrates says that his practice of questioning others was prompted by the response of the Delphic oracle to Chairephon’s question whether anyone was wiser than Socrates (20e – 21a). The oracle answered that no-one was (a6 – 7), and Socrates, aware that he lacked any sort of wisdom (or perhaps, unaware that he possessed any sort cof wisdom)1, tried to find out what it meant by questioning people who claimed wisdom of various sorts (21b – 22e). When this process elicited the result that the people questioned in fact lacked the wisdom that they claimed Socrates concluded that what the oracle in fact meant was (a) that human wisdom is worth little or nothing in comparison with divine wisdom and (b) that the wisest among human beings is someone who, like Socrates, recognizes that he really amounts to nothing in respect of wisdom (23a-b). This narrative raises a number of questions. I shall set aside for the moment the question of the historical truth of the story of the oracle, since the most puzzling questions arise whether the story is true or fictional. Suppose it is true. Then we must ask ‘What prompted Chairephon to ask the question?’ and ‘What prompted the oracle to give the answer it gave?’ If the story is true, Socrates must already have struck Chairephon as such an exceptional individual that it was plausible (a) that no-one was wiser than he and (b) that it was worth the trouble of having that assessment confirmed by the authority of the oracle. It is difficult to see how that impression could have arisen had not Socrates been already engaged in a type of intellectual activity which was, if not unique to him, at least altogether unusual. According to the Phaedo (96a-d) Socrates had as a young man been interested in human physiology and other aspects of natural philosophy. Could he have been so pre-eminent in such studies that Chairephon came to believe that no-one, e. g. Anaxagoras or Diogenes of Apollonia, was better at them than Socrates, and that the oracle concurred? That is difficult to reconcile not only with the silence of posterity on any contribution of Socrates to these subjects, but with his self-presentation in the Apology itself as lacking any wisdom, great or small. 1 The Greek of 21b4 – 5, ego¯ gar de¯ oute mega oute smikron sunoida emauto¯i sophos o¯n, is ambiguous between the stronger reading, in which “was aware” has wide scope, and the weaker, in which it has narrow scope. I suspect that Plato was either insensible of the ambiguity, or attached no importance to it, since on an ordinary understanding of “wisdom” anyone possessing wisdom is aware of possessing it. As it turns out, Socrates possesses a special sort of wisdom, viz. not thinking that he possesses wisdom which he does not possess. He was at the start unaware of having that sort of wisdom, in the sense that he was unaware that that is a sort of wisdom. That does not affect the interpretation of 21b4 – 5, where Socrates is talking about wisdom as ordinarily understood.

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

109

Suppose, on the other hand, that the oracle story is Plato’s invention. Since the purpose of the story is to represent Socrates’ philosophical activity as divinely endorsed, then Plato represents a Chairephon convinced of Socrates’ surpassing wisdom, presumably on the same grounds as if the story were true, and an oracle which endorses that conviction. On the assumption that the story is invented, the oracle is presumably represented as already knowing what kind of person Socrates is, and as certifying, on the basis of that knowledge, that none is wiser than he. The simplest hypothesis is that what the oracle knows about Socrates is very much what Chairephon and others know about him, viz. that his unique mode of intellectual activity sets him apart from, and superior to, others. Our first problem is, then, that whether or not the oracle story is true, the way it is told in the Apology strongly suggests that Socrates must have been engaged in his critical examinations of others before the oracle was (supposed to have been) consulted, and that it was the singular nature of that activity which (was supposed to have) prompted the consultation2, whereas the explicit wording of the story reverses the temporal and causal order. Why, then, does Plato present the story as if it were the explanation of Socrates’ having set out upon his characteristic path of critical examination of people’s moral beliefs? A related problem is the following. Socrates says that, while he was convinced that what the oracle said about him was true, he was puzzled as to what it meant, since he was aware that he lacked wisdom (see above). So he set about examining those who claimed or were believed to have wisdom, in order to determine whether they really did. But Socrates knows or is at least convinced in advance that no-one is wiser than he, since that is what the oracle says, and what the oracle says must be true; what he is trying to find out is what the oracle means by that. But how is refuting other people’s claims to wisdom relevant to determining what the oracle means by saying that none is wiser than he? The procedure seems adapted to confirming what the oracle says, by disposing of apparent counter-instances. Socrates himself treats the people examined as providing possible counter-instances, imagining himself “examining” (exetazein) or even “refuting” (elenxon) the oracle and saying to it “This person is wiser than I, but you said that I was (sc. wiser than he)” (21c).3 And at 22a6 – 8 he says that he has 2 So Reeve 1989: 31 – 2. 3 Strictly speaking, what the oracle said was that no-one was wiser than Socrates. That allows (a) that neither Socrates nor anyone else is wise, (b) that Socrates is wise and that others are equally wise. But in this passage Socrates shows that he understands the oracle as having said that he is wiser than everyone else; he asks what the god means by saying that he is the wisest (21b5 – 6), and in his imagined address to the oracle quoted above he understands it as having said that he was wiser than the person he had been interrogating. But since that person was plainly not designated by the oracle individually, the oracle could be supposed to have said that Socrates was wiser then he only if it had said that Socrates was wiser than anyone he might encounter. At 23b2 – 4 the oracle is represented as envisaging alternative (b) above, in saying

110

Christopher Taylor

to exhibit his elenctic activity to the jury as the labours of someone seeking to show that the oracle is unrefuted.4 Though finding out what the oracle means is indeed a different task from confirming that what it says is true (indeed confirmation presupposes that the meaning of what is confirmed is already known) Socrates appears either not to distinguish the two or to assume, mysteriously, that confirming the truth of the oracle is a method of discovering its meaning. Having described how he interrogated in turn various types of people claiming to be or generally recognized as being wise, politicians, poets and craftsmen (21d – 22e), Socrates states that this process finally led him to understand the meaning of the oracle, namely that god alone is wise, that by comparison with divine wisdom human wisdom is worth little or nothing, and that the wisest among humans is the person who, like Socrates, recognises how little human wisdom is worth (23a-b). If the aim of Socrates’ elenctic enquiries was merely to discover the meaning of the oracle, that aim has now been achieved, so we might expect that Socrates would cease those enquiries. But that is not what happens. He says immediately “So I persist with this investigation right up to the present, and in accordance with the god I examine any citizen or foreigner whom I think to be wise: and when he seems to me not to be, I help the god by showing that he is not wise” (b4 – 7). “[I]n accordance with the god” means ‘in accordance with the command of the god’, or ‘as the god ordains’. Socrates therefore sees himself as being enjoined or required by the god to undertake the open-ended task of interrogating anyone who seems to him to be wise; he appears also to assume that the outcome of this interrogation will invariably be that the person interrogated proves not to be wise. Delivering this outcome, Socrates says, is ‘helping the god’ (see above), and the interrogative activity is described in the next sentence as “my service of the god”. Service (latreia) can also mean “worship”5 ; hence in applying this term to his interrogative activity Socrates implies that he is serving the god in the way that a devotee serves the object of his devotion. That kind of devotion certainly involves doing what the divinity in question tells one to do, but the use of the term implies that among the things one is told to do are things which are of particular concern, or particularly pleasing to the divinity, such as acts of prayer or sacrifice. Socrates then sees himself as engaged on a task imposed on him by the god, a task moreover which puts him in a relation to the god analogous to that of a worshipper. Nor is that all. In performing that task he helps the god. One can help someone by assisting them to do something, or by coming to their aid, i. e. that the wisest among humans is whoever, like Socrates, has come to know that he is worth nothing with respect to wisdom. But 5 – 7 shows that Socrates believes that, at least prior to undergoing the elenchus, no-one whom he encounters is wise. 4 Or perhaps “unrefutable”; the Greek anelengtos may have either sense. 5 See Liddell 1996: s.v. 2.

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

111

by relieving them in some distress, as when a first-aider helps an accident victim. Neither kind of help falls within the standard conception of service as worship, yet Socrates sees himself as not merely serving the god in the conventional religious sense, but as helping him in some way or other. What kind of help is it that Socrates offers to the god? The question immediately recalls Euthyphro 12e – 14a. Socrates had there gained Euthyphro’s agreement that holiness or piety is a part of justice, and in response to the question ‘Which part?’ Euthyphro suggests at 12e5 – 7 that it is the part concerned with the service (therapeia) of the gods. Socrates focuses on the term therapeia, pointing out that one kind of therapeia is care for, looking after, e. g. a shepherd’s looking after his sheep. That kind of therapeia is directed towards promoting the welfare of the thing cared for ; hence the therapeia of the gods cannot be that kind of therapeia, since it is absurd to think that humans might seek to do good to the gods (13c). But another kind of therapeia is assistance in the performance of a task, the kind of help which a servant (therapo¯n) provides to his master. Assuming that the therapeia of the gods is of that kind, Socrates asks what is the task in the achievement of which the gods use human assistance, a question which Euthyphro is unable to answer. Elsewhere6 I have argued that Socrates does have in mind a specific divine task, viz. the achievement of the best possible state of the world. A good world must contain good human souls, but the task of producing good human souls requires the assistance of the humans whose souls are to be made good, since a good human soul is self-directed. Goodness in a human soul consists in the direction of the whole soul by the rational soul, i. e. ultimately by itself, since the human soul is, ultimately, the rational soul. Socrates’s claim in the Apology that his interrogation of others helps the god suggests a similar line of thought. Just as in the Euthyphro the therapeia of the gods could not be conceived as looking after the gods, so in the Apology Socrates’ help to the god cannot be conceived as coming to the aid of the god, for the same reason. Both conceptions imply that the gods are in one way or another dependent on human beings, to promote, preserve or restore their good state, conceptions which, though applicable to some elements in traditional Greek religious thought (e. g. that of Homer), are totally alien to Plato. Socrates’ help to the god must rather be assistance to the god in the performance of some task, and as in the Euthyphro the most plausible suggestion of the nature of that task is that it is the task of furthering human goodness.7 This is precisely how Socrates describes his mission throughout the Apology. At 29d he imagines himself addressing a fellow-citizen “saying what I usually 6 Taylor 1982. Reprinted in Irwin (ed.) 1994 and in Taylor (ed.) 2007. 7 For a similar view see Brickhouse / Smith 1989: 91 – 99.

112

Christopher Taylor

do”. What he says is “O best of men, you are an Athenian, whose city is the greatest and most famous in wisdom and power. Are you not ashamed to be concerned about acquiring as much wealth and reputation and honour as possible, but not to be concerned or to care about intelligence and truth and your soul’s being in the best possible state?” Consequently, his own activity is nothing other than going around seeking to persuade young and old alike not to care more about wealth or physical well-being than about their souls’ being in the best possible state (30a6-b2). This service to the god, he claims, is the greatest good that anyone has ever done the city (30a5 – 7). That claim in turn grounds his proposal, after the guilty verdict, that instead of a penalty he should be awarded free meals in the prytaneion for life. That was the traditional reward for Olympic victors, but Socrates says that he is more deserving of it than they, since they merely make the people seem to be eudaimones, whereas he really makes them eudaimones (36d9-e1). Socrates, then, seeks to persuade people to care more for the good of their soul than for anything else, and he claims to make people really eudaimones. That aim and that claim are intimately connected. To be eudaimo¯n is to have a completely fulfilled life, the sort of life one has when one enjoys divine favour, and such a life was traditionally conceived as involving the possession of prosperity and good reputation, together with good states of the body, e. g. health, and, to a somewhat indeterminate degree, of the soul, especially intelligence. This schematic conception allowed for competing accounts, reflecting competing schemes of value, according to which one or other element, or complex of elements, was allotted greater weight in determining the agent’s overall eudaimonia.8 It is distinctive of Socrates to claim, in opposition to conceptions of eudaimonia as consisting primarily in wealth and power, that the good state of one’s soul, i. e. virtue of intellect and character, is either sufficient for or at least the primary constituent of eudaimonia.9 Various statements by Socrates in the Apology suggest one or other version of this claim: his insistence that a good person cannot be harmed (41d), and hence that his accusers cannot harm him (30c), if taken literally, support the claim that goodness of soul is sufficient for eudaimonia, as does his claim that the only thing one should consider whenever one does anything is “whether one is acting justly or unjustly, and doing the deeds of a good or of a bad man” (28b). On the other hand, at 30b he allows that wealth and other goods make some contribution to eudaimonia, while emphasizing the primacy of goodness of character. In explaining why he continually urges people not to care for health and wealth more than for the well-being of the soul (see above) he says “Goodness (arete¯) does not come from wealth, but from goodness wealth and all 8 Aristotle, NE I.4, esp. 1095a14 – 22. For discussion see Annas1993: Ch. 1. 9 E.g. Crito 48b, Gorgias 470e, Protagoras 313a.

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

113

other goods come to people both in the private and in the public sphere”. As rendered above, the thought is that eudaimonia includes wealth and other goods in addition to goodness, and that those goods accrue as a result of goodness, not vice versa. That thought strikes the reader as distinctly un-Socratic, especially in the light of Socrates’ own poverty, which is frequently emphasized, not least in the Apology,10 without any suggestion that it detracted from his eudaimonia, but that is not to say that Socrates might not in fact have used this claim as part of his exhortation to pursue goodness. Alternatively, the sentence may be read as “Goodness does not come from wealth, but as a result of goodness wealth and all other things are good for people both privately and publicly”, which gives the authentically Socratic sentiment that external goods such as wealth are beneficial when and only when they are used for the right ends. On either reading, goodness of soul is primary in the achievement of eudaimonia, but external goods contribute to it.11 The conception of goodness of soul (arete¯) assumed here is one in which moral virtue, especially justice, is central, as is apparent from the assertion in 28b (see above) that the only thing that one should consider whenever one acts is whether one is acting justly or unjustly, and doing the actions of a good man or a bad. The sentence itself might be taken either as ‘Acting justly or unjustly, that is to say acting as a good man or a bad one’, or as ‘Acting justly or unjustly, and more generally acting as a good man or a bad one’. On the former reading acting justly is identical with acting as a good man, while on the latter it is an instance of acting as a good man, but even on that weaker reading it is clearly taken as the central instance. But this moral conception of goodness is intimately connected with intellectual excellence; at 29d-e the “best of men” is exhorted to place the highest value on “intelligence and truth and your soul’s being in the best possible state”. Here too we have different possible readings, either ‘intelligence and truth and, in general, your soul’s being in the best possible state’, or ‘intelligence and truth, and thereby your soul’s being in the best possible state’. On the former reading intelligence and truth are constituents of the best state of soul, on the latter means to the achievement of that state. In fact it is likely that Plato intends both. On the one hand it is clear that intelligence and truth, presumably true beliefs about what it is best to do, are instrumental in the achievement of eudaimonia, since, as we have seen, Socrates claims that he actually makes people eudaimones (36d9-e1), and the means by which he does so is his method of critical enquiry, which appeals to their intelligence and seeks to make them replace false beliefs by true ones (see below). On the other, the doctrine that 10 23b, 31c, 36d, 38b. 11 For discussion of this sentence see Stokes 1997: 149 – 150. It is taken in the latter of the two senses distinguished above by Burnet 1924: 124, and by Reeve 1989: 124 – 125.

114

Christopher Taylor

intellectual excellence is constitutive of the best state of soul permeates the dialogues in various versions, e. g. the arguments in the Meno and Protagoras that virtue is knowledge, the Phaedo’s claim that the best state of the soul is the disembodied grasp of the Forms, and the Republic’s alternative that it is the state in which the various parts of the soul are integrated under the direction of the intellect. While none of these specific doctrines can be read into this passage of the Apology, we may justifiably see it as a germ from which they were to develop. Moreover, one passage of the Apology represents philosophical enquiry as itself constitutive of human good: at 38a Socrates says that “this is the greatest good for human beings, every day to discuss virtue and the other things you hear me talking about and examining myself and others. The unexamined life is not worth living for a human being”. While the good of discussing virtue no doubt consists in part on its role in promoting the attainment of virtue, via the understanding of the nature of virtue as constitutive of one’s good and the standing motivation to promote one’s own good, it is clear from this passage that the understanding of virtue and the process of enquiry which brings about that understanding are seen as goods in their own right, which are so central to human well-being that a life devoid of those goods is not an appropriate one for a human being. In these passages Socrates gives a very full-blooded account of his divine mission. He is enlisted by the god (which god we shall consider below) to assist in the divine task of perfecting human souls, i. e. making them as good as possible both morally and intellectually. The method by which Socrates undertakes this task is his unique practice of critical examination of people’s evaluative beliefs, and Socrates claims that in at least some cases it achieves its object of making people eudaimones. This goes far beyond anything that can be explained by the story of the oracle.12 First of all, the oracle does not tell Socrates to do anything, much less put him under an obligation so stringent that he must obey it at the cost of his life. All that the oracle allegedly did was say that no-one was wiser than Socrates, to which Socrates responded, on his own account, by examining other people in order to find out what the oracle meant. It seems that Socrates also felt himself obliged to preserve the reputation of the oracle for veracity by showing that apparent counter-instances, i. e. people apparently wiser than Socrates, were not in fact counter-instances; that is what he says at 22a6 – 8 (see above). But why he should have felt that obligation is obscure, unless, as suggested above, he assumed that showing that what the oracle said was true was either identical with or a means to finding out what it meant. Secondly, there is a large gap between convincing people that their claims to wisdom are ill-founded and causing them to value nothing more than the good 12 For a contrary view see Doyle 2004.

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

115

state of their souls, understood as including both intellectual and moral excellence. Disabusing them of a false conceit of wisdom may be a necessary condition for the pursuit of moral and intellectual excellence, but is plainly not sufficient for it. One might perhaps propose a reductive account of intellectual excellence, viz. that in general it amounts to nothing more than the recognition that true wisdom belongs to god alone, but that has no implications for moral virtue. If one argued by analogy that true virtue belongs to god alone the obvious implication would be moral quietism, i. e. acceptance that it is pointless to try to attain true justice etc., whereas Socrates insists that, on the contrary, justice must be everyone’s principal concern (see above).13 Socrates’ mission is not, then, imposed on him by the oracle. Nor does Socrates say that it is. Though his use of the singular form “the god” at 23a-b, 28a and 30a undoubtedly suggests, given the prior mention of ‘the god at Delphi’ at 20e, that the reference of the expression is still to the Delphic Apollo, the content of those passages presents the difficulty that in them Socrates asserts that the god had done what Apollo had not done via the oracle, viz. command him to undertake his interrogative mission. This difficulty is avoided if we take the use of the singular expression to be the collective one, interchangeable with the plural, referring to ‘the divine’. This is frequent in Greek14 and is clearly found in two other significant passages of the Apology, the first the conclusion of Socrates’ first speech “I leave it up to you and to the god to give judgement on me as will be best for you and for me” (35d7 – 8), the other the concluding sentence of the whole work “Now it is time for us to go, me to die and you to live; but which of us goes to the better state is unknown to all except to the god” (42a2 – 5). Here there can be no question of reference to any particular god; rather, Socrates resigns his fate, and the question of the value of life and death, to the divine, to whatever gods there are. The divine mission, then, arises, not from Socrates’ special relation to any particular god, but from the nature of divinity and its relation to the world and to the place of humanity in that world. Divinity is as such supremely good and supremely rational, and its providential care for the world includes promoting goodness and rationality in human souls. Since Socrates is 13 This provides adequate grounds for rejecting the account of Socrates’ mission proposed by Reeve, op. cit. 25 – 28. He argues that Socrates’ service to the god, whom he takes to be specifically the Delphic Apollo, consists in causing people to avoid the hubris of thinking themselves wise when they are not. He points to the evidence of the inscriptions on the temple at Delphi, whose central theme is the avoidance of hubris (30). But while the avoidance of hubris is necessary for moral and intellectual virtue as understood by Socrates, it is clearly not sufficient for it. In later passages (35, 36) Reeve acknowledges that Socrates’ elenctic activity aims to inculcate true beliefs, as well as eliminating hubris. In the next paragraph I give reasons for rejecting the assumption that “the god” is to be identified specifically with the Delphic Apollo. 14 See Liddel 1996: s.v. theos.

116

Christopher Taylor

supremely gifted at stimulating others, via his method of critical enquiry, to attain goodness and rationality, he has the special task of assisting the divine in its task of world-making. We still have the question how Socrates knows that he has this special task (or, if we prefer, why he believes that he has it). At 33c he says that it has been imposed on him “by the god through oracles and dreams and in any other way in which divine dispensation (theia moira) has ever commanded someone to do something”. So, taken literally, he has had special revelations as well as being commanded in every other way a god has ever commanded anyone to do anything. The only oracle which has been mentioned in this connection, that given to Chairephon, did not, as we saw, directly tell him to do anything; it was Socrates’ response to the oracle which took on the character of a divine mission. As regards dreams, at Phaedo 60e – 61a Socrates tells of a recurrent dream in which he is commanded to make music, which he has so far always interpreted as a command to continue to philosophize. So it is his prior consciousness of his mission which leads him to interpret the dream as he does.15 Similarly, his claim that he has been commanded to undertake that mission in every way that any divinity has ever commanded anyone to do anything seems to be a way of saying that the divine injunction has an unconditional and overriding claim on his obedience. We have a genuine explanation for the status of this claim in the ethico-theological theory which is suggested by the concluding sections of the Euthyphro (see above): humans assist the gods in their world-making task by being virtuous, to which we may add the suggestion that someone specially, even uniquely talented at stimulating people to become virtuous has a special, individual form of assistance to offer the gods. Whatever special revelations Socrates may be supposed to have had, the ultimate ground of his sense of mission is his rationally-based belief that what the gods require of people in general is goodness, and that what they require of some special people is the promotion of goodness in others. I do not suggest that we have direct evidence that Socrates himself believed this. It was Plato, not Socrates, who wrote the Euthyphro and the Apology, and I do not assume that the latter work presents the substance of Socrates’ actual defence. What I do suggest is that Plato, reflecting on the charges against Socrates in the light of his own ethical and theological views, saw how those views enabled him to represent Socrates’ philosophical life as a life devoted to the service of the divine. There remains a paradox. This account requires Socrates to have had the aim of causing others to have at least true moral beliefs (or perhaps even knowledge), and to have at least sometimes been successful in inculcating those beliefs (or that knowledge) via his method of critical enquiry. Yet Plato 15 De Stryker / Slings 1994: 81 – 82.

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

117

chooses to represent that philosophical activity of Socrates’ as prompted by an oracle which demands a purely negative response; that is, the most that it is appropriate for Socrates to do in response to the oracle, given his disavowal of wisdom, is to show that others lack wisdom also. We see here a fault-line which runs through Plato’s presentation of Socrates’ ethical activity. Sometimes he is presented primarily as an enquirer, whose aim is not to establish any position of his own, but to expose inconsistency in the views of his interlocutor ; this examination typically leads to a shared state of aporia, in which both parties are left confessing their failure to resolve the puzzle which the discussion has produced. At other times he argues for the outline of a theory of ethics, whose principal thesis is that virtue is knowledge, i. e. that knowledge of what is the best state for humans is necessary and sufficient for achieving that state, from which follow the substantive theories that all the virtues are applications of that fundamental knowledge (the Unity of Virtue) and that no-one intentionally acts against their knowledge of what is best (the denial of akrasia, often referred to as the Socratic Paradox).16 This contrast between the aporetic and the dogmatic Socrates is reflected in the familiar problem of the Socratic elenchus, i. e. the problem that though Socrates’ method of critical examination appears capable of doing no more than revealing inconsistency, Socrates sometimes claims (most famously in Gorgias 508e-509a) that it is capable of establishing some propositions as true, or even more strongly as putting some beyond question.17 The contrast is not a simple contrast between aporetic and dogmatic dialogues, since on the one hand ostensibly aporetic dialogues sometimes give more or less definite hints of positive Socratic views (most clearly in the Euthyphro, see above, but also in the Laches18), and on the other dogmatic dialogues such as the Meno and Protagoras end in ostensible aporia on some central question.19 Rather the contrast is between two aspects of Socrates’ philosophical activity as presented by Plato. It may be that the aporetic element was more prominent in the activity of the historical Socrates, and that in the dogmatic element we have more of Plato’s own views. We cannot tell, and speculation is fruitless. What we can tell is that in the Apology both aspects are present, and seamlessly interwoven. In his self-presentation Socrates morphs insensibly from the undogmatic enquirer whose only concern is what the oracle means by singling him out for wisdom to the evangelist whose divine mission is 16 For fuller discussion of these two aspects of Plato’s presentation of Socrates see my 1998: Ch. 4. 17 There is a large literature on the problem of the elenchus. See especially Vlastos 1983, revised and expanded in Vlastos 1994: Ch. 1, and Benson 2000: Chs. 2 – 4. Ch. 3 of the latter work reviews earlier literature. 18 199a – 201a. 19 Meno 100b, Protagoras 361a-d.

118

Christopher Taylor

to induce his fellow-citizens to care above all for truth and virtue. I take it that Plato thus intends to convey his belief that the elenctic and the dogmatic aspects are integral to the philosophical task of promoting the pursuit of human good, a task by which human beings assist in the divine task of imposing rational order on the world. On this interpretation the apparently awkward lack of fit between Socrates’ initial interpretation of the oracle and his subsequent account of his divine mission is transcended by considerations derived from Plato’s theory. Philosophy has the task of promoting human good, i. e. virtue of character and intellect, and elenchus is an indispensable tool of philosophy. This analysis prompts a question shelved at the outset of this paper, that of the truth of the oracle story. Given our intervening discussion we now have to ask whether Plato himself constructed the awkward lack of fit, precisely to show how it was to be transcended, or whether he accepted the awkwardness as externally given and then made use of it in terms of his theory. While certainty is impossible, I am somewhat inclined to the view that Plato knew of the story of the oracle, perhaps from Socrates himself, and that he wove it into his defence of Socrates as a convenient emblem of the role of philosophy in a divinely-ordered world.20 As a final piece of speculation I suggest that perhaps Socrates himself interpreted the oracle in the minimal sense enunciated at 21a – 23b, and that it was Plato who saw how his view of the task of philosophy, and of Socrates’ role in executing that task, required a richer interpretation.

References Annas, J. 1993. The Morality of Happiness, Oxford / New York. Benson, H. H. 2000. Socratic Wisdom, Oxford. Brickhouse, T. C. / Smith, N. D. 1989. Socrates on Trial, Oxford. Burnet, J. 1924. Plato’s Euthyphro, Apology of Socrates and Crito, Oxford. De Stryker, E. / Slings, S. R. 1994. Plato’s Apology of Socrates, Leiden. Doyle, J. 2004: “Socrates and the Oracle”, in: Ancient Philosophy 24: 19 – 36. Irwin, T. (ed.) 1994. Articles on Greek and Roman Philosophy, New York. Liddell, H. G. 1996. Greek-English Lexicon, Oxford. Reeve, C. D. C. 1989. Socrates in the Apology, Indianapolis. Stokes, M. C. 1992. “Socrates’ Mission”, in: B. S. Gower / M. C. Stokes (eds.), Socratic Questions, London / New York: 26 – 81, 51 – 68. Stokes, M. C. 1997. Plato: Apology of Socrates, Warminster. Taylor, A. E. 1998. Socrates, Oxford / New York. 20 For arguments supporting the view that the story of the oracle is Plato’s invention see Stokes 1992.

The Ethics of Plato’s Apology

119

Taylor, C. C. W. 1982. “The End of the Euthyphro”, in: Phronesis 27: 109-118. Taylor, C. C. W. (ed.) 2007. Pleasure, Mind, and Soul: Selected Papers in Ancient Philosophy, Oxford. Vlastos, G. 1983. “The Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 1: 27 – 58. Vlastos, G. 1994 Socratic Studies, Cambridge.

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

After years of stability, Socratic and Platonic conceptions of moral psychology have recently become increasingly controversial. In this discussion, we will review the disputed topics and argue for our own views about how they should be resolved. We will first take up the recent debates about Socratic moral psychology and then turn our attention to those about Plato.

I.

Socratic Motivational Intellectualism

I.1

Wanting What Is Good

Perhaps the clearest expression of the Socratic view can be seen in Socrates’ discussion with Polus in the Gorgias. In this discussion, Socrates encounters Polus, a young follower of the sophist, Gorgias. Polus is impressed with rhetoric because he thinks a person skilled in rhetoric will be able to do whatever he wants – even to the point of becoming a tyrant, who can kill off his enemies or exile them at will. But Socrates remains unimpressed, for he argues that what they think is best for them is not what is really best for them. According to Socrates, what any of us wants is what is really best for us. Needless to say, Socrates’ position is certainly not supported by ordinary talk about the connection between desire and action (in English or in ancient Greek). Ordinarily, it seems just obvious to us that voluntary action directly reflects the agent’s desire.

I.2

Ethical Prudentialism

It may at first seem that the Socratic view becomes more plausible once we remind ourselves that, as a prudentialist, Socrates did not distinguish moral or ethical good and evil from prudential interest. For a prudentialist, something is good just in case it promotes or secures our interest – and bad or evil just in case

122

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

it interferes with or prevents us from pursuing or securing our interest. So if, as Socrates and other Greek ethical theorists argue, there is no distinction to be made between ethical or moral good and prudential good, then it does seem to follow, as Socrates tries to get Polus to see, that those who do wrong do not really promote their interest – they may think it is best to act in such ways. But if they actually thereby impede or defeat their pursuit of what is in their interest, they really must not be doing what they want even as they do what they think is best. Situating Socrates’ view within the context of Greek ethical prudentialism may make it seem less paradoxical, but the assumptions that drive it are nonetheless worth spelling out in more detail. First, this can only be true about moral or ethical matters, as we have said, only if there can be no gap between what we ought to do, morally or ethically, and what is in our ultimate best interest – in other words, if ethical prudentialism is true: (A1) Goodness = what is conducive to the securing of what is in the agent’s interest.

If there really can be cases in which an agent’s own best interest conflicts with what would be morally required, then it would seem entirely possible for us to find that that self-interest can be promoted by immoral acts: The tyrant may well promote what is in his own interest by doing evil things. The ethical prudentialist’s conviction that moral value and prudential value are the same will seem to most of us to be quite implausible. We need only imagine the bank robber who avoids capture and lives to a ripe old age, enjoying all of the comforts that his ill-gotten gains can purchase for him and his loved ones.

I.3

Interest as an Objective Standard

One further assumption underpinning Socrates’ counterintuitive view may now be added: (A2) In assessing what is or is not in our interest, we do not only consider subjective factors.

Giddy morons may suppose they pursue their interest by doing what only makes them giddier and more foolish, but sensible evaluation of fools’ lives – even if the fools’ giddiness be granted – will conclude that such lives are nothing to envy. The addict’s high, even secured by a lifetime supply of intoxicants, is no model of success in the pursuit of self-interest. One may be interested in – even exclusively interested in – what is not really in one’s self-interest. And for what is really in one’s self-interest, one’s own personal opinion of what self-interest consists in is hardly decisive. It may be that a certain degree of subjective satisfaction is required for a

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

123

truly good life. But authentic self-interest, according to Socrates, is at least partly objective.

I.4

The Relation of Desire to Objective Interest

If we grant this assumption, it becomes easier to see how and why those who do what they think is best may not really do what is (really) in their interest. But to reach Socrates’ conclusions, we must also add a further assumption: (A3) We always and only want what is really in our ultimate interest.

Socrates notes that some aims are intermediate or instrumental aims: We do some things only because we see them as means to other things that we value. Nobody would regard surgery, for example, as desirable except as a means to some further end – better health or cosmetic benefits. We may undergo surgery willingly, but it is not strictly true to say that we want the surgery : What we want is that other aim, which we take the surgery to promote. And if this other end – cosmetic benefit, say – is also purely instrumental to some further end, then it will similarly be true that we do not really want cosmetic benefit, either, but rather only what we take cosmetic benefit to promote (happiness, for example, or being loved). Only what is desired for itself will count as something we really want. Obviously, on this issue Socrates stakes out a position opposite to those who maintain that all mental states are transparent to their possessors. It follows from Socrates’ view of the matter that there is an objective component to desire, for one may be mistaken about what one wants: (A4) Desire is for real and not just perceived self-interest.

I.5

Socratic Eudaimonism

Perhaps the most controversial assumption Socrates makes in his argument with Polus is one that ensures that there can be no conflicts in one’s own interest, because ultimately there is but one end for all voluntary action, eudaimonia (happiness1) – what Socrates calls the proton philon in the Lysis (219c5-d2). This is Socrates’ “eudaimonism”: 1 As many scholars have noted, “happiness” is a potentially misleading translation for this term, especially insofar as “happiness” can refer to a transitory sensation or purely subjective feeling of well-being. As we noted above, Socrates regards this aim of human life to be an objective state. Cooper 1975: 89 proposes translating eudaimonia as “human flourishing.” (Cooper 1975: 89).

124

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

(A5) All voluntary actions aim at a single, unified end: eudaimonia.

This principle entails that there can be no other aims that conflict with our common desire for what is in our interest – for it assures that our interest ultimately consists in obtaining (and then preserving) the condition of being happy.2 This, then, is why Socrates says that no one desires bad things or neither good nor bad things. Of course, it certainly seems like people sometimes desire things that do not really conduce to their happiness. But as we can now see, Socrates thinks this is the result of their having misidentified a certain action or goal as being in their interest, when in fact it is not. Bad actions are the products of cognitive errors, therefore – or so, at least, Socrates argues in the Gorgias.

I.6

Appetites and Passions

One who believes that all actions follow one’s cognitive state about one’s overall best interest at the time of action is called an “intellectualist,” and we can now see why scholars have generally agreed that Socrates is an intellectualist about motivation. But there are importantly different ways of understanding Socratic intellectualism. Perhaps the most nuanced and searching version of the standard interpretation has been offered in recent years by Terry Penner, who claims, “all desires to do something are rational desires, in that they always automatically adjust to the agent’s beliefs about what is the best means to their ultimate end” (Penner 1992: 128).3 But in fact there are many passages in Plato’s early, “Socratic” dialogues that leave no doubt that Socrates thinks there are conative psychic powers other than what Penner is calling “rational desires.” In the Gorgias, for example, Socrates refers to the part of the soul “in which the appetites (epithumiai) happen to be” (493a3 – 4). Somewhat later, Socrates refers to the “filling up of the appetites” (505a6 – 10). Of course, some commentators will respond that these passages just show that Plato has the character “Socrates” introduce his own, that is Plato’s own, more complex moral psychology to combat Callicles’ hedonism.4 2 Morrison 2003 for an exception to the general scholarly agreement on this point. 3 Other excellent discussions of Socrates’ intellectualism, as it is ususally conceived, may be found in Cooper 1999; Irwin 1977: 76 – 96 and Irwin 1995: 75 – 76; Nehamas 1999: 27 – 58; Penner 1990, 1991, 1997, 2002, and 2005; Reshotko 2006; and Rowe 2003, and 2006. 4 This is the standard claim that is made about the alleged “change” in the moral psychology between the earlier (“Socratic”) parts of the dialogue and the (“Platonic”) part in which Socrates engages Callicles. The great myth of the afterlife, of course, which is alleged to reflect an un-Socratic moral psychology, appears in the last, allegedly “changed” section of the dialogue. Cooper 1999 agrees that the last section of the dialogue reveals a new moral psychology, but in Cooper’s version Plato reveals a weakness in the Socratic account by having

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

125

But there are other passages in the early dialogues that make it clear that Socrates believes that human psychology include some elements that aim at ends other than “whatever is best in these circumstances.” In the Laches, for example, Socrates says that pleasures, pains, appetites, and fears all provide opportunities for people to display courage (Laches 191e4 – 7), and in the Charmides, Socrates draws a distinction between appetite, which he says aims at pleasure, and what he calls boule¯sis, or wish, which he says aims at what is good (167e1 – 5). Socrates himself shows a degree of susceptibility to the effects of such an appetite being aroused in him in the notorious passage in the same dialogue in which he describes himself as struggling for self-control as he suddenly burns with desire (155d4) for the youthful Charmides.5 If the standard view of Socratic motivational intellectualism were correct, it would be puzzling for Socrates to make any reference to appetites or passions, given their putative lack of any role to play in the explanation of human behavior.

Callicles introduce the more “Platonic” account. Our own argument will be that there is no change of moral psychology to explain at all; rather, we contend, scholars have misunderstood the moral psychology that appears in the earlier parts of the Gorgias and in the other early or Socratic dialogues. 5 Socrates’ recognition of epithumiai, and why these cannot be understood in terms of the desire for the good, is admirably discussed in Devereux 1992: 778 – 783, and in Devereux 1995. Most scholars have simply supposed that Socrates recognized only the desire for the good (or happiness, or for whatever is best for the agent). Terry Penner has developed a somewhat different view, which at least acknowledges the existence of the epithumiai. But Penner sees them as “mere hankerings, itches, or drives [that] cannot automatically result in action when put together with a belief” (Penner 1991: 201 n. 45; see also Penner 1990: 59 – 60, and Penner 1997: 124). We think that Penner fails to recognize clearly enough the important role the epithumiai can play in action. We do agree, however, with Penner’s explanation of why the role of the epithumiai in action should not be understood in terms of “non-rational desires.” See esp. Penner 1990: 40: “Let me indicate briefly here how Socrates will argue that if I act on a desire to eat this chocolate bar here, it will be a rational desire on which I am acting. The suggestion is that in such cases, the force of the hormonal changes which induce the juices to flow is integrated into the agent’s calculation of the degree of expected good to be gained by taking and eating the chocolate bar” (see also 55 – 61). But the way we understand this is to grant that the epithumiai can play a role in an agent’s acting as he does, but then to conceive of the role they play in terms of “the agent’s calculation of the degree of expected good”; accordingly, every action (as opposed to every urge one might feel) must be understood as the result of some judgment one has made about one’s good. Naomi Reshotko (1995: 336 – 341) has recently offered what initially looked to us to be a very similar picture to ours, calling the epithumiai “proto-desires” and explaining their role in motivation and action in a way we thought was compatible with our own. (See also Reshotko 1990: 110.) In private communication, however, she has affirmed her agreement with Penner on the issues on which our view differs from his.

126 I.7

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

Desire in the Meno

There is one very famous passage in the Meno (77b4 – 78b8) that seems directly to contradict what we are claiming is Socrates’ view. There Meno starts out by claiming that the difference between good and bad people is that good people desire good things, whereas bad people desire bad things, but Socrates leads him to the conclusion that everyone (good and bad) desire only good things, and hence the difference between good and bad people cannot be in what they desire. But as others have pointed out,6 in the process of getting Meno to this conclusion, Socrates changes the verbs he uses for desiring from various forms of epithumein to forms of boulesthai. Traditionally, scholars have contended that Socrates uses these terms interchangeably in this argument. But more recently several scholars have challenged this claim, and have argued, instead, that the change of terms is precisely what leads to Meno’s concession. For one thing, the standard interpretation of this passage commits Socrates (and ultimately Meno) to a view that is highly implausible on its face.7 To see why, consider Mary, who has decided that it is in her best interest to stick to a strict diet that does not involve desserts. All her life, however, Mary has just loved German chocolate cake. But now she has decided that she must forego German chocolate cake for a while. Mary finds herself at a dinner party, and her hosts have decided to serve German chocolate cake as the dessert. Mary considers: It looks like a very fine example of German chocolate cake, and Mary has every reason to believe it would be delicious. But she reminds herself of her diet, and of her need to abstain from German chocolate cake. She has made up her mind and politely refuses the portion of the cake offered to her. The question is: What is she feeling as she turns down the cake? In the standard view, Mary feels either nothing for the cake, or else suddenly feels an actual aversion to it. But neither is plausible. After all, although Mary resists the cake as non-beneficial, she is neither cognitively incapacitated nor does she suddenly imagine that eating the cake would cause her distress. Fortunately, we need not make either assumption about Mary to understand the Meno passage. In our view, Socrates forces Meno to clarify what kind of desire we should associate with virtue. Do the virtuous feel nothing or feel only aversion to delicious foods, physically attractive people, or cool and refreshing-looking liquids when they are thirsty if and when these things, carefully considered, are determined not to be in the virtuous person’s best interest? In fact, it seems that Aristotle held such a view of desire – for he says that, in virtuous people, the pathe¯ “listen to” and “obey” reason (NE 1.13. 1103a1 – 2 for the former and 1102a26-b14 and 25 – 28 for 6 Croiset and Bodin 1923 III: 245 – 6; Devereux 1995: 398 – 400, Weiss 2001: 36. 7 See, for example, Devereux 1995: 387.

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

127

the latter). But we see no reason to attribute this view to Socrates in the Meno – and certainly not to Meno – because neither of them ever claims or agrees to another’s claim that virtuous people feel nothing or feel only aversion in every case to what they recognize as detrimental to them, all things considered. What Socrates induces Meno to reject is the claim that anyone ever forms a rational desire for what is detrimental to him – since rational desire always aims only at what is beneficial to the agent. This is why Meno’s tune seems immediately to change once Socrates substitutes boulesthai for epithumein in the argument – because when Meno claimed that some people do desire what they recognize as detrimental to them, he had in mind cases like Mary on her diet, contemplating the relative benefits and delights of eating German chocolate cake. Now we obviously think that Meno never supposed that boulesthai and epithumein were being used interchangeably – for if he did, we would also have to believe that until he talked with Socrates, Meno just failed to see either that bad things harm their possessors or that harms make one unhappy, or both. These considerations are relevant to rational deliberation, but are plainly not relevant to appetitive urges. So our disagreement with the standard view seems to come down to which of the two ways to read the passage is more plausible. In the standard view, Socrates simply assumes that he and Meno hold the same very unusual view about motivation, and this assumption turns out to be correct. It is not impossible that Socrates could have known this about Meno antecedently, but nothing in the dialogue, at any rate, supplies us with anything that would support such an assumption. On the contrary, then, we see Socrates both as not arguing for such an unusual view and certainly not simply assuming that Meno also holds it. Instead, we see Socrates as allowing Meno to express the view that most people hold about desire, and then pointing out that the sort of desire that he, Meno, wants to tie to virtue is really boule¯sis and not epithumia.

I.8

Appetites, Passions, and Intellectualism

If we are right in thinking that Socrates actually did recognize a role for the appetites and passions in motivation, then, it remains for us to explain what this role could be. After all, whatever account is to be given must also not stray from Socrates’ obvious commitment to motivational intellectualism. So how can it be that Socrates believes both that we always do what we believe is best for us all things considered at the time of action and also that appetites and passions can influence the way we act? In our recent work on this subject, we argue that the appetites and passions influence our deliberations by playing a causal role in the

128

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

formation of our beliefs about what is good for us.8 We are constructed in such a way as always to decide to act in accordance with the satisfaction of an appetite or passion as long as we believe that the reasons in favor of satisfying that particular appetite outweigh the reasons against it. The appetites and passions represent their aims as good things, as benefits to be obtained, and so one will always be attracted to the objects of these appetites and passions simply because of the way in which they are represented, for they will always appear to us to be ways to satisfy our universal desire for what is good for us. Just because something appears to be good for us, however, it does not follow that it really is good for us. So, according to Socrates in the Protagoras (357a5b4), what we need in life is the craft of measurement, which would allow us to render misleading appearances powerless to deceive the soul into thinking that apparent benefits (certain potentially corrosive pleasures, for example) are authentically good choices (see Protagoras 356d4-e2). The way the appetites and passions work, moreover, can make it difficult – for one lacking the craft of measurement – to find or consider reasons for suspecting that the apparent benefits they represent to the soul may not be as good as they seem. Those who become habituated to satisfying their appetites and passions without keeping them in a disciplined condition, in Socrates’ view, begin to lose their capacity to find and consider evidence that may lead them to refrain from pursuing what their appetites or passions represent as goods.

I.9

Summary of the Socratic View

In standard accounts, recall, Socrates recognized no place at all in explanations of voluntary human behavior for appetites and passions. The only factors that play any role in that view are the desire – one shared equally by all people, good and bad – for our own benefit, and the cognitive states by which one judges courses of action as beneficial, detrimental, or neutral. We have maintained, on the contrary, that appetites and passions actually do play a role in Socratic moral psychology (as well as in the Socratic conception of virtue). The role they play is, however, not one that would ever produce synchronic belief akrasia. That is, Socrates believes it is never the case that one acts contrary to what one, given the available options, presently believes is best for him. Instead, we have claimed that the appetites and passions – especially when one permits them to become unrestrained – play a causal role in how we come to hold the beliefs we have, when we act. In brief, we have claimed that in Socratic moral psychology the 8 This way of thinking about how appetites and passions function in Socrates’ moral psychology was first brought to our attention by Dan Devereux 1995.

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

129

appetites and passions present the objects to which they are attracted as benefits to be pursued. Allowing one’s appetites or passions to become unruly and unrestrained allows their presentations to become more compelling, and make one increasingly less able to consider the real values of what our appetites or passions are attracted to, as well as the values of other options one might have. Thus, maintaining our appetites and passions in a disciplined state allows us to perform our deliberative functions in the best way, by allowing us to assess soberly all of our options in accordance with our long-term goals. At this point it might appear that the role we argue Socrates assigns to the appetites and passions destroys the possibility of distinguishing, at least in any significant way, his moral psychology from that of Plato.9 In the next section, then, we explain how, on the one hand, our view maintains and supports of distinguishing between of the moral psychology of early dialogues and that of middle dialogues.10

II.

Platonic Moral Psychology

II.1

Moral Psychology in the Phaedo

Perhaps the most striking characterization of the appetites and passions in the Phaedo is that Plato has Socrates characterize all such desires as entirely somatic rather than psychological: As long as we possess the body, and our soul is contaminated by such an evil, we’ll surely never adequately gain what we desire – and that, we say, is truth. Because the body affords us countless distractions, owing to the nurture it must have; and again, if any illnesses befall it, they hamper our pursuit of that which is. Besides, it fills us up with lusts (1q¾toi) and desires (1pihul¸ai), with fears (¦ºboi) and fantasies of every kind, and with any amount of trash, so that really and truly we are, as the saying goes, never able to think anything at all because of it. Thus, it’s nothing but the body and its desires that bring wars and factions and fighting. (66b5-c811)

9 See Rowe 2003 who argues against most of the grounds developmentalists have given for the distinction between Socrates and Plato, but then defends the distinction anyway, in virtue of a standard conception of Socratic intellectualism, which he explicitly (26 n. 27) claims to have gotten from Terry Penner. 10 We do not pretend in this section to provide anything like a complete or comprehensive account of what we are calling the Platonic conception of moral psychology. Indeed, we will only discuss the moral psychology of the Phaedo, Republic II – X, and Phaedrus, as these suffice for drawing the distinction we seek to make here. Plainly, other later dialogues also contain discussions related to our general topic. 11 All translations of the Phaedo are those of Gallop 1975.

130

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

Could the Socrates we have discussed earlier in this essay have made such a statement? Several features of the above claim seem problematic from the Socratic point of view. For one thing, the obvious intention of this passage is to show that a true philosopher can never be free of the distractions and disturbances caused by appetites and passions until one is entirely free from the body that creates them, via death: “It’s then, apparently, that the thing we desire and whose lovers we claim to be, wisdom, will be ours – when we have died, as the argument indicates, though not while we live” (Phaedo 66e1 – 4). A rational man will “prepare himself in his life to live as close as he can to being dead” (67e1 – 2), and will thus “cultivate dying” (67e6). We should compare this with Socrates’ claim, in the earlier dialogues, that a prudent man should maintain his appetites and passions in a disciplined condition in order to avoid coming to the afterlife with a damaged (or worse, ruined) soul (see Gorgias 526b6-e1). The view in the Phaedo seems far more extreme – for there it seems the only way to avoid having one’s judgment disrupted by appetites and passions is to become disembodied altogether, whereas the position we have attributed to Socrates allowed one to function well by maintaining the appetites and passions in a disciplined state. In the earlier dialogues, moreover, Socrates plainly never characterizes one with disciplined appetites and passions as being in a condition that is “as close as he can to being dead” nor does Socrates ever there suggest that one would be better off wholly without appetites or passions if such were possible. Indeed, in the accounts of the afterlife he gives in the earlier dialogues, Socrates seems to think that death will not remove one’s capacity to experience pain or fear (see Gorgias 525b7, b4, respectively), and the very point of such pain or fear is to help one’s soul to improve. The afterlife, then, does not promise freedom from at least some appetites and passions, and so it does not seem to be a feature of the Socratic view that all appetite and passion is simply bodily, nor does the parting of the soul and body at death free one from appetitive or passionate desires or experiences. Similarly, nothing in the earlier dialogues would support attributing to Socrates the view that mere association with the body counts as an “evil” for a soul. The experience of psychological conflict in deliberation is never in the earlier dialogues characterized so sharply as strife between the soul and the body. Unfortunately, the contrast we have drawn here is, in fact, not consistently maintained in the Phaedo, either. For in other passages in that dialogue we hear a great deal about appetites and passions a soul can carry with it into the afterlife, particularly in cases other than the true philosopher. The souls of non-philosophers, we are told, end up as ghosts, staying close to the visible world, out of fear of Hades (81c11), and continue to have distinctly bodily desires (81e1) and also seem to continue to retain all of the character-flaws associated with bodily excesses (81e6 – 82a1).

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

131

Even so the connection of appetites and passions (other than the philosopher’s desire and passion for truth, that is), are clearly associated with the body much more clearly than anything the early dialogues would provide, for even in non-philosophers, the explanation given for their continued corporeal urges is explained in terms of the soul’s incapacity to separate entirely from the body, having been “interspersed with a corporeal element, ingrained in it by the body’s company and intercourse” (81c4 – 6). As such, the Phaedo seems clearly to present a somewhat different view of the appetites and the passions than what we find in the earlier dialogues. Association with the body leaves the soul vulnerable to “lusts, desires, fears, and fantasies” that leave even the best of souls “never able to think anything at all because of it.” Plato does not have Socrates add here in the Phaedo that the distractions of appetite and passion can become so great as sometimes to lead one to act akratically. But without the extreme regimen of living as if one were already dead that Plato has Socrates recommend in the Phaedo, it seems not to require much imagination to see how the wild and bestial bodily lusts could drive non-philosophical souls to act in ways the soul, even at the time of action, would regard as improper.

II.2

Moral Psychology in the Republic

Most scholars agree that in the Republic Plato characterizes the appetites and passions as psychological forces.12 Indeed, in the Republic for the first time, these psychological forces are argued to function in such ways as to reveal them to belong to different parts of the soul. The moral psychology given to Socrates in the earlier dialogues certainly did not rule out the idea that there might be different parts of the soul for different psychic functions, and Plato has Socrates all but make such a claim in the Gorgias (493a3 – 5). In the earlier dialogues, however, no argument is offered for such a view and the parts themselves are never clearly identified, enumerated, or distinguished, as they are in Book IV of the Republic. The sharp contrast we find between the Socratic and Platonic views of moral psychology, however, does not lie in the details of how many parts of the soul are recognized in each view, or in the roles each part is or is not assigned. Rather, the contrast we find derives from the ways in which the appetites and passions actually function in the two views. We have claimed that Socrates understands the appetites and passions to 12 The psychological account he gives, however, is later somewhat qualified on the ground that the “true” nature of the soul would only be clear if it could be disassociated from the body (IX 611b1-d8). For discussion of the significance of this and other qualifications Plato makes in regard to the psychology he provides in the Republic, see Smith 1999.

132

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

make presentations of benefit to the soul, which would, other things equal, incline the soul to pursue the aims of the appetites or passions as goods. To be an object of an appetite, in other words, is to be something that “looks good” to us. Other considerations, however, could lead the soul to judge that the aims of the appetites or passions were actually not (despite appearances) good for one. Only if the soul ended up judging that what appeared to be good (because presented as such by an appetite, for example) was actually the best choice one could make in a given situation, would one become fully motivated to act. It is generally accepted that the moral psychology we find in Book IV of the Republic does not have these features. Specifically, it has seemed to most scholars that by the time he wrote the Republic (or Books II through X of that work) Plato had come to believe that, at least sometimes or in some cases, our appetites or passions could lead us to act in ways that were contrary to what we believed – even as we acted – were best for us. In a nutshell, Socrates denied but Plato accepted the possibility of synchronic belief akrasia. There are different specific ways in which this difference might be drawn. One way we might do so is to understand the appetites and passions to function in the Republic account independently of the desire – which, again, Socrates counted as universally shared by all human beings – for what is good for us. In this version, then, Socrates would count all desires as “good-dependent” (because they always represented their objects as things good for us, and thus only contributed to motivation through our desire for what is good for us), whereas Plato recognized forms of desire (appetites and passions) that were “good-independent,” that had, in other words, aims other than what is good for us.13 This way of understanding the distinction is compatible with our own understanding of Socratic moral psychology, because although we do recognize roles for appetites and passions in the Socratic theory, we do not understand the roles they play as independent of our desire for what is good for us. In our view of Socratic moral psychology, then, appetites and passions are distinct from the generic desire for benefit, but function in a way that is wholly dependent upon that desire – for we will never be inclined to do or pursue something unless we take it as something that is good for us. Now there is one passage in Republic IV that seems to stipulate that appetites are attracted to their objects independently of our interest in benefit: (Socrates speaking) “Insofar as it’s thirst, is it an appetite in the soul (1pihul¸a 1m t0 xuw0) for more than that for which we say that it is the appetite? For example, is thirst thirst for hot drink or cold, or much drink or little, or, in a word, for drink of a certain sort? […] But thirst itself will never be an appetite for anything other than what it is in its nature to be for, namely drink itself, and hunger for food.” 13 For versions of this way of conceiving of the difference between Socratic and Platonic moral psychology, see, for examples, Penner 1990; Irwin 1995: 214 – 215.

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

133

“That’a the way it is, each appetite itself is only for its natural object, while the appetite for something of a certain sort depends upon additions.” “Therefore, let no one catch us unprepared or disturb us by claiming that no one has an appetite for drink but rather good drink, nor food but good food, on the grounds that everyone after all has appetite for good things, so that if thirst is an appetite, it will be an appetite for good drink or whatever, and similarly with the others.” (IV 437d8 – 438a514)

Not surprisingly, many scholars have taken this passage to show that Plato understands appetites to function in a way that is “blind” to any goodness in their objects, but attracted to them simply by their very nature as appetites for such things.15 Gabriela Carone (2001), however, has recently proposed an alternative reading of the passage. In her reading, even in Plato’s divided psyche each part of the soul (and each form of attraction, whether deriving from the rational, spirited, or appetitive parts) continues to be good-dependent, just as we found it to be in Socratic moral psychology. Yet Plato also wants to explain how different desires both exist and can come into conflict, and so he needs to show how we can individuate different kinds of desire on grounds other than whether or not they should be understood as aiming at what is good for us. What Plato has Socrates doing in the passage we just cited, then, is not an attempt to distinguish good-independent from good-dependent desires, but rather to distinguish between different kinds of good-dependent desires. Plato’s point, in the alternative reading, is that thirst should not be understood as “desire-forgood” on the ground that all desires are desires for goods – for that would reduce all desire to a single sort. Instead, each form of desire (whether rational, spirited, or appetitive) will have its own distinctive sorts of objects to which it is attracted by nature – even though each instance of desire (in the case of thirst, for drink, or in the case of hunger, for food) will also be a case of a desire for something good. “It is perfectly consistent to claim that thirst qua thirst is for drink while every time we wish to drink we desire drink as good” (Carone 2001: 120). Various passages in the Republic lend support to Carone’s understanding of Platonic moral psychology as retaining the Socratic contention that all desire is good-dependent. For example, in Republic IX 580e5 – 581a1, we are told that the appetitive part of the soul may also be called the “money-loving” part on the ground that all of one’s appetites are satisfied by means of money. But for this to be true, it must be that the appetitive part is able to perform its own, however limited, form of means-ends reasoning, recognizing the instrumental value of 14 All translations from Republic herein are those of G. M. A. Grube (revised by C. D. C. Reeve) in Cooper 1997. 15 See, for example, Penner 1990: 55: “akrasia becomes possible because of the possibility of blind desires … desires which don’t aim at any expected good whatever, and, a fortiori, there can be desires where strength of desire varies independently of the degree of expected good.”

134

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

money in the pursuit of its natural ends. Moreover, we are told at Republic VIII 554d2 that reason can persuade one’s “bad desires” about what is better, which makes explicit that one’s desires are understood as evaluative. The same considerations apply at least as clearly for the spirited part of the soul, which also plainly responds to its own judgments of value (see, for example, IV 440c1-d3). Finally, Plato quite explicitly continues to endorse the view that everything we do is done for the sake of the good (VI 505d11-e1), which is plainly incompatible with the idea that there are good-independent desires. In Carone’s understanding of Plato’s moral psychology, each part of the soul participates in evaluation by making actual judgments about what is good. In our account of Socratic moral psychology, the appetites function in such a way as to present their objects to the soul as putative goods. It does not follow from our account, however, that the appetites make actual judgments of value. Rather, they function more like sense organs, by making presentations to the soul, which will generally be followed by judgments about the world – but which do not themselves consist in – and which will not always or automatically produce – such judgments. Just as one withholds the judgment that, despite appearances, the stick in the water really is bent – because one knows about the potential for optical illusion in such cases – one (or at least one with disciplined appetites) may also refrain from making the judgment that some object to which an appetite attracts one – for example, a piece of German chocolate cake – is a good thing to pursue, even though one’s appetite presents eating that piece of cake as a good thing to do. The cake looks good. In brief, the presentation of something as good is not the same as the judgment that it is good. So although Carone’s picture of Platonic moral psychology retains its connection to the Socratic account by making all desires good-dependent, it does so in a way that is different from the Socratic account, as we understand it. In the Socratic account, appetites make presentations of goodness; in the Platonic account, appetites make actual judgments of goodness. But if the differences between the different parts of the soul should not be conceived in terms of some desires being good-dependent and others not being good-dependent, then we must provide a different explanation of psychic conflict. Carone plausibly proposes that the way to do this is to understand the different parts of the soul as having different ways of assessing what is good, and the different assessments each part provides can come into conflict. The difference between the rational part of the soul and the others is not that the former reasons about what is good and the latter do not. The difference is rather that reason in its full expression knows, or at least can preserve, true beliefs about, what is really good for the big picture of the whole soul and even for each part of it (cf. IV 442c6 – 8). Reason, when full of knowledge, does not distort proportions, whereas the other parts of the soul have at most narrow-

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

135

minded beliefs about the good that can easily mislead a soul in which reason is weak into believing that what appetite or spirit take to be good is also good for the whole psyche when it is not. (Carone 2001: 130) As we have indicated, we accept this account of the moral psychology in the Republic, and have already explained one way in which we find it different from the moral psychology we have characterized as the Socratic view. But Carone goes on to argue that the Platonic account is also much more like the Socratic account than scholars have recognized, by insisting that Plato, too, denies the possibility of synchronic belief akrasia (2001: 131 – 143). Here, we part ways with Carone, in favor of the standard view that Socrates does not, but Plato does, recognize that synchronic belief akrasia is possible. Everyone agrees that the case we need to consider to evaluate this issue is the episode in Book IV 439e7 – 440a3, in which a certain Leontius finds himself in a state of psychic conflict as he passes by some freshly executed corpses. Plato makes it abundantly clear what he thinks we should take away from this grisly story : Anger, he tells us in Socrates’ very next lines, sometimes fights against the appetites (440a5 – 6). This alone, of course, would not make the case an instance of synchronic belief akrasia, for, as Carone (2001: 136) carefully stipulates, “Most eloquently, Plato does not mention where reason sides in the internal struggle.” For the case to be one of synchronic belief akrasia, the further detail – that Leontius at the very moment when he gazed upon them actually believed that he should not look at them – must be added. Should we, as most scholars have done – or should we not, as Carone insists – understand the case as including that critical additional detail? Now, in assessing this case it is important not to lose sight of the feature of Carone’s account we have so far emphasized as different from the Socratic account, namely, that each part of the soul does not merely make presentations for judgment, but also makes actual judgments. Hence, any case of psychic conflict, in the Platonic moral psychology, will also be a case of cognitive conflict. If we leave the rational part out of the conflict Leontius experiences, it will still be true that Leontius both believes (via his appetitive part) that he should look at the corpses, and also believes (via his spirited part – the part responsible for anger) that he should not look at them. In this sense, then, the case both is and is not one of synchronic belief akrasia, since it is a case in which Leontius acts in a way that is opposed to what he presently believes, but also in a way that follows what he presently believes – precisely because he presently has conflicting beliefs about what he should do. The question we must ask, however, is whether the case should be understood as one in which the appetite(s), and whatever beliefs they have produced in the soul, have led Leontius to look at the corpses contrary to what Leontius’s own reason tells him as he looks. If not, Carone will be right to resist understanding

136

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

this case as one of synchronic belief akrasia, for it will not be a case in which one acts in a way that is contrary to one’s present all-things-considered judgment of one’s good – a judgment of a sort that can only be provided by the rational part of the soul. So, what should we suppose Leontius’s reason was doing at the critical moment? Even if Carone is correct in contending that Plato never explicitly tells us what Leontius’s reason was doing in this case, the very next lines of the text – immediately after Plato has Socrates depict the conflict as one between anger and appetite – make the very point Carone has carefully resisted: “And in many other cases, as well” I said, “when someone is forced by their appetites, contrary to the rational part (paq± t¹m kocisl¹m), he excoriates himself and his spirit is aroused against that in him which is forcing, and just as if there’s a civil war going on inside of him, with spirit acting as the ally of reason. Spirit siding with the appetites, when reason has decreed it must not be done, is not, I suppose, the sort of thing you’d even claim to have experienced, either in yourself or in anyone else.” (IV 440a9-b7)

Carone’s response to this passage is critical: She argues that it is not that Leontius maintains conflicting beliefs, one associated with reason and one with appetite. Rather, reason actually comes “to adopt the beliefs of the prevailing part,” namely appetite (Carone 2001: 138) If Carone is right about this, then the Platonic moral psychology really is quite similar to the Socratic account, and the sharp contrast between a Socrates who declares synchronic akrasia to be impossible, and a Plato who allows it to be possible, will disappear. But there is good reason to think that this part of her account is not plausible. While it is true that one can understand the phenomenon of “being overcome” in such a way, it is plainly also the case that one can be “overcome” in the other way, as well. This other way is the way Plato has usually been understood, according to which reason is overcome without changing its view of things even as the agent acts. So it is hardly the case that Carone’s account of what it is to be “overcome” is obviously preferable to the other understanding. What Carone cannot account for, however, is Plato’s characterization of such cases as ones in which reason and spirit are allied in their opposition to the appetites. In Carone’s understanding, reason would have to be understood as perhaps only initially allied with spirit, but this alliance dissolves and reason comes to be allied with appetite, instead. In the case of Leontius, Carone’s account would have it that “Leontius can still believe that, all things considered, it is better to give in to his ignoble but very painful appetite” (Carone 2001: 139), but the story itself hardly makes it seem as if Leontius has acted in accordance with an all things considered judgment. Were this actually what Plato had in mind, the case would have to be explained differently. For example, in Carone’s version of the case, we would have to imagine Leontius finding himself con-

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

137

vinced that he should, indeed, look at the corpses, even as he feels continued reluctance to do so, out of a lingering sense of shame. We find no such reluctant resignation in the way Plato actually tells the story, however – no indication of any kind that Leontius (even momentarily) has determined that “the beautiful sight” is one in which he really should, all things considered, indulge himself. Instead, the only judgment he expresses is that his eyes are “wretches” and it therefore seems more reasonable to think that not just his sense of shame, but his considered and current view of what is right gets overpowered by his appetite in this case. There is no reason to think the alliance between reason and spirit is vitiated; instead, the allies are simply vanquished by appetite’s superior force.

II.3

Moral Psychology in Plato’s Phaedrus

The main text for establishing the difference between Socratic and Platonic moral psychology is plainly the Republic, but some confirmation for the two differences we have identified between the two conceptions can be obtained from the famous account of the soul as a charioteer with two horses in the Phaedrus. In this account, whereas the horses and charioteers of the souls of gods are all good (246a7 – 8), human beings include one noble horse and one that is “opposite in breeding and character” (246b2 – 3; see also 253d2). From this, we are told, it follows that in our case driving the soul is “difficult and troublesome” (246b4). Even though only one of the horses is characterized as ignoble, however, Plato has Socrates later allow that many human charioteers may find it very difficult to follow in the train of the gods because he is “troubled by the horses” (hoquboul´mg rp¹ t_m Vppym–248a4), while some cannot maintain a consistent altitude because its horses are unruly (248a5 – 6). But the “good” horse hardly seems to be the real source of his charioteer’s troubles. When Plato goes into detail, it is the other, the ignoble horse, that is depicted as disobedient to reason. Now when the charioteer looks in the eye of love, his entire soul is suffused with a sense of warmth and starts to fill with tingles and the goading of desire. As for the horses, the one who is obedient to the charioteer is still controlled, then as always, by its sense of shame, and so prevents itself from jumping on the boy. The other one, however, no longer responds to the whip or the goad of the charioteer ; it leaps violently forward and does everything to aggravate its yokemate and its charioteer, trying to make them go up to the boy and suggest to him the pleasures of sex. At first, the other two resist, angry in their belief that they are being made to do things that are dreadfully wrong. At last,

138

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

however, when they see no end to their trouble, they are led forward, reluctantly agreeing to do as they have been told. (Phaedrus 253e5 – 254b316)

Although this presentation of human psychology is allegorical, we think the most obvious sense of the tale Plato provides here reproduces the more direct account he provides in the Republic. For one thing, it seems plain that it is the same general desire that motivates all three of the parts of the soul in this account – in this case, erotic desire. The ways in which the different elements in the soul seek to pursue that desire, however, are very different. Even so there seems to be no suggestion here that any of the parts are propelled by what has been called “good independent” desires. The ignoble horse may have a blinkered and even inaccurate conception of what the good consists in, but there can be no doubt that the horse does what it does because it finds value in the idea of having sex with the boy. Moreover, the struggle is depicted not simply as oppositions of forces, but as differences in conceptions about what the person should do. These differences include elements of persuasion and (if often strained) occasional agreement between the different parts. So here, too, we find the different parts of the soul not simply making presentations for judgment, but presenting their own judgments about what the (whole) person should do. It is explicit repeatedly in this tale that the rational part of the soul (the charioteer) sometimes finds that its own beliefs are overruled, and that it thinks that what the soul is actually doing is “dreadfully wrong” (deim± ja· paq²mola, 254b1). Although Plato eventually has the particular charioteer he depicts gain control over his “ignoble horse,” the account he has given is one that plainly allows one to act contrary to one’s better judgment without that judgment wavering or changing at the moment of action. So in the Phaedrus, too, as we found in the Republic’s account, Plato clearly recognizes the possibility of synchronic akrasia.

II.4

Summary and Conclusion

If our understanding of the various texts we have surveyed is correct, then the extreme form of intellectualism often attributed to Socrates is not correct. But neither should we understand Plato as deviating from Socrates’ conviction that all desire is good-dependent. In two crucial respects, however, their opposing views about belief and desire yield important differences we are to understand human motivation: 16 This and all other translations of the Phaedrus are those of Nehamas and Woodruff in Cooper 1997.

Socratic and Platonic Moral Psychology

139

1. In the Socratic account, the appetites and passions function more like sense organs than homunculi: They present candidates for judgment as putative goods for one to choose. They do not make or include judgments as a natural part of the way they function; instead, judgment need not follow but may be influenced by the presentations of the appetites. Psychic conflict, accordingly, may sometimes take the form of one faced with conflicting information or presentations, each of which seems credible and deserving to be judged as decisive (without necessarily yet being judged as such). In the Platonic account, the appetites and passions actually present judgments to the soul, so that all psychic conflict will also always be cognitive conflict. 2. In the Socratic account, synchronic belief akrasia is impossible. In the Platonic account, it is possible that one can act in a way that is contrary to one’s present all things considered judgment (one, that is, created by the rational part of the soul) as a result of an appetite (or, perhaps, a passion – see Republic IV 441b2-c2 for a case in which passion and reason conflict), without any modification in reason’s judgment.

References and Further Reading Brickhouse, Th. C. / Smith, N. D. 2000. The Philosophy of Socrates, Boulder. Carone, G. R. 2001. “Akrasia in the Republic: Does Plato Change His Mind?”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 20: 107 – 148. Cooper, J. M. 1975. Reason and Human Good in Aristotle, Cambridge, MA. Cooper, J. M. (ed. )1997. Plato. Complete Works, Indianapolis / Cambridge. Cooper, J. M. 1999. “The Unity of Virtue”, in: Social Philosophy and Policy 15: 233 – 274 Croiset, A. (ed). 1923. Plato. Oeuvres comple`tes, tome 3, 2e partie: Gorgias – Me´non, Paris. Devereux, D. T. 1992. “The Unity of Virtues in Plato’s Protagoras and Laches”, in: Philosophical Review 101: 765 – 790. Devereux, D. T. 1995. “Socrates’ Kantian Conception of Virtue”, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 33: 381 – 408. Gallop, D. 1975. Plato. Phaedo, Oxford. Hoffman, P. 2003. “Plato on Appetitive Desires in the Republic”, in: Apeiron 36: 171 – 174. Irwin, T. H. 1977. Plato’s Moral Theory : The Early and the Middle Dialogues, Oxford. Irwin, T. H. 1995. Plato’s Ethics. Oxford. Morrison, D. R. 2003. “Happiness, Rationality, and Egoism in Plato’s Socrates”, in: J. Yu / J. Gracia (eds.), Rationality and Happiness: From the Ancients to the Early Medievals, Rochester, NY: 17 – 34. Moss, J. 2005. “Shame, Pleasure and the Divided Soul”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 29: 137 – 170. Moss, J. 2007. “The Doctor and the Pastry Chef: Pleasure and Persuasion in Plato’s Gorgias”, in: Ancient Philosophy 27: 229 – 249.

140

Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith

Nehamas, A. 1999. “Socratic Intellectualism”, in: A. Nehamas (ed.), Virtues of Authenticity: Essays on Plato and Socrates, Princeton: 27 – 58. Penner, T. 1990. “Plato and Davidson: Parts of the Soul and Weakness of Will”, in: D. Copp (ed.), Canadian Philosophers: Celebrating Twenty Years of the Canadian Journal of Philosophy, Supplementary Volume 16 of the Canadian Journal of Philosophy : 35 – 72. Penner, T. 1991. “Power and desire in Socrates: the argument of Gorgias 466a – 466d that orators and tyrants have no power in the city”, in: Apeiron 24: 147 – 202. Penner, T. 1992. “Socrates and the early dialogues”, in: R. Kraut (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plato, Cambridge: 121 – 169. Penner, T. 1997. “Socrates on the Strength of Knowledge: Protagoras 351B-357E”, in: Archiv fu¨r Geschichte der Philosophie 79: 117 – 49. Penner, T. 2002. “The historical Socrates and Plato’s early Dialogues: some philosophical questions”, in: J. Annas / Ch. Rowe (eds.), New Perspectives on Plato. Modern and Ancient, Cambridge, MA: 189 – 212. Penner, T. 2005. “Socratic Ethics: Ultra-Realism, Determinism, and Ethical Truth”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity. Issues in Ancient and Modern Ethics, Oxford: 157 – 187. Penner, T. / Rowe, Ch. 1994. “The Desire for the Good: Is the Meno Inconsistent with the Gorgias?”, in: Phronesis 39: 1 – 25. Reshotko, N. 1990. Dretske and Socrates: The development of the Socratic theme that all desire is for the good in a contemporary analysis of desire, Dissertation. University of Wisconsin-Madison. Reshotko, N. 1995. “A reply to Penner and Rowe”, in: Phronesis 40, 3: 336 – 341. Reshotko, N. 2006. Socratic Virtue. Making the Best of the Neither-Good-nor-Bad, Cambridge. Rowe, Ch. 2003. “Plato, Socrates, and developmentalism”, in: N. Reshotko (ed.), Socrates and Plato: Desire, Identity, and Existence, Edmonton: 127 – 141. Rowe, Ch. 2006. “Socrates in Plato’s dialogues”, in: S. Ahbel-Rappe / K. Rachana (eds.), A Companion to Socrates, Malden / Oxford: 159 – 70. Smith, N. D. 1999. “Plato’s analogy of soul and state”, in: Journal of Ethics 3: 1 – 19. Weiss, R. 2001. Virtue in the Cave. Moral Inquiry in Plato’s Meno, Oxford.

Jo¨rg Hardy

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

I.

Knowledge of the good and bad

How ought we live? That is the intriguing question Socrates seeks to answer in Plato’s dialogues (cf., e. g., Gorgias 472c6 – d1, 487e7 – 488a2, 500c1 – 4, Republic I 352d5 – 6). According to Socrates, the life we ought to live is the good life, the life we want to live – once we know what it means to live a good life. The good life (or happiness: eqdailom¸a) is the supreme goal of all our actions (Gorgias 467c – e, 472c – d, 499e, 500c, Symposium 205a, Republic 357b – c). For Socrates, the good life is the ‘examined life’, as opposed to what he in the Apology famously calls the “life without examination that is not worth living” (38a5 f., cf. Crito 48b4 – 10). The examined life is the life of a person whose actions are guided by knowledge – by the knowledge that is to be acquired by way of questioning ourselves and examining our and others’ beliefs (Ap. 28a, 37e – 38a, 41b – c) as Socrates does in so many of Plato’s dialogues. Knowledge alone is, however, not the source of actions. The source of actions is a person’s character as a whole, in a word: virtue (!qet¶). Virtue is, above all, agency.1 An agent’s character is a very complex psychological state that consists of beliefs, desires, and emotions. If virtue is the source of good actions, and if good actions require knowledge, the possession of knowledge is, then, a necessary condition for the possession of virtue. Moreover, Socrates claims that a certain kind of knowledge is both necessary and sufficient for virtue. Socrates calls it “the knowledge of the good and bad” (Laches 199d4 – 7, Charmides 174c1 – 2). The knowledge of the good and bad is the knowledge about human well-being. (We may also call it eudaemonist knowledge, cf. Hardy 2011.)

1 Brickhouse / Smith 1994: 114 – 117 emphasize that the examined life requires not only possessing a good soul but engaging in virtuous activity. Rudebusch 1999: 119 argues that “the possession of virtue entails its activity”.

142

Jo¨rg Hardy

However, what kind of knowledge could virtue possibly be?2 An answer to this question comes into sight, if we look at the transition from the necessity to the sufficiency of the knowledge of the good and bad. In various dialogues, Socrates gets his interlocutors agreeing on the thesis that knowledge is necessary for virtuous, that is, good and beneficial actions. He starts from the following observation: Any quality, such as perseverance (Laches 192b – d), health, wealth, honour (Meno 87d – 88c, Euthydemus 281b – d), expert-knowledge or any other (apparent) good will in some circumstances be (really) good and beneficial to the agent, but it will be bad in some other circumstances.3 All the things that are by themselves neither good nor bad are what scholars call conditional goods.4 A conditional good is really good for an agent, if the agent makes a good, beneficial use of it. In order to make a good, beneficial use of any conditional good, one has to know under which circumstances a certain conditional good is really good and beneficial, and one has to know how to make a beneficial use of a conditional good. Much less agreeable for Socrates’ interlocutors is the thesis that virtue entire is (a kind of) knowledge. What Socrates inspires when he makes this controversial claim is, as I take it, the following consideration: The requirement of making a (really, and not only apparently) good, beneficial use of something that might be good (under certain circumstances), also applies to making a good, beneficial ‘use’ of one’s own character traits – the particular virtues (cf. Meno 87d – 88e). The knowledge of the good and bad is a knowledge that guides the beneficial ‘use’ of any kind of (possible) goods, including our own character traits. Again, what kind of knowledge could accomplish this task? Here is a suggestion: If only the examined life is a virtuous and good life, it follows that only a corresponding kind of virtue is sufficient for an examined life. That might sound strange, since the meaning of the Greek term “!qet¶” is goodness or excellence. However, what Socrates regards as the examined life requires a kind of virtue that enables us to perform all our actions under the guidance of knowledge. As Annas 1999: 188 puts it: “Socrates argues that virtue must always benefit us, and the virtues ordinarily conceived do not always do that unless directed by knowledge; thus it is the knowledge element of them 2 Socrates himself would certainly ask that question if one of his interlocutors answered to the question “What is virtue?” that virtue is knowledge. In fact, Nicias says in the Laches that courage is knowledge. With this suggestion, he refers to an “excellent saying” that he knows from Socrates. Nicias has often heard Socrates saying “that every one of us is good in what he is wise and bad in what he is ignorant” (194c – d), and Socrates then asks him “what sort of wisdom courage would be”. 3 Cf. e. g. Laches 192b9 – d9, Charmides 160e7 – 11, Protagoras 359e5 – 7. 4 Cf. Reshotko 2006: 108 f., 119 f., Rudebusch 1999: 28 f., and Vlastos 1991: 230 f. On expertknowledge as a conditional good cf. Hardy 2010.

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

143

which really is virtue.” This reasoning may lead us to the following hypothesis: The virtue that Socrates identifies with knowledge is what we may call the ‘examined virtue’. The knowledge that is the same as virtue is a kind of knowledge that guides one’s life as a whole (in the sense of Laches 187e – 188a). Now, if a certain kind of knowledge can in fact guide (and change) our life as a whole, it is the knowledge about the supreme goals of all our particular actions. And if this knowledge in fact determines our actions (and helps us improving our character in the sense of Apology 29d – e), it is associated with a motivational force. This assumption has a further implication. If the knowledge that is the same as virtue results from the process of questioning and examining our and others’ beliefs that makes a life an examined (or examining) life, this process is not a purely cognitive, but both a cognitive, and volitional process: in examining our beliefs about virtue in general and our own character in particular, we at the same time form and transform our own character into a (more or less) virtuous one. If this is true, the knowledge that Socrates equates to virtue is not only knowledge in the narrower sense of propositional knowledge, but a comprehensive – both theoretical, and practical – knowledge that encompasses all the relevant mental capacities and abilities of a person. In other words: the Socratically conceived process of self-examination is the source of self-knowledge – and of self-determination.5 As is well known, the Socratic idea that virtue is a kind of knowledge has been raised some serious objections. Let me state the two main objections against Socratic intellectualism that any interpretation of the Socratic account of human motivation has to address. First, Socrates assumes that if one knows that a certain action is good one will do it. The transition from knowing to acting seems, however, doubtful because Socrates seems to disregard the non-cognitive (non-propositional) factors in human motivation. The only desire Socrates seems to consider is the fundamental desire for happiness (as the final good), and the only emotion he seems to consider is the love of knowledge or wisdom. Secondly, Socrates’ request for the knowledge that we need for conducting a good life aims at definitional knowledge – we may call it perfect knowledge – about the good and bad, but this knowledge is never to be attained by any human

5 One may also put this point another way : The knowledge Socrates identifies with virtue is intelligent agency – a kind of knowledge that has all the relevant features of intelligent agency. Russell 2005: 26 makes this point in what he calls a “directive conception of happiness”: “virtue is the unconditional good because it is the only thing that could be – it is agency, active and directive, and it directs in accordance with right reason; that is why virtue can play the appropriate productive role that unconditional goodness requires, and why it is on virtue that everything else depends for its goodness.”

144

Jo¨rg Hardy

being.6 I think that these objections can be surmounted if Plato’s dialogues allow for a non-reductive interpretation of Socrates’ theory of the kind of virtue that one acquires by way of ‘examining oneself and others’. After a brief discussion of Socrates’ theory of human motivation, I aim to elucidate some (in my view) important details of the process of philosophical inquiry as explained in the Apology and the Symposium, and I shall then propose interpretations of some passages from the Laches, Protagoras, Gorgias, and Meno. All these dialogues have their own topics, dramaturgy (and difficulties). However, they all share one explanandum: Socrates explains a state of mind that is “fine and good” (or fine and just) and necessary for conducting a good life, and he identifies this state of mind with a certain kind of knowledge. Based on this assumption, I shall try to extract a coherent Socratic theory of virtue from some significant passages from the dialogues mentioned.7

II.

‘All desire is for the good’

Let us first consider the first objection that I have mentioned. It seems that Socrates fails to acknowledge that desires and emotions play an active role in human motivation. This is why there seems to be a mysterious gap between knowing and acting in Socrates’ conception of virtue. However, for Socrates there is no such gap: the knowledge of the good leads (in a causal sense) to good, beneficial actions. Terry Penner provides a persuasive interpretation of the Socratic theory of human motivation and action. He understands Socrates to say that “all desires to 6 Cf., e. g., Nehamas 1999b: 28: “Socrates’ ethical intellectualism makes him believe that once people acquire knowledge of virtue, they will be able to tell what the good thing to do is in all circumstances and will in fact do it … But the transition from knowledge to action seems highly doubtful. In addition, his definitional intellectualism … seems to make the acquisition of the knowledge necessary for the good life impossible.” Discussions of Socrates’ intellectualism may also be found in Brickhouse / Smith 1994, 2000, Cooper 1999, Devereux 1995, Hardy 2011, 2013, Irwin 1977: 76 – 96, 1995: 75 f., Kahn 1996: 224 – 247, Nehamas 1999a, Penner 1992b, 2005, and Reshotko 2006. 7 From a chronological perspective, scholars usually divide Plato’s work into three groups: the early, middle, and late dialogues. This division is based on the analysis of the dialogues’ style, cf. Brandwood 1990, and the critical discussion by Nails 1995. According to another, contentbased view, we have to make a further distinction: the Apology and the early dialogues display the ‘Socratic’ doctrine, and the middle and late dialogues present Plato’s own views. The Symposium belongs to the (chronologically) middle dialogues. The Meno and the Gorgias seem to contain both ‘Socratic’ and ‘Platonic’ lines of thought. In this paper, I cannot discuss the various accounts of chronological divisions nor can I discuss the issue of a distinction between ‘Socratic’ and ‘Platonic’ dialogues. I take it, that the passages from Plato’s work that I focus on in this paper form a coherent whole.

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

145

do something are rational desires, in that they always automatically adjust to the agent’s beliefs about what is the best means to their ultimate end” (1992b: 128). Socrates holds that all our particular desires result from the one, single desire for happiness (as the ultimate end of all actions). No one ever has a desire for something bad (Meno 78a, Gorgias 468c – d, 499e). However, not every desire is rational in the sense that a person’s desire for the good is combined with a true belief about a (really, and not only apparently) good thing.8 In the Gorgias, Polus believes that it might even be good and desirable to kill a person. In Republic I, Thrasymachus takes it to be desirable to exploit other people. Socrates disagrees, but he is well aware of the fact that some people do have those desires. The theory of “rational desires” does not explain how a virtuous person could have only rational desires, for that requires a kind of transformation of the non-rational desires every person certainly has. However, Penner’s later interpretation (in his 2005) of Socrates’ theory of human motivation also accounts for non-rational desires. According to Penner, any particular voluntary action is determined by “a single fundamental desire for whatever particular action now is the really best means available to the agent’s MAXHAP” [sc. the maximum of an agent’s own real good (or happiness) that the agent’s circumstances will allow], and a pathway through the web of an agent’s general and particular beliefs about the human good and her present situation, “which identifies the particular action … which … is the really best means currently available to the agent’s MAXHAP, and so supplies a substituend for the ‘whatever’ desire … By [this] substitution … we get … the desire to do the quite particular action which is both precisely this action and also the action which is the really best means to the agent’s MAXHAP” (2005: 174).

A non-rational desire can in fact be a substituend for the general ‘whatever’ desire. An agent who undertakes an action which is not the really best means to her own real good entertains a false belief; she does not succeed in figuring out what is best for her to do under certain particular circumstances. If an agent believes that a given particular action is – all things considered – best for her (in terms of MAXHAP) in her given circumstances when in fact it is bad, and if the agent does not make a ‘technical’ mistake in adjusting her particular beliefs about the good and her present situation to her general beliefs, she has a false general belief about what contributes to her happiness. This explains why the knowledge of the good and bad is the decisive factor in the human’s pursuit of happiness. As Reshotko 2006: 89 puts it: “Knowledge not only allows us to identify the actual good, it also guarantees that once it is properly identified, our perspective will not distort our appreciation for what is actually good … this is why Socrates identified knowledge with virtue.” The knowledge Socrates equates 8 Cf. Kahn 1996: 246 ff.

146

Jo¨rg Hardy

to virtue has to stabilize our perspective on the real good and to prevent us (to the greatest possible extent) from shifts in our perspective that occur due to nonrational desires. Reshotko holds that Socrates does not have to deny that people have non-rational desires: “Intellectualism need only claim that … non-intellectualized factors (emotions and bases, JH) never cause behavior in an unmediated fashion: they cause it by affecting our beliefs” (2006: 84). The desire for the good reflects the influence of irrational desires on a person’s beliefs (87). I agree. However, it seems to me that Penner’s and Reshotko’s interpretations of the Socratic theory of virtue give rise to a further question. If the knowledge that Socrates identifies with virtue yields the rational desires (and emotions) that can be integrated in a person’s set of desires, emotions and beliefs, which – as a whole – contributes to her happiness, we may ask how a virtuous person forms her rational desires and transforms her non-rational desires into rational ones. If there were no such transformation, we would not need to examine ourselves and to care for our soul (in the sense of Apology 29d – e) in order to become wise and virtuous. There are some (and probably many) desires that adjust to an agent’s beliefs about what is best when in fact these beliefs are not the ones an agent would (and could) have formed under better epistemic conditions that are presently available to her. How do we form a rational belief, which is by way of the very formation of that belief associated with a desire, which is sufficiently strong to make the rational belief effective?

III.

Examining and Caring: The Apology

The virtue we need for the sake of our happiness is something we have to care for. In the Apology, Socrates exhorts his fellow citizens to “care for wisdom, truth, and the best possible state of the soul” (29d9 – e1, cf. 36c, 38a – b, 39d – e): Good Sir, you are an Athenian, a citizen of the … city with the greatest reputation for both wisdom and power ; are you not ashamed of your eagerness to possess as much wealth, reputation and honours as possible, while you do not care for nor give thought to wisdom and truth, or the best possible state of your soul? Then, if one of you disputes this and says he does care, I shall not let him go …, but I shall question him, examine him and test him, and if I do not think he has attained the goodness that he says he has, I shall reproach him because he attaches little importance to the most important things and greater importance to inferior things … I go around doing nothing but persuading …you not to care for your body or your wealth in preference to or as strongly as for the best possible state of your soul, as I say to you: Wealth does not bring about excellence, but excellence makes wealth and everything else good for men, both individually and

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

147

collectively. (Apology 29d9 – e1, translation, with slight modifications, by G.M.A. Grube, in: Cooper, ed. 1997: 27)9

Socrates wants to persuade people that they should care (1pileke?shai) about virtue and wisdom and “the best possible state of soul”. He starts with exhortation (paqajekeuºlemor), then examines (1q¶solai aqt¹m ja· 1net²sy ja· 1k´cny) those who claim to care, and finally rebukes (ameidi_) them if they do not care. This is his service to the God and the greatest service to his fellow citizens (30a, 36c). To discuss virtue and all the other things Socrates is talking about when he examines himself and others is the “greatest good” because virtue is necessary for making a beneficial use of wealth or any other thing that might be good for an agent. Socrates would even continue examining people after death in Hades, for doing so would be an “extraordinary happiness” (41b – c). The kind of examination Socrates is practising is a common endeavour; everyone is, in principle, able to do that, at least to the extent that everyone is able to examine herself and to care for her own “wisdom and virtue”. The wisdom or knowledge one should care about seems to be what Socrates calls “the knowledge of good and bad” elsewhere.10 What becomes clear in the Apology (21b – 22e, 29a – c) is that the result of self-examination is, above all, second-order knowledge: an awareness of whether one knows or does not know something about virtue (or an element of virtue). Moreover, the process of examination (1net²feim) also means caring (1pileke?shai) “for wisdom, truth, and the best possible state of the soul”. In other words, the more (or less) we know about our beliefs about virtue, the more (or less) we make our character into what we may call an ‘examined character’. This explains why Socrates examines those who claim to care for their wisdom and virtue (1q¶solai aqt¹m ja· 1net²sy ja· 1k´cny) and why he rebukes someone who ‘has not attained the goodness that he says he has’. That would not make sense if “questioning and examining” were a purely epistemological enterprise. The “questioning and examining” can only contribute to an individual person’s caring for the best possible state of her soul, if this process influences her own motivation. Take, for example, what Socrates says about how to acquire virtue in the Laches. Socrates’ interlocutors want to learn from Socrates how one becomes a good man and how they should educate their sons to make their souls better. Socrates answers that they first had to know what virtue is. “For if we don’t know what it is how are we going to advise anyone as to the best method of acquiring it? [Laches:] I do not think that there is any way in which we can do this” (190b8 – c2). The same is true of the self-image of a person as someone who 9 On the last sentence of this passage that allows two (and perhaps even three) different readings, see Burnyeat 2003, and Rowe 2007: 66 – 80. 10 Cf. Rowe 2007: 75.

148

Jo¨rg Hardy

wants to act with good reasons. Let us put Socrates’ question this way : ‘If we don’t know what virtue is, could we still claim to be virtuous and to perform good, virtuous actions?’ The answer is that we cannot. If we think that the possession of virtue requires knowledge about what virtue is, we should make it our priority to strive for that knowledge. In the Laches, Nicias reports that whoever comes into close contact with Socrates and associates with him in conversation must necessarily, even if he began by conversing about something quite different in the first place, keep on being led about by the man’s argument until he submits to answering questions about himself concerning both his present manner of life and the life he has lived. And when he does submit to this questioning, you don’t realize that Socrates will not let him go before he has well and truly examined every last detail? (187e6 – 188a3, translation, with slight modifications, by R. K. Sprague, in: Cooper, ed. 1997: 673)

Socrates examines the peoples’ way of living by way of examining their beliefs about virtue in general and their own virtue in particular. How are we to understand the modus operandi of this process of examining one’s life? Part of an answer is Socrates’ epistemology, that is, the theory of knowledge, which Socrates invokes when examining answers to a “What is F?”-question.11 The definitional knowledge that is, according to Socrates, necessary and sufficient for virtue, entails the knowledge of particular good (or bad) actions. Socrates’ eudaemonism is, however, not only epistemology, but also a theory about caring in the sense of the Apology – a theory about the way one makes his own character into a virtuous, good, and desirable one. Suppose that examining your beliefs were a purely epistemological matter : You examine your beliefs, change some (and probably many) of your beliefs into better ones, but your beliefs about what is good for you are inefficacious; they don’t have any influence on your desires and actions. In this case you would need a separate mental process of caring that would bridge the gap between thinking and desiring and that would efficaciously link your good beliefs to your good desires and actions. But this is not how Socrates conceives of the kind of caring that he considers the most important thing in life. Socrates never says that we should first examine our beliefs and then improve our character the way that we act on our good beliefs. To examine yourself is to work hard (39d8) on yourself; in examining and thereby improving yourself, you make yourself into a good, virtuous person. Socrates’ conception of self-examination includes a distinction of three epistemic stages and three corresponding levels of virtue. This distinction is explicit in the Apology and is restated by Diotima in the Symposium.

11 On the Socratic conception of definitional knowledge, cf. the excellent study by Benson 2000.

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

IV.

149

Human knowledge and human love: The Apology and the Symposium

In the Apology, Socrates claims to possess what he calls “human knowledge” (20d7 – 9), and he locates this knowledge between two extremes. The one is what he calls the “real wisdom”, which only the God possesses (23a5 – 6). The opposite extreme is “not being wise, but seeming wise” (21c8 – d1). The oracle of Delphi had said that Socrates is “the wisest among men” (23a7 – b4). On the one hand, Socrates disavows being wise. On the other, he must have a certain kind of knowledge since the oracle does not lie (21b6 – 7). In fact, Socrates must have (at least) the knowledge that enables him to examine and to test other persons’ knowledge claims. That kind of knowledge is a necessary condition of the “questioning and examining” Socrates had been practising ever since he asked the Oracle (21b – 23c, 29e, 38a – b).12 In the Apology, Socrates reports that he started examining and testing other people in order to understand the meaning of the oracle. For this purpose, he went to people whom he considered wise men because they are experts in a given domain (21b – c). The outcome of Socrates’ investigation is surprisingly negative: All the experts he had been asking and examining know many things, but “each of them, because of his success at his [particular] craft [or expertise], thought himself very wise in other most important pursuits, and this error of theirs overshadowed the wisdom they had” (21c – 22e). Socrates explains his own wisdom this way (21d2 – 8): “I am wiser than this man (sc. the man who thinks to know something, but does not); it is likely that neither of us knows anything worthwhile, but he thinks he knows something when he does not, whereas when I do not know, neither do I think I know; so I am likely to be wiser than he to this small extent, that I do not think I know what I do not know.” The “human knowledge” (20d7 – 9), which makes Socrates – according to his own interpretation of the oracle – the “wisest among men” is a second-order knowledge about what he knows and what he does not know. Socrates understands the oracle the way that he is an example, that is, one of the “wisest among men“ (23a7 – b4). Anyone, who, like Socrates, knows that he does not possess “real wisdom”, belongs to those who are “the wisest among men”. Just as Socrates places “human knowledge” in between the “real wisdom” of the god (23a5 – 6) and the ignorance of those who ‘are not wise, but seem wise’ (21c8 – 12 In the Theaetetus Socrates claims “the ability to apply all possible tests to the offspring (sc. a given thought of an interlocutor), to determine whether the young mind is being delivered of a phantom, that is, an error, or a fertile truth” (Theaetetus 150b9 – c3), and he claims that he “is not permitted to accept a lie and put away truth” (151d1 – 2). If Socrates is able to examine and to test beliefs in an infallible way, he knows the formal conditions for adequate definitions.

150

Jo¨rg Hardy

d1), Diotima in the Symposium places philosophy, the love of wisdom, in between the knowledge that only gods possess and ignorance. Diotima compares Love (Eros) as a spirit with philosophy because the philosopher knows that he lacks what he desires: None of the gods loves wisdom or wants to become wise (for gods are wise), and no one else who is wise loves wisdom; on the other hand, no one who is ignorant will ever love wisdom or desire to become wise. For what makes ignorance so damaging is that the ignorant is content with himself, even though one might not be an admirable or wise person. If you don’t think you need anything, you won’t want what you don’t think you need. (Symposium 204a1 – 7, translation, with slight modifications, by A. Nehamas and P. Woodruff, in: Cooper, ed. 1997: 487)

Gods do not need and the ignorant do not desire to become wise. The ignorant person is not aware of his lack of knowledge. The philosopher desires the wisdom that she does not yet possess, and so she is in between ignorance and wisdom. If, however, the philosopher is seeking the knowledge she lacks, what, then, if anything, does she know about the knowledge she is seeking? In other words, if the philosopher is seeking knowledge, how can she know that she is on the right track – on the track that might bring her (at least) closer to the knowledge she desires to possess? What the philosopher, the ‘lover of wisdom’, knows becomes clear when we look at how Diotima had earlier explained the state of mind of having true beliefs: Having true beliefs without being able to give an account of them is neither a matter of knowing – since how could something that is lacking an account be knowledge? –, nor of ignorance – since how could something that hits the truth be ignorance? True belief, of course, has this status: it is in between knowledge and ignorance. [Socrates:] What you say is true. (202a5 – 9, my own translation)

What Diotima describes here is, however, not just any kind of having a true belief without being able to give an account, but the philosopher’s attitude to her beliefs. To be in the epistemic position of having true beliefs without being able to give an account does as such by no means entail knowing that those beliefs are something in between knowledge and ignorance. If the philosopher in fact knows that having a true belief without being able to give an account is something between knowledge and ignorance, she strives for a better epistemic state; she wants to examine and to improve her beliefs by way of giving an account. (In the Symposium, Diotima does not talk about examination as Socrates does in the Apology. However, to examine one’s life in the sense of Apology 39c – d means to give an account of one’s life). And if the philosopher is in fact able to give an account, she will doubtlessly be in a better position than she was before; she will have some beliefs of which she knows that they are true, and yet she will know that she still lacks what she desires – just as Socrates would even continue

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

151

examining himself and others after death. Diotima makes two claims on the epistemological dimension of Love: Love is striving for the better state, the world of gods. The work (ergon) of Love is generating “the good and the beauty” (204c – 206a), thereby generating different kinds of good and beautiful things (206b – 207a), including the various kinds of knowledge. The human kind of Love is the desiring of the good, too (206b – 207a), and the best way of striving for the good (and happiness) is seeking wisdom and virtue (209a). In Plato’s dramaturgy, the Apology and the Symposium mark the beginning and the end of Socrates’ life as the philosopher who cares for his fellow citizens’ happiness. In the Symposium, Socrates says that once he was persuaded by Diotima’s account of Love (and the search for wisdom), he himself tried to persuade others to strive for knowledge (212b). In the Apology, Socrates looks back at his life’s mission to persuade others to “care for wisdom, truth, and the best possible state of the soul” (29d – e, 36c, 38a – b). This seems to be the reason for the striking parallel between Socrates’ account of human knowledge and Diotima’s account of philosophy. The Apology and the Symposium each explain one part of the Socratic mission: When Socrates was first examining other people whom he considered experts and wise men – in order to understand the oracle – he understood the nature of the knowledge that he himself possesses. What he has learnt from Diotima is the passionate desire for the wisdom that is required for conducting a good life. We may distinguish the following three levels:13 1) Perfect knowledge is the “real wisdom” that only the god possesses. The possession of perfect knowledge would correspond to a perfection of the soul. We human beings can never attain that level of perfection in this life. Perfect knowledge (and the corresponding human excellence) is an ideal, which we can only approximate to when examining ourselves and improving our character. 2) Human (philosophical) knowledge is an awareness of one’s own epistemic position. The philosopher knows both the (supreme) value of perfect knowledge (real wisdom), and the value of seeking knowledge by way of examining her own and others’ beliefs. On the level of human knowledge, one is seeking knowledge and is at the same time caring for wisdom and virtue. 3) Ignorance is a state of mind in which one does not know the differences between the three epistemic stages. The ignorant person is not aware of his state of mind (and his epistemic position); he does not care for examining his beliefs, and so he does not really care for improving his character.

13 Rudebusch makes a similar distinction in his 2009. My own distinction refers to the Apology, Symposium, and Theaetetus (cf. Hardy 2001, 2011).

152

Jo¨rg Hardy

The Socratic method of examining beliefs is at work on the level of philosophical, human knowledge. The first achievement is to avoid ignorance or to ascend from ignorance to philosophy (human knowledge). Once one understands the aim of Socrates’ questions one becomes aware of the lack of knowing what one desires to know and starts seeking knowledge. The search for knowledge by way of answering Socrates’ questions puts his interlocutors in the position to improve the epistemic status of their beliefs about virtue within the realm of “human knowledge”. One might ask how we can attain the (middle) epistemic status of “human” (philosophical) knowledge? Let me suggest the following answer : The “human knowledge” is second-order knowledge about one’s own epistemic state, which includes the knowledge of truth-conducive methods of forming beliefs and examining (testing) beliefs. This knowledge enables a person to distinguish (comparatively) bad from (comparatively) good epistemic conditions under which she forms a belief, and also in fact to form and to examine her beliefs under the best possible conditions that are currently available to her. We produce the best possible epistemic conditions by way of examining our and others’ beliefs and by giving an account of our true beliefs (Symposium 202a5 – 9), that is, by “tethering a belief by an account of the reason why the belief is true” (Meno 98a3 – 4).14 In other words, we produce the best possible epistemic conditions by submitting our beliefs to testing in the sense of Republic 534b3 – d1. Giving an account yields fallible knowledge – for a belief of which we can give an account is still open to further examination – that prevents us from avoidable ignorance, that is, from the ignorance that results from not considering the sources of error that we know. If we thoroughly examine our beliefs, we are (at least) in the position to know whether we have a belief that we are able to justify (by giving an account). This process is fallible and vulnerable to many kinds of error. However, if we are aware of the sources of error that we know, we are (at least) in the position to avoid or to overcome the state of mind that consists in “seeming wise but not being wise”. This brings me to my response to the second objection against Socratic intellectualism that I have mentioned. It seems to be clear that no one can ever attain definitional knowledge of human well-being – how could one? To measure our beliefs against the standard of definitional knowledge will, however, prevent us to the maximum extent from avoidable ignorance. Moreover, examining our beliefs will increase the inferential density (and explanatory power) of the web of 14 Although Plato is not primarily interested in propositional knowledge as such, he invokes, as I take it, two conceptions of propositional knowledge. Knowledge in a stronger sense is restricted to universals (Forms). But Socrates also speaks of knowledge in a weaker sense when he refers to a true belief, which is accompanied by an account in the sense of Meno 98a3 – 4.

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

153

our true beliefs – given that we have some true believes that ‘stand up to testing’ (Rep. 534b – d).15 In other words, we can approximate to definitional (perfect) knowledge, when we examine our (and others’) beliefs and give an account of our true beliefs. If the “questioning and examining” is, as I said, both a cognitive and volitional process, the ‘examined virtue’ that one acquires through this process is, then, a two-fold kind of virtue. One example is the kind of courage that is the topic of the Laches.

V.

The two-fold nature of virtue: The Laches

In the Laches, Lysimachus and Melesias ask their friends Laches and Nicias for advice on how to educate their sons the way that they become good citizens (180a – d). Lysimachus and Melesias wonder whether taking lessons in the art of fighting in armour contributes to the proper education of young men. They ask Nicias and Laches for advice on this matter. However, Laches and Nicias disagree in their advices. Lysimachus asks Socrates to cast the deciding vote. Socrates replies that voting cannot replace examining the topic in question because “it is by knowledge that one ought to make decisions, if one is to make them well and not by majority rule” (184e). The topic in question is “how human virtue may come to the soul of a young man and make him better” (190b). Socrates elicits from his interlocutors that advising on how to acquire virtue requires the knowledge about what virtue actually is. “For if we don’t know what it is how are we going to advise anyone as to the best method of acquiring it? – (Laches:) I do not think that there is any way in which we can do this” (190b8 – c2). If Laches is going to give an advice on how one can acquire virtue, he seems to know what virtue is. Laches agrees. Socrates suggests, however, to begin with investigating one part of virtue: “Let us not begin straightaway with an investigation of the whole of virtue – that would perhaps be too great a task – but let us first see if we have sufficient knowledge about some part of it” (190c8 – 10). This part is courage since it is courage, which one might develop if one takes lessons in the art of fighting in armour and so the discussion turns to the examination of courage as a part of virtue. 15 Many dialogues show that Socratic examination does not only aim at refuting his interlocutors’ beliefs. As Rowe 2007: 135 emphasizes: “Rather than being about refutation (though that is frequently, even typically a by-product), Socratic method is about questioning, challenging – precisely : examination. The issue always is whether this or that idea, whether mine or yours, will stand up to testing. If it does, then it can be the start of a pile of such ideas, or be added to one you and I already have.” Cf. Stemmer 1992: 147 ff.

154

Jo¨rg Hardy

There are many ways to act courageously as Socrates says, “some possess courage in pleasures, some in pains, some in desires, and some in fears” (191d). It seems that courage is to be found in all human behaviour. Laches first defines courage as perseverance (192b9), and next as “perseverance joined with wisdom” (192c8, d10 – 11). Laches and Socrates agree upon the assumption that courageous actions are wise and praiseworthy (192b – d). But not every instance of wise perseverance is praiseworthy. Laches cannot find a definition of courage that includes all the cases of wise perseverance that exemplify courageous behaviour and excludes the cases of a wise perseverance that is not praiseworthy (192e – 193d). The sort of wisdom that would ensure praiseworthy actions is what Socrates calls the knowledge of the good and bad, that is, the (motivating) knowledge about human well-being. Nicias has often heard an “excellent saying” from Socrates: “every man is good in that in which he is wise, and bad in that in which he is ignorant” (194c – d). Nicias himself suggests a definition of courage as the knowledge of “terrible or emboldening things in war and in every other situation” (194e11 – 195a1). Socrates elicits Nicias’ agreement to the following theses: Terrible things produce fear, while emboldening things do not produce fear (but confidence). Fear is an expectation of an imminent bad thing (and confidence is an expectation of an imminent good thing) (198b6 – 9). Terrible things are imminent bad things, while emboldening things are imminent good things (198c2 – 4). Thus, courage is the knowledge of bad and good things (198c6 – 7). For any kind of knowledge: The same knowledge knows what is best whether the object is past, present, or future (198d2 – 5, 199a6 – 8). Then courage is not only the knowledge of terrible or emboldening things in the future but knowledge of terrible or emboldening things at any time, and this knowledge is furthermore the knowledge of all good or bad things. This knowledge is definitional knowledge about human wellbeing, which Socrates identifies with the possession of all the virtues: Does a man with this kind of knowledge seem to depart from virtue in any respect if he really knows, in the case of all goods whatsoever, what they are and will be and have been, and similarly in the case of evils? And do you regard that man as lacking in soundness of mind or justice and reverence to whom alone belongs the ability to deal circumspectly with both gods and men with respect to both the fearful and its opposite, and to produce good things through his knowledge of how to associate with them correctly? – I think you have a point, Socrates. (Laches 199d4 – e2, translation, with slight modifications, by R. K. Sprague, in: Cooper, ed. 1997: 684)

This remarkable passage exhibits all the features of Socrates’ conception of virtue as a kind of knowledge. Socrates here speaks of a person, who does not only know the terrible or emboldening things (d9 – e1), but who also knows all the good and bad things (d5), whenever a good or bad thing happens (d5 – 6,

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

155

cf. 198d1 – a9, 199b6 – 8). And this person also possesses all the virtues (d7 – e1); he does not only know the good things, but he also knows – this is what matters – how to produce good things, that is, how to perform good (desirable and beneficial) actions. The knowledge about human well-being seems in fact to be the same as the whole of virtue (and Socrates here obviously refers to an ideal, which one could only approximate to). However, the terminal argument in the Laches ends up to the problem of how to reconcile two assumptions about courage Socrates and Nicias share. Whereas Socrates suggested to investigate courage as a part of virtue – more precisely : Socrates suggested to see if the interlocutors have sufficient knowledge of a part of virtue (190b – d) – the examination of Nicias’ proposal turns out to reveal the whole of virtue. The argument Laches 198b – 199e may be laid out this way : (1) A person is courageous if and only if she knows imminent terrible or emboldening things (194e11 – 195a1, 196d1 – 2, 198b6 – 7, 199a10 – b2).16 (2) Every imminent terrible or emboldening thing is a bad or good thing (198c2 – 4, 198b6 – 9). More precisely : One knows imminent terrible or emboldening things if and only if one knows that terrible or emboldening things are bad or good things. (3) Thus, a person is courageous if and only if she knows imminent good or bad things (198c6 – 7). (4) A person knows imminent things with the quality F if and only if she knows the definition of F (198d1 – a9, 199a6 – 8). (5) Thus, a person is courageous if and only if she possesses definitional knowledge of good and bad things [in the sense of (4)] (199b9 – c2, c4 – d3). (6) A person possesses definitional knowledge of the good and bad things if and only if she possesses the whole of virtue (199d4 – e2). (7) Thus, a person is courageous if and only if she possesses the whole of virtue (199e3 – 5). (8) Courage is one part of virtue (198a4 – b1, 199e3 – 4). (9) [Thus, if a person is courageous, she possesses the whole of virtue and does not possess the whole of virtue (199e6 – 9).] (10) [Thus, it is not true: A person is courageous if and only if she possesses the whole of virtue (199e3 – 11).]17

16 Cf. Protagoras 358d, 360d, Republic 429c – 430c, Philebus 32c, Laws 647c – d, 963d – e. 17 Cf. the reconstructions of the terminal argument in the Laches by Benson 2000: 69, Brickhouse / Smith 2000: 161 f., Detel 1974, Ferejohn 1984: 386, Penner 1992a: 5, Roochnik 1996: 102 f., Vlastos 1981a, 1981b, 1994: 118, Woodruff 1987: 109, and Yonezawa 2012.

156

Jo¨rg Hardy

The revised definition (199e3 – 5), thesis (7), includes the knowledge of all good and bad things. But this definition seems to contradict the assumption (8) that courage is a part of virtue (198a1 – 6). Socrates concludes that he and Nicias did not find out what courage is (199e10 – 11). One way of understanding the argument is to read it as a refutation of Nicias’ definition of courage that can be derived by way of a reductio from the premises of the above argument. It seems that Nicias had to abandon either his definition of courage or his assumption that courage is a part of virtue. However, there is a third solution. The two statements “courage is a part of virtue” (8) and “courage is the whole of virtue” (7) apparently, but not necessarily – that means, not under every possible interpretation – contradict each other. For Socrates, the courageous person knows all the general features of good and bad things if and only if she also possesses all the various virtues (199d4 – e1). The assumption that courage is one part of virtue (8) denies the revised definition of courage (7) if and only if it also denies the thesis (6) that a person possesses the comprehensive knowledge of the good and bad if and only if she possesses the whole of virtue (199d4 – e2). The assumption on courage as one part of virtue denies this thesis if it says that there are some persons who are courageous but not just, pious, temperate, and so on. But neither Socrates nor Nicias hold this view. In other words: Socrates shows the conditions under which the two crucial assumptions about courage would contradict each other, but he does not show that they do contradict each other. The problem that emerges in the terminal argument of the Laches is not solved in the dialogue’s discussion. However, Plato might not have designed the dialogue to end up in a perplexity that would be unsolvable in principle. The agenda is set with Socrates’ initial question what virtue is (190b – d). My suggestion is that the task Plato sets for the readers of the Laches is to find a solution to the problem of the terminal argument that both reconciles the two apparently contradictory theses about courage, and conjoins the two elements that are under consideration in the discussions with Laches and Nicias: wise perseverance and (definitional) knowledge of the good and bad. Scholars have pointed to the fact the Plato seems to invite his readers to combine these two accounts. Kahn 1996: 167 suggests a combination of Laches’ and Nicias’ proposals that would be a perfectly respectable definition of courage: perseverance and toughness of soul guided by the knowledge of what is good and what is bad, what is and is not to be feared.“ The knowledge Socrates identifies with virtue is a comprehensive knowledge, which encompasses the motivating force(s) of the virtues. As to the two apparently contradictory theses about courage as the whole of virtue and courage as a part of virtue, we may ask: Is there one virtue and do the various parts of virtue refer to something different from the one virtue? In the

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

157

Sophist (251a7 – b4), Plato provides a perfectly clear account of how we can refer to one and the same thing by several terms: [The visitor :] Let’s give an account of how we call the very same thing, whatever it may be, by several names. – Give me an example. – Surely we speak of a man even when we name him several things, that is, when we apply colours to him and shapes, sizes, defects and virtues. In theses cases and a million others we say that he is not only a man but also good and many different things. And similarly on the same account we take a thing to be one, and at the same time we speak of it as many by using many names for it. (Sophist 251a7 – b4, translation by N. P. White, in: Cooper, ed. 1997: 273)

Similarly, we can speak of the one virtue when we call courage, soundness of mind etc. parts of it. Whether the two assumptions in question contradict each other or not depends on the understanding of having knowledge of all the good or bad things (199d4 – e2). According to Penner (1973, 1992), Socrates wants us to see that Nicias misses this: If courage is knowledge, it is not just a part of virtue, but in fact the whole of virtue. I agree.18 However, what exactly is the state of mind of the courageous man (as envisaged in 199d4 – e1)? Socrates says that the knowledge of one general quality of good and bad things, such as the knowledge of terrible or emboldening things, entails the knowledge of all the other relevant qualities of good and bad things, and the same holds for the relation between courage and the whole of virtue: A person possesses one particular virtue such as courage if and only if she possesses all the other virtues, too. The essential point that Socrates makes in his statement of the comprehensive “knowledge of the good and bad” in 194d4 – e2 is, as I take it, this one: An agent’s success in performing good, beneficial, and praiseworthy actions depends on the unimpeded interaction of the various virtues. In order to perform (really) good, beneficial, and praiseworthy actions, one has to know all the various general good or bad qualities of a particular subject – one has to know why a particular thing is under certain present circumstances a good, emboldening or a bad, terrible thing –, and one also has to have a complex virtuous attitude towards those things so that one is in a present situation courageous and at the same time temperate, just etc. The state of mind that Socrates equates to knowledge involves both, knowledge of true propositions about good or bad things, and the, so to speak, examined desires and emotions such as fear or confidence that 18 However, I do not think that Penner’s (1973) assumption that the virtues are identical with each other is necessary for an understanding of the terminal argument in the Laches. Devereux 1992: 786 seems to hold a similar view. He argues that “wisdom directly entails the other virtues and is the key to their unity ; … only wisdom is exemplified in all virtuous activity … The knowledge essential to each of the other virtues is knowledge of good and evil, and what differentiates them is some additional distinctive factor or quality (e. g., endurance in the case of courage).”

158

Jo¨rg Hardy

enables an agent to act in accordance with her knowledge. This is what Socrates means when he says that the one who possesses the knowledge of the good and bad ‘is able to deal with good and bad things and to produce good things through his knowledge’ (199d4 – e2). The assumption that courage is a part of virtue would contradict the Socratic thesis about the knowledge of the good and bad (199d4 – e2) only if we read the assumption that it says: In some cases, a person is courageous but not temperate, not just, and so on. This is what Protagoras claims in the dialogue named after him (Protagoras 349b – d, cf. 329e), but neither Socrates nor Nicias make that claim. If we read the assumption about courage as a part of virtue as saying that courage is an element of the comprehensive knowledge of the good and bad, it has just the same meaning as Socrates’ general thesis about virtue (199d4 – e2). The virtues, which are “altogether” part of the comprehensive knowledge of the good and bad, entail each other. This is why the one virtue like courage in fact represents the whole of virtue. Unfortunately, Nicias does not know what Socrates seems to know about virtue and he therefore fails to provide an account of courage that would solve the apparent contradiction. Does the excellent man Socrates and Nicias envisage in 199d4 – e2 also display perseverance when “producing good things”? Socrates has rejected Laches’ proposals on the ground that courage is always praiseworthy. However, he did not disabuse Laches of the thought that courage is some kind of perseverance. If the knowledge of the good and bad entails the kind of courage (as well as any other particular virtue), which Socrates himself has in mind (191d), he does not need to add perseverance to his account of virtue (in 199d4 – e1). Perhaps, Socrates considers perseverance no longer relevant. It seems, however, quite natural to assume that the excellent man produces good things through his perseverance, which is joined with the knowledge about what is good or bad in any particular situation. When a captain courageously sails through stormy weather in order to bring Odysseus back to Athens or Othello to Cyprus, he perseveres in staying on course. When Socrates defends his friend Laches on a battlefield, he perseveres in fighting against the attacking opponents. When Socrates remains at his ‘post in life’ as explained in the Apology (28e), he perseveres in questioning and examining himself and others. Socrates never says that the courageous man does not have a character trait like perseverance. One might object: Doesn’t Socrates speak of knowledge and nothing else but knowledge? He does. And what does he mean by speaking of the knowledge of the good and bad? He refers to an agent’s complex state of soul that enables her to know what is – all things considered – good and bad and also to act accordingly. Knowledge of true propositions alone does not make us acting. What makes us acting is the combination of a belief and a desire (cf. Penner 2005). The courageous person has the desire to perform good and praiseworthy actions and

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

159

we may assume that he also has emotions like fear or confidence. This is explicitly stated in the Protagoras.

VI.

‘Knowledgeable fear and confidence’: The Protagoras

The discussion between Socrates and Protagoras starts from two contrary assumptions: Protagoras claims that virtue can be taught (for teaching virtue is his business), whereas Socrates doubts that virtue can be taught. After Protagoras has given a “long speech” on that issue, Socrates asks him whether he thinks that virtue is a unity or not. More precisely, Socrates wants to know whether Protagoras holds that one can possess one particular virtue without possessing the other virtues. Protagoras says that the particular virtues in fact do not entail each other. For example, “there are many courageous men who are unjust, or just men who are not wise” (329e, restated 349d – e). This is the thesis Socrates examines throughout the remainder of the dialogue – and this is, as I said, the thesis that would deny the thesis on the knowledge of the good and bad as stated in the Laches (199d4 – e2). What Socrates wants to discuss is how courage or any other particular virtue relates to virtue as a whole. After a first discussion (349e – 351e) in which Socrates and Protagoras did not come to any agreement, Socrates makes a new attempt. He claims that knowledge always rules so that someone’s knowledge about what is good or bad will always determine her actions, as opposed to the conventional view, according to which “many people know what is best to do are not willing to do it, though it is in their power, but do something else” (352d). In the Protagoras, Socrates describes an “art of measurement” that would make the reversal of an agent’s motivational balance, which is the cause of akratic actions, impossible.19 For the purpose of this paper, I shall briefly outline what I take to be the main points of Socrates’ conception of the art of measurement that Socrates invokes in the terminal argument 359c – 360e in the Protagoras. Socrates first cites the conventional view about knowledge (and its weakness). According to this view, people very often know what is best, but are overcome by pleasure and act against their better judgement. Socrates claims that what is pleasant or painful is also good or bad. If this is true, the one who acts against his better judgement ‘takes fewer good things at the cost of greater evils’; he knows what is good and pleasant (and more pleasant than all relevant alternatives) but chooses what is bad and unpleasant. This is impossible, if one follows the Soc19 On Socrates’ treatment of akrasia in the Protagoras, cf. Hardy 2011, ch. IV, Kahn 1996: 226 – 257, Reshotko 2006: 75 – 83, Rudebusch 1999: 21 – 27. Excellent discussions of this issue may also be found in Bobonich / Destre´e (eds.) 2007.

160

Jo¨rg Hardy

ratic maxim, which says that if we weigh pleasant things against each other, we always have to take the more pleasant ones (356a8 – c1). If what is pleasant is good, what we take to be pleasant is, then, desirable. If an agent successfully employs the art of measurement, she knows that a certain action is – all things considered – the best and most desirable one, and her knowledge is associated with a sufficiently strong motivational force. Having explained the art of measurement as the source of the knowledge about good and pleasant actions, Socrates comes back to the dispute he had with Protagoras on how courage (or any other particular virtue) relates to the whole of virtue (359a – c). Socrates’ account of the knowledge that rules all our actions (and rules out choosing something bad) raises the following problem (359c – d): Let courage be the expectation of terrible or emboldening things, and let these things be bad or good things. And let us assume that the courageous and wise people know terrible and emboldening things. If no one wants to go for what is not good for him, it follows, so it seems, that the courageous and wise men – who know terrible, bad things – do not want to go for terrible, bad things. Protagoras objects, “the things that cowards go for are exactly the opposite of those that the courageous go for. For instance, courageous men are willing to go on war, but cowards aren’t” (359e). Agreeing, Socrates makes his essential point in the overall argument of the Protagoras. Socrates and Protagoras agree that courageous actions are good, pleasant, and praiseworthy (360a7 – 8). If we apply the Socratic maxim 356a – c to courageous actions, it follows that the courageous person who knows the actions, which are dangerous, but also good, pleasant, and praiseworthy, wants to undertake these actions, because she knows that it is better (more pleasant) for her to go for dangerous things, when this is praiseworthy. And this is why the courageous people have a particular kind of fear or confidence, too: When a courageous man is afraid, his fear is not something disgraceful, nor his confidence when he is confident? That’s right. And if not disgraceful, are they not praiseworthy? He agreed. And if praiseworthy, good as well? Yes. By contrast, the fear and the confidence of cowards, madmen, and the foolhardy are disgraceful? He agreed. And is their confidence disgraceful and bad for any reason other than ignorance and error? It is as you say. … So cowardice proves to be error about what is to be feared and what is not? He nodded. And the opposite of cowardice is courage? Yes. … So wisdom about what is to be feared and what is not is courage? (Protagoras 360a8 – d5, translation by Taylor 1976: 54 f.)

The willingness to go for dangerous things when it is praiseworthy to do so is the specific difference between the courageous and the coward. The courageous people want to undertake dangerous actions when it is good, pleasant, and praiseworthy. The source of their motivation is their knowledge (or wisdom). If knowledge (or wisdom) is a necessary condition for courage, then there are no

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

161

such persons who would be courageous but not wise – contrary to Protagoras’ claim (329e, 349d – e). The terminal argument 358a – 360e of the Protagoras may be summarized like this: (1) A person is courageous if and only if she is motivated to undertake dangerous, good, pleasant, and praiseworthy actions. (360a7 – b4) (2) A person is motivated to undertake dangerous, good, pleasant, and praiseworthy actions if and only if she possesses the knowledge (or wisdom) about those actions. (360b4 – c1) (3) Thus, a person is courageous if and only if she possesses the knowledge (or wisdom) about dangerous, good, pleasant, and praiseworthy actions. (360c6 – d5) It is interesting to note that the wise person also has emotions (or a certain attitude towards her emotions) like fear or confidence. Socrates says, “when a courageous man is afraid, his fear is not something disgraceful, nor his confidence when he is confident”. By contrast, the fear and the confidence of cowards are disgraceful. Notice the strict parallel between the possession of knowledge/wisdom or the lack of knowledge and the character traits courage and cowardice (360c – d): “So cowardice is an error about what is to be feared and what is not” – “the opposite of cowardice is courage” – “wisdom about what is to be feared and what is not is the opposite of error about that” – “So wisdom about what is to be feared and what is not is courage”. The knowledge or wisdom about what is to be feared or to be dreaded is associated with a motivational force; the courageous persons want to go for dangerous things when it is praiseworthy, and this is why their fear or confidence is praiseworthy. The art of measurement gains us knowledge about good, pleasant, and praiseworthy things (and actions) and it also yields a corresponding state of soul in which we are (sufficiently) motivated to act on our knowledge. Socrates makes a similar point in the Gorgias.

VII. Wanting and acting with or without knowledge: The Gorgias In the Gorgias, there is a dispute between Socrates and Polus on what it means to do what one wants to do (466a – 468c). Polus is impressed with the art of oratory because he thinks a person skilled in this art will be able to do whatever he wants. He claims: (1) If something appears to be desirable for me so that I believe something to be desirable, and if I act on this belief, I do what I want to do. (2) If I do what I want to do, I am in good, beneficial conditions.

162

Jo¨rg Hardy

Socrates agrees on the second claim, but denies the first. He wants to elicit from Polus that an agent does what she wants to do if and only if she knows what is (not only apparently, but really) desirable and acts on her knowledge. If an agent merely believes something to be desirable and acts on her belief, she does not do what she wants to do – contrary to (1). Socrates invokes a distinction between wanting what one knows is best and wanting what seems best (466c2, e2).20 This distinction relies on a general distinction between knowing and merely believing that Socrates had established earlier in the dialogue. Socrates and Gorgias agree that there are two different kinds of mental (epistemic) states: the one results from being persuaded (by an orator), the other from having learned something (454c7 – e2). We may put this distinction in a more general way : One either merely believes that p or knows that p (where knowing and merely believing are mutually exclusive cognitive approaches to a certain thing).21 This distinction underlies Socrates’ refutation of Polus’ claim (1). Here is the text: Socrates: I say, Polus, that both the orators and the tyrants have the least power in their cities …, for they do just about nothing they want to, though they certainly do whatever they think is best. Polus: And isn’t that having great power? Socrates: No … You said that having great power is a good to the man who has it. Yes. I still say so. Then do you think it is a good if someone does whatever seems best to him, when he lacks intelligence (moOr, 466e10, 467a5). Do you call this having great power? No, I don’t. … If you leave me unrefuted those who do what they think fit in the cities and tyrants will have gained no good by it; but power, you say is a good, and you also agree that doing what we think fit without intelligence is bad, don’t you? Yes, I do. How then could it be that orators or tyrants have great power …, if Socrates is not refuted by Polus showing that they do what they want? This fellow – [Socrates:] denies that they do what they want … – But didn’t you agree that they do what they think best? Yes, and I still do. So don’t they do what they want to? I say they don’t. Even though they do what they think is best? That’s what I say. (Gorgias 466d6 – 467b9, translation, with slight modifications, by Irwin 1979: 35 f.)

If an agent merely believes that a certain action is good and acts on her mere belief, she does not do what she wants – even if she, as a tyrant, enjoys unrestricted freedom of acting. Socrates and Polus agree on the following assumptions: “We want the things that are good, and we don’t want those that are neither good nor bad, nor those that are bad” (468c5 – 7, cf. 468d1 – 5). In other words, all desire is for the good, cf. 499e6 – 9. If an agent does something wrong, she does not what she wants to do (468d5 – 7). Socrates rules out that an agent 20 For a detailed treatment of this issue, cf. Penner / Rowe 1994, Penner 2005, Reshotko 2006: 26 – 33, 166 – 169. I here confine myself to the point that directly matters to the questions I address in this paper. 21 A belief may be turned into knowledge (Meno 97d – 98c), but a mere belief in the sense of Gorgias 454c7 – e2 cannot be turned into knowledge.

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

163

desires bad actions as such. In cases where an agent performs a bad action, she wrongly supposes that a bad action is a good one. An agent is in a good (beneficial) condition if and only if she does what she wants to do. She does what she wants to do if and only if she knows that a certain action is good (and beneficial) and acts on her knowledge. If an examined belief is sufficient for knowing that a certain is-all things considered – good, to act on an examined belief is, then, sufficient for doing what one wants to do. If an agent acts on an examined belief, she is in a good (beneficial) condition. By contrast, an agent who acts on a mere belief (about what is good) is careless in that she does not try to form (and to examine) her beliefs and desires under the best possible epistemic conditions that are presently available to her – and this carelessness puts her in a generally bad psychological condition. If we always want to act on an examined belief, we have to care for the beliefs that determine our particular desires under certain circumstances in order to make sure that we do not merely believe, but know whether a certain action is what we want to do. Acting on a mere belief (as opposed to an examined belief) will inevitably lead to some bad actions. This is why ignorance is – according to Socrates – such a great (perhaps the greatest) evil (458a – b, 472c – d, 505b). The passage 506d – 507c finally links the preceding discussion with Polus to happiness. Socrates here describes a person’s beneficial psychological condition as the possession of all the virtues, which is the state of mind that guides all her good actions and therefore contributes to her happiness (507c2 – 5). This beneficial state of soul is the product of a certain science – and this science seems to be a person’s capacity of self-examination as explained in the Apology. If my interpretation of the passages discussed so far is correct, the knowledge or wisdom Socrates identifies with virtue is the very complex general capacity of making a beneficial ‘use’ of one’s particular mental capacities such as the capacity of desiring / wanting something. This becomes explicit in the Meno.

VIII. From necessity to sufficiency: The Meno Socrates grounds his claim that a certain kind of knowledge is sufficient to virtue – as I said in the introduction of my paper – on this thesis: The requirement of making a (really) good, beneficial use of something that might be good, also applies to making a good, beneficial ‘use’ of one’s own character traits – the virtues. From here, there is only a little step to the sufficiency of the knowledge about human well-being (happiness) for virtue: Do we say that virtue is itself something good, and will this hypothesis stand firm for us, that it is something good? – Of course. – Then, if there is anything else that is good,

164

Jo¨rg Hardy

separate from knowledge, virtue might not be a kind of knowledge; but if there is nothing good that knowledge does not encompass, we would be right to suppose that it is a kind of knowledge … And it is by virtue that we are good? – Yes. – And if good, beneficent, for all that is good is beneficial … – Yes … Let us then consider what kinds of things benefit us, taking them up one by one: health, we say, and strength, and beauty, and also wealth … Consider, under guidance of what thing does each of these things benefit us and under guidance of what thing does it harm us. Doesn’t it benefit us when right use guides us, and harm us when it doesn’t? Certainly. Let us now look at the qualities of the soul. There is something you call moderation, and justice, courage, intelligence, memory … All that the soul undertakes and endures ends in happiness [if guided by knowledge], but ends in the opposite if guided by ignorance … If then virtue is something in the soul and it is necessarily beneficial, it must be knowledge, since all the qualities of the soul are in themselves neither beneficial nor harmful, but become harmful or beneficial when accompanied by knowledge or ignorance … This argument shows that virtue, being beneficial, must be a kind of knowledge? – I agree. (87d2 – 88c5, translation, with slight modifications, by Sharples 1991: 85 – 89)

In the first part of this passage, Socrates and Meno agree on the following assumptions about good (and beneficial) things: Virtue is itself something good (87d2 – 4). If there is any thing that is good but is ‘separated’ from knowledge, then it might be true, that virtue is not a kind of knowledge (87d4 – 6). But if there is no good thing that knowledge does not encompass, the hypothesis that virtue is knowledge, is, then, correct (87d6 – 8). We produce a good constitution of our soul through virtue (87d8 – e1). And if something is good, it is beneficial, too (87e1 – 3). In the second part, Socrates adds the crucial thesis that the “guidance of knowledge or wisdom” is what makes a certain thing good and beneficial. The virtue that is a kind of knowledge is itself something good because knowledge guides the beneficial use of the things that are by themselves neither good nor bad – the conditional goods. A conditional good is (really) good and beneficial only if it is used under the guidance (and direction) of knowledge (or wisdom). This is why knowledge is the only non-conditional good. The requirement of making a beneficial use of conditional goods applies both to the correct use of (prima-facie) goods like wealth or health, and to all ‘mental goods’ and hence to virtue as a state of mind (88c5). And this is what confirms the hypothesis that virtue is knowledge (87d6 – 8). We can take the following argument from the above passage: (1) An agent is in a good constitution if and only if she makes a beneficial use of any conditional good (87d2 – 8, 87d8 – e3, 88a3 – 5, 88c5). (2) An agent makes a beneficial use of conditional goods if and only if she uses the conditional goods under the guidance of knowledge (87d6 – 8, 88c1 – 3) – including the qualities of the soul since “all that the soul undertakes and

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

165

endures ends in happiness [if guided by knowledge], but ends in the opposite if guided by ignorance.” (3) Thus, an agent is in a good constitution if and only if she uses any conditional good under the guidance of knowledge. (4) If interims conclusion (3) is true, the hypothesis that virtue is knowledge is correct. (5) Final conclusion: the hypothesis that virtue is knowledge is correct (“If then virtue is something in the soul and it is necessarily beneficial, it must be knowledge, since all the qualities of the soul are in themselves neither beneficial nor harmful, but become harmful or beneficial when accompanied by knowledge or ignorance.”) What does it mean to make use of our ‘mental goods’? When an agent makes use of a character trait like courage or justice, she performs a courageous or just action. We cannot use our character traits as mere instruments. You can use a hammer to hit on a nail or to hurt your fingers, but that does not change the hammer (at least not substantially). By contrast, the mental goods get their relevant qualities in the process of being guided by knowledge. They become good (or bad) things because of (and by virtue of) the guidance of knowledge (or ignorance). If we use our mental states so that we guide them by our knowledge, we produce a mental state with a particular content and a certain motivational force. This explains, once again, why there is, for Socrates, no gap between knowing and acting. Let me add some remarks on the dramatic context of the argument 87d – 88d in the Meno: The argument demonstrates that virtue is the knowledge that guides good and beneficial actions. However, Socrates raises an objection in 89d – 96c: (A) Any kind of knowledge can be taught (87c, 89d). (B) Knowledge can be taught if and only if there are teachers who are able to transmit their own knowledge into a student’s mind or soul (90e – 91b, 93c). Therefore, virtue is knowledge if and only if there are teachers who are able to transmit their own virtue into their students’ souls. But there are no such teachers (96a – c). Thus, virtue is not knowledge (96c). The argument is sound if “teaching” in the premises (A) and (B) has the same meaning. But this is not true. The dialogue begins with Meno asking the question whether Socrates thinks that virtue can be taught, and Meno himself offers four options (70a). Instead of answering Meno’s question, Socrates moves the discussion to another topic: the question “What is virtue?” Socrates says that he does not know but wants to find out what virtue is (71a – b). Meno suggests that virtue is the desire for good things and the capacity to get those things (77b, cf. La. 199d – e). Socrates restates Meno’s proposal so that it says that virtue is the capacity to acquire good things since no one desires a bad thing (78b – c). Based on this assumption,

166

Jo¨rg Hardy

Socrates wants to inquire into the nature of virtue, whereas Meno raises an objection against the possibility of any inquiry. Meno finds it impossible to search for what a certain thing F is and to find what F is, if one does not already know what F is (80d). Socrates is, however, quite sure that this is possible. The reason is that searching and learning is recollection (80e – 81d). Socrates explains the recollection he has in mind by an elementary lesson in geometry, the conversation with a slave-boy on how to double a square. The famous passage 82a – 86a contains many difficult details but its fundamental ‘message’ is quite clear. The geometry lesson shows that one learns something if one looks for an answer to a question and finds the answer for oneself (85e). Neither Socrates (82b, e) nor anyone else (85d – e) has taught the slave-boy the answer that he finally found for himself (and ‘within himself ’). It is interesting to note that the slave-boy finds the correct answer after having overcome avoidable ignorance. In the beginning, he wrongly supposed to know something, but answering to Socrates’ questions puts him into the position to know what he knows or does not know (84a – b). According to Socrates, this lesson should encourage one to look for what one does not yet know (86b – d). Precisely at this point, Meno repeats his own original question of whether virtue is something teachable or a natural gift or something else (86c – d). Meno seems to regard teaching as a transmission of a teacher’s own knowledge into a student’s mind. Meno himself just wants to listen to Socrates in order to ‘learn’ what Socrates thinks about the teachability of virtue (86c – d). Socrates insists that one first had to answer the question what virtue actually is. Nonetheless, he agrees to discuss the question of teachability by means of the hypothesis that virtue is teachable if it is knowledge (87b5 – c4). Socrates explicitly says that he understands “teachable” and “recollectable” the very same way (87b6 – c3). The lesson on recollection clearly shows that the acquisition of knowledge requires cognitive autonomy. Let us apply this lesson to the objection 89d – 96c. Socrates and Meno do not know any teacher of virtue (96b – c). When Socrates concludes that virtue no longer seems to be knowledge because it cannot be taught (96c), he understands teaching as a transmission of knowledge (premise B). However, when Socrates made the assumption that any kind of knowledge can be taught (premise A), he understood teaching as recollection (87b6 – c3), that is, as a process of learning in which one looks for an answer to a certain question and finds the answer to that question by oneself. What the ‘absence of teachers of virtue’ actually shows is that there is no transmission of a teachers’ own virtue into a students’ mind, which is perfectly clear in the case of the knowledge that guides the correct use of one’s own ‘mental goods’.22 Thus, premise B of the counter-argument 89d – 96c is false and the objection fails. 22 Scott 1995: 40 makes a similar point: “The argument of 87 – 9 that virtue is knowledge and

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

167

Conclusion In this paper, I have argued for a non-reductive interpretation of Socrates’ account of virtue as a kind of knowledge, and I have tried to defend Socratic intellectualism against two objections. Virtue is the capacity of thinking, deliberating, desiring, and acting. What Socrates has in mind when he identifies virtue with (a kind of) knowledge is not an ordinary (conventional) understanding of virtue, but what we may call ‘examined virtue’. The “questioning and examining” as well as the “guidance of knowledge” is a continuing formation (and transformation) of one’s character that concerns all the various elements of a person’s psychological constitution. The kind of knowledge, which Socrates identifies with virtue encompasses, as I take it, both a second-order knowledge, and a second-order motivation that guide an agents’ capacities of forming and examining her beliefs and her desires (and emotions in the general sense of what is pleasant or unpleasant). The “questioning and examining” (in the sense of the Apology) as well as the “guidance of knowledge” (in the sense of the Meno) is a continuing formation (and transformation) of one’s character that concerns all the various elements of a person’s psychological constitution. To let a belief, desire, or emotion be guided by knowledge means to yield an ‘examined’ and therefore beneficial belief, desire, or emotion – a belief, desire or emotion that contributes to an agent’s happiness. Just as there is true or false belief, there are examined or unexamined desires. A true and examined belief is a belief, which I am able to justify by giving an account. An examined desire is a desire, which is associated with an examined belief – a desire that I really want to have. If we thoroughly examine our beliefs about the good life in general and our own life in particular, we form and examine our particular beliefs as well as our particular desires under the best possible epistemic conditions that are, at a certain point in time, available to us. This puts us in the position to form the beliefs and the desires we want to have for the sake of our happiness (in terms of Penner’s MAXHAP). In other words, the hence teachable could be taken as a conceptual argument, because it involves a conceptual analysis of virtue and its relation to knowledge and goodness. The argument of 89 – 96 on the other hand should be taken as concluding that virtue is not teachable in the empirical sense; virtue may in principle be teachable, but as things currently stand in Athens and Thessaly …, it cannot be taught. That is an empirical conclusion implied by the fact that many of the grounds adduced in its favour are matters of contingent fact.” The assumption that there are no teachers of virtue does by no means support the conclusion that virtue is not a kind of knowledge. I take it, however, that this assumption is not simply an empirical observation. Rather it results from Socrates’ conceptual analysis of virtue as well. The thesis that the knowledge, which is the same as virtue, might be teachable and “recollectable” as explained in 82a – 86a implies that one can only gain this knowledge by teaching oneself.

168

Jo¨rg Hardy

process of self-examination Socrates is concerned about is the source of both self-knowledge, and of self-determination. But why do we have to seek definitional knowledge? Because the main objective of self-examination is to overcome (and to avoid) false beliefs as well as unexamined desires. And the best way to accomplish this task is to lead the examination of ourselves into the direction of the accuracy of definitional knowledge. Definitional knowledge serves as an ideal to which we can only approximate. Nonetheless, the search for definitional knowledge prevents us to the maximum extent from avoidable ignorance both about the good or bad things in the world, and about our own mental states. Our spontaneous beliefs are not sufficient for knowing what contributes to our good life, and our spontaneous desires are not sufficient for knowing what we want to do. We have to examine and to evaluate our spontaneous desires in order to know the desires we want to have. If both knowing what we know or do not know, and knowing what we want to do belong to the supreme goals of our (good) life, we have to to care for examining our beliefs and desires. In other words, the unexamined wanting is not worth wanting. This is – among other things – what we can learn if we try to understand why Socrates thinks that virtue is knowledge.23

References Annas, J. 1999. Platonic Ethics, Old and New, Ithaca, London. Benson, H. 2000. Socratic Wisdom. The Model of Knowledge in Plato’s Early Dialogues, Oxford. Bobonich, Ch. / Destre´e, P. (eds.) 2007. Akrasia in Greek Philosophy. From Socrates to Plotinus. Leiden, Boston. Brandwood, L. 1990. The Chronology of Plato’s Dialogues, Cambridge. Brickhouse, T. C. / Smith, N. D. 1994. Plato’s Socrates. New York, Oxford. – 2000. The Philosophy of Socrates, Boulder. Burnyeat 2003. “Socrates, Money, and the grammar of gignesthai”, in: The Journal of Hellenic Studies 123: 1 – 25. 23 This essay is an abridged and revised version of an article, which appeared in the Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy vol. XXV 2010. I am grateful to the editors of the Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy for permission to publish this essay in this volume. I owe inspring comments to David Roochnik, May Sim, and the audience of the lecture and the seminar at the College of the Holy Cross (March 2009). This essay includes revised parts of earlier papers. I am grateful to Norbert Bloessner, Catherine Collobert, Wolfgang Detel, Ernst Heitsch, Michael-Thomas Liske, Alex Mourelatos, Tom Robinson, George Rudebusch, Jerry Santas, and Stephen White for comments on these earlier papers.

Is Virtue Knowledge? Socratic Intellectualism reconsidered

169

Cooper, J. M. (ed.) 1997. Plato. Complete works, edited with Introduction and Notes, by John M. Cooper, Cambridge, Ind. Cooper, J. M. 1999. “The Unity of Virtue”, in: Social Philosophy and Policy, 15: 233 – 274. Detel, W. 1974. “Die Kritik an den Definitionen im zweiten Hauptteil der platonischen Aretedialoge”, in: Kant-Studien 65: 122 – 134. Devereux, D. T. 1992. “The Unity of Virtues in Plato’s Protagoras and Laches”, in: Philosophical Review 101: 765 – 790. – 1995. “Socrates’ Kantian Conception of Virtue”, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 33: 381 – 401. Ferejohn, M. 1984. “Socratic Virtue as the Parts of Itself”, in: Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 44: 377 – 388. Hardy, J. 2001. Platons Theorie des Wissens im Theaitet, Go¨ttingen (Hypomnemata 128). – 2010. “Seeking the truth and taking care of common goods – Plato on expertise”, in: Episteme. A Journal of Social Epistemology 2010: 7 – 22. – 2011. Jenseits der Ta¨uschungen – Selbsterkenntnis und Selbstbestimmung mit Sokrates, Go¨ttingen. ¨ bersetzung und Kommentar, Go¨ttingen. – 2014. Platon. Laches. U Irwin, T. 1977. Plato’s Moral Theory : The Early and the Middle Dialogues, Oxford. – 1979. Plato. Gorgias. Translated with Notes, Oxford. – 1995. Plato’s Ethics, Oxford. Kahn, Ch. 1996. Plato and the Socratic Dialogue. The philosophical use of a literary form, Cambridge. Nails, D. 1995. Agora, Academy, and the Conduct of Philosophy, New York. Nehamas, A. 1999a. “Meno’s Paradox and Socrates as a Teacher”, in: Virtues of Authenticity. Essays on Plato and Socrates, Princeton, N.J.: 3 – 26. – 1999b. “Socratic Intellectualism”, in: Virtues of Authenticity. Essays on Plato and Socrates, Princeton, N.J.: 27 – 58. Penner, T. 1992a. “What Laches and Nicias Miss – And whether Socrates thinks Courage is merely a Part of Virtue”, in: Ancient Philosophy 12: 1 – 27. – 1992b. “Socrates and the Early Dialogues”, in: R. Kraut (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plato, Cambridge: 121 – 169. – 2005. “Socratic Ethics: Ultra-Realism, Determinism, and Ethical Truth”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity. Issues in Ancient and Modern Ethics, Oxford: 157 – 187. Penner T. / Rowe, Ch. 1994. “The Desire for Good: Is the Meno inconsistent with the Gorgias?”, in: Phronesis 39: 1 – 25. Reshotko, N. 2006. Socratic Virtue. Making the Best of the Neither-Good-nor-Bad. Cambridge. Roochnik, D. L. 1996. On Art and Wisdom. Plato’s Understanding of Techne. Pennsylvania. Rowe, C. J. 2007. Plato and the Art of Philosophical Writing, Cambridge. Rudebusch, G. 1999. Socrates, Pleasure, and Value, Oxford. – 2009. Socrates (Blackwell Great Minds), Malden. Russell, D. 2005. Plato on Pleasure and the Good Life, Oxford. Santas, G. 1971. “Socrates at Work on Virtue and Knowledge in Plato’s Laches”, in: G. Vlastos (ed.), The Philosophy of Socrates: A Collection of Critical Essays, New York, 1971: 177 – 208.

170

Jo¨rg Hardy

Scott, D. 1995. Recollection and Experience, Cambridge. Sharples, R. W. 1991. Plato. Meno, Warminster. Stemmer, P. 1992. Platons Dialektik. Die fru¨hen und mittleren Dialoge, Berlin, New York. Taylor, C. C. W. 1976. Plato. Protagoras. Translated with Notes, Oxford. Vlastos, G. 1981a (1972/73). 1981a. “The Argument in La. 197Eff.”, in: Platonic Studies: 266 – 269. – 1981b. “Starred Notes to Various Essays”, in: Platonic Studies: 443 – 445. – 1991. Socrates. Ironist and Moral Philosopher. Cambridge. – 1994. “The Protagoras and the Laches”, in: Socratic Studies, edited by M. Burnyeat, Cambridge: 109 – 126. Woodruff, P. 1987. “Expert Knowledge in the Apology and Laches: What a General Needs to Know”, in: Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 3: 79 – 115. Yonezawa, Sh. 2012. “Socratic Courage in Plato’s Socratic Dialogues”, in: British Journal for the History of Philosophy (20, 4): 645 – 665.

George Rudebusch

Knowledge Rules1

Odysseus’s iron soul The “most sickening thing” Odysseus saw on his voyage home from Troy was the sight of Scylla eating six of his sailors alive, while “they shrieked and stretched out their hands in horrible destruction” (Odyssey 12.256 – 9). After this horror, he faces a choice. He can keep sailing through the dangerous night or find shelter on the Sun God’s desert island with its taboo cattle. Odysseus gives the order to keep sailing, but his crew complains: “Odysseus, you are hardened. There is a mighty power in you. Nothing wears you out. At this moment you must be entirely made of iron!” (12.279 – 80). They mutiny and force him to the island. Trapped by bad weather on the island, Odysseus again shows he is made of iron when he and his crew begin to starve amid the bounty of taboo cattle. They all know it will be death for them to harm the cattle. Facing this choice, Odysseus never considers eating the cattle. He simply goes to high ground and prays (12.333 – 4). Suffering the same hunger, the all-too-human crew breaks its vow and slaughters and feasts upon the cattle (12.320 – 365). Yet not even iron Odysseus can resist the call of the Sirens. He knows it is death to stay to listen to them sing. As the goddess Circe warned him beforehand, the Sirens sing while “sitting in a green field, on both sides a great dune—from bones of rotting men” (12.45 – 46). Odysseus describes how in this case his heart overcomes his knowledge: “They sang, casting beautiful words. Despite all, my heart willed me to listen” (12.193 – 194). Odysseus’s heart would have led him to destruction had he not been forewarned to have his crew plug their ears with wax and bind him to the mast. Although “with the eyebrows he signals his comrades to release him,” they respond by binding him more tightly and rowing on (12.194 – 195). 1 This essay has first been published as chapter 5 of G. Rudebusch. Socrates (Blackwell Great Minds), Malden, MA 2011. We are grateful to Blackwell Publishing for permission to publish this essay.

172

George Rudebusch

Socrates’ wild claim The Sirens’ musical performance is fabulous. But it illustrates the seeming impotence (the Greek word is akrasia) of knowledge, the knowledge of the best course of action, and how that knowledge seems sometimes to lose control to some other part of the soul. Socrates begins his final argument in the Protagoras by reminding his audience of the common view that knowledge often is impotent. It seems to most people that knowledge is nothing strong or guiding or controlling. They do not think it is anything of that kind. They suppose that, though present in a man, often not knowledge but something else is in control—now high spirits, now pleasure, now pain, sometimes sexual desire, and often fear. They simply think that knowledge is like a slave, dragged about by anything else (352b3-c2).

As Book 4 of the Republic points out, two truths seem to support the common view. The first truth is that, as thirst is just for drink and hunger is just for food, in general any desire is for nothing but the object that satisfies it. The second truth is that the soul finds itself drawn towards its objects of desire. Aversions are analogous to desires: they too have their objects, but they propel the soul away from the object instead of drawing the soul towards it (437c-e). These two truths explain why we feel torn between conflicting desires. The common view is that knowledge alone is not enough to save a human being from ruinous choices: whenever a desire is strong enough, like Odysseus’s desire to hear the Sirens, it will overpower knowledge. This is why, on the common view, an excellent soul needs, in addition to knowledge, an iron-like character. Socrates, questioning Protagoras, shows that neither accepts the common view: “Come, Protagoras, open up your thoughts on this . . . Do you consider that knowledge is something noble and able to rule a human being—that whoever learns what is good and bad will never be overpowered by anything else so as to do other than what knowledge commands—that practical wisdom is all it takes to save a human being?” “My view, Socrates,” he replied, “is exactly what you are saying. It would be a disgrace for me more than anyone else to say that wisdom and knowledge were any but the most powerful of all human things.” “Well and truly spoken,” I said (352a8-d4).

The two recognize, of course, that human beings are frequently led by the experience of pleasure or pain to ruin their lives. But Socrates proposes, with striking self-confidence, “to teach the world what this experience is, which they call knowing but not doing what is best on account of being overcome by pleasure” (352e5 – 353a2). Socrates’ teaching to the world will be that an experience such as Odysseus’s hearing the Sirens is not a case of impotent knowledge but simple

Knowledge Rules

173

ignorance. Socrates will claim that human beings need only to be able to compare the value of different things insofar as they contribute, more or less, to the best life. An excellent soul does not need anything else.

The treasure parable A parable of Jesus illustrates Socrates’ claim. The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in the field, which a man found and hid again; and from joy over it he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.2

In the parable, the only operative value is profit. For the treasure finder, the decision is to liquidate and spend, say, one talent’s worth of land in order to purchase property with a treasury value of, say, a thousand talents. The decision involves nothing more than an easy intellectual calculation. Jesus describes the man in such a case as experiencing no conflict in his soul, only joy. There is no conflict, because the decision involves a simple exchange of very little for vastly more. The treasure parable teaches that—for anyone able to make the calculation of value—there is no conflict, only joy, in the choice to live a heavenly life. Is this doctrine about the choice between better and worse lives true? One might object on the grounds that the monetary man is not true to life. There is no one whose only desires, fears, pleasures and pains are monetary. The man in the parable must sell all his other property—even his home, with all its memories and attachments. Perhaps the man grew up playing under this tree, brought his bride home to this room, watched his children grow up in this yard, and buried his parents in that field. Only a monster would have no conflict, no regret at selling a place with such attachments! No human being reduces all life to pure monetary profit. This objection misses the point of the parable. Jesus claims not that a purely monetary man exists, but that such a man, whether he exists or not, would be analogous to a man who has discovered heavenly life buried, as it were, in ordinary life. The discoverer of heavenly life, with nothing but joy, trades in his previous non-heavenly life for the heavenly. In the way that the hypothetical monetary man easily calculates the relative value of fields without buried treasure to a field with buried treasure, so Jesus claims that actual human beings would calculate the insignificant value of non-heavenly to the huge value of heavenly life. 2 Matt. 13:44: the treasure or treasury would be a hidden underground room containing precious objects. In the following two verses Jesus makes a similar point with a parable about a pearl of great value.

174

George Rudebusch

In replying to the objection, I have admitted and disarmed the point that actual human beings desire other things besides money. Consider now a revised objection: perhaps actual human beings desire other things besides heavenly life. Perhaps actual human beings have non-heavenly concerns that conflict with the heavenly. For example, Augustine, as he describes his conversion to Christianity, does not share the unmixed joy of the man in the parable. The tortured eighth book of the Confessions tells how he becomes “certain of God’s eternal life” (8.1.1) and takes himself to know the best course of action, but “day after day” (8.6.13) he holds back from acting on his knowledge, in the grip of sordid sexual desires that are, as he judges them in comparison to heavenly life, “trifles of trifles and emptiness of emptiness” (8.11.26). The revised objection can take two forms. First, we might desire other than heavenly life because there are in fact non-heavenly as well as heavenly values in life, and these values are incommensurable, that is, they cannot all be measured on one scale of better and worse in the way that monetary man weighs all business transactions. According to this form of the objection, Augustine is wrong to assess sordid sexual pleasure as trifling, that is, as an infinitely small amount of heavenly life. On the contrary such pleasure would be a value entirely different from heavenly life, not a tiny amount of heavenly life. There is a second form the objection can take. Even if there is a single scale of better or worse in human life, it may be that my soul contains brute desires for other things besides the best human life, and these desires fight each other in my soul. According to this form of the objection, Augustine might be right that sordid sexual pleasure is infinitely small in terms of heavenly life. But the infinite difference in magnitude of the same value does not make it easy for him to avoid the sex, because he has a brute desire for it, regardless of its value. After presenting Socrates’ teaching that knowledge rules, I shall consider in separate sections both forms of the objection: the incommensurable objection and the brute-desire objection. I also shall propose an explanation why the choice, as it seemed, between an infinitesimal as opposed to an infinite amount of heavenly life could have tormented Augustine.

How Socrates teaches the world The first step of Socrates’ teaching shows the world that they are hedonists, that the only operative values in their lives are pleasure and pain. As soon as Socrates has the world’s agreement that the good and bad are nothing other than pleasure and pain, he announces that he is able to demonstrate the absurdity of knowledge ever being impotent.

Knowledge Rules

175

The absurdity will be clear if we keep from using a number of terms at once, such as pleasant, painful, good, and bad; but since these appeared to be two, let us call them by two names—first, good and bad, and then later on, pleasure and pain (355b3-c1).

In fact the argument against impotence does not need the premise of hedonism. As I will show, the argument needs only the less controversial premise that the good consists of positive factors while the bad consists of negative factors. Socrates proceeds to state the target that he will reduce to absurdity : Let us then lay it down as our statement, that a man might do something bad in spite of knowing that it is bad (355c1 – 2).

In terms of Jesus’ example, the target is that the monetary man might refuse to exchange his fields for the field with buried treasure in spite of knowing that this act will keep him from becoming rich. Socrates derives the absurdity of the target statement from its conventional explanation, as follows. Suppose that someone asks us, “Why does he do the bad thing?” We shall answer, “Because he is overcome.” “By what?” the questioner will ask. This time we shall be unable to reply, “By pleasure”—for this has exchanged its name for the good (355c2 – 6).

At this point of the argument, Socrates assumes that the good is nothing but pleasure. For the sake of non-hedonists, let us avoid this assumption, as I promised. Let us assume only that the good consists of some positive factor or factors, perhaps including pleasure. In that case, when the questioner asks us, “By what?”—we shall reply not with any positive factor (be it pleasure or anything else). For the positive factor has exchanged its name for the good. So we must answer only with the words, “Because he is overcome.” The questioner will ask, “By what?” We must reply, “By the good.” Now if the questioner happens to be an insolent person he will laugh and say, “What a ridiculous statement, that a man does bad things, knowing that they are bad, and not bound to do it, because he is overcome by the good!” (355c6-d3).

For example, suppose that the monetary man refuses to trade his fields for the field with buried treasure, knowing that this act will keep him from becoming rich. It would be ridiculous to explain his refusal on the grounds that he is overcome by the monetary value of his fields! The “insolent questioner” elaborates the absurdity with a dilemma: “Is this,” he will ask, “in a case where the good things are not worth it for him to conquer the bad, or because they are worth it?” (355d3 – 4).

176

George Rudebusch

In Jesus’ example, the two choices are either that the fields he owns are not worth as much as the field with buried treasure, or else that they are equal or greater in value. Socrates immediately rules out the second alternative. Clearly we must reply, “Because they are not worth it”—Otherwise he whom we speak of as overcome by pleasures would not have erred (355d4 – 6).

In Jesus’ example, if the fields the man already owned were equal or greater in value to the field with buried treasure, the man would not err in refusing to exchange his fields for it. This would be a case of properly functioning, not impotent knowledge! So we are driven onto the first horn of the dilemma: it must be the case that the fields he owns are not worth as much as the field with buried treasure. “But in what way,” he might ask us, “are the good things not worth the bad, or the bad not worth the good?”—This can only be when the one is greater and the other smaller, or when there are more on the one side and fewer on the other. We shall not find any other reason to give (355d6-e2).

In terms of Jesus’ example, to say that the fields he owns are not worth as much as the field with buried treasure can only mean that the cash value retained by continuing to own his present fields is less than the cash value lost by not exchanging them for the field with buried treasure. “So it is clear,” the insolent questioner will say, “that by being overcome you mean accepting greater bad in exchange for less good.” That must be agreed (355e2 – 4).

And this is precisely the absurdity : a man whose one motive is to maximize profit refuses to exchange his fields for the field with buried treasure in spite of knowing that this act will keep him from becoming rich, because he—knowingly —accepts a big financial loss precisely in order to achieve a small financial gain. It is as if you offer to give me one dollar for every ten dollars I give you, and I accept your trade, and the reason I accept is because I only want to make money and I know that I shall lose it on this deal. Absurd indeed.

The incommensurable objection To Jesus’ treasure parable, I raised the objection that perhaps actual human beings are concerned with more than heavenly life. I can consider one form of that objection here. The objection is that Socrates must assume that in actual human life there is but one value—he calls it pleasure—that measures every other value, but there is no single such value: not pleasure, not heavenliness, not money. I do not escape this objection by substituting the broader value positive factors in life

Knowledge Rules

177

for Socrates’ value pleasure. The substitution assumes that there is a single scale of positive factors. But, according to the objection, in real life our choices are between apples and oranges, that is, between incommensurable values. Odysseus and his crew illustrate incommensurable values in the choice they faced between on the one hand discomfort and possible death from a stormy night on the open sea and, on the other hand, an island where they might be tempted to slaughter taboo cattle—this is a choice between apples and oranges. Incommensurable values appear again when, starving on the island, one of the crew described their grim choice this way : either “to drink salt water once for all and have done with it” (after feasting now upon the taboo cattle and being punished later at sea) or to continue to fast and “to be starved to death by inches on a desert island” (12.350 – 1)—apples and oranges. Again, bound to the mast, Odysseus at each moment before the Sirens faced something like a drug addict’s choice between turning away in pain to go on with life or postponing that turn for just one more minute of pleasure—more apples and oranges. These choices are representative of human life, and in these choices there seems to be no single scale of more and less. The incommensurable objection escapes the horns of Socrates’ dilemma. The dilemma assumed there are only two choices, that the good either was or was not worth the bad. This objection finds a third choice: sometimes there is no way to measure the worth of good against bad. Although this objection escapes one dilemma, it falls upon the horns of a new dilemma. The new dilemma asks why there is no way to measure the worth of good against bad. The answer must be either because we humans are unable to measure the real values of more against less, or because there simply is no more against less in reality. As it happens, on either horn it is impossible for knowledge to be impotent. On the first alternative, the inability to measure a real more or less is a case of ignorance not impotent knowledge. In Jesus’ example, this would be a case where an appraiser, unaware that one field had buried treasure, is unable to determine which field is worth more. Perhaps one field is more fertile, but the other is closer to town. Not knowing that buried treasure makes one field more valuable, and unable to weigh fertility against location, the appraiser might be unable to decide that one field is worth more. A wrong choice of fields under these circumstances is not a case of knowledge at all and so not a case of impotent knowledge. On the second alternative, the good and the bad in reality are not a case of more against less. In Jesus’ example, this would be a case where there is no buried treasure, and the appraiser wisely sees that neither field is worth more. Wisely, the appraiser might say : “This one is more fertile, but the other one is closer to town, and there simply is no real monetary advantage to discover, when I weigh

178

George Rudebusch

one against the other.” In such a case, since neither field has a greater monetary worth compared to the other, there is no monetary error in either choice. This alternative, like the first, fails to be a case where a man does bad things in spite of knowing that they are bad—for neither choice is bad in such a case.

Socrates restates the absurdity Although one absurdity is enough to show the impossibility of impotent knowledge, Socrates goes on to restate the absurdity, this time in terms of pleasure and pain. The restatement provokes in many people the brute-desire objection, which I consider below. Socrates says: Let us now switch to the names pleasant and painful for these things and say that a man does—what we previously called bad things, but now call painful—knowing that they are painful, because he is overcome by pleasant things that, it is clear, overcome him while not worth it (355e4 – 356a1).

Again in this second version of Socrates’ argument it will not affect the argument to substitute positive and negative factors for pleasure and pain. Socrates restates in terms of pleasure and pain the rhetorical question he asked at 355d6-e2 (quoted above). When a man is overcome by pleasure: How can pleasure not be worth it in comparison to pain, except by surpassing or falling short of the other? And this is a matter of one being larger and the other smaller, or of there being more and fewer, or of a greater and lesser degree (356a1 – 5).

The answer to Socrates’ rhetorical question is indisputable: The only way that a positive is not worth a negative factor is by one surpassing or falling short of the other, and this is a matter of one being larger and the other smaller, or of there being more and fewer, or of a greater and lesser degree. The absurdity is, for example, that of a hedonist choosing the less pleasant because it is less pleasant! Next Socrates considers an objection about the role that time plays in weighing positive and negative factors: “But, Socrates, there is a big difference between pleasure right now and pleasure and pain at some later time!” (356a5 – 7). Likewise financial experts are familiar with the difference between money now and money later. When banks loan money, for example, they rely upon financial expertise to calculate how much more money is needed at some point in the future to make the present loss in the form of a loan financially worthwhile. The point is that the nearness and remoteness can be put into the scales when weighing a monetary choice: the more remote the monetary prospect, the more money needed to offset a present loan. Socrates makes this very point in his reply to the objection about time:

Knowledge Rules

179

I would reply, “Do they differ in anything other than pleasure and pain? For there is nothing else. So, like someone good at weighing things, put together in the scales the pleasant and painful, and with them put the nearness and the remoteness, and tell me which count for more” (356a7-b3).

Thus Socrates confirms the answer to his rhetorical question above: The only way that a positive is not worth a negative factor is by one surpassing or falling short of the other—an answer that shows the absurdity of the common point of view. Socrates has shown the truth of Jesus’ account of the man who chooses heavenly over non-heavenly life: if the positive obviously outweighs the negative, the choice is obvious. The choice of the buried treasure of heavenly life is made with joy and no psychological conflict. For if you weigh pleasant things against pleasant, you will always take the greater and the more, and if painful against painful, then always the fewer and smaller. If you weigh pleasant against painful, and find that the pleasant surpasses the painful—whether nearness by remoteness or remoteness by nearness—you will do what brings the most pleasure. And if you find that the painful surpasses the pleasant, you won’t do it. “Can the case be otherwise?” I would ask the people. I know they could say nothing else (356b3-c3).

Augustine’s tormented decision Why, then, did Augustine feel conflict when he stood at the entrance to heavenly life? Why could he not without torment leave behind the sordid sexual pleasures whose positive factors were “trifles of trifles and emptiness of emptiness” in comparison with the infinitely superior positive factors of heavenly life? The answer is that Augustine’s choice was not the obvious choice of an infinitely large amount weighed against a negligibly small amount. His choice, as he understood it, was either an eternity of heavenly life, losing “from this present moment to eternity” the chance of sordid sexual pleasure (Confessions 8.11.26) or sordid sex for a little longer and the eternity of heavenly life later. Once again, the common view that knowledge can be impotent faces a dilemma: either Augustine was wise to delay, since each day of sordid sex added a positive amount, albeit very small, to the huge positive factor of heavenly life, or his way of looking at the losses and gains of heavenly life was distorted and inaccurate. On the first horn of this dilemma, Augustine’s knowledge functioned well and was not impotent; on the second horn, Augustine’s inaccurate calculation was a case of ignorance, not knowledge, and hence not a case of impotent knowledge.

180

George Rudebusch

The brute-desire objection Socrates in his discussion with Protagoras never considers the two truths stated in book 4 of the Republic (437c-e) and used there to establish the common point of view that knowledge can be impotent. Let me conclude by considering those two truths as an objection to Socrates. First, it is true that hunger is desire just for food and not for food-as-a-positive-factor. Second, it is true that the soul finds itself drawn towards its objects of desire. From these two truths, it seems to follow that brute hunger all by itself will draw the soul towards food, and if that desire is strong enough, it will override one’s rational ability to calculate positive and negative factors. This objection fails because it confuses blind hunger with cognitive hunger. The example of the taboo cattle illustrates the error. The first truth is that the crew, starving on the island, was hungry, which was a desire just for food. Notice, however, that there is no such thing as just food on the island. The cattle, for example, are not just food, but also beef, and a god’s property, and forbidden, and many other things. The other crew members are not just food, but also human flesh, and companions, and many other things. One’s own body on the island is not just food but also arms and legs, and needed for survival, and many other things. As a blind drive, the hunger of the crew is no more for cattle than for their companions, for their own bodies, or for any other food on the island. Indeed, as a blind drive, the hunger is no more for the food on the island than for non-food on the island! For, if something deluded the crew into believing, for instance, that the clay on the island was meat, they would have eaten it as readily as they ate the cattle. In a word, blind drives are for nothing in particular. And so the blind drive hunger cannot all by itself draw the crew towards the taboo cattle rather than towards each other or towards their own bodies or even towards dirt. Now, in contrast to the blind drive, there is a second, cognitive hunger that draws the crew towards some particular object on the island. The second truth behind the objection refers to cognitive hunger. Cognitive hunger goes two steps beyond the blind drive, a step of perception and a step of judgment. First, the crew needs to perceive the particular object. Second, the crew needs to judge that the particular object is edible, that is, good for hunger. So the cognitive desire for this object is for it as a good. Therefore when the crew acts, the judgment of goodness will after all be one good weighed among the others in choosing. As quoted above, this is in fact how Homer’s Odyssey portrays the crew. They assume a worst-case scenario and deliberate about which is less painful: either feasting now and later, drowned at sea by the angry Sun God, “to drink salt water once for all and have done with it” or to fast now and continue “to be starved to death by inches on a desert island” (12.350 – 1). The two steps make the second stage of hunger cognitive, but cognition can be

Knowledge Rules

181

ignorant as well as knowledgeable. For example, if the crew perceived some clay, and delusion brought them to judge that it was edible, they would have cognitive hunger for that clay, but they would be judging ignorantly. It is now clear why the brute-desire objection fails. Although there are blind drives just for food, a blind drive cannot by itself drive one towards any particular object. On the other hand, to have a cognitive desire for any particular object requires the judgment that it is something good for a blind drive. The objection argues from two truths about desire, but the first truth refers to blind drives as desires while the second refers to cognitive desires. The brute-desire objection confuses these two different stages of desire. It is false that desire can drag knowledge about like a slave: a blind drive is for nothing in particular, while cognitive desire is subordinate to the weighing that one does, whether ignorantly or expertly. Thus expertise at weighing does not need any further iron-like power in the soul to carry out its conclusions about what is best. Although Socrates’ argument assumes that pleasure is the only value in human life, he does not need so strong a premise. Human beings are bound to take that course of action to which they see the most positive or fewest negative factors attached (356b). If present in our souls, all by itself knowledge will rule us and save our lives from ruinous choices.

May Sim

ˆ in Plato’s Republic The Divided Line and United Psyche

Plato presents us with a tripartite soul in Book IV of the Republic. The desiring part (to epithumeˆtikon), the high-spirited part (to thumoeides) and the reasoning part (to logistikon) are proven by the principle of non-contradiction (PNC) to be three distinct faculties that allow us to long for bodily pleasures like sex, food and drink, to be passionate or courageous, and to use reason, respectively. However, Plato also presents the simile of the line with its four affections (patheˆmata) corresponding to four types of objects in Book VI. These are, noeˆsis (understanding or intelligence), dianoia (thought), pistis (belief or trust) and eikasia (image-thinking or conjecture), corresponding to the forms, mathematical and scientific objects, visible things (natural and artificial) and images like reflections and shadows, respectively. How these four affections fit in with the three parts of the soul is left unclear. I propose an interpretation of the divided line which not only clarifies the relation between the four affections, but also illuminates the tripartition and unifies the two accounts of the soul. Let me begin with the divided line. Before Plato presented the simile of the line, he tried to explain the greatest object of study, the Form of the Good, by presenting an analogy with the sun. Just as the sun illuminates the visible world, the Form of the Good illuminates the intelligible world. Whilst the sun illuminates the things in this world causing sight to see them, the Good gives being to the objects in the intelligible world causing the soul to know them. Even though the sun is the cause of light and sight, it is neither. Similarly, even though the Good is the cause of truth and knowledge, it is neither. Both the sun and the Good transcend what they cause and are superior to their effects. The analogy between the Good and the sun is illustrated by the first cut on the line. Due to the superiority of the Good over the sun, the line is first divided into two unequal sections with the smaller section representing the visible realm below the larger section representing the intelligible realm. These two sections, the visible and the intelligible, are further subdivided in the same ratio as the first division. Plato says, “It is like a line divided into two unequal (anisa) sections,

184

May Sim

again cut each section in the same ratio (auton logon), that is, the section of the visible kind and of the intelligible kind.”1

Picture therefore a vertical line AB divided at C in the ratio of AC:CB, where AC represents the visible realm and CB represents the intelligible realm. The lower section AC is further divided at D in the same ratio so that AD:DC=AC:CB. Similarly, the upper section CB is further divided at E so that CE:EB=AC:CB. AD: DC=CE:EB is also a result of these divisions yielding the much discussed equality of the two middle sections. After dividing the line, Plato first tells us that these sections are “related to each other in proportion of clarity and obscurity.”2 He proceeds to specify the contents of the visible realm (AC), beginning with the lower subsection, namely, AD. Occupying AD are images (eikones) of the visible (oroˆmenoˆ) realm3 like shadows and reflections in water. DC, the upper subsection of the visible realm, consists of “that of which this (i. e., AD) is a seeming (or likeness, eoike), the animals around us and all the plants and the whole class of artificial (skeuaston) things.”4 Before specifying the contents of the intelligible realm, Plato compares the relation between these two visible sections to the relation between the visible and the intelligible realm, illuminating all four sections. The Platonic Socrates asks, “Would you be willing to say . . . that the division with respect to truth (aleˆtheia) and untruth is as the opinable (doxaston) is to (pros) the knowable 1 2 3 4

509d6 – 9. Unless stated otherwise, all translations are mine. 509d9. 509e1. 510a5 – 7.

The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic

185

(gnoˆston), just as the likeness (homoioˆthen, i. e., images) is to that of which it is a likeness (homoioˆtheˆ, i. e., the visible world of plants, animals and artifice)?”5 This suggestion about the sections’ relation to each other in proportion of truth and untruth, taken with his earlier assertion about the sections’ relation to each other in proportion of clarity and obscurity6 are significant against commentators who deny that the four sections represent different degrees of truth and clarity in order to explain the equality of the two middle sections. Given that both points were made prior to his statement about the four affections of the soul that correspond to these four objects, it is highly unlikely that commentators trying to restrict this hierarchy to the affections of the soul while excluding its application to the objects in order to maintain that DC and CE are equal in ontological status could be correct. N. D. Smith recognizes this problem.7 He observes that most of these commentators, in their eagerness to address the equality of the two middle sections, do not even address the evidence that the different sections must represent unequal degrees of truth. S. Ringbom, for instance, claims that DC and CE are equal in reality because they are equal in length and maintains that the hierarchy in truth and worth applies only to the four states of mind and not to their corresponding objects.8 More specifically, he tries to account for the hierarchical ranking of truth and clarity by distinguishing between the ‘psychological’ and ‘metaphysical’ aspects of the line so that the hierarchy applies to the “psychological state of mind and not to the sphere of reality as such.”9 Arguing against the correspondence between the states of mind and objective reality, Ringbom (1968: 94) says, This distinction between the psychological and metaphysical aspects is necessary if we are to have a consistent interpretation of the Line passage. To infer, as Ross and Wedberg do, that the descending sequence of reason, understanding, belief and imagination must have a congruent counterpart in the respective degrees of objective reality of the subsections at once leads us to the difficulties presented by the equality of (B) and (C).

V. Karasmanis too tries to account for the equality between DC and CE on the line by reducing the ontological distinctions between the various sections.10 He reduces the differences between the subdivisions on the upper and lower sections to a “methodological” one, eschewing an “ontological” distinction. He says, “The other two divisions, between eikasia/pistis and dianoia/episteˆmeˆ are

5 6 7 8 9 10

510a8-b1. 509d9. Smith 1996. See Ringbom 1968: especially p. 94. Ringbom 1968: 94. Karasmanis 1988.

186

May Sim

secondary ones not involving ontological differences. We have therefore a main division in two faculties, and within each faculty there is a division of two states of mind.”11 By distinguishing between faculties and states of mind, Karasmanis attempts to support his view that there are different objects corresponding to the two faculties of doxa and noeˆsis, but there need not be four objects that correspond to the four states of mind. He then shows that “both pistis and dianoia deal with mathematics using similar methods”12 supporting the equality between these two sections. This move, like Ringbom’s, ignores the ontological difference between the objects on the line which is needed to explain their proportionate truth and untruth. I think that the suggestion about the sections’ relation to each other in proportion of truth and untruth, when taken with Plato’s earlier assertion about the sections’ relation to each other in proportion of clarity and obscurity13 really shows that each higher section represents more truth and clarity than the section below. This can be deduced from the following four points: (1) Plato uses the word “opinable” (doxaston) for the visible realm and the word “knowable” (gnoˆston) for the intelligible realm. This shows that the soul’s activity with respect to the visible realm is opinion and its activity with respect to the intelligible realm is knowledge.14 (2) Using his earlier distinction between knowledge and opinion from Book five,15 we know that the objects of the intelligible realm always exist whereas the objects in the visible realm sometimes exist and sometimes do not exist. (3) Moreover, he says that the realms of opinion and knowledge are related in proportion to their degree of truth (aleˆtheia). This tells us that there are degrees of truth and untruth along the line, so that taken with (1), there is not only more truth in the intelligible realm, but despite the untruth in the opinable realm, it could have the appearance of truth. (4) Finally, he extends this same ratio of truth and untruth to the relation between the two sections of the visible realm. That is, the section of images (AD) is related to (pros) the visible world of animals, plants and artificial things (DC) in such a way that there is proportionately more truth in DC than in AD, just as there is more truth in EB than in CE. Proportionate clarity (sapheˆneia) and obscurity (asapheia), also dictate the way the sections on the line are related. 11 12 13 14

Karasmanis 1988: 157. Karasmanis 1988: 164. 509d9. Since Plato does use the word ‘doxaston’ (opinable) with respect to the whole of the visible section of the line, I think that J. E. Raven goes too far in insisting that there’s no talk of the opinable but only of the visible in Plato’s discussion of AD. See Raven 1965: 146 – 147. As such, I also disagree with Raven’s attempt to separate so sharply the simile of the line from the allegory of the cave which correspondence Plato asserts at 517a8 ff and 533e3 ff. 15 476e – 480.

The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic

187

Considering these four points together, we know that the higher we ascend the line, the more clarity, truth/being and knowledge there are. J. S. Morrison would disagree with my reading of progressing in truth and clarity as we ascend the line for he says, “It is between the two subsections in each case that the relationship in degrees of clarity and obscurity is said to exist. It is not said, as, e. g., Ross asserts . . . that there is a progressive increase in clarity in a series of four subsections.”16 Again, he says, “(t)here is no continuous progression in degrees of clarity and obscurity of the four subsections as a series. The reason is, of course, that the two middle subsections of the line are the same (i. e. of equal size and hence of equal clarity).”17 Like Karasmanis then, Morrison wants to reduce the two middle sections to the same ontological objects dealt with by the two faculties of senses and thought.18 Morrison maintains that there is only a progression as we move up the line if the objects are reduced to three instead of four. He concludes: “the sciences belong to both worlds, they constitute the bridge between the world of sense and the world of intellect.”19 This conclusion however ignores the fact that the line is supposed to illustrate the difference between the visible and intelligible world and Plato’s explicit suggestion that there is more truth in the knowable than the opinable realm.20 Given that Plato places the senses and their objects in the visible section, which is also the section of opinion, a suggestion that science, which necessarily implies knowledge of truth for Plato, belongs to this section, contradicts his distinction between opinion and knowledge. Despite N. D. Smith’s recognition that commentators are wrong to argue for an “ontological identity” of the sense objects and mathematical,21 his own way around the issue of the equality between DC and CE is not all that different from some of these commentators’.22 In fact, his view that it is how the objects of these two sections are “conceived” that make them ontologically different sounds very much like Ringbom’s distinction between the psychological and metaphysical where the psychological state of mind bears the hierarchy of truth and clarity. The only difference is that Ringbom does not extend this hierarchy to the metaphysical side like Smith. However, Smith’s recognition that the hierarchy in truth and clarity applies to the metaphysical realm comes, for him, at the price of 16 17 18 19 20

Morrison 1977: 221. Ibid. 1977: 221 – 222. Ibid. 1977: 223. Ibid. 1977: 231. See Meno 97e2 – 98b5 where Socrates maintains the superiority of knowledge over opinion. He also tells us that the difference between opinion and knowledge is one of the few things he claims to know. 21 Smith 1996: 42. 22 See Smith 1996: 39, note 30 for Smith’s acknowledgment that his view is like Morrison’s.

188

May Sim

its being in tension with the equality of the middle sections.23 He says, “(b)ut Plato never explicitly calls our attention to this equality, and if we do attend to it we are led to problems in our understanding of the relative merits of the two subsections and to conflicts with what Plato does explicitly say about them.”24 He concluded by saying that this tension might have been intended by Plato to show the limitation of images.I think that Smith, along with the others, are misled in their interpretations because they try to separate the states of the soul from their corresponding objects, which separation is not legitimate for Plato. There need be no tension between the equality of the two middle sections and the hierarchy in truth and clarity if the relations between the objects and states of soul are properly understood. Before showing this proper understanding, let me first explain the upper section of the line. As in the visible realm, Plato explains the contents of the intelligible realm by starting with its lower section CE. CE is where “the soul, using as images (hoˆs eikosi) those things in the section before (i. e., DC, the visible world of animals, plants and artificial things), is compelled to investigate from hypotheses, proceeding (poreuomeneˆ) not to a first principle (archeˆn), but to a conclusion (teleuteˆn).”25 To illustrate what he meant, Plato gave examples from calculation and geometry. These studies assume the existence of their objects such as the odd, the even, figures like squares and triangles, and angles without giving an account of any of these postulates.26 These objects are images (such as the geometrical squares and triangles) of the things in the visible world, DC. He says that the soul makes use of “the visible forms” (oroˆmenois eidesi).27 However, the soul is not thinking about these images per se but rather, about those things in the highest section, i. e., EB, such as the square itself and the diagonal itself, of which the geometrical figures are images.28 Put otherwise, the activity of thinking (dianoia) in CE assumes the existence of its objects like the images of squares and triangles, and uses them in its thinking. However, dianoia draws conclusions not about any particular square or triangle, but rather, about the square or triangle in general, i. e., about the Form of square or triangle itself.29 Despite the fact that thinking draws conclusions about the Forms, it is different from the activity of the highest section, EB, which understands the Forms.

23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Smith 1996: 42 – 43. Smith 1996: 43. 510b3 – 6. 510c2 – 9. 510d4, see also 510b3. 510d5 – 9. See Raven 1965: 157. See also Boyle 1973 for a good discussion of the proper objects of dianoia.

The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic

189

Thinking (dianoia) makes use of images, understanding (noeˆsis) does not.30 Dianoia cannot step beyond the hypotheses31 whereas noeˆsis is able to move from hypotheses to the first principle, the Form of the Good. For example, noeˆsis could start with the hypothesis that there are units, move on to investigate what it is to be a unit, to know the Form of number one, and then to know how it is the first principle which gives truth to the number one. Whilst dianoia does not give an account of its hypothesis, noeˆsis–in conjunction with dialectic–not only gives an account (ton logon) of all beings (teˆs ousias),32 but also distinguishes all things and all other principles from the Form of the Good (tou agathou)33 showing how they all depend on it. It is dialectic, according to Plato, that proceeds to a conclusion “by Forms, through Forms and to its conclusions that are Forms”34 because only by knowing the Forms can one give an account of something. Accordingly, there are four states in the soul that correspond to the objects in the four sections. These are, starting with the highest in descending order: noeˆsis, corresponding to the Forms; dianoia, corresponding to the hypotheses of math and science; pistis, corresponding to the living and manufactured things in the visible world; and eikasia, corresponding to the shadows, reflections and artworks. Each state of the soul is said to have as much clarity as its object’s participation in truth.35 It is common for commentators to compare the simile of the line to the allegory of the cave; it is natural for Plato himself does so.36 He uses the cave allegory to illustrate man’s journey from being uneducated to being educated and this is like an ascent up the divided line from opinion to knowledge. Since the cave allegory is familiar to most scholars, I will restrict my sketch to what is relevant for my purpose. Within the cave on the wall in front of the bound prisoners are shadows cast by the puppets behind them. Still further behind the puppets on higher ground is a fire. Outside the cave is the visible world where the sun is the highest object. When the prisoner is released from his shackles so that he could turn around, he would first see the puppets and then the light of the fire. All these would be accomplished after much pain and struggle for his first experience is being blinded by the glare from the fire. When he exits the cave into 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

511c1, 510b7. 511a3-b2. 534b3. 534b8 – 10. 511c1 – 2. 511e3 – 4. 517a8 ff, cf. 533e3 ff. See V. Karamanis’ essay op cit., Fogelin 1971 finds the cave and line comparable except for the absence of a direct correspondence to the math objects in the cave allegory. He could not see how the shadows or reflections outside the cave can “both have an image and be used as an image” (382). I explain how these shadows or reflections outside the cave can both act as images and have images below.

190

May Sim

the visible world, he would first see the shadows and reflections of the natural world before being able to see the things themselves. Finally, he would be able to see the things in the sky at night, like the stars and moon, before he could see the sun. Plato compares this journey from the cave to the sun to the journey of the soul from the visible to the intelligible realm. Consequently, the prison dwelling of the cave corresponds to the visible or opinable section of the line, whilst the visible world corresponds to the intelligible or knowable section. The prisoner who maintains that the shadows in the cave are the ultimate reality represents the lowest state of the soul, i. e., image-thinking or conjecture. These shadows are images of the puppets which were man-made and moved, illuminated by an artificial light. Far from being ultimately real, the shadows depend upon numerous other conditions for their appearance. Because those who take these shadows as ultimate reality do not consider other factors that condition them, their views are based on inadequate evidence. Plato likens this inability to tell the difference between likeness and its reality, to being unable to tell whether one is awake or asleep.37 For Plato, just as one in a state of eikasia cannot distinguish between dreamlike images and the things imaged, one in a state of pistis (belief or trust) cannot distinguish between the visible things and their sources. The one who opines is like one who sees the many beautiful bodies, things, and actions, but fails to see the source of their beauty in the Form of Beauty itself. He fails to recognize that the many particulars which are always mixed with their opposites differ from their unchanging Forms.38 Whilst the Form of Beauty is always beautiful, things that appear beautiful do not always remain beautiful. This is the same for justice, piety, bigness and smallness, etc. Because the visible objects and events blend being and nonbeing, they cannot be known but only opined. For Plato, one who maintains that the visible things are most real does not have knowledge; he fails to recognize that these things are derived mixtures of qualities that come and go, ceasing to be when they are destroyed. Not only are they contingent and dependent in this way, but their visibility, like the shadows’, is dependent on an external illumination. Unlike shadows however, the visible things are more real because they actually exist for a limited time, exhibiting the qualities they are thought to have (e. g., justice or piety). To the extent that the visible things are made in the likeness of the Forms themselves which always exist, whereas the shadows are images of sensible things which perish, visible things are again superior to the images.39 37 476c2 – 6. 38 Book V, 479a-b. 39 The visible things are also more real than the shadows because they can either move themselves (e. g., plants and animals) or they are visibly moved by another (e. g., a potter moving his pot), whereas the shadows appear self-moved but are always moved by another.

The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic

191

According to Plato, the cave represents the opinable realm whilst the visible world represents the intelligible realm. Just as the prisoner’s first objects of experience in the cave are shadows of artifacts, his first experience in the world are the reflections and shadows of natural things. Just as shadows in the cave represent images of the visible world, reflections and shadows of the visible world represent images of the Form world, e. g., images of squares represent the Form of the Square itself. Unlike shadows in the cave which are mistaken for real objects, shadows outside the cave are not taken to be real objects but are used to help think about the Forms themselves. Since visible things are mixed up with their opposites, the same things can appear near or far, fast or slow moving, and appear to be one or many.40 Due to these contrary appearances, the soul needs to think to figure out if something is participating in a certain quality or in its opposite. Such thinking or theorizing constitutes the realm of math and science. For instance, using number, one could figure out if something is one or many ; using geometry, one could figure out if something is near or far (i. e., its position); and using astronomy, one could figure out if something is moving quickly or slowly. Plato holds that studies like calculation, geometry and astronomy use images to lead the soul to investigate the things themselves: what one is, what shape is, what place is, and what speed is. Contrariwise, math, geometry and science are content to assume the existence of their objects, being interested only in arriving at conclusions regarding them, e. g., what are the numbers in this problem and what is its solution? Questions like what the one is and what distinguishes it from the two and all other forms would only arise for the dialectician aiming to give an account of everything rather than being content with unexplained hypotheses. Objects on the line are not only increasing in clarity and truth as we ascend, but the sections with their respective objects are related to each other in ways that show their unity. Just as the difference between the two main divisions is key to understanding the difference between the subdivisions, the relation between the subdivisions is key to understanding the relation between the two main sections. This is the relationship between image and original. We already know that both upper sections deal with invisible and intelligible objects whilst the two lower sections deal with both visible and opinable objects. The lowest section of shadows and reflections consists of images or copies of the visible objects, and mathematicals like the geometrical squares and circles are images of the Forms themselves.41 Therefore, the whole lower section of the line is and is intelligible as an image of the upper section. Moreover, mathematicals act as a bridge between the visible objects and the Forms and objects act as a bridge between mathe40 524a – 526b. 41 510d5 – 9.

192

May Sim

maticals and phantasms. This aspect of mediation–mathematicals mediating Forms and objects and objects mediating mathematicals and phantasms–is crucial for understanding the continuity of the line and the unity of Plato’s vision of being and the soul. The truths that are known by the mathematical section govern all the visible things by making them what they are, where they are, etc. For instance, number is required to make something one, give it size, shape, depth, position, speed of movement and determine how it relates to other things. In short, math makes the visible things the way they are and makes them images of the Forms, providing them with the degree of reality or intelligibility they have. Consequently, it is not an accident that the section of visible things equal the mathematicals. However, just because math makes the visible things intelligible and account for them, does not mean that one is already doing science in the section of sensible objects, nor does it mean that these two are equal in ontological status.42 The visible realm is to the intelligible realm as the generated is to the ungenerated. This means that visible objects are the generated images mediated to the ungenerated originals (the Forms) by mathematicals. Shadows and reflections are to the mathematical and scientific as generated images43 mediated to their ungenerated origins by objects. Since both mathematical objects and visible objects are images of the Forms, shadows and reflections too, being images of these two, end up being images of the Forms. That is the continuity. Only a reading that recognizes this continuity and mediation (as well as differences between kinds of object and power) can make sense of the point that all the objects on the line are related by being better or worse images of the Forms and ultimately of the Good.44 Given the correspondence between the affections of the soul and their objects, we can expect a similar sort of relation between the four affections. Namely, the three sections beneath noeˆsis (understanding) are less adequate ways of understanding truth. As we have seen, image-thinking or conjecture attempts to draw conclusions about reality. However, because this mode does not have direct access to objects that are intelligible in themselves, all that it grasps are images that are three times removed from the Forms themselves. Similarly, though pistis draws conclusions about reality after more thorough observations than image-thinking, for its observations do sometimes correspond to the way things are in the visible world, it still does not grasp that 42 See Wood 1991. Wood says, “We might add here that the equality of the middle segments may also have a metaphoric point, as suggested by Timaeus: the intelligibility of physical things lies in mathematical relations” (532). 43 534a3 – 6. 44 By arguing for mathematical mediation of the Good and objects, I am not arguing for a realm of “intermediates” between Forms and things. Mathematicals are forms, though forms of a lower grade. See A. J. Boyle’s essay, op cit.

The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic

193

its objects are twice removed.45 To the extent that the soul’s proceeding by dianoia gets at objects that are general, permanent and true, it is the closest to noeˆsis. However, it still falls short of noeˆsis because it relies on images for its thinking, proceeds from assumptions, and does not try to account for why its objects exists. Hence, noeˆsis is the most complete and direct way the soul knows ultimate reality. Only this level will explain itself as well as everything on the lower levels. Returning to the correspondence between the four affections of the soul and their objects, the following could be deduced. Just as the other three levels on the side of the objects depend upon the Good, the three levels on the side of the soul depend upon understanding. Just as the objects beneath the Form level are images of the ultimately real Forms, the affections of the soul beneath understanding too are images of knowing or understanding. If the Good is the cause of knowledge, then each affection is seeking this knowledge in its own way. Each affection beneath noeˆsis is more or less defective for getting the Good. Just as the lower objects are differentiated according to their degree of immersion in matter and motion, so too, the lower kinds of knowing are images of noeˆsis distinguished by their degree of immersion in matter and motion and their degree of fascination with appearances. Compare this with the tripartite soul doctrine. In Book IV, Plato uses the PNC to prove that there are three parts to the individual soul, namely, the appetitive, the spirited and the reasoning parts. He proves these parts to show that the three qualities corresponding to the three types of men in the city which harmonize to form justice are the same qualities that will harmonize to form justice in the individual. Wisdom is the ruler’s knowledge of what is good for the whole city. Courage is the warrior’s ability to preserve his beliefs about what is and is not to be feared. Finally, moderation is the ability in all three classes to control themselves and know who should rule and be ruled. When all three classes continue to perform their own tasks and bring about these qualities, the city is just. By the same token, each part of the soul needs to perform its task for justice in the individual. The reasoning part should rule the whole soul by telling the other parts what is good resulting in one who is wise, courageous and moderate.46 How reason could rule the other parts will remain dark unless the continuity is established. Even though Plato separates the three parts of the soul, upon examination, all three parts are at work in any pursuit.47 Take the pursuit of a bodily pleasure like 45 Pistis either does not recognize that its objects are sometimes untrue or does recognize this but insists that this is bedrock. 46 441e3 – 442b3. 47 This point is discussed quite thoroughly in Murphy 1951: 35 – 36.

194

May Sim

food, for instance. We would not only require our appetitive part to desire it, but also reason to tell us which type of food is healthy, and the spirited part to energize us or make us courageous in the pursuit of healthy food. Similarly, the pursuit of a courageous act would not only require the spirited part to exercise courage, but also the reasoning part to tell us that this is a situation for exercising courage, and the appetitive part to make us desire the honorable type of life that accompanies such pursuits. Finally, the pursuit of what is truly good for the whole soul needs to be informed by reason, desired by the appetitive part, and carried through with tenacity and persistence by spirit. What is different in each of these types of pursuits (the appetitive, the spirited and the reasoning)–pursuits that can define a whole life, is that the less reason rules, the less the pursuits approach what is truly good for the soul as a whole. Comparing this tripartite account with the divided line, we see a correspondence between the reasoning part and the understanding section in that both are intelligible activities of the soul that can access what is truly good for the whole soul. Just as the lower sections of the soul’s affections on the divided line are derived from understanding and so are lesser ways of knowing, likewise the spirited and appetitive parts are lesser ways of understanding what is good for the soul. To think that the life which gratifies every bodily desire is the best life is to be farthest from the genuinely good life. Like the section of image-thinking on the divided line, the appetitive life, if left to its own devices must fail to draw the correct conclusion regarding the good life. The spirited life, on the other hand, if well-trained so that it pursues the life of honor by acting courageously instead of aiding the bodily pursuits of appetites, is closer to the good life than the appetitive life. This is because the spirited life’s belief that courage is the highest form of life is sometimes realized in the world. The spirited life is based on more thorough observations of what is good for the soul than the appetitive life for it needs to move beyond the individual to the community to recognize what courageous or honorable acts are. This need to move beyond the individual to the community in order to recognize courage and honorable acts makes the spirited life like the section of pistis or trust.48 However, its shortcoming lies in not realizing that courage is not the ultimate pursuit, because courageous acts alone do not lead to the good life and sometimes, they are not even the right actions. The spirited life is still mistaken for it does not realize that its ideal is not the ultimate ideal and is also sometimes false. Thus, it is like the section of pistis on the line. 48 As R. E. Wood (1991: 541) puts it, “The second level of the Line, the level of pistis or trust, has to do with the reliability of both the empirical world and the repetitive behavioral forms of the community that constitute the factual adjustments of people to each other and to the natural environment, the regularities of which impose themselves upon us and demand and permit our adjustment.”

The Divided Line and United Psycheˆ in Plato’s Republic

195

The most obvious of several disanalogies between the line and the tripartite account is that the line is plausibly an account of different ways of knowing, whereas the tripartition is not a tripartition of ways of knowing. More specifically, whereas the line is concerned to distinguish discursive reasoning in mathematics and science from dialectical understanding in dealing with the forms, the tripartite soul does not distinguish between various ways of knowing. Another obvious disanalogy is that the line is divided into four sections whereas the tripartite soul is divided into three parts. What is common to both accounts, however, is the key to understanding the soul as a whole. That is attaining the Good. Considered from the side of the differences between powers and accounts, each has its own vision of the good and its own way of achieving it. Moreover these ways are quite different–some involving knowledge, others involving action, the pursuit of honors and pleasures, etc. However, considered from the side of reason there is one unifying point, the good, and it is a matter of subsidiary interest whether this good is expressed by the soul in knowledge or action. It is the same good and the same power in each case. That is why the same power, reason, rules and unifies in both accounts. From the standpoint of the lower powers, the soul is many and has diverse objects and interests. From the standpoint of reason, the soul is one (though it has discernable parts). What is clear from this comparison between the tripartite soul doctrine and the divided line account is that just as understanding is the highest activity of the soul in the latter account, reasoning is the highest activity in the former. By the same token, just as there are more or less better ways of pursuing the good life on the line, there are more or less better ways of pursuing the good life in the tripartite account. The proximity to the good life of each mode of existence in both accounts lies in its proximity to the highest intellectual function of the soul. Hence, in spite of their relative multiplicity (in terms of parts and affections), Plato’s account of the soul in Books IVand VI is also and more fundamentally an account of the unity of the soul–a unity provided by the soul’s ability to grasp the good life and the good in itself.

196

May Sim

References Boyle, A. J. 1973. “Plato’s Divided Line: Essay 1: The Problem of Dianoia”, in: Apeiron 7: 1 – 11. Fogelin, R. J. 1971. “Three Platonic Analogies”, in: Philosophical Review 80: 371 – 382. Karasmanis, V. 1988. “Plato’s Republic: The Line and the Cave”, in: Apeiron 21: 147 – 171. Morrison, J. S. 1977. “Two Unresolved Difficulties in the Line and the Cave”, in: Phronesis 22: 212 – 231. Murphy, N. R. 1951. The Interpretation of Plato’s Republic, Oxford. Raven, J. E. 1965. Plato’s Thought in the Making, Cambridge. Ringbom, S. 1968. “Plato on Images”, in: Theoria 31: 86 – 109. Smith, N. D. 1996. “Plato’s Divided Line”, in: Ancient Philosoph 16,1: 25 – 46. Wood, R. E. 1991. “Plato’s Line Revisited: The Pedagogy of Complete Reflection”, in: Review of Metaphysics 44: 525 – 547.

Mark L. McPherran

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

Socrates In his many Socratic dialogues, Plato presents us with a puzzling, street – preaching philosopher who is both rational and religious, and whose relationship to everyday Athenian piety is anything but clear. To begin to make sense of that relationship, and thereby resolve the tensions between these and related texts, it is useful to examine Socrates’ own examination of a self-professed expert in Greek religion: Euthyphro. The Euthyphro’s discussion of the virtue of piety makes it a key text for determining the religious dimension of Socratic philosophy. It also provides vivid examples of the Socratic Method through its portrayal of Socrates’ relentless interrogation of Euthyphro’s attempted definitions of piety. Definition (1) – piety is proceeding against whomever does injustice (5d – 6e) – is quickly dispensed with because it is too narrow: Euthyphro holds there to be cases of pious action that do not involve proceeding against wrong-doers (5d – e). Socrates also reminds Euthyphro that he is seeking a complete account of the one characteristic (eidos) of piety : that unique, self-same, universal quality the possession of which makes any pious action pious and which Euthyphro had earlier agreed was the object of their search (6d – e; cf. 5c – d; Meno 72c). Definition (2) – piety is what is loved by the gods (6e – 7a) – is next rejected on the grounds that since Euthyphro’s gods quarrel about the rightness of actions, a god-loved and hence pious action could also be a god-hated and hence impious action; thus, definition (2) fails to specify the real nature of pious actions (7a – 9d). Note, however, that by presupposing without restriction in his definitional search that the definition of piety must apply to every pious action – and given his apparent rejection of divine enmity and violence (6a – d, 7b – 9c) – Socrates is committed to the claims (i) that there is but one universal moral canon for all beings, gods and humans alike, and thus must reject the tradition of a divine double-standard of morality (cf., e. g., Republic 378b). Socrates’ examination

198

Mark L. McPherran

also suggests that his gods (ii) are perfectly just and good, and so (iii) experience no moral disagreements among themselves. Socrates’ rebuttal of Euthyphro’s third attempt at definition (3) – piety is what is loved by all the gods (9e) – constitutes the most logically complex section of the Euthyphro (9e – 11b).1 Socrates’ apparent rejection of this definition comes at the end of a long and complex passage (10e – 11b) where he first drives home his conclusion that Euthyphro’s various concessions undercut this third definition of piety and then explains the apparent source of Euthyphro’s confusion; namely, given Euthyphro’s claim that something is god-loved because it is pious, his purported definition ‘god-loved’ appears to designate only a non-essential property of piety rather than specifying piety’s essential nature. With this Socrates makes it evident that he is no Divine Command Theorist: that is, unlike gods modeled after Homeric royalty, his gods do not issue morality-establishing commands such that a pious action is pious simply because it is god-loved; rather, it seems, his gods love things that are independently pious because they themselves are by nature wise, virtue-loving beings. By tacitly allowing that the gods are of one mind on the topic of virtue, Socrates here lays the groundwork for the view that there is ultimately only one divinity (see below). Socrates assists Euthyphro in producing a fourth definition of piety by confronting him with the question of piety’s relation to generic justice: are all the just pious, or is justice broader than piety such that piety is then a part of justice (11e – 12e)? Subsequent to his adoption of the part-of-justice view, Euthyphro attempts to differentiate pious justice from the remainder (‘human justice’) by stipulating that piety involves the therapeutic tendance of gods (therapeia theoˆn) (12e6 – 9). This differentia, however, is rejected by reference to a craft analogy comparing those who would tend the gods in this fashion to those who tend horses, dogs, and cattle (13a – d). Such therapists possess the sort of expert knowledge that includes the capacity to benefit their particular kind of subjects substantially by restoring or maintaining their health, or by otherwise meeting 1 For analysis of this argument, see Cohen 1971 and Benson 2000: 59 – 62. McPherran 1996: 43, n. 43, provides a bare bones version: “Euthyphro agrees that (1a) the pious is loved by the gods because it is pious and that (1b) it’s not that the pious is pious because it is loved by the gods. He also agrees that – as with the examples of seer and seen thing, carrier and carried thing, lover and loved thing – (2) a god-loved thing is god-loved because the gods love it, and (3) it’s not that the gods love a god-loved thing because it is god-loved. But if D3 [his third definition: piety is what is loved by all the gods] were true (viz., that the pious = the god-loved), then by substitution from D3 into (1a), it would be true that (4) the god-loved is loved by the gods because it is god-loved, and by substitution from D3 into (2) it would be true that (5) a pious thing is pious because the gods love it. However, (4) contradicts (3), and (5) contradicts (1b). Thus, (1a), (1b), (2), and (3) cannot be jointly affirmed while also affirming D3 (resulting in D3’s rejection).” To conclude, “the god-loved is not what’s pious…nor is the pious what’s godloved, as you claim, but one differs from the other” (10d12 – 14; Reeve trans.; cf. 10e2 – 11a6).

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

199

their essential needs and improving the way in which they function. Obviously, then, since mere mortals cannot benefit gods in these ways the virtue of piety cannot be a form of therapy (13c – e). By contrast, skillful service (hupeˆretikeˆ) along the lines of assistants to craftspeople contributes to an acceptable differentia of generic justice; assistants to a shipwright, for example, serve the shipwright by satisfying his or her desire to receive assistance in building ships but do not restore or improve upon the shipwright’s own nature or functioning. Socrates has thus brought Euthyphro to the point of agreeing that: P Piety is that part of justice that is a service of humans to gods, assisting the gods in their primary task to produce their most beautiful product (12e – 14a).

Within the constraints of this account, Euthyphro is then asked to specify precisely the nature of that most beautiful product of the gods’ chief work in whose production the gods might employ our assistance (13e – 14a). Euthyphro, however, tenaciously avoids answering this question (13d – 14a), citing instead a fifth definitional attempt: (5) piety is knowledge of sacrificing and praying (14b – 15c). To this Socrates emphatically responds that Euthyphro is abdicating their search just at the point where a brief answer might have finally given Socrates all the information that he really needed to have about piety (14b – c). Many scholars have found this good evidence for ascribing something like P to Socrates. The question then becomes how Socrates would have answered the question of the identity of the gods’ beautiful, chief product. First, we can expect Socrates to maintain that although we humans cannot have a complete account of the gods’ work, since the gods are wholly good, their chief project and product must be superlatively good. But what reasons, per the Rationality Principle to which Socrates subscribes (“…I’m not the sort of person who’s just now for the first time persuaded by nothing within me except the argument that on rational reflection seems best to me; I’ve always been like that,” Crito 46b4 – 6; Reeve trans.) does Socrates have for holding that the gods are entirely good? His thinking would seem to run roughly as follows. Since gods are perfectly knowledgeable, they must be entirely wise (Apology 23a – b; Hippias Major 289b3 – 6); but because wisdom and virtue are mutually entailing, it would follow that a god must be at least as good as a good person; but then since the latter can only do good, never evil (Crito 49c; Republic 335a – d), the same goes for the former (cf. Republic 379a – 391e) (see McPherran 1996: chs 2.2.2 – 6, 3.2, and Vlastos 1991: 162 – 165). Socrates’ moral reformation of the gods indicates that his gods cannot be fully identified with those of tradition. For Greek popular thought assumed as a fundamental principle from Homer on that justice consists in reciprocation, in repayment in kind: a gift for a gift, an evil for an evil (the lex talionis). Even among the gods the principle of lex talionis is assumed as basic (e. g., Zeus

200

Mark L. McPherran

suggests that Hera might allow him to destroy one of her favorite cities in return for abandoning Troy [Iliad 4.31 – 69]; cf. Sophocles Ajax 79). In respect of this venerable principle, Socrates must be ranked a self-conscious moral revolutionary (Crito 49b – d): as he sees it, since we should never do injustice, we should never do evil, and from that it follows that we should never do an evil in return for even an evil done to us (Crito 48b – 49d, 54c; cf. Gorgias 468e – 474b; Republic 335a – d). For Socrates, then, not even Zeus can return one injury for another.2 Next, the Socratic view that the only or most important good is virtue/wisdom (e. g., Apology 30a – b; Crito 47e – 48b; Gorgias 512a – b; Euthydemus 281d – e) makes it likely that the only or most important component of the gods’ chief product is virtue/wisdom. But then, since piety as a virtue must be a craftknowledge of how to produce goodness (e. g., Laches 194e – 196d, 199c – e; Euthydemus 280b – 281e), our primary service to the gods would appear to be to help the gods produce goodness in the universe via the protection and improvement of the human mind/soul. Because philosophical examination of oneself and others is for Socrates the key activity that helps to achieve this goal via the improvement of moral-belief-consistency and the deflation of human presumptions to divine wisdom (e. g., Apology 22d – 23b), philosophizing is a preeminently pious activity (see McPherran 1996: chs 2.2 and 4.2). Finally, Socrates’ treatment of Euthyphro’s fifth definition – 5) piety is knowledge of sacrificing and praying – makes evident that he rejects the idea that piety consists in traditional prayer and sacrifice motivated by hopes of a material payoff (14c – 15c). I think it clear that Socrates does not reject conventional religious practices in general, but only the narrowly-self-interested motives underlying their common observance. Xenophon, for example, portrays him as “the most visible of men” in cult-service to the gods (Memorabilia 1.2.64) and has him testify that he often sacrificed at the public altars (Apology 10 – 12; cf. Memorabilia 1.1.1 – 2, 4.8.11). It seems unlikely that Xenophon would offer as a defense a portrait of Socrates that simply no Athenian could take seriously. There is, in addition, some corroborating Platonic evidence on this point.3 Although it would not seem that Socrates could consider prayers or sacrifices alone to be essentially connected to 2 Cf. Xenophanes, who testifies that “Homer and Hesiod have ascribed to the gods all deeds which among men are a reproach and a disgrace: thieving, adultery, and deceiving one another” (Sextus Empiricus, Against the Professors 9.193; McKirahan trans.). 3 For example, Plato is willing to put twelve prayers into the mouth of his Socrates (see Jackson 1971; Euthydemus 275d; Phaedo 117c; Symposium 220d; Phaedrus 237a-b, 257a-b, 278b, 279bc; Republic 327a-b, 432c, 545d-e; Philebus 25b, 61b-c). Note too the stage-setting of the start of the Republic (327a), where Socrates has traveled down to the Piraeus in order to pray to the goddess Bendis and observe her festival.

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

201

the virtue of piety, their performance is nonetheless compatible with the demands of piety reconceived as philosophizing. After all, since Socrates embraces the positive side of the lex talionis – the return of one good for another – we should reciprocate as best we can the gods’ many good gifts (see, e. g., Euthyphro 14e – 15a) by honoring the gods in fitting ways through performing acts with the inner-intention to thank and honor them (Memorabilia 1.4.10, 18; 4.3.17). While, again, serving the gods via philosophical self-examination has pride of place in providing such honors, there is no reason why such actions cannot include prayers and sacrifices (cf. Memorabilia 4.3.13, 16). Socrates may well hold that prayers and sacrifices that aim to honor or thank the gods, or that request moral assistance from them, serve both ourselves and the gods: they help to induce our souls to follow the path of justice (thus producing god-desired good in the universe) by habituating us to return good for good. These actions also help to foster and maintain a general belief in the existence of good and helpful gods and an awareness of our inferior status in respect of wisdom and power, something that Socrates is clearly interested in promoting (see, e. g., Memorabilia 1.4.1 – 19, 4.3.1 – 17; Apology 21d – 23c). Xenophon’s portrait of Socratic religiosity is, however, a suspiciously normalizing, apologetic one designed to contribute to his rather unsubtle defense of Socrates. And nowhere is that defense more strained than on the topic of Socrates’ notorious divine sign – the daimonion (Mem. 1.1.1 – 5). Moreover, Socrates’ own characterization of this sign in Plato’s Apology (e. g., Ap. 31c – 32a) frequently seems to readers to be less a defense against than a confession of heterodoxy. On the other hand, the unquestioning trust their Socrates places in the daimonion’s frequent warnings also make him appear far more superstitious than the average Athenian (!): not the sort of behavior we expect from the paradigm of the rationally-self-examined life and the above Rationality Principle. As a result, it is the daimonion that contributes more than any other Socratic eccentricity to Socrates’ ‘strangeness’, his ‘aûtop¸a’, especially for modern readers (see, e. g., Vlastos 1991, 1; Symp. 221d). We need then, to take a close look at the daimonion. Socrates’ daimonion, we are told, is an internal, private admonitory ‘sign’ (seˆmeion; Apology 40b1, c3; Euthydemus 272e4; Phaedrus 242b9; Republic 496c4; Memorabilia 1.1.3 – 5) and ‘voice’ (phoneˆ ; Apology 31d1; Phaedrus 242c2; Xen. Apology 12) caused to appear within the horizon of consciousness by a god. It has occurred to few or none before Socrates (Republic 496c) and it has been his companion since childhood (Apology 31d). The daimonion’s intervention in his affairs is frequent and pertains to matters both momentous and trivial (Apology 40a). That Socrates receives and obeys these monitions is wellknown in Athens (Apology 31c – d; Euthyphro 3b), and they are understood to be apotreptic signs that warn him not to pursue a course of action that he is in the

202

Mark L. McPherran

process of initiating (Apology 31d; Phaedrus 242b – 3; Theages 128 – 131a). These interventions are regarded as unfailingly correct in whatever they indicate (Memorabilia 1.1.4 – 5), just as we would expect the gift of an unfailingly good divinity to be. The daimonion’s generosity even extends to warning Socrates of the inadvisability of the actions intended by others (Theaetetus 150c – 151b; cf. Theages 128d – 131a; Memorabilia 1.1.4; Apology 13), but in no case does it provide him with general, theoretical claims constitutive of the expert moral knowledge he seeks and disavows having obtained (e. g., Apology 21d – 23c). Neither does it provide him with ready-made explanations of its opposition. Rather, its occurrences yield instances of non-expert moral knowledge of the inadvisability of pursuing particular actions because those actions are disadvantageous to Socrates and others; e. g., the knowledge that it would not be beneficial to let a certain student resume study with him (see, e. g., Xen., Symposium 8.5; Theaetetus 150c – 151b; Alcibiades I 103a – 106a). Finally, these divine ‘signs’ always target future unbeneficial outcomes, and especially those whose reasonable prediction lies beyond the power of human reason (Apology 31d; Euthydemus 272e – 273a; Memorabilia 1.1.6 – 9, 4.3.12). It is, in short, a species of the faculty of divination, true to Socrates’ description of it as his ‘customary divination’ (Apology 40a4) and himself as a seer (mantis) (Phaedo 85b4 – 6; cf. Phaedrus 242c4). One important example that displays Socrates’ reliance upon and rational confirmation of a daemonic warning is found at Apology 31c – 32a, where Socrates notes his obedience to the daimonion’s resistance to his entering public partisan politics (cf. Republic 496b – c) and then offers an explanation for its warnings; namely, that such political activity would have brought him a premature death, thus curtailing his vastly beneficial mission to the Athenians (cf. Phaedrus 242b – 243a; Alcibiades I 103a – 106a). Another instance of daemonic activity is found at Euthydemus 272e – 273a. There we find that Socrates had formed the intention to leave his seat, but just as he was getting up the daimonion opposed him, and so he remained. In this case, Socrates exhibits no doubt that its warning is utterly reliable; rather, Socrates implicitly trusts the daimonion, although how or why it is that the result of his obedience will be good-producing is opaque to reasoned calculation (Theaetetus 150c – 151b; Memorabilia 4.3.12; 1.1.8 – 9). But this trust is in no way irrational – and so does not contradict the Rationality Principle – for it may be rationally confirmed in its wisdom and so given credence on an inductive basis; since (i) in Socrates’ long experience of the daimonion, it has never been shown not to be a reliable warning system (Xen. Apology 13; Apology 40a – c), and (ii) the reliability of its alarms has been confirmed by the good results that flow from heeding it. Socrates’ claims to receive guidance from the gods brings us to our last puzzle: how can Socrates satisfy the demands of his Rationality Principle and

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

203

retain the skeptical restraint marked by Apology 21d – 23c, and yet affirm that gods exist and that they have characteristics such as wisdom (Apology 41c – d; Euthyphro 14e – 15a; Gorgias 508a; Hippias Major 289b; Memorabilia 4.4.25)? Unfortunately, Plato’s texts show Socrates simply assuming and never proving the existence of gods. However, in Xenophon we are given an innovative teleological cosmology and theodicy grounded on an argument for the existence of an omniscient, omnipresent God: the Maker of an orderly and beautiful universe, a deity who also now governs it in a fashion analogous to the way in which our minds govern our bodies (1.4.1 – 19; 4.3.1 – 18; cf. Sextus Empiricus Against the Professors 9.92 – 94; see McPherran 1996: ch. 5). The relation between this omniscient, omnipresent Deity and the other gods is left entirely obscure. Socrates speaks at one moment of that singular Deity as responsible for our creation and aid, and in the next breath depicts the plural gods as doing the same (e. g., 1.4.10 – 11, 13 – 14, 18). Next, he distinguishes this one Deity from the other gods by characterizing It as that particular god who “coordinates and holds together the entire cosmos” (4.3.13) but also treats that Deity as fulfilling all the functions of the gods. To reconcile such oddities with what evidence there is that Socrates would affirm a belief in Delphic Apollo and plural Greek gods, we might credit him with being a henotheist; that is, he may understand the Maker-god to be a supreme Deity overseeing a community of lesser deities in the manner of Xenophanes’ “greatest one god” (Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker 21 B23). Alternatively, it is also possible that Socrates shared the not-uncommon view which understood the gods to be manifestations of a singular supreme Spirit (Guthrie 1971: 156). In any event, we may expect that Socrates holds that his reasons for affirming the existence and nature of his Maker-god do not constitute the sort of complete and certain account that would give him the kind of theological wisdom he disclaims at Apology 21d – 23c. In sum, Socrates should be understood to have appropriated the principles of traditional Apollonian religion that emphasized the gap separating the human from the divine in terms of wisdom and power by connecting those principles with the new enterprise of philosophical self-examination (see, e. g., Iliad 5.440 – 42).4 But as we will now see, Plato proved much more philosophically ambitious and optimistic about our natural capacities for knowledge and wisdom. Influenced on the one hand by Socrates’ new intellectualist conception of piety as elenctic ‘caring of the soul’ and the success of the methods of the mathematicians of his day that he took to overcome the limitations of Socrates’ 4 He also uses the terminology of ecstatic cults such as the Corybantics to distinguish poetry and sophistry from philosophy (e. g., Ion 533d – 536d; Euthydemus 277d-e), and that of shamanic medicine to recommend the methods of philosophy as an effective, rational revisioning of their healing and salvational rites (e. g., Charmides 156d – 157c; Morgan 1990, ch. 1).

204

Mark L. McPherran

elenctic method, and on the other by the aim at human-initiated divine status as expressed by some of the newer, post-Hesiodic religious forms that had entered into Greece, Plato’s philosophical theology offered the unsocratic hope of an afterlife of intimate Form-contemplation in the realm of divinity. Self-knowledge on Plato’s scheme leads not so much to an appreciation of limits, then, as to the realization that we are ourselves divinities in some sense: immortal intellects that already have within them all the knowledge there is to be had (Meno 81c – d; Phaedo 72e – 77e; Symposium 210a – 211b). In such a scheme there is little room for Socratic piety, since now the central task of human existence becomes less a matter of assisting gods and more a matter of becoming as much like them as one can (e. g., Theaetetus 172b – 177c).

Plato Plato’s most explicit statement of the way in which he intends to both retain and transform traditional religious forms is to be found in his Republic and Laws (here I focus on the Republic). The Republic contains over a hundred references to ‘god’ or ‘gods’, with most occurring within the outline of the educational reforms advanced in Books Two and Three. The traditional gods are first brought into the conversation in their guise as enforcers of morality by Glaucon and his brother Adeimantus (357a – 367e). These gods are rumored to repay injustice with frightful post-mortem punishments, but ambitious people can create a fac¸ade of illusory virtue that will allow them to lead profitable lives here and in the afterlife (364b – 365a; cf. Laws 909a – b).5 For (a) if the gods do not exist or (b) if they are indifferent to human misconduct, we need not fear their punishments; and (c) even if they are concerned with us, given “all we know about them from the laws and poets” (365e2 – 3) they can be persuaded to give us not penalties but goods (365c – 366b, 399b; cf. Laws 885b). No wonder, then, that in the view of the many “no one is just willingly” but only through some infirmity (366d). As a result, the challenge that Socrates must now meet by constructing the perfectly just state Kallipolis is to demonstrate the superiority of justice to injustice independently of any external consequences (366d – 369b). Then, when at last Kallipolis is established, he must outline the educational system necessary for producing the character traits its rulers will require (374d – 376c). 5 Adeimantus alludes to begging priests and soothsayers who hold that through sacrifices, incantations and initiations found in books by Musaeus and Orpheus divine punishment of injustice can be averted (Republic 364b – 365a; cf. Laws 909a-b). Plato is in general a harsh critic of everyday prophets and priests; rather, the true priest must now be a philosopher (e. g., Phaedrus 248d-e).

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

205

Socrates asserts that it would be hard to find a system of education better than the traditional one of offering physical training for the body and music and poetry for the soul, but he quickly finds fault with its substance. This form of education moulds the character of the young by using stories to shape the form of their aspirations and desires in ways conformable to the development of their rational intelligence. However, although such stories are false, some approximate the truth better than others and some are more conducive to the development of good character than others (377a, 377d – e, 382c – d). Plato assumes that the most accurate representations of the gods and heroes will also be the most beneficial, but the converse is also true, and this means that there will have to be strict supervision of the poets and story-tellers of Kallipolis. Moreover, much of the old literature will have to be cast aside because of its lack of verisimilitude and its debilitating effects on character-formation. First on the chopping block is Hesiod’s Theogony, with its deceitful, harmful tale of Cronos castrating Ouranos at the urgings of his vengeful mother Gaia, then unjustly swallowing his own children to prevent his overthrow by Zeus (377e – 378b). Poetic lies of this sort which suggest that gods or heroes are unjust or disagree or retaliate against each other must be suppressed. To specify with precision which myths are to be counted false in their essentials, Socrates offers the educators of Kallipolis an ‘outline of theology’ in two parts, establishing a pair of laws that will ensure a sufficiently accurate depiction of divinity (379a7 – 9) (L1, L2a, L2b below): 1. All gods are [entirely] good beings (379b1 – 2). 2. No [entirely] good beings are harmful (379b3 – 4). 3. All non-harmful things do no harm (379b5 – 8). 4. Things that do no harm do no evil, and so are not the causes of evil (379b9 – 10). 5. Good beings benefit other things, and so are the causes of good (379b11 – 14). 6. Thus, good beings are not the causes of all things, but only of good things and not evil things (379b15 – 379c1). 7. Therefore, the gods are not the causes of everything – as most people believe – but their actions produce the few good things and never the many bad things there are (379c2 – 8; 380b6 – c3). LI: God is not the cause (aitia) of all things, but only of the good things; whatever it is that causes bad things, that cause is not divine (380c6 – 10; 391e1 – 2; cf. Laws 636c, 672b, 899b, 900d, 941b). The argument for conclusion (7) is a reasonably cogent inference, but we are bound to ask how Plato can simply presuppose the truth of the non-Homeric premise 1 which, once granted, drives the rest of the argument. He can do so, I think, because of his inheritance of Socratic piety : the gods are good because

206

Mark L. McPherran

they are wise, and they are wise because of their very nature. That said, however, we are left wondering how the new poetry is to depict the causes of evil, what those causes might be, and how they could coexist within a cosmos ruled by omnibenevolent gods. Plato himself addresses this issue in his other, later works (see below). Here, at any rate, the practical upshot of L1 is clear : stories of the gods’ injustices like those at Iliad 4.73 – 126 and 24.527 – 32 must be purged. If the poets insist, they may continue to speak of the gods’ punishments, but only so long as they make it clear that these are either merited or therapeutic (380a – b; cf. Gorgias 525b – c). Next up for elimination are those tales that portray the gods as changing shape or otherwise deceiving us. By means of two further arguments Socrates establishes a law with two parts that (L2a) No gods change (381e8 – 9) and (L2b) The gods do not try to mislead us with falsehoods (383a2 – 6). This second law will allow Kallipolis to purge traditional literature of all variety of mythological themes, ranging from the shape-shifting antics of Proteus (381c – e) to the deceptive dreams sent by Zeus (e. g., Iliad 2.1 – 34) (383a – b). Book Three continues with further applications of Laws 1 and 2 to popular poetry, and by its end the gods of that poetry have been demoted to the status of harmful fabrications (Plato retains this view into his Laws; e. g., 636c, 672b, 941b). Although the revisionary theology that results puts Plato at striking variance with the attitudes of many of his fellow Athenians, there is nothing in his theology that directly undermines the three axioms of Greek religion (a) through (c) to which Adeimantus alluded earlier (365d – e): the gods exist, they concern themselves with human affairs, and there is reciprocity of some kind between humans and gods. Moreover, it would have been no great shock for Plato’s audience to find his Socrates denying the poets’ tales of divine capriciousness, enmity, immorality, and response to ill-motivated sacrifice: They had for years been exposed to such criticisms by thinkers such as Xenophanes and Euripides, and Hesiod himself had admitted that poets tell lies (Theogony 26 – 28). Although Plato, like Socrates, vigorously rejects the idea that gods can be magically influenced to benefit us, it is clear that he retains a role for traditionalappearing religious practices (McPherran 2000). There will still be sacrifices (419a) and hymns to the gods (607a), along with a form of civic religion that features temples, prayers, festivals, priests, and so on (427b – c; Burkert 1985: 334). Plato also expects the children of Kallipolis to be shaped “by the rites and prayers which the priestesses and priests and the whole community pray at each wedding festival” (461a6 – 8). The Republic is lamentably terse on the details of all this, but that is because its Socrates is unwilling to entrust the authority of establishing these institutions to his guardians or to speculative reason (427b8 – 9). Rather, the foundational laws governing these matters will be introduced and maintained by “the ancestral guide on these matters for all people” (427c3 – 4):

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

207

Delphic Apollo (427a – c; cf. 424c – 425a; 461e, 540b – c) (Plato assigns the same function to Delphi in his Laws [738b – d, 759a – e, 828a] and pays better attention there to the details [e.g., 759a – 760a, 771a – 772d, 778c – d, 799a – 803b, 828a – 829e, 848c – e].) This fact alone suggests that the ritual life of Kallipolis will be very hard to distinguish from that of Plato’s Athens. Confirmation of this occurs when we are told that the citizens of Kallipolis will “join all other Greeks in their common holy rites” (470e10 – 11; cf. Laws 848d). Plato’s confessions of the difficulty of adequately conceiving of god/gods (e. g. Phaedrus 246c), can create the impression that although Plato is willing to retain morally-uplifting talk of all-good gods for the children and non-philosophers of his Kallipolis, when he turns to the serious business of educating his philosophers he reveals that the only true divinities are the Forms. Nevertheless, justiceenforcing gods are redeployed as real features of the cosmos in Book Ten (612e; cf. Laws 901a). Secondly, Plato frequently alludes to genuine gods in dialogues contemporaneous with, and later than, the Republic (e. g., Phaedrus, Parmenides, Laws). Hence, the most plausible stance is that Plato affirms the existence of both gods and Forms. Probably the clearest expression of the relationship between the middledialogue Forms and gods occurs in the second half of the Greatest Aporia of the Parmenides (133a – 134e), where we find an argument purporting to establish the impossibility that the gods could either know or rule over sensible particulars such as ourselves. This argument is founded on the account of sensibles and Forms we find in the Phaedo and Republic, with the clear implication being that the Form-realm is also the heavenly home of gods who govern us as masters govern slaves and whose business it is to apprehend all of the Forms, including Knowledge-itself (134a – e). This brief glimpse of gods and Forms corresponds with the account of the gods offered first in the Phaedo, and then in the more complex portrait of the Phaedrus. In the course of the Phaedo’s Affinity Argument for the soul’s immortality (78b – 84b), for example, we are told that our souls are most like the divine in being deathless, intelligible, and invisible beings that are inclined to govern mortal subjects (e. g., our bodies) (see below). When the philosophically-purified soul leaves its body, then, it joins good and wise gods and the Forms (80d – 81a). The sorts of activities they carry on together is left unclear, but since this section and others parallel the Parmenides’ attribution of mastery to the gods (62c – 63c, 84e – 85b), we can expect that these gods are likewise able to rule wisely because of their apprehension of the Forms. The Phaedrus also features souls and gods who know Forms and who have the capacity to rule, and by detailing their relations in his outline of “the life of the gods” (248a1) Plato gives us a partial solution to the identity of the gods of the Republic and other middle dialogues. As part of his palinode (242b – 257b), Socrates first offers a proof that the self-moving souls of both gods and humans

208

Mark L. McPherran

are immortal (245c – e), and then turns to a description of their natures (246a – 248a). It is, he says, too lengthy a task to describe accurately the soul’s structure in a literal fashion: a god could do it, but not a mortal; but we can at least say what the soul resembles (246a3 – 6; cf. 247c3 – 6). Dismissing the common conception of the Olympian deities as composites of soul and body (246c5 – d5), Socrates offers his famous simile, comparing every soul to “the natural union of a team of [two] winged horses and their charioteer” (246a6 – 7), whose ruling part is Reason and whose horses correspond to the spirited and appetitive parts of the soul described in the Republic (Book Four).6 Unlike the mixed team with which mortal drivers must contend, however, the souls of gods and daimoˆns have horses and charioteer-rulers that are entirely good. The most important of these gods are to be identified with the twelve traditional Olympians: their ‘great commander’ is Zeus, who is then trailed by Hera, Poseidon, Demeter, Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Aphrodite, Hermes, Athena, and Hephaestus, while Hestia remains at home. Being entirely good, these gods roam the roads of heaven, guiding souls, and then travel up to heaven’s highest rim (247a – e). From these heights each driver – each god’s Intelligence – is nourished and made happy by gazing upon the invisible, fully real objects of knowledge to which he or she is akin: Forms such as Justice and Beauty themselves. Even Knowledge-itself is here, “not the knowledge that is close to change and that becomes different as it knows the different things that we consider real down here”, but “the knowledge of what really is what it is” (247d7 – e2). This account should recall both the Parmenides’ characterization of the two kinds of knowledge there are – the Knowledge-itself that ruling gods possess and the knowledge-among-us that we possess (cf. Theaetetus 146e) – and the Republic’s declaration in L1 that the gods are the causes of only good. Moreover, this Phaedrus myth parallels the Republic insofar as the latter alludes to the knowledge possessed by those guardians who are able to rule by virtue of the wisdom they have come to possess (428c – d) and whose intellects are nourished and made happy by their intercourse with the Forms (490a – b) (both texts also possess parallel psychologies and eschatological myths that contain Olympian post-mortem rewards and punishments [Phaedrus 256a – c; Republic 621c – d] and reincarnation into a variety of lives [Phaedrus 247c – 249d; Republic 614b – 621d]). In view of such parallels, it is reasonable to suppose that the deities sanctioned by the Phaedrus would also be those of the Republic, and this seems especially true when we consider the conservative streak Plato displayed by putting Del6 Hackforth 1952: 72. Plato’s appropriation of the immortal horses of the gods (the hippoi athanatoi – offspring of the four Wind-Gods who draw the chariot of Zeus; Iliad 5.352 – 69) – is typical of his entire approach to the myths of Greek religion: he retains the traditional ambrosia and nectar as food and drink for the lower, horsy parts of the soul (247e), but has the philosophical Intellect feed on the new, true ambrosia of the immortal Forms.

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

209

phic Apollo in charge of the establishment of temples and sacrifices – hence, the installment of the specific deities the city will honor at Republic 427b – c (and note that the Phaedrus similarly credits Delphi with the ability to offer sound guidance to both individuals and cities; 244a – b). Thus, when Socrates acknowledges the Apollo of Delphi at 427a – b and Zeus at 583b and 391c, and defends the reputations of Hera, Ares, Aphrodite, Hephaestus, and Poseidon at 390c and 391c, he is affirming the existence of distinct deities with distinct functions who may still be credited with distinctive personalities, each one resembling the kind of human soul it will lead up to the nourishment of the Form realm (248a – e). The series of cosmological etymologies concerning the names of the gods provided by the Philebus (395e – 410e) reinforces this account. What, then, is the relation of that super ordinate Form, the Good-itself (Republic 504d – 534d), to these gods? It was a commonplace in antiquity that the Good is God (cf., e. g., Sextus Against the Professors 11.70), a view that still finds some favor. If that were right, we could then postulate that the image of the Great Commander Zeus is one of Plato’s ways of conceptualizing the Good in order to make it a subject of honorific ritual. In fact, we are encouraged to think of the Good as a god in several ways: the Good is said to be (a) the archeˆ – the cause of the being – of the Forms (509b6 – 8) and everything else (511b, 517b – c); (b) a ruler over the intelligible world in the way the sun, a god, rules over the visible realm (509b – d); (c) analogous to the maker (deˆmiourgos) of our senses (507c7), the sun, one of the gods of heaven (508a – c [which is an offspring of the Good; 508b; 506e – 507a]). This identification can then (d) explain Book Ten’s odd and unique claim that the Form of Bed is created by a craftsman god, who is – in a sense – the creator of all things (596a – 598c). Finally, if the Good were not a god, then (i) the gods of the Republic would apparently be the offspring of a non-God (the Good), or (ii) the Good would be subordinate to these gods, or (iii) the gods would exist in independence from the Good: but none of these possibilities seem to make sense in light of (a) through (d) (Adam 1908: 442). Despite all this, however, the characterization of the Good as being beyond all being in dignity and power (509b8 – 10) means that it cannot be a mind, a nous, that knows anything; rather, it is that which makes knowledge possible (508b – 509b). Thus, since for Plato a necessary condition for something’s being a god is that it be a mind/soul possessing intelligence, the Good cannot be a god. Plato’s Maker-god, the Demiurge, marks another of Plato’s debts to his teacher. As we saw earlier, Xenophon’s Socrates argued that since individual beings in the universe are either the product of intelligent design or mere dumb luck, and since human beings are clearly the products of intelligent design, we ought to be persuaded that there exists a vastly knowledgeable God, a God who is moreover “a wise and loving Maker (deˆmiourgos)” (1.4.2 – 7; cf. 4.3.1 – 18). Plato’s mature expression of this idea in the Timaeus and elsewhere goes well

210

Mark L. McPherran

beyond this Socratic inheritance by incorporating his Theory of Forms in a conscious attempt to rebut materialists who deny the priority of soul over body (27d – 29b; cf. Philebus 30c – d; Laws 889b – c, 891e – 899d). The “likely account” (29b – d) Plato puts forward there is, in brief, that:7 (1) The Cosmos is an ordered, perceptible thing. (2) All ordered perceptibles are things that come to be. (3) Thus, the Cosmos is not eternal but came to be. (4) Every ordered thing that comes to be has a craftsman as the cause of its coming to be. (5) Thus, the Cosmos has a Craftsman as the cause of its coming to be. (6) The Craftsman-cause of the Cosmos patterned the Cosmos after one of two kinds of model: (a) a changeless model grasped by reasoned understanding or (b) a changing model grasped by opinion involving sense perception. (7) If the Cosmos is beautiful and its craftsman is good, then its craftsman used (a) a changeless model grasped by reasoned understanding. (8) The Cosmos is beautiful and its Craftsman is good. (9) Thus, the Cosmos “…is a work of craft, modeled after that which is changeless and is grasped by a rational account, that is, by wisdom.” (29a6 – b1; Zeyl trans.) The claim that the Craftsman is good in premise (8) appears to come out of thin air, but is perhaps to be inferred from the evident beauty and order of the Cosmos, and its providential, human-serving design (cf. Memorabilia 1.4.10 – 19; cf. 4.3.2 – 14). In any event, from that goodness it is then supposed to follow that the Demiurge was free of jealousy prior to the creation, and hence, He desired that everything that exists be as much like Himself as possible, and thus, as good as possible. This desire then led the Demiurge to bring order to the recalcitrant, disorderly motion of visible material by making it as intelligent as possible. This required that He put intelligence into a World-Soul, placing that soul into the body of the Cosmos, thereby making it a living being “endowed with soul and intelligence” (30b6 – c1), modeling it after the generic Form of Living Thing (29d – 31a; a Form that contains at least all the Forms of living things, if not all Forms). Apart from the Demiurge, the created Cosmos and the stars, there is little mention of the activities of other, more traditional gods. Although these gods seem to be invoked generically at the outset of the creation story (27c – d), and the Muses receive a mention (47d – e), the only other significant mention of gods at 40d6 – e4 (cf. Laws 948b) appears to undermine their having any genuine 7 The account is only likely because “to find the maker and father of this universe is hard enough” and impossible to describe to everyone (28c4 – 5; cf. Cratylus 400d – 401a).

Socrates and the Religious Dimension of Plato’s Thought

211

existence in this scheme. Here it is hard to resist the impression that the old gods have become little more than noble lies that philosophers offer to children and non-philosophers in order to train and keep in check their unruly souls. Nevertheless, gods bearing the names of the Olympians make a prominent appearance in the Laws from its outset, as its discussants make their way from Cnossus to Zeus’ birthplace and shrine on Mount Ida (625b). There are, for example, close to two hundred references to god or gods. Moreover, when it comes time to address the inhabitants of his new Cretan city, the Athenian Stranger tells them that they must “resolve to belong to those who follow in the company of god” (716b8 – 9) and so model themselves after god. The most effective way to do this, he tells them, is to pray and sacrifice to the gods, and this means the gods of the underworld, the Olympians, the patron deities of the state, and daimoˆns and heroes (716b – 717b; see Burkert 1985: chs 3.3.5 and 4 on daimoˆns and heroes). Later, as he mounts his case against atheism, the Athenian makes it clear that he and his companions’ memories of seeing their parents earnestly addressing the Olympian gods with an assured belief in their actual existence are not to be undermined by skepticism (887c – 888a; cf. 904e). Finally, the argument for there being a Craftsman god of the cosmos includes the existence of lesser gods spoken of in the plural (893b – 907b): this Maker and Supervisor of the universe has established these gods as rulers (archontes) over various parts of the universe (903b – c). We found similar gods in the Phaedrus – and such beings appear elsewhere (Politicus 271d, 272e; Timaeus 41a – d, 42d – e) – and thus it seems that Plato consistently understood his Maker-god to be a supreme Deity who may be called Zeus (e. g., Philebus 30d; Phaedrus 246e) overseeing a community of lesser deities (Morrow 1966: 131) who may still be called by the names of the Olympians. In any event, the message that comes through in all of Plato’s eschatological myths (esp. the Myth of Er [Republic 614b – 621d]) is that no god or daimoˆn can be blamed for whatever fix we may happen to find ourselves in when we put down Plato’s texts. Moreover, the many complications of these stories and the way in which they put our future judgment in the hands of gods and fate seem intended to undermine our using that future state as a source of motivation and choice-making in the here and now: perhaps we are being encouraged to dismiss the cheap motivations of carrot and stick that drive the vulgar many so that we might recall the truly pious aspirations of philosophy developed in the preceding main body of Plato’s text (cf. Phaedo 114d – 115a; Annas 1982). At the same time, however, Plato appears to be using “traditional mythic material…to ground his advocacy of the philosophical life in the authority of the [mythic] tradition” (Edmonds 2004: 161); giving that life motivational substance by persuasively picturing the unseen noetic realm that is the goal of every true philosopher. These myths, then, can be read as returning us to both the stern, early Socrates of

212

Mark L. McPherran

Republic Book One (and elsewhere; e. g. the Socrates of Crito 48a – 49e) who urges us to choose the path of justice simpliciter and the hopeful Socrates of the Phaedo who foresees a return to the friendly divinities and Formal delights of heaven (Phaedo 63c, 81a; Phaedrus 247c). Through all this and more, Plato laid the groundwork for the flowering of Western religious thought.8

References Adam, J. 1908 (1965 reprint.). The religious teachers of Greece; being Gifford lectures on natural religion delivered at Aberdeen, Edinburgh. Annas, J. 1982. “Plato’s Myths of Judgment”, in: Phronesis 27:119 – 43. Benson, H. 2000. Socratic Wisdom, Oxford. Burkert, W. 1985. Greek Religion, Cambridge, MA. Cohen, S.M. 1971. “Socrates on the Definition of Piety : Euthyphro 10a – 11b”, in: G. Vlastos (ed.), The Philosophy of Socrates, Garden City, NY: 158 – 76. Edmonds, R. G. 2004. Myths of the Underworld Journey : Plato, Aristophanes, and the ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets, Cambridge. Guthrie, W. K. C. 1971. Socrates, Cambridge. Hackforth, R. 1952. Plato’s Phaedrus, Cambridge. Jackson, B. D. 1971. “The Prayers of Socrates”, in: Phronesis 16.1: 14 – 37. McPherran, M. L. 1996 (pbk. 1999). The Religion of Socrates, University Park, Pennsylvania. McPherran, M. L. 2000. “Does Piety Pay? Socrates and Plato on Prayer and Sacrifice”, in: N. D. Smith / P. Woodruff (eds.), Reason and Religion in Socratic Philosophy, Oxford; also in: T. C. Brickhouse, T. C. / N. D. Smith (eds.) 2002. The Trial and Execution of Socrates: Sources and Controversies, Oxford: 162 – 90. Morgan, M. L. 1990. Platonic Piety, New Haven. Morrow, G. R. 1966. “Plato’s Gods”, in: K. Kolenda (ed.), Insight and Vision: Essays in Honor of Radoslav Andrea Tsanoff, San Antonio, TX: 121 – 134. Vlastos, G. 1991. Socrates, Ironist and Moral Philosopher, Ithaca.

8 This essay is an abridged and revised version of Mark McPherran: Socrates and Plato, in: History of Western Philosophy of Religion, edited by G. Oppy and N. Trakakis, Oxford 2009, ch. 4. We are grateful to the editors for permission to publish this essay.

Aristotle

Mariana Anagnostopoulos

Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

Fearlessness, according to Aristotle in his Nicomachean Ethics, is distinct from courage, and self-control from temperance. Despite – and even because of – the effort required to maintain it, self-control is a state of character less praiseworthy than courage. Fearlessness, on the other hand, is foolhardy, failing to reflect the most basic aspect of excellence, an accurate understanding of the degree of danger one faces. The distinctions between virtue and the various lesser states constitute a critical part of Aristotle’s specification of the precise nature of virtue, and explain aspects of his account of the development of virtue. Aristotle’s explanation of the way in which virtue is acquired in turn supplements and illuminates his characterization of the good person as a “measure”, in that it specifies how the practicable elements of excellence are to be developed, and thus presents one important component of the model life. In Aristotle’s view, not only is it the case that, “the good person discriminates correctly in every set of circumstances, and in every set of circumstances what is true is apparent to him,” but this person will desire, choose, and pursue precisely the things he knows to be best (Nicomachean Ethics 1113a30 – 32, tr. C. Rowe). The virtuous life is the life in which one aims to perfect one’s nature, and ultimately experiences the best and most complete human pleasure and happiness. Though virtue of character requires a complex awareness of multiple dimensions of one’s experience, it is not properly a cognitive capacity. Instead, to develop virtue is to develop one’s many faculties as much as it is to develop practical wisdom. This requires habituation, according to Aristotle, not to train the unruly elements of oneself to submit to the rule of reason, but to align them with reason’s knowledge of what promotes the optimal functioning of the dynamic individual. That is to say, by practicing our way to excellence, we habituate ourselves to have a certain type of attitude and response – namely the most fitting one – in each type of situation. Recognizing that we often deliberate about, choose, and desire merely apparently good things, Aristotle defends the idea that that the proper object of all of these faculties and activities is the real good. It is in perfecting ourselves that we seek, understand, and experience goodness; thus

216

Mariana Anagnostopoulos

goodness is natural in that it is found in the well-functioning of one’s natural faculties. However, this is not to suggest that virtue, or excellence, is a natural rather than an acquired state of character. Aristotle explains that it is, “neither by nature nor contrary to nature” (NE 1103a24). We are not simply naturally kind, temperate, and courageous, but we are naturally suited to develop these conditions of our souls, or selves. Pointing out that vice is also an acquired condition of the soul, however, Aristotle wishes to make clear the difference between these two states, only one of which constitutes human perfection and contributes to human flourishing. Being virtuous allows one to perfect every part of oneself, while being vicious does not, as it involves functioning at less than one’s full capacity. To achieve well-functioning is a considerable task, in that it requires the development of one’s cognitive abilities and behavioral tendencies. In Aristotle’s account, the general structure of the relationships between function, excellence, perfection, and flourishing is such that the flourishing of a being is found only in its functioning perfectly – by way of the excellences proper to it: For just as for … any expert, and generally for all those who have some characteristic function or activity, the good – their doing well – seems to reside in their function, so too it would seem to be for the human being, if indeed there is some function that belongs to him. … the human good turns out to be activity of soul in accordance with excellence (and if there are more excellences than one, in accordance with the best and the most complete) (NE 1097b26 – 28, 1098a16 – 18).

Having identified the human function as the exercise of properly human capacities in a way that accords with reason, Aristotle concludes that the fullest, best such activity will bring with it the best condition for a human being, with respect to psychic health, optimum functioning, and overall well-being.

Aristotle’s Definition of Virtue as an Intermediate State Toward the practical aim of becoming excellent, one must condition one’s attitudes and behavior, not merely learn to assess a given situation correctly. This is because a state of character, in Aristotle’s model, is manifested in one’s responses, for which a theoretical understanding is no substitute: “behaving … like sick people, when they listen carefully to their doctors but then fail to do anything of what is prescribed for them,” will not allow us to condition our souls properly (NE 1105b14 – 16). Instead, one who habituates her appetites, emotions, and actions to be virtuous will have to do so, “in accordance with reason,” to fulfill the Aristotelian ideal, captured in Aristotle’s definition of virtue at NE 1106b35 – 1107a2:

Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

217

Excellence, then, is a disposition issuing in decisions, depending on intermediacy of the kind relative to us, this being determined by rational prescription and in the way in which the wise person would determine it.

Aristotle’s designation of virtue as an intermediate, or mean, state is the key element of this definition, and explains, in part, why virtue is acquired through habit, and how virtue is distinct from self-control. The concept of the mean relative to the individual is modeled on the existence of a mean in nature as well as in the crafts. “Excess and deficiency destroy good quality,” Aristotle explains, “while intermediacy preserves it” (NE 1106b11 – 12). The reason for this seems different in the case of the crafts than in the case of bodily health, as, in Aristotle’s view, good products preserve a mean in that, “nothing can either be taken away from them or added to them” (NE 1106b11). This suggests that excellent products or works of art are balanced and functional in the relevant respects, and reveal no obvious flaws of excess or omission. However reasonable this limited characterization of good craftsmanship, it does not reveal an objectively measurable distinction between deficiency, mean, and excess as clearly as does Aristotle’s other example. To describe the diet of Milo the athlete as “intermediate” is to say that it provides the correct nutrition for Milo, and is neither excessive nor deficient for him. In this case, the mean can be determined objectively, with reference to facts about Milo and about nutrition. At the same time, however, this is not to be understood as another type of mean, the mean “with reference to the object itself,” which is “equidistant from each of its two extremes, [and] is one and the same for all” (NE 1106a30 – 31). This type of mean would simply take the numerical midpoint along some scale –perhaps from no food to the largest quantity a human could eat– and designate this the proper amount for all. In case we seek an explanation of why this method would rarely identify a suitable quantity of food to eat, Aristotle makes clear that, “perhaps this too is large for the person who will be taking it, or small –small for Milo, large for the person just beginning his training” (NE 1106b2 – 4). A most important and illuminating feature of Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean is that the mean response is not necessarily the moderate one, nor is it up to the individual to stipulate her mean. “Now with everything continuous and divisible,” Aristotle explains, “it is possible to take a greater and a lesser and an equal amount, and these either with reference to the object itself or relative to us” (NE 1106a25 – 28). To utilize the second method of calculating the mean, as Aristotle does, is not to be taken to suggest that the mean is relative to the individual’s choice, but that the “equal,” that is, proper, amount will reflect the condition of a particular individual in a particular situation. Virtue is a mean state in that it produces a response –in emotion, decision, and action– that is reasonable, given the individual’s abilities, skills, constitution, profession, and so on. It is opposed

218

Mariana Anagnostopoulos

by two states of vice, one constituted by excessive responses and the other by deficient ones, given those same facts and features. Though the mean for a given individual facing a given set of circumstances will be specific to that individual, the general account of each virtue –specifying the mean for each sphere of human experience– is ultimately based in the nature of the human being, and promotes optimal human functioning. Thus Aristotle’s remark that some conditions “are themselves bad,” in that they are excessive or deficient: “malice, shamelessness, grudging ill will, and … theft” are vicious conditions or actions precisely because they always impede the human’s ability to excel in characteristically human ways, Aristotle implies (NE 1107a10 – 11). These general designations of virtue and vice do not vary according to the individual. Regardless one’s temperament and circumstances, one’s ability to develop intellectually would be hindered by an intemperate state of character, in that the excessive consumption of sweets, for example, would result in sluggishness, in addition to diverting one’s attention from the study of, say, higher mathematics. Integral to this characterization of virtue is a significant degree of variability, as Aristotle’s descriptions suggest: “with regard to feelings of fear and boldness, courage is the intermediate state,” he explains in general terms, “and the one who is excessively fearful and deficiently bold is cowardly” (NE 1107a31-b4). Of course, the way and degree to which the courageous person is to feel fear must be articulated, but my point here is that there is likely to be a range of appropriate responses in a given situation. I take there to be less variability in the case of virtue than in the case of the crafts; while limitless possibilities present themselves for the design and crafting of an excellent table, few responses to a specific dangerous circumstance will in fact reflect and promote courage. The determination of what is appropriate, moreover, does not simply factor in our existing attitudes or legitimize them: an individual who refuses to learn to swim, then avoids exiting her new lakeside home for fear of drowning, is not simply excused for being afraid. In the absence of a true phobia or physical incapacity, this response is cowardly in that one source of peril can be overcome: a short course of swimming lessons would produce, with minimal effort, an ability to extricate herself from danger, were she to fall into the lake in her backyard. She would not be more or less praiseworthy for learning two swimming strokes rather than three, however, as it does not appear that one or the other response is truly more fitting to her situation. We may also notice from the foregoing that Aristotle is not equating the mean with the moderate, but that this would be inconsistent with his account in at least three ways. Firstly, if virtue is to be practiced consistently, in every response to every situation, and virtue is essentially moderation, we will be moderately afraid of an approaching tornado and moderately angry when given incorrect

Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

219

change, both of which would likely be unsuitable to the situation. Secondly, if virtue is consistently reflected in all of our feelings and attitudes, and virtue is essentially moderation, we will feel all the emotions in a moderate way at all times. Yet constant (if moderate) fear, lust, compassion, and so on, are hardly suitable to the harmonized psyche characteristic of excellence. Thirdly, any model according to which the mean is a fixed point on a scale would have to characterize error in that less relative terms of much and little; Aristotle’s model, on the other hand, stipulates that one is too fearful precisely when one feels more fear than the situation calls for, not that some specific level of fear is always insufficient or excessive.

Habituation Excellences are not cultivated in precisely the same way that capacities are activated, according to Aristotle, firstly because they are not simply present in us to exercise, but must be developed through repeated activity. A being with the natural capacity of perception has the ability to perceive even before it utilizes sight or smell, for example, while the excellence of steadfastness is a feature of one’s character only after one has behaved steadfastly : “we become just by doing just things, … courageous by doing courageous things,” and, in general, “dispositions come about from activities of a similar sort,” Aristotle explains (NE 1103b1 – 2, 1103b22). One must gain an understanding of which situations truly merit fear, and ingrain in oneself the habit of responding appropriately to danger, in order to become courageous. Herein lie the challenge and risk: if one systematically retreats even from minimal danger – in situations that present an opportunity for courageous action – one will habituate oneself to be cowardly, despite what may be an accurate appraisal of one’s chances and abilities. An interesting implication of this view is noted by Aristotle in the form of a possible inconsistency : mustn’t one be virtuous in order to behave virtuously, thereby making the acquisition of virtue – which requires the habitual practice of virtue prior to one’s being virtuous – impossible? This dilemma leads Aristotle to reveal in greater detail the relationship between virtuous action and virtue as a state of character. Three conditions must be met for one’s actions to reflect true moral excellence: one must have the requisite knowledge to reason properly about – and identify – the response that would be fitting to one’s circumstances, one’s actions must issue from one’s own choice that decides on those actions “for themselves,” and those actions must reflect – and indeed originate in – a firm state of character (NE 1105a32 – 35). The same actions, then, might promote the development of a state of character at one point but reflect it at another : “from being habituated to scorn frightening things and withstand

220

Mariana Anagnostopoulos

them we become courageous people, and having become courageous we shall be best able to withstand frightening things,” Aristotle notes (NE 1104b1 – 3). In designating virtue to be an acquired state, Aristotle must consider the limitations of the method of habituation and, in turn, of theoretical accounts of virtue like that presented in his own treatise. This difficulty is particularly acute with respect to adults, for they must struggle against existing patterns to instill in themselves a disposition to respond in more suitable ways than they may be accustomed. It is here that Aristotle reflects again on factors influencing the acquisition of virtue: Now some people think we become good by nature, while others think it is by habituation, and others again by teaching. Well, the natural element clearly does not depend on us, but belongs by divine causes of some kind to the truly fortunate; while talk and teaching may well not have force under all circumstances, and the soul of the hearer has to have been prepared beforehand through its habits in order to delight in and loathe the right things. (NE 1179b20 – 24)

Aristotle considers two ways in which the influence of nature in the development of virtue impacts resulting states of character. First, though some individuals whose disposition falls without much work into the range of the excellent may credit nature for their luck, this will imply that their own contribution to the work of developing virtue is lessened. On the other hand, the greatest power to determine states of character lies in the individual: Aristotle refuses to designate virtue and vice natural states precisely because the human being is capable of modifying her responses and thereby her state of character. Thus, on the basis that we can cultivate our dispositions to desire excessively, or to give generously, for example, Aristotle concludes that virtue and vice are acquired by habituation. This is not to say that it will always be sufficient for an individual to take seriously the challenge of behaving generously, until that point at which generosity is “natural” to him. The process will require less effort if the roots of virtue have been cultivated from childhood; hence Aristotle insists that “upbringing and patterns of behavior must be ordered by the laws” (NE 1179b35). Aristotle’s study of the human psyche informs his study of ethics, and illuminates aspects of his conception of excellence. Thus, his claim that virtue is acquired through repeated activity is not based simply on an awareness of the human tendency toward habitual action and its effect on character. Rather, his familiarity with the complex cognitive processes involved in something as basic as desire-satisfaction, for example, allows Aristotle to develop a nuanced account of the many dimensions of virtue. In addition, true excellence is revealed in every action and activity, and thus in distinct kinds of experience, each of which demands a particular type of training. As Broadie notes, “plenty of practice in coping with mortal danger does not substitute for the plenty of

Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

221

different sorts of practice needed to inculcate justice, mildness, moderation, and friendliness” (Broadie / Rowe 2002: 23). Moderation, having to do with temptations of appetite, requires practice in part because of the relationship between desire and cognition, which Aristotle explains at Movement of Animals 701a32 – 35: “‘I have to drink,’ says appetite. ‘Here’s drink,’ says sense-perception or [imagination] or thought. At once he drinks” (tr. M. C. Nussbaum). What is here presented as the scope of appetite’s functioning is general, as Plato also conceived it; desire in the form of basic thirst seeks drink, but does not, on its own, direct the individual to one variety of drink or to any particular drink. The input of another faculty is needed for one to begin to pursue any specific type of object, to join the basic want to some actual thing that can fulfill it. Yet this interplay between faculties implies several possibilities for error, and multiple ways in which the human must condition herself to respond appropriately. With respect to thirst, one must learn, through practice, that certain types of liquids – even within the category of drink – are not in fact thirst-quenching. Burnyeat (1980: 79) identifies the reason desires (and emotions) must be dealt with in this way : “because they are unreasoned, other kinds of training must be devised to direct them on to the right kinds of object: chiefly, guided practice and habituation.” It is possible, and quite easy, for individuals to acquire the habit of choosing to satisfy thirst with drinks, such as highly caffeinated energy potions, that ultimately dehydrate and weaken the body. The blame here would not properly fall on perception unless one’s higher cognitive faculties were impaired, but at the same time it is neither simply a cognitive error nor simply a problem of excessively strong desires that one identifies such drinks as hydrating. In fact, Aristotle resists isolating the faculties, even when focused on one aspect of goodness; reflecting on the relationship between wisdom and excellence, for example, he notes that, “one is not wise merely by virtue of having knowledge, but also by being the sort of person to act on one’s knowledge” (NE 1152a8 – 10). After several failed attempts to satisfy thirst with coffee, for example, one must admit that elements of one’s reasoning process have been derailed; one is likely using one’s thirst as an opportunity to satisfy a quite different desire: for a stimulant, for comfort, or for participation in a standard morning ritual. One cannot claim to understand fully the right thing to do, if one’s behavior consistently fails to harmonize with “the correct prescription” (NE 1151a12). Habituation, then, is the key to the development – or modification – of one’s desires and one’s reasoned designation of the objects to pursue toward the satisfaction of those desires. Each disposition is learned, yet in a way that fully integrates the relevant attitudes and behaviors into the psyche: “in fact this is why habit itself is hard to change – because it resembles nature; as Evenus puts it, too: ‘It comes, my friend, by practice year on year – and see: At last this thing we

222

Mariana Anagnostopoulos

practice our own nature is’” (NE 1152a31 – 33). It is essential to this account that each of the relevant conditions – virtue, vice, self-control, and so on – is a disposition, reflecting a stable tendency to respond to certain circumstances in certain ways. Of varieties of akratic persons, Aristotle says, “for the most part it is the quick-tempered and the bilious sorts of people that have lack of selfcontrol in its impulsive variety ; hastiness in the one case, intensity in the other, prevent them from waiting for reason, because their disposition is to follow perceptual appearances” (NE 1150b26 – 29). The safeguard of virtue against such lapses (which, if frequent enough, destroy virtue), is a true appreciation of the merits of excellence. Indeed, this awareness may well be the greater part of habituation, as Burnyeat (1980: 78) explains: “I may be told, and may believe, that such and such actions are just and noble, but I have not really learned for myself (taken to heart, made second nature to me) that they have this intrinsic value until I have leaned to value (love) them for it …”. Why devote oneself to the arduous task of learning to be good? Aristotle claims that, “actions in accordance with excellence will be pleasant in themselves. But they will be good, too, and fine, and will be each of these to the highest degree, if the person of excellence is a good judge here –which he is …” (NE 1099a23 – 25). Though Aristotle certainly believes that virtuous activity recommends itself –being valuable and desirable for its own sake – he also recognizes the expected outcome of virtue to be motivating. As noted above, the life of excellence brings with it –or, more properly, largely constitutes– the life of true flourishing. Hutchinson notes that “it is very fitting that success is to be acquired by the discipline and education which foster virtuous activity ; if success was a natural endowment or a matter of luck, then … it would not be the splendid and quasi-divine prize that it is” (Hutchinson 1995: 202). While it may produce an excellent state of character, habituation is not sufficient for the practice of excellence or, in turn, for happiness, according to Aristotle. This is in large part due to the external requirements of virtue: “in many actions,” Aristotle explains, “we use friends and riches and political power as instruments” (NE 1099b1 – 2). Other goods supplement excellence as constitutive of a fully happy life, such as “good birth, satisfactory children, and beauty,” Aristotle remarks, seemingly not to suggest that maximal beauty is required for minimal happiness, but that the significant lack of any of these will negatively impact one’s flourishing (NE 1099b3). Thus, it is possible for one’s degree of success in life not to reflect the full realization of the potential afforded by one’s acquired state of character, but for external conditions to make the practice of virtue difficult and its benefits unattainable.

Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

223

Distinguishing States of Character We have seen that because excellence requires deliberation, desire, and choice all to fall within the range of the “intermediate,” it may be contrasted with two general types of failure, or vice. However, there are in actuality two states of character between virtue and vice, on either side of the continuum of responses from the deficient to the excessive: self control and lack thereof. Aristotle notes that virtue and self-control are characterized by different degrees of conformity of desire to reason: “in the self-controlled person [desire] is obedient to reason – and in the moderate and courageous person it is presumably still readier to listen; for in him it always chimes with reason” (NE 1102b27 – 29). We must not overlook the importance of the difference between obeying reason and agreeing with reason, however. Courage is, in large part, “having the will to overcome one’s fears in the service of what is right, in situations that inspire fear and confidence” (Hutchinson 1995: 221). However, this overcoming is not characterized by the same struggle the self-controlled person endures to stand his post, as the mark of self-control is excessive fear or confidence. To consider the rarer phenomenon, one who feels greater confidence than the situation merits will have to resist her tendency to rush into danger, and thus to endure an internal conflict in order to act appropriately. This puts her at a significant disadvantage with respect to human flourishing, both in her condition of psychic disharmony and in her greater risk of failure in action. Again we understand why habituation is key : “someone who is frightened of nothing at all and advances in the face of just anything becomes rash,” Aristotle warns (NE 1104a22 – 23). As established states of character, self-control and akrasia are to be avoided, but the study of these dispositions illuminates for us Aristotle’s conception of the essential nature of excellence. Akrasia, or lack of self-control, is among the most difficult states of character to explain: the akratic person supposedly identifies the correct object (reaching the proper conclusion about what to do), yet fails to adhere to it in action. The challenge faced by the akratic is two-fold, as his desires and actions fall outside the mean, whereas the latter do not in the case of self-control. Aristotle does not indicate the precise steps the akratic can take to modify her state of character, but notes that, “those who are un-self-controlled through habituation [are more easily cured] than those naturally so; for habit is easier to change than nature…” (NE 1152a29 – 31).

224

Mariana Anagnostopoulos

Conclusion Aristotle sees in the nature of the human being tremendous potential for excellent activity, whose cultivation may be hindered by the various and often conflicting motivations we experience. As we attempt to perfect ourselves, we discover the precise tendencies and weaknesses that lead us toward excess or deficiency. Aristotle prescribes this remedy : “We must drag ourselves off in the contrary direction; for if we pull far away from error, as they do in straightening bent wood, we shall reach the intermediate condition” (NE 1109b6 – 8). I would like to emphasize that understanding is paramount in the pursuit of excellence, according to Aristotle, and in the role of the good person as a model for goodness. For the excellent person judges each sort of thing correctly, and in each case what is true appears to him. For each state [of character] has its own distinctive [view of] what is fine and pleasant. Presumably, then, the excellent person is far superior because he sees what is true in each case, being himself a sort of standard and measure (NE 1113a27 – 35, tr. T. Irwin).

Though the concept of a “measure” suggests that goodness is somehow up to the good person to determine, Aristotle means here to identify the good person as an indicator, not only of what is good, but also –indeed primarily– of what is true. Integral to each state of character is the proper assessment of the truth about one’s self and situation. Reality is therefore the objective basis for the determination of the virtuous response, whether this is to be done in rough outline within a theoretical account, or in very precise terms while facing a particular moral dilemma. In this way, another kind of habituation is required of those who pursue excellence. Sorabji (1980: 267) highlights the role played by one’s conception of the good life: Not only does the process of habituation involve reflective habits of looking at situations a certain way, and asking oneself what virtue requires of one in each new situation; but also, before one can be fully virtuous, he must think out a synoptic conception of what is involved in the best life, and be able to see in each situation how to realize such a life.

Constitutive of the good life is a correct apprehension of reality, along multiple dimensions of experience. The person of excellence understands, pursues, and achieves a state of true flourishing, experiencing little tension between her different faculties or activities. This is why, in Aristotle’s view, goodness and happiness, for a human, are identified with reference to the natural condition of the human being and its perfection, as just the sort of being it is.

Aristotle on the Nature and Acquisition of Virtue

225

References and Further Reading Anton, J. P. / Preus, A. (eds.) 1983. Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, vol. II, Albany. Barnes, J. (ed.) 1995. The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle, Cambridge. Broadie, S. 1991. Ethics With Aristotle, Oxford. Broadie, S. / Rowe, C. 2002. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Oxford. Burnyeat, M. F. 1980. “Aristotle on Learning to be Good”, in: Rorty, A.O. (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley. Charles, D. 1984. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Action, New York. Evans, J. D. G. 1987. Aristotle, New York. Everson, S. 1995. “Psychology”, in: J. Barnes (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle, Cambridge, M.A.: 168 – 194. Hutchinson, D. S. 1995. “Ethics”, in: J. Barnes (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle, Cambridge, M.A.: 195 – 232. Moravcsik, J. M. E. (ed.) 1967. Aristotle, New York. Reeve, C. D. C. 1992. Practices of Reason: Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Oxford. Rorty, A. O. (ed.) 1980. Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley. Santas, G. 1989. “Desire and Perfection in Aristotle’s Theory of the Good”, in: Apeiron 22: 75 – 99. Sorabji, R. 1980. Necessity, Cause, and Blame, Ithaca.

Daniel C. Russell

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

In Aristotle’s ethics, phronesis is a virtue concerned with deliberation and decision. Unlike the particular virtues of character – generosity, courage, etc. – phronesis is a virtue of the intellect, broadly speaking, and concerns the human good in general. It underlies all of the virtues of character, guiding the exercise of each to its characteristic ‘mean’ in a way that is virtuous overall.1 In this essay I discuss Aristotle’s account of the practical deliberation of which phronesis is the excellence (§1), and then the nature of that excellence itself (§2). I shall close by looking briefly at some modern philosophical controversies surrounding Aristotle’s view that phronesis is necessary for virtue (§3).2

1.

Deliberation

For Aristotle, ‘deliberation’ is a form of practical reasoning specifically concerned with what to do, and so Aristotle first approaches deliberation by discussing ‘choice’ or ‘decision’, which he argues is the terminus of deliberation (NE III.2 – 3). Decision, he says, is always decision to act, so it is not the same thing as wishing or believing, since neither of these is always about what to do (NE III.2, 1111b19 – 1112a13; EE II.10, 1226a1 – 17; MM I.17). Decision is not appetite or emotion either, since these can actually conflict with what one has decided to do (NE III.2, 1111b13 – 19; EE II.10, 1225b24 – 31). Rather, Aristotle treats decision as a kind of desire, in particular a desire in virtue of which one resolves to do some specific action (NE III.3, 1113a2 – 12; VI.2, 1139a32 – 33, 1139b45; EE II.10, 1226b13 – 20; MM I.17). It differs from other desires in that it is not just an urge or a whim, but is the result of going through a process of 1 Contrast this usage of ‘phronesis’ with the Stoics’ usage, for whom ‘phronesis’ is one of the four cardinal virtues of character, albeit one that concerns ‘appropriate acts’ in general; see Arius Didymus, in Stobaeus, Anthology II, 5b – 5b2. 2 This essay is an abridged and revised version of the first chapter of Russell 2009, and I thank Oxford University Press for permission to use that material here.

228

Daniel C. Russell

beginning with a goal or end and working out just what steps to take towards that end. This process Aristotle identifies as deliberation. ‘What we deliberate about and what we decide on are the same’, Aristotle says, ‘except that what is decided on is, as such, something definite; for it is what has been selected as a result of deliberation that is “decided on”’ (NE III.3, 1113a2 – 5).3 Deliberation is the process by which one works from an end towards a definite, particular action that one decides on for the sake of that end. It seems clear that deliberation will concern the selection of means to ends (as when one buys a train ticket for one’s holiday), and in all likelihood it will concern the selection of constituents of ends as well (as when one decides to go golfing as part of one’s holiday).4 But do we also deliberate about what our ends are, or about which ends to adopt in the first place? Aristotle thinks that deliberation says a lot about a person’s character (NE III.2, 1111b4 – 11; EE II.10, 1226a11 – 13), and it is difficult to see how deliberation could do so if it only concerned means to and constituents of ends. But surprisingly, Aristotle says that ‘we deliberate, not about ends, but about what forwards those ends’ (NE III.3, 1112b11 – 12; cp 1112b33 – 34; EE II.10, 1226b9 – 12). In what sense do we not deliberate about ends, and what are the things that ‘forward’ our ends? We might read this as saying that ends are simply beyond the scope of deliberation. On this view, Aristotle is saying that ends are simply not things that we can deliberate about. Perhaps our grasp of our ends is non-rational and it is the job of deliberation strictly to work out how to achieve our ends (e. g. Fortenbaugh 1975: 1991). Or perhaps our grasp of our ends is rational, but does not come about through deliberation (e. g. Tuozzo 1991). Either way, on this view we do not deliberate about ends at all, so our ends must not need to be made more determinate by undergoing the process of deliberation. Alternatively, we might read Aristotle as saying only that since deliberation is always done in relation to some end, that end must be taken as given while we deliberate about how to pursue it, but need not be taken as given full stop. For instance, a doctor does not deliberate about whether to make a patient well, but the end of curing a patient is a fairly indeterminate end: the doctor must always ask what would count as ‘making well’ in the case at hand. Answering that question requires deliberation, which on this view involves making ends more determinate. In that case, we may deliberate about ends insofar as we deliberate about what our ends actually amount to. Moreover, such deliberation may lead one to change one’s ends – as 3 Throughout I rely on the recent translation of the NE by Broadie and Rowe (2002), with occasional modifications. 4 There is general consensus that ‘the things towards the ends’ include constituents. See Dahl 1984: 76 – 7, also citing Greenwood 1909: 46 – 8; Irwin 1985: 318; Sherman 1985: 89 – 90, also citing De Motu Animalium 7; Reeve 1992: 82, also citing Metaphysics 1032b18 – 29; Annas 1993a: 88; McDowell 1998: passim; Kakoliris 2003: 190.

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

229

when one cannot do the would-be generous thing one had intended, since it turns out, upon deliberation, to involve doing injustice to someone else – and may even lead one to abandon an end altogether, as when there turns out to be no way to specify its content without making unacceptable compromises (Broadie 1991: 241, 245; Broadie / Rowe 2002: 50; Price 2005: 270). In any case, we could perhaps read Aristotle as merely saying that one cannot deliberate simultaneously about what to do towards an end and about whether to have that end. In my view, the preponderance of the evidence favors the second kind of reading. Aristotle’s examples of deliberation are a doctor aiming at making his patient healthy, a public speaker at persuading his audience, and a statesman at governing well (NE III.3, 1112b12 – 14; cp. EE II.10, 1227a18 – 21), and clearly one must deliberate so as to make such ends determinate (see Pakaluk 2005: 137 – 40; Price 2005: 269 – 70). This is equally clear in the case of ends like ‘to act generously’ or ‘to bring about justice’. Furthermore, Aristotle says that phronesis is the excellence of deliberating well, and he distinguishes this from ‘cleverness’ which just concerns the selection of efficient means to one’s ends (NE VI.12, 1144a23 – 28; more on this below). And of course, it is also much easier to see how deliberation of this broader sort might be revealing of a person’s character. So it seems preferable to say that for Aristotle, deliberation is a process of making ends more determinate, so that one can then take concrete steps towards them (e. g. Irwin 1985: 346, Sherman 1989: 87 – 9; McDowell 1998: 110). If so, then when Aristotle says that virtue makes one’s end the right one and phronesis makes right ‘the things toward that end’ (NE VI.12, 1144a7 – 9; cp. MM I.18), he means that virtue supplies the right general end, and that phronesis gives that end the right sort of specification (Irwin 1985: 348; Broadie 1991: 239 – 40). Moreover, once we have gone this far it is possible to suggest an even more radical way in which deliberation may concern ends: deliberation specifies the content of ends, and sometimes to specify the content of one end just is to adopt a further end. For instance, to specify the content of the (very indeterminate) end of having a career one enjoys for its own sake just is to decide upon a particular career that one will pursue as an end (see Schmidtz 1994). If Aristotle acknowledges deliberation of this kind, then his claim that we deliberate about ‘what forwards our ends’, rather than the ends, should be read as saying only that we cannot simultaneously deliberate about how to specify an end and whether to adopt it. Rather, we deliberate about how to specify an end on the assumption that the end is adopted, even though the specification of the end in question may be the adoption of some other end. Likewise, the end assumed as adopted for the purpose of deliberation now may itself be the specification of yet some other end, so that we can deliberate about it, at another time, as well. Nonetheless, Aristotle’s text is far from direct on this point, so while this more radical view is, I

230

Daniel C. Russell

think, a real Aristotelian possibility and further reveals how rich an Aristotelian view of deliberation can be, it is not clear whether it is Aristotle’s own view or not. How is deliberation related to the actual moment of action? Does deliberation always take time, or are some instantaneous actions also done from deliberation? After all, it seems likely that many virtuous actions will be automatic, and will not involve any ‘stopping and thinking’ – indeed, Aristotle himself often underscores the habitual nature of the virtues. But in that case, if deliberation takes time, then presumably deliberation will play no role in very many virtuous actions, and neither, then, will the deliberative excellence of phronesis. Does tying phronesis to the virtues conflict with the habitual nature of virtue? It is not clear that Aristotle made up his mind about this issue. As we have seen, Aristotle holds (1) that it takes deliberation to arrive at a decision (cp. EE II.10, 1226b5 – 9, 13 – 17, MM I.17). He also says (2) that deliberation involves ‘searching’ (NE III.3, 1112b20 – 23; VI.9, 1142a31-b15), which strongly suggests a time-consuming ‘stopping and thinking’. However, he also seems to think (3) that some decisions are reached in no time. For instance, he says that whereas some people take a long time to deliberate, others arrive at their answer straightaway (VI.9, 1142b2 – 5, 26 – 27; but see Irwin 1985, 345). Likewise, he says that many sudden, instantaneous actions are actions on which one decides (III.8, 1117a17 – 22; see Sorabji 1980, 204 – 5). These three claims are inconsistent with one another, but it is not clear which one should be revised or rejected: weakening claim (3) would suggest, feebly, that actions done immediately are ones we do not ‘decide’ to do, and weakening either (1) or (2) would require some sort of non-deliberative decision-making process that Aristotle never mentions (see Broadie 1991: 212, 252; McDowell 1998: 107). So it seems clear that every way of making out Aristotle’s point involves, as one commentator has put it, giving Aristotle ‘a pinch of salt’ (McDowell 1998: 107). Now that we have addressed deliberation, we can move on to the intellectual virtue of deliberating well, that is, phronesis.

2.

Phronesis

Phronesis is a virtue of practical reasoning. Aristotle attributes the character virtues and the virtues of practical reasoning to two broad ‘parts’ of the soul, the rational and the non-rational (setting aside the soul’s purely biological functions; NE I.13, 1102a32-b12).5 Aristotle further subdivides the rational soul into

5 Interestingly, Aristotle takes no position on whether the soul has literal, distinct parts, or

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

231

a part that is theoretical, scientific, and contemplative, and another that is calculative and practical (I.13, 1102a26 – 1103a10; VI.1, 1138b35 – 1139a17; cp. MM I.34). These differ in terms of how they reason about their objects (NE VI.1, 1139a6 – 11): we reason about things like the circumference of the earth, as well as (say) how to vote in the upcoming election and how to repair a car, but there is nothing we can do about the circumference of the earth, so there is no decision to make about it, only a discovery. Aristotle himself makes the point by saying that the contemplative intellect grasps principles that ‘cannot be otherwise’, whereas the practical intellect – the reasoning that deliberates about what to do – grasps ‘variable principles’, since the former is concerned with eternal, theoretical truths whereas the latter is concerned with particular decisions. For the practical intellect, then, the task is to determine what to do rather than what to believe. Aristotle says that the intellectual virtues are all capacities by which we reason correctly and arrive at truth (NE VI.2, 1139a21 – 31; MM I.34). In the case of the theoretical virtues, philosophic wisdom (sophia) is the complete mastery of a science (NE VI.6 – 7), in particular the conjunction of demonstrative scientific knowledge (episte¯me¯, VI.3) and theoretical intelligence (nous, VI.6 – 7), which is a settled grasp of the first principles from which demonstrations proceed. Here the notion of truth is familiar ; but what is truth in the case of practical reasoning? Aristotle says it is ‘truth in agreement with the correct desire’ (VI.2, 1139a29 – 31). Some suggest that truth here is the truth of belief about the most effective means to an end, but as we have seen, Aristotelian deliberation concerns much more than means. On the other hand, some have argued that phronesis grasps universal moral principles, or that it grasps true propositional statements of the mean in particular circumstances (see Go´mez-Lobo 1995: 17 – 18 and McDowell 1998: 110 – 12 for discussion). However, against the former view, Aristotle repeatedly denies that ethical reasoning deals in universals (e. g. II.9, 1109b1 – 7), apart from such moral truisms as that murder is always wrong (II.6, 1107a8 – 27). And against the latter, if right reason is just a grasp of a true statement of the mean then Aristotle’s claim that the mean is in accordance with right reason would be gratuitous. It seems more likely that ‘truth’ here is a property of an intellectual faculty when it stands in its best relation to the objects of its inquiry (Broadie 1991: 220 – 3; Broadie / Rowe 2002: 362; Broadie 2007: 121): ‘truth’ describes the state of the theoretical intellect when it apprehends what there is most reason to believe, and the state of the practical intellect when it decides in accordance with what there is most reason to do. That state of the practical intellect Aristotle calls ‘right reason’ (orthos logos), which is crucial to making appropriate choices and, whether these ‘parts’ are merely like two sides of a coin; I.13, 1102a28 – 32, b25. Aristotle thus seems more interested in distinguishing psychic functions than in literal parts of the soul.

232

Daniel C. Russell

in the case of the character virtues, hitting the ‘mean’ – indeed, it is this point that brings Aristotle to his discussion of the intellectual virtues in the first place (NE VI.1, 1138b18 – 25; cp. EE II.5; MM II.10). Like phronesis, ‘skill’ (techne¯) belongs to practical intellect, but it concerns what to do in the narrower sense of what to make (NE VI.4, 1140a10 – 16; MM I.34), whereas phronesis is concerned with action (NE VI.5, 1140b4 – 7).6 Furthermore, unlike skill phronesis is not directed at just any goal, but the goal of doing ‘what sorts of things conduce to the good life in general’ (VI.5, 1140a28), and for the same reason phronesis unlike skill cannot be misused. It is also important to note that skill and phronesis do not have the same kind of value: the goal of production is not the producing but the product, whereas the very exercise of phronesis is its own goal: ‘here, doing well itself serves as an end’ (VI.5, 1140b7). To be active in phronesis is a constituent part of human flourishing (VI.12, 1144a1 – 3; VI.13, 1145a2 – 6; see Korsgaard 1986: 278; Broadie / Rowe 2002: 380 – 1). Nonetheless, practical skills often supply Aristotle’s favorite examples of the sort of practical reasoning involved in phronesis, as we have already seen. This is because Aristotle finds phronesis to be very much like skill in the structure of its reasoning: both involve ‘true rational prescription’ (VI.4, 1140a10, 20 – 21), and Aristotle’s discussion of phronesis even opens with an analogy between right reason in the case of the virtues and in the case of medical skill (VI.1, 1138b25 – 32). Phronesis, like skill, has a unified intellectual structure that Aristotle finds very instructive (Annas 1993a: 71). Aristotle also likens phronesis to political skill for its generality : as political skill is a master skill that unifies and oversees all the particular skills pertaining to the maintenance of the state, so phronesis is concerned with all the various pursuits of life, because we need to ‘do well’ not just in this respect or that, but in an overall way (I.2, 1094a22-b11; VI.5, 1140a25 – 31, b4 – 11; VI.8, 1141b23 – 24). The similarities between practical reasoning in the case of skill and in the case of phronesis are perhaps especially significant for suggesting that phronesis is no mysterious faculty but of a piece with intellectual abilities we already find familiar (see Hursthouse 2006). Aristotle opens NE VI by reminding us that virtue aims at the ‘mean’ – that is, 6 Aristotle’s target seems to be Plato, who suggests in a number of dialogues that virtue is a kind of skill, and who himself is puzzled as to what virtue’s distinct product would be, taking it to be the business of every skill to yield such a product. See Euthydemus 288d – 293a, esp. 291d293a. For discussion, see Irwin 1985: 342 and references; Broadie 1991: 206 – 7; Annas 1993a: 397 ff; Annas 1993b: 63 – 6. Interestingly, the Stoics would later resuscitate the idea that virtue is a skill, avoiding Plato’s pitfall by pointing out that skills such as those involved in the performing arts make no distinct product; see Cicero, de Finibus III.23 – 5. Broadie (1991: 208) argues that such examples are of no help, because we can still evaluate the performance as an event apart from the performer. But while that is true, there is still no difference between such an ‘event’ and the bringing about of the event, as there is in productive skills.

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

233

what is appropriate and fitting in action – and that the mean is in accordance with ‘right reason’ (NE VI.1, 1138b18 – 25). Since Aristotle treats phronesis and right reason as interchangeable (VI.13, 1144b25 – 30), this means that it takes phronesis to find the mean in action reliably. Aristotle illustrates the importance of phronesis for finding the mean by contrasting a person with phronesis on the one hand and a person with decent dispositions and habits but without phronesis, on the other. Virtues of the latter sort are what Aristotle calls ‘natural’ virtues, and they are fairly stable character traits by which we are disposed to certain behaviors (VI.13, 1144b1 – 9; MM I.34, II.3; Rhet. II.12). The natural virtues need not be mindless dispositions, but without phronesis they lack the practical reasoning by which to ‘unify and reflect on the reasons’ for being so disposed and caring about such things (Annas 1993a: 74); consequently, a person with such virtues may be well meaning, but unreliable about acting well and appropriately in an overall way.7 By contrast, Aristotle says that virtue in the strict or primary sense must be something more than this, since natural virtues are just as likely to go wrong as right (NE VI.13, 1144b6 – 9). Character virtue in the primary sense, then, must include phronesis, because such virtues are the excellences of passion and character (VI.13, 1145a2 – 6).8 How can phronesis make such a difference to a person’s actions? Phronesis is not a monolithic virtue of the practical intellect, but includes an array of more particular practical capacities. One of these is ‘comprehension’ (sunesis, eusunesis, NE VI.10), which is a skill of grasping the circumstances of a decision and discriminating between what is salient and what is not. It is because of this skill that a person with phronesis is also able to give good advice to others about their own decisions (see Louden 1997: 112 – 13; Hursthouse 2006: 291 – 8). Furthermore, phronesis involves a skill called ‘sense’ (gno¯me¯, VI.11), which makes one a good judge of what is reasonable and appropriate, as well as able to 7 Telfer 1989: 38 – 9, 44 – 5) argues against Aristotle here, pointing out that continence can suffice for good conduct, and that while a virtue in isolation from the others may be precarious, it may nonetheless be a virtue. However, the issue for a theory which understands the notion of good conduct or right action primarily in terms of the virtues is to establish a regular, stable, and reliable general connection between action done from the virtues and action that is right. Such a connection does seem to require phronesis; see also Irwin 1988, 70 – 1. 8 There is some disagreement over the extension of the naturally virtuous. Some have restricted these to animals and children, on the grounds that such traits turn into either virtues or vices in the strict sense by the time of adulthood; see Hursthouse 1999: 104 – 5. But most commentators broaden the class to include adults as well; see e. g. Broadie / Rowe 2002: 383, and indeed Hursthouse 2006. Aristotle’s text seems to underdetermine the issue: he says both that many character traits in ‘us’ – his adult readers, presumably – are there ‘from the moment we are born’, and on the other hand that the natural dispositions belonging to children and animals become (always?) ‘harmful’ if phronesis does not develop (VI.13, 1144b8 – 9), perhaps suggesting that such traits are not natural virtues in adults.

234

Daniel C. Russell

consider circumstances from the point of view of others (see Louden 1997: 114 – 15). Phronesis also includes ‘intelligence’ (nous, NE VI.11), by which one correctly grasps what one must do in particular circumstances for the sake of a more general end, such as acting generously or as a good friend. Aristotle dwells on the idea that a sort of ‘intelligence’ or nous appears in both theoretical and practical reasoning, but he says little about its role in deliberation beyond offering a visual metaphor : those with intelligence, he says, have acquired through experience a ‘perception’ of what it is appropriate to do in particular circumstances, and so ‘because they have an eye, formed from experience, they see correctly’ (VI.1, 1143b13 – 14). This metaphor has led some to suppose that Aristotle held the intuitionist view that moral rightness is a primitive property of actions that can be known only by being immediately perceived; in fact, some translators (e. g. David Ross) have called this skill ‘intuition’ rather than ‘intelligence’. However, we must remember that Aristotle is impressed by the similarity between phronesis and productive skills with respect to the structure of the practical reasoning involved in them, and surely Aristotle does not suppose that carpenters and physicians ‘intuit’ the right way to raise a wall or treat a fever (see McDowell 1997: 142). And in any case, theoretical intellect is not intuition, either : it is a settled grasp of the first principles of a science that results from induction, not a process of arriving at those principles intuitively (see Barnes 1975: 267 – 8 on Post. An. II.19). Rather, Aristotle’s point seems to be that intelligence is that aspect of phronesis by which one gives one’s ends a determinate specification that is appropriate to them (Sherman 1989: 44). In particular, phronesis involves certain problem-solving abilities that are built up over time through experience. Such abilities are analogous to those that differentiate an experienced builder from an apprentice, say. It would seem, then, that intelligence is the particular aspect of the virtues of character that accounts for the fact that with proper experience and practice, a person can progress from imitating just or temperate persons to being a just or temperate person himself in a reliable and self-directing way (NE II.4). It would also seem to account for the fact that good ethical judgment is something that takes time to develop, and is thus rarely to be found in the young or immature, and cannot be obtained simply through reading books or listening to lectures (I.3). Aristotle says that we attribute sense, comprehension, intelligence, and phronesis to the same people, because each of these capacities helps one arrive at a good decision through deliberation (NE VI.11, 1143a25 – 32). The idea seems to be that phronesis is a suite of practical virtues, and although it is primarily concerned with deliberation and deliberation is about deciding what one shall do, the aspects of phronesis by which one ascertains what there is reason to do

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

235

can be applied also to reflection on practical matters that does not (or does not directly) terminate in decision. Each of these particular practical virtues is a crucial aspect of phronesis. However, phronesis is more than the sum of these various practical virtues, since phronesis grasps a broad conception of human goods and ends, and is prescriptive rather than detached. Aristotle makes this point when he observes that because phronesis is a virtue of deliberation, it involves what he calls ‘deliberative excellence’ (euboulia, NE VI.9). Although one can deliberate about bad ends as well as good, ‘deliberative excellence is correctness as to what one should achieve, and the way in which, and when, all in accordance with what is beneficial’ (VI.9, 1142b27 – 28; cp. MM II.3). Deliberative excellence need not always involve the architectonic grasp of the human good characteristic of phronesis, so Aristotle distinguishes deliberative excellence ‘in relation to some specific end’ from ‘deliberative excellence without qualification’, which is successful deliberation with respect to what is ‘the end without qualification’, all things considered, and this just is phronesis (VI.9, 1142b29 – 31). ‘So if it is characteristic of the wise (phronimoi) to deliberate well’, Aristotle says, ‘deliberative excellence will be the sort of correctness that corresponds to what conduces to the end, of which phronesis is the true grasp’ (VI.9, 1142b31 – 33). What more precisely does it mean to say that phronesis grasps the human good in a holistic way? Some of Aristotle’s readers have held that phronesis must start with a view of happiness or living well as a whole, and decide upon actions as fitting into a grand ‘blueprint’ of a good life in an appropriate way (e. g. Irwin 1975: 570; Sorabji 1980: 206 – 7; Wiggins 1980: 226; Reeve 1992: 69; see Broadie 1991 for discussion). However, this seems unlikely, since Aristotle assumes that the basic structure of ethical deliberation is already familiar from everyday practical reasoning, but of course a sort of practical reasoning that sets particular choices within some grand blueprint would be decidedly unfamiliar. To be sure, the actions about which we deliberate can always be set within some larger blueprint, in the case of the virtues as well as in the case of productive skill. But the blueprint view says much more than this, namely that the deliberative structure of one’s decision to do some virtuous thing must have this grand structure, that is, that one decides in such cases by seeing how doing this thing, here and now, fits into a grand scheme of living one’s life well. But not only would such a view restrict phronesis to philosophically very sophisticated persons, it would also render deliberation mysterious, since Aristotle denies the existence of any ethical principles that would link particular decisions to a grand blueprint. A more attractive alternative is that phronesis concerns deliberation about local ends, such as acting generously in one’s present circumstances, and is

236

Daniel C. Russell

holistic in the sense that it is not restricted to any special area of concern, but can balance a wide array of considerations that may bear on a decision.9 The final virtue of practical intellect that Aristotle discusses is ‘cleverness’ (deinote¯s), which is a certain acuity at finding the best means at hand for doing what one has decided to do, and thus is a practical ability that the wicked also can share (NE VI.12, 1144a26 – 28; cp. MM I.34; see also Hursthouse 2006: 300 – 3). Some hold that phronesis is simply the same thing as cleverness, when cleverness is conjoined with praiseworthy goals (e. g. Bostock 2000: 89; Natali 2001: 53), but such a view takes a very narrow view of deliberation, and it also makes Aristotle’s distinction between phronesis and cleverness gratuitous. It seems rather that phronesis and cleverness are different forms of practical reasoning, phronesis having to do with ‘planning’ in a broad sense, including the specification of one’s ends, and cleverness only with ‘execution’ of plans made through deliberation (NE VI.12, 1144a21 – 22; see Urmson 1988, 82 – 3). Furthermore, Aristotle holds that phronesis cannot be found without cleverness – apparently, since a genuinely wise person must be more than a ‘bungling do-gooder’ (see Foot 1978: 165 – 6; Hursthouse 1999: 148 – 9, 118; Russell 2005; Swanton 2003: 27) – though of course cleverness can be found without phronesis (VI.12, 1144a28 – 29). Aristotle argues that there is also no phronesis without the familiar character virtues (NE VI.12, 1144a29-b1), since any lack in good character will correspond to a deficiency of judgment about what is appropriate. Furthermore, as we saw above, Aristotle argues that although it is possible for the so-called ‘natural’ virtues to exist without phronesis, this is not possible for the virtues in the strict sense (VI.13, 1144b1 – 17). From these theses it follows that the character virtues exist only as a whole group, that is, that to have any virtue is to have every virtue: It is clear, then, from what has been said that it is not possible to possess excellence in the primary sense without phronesis, nor to be wise without excellence of character. But this conclusion also offers a means of resolving the argument one can employ, in a dialectical context, to show that the excellences can be possessed independently of one another – i. e. that the same person is not best adapted by nature to all of them, so that at a given moment he will have acquired one, but not another ; for this is possible in relation to the “natural” excellences, but in relation to those that make a person ex-

9 Broadie 1991 in particular has done an excellent job of bringing the ‘blueprint’ debate to the fore in modern scholarship. Nonetheless, I find that she tends to run together the thesis that phronesis implements a conception of the good life in particular circumstances, and the thesis that a person with phronesis must have a conception of the good life, calling each a ‘grand end view’ of deliberation. So too, I think, does Kraut 1993 in his otherwise excellent discussion of Broadie’s view. (Hence my preference of the label ‘blueprint views’ over Broadie’s label, ‘grand end views’.)

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

237

cellent without qualification, it is not possible, since if phronesis, which is one, is present, they will all be present along with it. (VI.13, 1144b30 – 1145a2)

Modern virtue theorists call this thesis the ‘unity of the virtues’, and Aristotle distinguishes it from the even stronger thesis that all the virtues are the same, a thesis he attributes to Socrates (VI.13, 1144b17 – 30; MM I.34; see Russell 2009, chap. 11 for discussion). This thesis is, of course, controversial; I shall return to it below. Aristotle’s discussion of the virtues of the practical intellect began with a question about hitting the ‘mean’ in action, that is, to act and feel ‘when one should, at the things one should, in relation to the people one should, for the reasons one should, and in the way one should’ (NE II.6, 1106b21 – 23). It is in terms of this mean or ‘intermediate’ that Aristotle defines character virtue (II.6, 1106b36 – 1107a6), and it is the difficulty of hitting it that prompts Aristotle to devote a book to the intellectual virtues (see VI.1, 1138b18 – 25). So how has Aristotle’s discussion of phronesis illuminated his notion of finding the mean? Aristotle identifies two ways in which phronesis finds the mean. First, hitting the mean with respect to some virtue – generosity, say – involves determining what it would in fact be generous to do in the circumstances at hand, such as something that would be genuinely helpful to another, rather than merely wellintended. It is because people with ‘natural’ virtue lack phronesis that they are unreliable about hitting the mean in this respect; as Aristotle says, virtue gives us the right goal, while phronesis enables us to do right in realizing that goal (NE VI.12, 1144a7 – 9; cp. EE II.11). Second, and consequently, no virtue can function in isolation from other virtues, since it is not clear that an act can hit the mean of any virtue if it fails with respect to some other virtue. For instance, consider the ‘justice’ of Javert in Les Miserables, whose insistence on strict conformity to principle is not tempered by mercy or sympathy. Javert, we should say, does not know what justice is for – he does not understand how the ends sought by justice fit into a larger scheme of goods and ends – and so Javert does not have the virtue of justice at all, if justice as a character trait is an excellence (see also Wolf 2007: 159 – 60). Expertly hitting the mean with respect to any virtue, for Aristotle, requires the integration of that mean with the means of the other virtues, and therefore requires phronesis, which deliberates about ends from a more panoramic perspective of good ends (NE VI.5, 1140a25 – 31, b4 – 11). Phronesis illuminates the notions of the mean and right reason, then, because phronesis is a virtue of the practical intellect that plays the twin roles in deliberation of guiding one’s decisions towards the ‘mean’ of a virtue, and balancing that decision among the demands of the various virtues. This fact about phronesis also gives further motivation for the unity of the virtues, that is, the thesis that ‘the specialized sensitivities which are to be equated with par-

238

Daniel C. Russell

ticular virtues … are actually not available one by one for a series of separate identifications’ (McDowell 1997: 143).

3.

Some Modern Controversies over Phronesis

Aristotle’s view that practical intelligence is a necessary part of every virtue was shared by all major ancient virtue theorists, but it is a very controversial view today. I want to conclude in this final section by briefly outlining some broad issues that Aristotle’s conception of phronesis raises for contemporary moral philosophy and moral psychology. Several philosophers have argued that virtues of character do not need to be paired with phronesis in the first place. For instance, Friedrich Nietzsche argued that the ‘heroic’ virtues of people of exceptional creativity and zeal are profound human excellences, but only if they are unfettered by practical intelligence, even if this leads to excess (Beyond Good and Evil, §205; see Swanton 2003: 24 – 8, 82 – 4, 142, 171 – 2).10 Furthermore, some philosophers have argued that even everyday ethical virtues like benevolence do not require phronesis in order to arrive at the right decision. For instance, Michael Slote has argued that for a virtuous person the right decision will spring immediately from virtuous motivations themselves, without the sort of deliberation that phronesis involves. In fact, Slote argues that the need to deliberate about the right decision may suggest that one’s motivations are not virtuous enough (Slote 2001, chaps. 1 – 2). Many philosophers have also worried that making phronesis a requirement for virtue makes the standard of virtue too high. One such concern is that by pairing virtue with phronesis, Aristotle effectively confines the virtues to a class of philosophically sophisticated persons. As Julia Driver complains, ‘Only the phronimoi, the wise, are virtuous’ on a view like Aristotle’s, ‘and these people are few and far between’ (Driver 2001: 53). Indeed, Driver objects that this is an elitist view of the virtues. Even worse, if these phronimoi are the standards of right action and right opinion on moral matters, then it would seem that anyone who disagrees with one of them must be ‘morally flawed’, and this hardly seems a recipe for reasonable moral disagreement and exchange (see Driver 2001: 12). A related worry is that phronesis is not the sort of intellectual virtue that humans could have in the first place. As we have seen, Aristotle’s views about phronesis commit him to the unity of the virtues, the thesis to have any virtue is to have every virtue. But of course that is an extraordinary thesis: who could possibly be virtuous in every way? For one thing, phronesis comes only with 10 For discussion of such ‘heroic’ virtues in Gaugin and Ghandi, see Slote 1983: ch. 4 and Pincoffs 1986: ch. 7, respectively.

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

239

experience, but who could ever have enough experience to have such ‘global’ phronesis (see Badhwar 1996; Swanton 2003: 229 – 30)? And for another, why should we think that anything less than being virtuous in every way is incompatible with being virtuous in any way? Consequently, some philosophers have moved towards more ‘departmental’ conceptions of the virtues, where these can operate fully in some contexts without doing so in others (e. g. Badhwar 1996; Hursthouse 1999: 155 – 6; Swanton 2003: 229 – 30). One may try to allay some of these worries by replying that possessing phronesis is a sort of ideal to which we should aspire, and not necessarily a requirement one must meet in order to be virtuous to any degree. But many philosophers are skeptical about such ideals. One concern is that an ideal of phronesis may not be very useful as a target of aspiration. Perhaps the most common objection of this sort is that such an ideal is often useless as a heuristic for thinking about what to do. For instance, an ideal of phronesis may not help me think about what to do in my circumstances if a person with phronesis would not have been in my circumstances in the first place. Likewise, I may not know what a person with phronesis would do if I do not have phronesis myself, and perhaps I would not be able to do it even if I did know. Another worry is that aspiring to an ideal of phronesis may even leave one in a morally and psychologically worse state than before. It is tempting to suppose that even if I must inevitably fall short of a certain ideal, still the best thing for me to do is to try to come as close to it as I can. However, following Nietzsche, Christine Swanton has observed that such aspirations may in fact prove ruinous. For instance, aspiring to an ideal of generosity may leave a person who lacks sufficient ‘inner strength’ not more generous but actually worse off where generosity is concerned, giving to others in a self-serving way, or out of noblesse oblige, or with resentment (Swanton 2003, ch. 9 et passim). This is not the place to try to settle these issues, but it is important to be aware of their existence and of the difficulties involved in settling them in one way or another. Those who, like Aristotle, wish to maintain a close tie between virtue and phronesis may thereby find it easier to make a strong link between virtue and reliably acting in the right way, but they also face the challenge of showing how finite and imperfect persons can acquire phronesis for themselves. On the other hand, those who weaken or sever altogether the tie between virtue and phronesis will find it easier to show that virtue is more readily attainable, but they will also find it more difficult to show how the virtues can be bona fide excellences of character if phronesis does not serve to balance and integrate the various virtues with each other. At any rate, hopefully it will be clear why Ar-

240

Daniel C. Russell

istotle’s thesis that virtue requires phronesis continues to be both a controversial thesis and indeed a thesis to be reckoned with.11

References and Further Reading Annas, J. 1993a. The Morality of Happiness, Oxford. Annas, J. 1993b. “Virtue and the Use of Other Goods”, in: Apeiron 26: 53 – 66. Badhwar, N. 1996. “The Limited Unity of Virtue”, in: Nous 30: 306 – 29. Barnes, J. 1975. Aristotle: Posterior Analytics. Translation and commentary, Oxford. Bostock, D. 2000. Aristotle’s Ethics, Oxford. Broadie, S. 1991. Ethics with Aristotle, Oxford. Broadie, S. 2007. Aristotle and Beyond, Cambridge. Broadie, S. / Rowe, Ch. 2002. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics: Translation, Introduction, and Commentary, Oxford. Dahl, N. O. 1984. Practical Reason, Aristotle, and Weakness of the Will, Minnesota (University of Minnesota, Minnesota Publications in the Humanities, V. 4). Driver, J. 2001. Uneasy Virtue, Cambridge. Foot, P. 1978. Virtues and Vices, Oxford. Fortenbaugh, W. 1975. Aristotle on Emotion: A Contribution to Philosophical Psychology, Rhetoric, Poetics, Politics, and Ethics, London. Fortenbaugh, W. 1991. “Aristotle’s Distinction between Moral Virtue and Practical Wisdom”, in: J. P. Anton / A. Preus (eds.), Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, Albany (SUNY). Go´mez-Lobo, A. 1995. “Aristotle’s Right Reason”, in: Apeiron 25: 15 – 34. Greenwood, L. H. G. 1909. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Book VI, Cambridge. Hursthouse, R. 1999. On Virtue Ethics, Oxford. Hursthouse, R. 2006. “Practical Wisdom: A Mundane Account”, in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society : 283 – 307. Irwin, T. 1975. “Aristotle on Reason, Desire and Virtue”, in: Journal of Philosophy 72: 567 – 78. Irwin, T. 1985. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Indianapolis, Ind. Irwin, T. 1988. “Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy Supp.: 61 – 78. Kakoliris, G. 2003. “Refuting Fortenbaugh: The Relationship between Ethike Arete and Phronesis in Aristotle”, in: Philosophia (Athens) 33: 183 – 93. Korsgaard, C. 1986. “Aristotle on Function and Virtue”, in: History of Philosophy Quarterly 3: 259 – 79. Kraut, R. 1993. “In Defense of the Grand End”, in: Ethics 103: 361 – 74. Louden, R. 1997. “What is Moral Authority? Esbouk_a, s}mesir, and cm~lg vs. ¦q|mgsir’”, in: Ancient Philosophy 17: 103 – 18. 11 This essay is an abridged and revised version of Daniel C. Russell: Practical Intelligence and the Virtues, Oxford, Oxford University Press 2009, ch. 1. We are grateful to Oxford University Press for permission to print this essay.

Deliberation and Phronesis in Aristotle’s Ethics

241

McDowell, J. 1997. “Reason and Virtue”, in: R. Crisp / M. Slote (eds.), Virtue Ethics, Oxford. McDowell, J. 1998. “Some Issues in Aristotle’s Moral Psychology”, in: S. Everson (ed.), Companions to Ancient Thought, 4: Ethics, Cambridge. Natali, C. 2001. The Wisdom of Aristotle, trans. G. Parks, Albany (SUNY). Pakaluk, M. 2005. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Cambridge. Pincoffs, E. 1986. Quandaries and Virtues, University Press of Kansas. Price, A. W. 2005. “Aristotelian Virtue and Practical Judgment”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity, Oxford. Reeve, C. D. C. 1992. Practices of Reason: Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Oxford. Russell, D. C. 2005. “Aristotle on the Moral Relevance of Self-Respect”, in: S. Gardiner (ed.), Virtue Ethics, Old and New, Ithaca, New York. Russell, D. C. 2009. Practical Intelligence and the Virtues, Oxford. Schmidtz, D. 1994. “Choosing Ends”, in: Ethics 104: 226 – 51. Sherman, N. 1985. “Character, Planning, and Choice in Aristotle”, in: Review of Metaphysics 39: 83 – 106. Sherman, N. 1989. The Fabric of Character, Oxford. Slote, M. 1983. Goods and Virtues, Oxford. Slote, M. 2001. Morality from Motives, Oxford. Sorabji, R. 1980. “Aristotle on the Role of Intellect in Virtue”, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley and Los Angeles. Swanton, C. 2003. Virtue Ethics: A Pluralistic View, Oxford. Telfer, E. 1989. “The Unity of Moral Virtues in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics”, in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 91: 35 – 48. Tuozzo, T. 1991. “Aristotelian Deliberation is Not of Ends”, in: J. P. Anton / A. Preus (eds.), Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, Albany (SUNY). Urmson, J. O. 1988. Aristotle’s Ethics, Oxford. Wiggins, D. 1980. “Weakness of Will, Commensurability, and the Objects of Deliberation and Desire”, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley /Los Angeles. Wolf, S. 2007. “Moral Psychology and the Unity of the Virtues”, in: Ratio 20: 145 – 67.

Christopher Shields

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

Aristotle evinces an unusually tender manner as he introduces a striking digression into the first book of his Nicomachean Ethics. In the midst of his account of the human good, he pauses to offer some general reflections on the issue of universal goodness, beginning with the question whether there is in fact some one single, universal goodness, some one property common to all the things we call good: We had perhaps better consider the universal good and run through the puzzles concerning what is meant by it – even though this sort of investigation is unwelcome to us, because those who introduced the Forms are friends of ours. Yet presumably it would be the better course to destroy even what is close to us, as something necessary for preserving the truth – and all the more so, given that we are philosophers. For though we love them both, piety bids us to honour the truth before our friends (EN 1096a11 – 16).

Aristotle undertakes the topic to be investigated rather begrudgingly, but also with evident affection. The topic is unwelcome, implies Aristotle, because it involves him in assailing a doctrine cherished by someone he holds dear : his teacher, Plato. Even so, he contends, invoking a principle Plato would surely endorse himself, piety directs us to serve the truth before those whom we hold dear. If our friends hold false views, then our real duty lies in the direction of disabusing them rather than in the direction of mollifying them by feigning a false harmony. The false view in question, as Aristotle sees the matter, concerns the univocity of goodness. According to Aristotle, Plato falsely believed that goodness is ‘something universal, common to all good things, and single’ (EN 1096a28). In so speaking, Aristotle commits Plato, or the Platonist, to three related but distinct theses: (i) goodness is universal, rather than particular ; (ii) goodness is common, in the sense of being the same and shared across its instances; and (iii) goodness is single, rather than multiple. The third component thesis centers on the question of univocity, that is, the question of whether goodness admits of

244

Christopher Shields

more than one analysis, or, to put things in a linguistic idiom, whether ‘goodness’ has more than one meaning across the range of its applications. As Aristotle represents him, Plato denies that it does by embracing (iii). Now, if Plato is wrong about (iii), then he is also wrong about (i) and (ii); for if (iii) is false, so too are (i) and (ii). Consequently, it is (iii) upon which we shall focus. This focus also makes sense because it is the intended purport of Aristotle’s contention that ‘goodness is meant in as many ways as being’ (tagathon isachoˆs legetai toˆ(i) onti; EN 1096a23 – 24)’. However many ways that is, thinks Aristotle, it is more than one.

I.

The Dialectical Context: Plato and Aristotle on Univocity and Multivocity

It is noteworthy that Aristotle should appeal to the dictates of piety (to hosion) when introducing his unwelcome duty to enter into discord with Plato. Plato had himself dedicated a dialogue to the topic of piety, the Euthyphro. In that dialogue, the main character, Socrates, requests Euthyphro, the rather sanctimonious religious figure for whom the dialogue is named, to provide him with an account of piety. Euthyphro replies with alacrity, commenting that he is especially well placed to offer such an account and only too pleased to do so (Euthyphro 4e – 5a). Euthyphro makes several false starts before Socrates explains to him precisely what sort of account is wanted: he is to supply an account of piety making clear how all instances of piety are pious ‘through one Form’ (Euthyhpro 6e). Euthyphro grasps Socrates’ meaning, agrees, and proceeds to offer just such an account. Socrates is pleased, and suggests that whatever its ultimate merits, the account Euthyphro eventually offers is at least of the right general sort: it is a univocal account of piety. To see precisely what univocity consists in, we may consider a similar sort of transaction which occurs in another of Plato’s dialogues, the Meno. In this dialogue, Socrates is pursuing along with Meno, a Thessalian aristocrat visiting Athens, an account of the nature of virtue or excellence (areteˆ). Like Euthyphro, Meno begins confident of his own powers and offers Socrates a wide-ranging account of virtue, covering a whole variety of cases. He first characterizes the virtue of a man, which consists in his ability to manage civic affairs and to benefit his friends while harming his enemies; he then turns to the virtue of a woman, which consists in her managing her home well while being submissive to her husband; and thence he mentions the virtues of children, the elderly, and slaves, all of which are distinct and peculiar to their ages and stages of life.

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

245

According to Meno, in fact, there is a special virtue or excellence ‘for every action and every age’ (Meno 71de-72a). Socrates responds with a mild joke to the effect that he has met with an embarrassment of riches: while he had asked for a single account of virtue, Meno in his response produced a veritable swarm. Socrates reports that he feels overwhelmed by these many accounts as if beset by a swarm of bees: with so many accounts of virtue buzzing about, he cannot find what he seeks, namely the single, unified definition of virtue which makes clear why all the various virtues mentioned all qualify as virtues in the first instance. Socrates presumes, that is, that even if there are distinct virtues attaching to men and women in different roles and stages of life, there must be some one general, common feature, some one form, in terms of which all these virtues qualify as virtues. This is the sort of account he seeks from Meno. In making this request of Meno, Socrates betrays his attachment to a univocity assumption, according to which there must be a single unified, non-disjunctive account available for the moral traits of concern to him.1 There are, he points out, various kinds of bees – queen bees, honeybees, worker bees, and drones – but still, there is some one trait in virtue of which every bee is a bee and not some other kind of thing. This is the single trait one must supply in response to the question: What is a bee? By parity of reasoning, Socrates implies, there should be some one trait available to answer the question: what is virtue? In pressing his point, Socrates further contends that virtue is like shape. Although triangles, rectangles, and circles are different shapes they are none the less all shapes, and there must be some one common feature in virtue of which they are all shapes. This is the property being a shape, had by all and only shapes. A univocal definition of virtue, like a univocal definition of shape, will specify that property instantiated by all and only instances of virtue (Meno 72a-b, 72c-d, 74b76b). Again like Euthyphro, Meno accedes to Socrates’ request and attempts a definition, only to find himself refuted for its material inadequacy. The actual refutation need not concern us, since, at present we are concerned only to understand the character of the account Plato seeks: he assumes, without argument, but with the compliance of his interlocutors, univocity. 1 The account must be non-disjunctive because otherwise it might simply claim unity by conjoining all the individual accounts on offer. Thus, e. g., Meno might simply say : ¦ is an instance of virtue =df (i) ¦ is an instance of civic management; or (ii) ¦ is an instance of household management; or (iii) ¦ is an instance of obeying one’s master ; or (iv). . . Plainly, the disjuncts could carry on indefinitely, a result Plato will not want to accept. If the disjuncts do come to a close, however, Plato will rightly want to know the principle in virtue of which they do so; presumably this principle can be known only if the single form of ¦-ness is also known – in which case, that form will qualify as the wanted definition. For more on disjunction and univocity, see Shields 2007: Ch. 3.

246

Christopher Shields

To appreciate Aristotle’s attitude towards the univocity of goodness, it is necessary to understand that his objection to Plato’s account is pre-emptive and non-conciliatory. Aristotle is unlike both Euthyphro and Meno. According to Aristotle, these interlocutors make a fatal error when they agree to Socrates’ demand for univocity. The reason they fail to uncover adequate definitions is not that they alight upon the wrong accounts of piety and virtue. Rather, there are simply no univocal definitions for them to discover. At any rate, at least in the case of goodness, contends Aristotle, the univocity assumption is false: goodness is meant in many ways (pollochoˆs legomenon). His complaint, so far at least, is at root a negative judgment to the effect that good things are not like bees: there is no single account of some features which unifies all good things as good things. Goodness is not univocal. Abstracting slightly from that dialectical context, let univocity be defined as: – ¦ is univocal =df there exists a single, non-disjunctive, essence-specifying account of ¦. We can then define multivocity in terms of this definition, first negatively : – ¦ is multivocal =df there does not exist a single essence-specifying account of ¦. and then, equivalently on the assumption that ¦ at least admits of an account, in more positive terms: – ¦ is multivocal =df there two or more essence-specifying accounts of ¦. With just this much background, we can formulate Aristotle’s piety-driven disagreement with Plato: Plato thinks that goodness is univocal; Aristotle thinks that goodness is multivocal. That, Aristotle informs his readers in Nicomachean Ethics i 6, is the truth of the matter which piety bids him to place before the sentiments of his friends.2

2 This section introduces the notions of univocity and multivocity in a rudimentary way, ignoring some complications, refinements, and further developments. For a discussion of these sorts of issues, see Shields 1999: esp. Ch. 2 and Ward 2008: 156 – 160.

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

II.

247

Initial Arguments for the Multivocity of Goodness

We should not expect Plato to roll over in the face of his friend’s objection. On the contrary, we should expect Plato to regard himself as no less bound to the demands of piety than is Aristotle. We may accordingly join with him in expecting an argument from Aristotle. Aristotle complies in Nicomachean Ethics i 6, the digression in the midst of his search for the human good in Nicomachean Ethics i. The argument, in its broadest outlines, is very highly schematic, and unlikely to persuade anyone not already convinced of its main conclusion. It turns out, however, that its schematic character belies an entire metaphysical underpinning presumed by Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics but not retailed by him there. He draws predominantly on two sets of doctrines defended outside of the Nicomachean Ethics. First is the apparatus of homonymy, developed by Aristotle in his Categories and Topics. Second, and more overtly, he appeals to his doctrine of the categories of being, also developed in the Categories, and also discussed, though to lesser extent, in the Topics. He regards himself as justified in concluding that goodness is multivocal because he thinks that conclusion can be demonstrated by appeal to his apparatus of homonymy, and also because he thinks it derives more or less immediately from the doctrine of categories. Precisely how these consequences are to be made explicit is a matter of some controversy.3 In its schematic form, however, Aristotle’s brief on behalf of the multivocity of goodness is easy to state. This schematic argument should not, however, immediately impress Plato. On the contrary, and perhaps rather oddly, we may even find Plato agreeing with a key premise in Aristotle’s first and most general argument for the multivocity of goodness; indeed, Plato could in principle use that very premise as the basis to re-instate his own univocity assumption. According to this first, very general argument, ‘Goodness is meant in as many ways as being’ (EN 1096a23 – 24). Since, according to Aristotle, being (to on) is multivocal (Met. 1003a33 – 34), so too is goodness. Hence, we have the following simple argument: (1) Goodness is multivocal if, and only if, being is multivocal. (2) Being is multivocal. (3) Hence, goodness is multivocal.

3 Shields 1999 reviews these controversies in some detail. For an informed critical discussion, see Ward 2008: 103 – 136.

248

Christopher Shields

Since goodness marches in step with being, neither is univocal. What is more, implies Aristotle, goodness is multivocal to the same degree, and along the same dimensions, as being. As suggested, the intended target of this criticism might well agree with Aristotle about the first premise of this argument. As long as he thinks that being is univocal, that everything which is a being is a being in precisely the same sense, then Plato, according to Aristotle’s first premise, has every reason to conclude that goodness, like being, is univocal. So, goodness, Plato will agree, is meant in as many ways as being: namely, one. Although we speak of sundry things as good or bad – times, Heldentenors, and flavours of ice-cream – we are, from a Platonic point of view, saying essentially the same thing about them, to wit, that these things all in their various ways participate in the Form of the Good. They are all, for this reason, admirable, commendable, and to be desired. Being good is like being employed. Although lawyers, gardeners, and professional footballers have very different sorts of jobs and earn vastly different sums of money, what it is for them to be employed is the same in each case: each produces some manner of solicited work in return for a paycheck. So too with goodness. With the argument structured in this way, we find the dialectic proceeding at much too high a level of generality. Aristotle proceeds by appealing to a highly abstract and contentious thesis, the multivocity of being, yokes the nature of goodness to that thesis, and then infers that goodness no less than being is multivocal. Fairly clearly, each of these two theses may, at least at this stage, be legitimately doubted. The Platonist might respond to Aristotle’s argument by conceding its first premise, but then by denying its second, that is, by denying the multivocity of being. Or he might simply deny the first premise outright: why, after all, must we suppose that from the standpoint of univocity and multivocity being and goodness must march in step? One might even be inclined to nudge Aristotle in this direction, by noting that it seems easier to establish the non-univocity of goodness than the non-univocity of being. At any event, many inclined to insist that being is binary and univocal might find tempting various other arguments Aristotle has at his disposal to establish the multivocity of goodness. We turn next, then, to some reasons for supposing that the non-univocity of goodness can be established directly, without any immediate appeal to the (putative) multivocity of being. Thereafter we will return to the question of why Aristotle thinks himself at liberty to infer the multivocity of goodness from the multivocity of being.

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

III.

249

Topics i 15: Tests for Non-univocity

When he suggests that goodness is meant in many ways (pollochoˆs legomenon), Aristotle may simply be reporting the results of the sorts of arguments he uses elsewhere to establish non-univocity. He develops and defends one such set of arguments in Topics i 15, in a passage dedicated to developing techniques for moving issues forward when dialectical deadlock threatens. The arguments he develops in this chapter are much less highly abstract than the general schematic argument already considered; they are, among other things, much more linguistic in character than his schematic argument, and thus find themselves able to appeal to linguistic data and entrenched semantic intuitions of various sorts. Although these arguments, then, do proceed in a broadly linguistic or semantic idiom, we should bear in mind that the point dividing Plato and Aristotle is metaphysical: Plato believes, while Aristotle denies, that goodness is universal, common, and single. They are not disputing about the lexical meanings of words, though either is at liberty to appeal to such meanings as prima facie evidence for some underlying metaphysical differences. We can appreciate that Aristotle is not primarily interetested in lexial meaning in Topics i 15 by appreciating that he does not expect all intelligent persons of good will to agree about putative cases of multivocity. Indeed, the case of goodness is a case in point: Plato asserts univocity while Aristotle demurs, contending multivocity. How, then, short of the highly abstract and inconclusive argument already retailed, are we to break the stalemate? Aristotle provides a series of tests for multivocity intended to uncover and display the phenomenon when it is not obvious or is otherwise in dispute. Two such tests are the paraphrase test and the test of contraries. The paraphrase test begins with the observation that univocity requires sameness of essence-specifying account. If the same predicate appears in a variety of settings only to yield to distinct paraphrases, then that is an indication that the predicate is multivocal. To begin with a simple illustration favourable to Aristotle’s point of view, consider : – Phillipe is sharp. – Before beginning work each day, the chef makes sure his knives are sharp. – Violetta had some pitch problems, too often singing sharp. If we paraphrase these occurrences of sharp, we end up with: – Phillipe is intelligent. – Before beginning work each day, the chef makes sure his knives have a beveled edge suitable for cutting.

250

Christopher Shields

– Violetta had some pitch problems, too often singing higher than the designated pitch. One can see directly that these paraphrases are non-equivalent, from which, according to Aristotle, we are entitled to infer directly that sharp is multivocal rather than univocal. If there is any doubt about that, then one can attempt to substitute paraphrase for paraphrase. Thus, one would be constrained to say, for instance: – Before beginning work each day, the chef makes sure his knives are intelligent. Since nonsense results, the paraphrases are non-equivalent, which shows in turn that the original predicates are not univocal. The same sentences illustrate Aristotle’s test of opposites. Here the idea is that if we specify the antonyms of various predicates and find them to be distinct, that shows the original predicates to be non-univocal. The test of opposites as applied to our original illustrations yields: – Phillipe is dim-witted. – Before beginning work each day, the chef makes sure his knives are dull. – Violetta had some pitch problems, too often singing flat. Again, since the antonyms are distinct, the original predicates must be nonunivocal. Aristotle uses examples of this sort precisely because they are intended to be uncontroversial. Inevitably, when we turn to more philosophically consequential cases, matters become more controversial. Still, on Aristotle’s side is the initial thought that by applying these tests to goodness we seem to encounter similar results. Consider : – The new Heldentenor singing at Bayreuth this year is really very good. – On a hot afternoon, ice-cream is always good. – From the standpoint of justice capitalism is tolerable, while only socialism is positively good. Applying first paraphrase test, we have: – The new Heldentenor singing at Bayreuth this year sings uncommonly well. – On a hot afternoon, ice-cream is always tasty and refreshing. – From the standpoint of justice capitalism is tolerable, while socialism is the only just socio-economic system.

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

251

Again, if there is any doubt, any attempt to substitute paraphrase for paraphrase yields nonsense. One simply cannot say, for instance: – From the standpoint of justice capitalism is tolerable, while socialism is tasty and refreshing. Given, then, that the predicate is good yields to non-equivalent paraphrases, goodness does not admit of a single, non-disjunctive essence-specifying definition. Therefore, concludes Aristotle, goodness is multivocal. Plainly the same conclusion follows from the test of opposites. Applying this test to our original trio of sentences gives us: – The new Heldentenor singing at Bayreuth this year sings to a subpar standard – On a hot afternoon, ice-cream is always foul-tasting and tiresome. – From the standpoint of justice capitalism is tolerable, while socialism is the only unjust socio-economic system. Here again, since the opposites are non-equivalent, the original predications cannot be univocal. Taking all that together, Aristotle concludes that since the standard multivocity indicators apply the predicate is good, goodness must be non-univocal. This, then, suffices to show that Plato was wrong to maintain that goodness is ‘something universal, common to all good things, and single’ (EN 1096a28). For it is, on the contrary, nothing single. Consequently, there is no universal goodness, common to all good things. The unwelcome but necessary dictates of piety require Aristotle to find against his teacher. Has Plato now been refuted? It is true that Aristotle’s initial tests for nonunivocity have a plausible air about them. Both tests of Topics i 15, the paraphrase test and the test of contraries, seem to uncover non-univocity lurking beneath the surface of goodness. Although one might not be instantly aware of it, it would surely be wrong to be mislead by the surface grammar of various predications involving goodness to assume that deeper analysis will support univocity. From the bare fact that we call a Heldentenor and a socio-economic system good, we are not entitled to infer that there is some one thing, the Form of Goodness, in which the tenor and the system partake. Still, Plato is hardly constrained to capitulate at this juncture. The reason, stated abstractly, is this: there may be a higher-order univocity obscured by Aristotle’s paraphrase test and test of contraries. The point is best explained by means of a simple illustration. Consider poisonous in the following two predications:

252

Christopher Shields

– Neurotoxins are poisonous. – Potassium chloride is poisonous. One might offer as paraphrases: – Neurotoxins paralyze the nervous system in seconds. – Potassium chloride quickly stops the heart by inhibiting cellular activity required for muscle contractions. Plainly these paraphrases are non-equivalent. Do we then have license to infer the multivocity of poison? Evidently not. Plato would quite rightly at this juncture point to a higher-order univocal definition of poison, namely that a poison is a substance which causes distress or death to an organism. That univocal account holds across the instances introduced, and a Platonist would therefore rightly resist as erroneous any attempt to infer the non-univocity of poison from this application of Aristotle’s paraphrase test. Of course, matters become much more complicated when we turn our attention to goodness. Minimally, however, we have seen as a formal matter that a Platonist has no reason to concede a substantive philosophical point solely on the basis of the sorts of tests for non-univocity Aristotle promotes in his Topics. Perhaps goodness is like poison: higher order univocity may be available, even if this fact is positively obscured by the tests intended to reveal multivocity where the Platonist assumes the opposite. At this juncture in the dialectic, then, the best either side could claim would be stalemate.

IV.

The Categorial Argument for the Multivocity of Goodness Developed

Unsurprisingly, Aristotle does not rest there. Returning to the digression of Nicomachean Ethics i 6, we find several more sophisticated and demanding arguments for the same conclusion, the first and most important of which fleshes out the bare-boned categorial argument we have already encountered. In Nicomachean Ethics i 6, we find Aristotle characterizing the view he means to reject with considerable care. Front and center for him, once again, is the univocity of goodness, though other features of Plato’s account equally exercise him. The position under review holds: (1) There is some one universal, common to all good things (EN 1096a23 – 9); (2) The good is separate from good things (EN 1096a34–b3); (3) The good is everlasting (EN 1096b3 – 5); (4) Since there is a

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

253

single science corresponding to each form, there is a science of goodness (EN 1096a29 – 34); and (5) The good causes good things to be. Although still not decisive, in their different ways, this argument moves us well beyond considerations having anything to do with lexical meaning, by appealing to features of Aristotle’s metaphysical scheme. Aristotle’s dominant argument assails (1), because it embraces the univocity of goodness. He writes: Further, since the good is meant in as may ways as being is (eti d’ epei tagathon isachoˆs legetai toˆ(i) onti) – for in of what-it-is, for example god and mind; in quality, the virtues; in quantity, a suitable amount; in relative, the useful; in time, the propitious; in place, a location; and in other cases – it is clear that the good cannot be something universal, common , and single. For if it were, it would not be spoken of in all the categories, but in one only (EN 1096a23 – 9).

In arguing this way, Aristotle contends that the univocity of goodness runs afoul of his doctrine of categories. We have already encountered this argument in the broadest outline above, and have seen it to be too abstract to compel anyone not already committed. Aristotle’s fuller argument attempts to situate this argument in his doctrine of categories. In order to grasp the fundamentals of his argument, let us proceed as Aristotle (quite understandably) does in this context by simply assuming the truth of the doctrine of categories. Let us, that is, accept that there are fundamentally distinct kinds of beings, distinct in the sense that no one basic kind of being can be reduced, or shown to be identical with any other basic kinds.4 As Aristotle says: ‘Of things said without combination, each signifies either : (i) a substance (ousia); (ii) a quantity ; (iii) a quality ; (iv) a relative; (v) where; (vi) when; (vii) being in a position; (viii) having; (ix) acting upon; or (x) being affected’ (Cat. 1b25 – 27).

His suggestion is that once we grasp the truth of this theory of beings, we are equally prepared to grasp the non-univocity of goodness. One might suppose that his reasoning proceeds as follows.5 We say that items in the various, irreducibly distinct categories of being are good. We say, for instance, in the category of substance, that god is good; in the category of time, that a propitious time is good; similarly, in the category of quality, that virtuous 4 For an introduction to Aristotle’s categories, see Shields 2007: Ch. 4. For a comparatively indepth discussion, still aimed at non-specialists, see Studtmann 2007. 5 This formulation of Aristotle’s argument owes to Ackrill 1972. As Ackrill understands the argument, it rests on the thought that ‘criteria for commending different things as good are diverse and fall into different categories; and this is enough to show that “good” does not stand for some single common quality’ (22). For a criticism of Ackrill and an alternative formulation and defense of Aristotle, see MacDonald 1989.

254

Christopher Shields

qualities are good qualities, in contrast to vicious qualities, which are bad; and so on for the remaining categories. When we ascribe goodness in each of these various categories, we are implicitly making intracategorial discriminations. We are saying, for instance, that within the category of substance, something qualifies as good in virtue of its being god; that within the category of time, something qualifies as good in virtue of its being propitious; and so on for the remaining categories. Nothing in the categories of time or place or quantity can be good in virtue of being god, because god is in the category of substance. What is more, this is a non-contingent matter. Because the doctrine of categories holds that nothing could possibly be reduced to anything else in any other category, that nothing in any one category could possibly be identified with anything in any other category, it also follows that it is impossible, for example, for anything in the category of quality to be good in virtue of its being god, or in virtue of its being propitious or timely. One might say, then, that judgments of goodness are differently grounded in the different categories. If that is so, however, it might also seem that goodness is different in the different categories – in which case, Aristotle is right to conclude that ‘the good cannot be something universal, common, and single’ (EN 1096a27 – 28). That is just to say, however, that he is right to conclude that good is not univocal. Since we are granting the theory of categories for the purposes of this discussion, we are also granting that the things which are good in the various categories of being are necessarily distinct from one another, that they belong to fundamental and irreducibly distinct kinds of being. So, somewhat more overtly put, Aristotle’s category-based argument for the non-univocity of goodness is as follows: 1. There are ten categories of being (or, for that matter, there are n categories of being, where n > 1). 2. If (1), there are irreducibly distinct kinds of beings. 3. So, there are irreducibly distinct kinds of beings. 4. It is possible to predicate goodness of items in these various categories. (One may say, that is, ‘x in c1 is good’ and ‘y in c2 is good’ and ‘z in c3 is good’ and so on for the n categories of being). 5. If goodness were univocal, it would not be possible to predicate goodness across the categories in this way. (For if goodness were something universal, common and single, ‘it would not be spoken of in all the categories, but in one only’; EN 1096a28 – 9). 6. Hence, goodness is not univocal.

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

255

The crucial premise is plainly (5). What, then, justifies (5)? On the current proposal, it is the thought that in making judgments of goodness, one needs to attend carefully to the question of their groundings. Different groundings should yield different and irreducible kinds of goodness across the categories. This, at any rate, seems to be the force of Aristotle’s introducing the various intracategorial comparisons that he does. We say that what grounds the judgment that something in the category of substance is good is its being a god; and we say, by contrast, that what grounds the judgment that something in the category of time is good is its being propitious. We could, it must be granted, hardly say that something in the category of substance qualifies as a good because it is timely or propitious; and still less can we say that something in the category of time qualifies as good because it is a god. Indeed, such contentions are, or at least border on, the unintelligible. A Platonist about goodness, even one who has (rather improbably) come on board with the theories of categories, might well doubt this contention. The following may be offered against (5). The Platonist has open to him the response that the notion of grounding is crucially vague, and must in fact be taken either epistemically or metaphysically. That is, (5) might be taken as resting on the thought that the evidence we have for making predications of goodness across the categories turns out to be of very different sorts. This would be to treat (5) as resting on broadly epistemic considerations. Or it might be taken more robustly, as relying on the thought that what goodness is varies across the categories, that what constitutes goodness in the category of substance is being god, whereas what constitutes goodness in the category of time is being propitious. This would treat (5) as relying on broadly metaphysical considerations. Thus rendered precise, the Platonist may continue, (5) is either false or hopelessly question-begging. If taken as relying on epistemic considerations, (5) is false. We might, for example, have very different evidentiary groundings for forming the judgment that Jumbo and Dumbo are elephants, even though being an elephant is perfectly univocal. On the other hand, suppose (5) rests upon a metaphysical grounding relation. In that case, the point behind (5) is that goodness is differently constituted across the categories. Plainly, however, this is precisely the claim the devotee of the univocity of goodness rejects: the Platonist thinks that goodness is everywhere and always the same, that whatever it attaches to – gods, times, quantities – goodness is goodness. Of course, it is not that the Platonist in responding this way refutes (5); but he does in this way at least neutralize (5). After all, taken metaphysically, (5) is little more than a categorially motivated denial of the univocity of goodness. Again, however improbable such an alliance may be, even a Platonist who accepted the doctrine of categories could endorse categorialism without ipso facto accepting the multivocity of goodness. After all, such a Platonist might well agree that there are

256

Christopher Shields

ten categories of being even while insisting, for instance, that a god, a time, and a quantity each qualifies as one in precisely the same sense. What holds for oneness may surely also hold for goodness: the doctrine of categories taken by itself does not entail the non-univocity of predicates attaching to items in different categories of being. Unfortunately, then, we seem to have to have re-entered a stalemate position: neither Aristotle nor Plato is in a position to claim to have refuted the other. So, the dialectic of goodness meets no decisive resolution in this exchange. Perhaps there is a universal goodness; Aristotle has not shown that there is not. Or perhaps goodness is non-univocal; Plato has not shown that it is indisputably univocal.

VI.

Conclusions

Needless to say, this does not end the debate.6 In the twentieth century, a similar dialectic replayed itself in response to Wittgensteinean appeals to family resemblance – though this dialectic played out for the most part without the benefit of a theory of categories to illuminate and direct it development. It is, perhaps, unsurprising that this debate should prove perennial. Philosophers now, as in antiquity, look to find deep, encompassing, essence-specifying definitions of core philosophical notions; other philosophers disagree about the prospects for their success. These disputes range over the full range of philosophical concerns – the nature of art, the unity of biological species, consciousness, causation – and continue to extend even to the most fundamental concepts of concern to philosophers: goodness and being. Now, as in antiquity, philosophers differ precisely on the question of whether univocity is even in principle available for such concepts.7 What is wanted for a decisive resolution of these disputes is some method of forcing non-univocity.8 It is possible, of course, that some such method may be forthcoming from either the Platonic or the Aristotelian camp. So far, at least, we have not been given a reason for thinking that either side has settled the matter 6 This is perhaps why echoes of this debate carried on for centuries after Aristotle launched his reluctant attack on Plato. See, in the twentieth century, the engaging discussions of von Wright (1963), and the exchange (similarly friendly) between Geach (1957) and Hare (1957). 7 For a recent disagreement regarding the univocity of existence, see van Inwagen (2001: 13), commenting on Ryle (1949: 23). 8 Many centuries later, Aquinas offers an argument with precisely this character (SCG I 32. 1 – 4). He develops an argument which appeals to the indiscernibility of identicals; that argument, however, avails itself of theses which, whatever their independent merits, are alien to the preChristian context within which Plato and Aristotle operate. For a discussion of that later development, see Shields (1999: 208 – 211).

Goodness is Meant in Many Ways

257

conclusively. This is not to say, of course, that no progress has been made, even at this early stage of the inquiry. At the very least, Aristotle has shown that Plato’s commitment to the univocity of goodness is not unassailable; and the Platonist has shown in turn that neither a simple appeal to linguistic data nor any elementary metaphysical analysis suffices to demonstrate that goodness is meant in many ways (pollochoˆs legomenon). Jointly, the dialectic traced so far suggests that for progress to be made in this area, philosophers must do much more than to appeal to linguistic or low-level metaphysical data. We will know whether goodness is univocal when we know the essence – or essences – of goodness.

References Ackrill, J. 1972. “Aristotle on “Good” and the Categories”, in: S. Stern et al. (eds.), Islamic Philosophy and the Classical Tradition. Oxford: 17 – 25. Bostock, D. 2000. Aristotle’s Ethics, Oxford. Geach, P. 1957. “Good and Evil”, in: Analysis 17: 30 – 42. Hare, R. M. 1957. “Geach, Good and Evil”, in: Analysis 17: 101 – 111. MacDonald, S. 1989. “Aristotle and the Homonymy of the Good”, in: Archiv fu¨r Geschichte der Philosophie 71: 150 – 157. Ryle, G. 1949. The Concept of Mind, London. Shields, Ch. 1999. Order in Multiplicty : Homonymy in the Philosophy of Aristotle, Oxford University Press. Shields, Ch. 2007. Aristotle, London. van Inwagen, P. 2001. “Meta-Ontology”, in: Ontology, Identity, and Modality :13 – 31 von Wright, G. H. 1963. The Varieties of Goodness, London. Ward, J. 2008. Aristotle on Homonymy: Dialectic and Science. Cambridge.

Michael-Thomas Liske

Bedeutet Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend eine * ethisch-psychologische Determination?

I.

Das Problem: Aristoteles’ Konzeption der Tugend als einer festen Grundhaltung scheint kein freies, verantwortliches Handeln zuzulassen.

Bekanntlich beruhen nach dem zweiten Buch von Aristoteles’ Nikomachischer Ethik (NE) die charakterlichen Vorzu¨ge (Tugenden) auf Gewo¨hnung (ethos): Indem wir in wiederholten Handlungen a¨ußerlich stets den Maßsta¨ben einer bestimmten Tugend (oder entsprechend eines Lasters) genu¨gen, erwerben wir diese Tugend oder dieses Laster als bleibende Grundhaltung (hexis), die uns dazu disponiert, in einer entsprechenden Situation stets so zu handeln. Wie ist bei einer solchen Konzeption ein freies, verantwortliches Gestalten unseres Handelns mo¨glich? Wir scheinen mit dem Dilemma konfrontiert: Solange wir in der Eingewo¨hnungsphase noch nicht die Tugend als gefestigte Haltung besitzen, haben wir auch nicht das innere Vermo¨gen, aus uns selbst heraus sittlich richtig ¨ ußeres wie Gesetze, zu handeln. Wir mu¨ssen also zumindest teilweise durch A gesellschaftliche Erwartungen, Erzieher oder Vorbilder geleitet werden.1 In dieser Phase sind wir noch formbar. Wenn die wiederholten gleichartigen Handlungen hingegen zur festen Disposition der einschla¨gigen Tugend oder des Lasters geworden sind, la¨sst diese offenbar nur noch ein derartiges Handeln zu.2 * Ich bin Herrn Markus Geisler fu¨r eine sorgfa¨ltige Sichtung und Aufarbeitung der Literatur zu Dank verpflichtet. Er hat mich auf einige fu¨r die Argumentation dieses Aufsatzes zentrale Aristotelesstellen aufmerksam gemacht. 1 In der Kindheitsphase, in der wir die Grundzu¨ge des Charakters erwerben, ko¨nnen wir nach NE zwar wie die Tiere willentlich handeln, besitzen aber nicht die zur eigenen Verantwortung fu¨r unser Tun vorauszusetzende Fa¨higkeit der Entscheidung (prohairesis) (1111b8 f.). Vgl. Irwin 1980: 140. 2 Eine solche spezifisch ethisch-psychologische Determination, die impliziert: eine erworbene Grundhaltung (hexis) lege unsere handlungsbestimmenden Ziele fest und mache es uns damit psychologisch unmo¨glich, anders zu handeln und so durch wiederholtes Handeln mit neuer Ausrichtung allma¨hlich die Handlungsgewohnheiten zu a¨ndern, wird Aristoteles von vielen Auslegern zugeschrieben: Brickhouse 1976, Roberts 1989, Garcı´a Ninet 1998, Jacobs 2001,

260

Michael-Thomas Liske

Gewiß, nach Aristoteles’ Definition (NE II 6, 1106b36 – 1007a2) ist die Tugend nicht unmittelbar eine Handlungsdisposition, sondern prima¨r eine Entscheidungsdisposition (hexis prohairetike¯), die uns darauf festlegt, uns fu¨r die mittlere Handlungsmo¨glichkeit zu entscheiden, fu¨r dasjenige also, was uns in dieser Handlungssituation angemessen ist. Weil das Treffen dieser Mitte fu¨r uns voraussetzt, dass wir die von zahllosen Parametern bestimmte individuelle Handlungssituation erfassen, haben wir uns hierfu¨r nicht so sehr an allgemeinen Maßsta¨ben als vielmehr dem maßgeblichen Urteil und vorbildlichen Handeln des sittlich Einsichtigen (phronimos) zu orientieren. Trotz dieser ihrer Komplexita¨t ist die sittliche Einzelentscheidung fu¨r Aristoteles auch nicht teilweise der subjektiven Willku¨r anheimgestellt. Die Mitte ist prima¨r durch objektive begriffliche Kriterien, den Logos, bestimmt, den der sittlich Einsichtige zu treffen vermag. Nach NE II 5, 1106b28 – 33 hat sie punktgenau die eine sachlich feststehende richtige Option zu treffen (es gibt nur eine Mo¨glichkeit, ins Schwarze zu treffen gegenu¨ber den zahllosen Mo¨glichkeiten, das Ziel mehr oder weniger weit zu verfehlen, mehr oder minder vom Richtigen abzuweichen). Die vollkommene Tugend gestattet damit wohl nur die eine Entscheidung fu¨r das jeweils Richtige und legt uns damit mittelbar auf eine ganz bestimmte Handlung fest. Eine Wahl zwischen verschiedenen Handlungsmo¨glichkeiten steht uns wohl nur solange offen, wie wir durch wiederholte Handlungen von der Art, wie sie die einschla¨gige Tugend fordert, diese Tugenddisposition noch erwerben. In dieser Phase fehlen uns aber noch die Voraussetzungen, aus uns heraus eine zu verantwortende Entscheidung zu treffen. Wenn wir uns na¨mlich fu¨r eine Entscheidung und die daraus resultierende Handlung in einem pra¨gnanten Sinne sollen verantworten ko¨nnen, muss sie unseren inneren Maßsta¨ben entsprungen sein, die sie zu unserer ureigenen Entscheidung machen und kraft deren wir sie rechtfertigen ko¨nnen. Sittliche Maßsta¨be haben wir erst dann verinnerlicht, wenn wir uns die entsprechende Tugend angeeignet haben, die diese Maßsta¨be in sich befasst.3 Die Wurzel dieser Schwierigkeit, na¨mlich die Differenzierung zwischen einem Stadium der Einu¨bung, in dem die Maßsta¨be der Tugend noch nicht verinnerlicht sind, und einem Stadium, in dem die Maßsta¨be der nunmehr erworbenen Tugend auf ein bestimmtes Verhalten festlegen, geho¨rt zum nicht aufgebbaren Kern von Aristoteles’ Konzeption der Tugend als erworbener hexis. Kap. 1. Sie ist zu unterscheiden von einer metaphysischen Determination, daß ein in Kausalreihen eingebundenes Handeln nicht urspru¨nglich eine neue Reihe beginnen kann. Zu Vertretern dieser Sicht vgl. Anm. 22. 3 Curren 1989 betont, damit jemand aufgrund bestimmter Entscheidungen dafu¨r verantwortlich sein kann, welchen Charakter er sich erwirbt, muß er bereits eine Art festen Charakters besitzen.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

261

Diese Differenzierung muss Aristoteles vollziehen, um einen drohenden Zirkel zu vermeiden. In Met. H 8,1049b33 f. formuliert er diesen Zirkel in Bezug auf das Wissen (episte¯me¯) qua handwerklich-ku¨nstlerisches Ko¨nnen (Kithara spielen ko¨nnen) als sophistisches Paradox: Der Lernende, der das einschla¨gige Wissen nicht besitzt, u¨bt (um sich das Wissen anzueignen) die Verrichtungen aus, auf die das Wissen sich bezieht, d. h. zu deren kunstgerechter Ausu¨bung es befa¨higen soll. In NE II 3,1105a17-b10 ero¨rtert Aristoteles diesen Zirkel parallel fu¨r die Charaktertugenden und vermag ihn hier u¨berzeugend durch die Differenzierung zu vermeiden: Wer sich eine Tugend erst noch zu erwerben sucht, handelt wie ein Gerechter, Besonnener etc. in dieser Situation handelte, vollbringt also eine Handlung, die a¨ußerlich den Maßsta¨ben dieser Tugend genu¨gt. Erst wenn er die Grundhaltung dieser Tugend erworben hat, handelt er aus der fu¨r ein genuin tugendhaftes Handeln erforderlichen inneren Einstellung heraus, hat mithin die Maßsta¨be der Tugend verinnerlicht. Denn sich fest und unerschu¨tterlich fu¨r die sittliche Handlungsoption um ihrer selbst willen zu entscheiden, also auch dann, wenn sie keinen Vorteil verschafft (wie Aristoteles es vom eigentlich tugendhaften Handeln a31 – 33 fordert), bedeutet soviel wie: sich die Maßsta¨be der Tugend zu eigen gemacht haben. Im Gegenzug mu¨ssen die Maßsta¨be bei dem, der die Tugend erst noch erwerben soll, von außen kommen, in Gestalt von Gesetzen, die Sanktionen androhen, von gesellschaftlichen Erwartungen an einen Menschen in dieser Situation, oder eines (gegebenenfalls strafenden) Erziehers. Wenn ein Lernender einem Vorbild nacheifert, ist dies schon eher aktiv und selbstbestimmt, aber auch nur teilweise. Indem er die Handlungsweise seines Idols unkritisch nachahmt, statt die zugrundeliegenden Maßsta¨be auf ihre Berechtigung hin zu pru¨fen, zumal wenn dies aus dem a¨ußerlichen Motiv geschieht, weil er so gescha¨tzt und bewundert wie sein Vorbild sein will, ist er wesentlich fremdbestimmt4. Aristoteles’ Konzeption scheint keinen Raum fu¨r ein freies verantwortungsvolles Entscheiden und Handeln zu lassen. In der Phase der Charakterbildung, in der dem Menschen noch alternative Handlungsoptionen offenstehen, hat er sich die zu einem verantwortlichen Entscheiden erforderlichen Maßsta¨be noch nicht angeeignet und verinnerlicht. In dem Maße, in dem er folglich auf Leitung durch eine a¨ußere Instanz angewiesen ist, ist er noch fremdbestimmt. Wenn er sich hingegen die einschla¨gige Tugend und mit ihr die sie ausmachenden Normen oder Maßsta¨be angeeignet hat, la¨sst ihm diese keinen Entscheidungsspielraum mehr.

4 Die Fremdbestimmtheit in der Phase der Charakterbildung ero¨rtert Aristoteles zwar nicht explizit (vgl. Furley 1977: S. 53), sie ist aber durch seine Annahmen klar impliziert.

262

II.

Michael-Thomas Liske

Eine Charakterdisposition legt nur auf einen Handlungsspielraum fest und kann so auf lange Sicht hin gea¨ndert werden.

Das eine Horn dieses Dilemmas la¨sst sich kaum entkra¨ften, weder durch Aristotelestexte noch durch Sachargumente. Solange sich jemand in der Phase der Charakterbildung befindet, fehlen ihm zumindest am Anfang feste eigene Entscheidungs- und Handlungsmaßsta¨be. Daher ist er fu¨r Außeneinflu¨sse empfa¨nglich und la¨sst sich weitgehend durch a¨ußere Richtlinien und Vorgaben bestimmen. Hingegen la¨sst sich dem zweiten Horn eine sachlich wohlbegru¨ndete Position entgegenstellen, die von einigen Aristotelesstellen nahegelegt wird. Eine einmal erworbene Charakterhaltung determiniert zwar weitgehend unser Entscheiden und Handeln, der Tugendhafte handelt fest und unerschu¨tterlich so (1105a33). Wohl verstanden meint dies aber keine unausweichliche Festlegung der Entscheidung und Handlung bis in die letzten Einzelheiten hinein.5 Eine solche restlose Determination kann plausiblerweise nicht von einer Entscheidungs- oder Handlungsdisposition fu¨r sich genommen geleistet werden, sondern nur einem weltumgreifenden Determinationsgeschehen. Wenn Aristoteles annimmt, zwei jeweils nur in sich kausal zusammenha¨ngende Ereignisreihen ko¨nnten zufa¨llig zusammentreffen, dann mu¨sste sich dieser scheinbare Zufall als von einem universalen Standpunkt aus vorherbestimmt erweisen. Zu einer solchen Auffassung finden sich bei Aristoteles keine Hinweise, sondern allenfalls in der stoischen Theorie einer kosmischen Weltvernunft. Dass die Entscheidungs- und Handlungsdispositionen der Tugenden nicht restlos determinieren, braucht keine Indifferenzfreiheit einzuschließen in dem Sinne: Auch einer, der eine feste tugend- oder lasterhafte Charakterhaltung besitzt, vermag im Einzelfalle vollsta¨ndig aus dem Rahmen seiner gewohnheitsma¨ßigen Entscheidungs- und Handlungsmuster herauszufallen und ganz kontra¨r zu dem zu handeln, was er sonst fast immer tut. Eine solche in sich wenig plausible Indifferenzfreiheit wird von Aristoteles nicht bloß an keiner Stelle vertreten, sie widerspricht sogar zentralen Annahmen seiner Ethik. Wenn mein Handeln im Einzelfall grundsa¨tzlich unentschieden (indifferent) ist, ich mich ga¨nzlich entgegen meinen regelma¨ßigen Handlungsmustern entscheiden und handeln kann, dann kann ich mir aufgrund meiner Tugend nie gewiss sein, dass ich stets richtig handele, ob ich nicht einmal sta¨rkeren Neigungen zum Ausschweifen erliege, wenn dies psychologisch mo¨glich ist. Damit ist Aristoteles’ zentrale Annahme nicht mehr garantiert: Ein rechtes Handeln aus der gefes5 Dazu, daß ein Habitus nur auf die moralische Qualita¨t, nicht aber auf eine bestimmte Handlung in all ihren Umsta¨nden festlegt und daß es so (wenngleich unter Schwierigkeiten) mo¨glich ist, seinen Charakter zu a¨ndern, vgl. Donini 1989: IV 5, bes. 91.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

263

tigten Tugend heraus fa¨llt leicht, bereitet daher Freude6 und begru¨ndet als innerlich erfu¨llend Glu¨ck, wie es die Definition der eudaimonia als ein Ta¨tigsein im Sinne der Tugend (kat’ arete¯n energeia, NE X 7,1177a12, vgl. auch I 11,1100b10) einschließt. Vielmehr ko¨nnte es wie bei Kant zu einem Widerstreit zwischen Pflicht und Neigung kommen. Umgekehrt kann gema¨ß dieser Position der Lasterhafte nicht hoffen, dass er sich momentan fu¨r das Richtige entscheiden kann, auch wenn er sich noch so sehr danach sehnt. Wie die meisten Sichtweisen von Aristoteles entspricht dies unserer Lebenserfahrung. Es reicht nicht, ernstlich tapfer, ma¨ßig, großzu¨gig etc. sein zu wollen, um es sofort zu sein. Der Grund dafu¨r du¨rfte in dem von Aristoteles klar gesehenen Umstand liegen, dass unser Handeln nicht allein von der Vernunfteinsicht bestimmt ist, sondern wesentlich auch von Emotionen abha¨ngt. So besteht die Tapferkeit etwa in einem ausgewogenen Verha¨ltnis von Furcht und Wagemut. Die Vernunfteinsicht kann sich augenblicklich a¨ndern, wenn ich auf einen neuen Gesichtspunkt gestoßen bin. Eine emotionale Einstellung ist hingegen eher konstant. Zwar la¨sst sich weder durch eine Erfahrung, noch durch gute Argumente erweisen, dass eine einmal erworbene emotionale ¨ nderung ist wohl (wie Disposition absolut unvera¨nderlich sein sollte. Aber ihre A wir gleich na¨her sehen werden) nur auf lange Sicht mo¨glich. So ha¨lt Aristoteles es in cat. 10, 13a22 – 31 ausdru¨cklich fu¨r mo¨glich, dass der Lasterhafte sich durch wiederholte kleine Fortschritte (29) allma¨hlich entweder weitgehend oder sogar vollsta¨ndig zu einem Tugendhaften wandelt. Da das Laster wie die Tugend eine feste Charakterhaltung ist, ist der erste Schritt sicher der schwerste, sie aufzubrechen. So bedarf es a¨ußerer Hilfe in Form angemessenen Umgangs oder aufbauender Gespra¨che (23 f.), um den ersten, wenn auch nur kleinen Fortschritt (mikra epidosis, 25) heraus aus den eingeu¨bten Handlungsmustern hin zu besseren zu schaffen. Auch wenn die Entwicklung, sofern sie einmal Dynamik angenommen hat, immer leichter weiter verla¨uft (27), braucht sie doch lange Zeit. Fehlt diese, so kann der Erfolg vereitelt werden (30 f.).7 Spricht die Erfahrung, fu¨r Aristoteles stets der Ausgangspunkt, nicht doch dafu¨r, dass es zuweilen eine Indifferenz gibt? Entscheiden sich manche Menschen nicht doch ganz u¨berraschend fu¨r etwas, was wir von ihnen nicht erwartet ha¨tten? Dies heißt nicht zwingend, dass sie mit dieser Entscheidung aus ihrem Habitus herausfallen. Vielmehr gibt es auch einen komplexen Habitus, z. B. gewo¨hnlich mit Zeit oder Geld knauserig, in Dingen aber, die einem wichtig sind, sehr großzu¨gig zu sein. Dem, der nur die eine Seite kennt, mag eine Entschei6 Zur Kontroverse, ob Freude ein Merkmal auch des sittlichen Fortschritts ist oder ob sich dieser gerade im Mu¨hevollen bewa¨hrt, s. Burnyeat 1980 und Curzer 2002. 7 Brickhouse 1976 sieht einen Widerspruch zwischen der hier behaupteten Vera¨nderbarkeit der Charakterhaltung und der Auffassung der NE: Durch den Charakter werden die Ziele und u¨ber diese unsere Handlungen festgelegt.

264

Michael-Thomas Liske

dung, in der sich der andere Aspekt des Habitus entfaltet, u¨berraschen. Oder es mag den Habitus geben, nicht schematisch zu entscheiden, vielmehr die Besonderheiten des Einzelfalls stark zu gewichten. Eine Entscheidung, die einem solchen Habitus entspringt, mag jemanden u¨berraschen, der schematische Entscheidungen gewohnt ist. Plausibler ist also anzunehmen: Unsere Handlungsdispositionen sind insofern nicht restlos determinierend, als sie uns nur auf eine Handlungsweise im allgemeinen, nicht aber auf die jeweilige Einzelhandlung mit ihren zahllosen Eigentu¨mlichkeiten festlegen. Determiniert ist also bloß der Handlungsspielraum, aus dem die Einzelhandlungen zwar niemals ausbrechen, innerhalb dessen sie aber sehr wohl variieren ko¨nnen. Damit ko¨nnen wir in den gesteckten Grenzen durch unser Entscheiden das Handeln frei gestalten. Sicher vermo¨gen wir bei der Einzelentscheidung nicht zwischen der sittlich genau richtigen und einer vo¨llig verwerflichen Handlung zu wa¨hlen, sondern entscheiden uns nur zwischen verschiedenen Graden einer einzigen Handlungsart. Aber auch diese ko¨nnen u. U. einen kleinen sittlichen Unterschied bedeuten. Damit vermo¨gen wir aber insgesamt auch einen großen Wandel zustande zu bringen, indem wir auf lange Sicht unsere Charakterhaltungen a¨ndern, zumal unsere Laster u¨berwinden. Denn so wie wir uns durch wiederholtes Handeln einer bestimmten Qualita¨t eine Charakterhaltung angewo¨hnen ko¨nnen, ko¨nnen wir (wenngleich wohl mit gro¨ßeren Schwierigkeiten) durch wiederholtes Andershandeln die Charakterhaltung modifizieren. Nach dem Gesagten ist es dem Lasterhaften zwar nicht mo¨glich, mag er dies auch noch so sehnlich wu¨nschen, von einem Tag zum anderen eine radikale Kehrtwendung zu vollziehen, von nun an stets den Maßsta¨ben der einschla¨gigen Tugend gema¨ß zu handeln und sie so recht bald als Habitus zu erwerben. Das entspricht unserer Lebenserfahrung. Der Geizhals kann nicht auf einmal ganz großzu¨gig sein. Aber er kann das Maß der hier relevanten Verhaltensart (Geld aufwenden) innerhalb eines Spielraums variieren, kann sich so bemu¨hen, den Handlungen stets die gewu¨nschte Tendenz zu verleihen, sich stets am oberen Rand seines Handlungsrahmens zu bewegen, nicht maßlos zu geizen, sondern nur etwas kleinlich zu sein. Tut er das wiederholt, verschiebt sich sein Handlungsrahmen allma¨hlich in die erstrebte Richtung. Bewegt er sich auch im vera¨nderten Handlungsspektrum wieder am oberen Rand, kann er sich auf Dauer zum rechten Maß hin vera¨ndern.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

III.

265

Textbelege fu¨r die Auffassung: Ein erworbener Habitus kann je nach Qualita¨t der Handlung ausgebaut oder verdorben werden.

Genau eine solche Vera¨nderbarkeit des erworbenen Charakters legt Aristoteles an drei Stellen in NE II 1 und 2 nahe: Aus demselben, d. h. Einzelhandlungen einer bestimmten Qualita¨t, woraus die Tugend entsteht, wa¨chst sie auch oder geht zugrunde. Die Plausibilita¨t dieser Annahme la¨sst sich an handwerklichku¨nstlerischen Fa¨higkeiten wie der zum Kitharaspielen ablesen, die Aristoteles in NE II 1 als Analogie zur Tugend heranzieht. Eine einmal erworbene Meisterschaft garantiert zwar bei jeder Auffu¨hrung ein entsprechend hohes Niveau. Sie la¨sst aber, insofern Ku¨nstlertum sich im lebendigen Gestalten a¨ußert, innerhalb des durch die Meisterschaft garantierten Rahmens einen Gestaltungsspielraum, der sich durchaus in einem Niveauunterschied zwischen mehr oder weniger gelungenen Auffu¨hrungen manifestieren kann. Dass die ku¨nstlerische Fa¨higkeit etwas Lebendiges ist, erweist sich vor allem daran, dass ein hohes Ko¨nnen nicht selbstversta¨ndlich auf immer als unvera¨nderlicher Besitz erhalten bleibt. Wenn es nicht durch wiederholte gute Auffu¨hrungen gepflegt und am Leben erhalten wird, geht es verloren, ist aber umgekehrt durch gezieltes Ausu¨ben ausbaufa¨hig. Die Texte entfalten mithin die Auffassung: Ta¨tigkeiten einer bestimmten Qualita¨t fu¨hren nicht bloß zum Erwerb von Tugend (oder entsprechend von Laster), sondern sind auch fu¨r die weitere Entwicklung der erworbenen hexis maßgeblich.8 Je nachdem, ob sie die Beschaffenheit der Handlungen wahren, durch die die hexis erworben worden ist, oder von ihr abweichen, sind sie dafu¨r verantwortlich, ob die hexis erhalten bleibt und sogar ausgebaut wird oder ob sie verloren geht. Betrachten wir die Texte nun im Wortlaut: (T 1) „Aus demselben und durch dasselbe kommt eine jede Tugend zustande (gignetai) und geht sie verloren (phtheiretai).“ (NE II 1,1103b7 f.) Mit ,dasselbe‘ kann hier keine numerische Identita¨t, ja noch nicht einmal eine eidetische (Artgleichheit) gemeint sein, da ja verschiedenartige Handlungen die Tugend aufbauen und verderben. Gemeint ist ¨ bereinstimmung: Entita¨ten der gleichen also die generische oder kategoriale U Kategorie, na¨mlich Einzelhandlungen, schaffen und zersto¨ren den Habitus der Tugend. Dies wird in den beiden anderen ausfu¨hrlicheren Texten ausdru¨cklich gesagt: Das, was fu¨r Entstehen, Wachstum und Verlust der Tugenden verantwortlich ist, ist genau das, worin die Beta¨tigungen der Tugend bestehen, na¨mlich 8 Demgema¨ß betont Aristoteles NE X 10, bes. 1180a1 – 5, eine sorgfa¨ltige Erziehung junger Leute reiche nicht, auch die Erwachsenen mu¨ßten das ganze Leben lang durch Gesetze angehalten werden, das Rechte zu betreiben und sich daran zu gewo¨hnen, vgl. di Muzio 2008: bes. S. 20 f.

266

Michael-Thomas Liske

Einzelhandlungen. (T 2) „Verloren geht Besonnenheit und Tapferkeit durch das ¨ bermaß und das Zuru¨ckbleiben, von der Mitte wird sie gewahrt. Aber nicht nur U Zustandekommen, Wachsen und Verlust ergeben sich aus demselben und durch dasselbe, sondern auch die Beta¨tigungen bestehen in eben diesem.“ (1104a25 – 29) Wie wichtig Aristoteles diese Gestaltbarkeit auch der erworbenen hexis ist, zeigt sich daran, dass er diese Gedanken in der Schlußzusammenfassung der wichtigsten Ergebnisse am Ende des 2. Kapitels nochmals unterstreicht: Hier sagt er ausdru¨cklich, dass die hexis der Tugend dann verloren geht, wenn die Einzelhandlungen nicht in gleicher Weise geschehen (me¯ ho¯sauto¯s gignomeno¯n) – versteht sich – wie die Handlungen, aus denen die Tugend erwa¨chst, die mithin ihren Maßsta¨ben entsprechen und zu denen sie, erworben, disponiert. Folglich legt die erworbene hexis nicht unverru¨ckbar auf dieses bestimmte Handeln fest, wenn sie durch andersartiges Handeln verloren gehen kann. (T 3) „Dass die Tugend sich auf freudige und unangenehme Empfindungen bezieht, dass sie durch das, woraus sie entsteht, auch vermehrt wird bzw. verloren geht, wenn es nicht in der gleichen Weise geschieht, und dass sie sich in dem, woraus sie entstanden ist, auch beta¨tigt, das sei festgestellt.“ (1105a13 – 16) Bei der naheliegenden und natu¨rlichsten Deutung schließen diese Texte einen ethisch-psychologischen Determinismus aus, wie er Aristoteles vielfach unterstellt wird: Die einmal erworbene hexis la¨sst dem Menschen keinen Spielraum mehr zu einem abweichenden Handeln. Nun la¨sst sich aber zumindest (T 1) mit Broadie / Rowe 2002: 297 auch im Sinne eines kompatibilistischen Determinismus verstehen. Die im Kontext dieser Stelle aufgestellte Analogie zwischen Tugenden und Kunstfertigkeiten kann so gelesen werden: Je nachdem, ob jemand wiederholt gut handelt oder eine handwerkliche Verrichtung kunstgerecht ausu¨bt, erwirbt er sich die einschla¨gige Tugend bzw. Kunstfertigkeit oder er vernichtet die Grundlagen und Voraussetzungen, jemals diese Tugend oder Kunstfertigkeit zu erlangen, zersto¨rt die Anlagen zur Tugend (possibility of excellence). Er wird entweder zu einem guten Menschen (Techniten) oder endgu¨ltig zu einem lasterhaften Menschen (bzw. einem stu¨mperhaften Handwerker). Die beiden anderen ausfu¨hrlicheren Texte machen dieses Versta¨ndnis a¨ußerst unwahrscheinlich. In (T 2) wird die Vorstellung eingefu¨hrt, die jeweilige Tugend (wie Besonnenheit oder Tapferkeit) werde gewahrt oder bleibe erhalten (so¯zetai). Ein Erhaltenbleiben bezieht sich natu¨rlicherweise auf einen erworbenen ¨ bung erworbene hexis der Tugend. Die Stelle besagt Besitz, also wohl die durch U damit: Je nachdem ob jemand in seinen einzelnen Handlungen dem Unmaß (einem Zuviel oder Zuwenig) verfa¨llt oder ein angemessenes, mittleres Maß trifft, richtet er seinen Habitus der Tugend zugrunde oder vermag ihn zu wahren. Bei dieser Deutung la¨sst auch die bereits ausgepra¨gte Haltung der Tu-

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

267

gend noch einen Spielraum zu sittlich bedeutsamen Abweichungen von der Norm. Sofern diese mo¨gliche Abweichung jeweils in der einzelnen Handlung nur minimal ist und nur durch Summierung sehr vieler Einzelhandlungen der gleichen Tendenz ein sittliches Gewicht erha¨lt, ist dies durchaus konsistent zu Aristoteles’ hexis-Lehre. Wir brauchen nicht anzunehmen, es sei gemeint: Die Grundlagen des Erwerbs der hexis bleiben erhalten. Ha¨tte Aristoteles dies sagen wollen, ha¨tte er diese doch recht fernliegende Vorstellung ausdru¨cklich aussprechen mu¨ssen. Tatsa¨chlich ist im Text das Subjekt von ,wird gewahrt‘ (so¯zetai) die Einzeltugend, Besonnenheit oder Tapferkeit selbst. Zudem fu¨gte es sich gar nicht konsistent in Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption, wenn diese Stelle besagte: So wie durch Handlungen, die dem Maßstab der jeweiligen Tugend widersprechen, die Grundlagen ihres Erwerbs zersto¨rt werden, werden umgekehrt durch Handlungen, die ihm entsprechen, diese Grundlagen gewahrt. Nun fu¨hren nach Aristoteles solche der Tugendnorm a¨ußerlich entsprechenden Handlungen gerade zum Erwerb der Tugend selbst und sichern nicht bloß deren Grundlage. Wenn in (T 3) schließlich dem Entstehen der Tugend aus Einzelhandlungen einer bestimmten Qualita¨t ihr Wachstum oder ihre Vernichtung aus entsprechend beschaffenen Einzelhandlungen entgegengestellt wird, dann la¨sst diese Gegenu¨berstellung nur eine natu¨rliche Deutung zu: Es geht um die positive aufbauende oder negative zersto¨rende Weiterentwicklung (Wachsen oder Vernichtung) der entstandenen Tugend. Der erworbene Habitus la¨sst sich also weiterhin vera¨ndern. Nun gibt es aber zum Abschluss der Ero¨rterung des Willentlichen (hekousion) in NE III 8 einen Text, der die Deutung im Sinne eines kompatibilistischen psychologischen Determinismus nahelegt. Heißt es hier doch ausdru¨cklich, bei den charakterlichen Grundhaltungen ha¨tten wir nur u¨ber die Anfangsphase Verfu¨gungsgewalt. Weil die Weiterentwicklung (der Zuwachs) uns in den Einzelheiten nicht bekannt sei, entziehe sie sich auch der Kontrolle. Die Analogie zur Krankheit macht diese Aussage plastisch greifbar, zumal wenn wir sie uns an Suchtkrankheiten verdeutlichen. Am Anfang ist es freiwillig, wenn einer o¨fters Alkohol trinkt. Der genaue Zeitpunkt aber, zu dem ein regelma¨ßiges Trinken zur Abha¨ngigkeit wird, die ihm ein Aufho¨ren nur mehr a¨ußerst schwer gestattet, ist ¨ bergang vom freiwilligen Tun zum ihm nicht bekannt. Daher entzieht sich der U Bestimmtwerden seiner Kontrolle; er vermag die Weiterentwicklung von etwas freiwillig Begonnenem nicht mehr zu steuern. Entsprechendes gilt fu¨r andere Krankheiten, die wir durch ungesunde Lebensfu¨hrung selbst verschulden. Anfangs verursachen wir sie durch freiwilliges Fehlverhalten. Sobald der Krankheitsverlauf aber Eigendynamik gewinnt, la¨sst er sich durch Willensentschluß nicht mehr ohne weiteres aufhalten. Entsprechend soll es sich nach Aristoteles bei Lastern verhalten. Analog la¨sst es sich auf Tugend u¨bertragen. Die kompatibilistische Behauptung von Freiwilligkeit stu¨tzt er darauf, dass es in unserer

268

Michael-Thomas Liske

Verfu¨gungsgewalt stand, den Anfang der Entwicklung so oder anders zu gestalten. Der Text lautet: (T 4) „Nicht in gleichem Maße sind die Handlungen (praxeis) und die Haltungen (hexeis) willentlich (hekousioi). Denn u¨ber die Handlungen sind wir vom Anfang bis zum Ende Herr (kyrioi), weil wir die Einzelheiten (ta kath’ hekasta) kennen, von den Haltungen aber nur u¨ber den Anfang; der Zuwachs ist im einzelnen nicht bekannt, so wie auch bei den Krankheiten. Aber weil es in unserer Verfu¨gungsgewalt lag (eph’ he¯min e¯n), so oder anders zu gebrauchen, deshalb sind sie willentlich.“ (1114b30 – 1115a3) Zumal der Schluss legt die kompatibilistische These nahe: Weil wir am Anfang auf die hexis der Tugend oder die des Lasters noch nicht festgelegt waren, so oder anders handeln konnten, sind wir fu¨r unsere anfa¨nglichen Handlungen und den sich durch sie bildenden Charakter verantwortlich. Damit haben wir auch die aus der frei erworbenen Charakterhaltung entsprungenen spa¨teren Handlungen als willentlich zu verantworten, auch wenn wir zu dieser Zeit nicht mehr die Wahl haben, uns fu¨r eine andere Handlung zu entscheiden als fu¨r die, zu der die gefestigte Charakterhaltung uns determiniert, jedenfalls keine sittlich relevant unterschiedene, deren Wiederholung die Chance einer Charaktera¨nderung ero¨ffnet. Ganz zu schweigen von den in Sekt. I aufgeworfenen Schwierigkeiten dieser Sichtweise, gera¨t sie in Konflikt mit der hier prononciert vorgetragenen ¨ ber unsere Handlungen besitzen wir wa¨hrend ihres ganzen VerAuffassung: U laufs die volle Kontrolle. Da hier keine Einschra¨nkung gemacht wird und sich auch aus dem Kontext keine nahelegt, bezieht sich diese Bemerkung auf alle Handlungen, also auch die aus der bereits gefestigten hexis entspringenden.9 Wenn wir sie kraft unseres umfassenden Wissens vollsta¨ndig in ihrem ganzen Verlauf kontrollieren sollen, dann darf nicht eine unserer Verfu¨gbarkeit zu diesem Zeitpunkt bereits entzogene Grundhaltung unser Verhalten restlos determinieren. Vielmehr muss die Determination durch die hexis einen Freiraum lassen, innerhalb dessen wir den Handlungsvollzug durch unsere Kontrolle zu beeinflussen und so (wenn auch nur eingeschra¨nkt) frei zu gestalten vermo¨gen.10 ¨ berlegungen vermo¨gen diesen Konflikt zu lo¨sen: Zum einen Vor allem zwei U geht es Aristoteles hier nicht prima¨r um die Frage einer ethisch-psychologischen Determination, schon gar nicht eines metaphysischen Determinismus, sondern eher um die lebenspraktische Frage, inwieweit wir einen Vollzug oder eine Entwicklung durch Kontrolle in unserer Gewalt haben. Voraussetzung ist, dass wir den zu kontrollierenden Vorgang in all seinen einzelnen Entwicklungsmomenten kennen. Bei den Handlungen ist dies gewa¨hrleistet. Weil wir unsere 9 Vgl. Natali 2002: bes. S. 279. 10 Aubry 2002: 86 f. betont in bezug auf die vorliegende Stelle: Die zur Einzelhandlung fu¨hrende Wahl kann niemals eine mechanische Wiederholung der voraufliegenden sein.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

269

Handlungen unmittelbar hervorbringen, sind wir ipso facto mit ihnen in all ihren Einzelheiten vertraut. Die Unmittelbarkeit garantiert auch insofern volle Verfu¨gungsgewalt, als wir das unmittelbar Hervorgebrachte grundsa¨tzlich jederzeit, wenn wir uns dazu entschließen, anders gestalten ko¨nnen. Unsere Charakterbildung ko¨nnen wir hingegen immer nur mittelbar durch die Art unseres Handelns beeinflussen. Damit ist aber nicht ausgeschlossen, dass die Entwicklung unseres Charakters eine Eigendynamik entfaltet, sich damit unserer Kenntnis sowie unserer Kontrolle entzieht. Nach Aristoteles trifft dies auf die spa¨teren Phasen der Charakterentwicklung tatsa¨chlich zu.11 Zum anderen bedeutet es einen fu¨r die vorliegende Frage gewichtigen Unterschied, wie wir die vom Sinn geforderte Erga¨nzung von ,gebrauchen‘ (chre¯sthai) um das grammatisch fehlende Objekt vornehmen. Im Kontext finden sich hierzu vier Kandidaten: Anfang (arche¯, 1114b31, 1115a1), Ende (telos, b31), Handlungen (praxeis, b30, 31), Haltungen (hexeis, b31, 32). Ein Ende oder Ziel zu gebrauchen ergibt im vorliegenden Kontext keinen guten Sinn und kann zweifellos aus¨ bersetzern angenommen worden. Da die scheiden. Die u¨brigen drei sind alle von U Ha¨ufigkeit des Vorkommens oder die Na¨he zu ,gebrauchen‘ (a3), das sie erga¨nzen sollen, keinen eindeutigen Vorzug ergibt, mu¨ssen wir nach Kriterien des Sinns und des Sprachgebrauchs entscheiden. Gewiß ist sinnvoll zu sagen: Es war in unserer Gewalt, so oder nicht so zu handeln (vgl. Bien 1985: 58; Wolf 2008: 112; Ross in Barnes 1984: 1760: to act). Die hier angenommene Verbindung von ,gebrauchen‘ mit ,Handlungen‘ du¨rfte jedoch durch die Semantik von ,gebrauchen‘ auszuschließen sein. Es kann sinnvollerweise nur gemeint sein: Je nachdem, wie ich meine Handlungen gestalte, d. h. welche Art von Handlungen ich hervorbringe. Das aber kann ,gebrauchen‘ nicht bedeuten. Ich gebrauche etwas, was schon vor dem Gebrauch da ist und in der Regel nicht verbraucht wird, also erhalten bleibt und erneut gebraucht werden kann. Mit dem in Met. H 8 wichtigen Gegensatz von Besitzen oder Innehaben (hexis) zu Gebrauchen (chre¯sis) formuliert: Etwas, was ich eine la¨ngere Zeitspanne besitze, gebrauche ich in bestimmten Augenblicken innerhalb dieser Phase. Eine Handlung demgegenu¨ber bringe ich im Augenblick des Handelns erst hervor. Angemessener ist schon ,gebrauchen‘ mit ,Anfang‘ zu verbinden (so Dirlmeier 1999: 57 oder Gauthier/Jolif 1970: S. 71 (die sich mit ,en‘ in ,en user‘ auf , commencement‘ beziehen): Weil es in unserer Gewalt stand, die durch Fehlen einer gefestigten hexis gekennzeichnete Anfangssituation so oder anders zu nutzen, ist die hexis, die sich daraus gebildet hat, willentlich. Diese Deutung besta¨tigte das ga¨ngige Versta¨ndnis, dass wir nur bis zum Erwerb der hexis frei sein ko¨nnen. Ganz befriedigend ist diese Konstruktion sprachlich auch nicht. 11 Zur Frage, wie weit wir fu¨r unseren Charakter verantwortlich sind s. Irwin 1980: 139 – 142, Broadie 1991: ch.3 V und VI: 159 – 174, Wolf 2002: 135 – 137, Liske 2008: 97 – 101.

270

Michael-Thomas Liske

Denn an den Stellen, wo es auftritt, meint ,arche¯‘ ,Anfang‘ oder ,Anfangsphase‘. Um es als Objekt zu ,gebrauchen‘ erga¨nzen zu ko¨nnen, mu¨ssen wir es hingegen als ,die in der Anfangsphase gegebene Situation‘ verstehen. Sprachlich weitaus am plausibelsten ist daher, die hexis als Objekt zu erga¨nzen, zumal das anschließende ,willentlich‘ (hekousioi) sich nur auf die Grundhaltungen beziehen kann. So konstruiert, ergibt sich ein schlu¨ssiger Gedankengang: Obgleich die hexeis sich in ihrer weiteren Entwicklung aufgrund ihrer Eigendynamik einer vollsta¨ndigen Kontrolle entziehen, sind sie doch insofern willentlich, als es in der Anfangsphase in unserer Gewalt stand, sie so oder nicht so zu gebrauchen. Es ist sachlich also nicht ganz falsch, ,gebrauchen‘ auf , Anfang‘ zu beziehen. Denn wie es das Imperfekt ,es war in unserer Gewalt‘ (eph’ he¯min e¯n) klar zeigt, will Aristoteles mit unserer Verfu¨gungsgewalt u¨ber die hexis in der Anfangsphase ihrer Bildung begru¨nden, dass auch die so gebildeten festen Grundhaltungen grundsa¨tzlich noch frei sind. Dies stimmt genau mit dem zuvor Gesagten u¨berein, dass wir nur u¨ber das Anfangsstadium der Grundhaltungen oder die Grundhaltungen in ihrem Anfangsstadium Herr (kyrioi) sind oder verfu¨gen ko¨nnen (b32 f.). Heißt dies im Gegenzug, dass wir die gefestigte hexis nicht mehr in verschiedener Weise zu gebrauchen vermo¨gen? Hier ist wichtig, dass Aristoteles als Objekt zu ,gebrauchen‘ wahrscheinlich die hexis denkt, also auch bei den noch nicht verfestigten, sich erst bildenden Haltungen schon von hexis spricht. Damit besteht bei einer hexis grundsa¨tzlich die Mo¨glichkeit, sie in verschiedener Weise zu gebrauchen, eine Mo¨glichkeit, die ihr wohl nie ganz verlorengeht, wenngleich sie sich natu¨rlich in dem Maße mindert, wie die hexis feste Konturen annimmt. Es geht Aristoteles also wohl nicht um den absoluten metaphysischen Gegensatz von freier Formbarkeit des Charakters in der Anfangsphase und einer unausweichlichen Determination des Handelns durch einen nunmehr unvera¨nderlich gewordenen Charakter, sondern vielmehr um graduelle Unterschiede, wie sie sich uns in der Selbstbeobachtung unserer charakterlichen Entwicklung darstellen. Weil wir eine hexis nicht wie die Handlung unmittelbar zu gestalten vermo¨gen, sondern nur mittelbar u¨ber unsere Einzelhandlungen beeinflussen ko¨nnen, kann sie sich verselbsta¨ndigen und unserer Kontrolle entziehen. Dies versta¨rkt sich natu¨rlich in dem Maße, wie sich die hexis im Laufe ihrer Entwicklung auspra¨gt. Aber nichts spricht bei einer unbefangenen Analyse unserer Lebenswirklichkeit, der sich Aristoteles stets verpflichtet wusste, dafu¨r : Eine sich lebendig entwickelnde Charakterhaltung, die in unseren Handlungen so oder anders gebraucht und daher in diese oder jene Richtung gestaltet werden kann, wird von einem Punkt an ein absolut unvera¨nderlicher, jeder Kontrolle entzogener Faktor, der seinerseits unser Handeln unverbru¨chlich festlegt.12 12 Die Vera¨nderbarkeit des durch Gewo¨hnung erworbenen Charakters ergibt sich auch daraus,

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

271

Im Lichte dieses differenzierten Abschlusses der Behandlung des Willentlichen (hekousion) in NE III ist wohl auch die voraufliegende Passage III 7,1114a12 – 21 zu sehen, die einen Kompatibilismus sehr stark nahezulegen scheint, gleichfalls an der Analogie zur Krankheit. Diese ist freiwillig, nicht weil man aufho¨rt, krank zu sein, sobald man gesund sein will, sondern weil man sie ¨ hnlich sind Laster (wie durch falsche Lebensfu¨hrung selbst verschuldet hat. A ¨ ungerecht oder zugellos zu sein) freiwillig, weil es anfangs freistand, nicht so zu werden. Ist man freilich so geworden, dann ist kein Freiraum mehr, es nicht zu sein (20 f.). Fu¨r die Aussageintention entscheidend ist, wie man den abschließenden Nachsatz auffasst: ouketi esti me¯ einai. Sprachlich mo¨glich ist die starke Auffassung: Es ist nicht mehr mo¨glich, nicht lasterhaft zu sein. Vom Kontext her legt sich die von uns gewa¨hlte schwa¨chere Version na¨her, bei der sich die Gegensa¨tze sinngema¨ß genau entsprechen: Am Anfang stand es frei (ex arche¯s exe¯n), nicht so zu werden; einmal so geworden, ist kein Freiraum gegeben, es nicht zu sein. Damit braucht nicht gemeint zu sein, dass absolut ausgeschlossen ist, je anders zu werden. Auch fu¨r einen Kranken ist ja nicht prinzipiell unmo¨glich, wieder gesund zu werden. Freilich haben Laster und Krankheit eine Eigendynamik entwickelt (Bild des abgeworfenen Steines, 17 f.). Daher steht es uns nicht frei, sobald wir nur ernstlich anders sein wollen, sogleich tatsa¨chlich anders z. B. gerecht zu sein (13 f.). Im Augenblick kann der Ungerechte nicht umhin, ungerecht zu sein. Wenn wir freilich die Krankheit oder das Laster in ihrer inneren Gesetzlichkeit und Dynamik erfasst haben, dann ko¨nnen wir sehr wohl geeignete Maßnahmen ergreifen, um ihren Verlauf zu beeinflussen und sie auf lange Sicht entweder erheblich abzuschwa¨chen oder sogar ganz zu u¨ber-

daß Gewohnheit (ethos) fu¨r Aristoteles eine Quasinatur (ho¯sper physis) ist (de memoria 2, 452a27 f., a¨hnlich rhet. 1370a6 f.). Natur, physis aber ist fu¨r Aristoteles nicht nur die unvera¨nderliche Wesensform, sondern wird auch wegen des etymologischen Zusammenhangs mit phyesthai (= wachsen) fu¨r ein Entstehen (genesis) gebraucht und bezeichnet so den Weg zur Wesensform (als Ziel) (phys. II 1, 193b12 f.). In der Gewohnheit liegt also durchaus ein dynamisches Moment der Entwicklung (vgl. Morel 1997). Sie ist sogar weniger festgelegt als die Natur, der sie a¨hnelt. Denn nach rhet. I 11, 1370a6 – 9 schließt nur die Natur ein, daß etwas immer oder ausnahmslos geschieht, die Gewohnheit fu¨hrt hingegen nur dazu, daß es oftmals (pollakis) eintritt. Ein auf Gewohnheit beruhender Charakter fu¨hrt also nicht unverbru¨chlich stets zu derselben Handlungsart. Eine Charaktera¨nderung (Besserung) la¨ßt sich konsistent bei Aristoteles annehmen, durchaus auch aus einem inneren Antrieb heraus, nicht bloß durch a¨ußeren Einfluß (so Anton 2006). Gewiß, der Charakter determiniert, welchen Zielen einer emotional zustrebt. Rational aber kann er auch bei einem noch verdorbenen Charakter bereits eine bessere Einsicht haben und diese kann den (inneren) Anstoß zur Charaktera¨nderung geben. – Mit der Mo¨glichkeit einer Charaktera¨nderung rechnen u. a. Siegler 1968: 286 f., Urmson 1988: 60 f., Guckes 2008: 192 – 194 u. die Anm. 13. zitierten Autoren.

272

Michael-Thomas Liske

winden. – Allein wenn wir diese Stelle so verstehen, ist sie konsistent zu den u¨brigen betrachteten.13

IV.

Das Verha¨ltnis charakterlicher Tugenden und rationaler Vermo¨gen

Die Frage, inwiefern uns eine einmal erworbene hexis unvera¨nderlich auf ein bestimmtes Verhalten festlegt, ha¨ngt sicher auch vom ontologischen Status der Tugend als hexis ab. Tugend ist als eine Entscheidungsdisposition (hexis prohairetike¯) definiert, uns fu¨r die mittlere, d. h. die uns in dieser Situation angemessene Handlungsoption zu entscheiden (NE II 6,1106b36 – 1107a2, vgl. Sek. I). Dass die Tugend unmittelbar eine Entscheidungsdisposition ist, schließt fu¨r Aristoteles nicht aus, sondern wohlverstanden ein, dass sie mittelbar auch eine Handlungsdisposition darstellt, der richtigen Entscheidung gema¨ß die entsprechende Handlungsart (indem wir exzessive Handlungsweisen vermeiden) in angemessenem Quantum zu verwirklichen. Dass sie auch Handlungsdisposition ist, la¨sst sich mehrfach begru¨nden. Zum einen manifestiert eine Entscheidung sich in einem fu¨r das Handeln ausschlaggebenden Streben (oregesthai kyrio¯s, H 5,1048a11 f.), verwirklicht sich also bei gegebenen Bedingungen im Handeln. Zum anderen ist die prohairesis das der Praxis eigentu¨mliche Prinzip (E 1,1025b22 – 24). In der Praxis ist das Wissen oder die Einsicht (was die in dieser Situation richtige Handlung ist) fu¨r Aristoteles nicht wie in der Theorie Selbstzweck, sondern hat zu einem Handeln zu fu¨hren. Da die Tugend auch eine Handlungsdisposition ist, fragt sich, wie sie zu der Unterscheidung der Aktivvermo¨gen in solche mit und solche ohne Logos steht (Met. H 2 und 5).14 Das eine Kriterium unterscheidet die beiden Vermo¨gen danach, in welchem Subjekt sie auftreten: Wa¨hrend die nicht-rationalen bei 13 Wie NE III 7 indeterministisch verstanden werden kann, zeigen Bondeson 1974 und di Muzio 2000, bes. S. 205 – 211. Bondeson argumentiert: Wenn Aristoteles die Verantwortung fu¨r den erworbenen Charakter mit dem (bei jedem außer dem ganz Abgestumpften vorhandenen) Wissen begru¨ndet, wiederholtes Handeln einer bestimmten Art fu¨hre zu einem entsprechenden Charakter (1114a9 f.), dann sei dies nur sinnvoll, wenn der etablierte Charakter wandelbar ist. Di Muzio weist auf, daß die behauptete Unmo¨glichkeit, nicht lasterhaft zu sein, angesichts des Kontextes bloß meint, daß es nicht mo¨glich ist, augenblicklich anders zu sein. Schon Joachim 1951: 106 hat betont: Man kann nicht auf einmal entgegengesetzt zu seinem in einer langen Entwicklung gereiften Charakter handeln. Bostock 2000: 117 sieht in der These, der Lasterhafte ko¨nne jetzt nicht mehr umhin, so zu handeln, eine Konzession an einen deterministischen Opponenten. Weil sie allta¨glichen Intuitionen wie Aristoteles’ sonstiger Auffassung widerstreite, sei sie nur argumenti causa gemacht und besser zuru¨ckzunehmen. 14 Na¨heres Liske 2007.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

273

Belebtem wie Unbelebtem vorkommen (1048a5), sind die rationalen Vermo¨gen an den vernu¨nftigen Seelenteil gebunden (1046a37-b1). Hiernach mu¨ssten die Tugenden rationale Vermo¨gen sein. Hiergegen ist mehreres einzuwenden15 : Zum einen greift der Anfang von H 2 mit ,derartige Prinzipien‘ (a36 f.) auf die Aktivprinzipien von H 1 zuru¨ck. Diese aber sind auf eine Außenwirkung ge¨ nderung zu richtet, in einem anderen (dem Tra¨ger des Passivvermo¨gens) eine A bewirken (a11). Das trifft nur auf die Kunstfertigkeiten zu, die darauf abzielen, u¨ber die Ta¨tigkeit hinaus in der Regel in einem anderen eine Zustandsa¨nderung zu bewirken, so dass daraus ein Produkt wird. Auch wenn die sittlichen Handlungen faktisch Folgen haben, besteht die praktische Betrachtungsweise fu¨r Aristoteles’ nicht-utilitaristische Sicht darin, menschliches Handeln (prattein) anders als handwerkliches Herstellen (poiein) nicht aus dem Erfolg (der Qualita¨t des Produkts), sondern aus sich heraus zu beurteilen. Das Gelingen der Handlung (eupraxia) ist Wert und Ziel in sich selbst (NE VI 5,1140b6 f.). Im Sinne der kine¯sis-energeia-Unterscheidung (Met. H 6,1048b18 – 36) verwirklicht sich eine Handlungsdisposition in einer immanenten Ta¨tigkeit (energeia); ein Aktivvermo¨gen demgegenu¨ber verursacht in einem anderen eine Vera¨nderung (kine¯sis). Als rationale Vermo¨gen, die eine Untergliederung aktiver Vermo¨gen ¨ ußeres sind, werden in H 2 daher Kunstfertigkeiten eingefu¨hrt, also Prinzipien, A zu vera¨ndern (1046b2 – 4). Zum anderen aber scheinen die Tugenden nach dem zweiten fu¨r H 2 (1046b4 – 24) wie H 5 zentralen Unterscheidungskriterium als rationale Vermo¨gen ausgeschlossen. Nicht-rationale Vermo¨gen seien eindeutig auf je eine Wirkung gerichtet, dasselbe rationale Vermo¨gen umfasse dagegen gegenteilige Wirkungen. Gemeinsam ist beiden Aktivvermo¨gen indes, dass sie aufgrund der Bestimmtheit (Form) wirken, die es in dem passiv Vermo¨genden zu bewirken gilt. Dadurch, dass diese Bestimmtheit (z. B. Wa¨rme) aktuell an einem Subjekt vorkommt, besitzt dieses ein naturales Vermo¨gen, d. h. ist dazu befa¨higt, diese Bestimmung in einem anderen fu¨r diese Bestimmung Aufnahmefa¨higen, also dem Tra¨ger des Passivvermo¨gens (hier dem Erwa¨rmbaren), zu bewirken und zwar nur diese Bestimmung und nicht zugleich die gegenteilige. Bei rationalen Vermo¨gen ist diese Bestimmung (eidos) als Logos gegeben. Mit ,Logos‘ ist die Definition der zu bewirkenden Bestimmung, z. B. der Gesundheit, gemeint, hier genauer die Kenntnis der Definition; denn das Wissen stellt sich als Logos dar (b7 f.). An sich richtet sich dieses definitorische Wissen auf die positive Bestimmung (b10 – 13). Denn definieren la¨sst sich nur etwas Bestimmtes. Be15 Viele Ausleger tendieren dahin, die Tugenden als Vermo¨gen sui generis zu betrachten, die weder als rationale noch als nicht rationale Vermo¨gen im Sinne der Aristotelischen Unterscheidung gelten ko¨nnen. So Hardie 1980: 100 – 102, Freeland 1982, Garver 1989, auch Hutchinson 1986: 36 f.

274

Michael-Thomas Liske

stimmt ist aber nur das positive eidos, z. B. Gesundheit, die in genau dem richtigen Verha¨ltnis der ausschlaggebenden Momente (fu¨r Aristoteles der Ko¨rpersa¨fte und Ko¨rperqualita¨ten) besteht. Die Privation der Krankheit demgegenu¨ber ist insofern unbestimmt, als sie in den grundsa¨tzlich beliebig vielen Graden einer mehr oder minder großen Abweichung von diesem Normzustand besteht. Sie ist daher nicht unmittelbar aus sich heraus wißbar. Indirekt (kata symbebe¯kos) jedoch richtet sich das definitorische Wissen der Gesundheit immer zugleich auf die Ausfallerscheinung, vermag mittelbar stets auch die Krankheit durch ein mehr oder minder starkes Ausbleiben der die Gesundheit konstituierenden Merkmale zu erkla¨ren (b12 – 14). Weil aber dieses ambivalente Wissen in einer Seele auftritt, die in sich das Prinzip der Vera¨nderung hat (21), d. h. weil es sich mit anderen mentalen Vermo¨gen, namentlich denen des Wollens und Strebens verbindet, die auf ein Hervorbringen gerichtet sind, bedeutet das Erkla¨renko¨nnen von Gegenteiligem immer auch: Gegensa¨tze bewirken ko¨nnen. H 5 greift die Unterscheidung der offenen rationalen von den eindeutig gerichteten nicht-rationalen Vermo¨gen wieder auf und bezieht sie auf die Thematik, unter welchen Bedingungen ein Vermo¨gen realisiert wird (1048a5 – 16): Wenn ein nicht-rationales Aktivvermo¨gen auf ein korrespondierendes Passivvermo¨gen trifft unter Bedingungen, fu¨r die sie als wirkfa¨hig definiert sind (6 f.), kommt es unausweichlich zu einem Wirken. Ein rationales Aktivvermo¨gen hingegen ko¨nnte auch in dieser Situation Gegenteiliges hervorbringen. Da aber Gegenteiliges nicht gleichzeitig wirklich werden kann, kann es noch nicht zu einem Wirken kommen, sondern es muss etwas Weiteres als ausschlaggebendes Moment (kyrion, 10) hinzutreten: eine Entscheidung (prohairesis) und ein Streben (orexis) (11), das die Offenheit des rationalen Vermo¨gens auf eine eindeutige Richtung festlegt und so sein Wirken ermo¨glicht. Dieses Streben ist kein u¨ber die Entscheidung hinausgehendes, sondern ein ihr innewohnendes Moment, das sie handlungswirksam macht, wie aus der Definition der Entscheidung als ein aus einem Zurategehen entspringendes Streben (orexis bouleutike¯)16 erhellt. Um die Eigenart der charakterlichen Tu¨chtigkeiten (e¯thikai aretai) gegenu¨ber den technischen Fertigkeiten als den paradigmatischen rationalen Vermo¨gen festzustellen, ist das unterschiedliche Verha¨ltnis beider zur Entscheidung maßgeblich. Weil die handwerklich-ku¨nstlerischen Vermo¨gen als operationelle Fertigkeiten, ihren Gegenstand sachgerecht herzustellen, einschließlich der darin vorausgesetzten definitorischen Kenntnis des zu Bewirkenden wertneutral 16 NE VI 2,1139a23. In der anschließenden Ero¨rterung bestimmt Aristoteles das kognitive Element der Entscheidung als Vernunfteinsicht (nous), Nachdenken (dianoia) oder Logos, genauer als die auf das (angenommene Gute als) Ziel gerichtete praktische Vernunft (a 32 f., a36). Zu 1139a31-b5 vgl. Reeve 1992: 88 – 91.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

275

sind, lassen sie sich genausogut zu ihrer eigentlichen Bestimmung oder dem sittlich hochwertigen Ziel (gesund zu machen) gebrauchen wie zu dem gegenteiligen verwerflichen Zweck missbrauchen. Daher muss die sittliche Entscheidung, die dem aus sich heraus ambivalenten Vermo¨gen eine eindeutige Ausrichtung verleiht und es dadurch erst wirkfa¨hig macht, als zusa¨tzliches Moment von außen zu dem technischen Ko¨nnen hinzutreten. Bei den Tugenden als Dispositionen zu einer Entscheidung fu¨r das jeweils Angemessene ist die sittliche Entscheidung dagegen nichts u¨ber sie Hinausgehendes, sondern wesentlich mit ihnen verbunden. Entsprechendes gilt fu¨r das Laster, das dazu disponiert, ¨ bermaß oder ein Zuwenig zu entscheiden. Dies bedeutet jedoch sich fu¨r ein U keinen ausschließenden Gegensatz der Tugenden als festgelegter Entscheidungsdispositionen zu den an sich offenen rationalen Vermo¨gen. Denn ein Entscheiden beruht stets auf einem Zurategehen (bouleuesthai). Ein solches Abwa¨gen von Gru¨nden ist aber jedenfalls fu¨r Aristoteles (wie wir in VI na¨her sehen werden) nur angesichts offener Alternativen sinnvoll, wenn nicht bloß von der Sache her, sondern auch fu¨r den Handelnden mehrere Optionen offen stehen. Die fu¨r ein rationales Vermo¨gen konstitutive Offenheit muss also erhalten bleiben. Daher ist angemessener, von verschiedenen Entfaltungsstufen eines rationalen Vermo¨gens auszugehen. Bei technischen Fertigkeiten liegt das rationale Vermo¨gen als solches in der ihm eigenen Offenheit vor. Zu ihm muss daher, soll es wirksam werden, die Entscheidung hinzutreten. Die Tugend hat diese zum Wirksamwerden eines rationalen Vermo¨gens unerla¨ssliche Entscheidung dagegen integriert, zwar nicht die konkrete Einzelentscheidung, wohl aber deren Grundausrichtung. Die Rede von Entfaltungsstufen sollte nicht diachron verstanden werden: Die Tugend ist nicht aus einem zuna¨chst offenen rationalen Vermo¨gen hervorgegangen, indem die dem rationalen Vermo¨gen eigene Offenheit in der weiteren Entwicklung verlorengegangen ist und sich zur eindeutigen Ausrichtung der Entscheidungsdisposition verfestigt hat. Vielmehr entha¨lt die Tugend in der Gleichzeitigkeit als konstituierendes Moment das offene rationale Vermo¨gen und erweitert es um die sittliche Grundausrichtung der Disposition des Entscheidens. Diese Vermutung, dass Tugenden als (um die sittliche Grundausrichtung der Entscheidung) erweiterte rationale Vermo¨gen mit den technai als gewo¨hnlichen rationalen Vermo¨gen zusammenha¨ngen, wollen wir erha¨rten, indem wir wichtige strukturelle Entsprechungen zwischen beiden aufzeigen (V). Abschließend (VI) wollen wir die fu¨r unser Thema einer angeblichen ethischen Determination wichtige Frage ero¨rtern: Wie weit nimmt Aristoteles die Entscheidung im Rahmen einer sittlichen Grundhaltung als determiniert an, schließt bei ihr folglich ein relevantes Wa¨hlenko¨nnen und damit eine Vera¨nderung des Charakters aus? Zuvor mu¨ssen wir noch den grundsa¨tzlichen Einwand auflo¨sen, Tugenden

276

Michael-Thomas Liske

du¨rften gar nicht als Vermo¨gen betrachtet werden.17 Denn im Rahmen seiner Dreiteilung der seelischen Faktoren in Leidenschaften oder Emotionen (pathe¯), Vermo¨gen (dynameis) und Grundhaltungen (hexeis) klassifiziert Aristoteles die Tugend als hexis (NE II 4, 1105b19 – 1106a13). Vermo¨gen versteht er hier als die natu¨rlichen (vgl. physei, a9) Anlagen, kraft deren wir dafu¨r empfa¨nglich sind, Emotionen zu erfahren (pathe¯tikoi, b24). Gegenu¨ber diesen passiven Anlagen versteht er die erworbenen Grundhaltungen aktiv als die Dispositionen, uns entweder gut (angemessen) oder schlecht (unangemessen) den Emotionen gegenu¨ber zu verhalten (b25 f.).18 Offenkundig legt Aristoteles in diesem Kontext eine spezielle Bedeutung von dynamis (als Naturanlage zu einem Erleiden) zugrunde gegenu¨ber dem viel weiteren Versta¨ndnis anderswo. Die hier vom Vermo¨gen geforderten Merkmale (natu¨rlich, passiv) erfu¨llen auch die Kunstfertigkeiten nicht, Aristoteles’ paradigmatische Fa¨lle rationaler Vermo¨gen. Die Art, wie hier ,dynamis‘ verwendet ist, ist fu¨r unsere Frage mithin schlicht irrelevant.

V.

Strukturelle Parallelen zwischen Kunstfertigkeiten als rationalen Vermo¨gen im engeren Sinn und charakterlichen Tu¨chtigkeiten

Eine wichtige Entsprechung der technai zu den Tugenden ergibt sich daraus, dass auch die Kunstfertigkeiten in unserer Alltagswirklichkeit nicht als wertneutrale, aus sich heraus ambivalente, bloß operationelle Fertigkeiten, sondern als Berufe auftreten und damit aufgrund des Berufsethos wie Tugenden mit einer sittlichen Grundausrichtung oder zumindest einer bestimmten Zielausrichtung verbunden sind. So mu¨ssen in NE III 5,1112b11 – 16 die Beispiele (13 f.) verstanden werden. Allein wenn bei den hier erwa¨hnten Inhabern einer techne¯ (Arzt usw.) eine solche Grundausrichtung angenommen wird, wird die an diesen Beispielen erla¨uterte These, dass wir nicht u¨ber Ziele zu Rate gehen, sondern nur u¨ber die von uns unmittelbar realisierbaren Mittel, mit der in H 2 und 5 implizierten Auffassung vereinbar : Der fu¨r Gegenteiliges offene Logos ist ein definitorisches Verstehen des von uns zu bewirkenden Zieles. Nun muss sich die Entscheidung, die nach H 5 unerla¨sslich ist, um den von sich aus offenen Logos auf eines festzulegen und damit wirkfa¨hig zu machen, auf den Inhalt des Logos, also das Ziel beziehen; dasselbe gilt von dem Zurategehen, aus dem die Entscheidung erwa¨chst. Hiernach gehen wir doch u¨ber alternative Ziele zu Rate. 17 Jansen 2002: 89 – 91, schon Joachim 1951: 72 f. 18 Da das Steuern von Emotionen unbestreitbar aktiv ist, ist die Auffassung von Kosman 1980: v. a. 106 f. wenig plausibel, Tugend bestehe in einem Passivvermo¨gen, sich von Emotionen in rechter Weise affizieren zu lassen.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

277

In H 2 wird zwar nicht ausdru¨cklich die allgemeine These aufgestellt, dass der Logos ein definitorisches Wissen des Zieles sei; aber am Beispiel erkla¨rt Aristoteles eindeutig: Die Arztkunst bezieht sich auf Krankheit und Gesundheit (1046b7), die das Ziel a¨rztlichen Handelns ist. Mit der Aussage, derselbe Logos erkla¨re den positiven Sachverhalt (pragma) und sein Ausbleiben (stere¯sis) (8 f.), ist also klar der positive Zustand (wie die Gesundheit) gemeint, den die Kunstfertigkeit zu ihrem Ziel hat, sowie dessen negative Entsprechung. Denn das Tun, zu dem das technische Wissen (episte¯me¯) oder das mit Logos verbundene (technische) Ko¨nnen (dynamis meta logou, 1046b2 f., 5, 1048a3) disponiert, ist wie jedes bewusste menschliche Handeln zielbewusst, ist also von dem Ziel her, auf das es gerichtet ist, definiert und muss damit teleologisch vom Ziel her verstanden und bestimmt werden. Der Logos, auf dem dieses Vermo¨gen beruht, ist also ein Logos des Zieles. Um u¨ber die gegenteiligen Optionen entscheiden zu ko¨nnen, die der Logos umfasst, muss ich also u¨ber gegensa¨tzliche mo¨gliche Ziele zu Rate gehen. Die Gegenseite braucht hingegen nicht interpretatorisch erschlossen zu werden, sondern wird in NE III 5 mit aller wu¨nschenswerten Deutlichkeit ausgesprochen: (T5) „Wir gehen nicht u¨ber die Ziele zu Rate, sondern u¨ber die Mittel zu den Zielen (ta pros ta tele¯). Nicht na¨mlich geht der Arzt zu Rate, ob er gesund machen soll, nicht der Redner, ob er u¨berzeugen soll (peisei), nicht der Staatsmann, ob er eine gute gesetzliche Ordnung schaffen soll, und auch keiner der u¨brigen geht u¨ber das Ziel zu Rate. Sondern indem sie das Ziel als gegeben ansetzen (themenoi), erwa¨gen sie das Wie (po¯s) und wodurch es sich einstellen wird (dia tino¯n estai).“ (1112b11 – 16)19 Auflo¨sen la¨sst sich die Spannung zwischen dem Ansatz in H 2 und 5 und dem in NE III 5, wenn wir zwei Weisen differenzieren, eine Kunst (wie die Arzt-, Rede- oder Staatskunst) zu verstehen, Verwendungsweisen, die sich durchaus auch im allta¨glichen Sprachgebrauch nachweisen lassen. Zum einen ko¨nnen wir sie unter dem rein technischen Gesichtspunkt einer operationellen Geschicklichkeit betrachten, die als wertneutral beliebigen Zielen dienstbar gemacht werden kann, d. h. ein verwerfliches Ziel technisch ebenso perfekt und effektiv zu realisieren vermag wie ein sittlich hochwertiges. Das fachliche Wissen und Ko¨nnen erlaubt dem Arzt ebensowohl treffsicher zu heilen wie effektiv und doch unbemerkt krank zu machen oder gar zu to¨ten. Aufgrund seiner rhetorischen Mittel vermag ein Redner ebensowohl zu u¨berzeugen und zu u¨berreden (beides kann mit ,peithein‘ gemeint sein) als auch (wenn er etwa gezwungen ist, etwas in seiner Rede zu empfehlen, was er ablehnt) nur dem a¨ußeren Schein nach etwas nahezubringen, in Wahrheit aber statt ¨ berzeugung Zweifel zu evozieren, ohne dass ihm dies nachzuweisen wa¨re. Wer U die psychologischen, verwaltungstechnischen etc. Kunstgriffe beherrscht, 19 Vgl. Tonietto 2008: 1.5, 50 – 54.

278

Michael-Thomas Liske

Menschen im Staat zu lenken, kann damit ebensowohl eine gute, gesetzliche staatliche Ordnung (eunomia) schaffen und erhalten, wie umgekehrt, Aufruhr und Chaos hervorrufen. Zum anderen aber ko¨nnen wir mit einer Kunst auch eine nicht zur Disposition stehende Aufgabe und (Ziel)bestimmung verbinden, das technische Wissen ausschließlich zu einem sittlich hochwertigen Ziel einzusetzen. So nehmen wir an, Arzt oder Staatsmann seien von ihrem Berufs- oder Standesethos dazu verpflichtet, nach bestem Wissen und Ko¨nnen dem Leben und der Gesundheit des Patienten zu dienen bzw. durch gute gesetzliche Regelungen ein gedeihliches Zusammenleben der Staatsbu¨rger zu ermo¨glichen. Wa¨hrend dies eher eigentliche Ziele sind, die um ihrer selbst willen wa¨hlenswert sind, weil ihr Bewirken etwas sittlich Hochwertiges darstellt, ist es zwar auch ein ¨ berzeugung schafft; da dies in sich erstrebenswertes Ziel, wenn der Redner U jedoch in der Regel als Mittel zu weitergehenden Zielen eingesetzt wird, kann es nur als Teilziel gelten (zu dieser Differenzierung der Ziele vgl. NE I 5, 1097a30 – ¨ berreden und U ¨ berzeugen ambi34).20 Hier geht es indes nicht darum, dass U valent zu gegensa¨tzlichen Zielen eingesetzt werden ko¨nnen, sondern dass der Rhetor von seiner Standespflicht auf sie als Ziel festgelegt ist. Damit vermo¨gen wir die Entsprechung wie den Unterschied der technai als rationaler Vermo¨gen gegenu¨ber den Charaktertugenden scha¨rfer herauszuarbeiten. Technische Fertigkeiten lassen sich legitimerweise auf den Gesichtspunkt einer operationellen Geschicklichkeit reduzieren.21 Allein so betrachtet sind sie rationale Vermo¨gen im Sinne von H 2 und 5, die zu gegensa¨tzlichen Zielen gebraucht werden ko¨nnen. Fu¨r die Tugend als eine Haltung, die zu Entscheidungen einer sittlichen Grundausrichtung disponiert, ist die eindeutige Ausrichtung der Entscheidung auf ein sittliches Ziel essentiell; anders als bei der techne¯ du¨rfen wir bei der Tugend von ihr nicht berechtigt absehen. Wa¨hrend bei der techne¯ die Handlungskompetenz im Vordergrund steht, die zur Herstellung eines Produkts erforderlichen Verrichtungen fachgerecht und wirkungsvoll ausfu¨hren zu ko¨nnen, stellt die arete¯ zuna¨chst einmal eine Entscheidungskompetenz dar, die dem Handelnden in dieser Situation angemessene mittlere 20 Nach NE VI 2, 1139b1 – 4 ist das technische Denken deshalb der praktischen Vernunft untergeordnet, weil es kein Ziel schlechthin (haplo¯s) hat, wie es die Praxis im rechten Handeln oder Glu¨cken (beides: eupraxia) besitzt, sondern nur ein relatives Ziel (pros ti), d. h. ein Teilziel und nur ein spezielles Ziel fu¨r einen bestimmten Stand (tinos), das im Unterschied zum sittlichen Ziel kein Ziel des Menschen als Menschen ist. Vgl. Kenny 1979: 95 f. Technische Ziele sind also generell keine Letztziele. Aber der Grad, in dem sie Ziele sind, also sich dem Letztziel anna¨hern, differiert in den Beispielen Arzt und Politiker gegenu¨ber dem Redner bedeutsam. 21 Sherman 1989: 175 und 1999: 245 artikuliert den Unterschied so: Wa¨hrend wir beim Erwerb einer Kunstfertigkeit ein bestimmtes Handlungsmuster ausu¨ben, lernen wir, um tugendhaft zu werden, auf die Umsta¨nde zu reagieren und so (angemessen) u¨ber die Handlungsweise zu entscheiden.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

279

Handlungsoption erwa¨hlen zu ko¨nnen. Um aber solche angemessenen Entscheidungen treffen zu ko¨nnen, bedarf es ha¨ufig auch eines einschla¨gigen operationellen Wissens und Ko¨nnens, also der entsprechenden Handlungskompetenz. Dies ko¨nnen wir uns an Aristotelischen Tugenden wie Tapferkeit, Gerechtigkeit oder Großzu¨gigkeit verdeutlichen. Wer sich tapfer fu¨r das entscheiden soll, was er in einer Gefahrensituation vernu¨nftigerweise wagen kann, muss nicht nur mit seinen Emotionen Wagemut und Angst richtig umgehen, er hat auch strategisches und taktisches Wissen, also milita¨rische Handlungskompetenz, no¨tig. Oder die Tugend der Gerechtigkeit verlangt vom Richter, damit er jedem Misseta¨ter das Seine, die ihm gebu¨hrende Strafe zuweisen kann, psychologisches Wissen und Ko¨nnen beim Ergru¨nden des Tatmotivs, die nicht una¨hnlich sind der Fachkunde, die ein Mediziner bei der Diagnose braucht, um rein ko¨rperliche von psychosomatischen Sto¨rungen unterscheiden zu ko¨nnen. Oder um angemessen großzu¨gig sein zu ko¨nnen, bedarf es eines wirtschaftlichen Wissens und Ko¨nnens, damit das Vermo¨gen nicht schnell verschleudert ist, sondern lange Zeit fu¨r sinnvolle Anliegen erhalten oder gar gemehrt wird. Tugenden bauen durchaus auf einem operationellen Wissen auf, das fu¨r sich genommen ein ambivalentes rationales Vermo¨gen ist, und erweitern es um eine eindeutig gerichtete sittliche Entscheidungskompetenz. Umgekehrt lassen auch technai sich nicht auf beliebig anwendbare operationelle Geschicklichkeiten reduzieren, was eine abstrahierende Betrachtungsweise darstellt. Vielmehr ist in der Realita¨t zumeist das an sich wertneutrale technische Ko¨nnen mit einer durch das Berufsethos vorgegebenen eindeutigen Zielausrichtung verbunden. Tugenden und technai ko¨nnen also beide als grundsta¨ndig rationale Vermo¨gen aufgefasst werden, die durch die eindeutige Grundausrichtung der Entscheidung erweitert sind zur Tugend oder z. B. zu dem durch den hippokratischen Eid verpflichteten a¨rztlichen Ethos. Von hier aus erkla¨rt sich, dass es durchaus ¨ berga¨nge etwa von der verantwortlich ausgeu¨bten Arztkunst kontinuierliche U zur Gerechtigkeit des Richters gibt. Diese Parallele, dass Kunstfertigkeiten in der Lebenswirklichkeit vielfach als Berufe auftreten, daher durch das Berufsethos auf ein Ziel festgelegt sind und somit wie die aretai um eine sittliche Zielausrichtung der Entscheidung erweiterte rationale Vermo¨gen sind, hat eine Grundlage in einer parallelen Entstehung beider. Schon in Sekt. I haben wir gesehen, dass Aristoteles in Met. H 8 und NE II 3 parallel bezu¨glich der Kunstfertigkeiten und der Tugenden einen Zirkel formuliert, der angesichts des Erwerbs des Vermo¨gens durch einschla¨gige Beta¨tigungen droht. Beachtenswert ist hier der Anfang von H 5 (1047b31 – 35), wo Aristoteles den naturgegebenen, angeborenen Vermo¨gen (exemplifiziert durch Wahrnehmungen) die Vermo¨gen entgegenstellt, die wir (wie das Flo¨tenspiel) ¨ bung und Gewo¨hnung (ethos) oder (wie die Kunstfertigkeiten) durch durch U bewusstes Erlernen (mathe¯sis) erworben haben. Wir du¨rfen die hier unter-

280

Michael-Thomas Liske

schiedenen angeborenen natu¨rlichen Vermo¨gen und die erworbenen, bei denen man zuerst wiederholt die einschla¨gige Ta¨tigkeit ausu¨ben muss, um so in den Besitz des Vermo¨gens zu gelangen (33 f.), das einen zur vollkommenen Beta¨tigung disponiert, wohl mit den hernach (ab 35) unterschiedenen nicht-rationalen und rationalen Vermo¨gen gleichsetzen. Dass Aristoteles bruchlos vom einen zum anderen Unterschied u¨bergeht, legt nahe: Es geht um dieselben beiden Vermo¨gen, von denen er zuerst die unterschiedliche Art, wie wir zu ihnen gelangen, und dann die unterschiedlichen Bedingungen behandelt, unter denen sie verwirklicht oder beta¨tigt werden. Der wohl gewichtigste Einwand gegen eine solche Gleichsetzung ist: Die Aneignung eines Vermo¨gens durch Gewo¨hnung (ethei) la¨sst sich weder eindeutig den rationalen noch den nicht-rationalen Vermo¨gen zuordnen, so dass Aristoteles beim ersten Durchgang zu einer Dreiteilung gelangt (31 – 33). Gewiß reduziert er diese beim zweiten Durchgang zu einer Zweiheit von Vermo¨gen, na¨mlich solche, die wir vorher beta¨tigt haben mu¨ssen, die wir also durch Einu¨bung und Gewo¨hnung (ethei) oder durch begriffliches Verstehen (logo¯i) erworben haben mu¨ssen, und solche, bei denen ein derartiger Erwerb nicht no¨tig ist (weil sie naturgegeben sind) (33 – 35). Hiernach scheinen Gewo¨hnung und begriffliches Verstehen zwei komplementa¨re Momente zu sein, die sich beim bewussten Erwerb einer Ta¨tigkeit erga¨nzen. Die Beispiele besta¨tigen dies: Beim Erlernen des Flo¨tenspiels (Beispiel fu¨r Gewo¨hnung) sind neben umfangreichem ¨ ben auch Erkla¨rungen des Lehrers fo¨rderlich, die mir versta¨ndlich machen, U was das meisterhafte Flo¨tenspiel ausmacht. Wenn ich ein Handwerk erlerne (Beispiel fu¨r rationales Erlernen), sind nicht nur Kenntnisse daru¨ber erforderlich, was der herzustellende Gegenstand ist und welches die Methoden seiner kunstgerechten Produktion sind; vielmehr bedarf es auch (je nach Fach) mehr ¨ bungen, in denen ich mir die zum Herstellen oder minder umfangreicher U erforderlichen operationellen Geschicklichkeiten angewo¨hne. Zum bewussten Vermo¨genserwerb sind wohl stets beide Faktoren, begriffliches Verstehen und Eingewo¨hnen (Einu¨ben), erforderlich und nur graduell in den einzelnen Bereichen verschieden gewichtet. Je nach vorherrschendem Moment mag ich dann sagen, es sei durch Logos oder durch Gewo¨hnung erworben. Gewiß gibt es Beispiele einer Gewo¨hnung (wie die Dressur), die auch bei Tieren, also Lebewesen ohne Logos, mo¨glich ist. Aber auch diese Fa¨lle no¨tigen uns nicht, eine Dreiteilung anzunehmen: So wie Gewo¨hnung bei den bisher betrachteten Fa¨llen das verstehende Erlernen unterstu¨tzt, kann sie in anderen Fa¨llen die Ausbildung naturaler Vermo¨gen fo¨rdern. Die spezifische Fortbewegungsform der einzelnen Tierarten durch Laufen, Hu¨pfen, Kriechen, Watscheln, Schwimmen, Fliegen etc. ist sicher angeboren. Dennoch ko¨nnen die Jungen mancher Tierarten sie nicht gleich von Geburt an ausfu¨hren, sondern mu¨ssen sie einu¨ben. Gewo¨hnung ist

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

281

also keine eigene Art, sich Vermo¨gen anzueignen, sondern unterstu¨tzt entweder den rational erlernenden Vermo¨genserwerb oder baut Angeborenes aus. Damit legt sich nahe, die Aneignung eines Vermo¨gens und die anschließende Ausu¨bung jeweils mit oder ohne Logos zusammenzubringen. Der Logos, der fu¨r die bewusste Aneignung des Vermo¨gens maßgeblich ist, ist sicher zuna¨chst ein begriffliches Verstehen des zu erwerbenden Vermo¨gens. Aber weil ein Vermo¨gen als Relativbegriff (Vermo¨gen zu) von seinem Ziel her bestimmt ist, wozu es das Vermo¨gen ist, schließt dieses Wissen um das Vermo¨gen auch die Beta¨tigung und das aus ihr resultierende Produkt ein. Wenn ich mir ein handwerkliches Wissen und Ko¨nnen durch Logos aneigne, besitze ich also auch ein begriffliches (definitorisches) Verstehen des herzustellenden Produkts und der zu seiner kunstgerechten Herstellung erforderlichen Schritte. Daher kann der wissende Technit den Herstellungsprozeß rational (durch Logos) kontrollieren und aufgrund seines Wissens verbessern. Denn anders als der bloß Erfahrene, dessen richtiges ¨ bung und Erfahrung beruht, kann der Vorgehen bei der Herstellung auf reiner U wissende Technit jeden Schritt vom Begriff des Ziels aus rational begru¨nden und erkla¨ren (zum Vergleich Empirie-techne¯ s. Met. A 1,981a12 – b6). Dies zeigt: Rationale Aneignung eines Vermo¨gens und rational gesteuerte Ausu¨bung, die das Vermo¨gen auch zum Gegenteil einsetzen kann, bedingen sich. In beidem, der rationalen Aneignung und rational kontrollierten Ausu¨bung, stimmen Tugenden und Kunstfertigkeiten u¨berein. Dies wird aus NE II 1,1103a26 – b25 deutlich, wo das zu Beginn von H 5 Gesagte na¨her ausgefu¨hrt wird. Die angeborenen Vermo¨gen werden als von Natur aus (physei) uns zuwachsend beschrieben und wie in H 5 an den Wahrnehmungen exemplifiziert. Sie sind dadurch gekennzeichnet, dass der Besitz des Vermo¨gens seiner Beta¨tigung oder dem Gebrauch (chre¯sthai) voraufliegen muss. Dem stehen die Tugenden gleichermaßen wie die Kunstfertigkeiten als Dispositionen gegenu¨ber, die wir uns dadurch aneignen, dass wir zuvor schon die einschla¨gigen Ta¨tigkeiten vollbringen. Dadurch ha¨ngen beide so eng zusammen, dass Aristoteles die Tugenden in dieser Hinsicht als eine Art Kunstfertigkeit neben den u¨brigen Kunstfertigkeiten (den handwerklich ku¨nstlerischen Geschicklichkeiten im engeren Sinn) betrachten kann (a31 f.): „Die Tugenden aber erwerben wir, indem wir sie zuvor beta¨tigen, wie es auch bei den u¨brigen Kunstfertigkeiten (epi to¯n allo¯n techno¯n) der Fall ist.“ So nennt Aristoteles unterschiedslos aus beiden Bereichen Beispiele dafu¨r, dass der Gebrauch dem Vermo¨gensbesitz voraufliegt: Haus bauen, Kithara spielen; Gerechtes, Besonnenes oder Tapferes tun. – Damit zusammenha¨ngend weisen Tugenden und Kunstfertigkeiten eine weitere Gemeinsamkeit auf: Beide Bereiche stehen in der Wertdifferenz einer hoch- und einer minderwertigen Haltung: Tugend – Laster, Meisterschaft – Stu¨mperei. Daher kommt es beim Einu¨ben der hexis zentral darauf an, eventuell unter Anleitung eines Lehrers so fru¨h wie mo¨glich wiederholt einzelne Ta¨tigkeiten von

282

Michael-Thomas Liske

der erforderlichen Qualita¨t zu vollbringen als Voraussetzung, die hochwertige ¨ bung hier zur technischen hexis zu gewinnen (b6 – 25). Freilich fu¨hrt die U Meisterschaft, die an sich wertneutral zu perfektem Operieren befa¨higt, dort zu der fu¨r die Tugend konstitutiven Charakterfestigkeit, sich ohne Schwanken fu¨r das hochwertige Ziel zu entscheiden.

VI.

Inwiefern la¨sst eine Disposition zu Entscheidungen uns einen Spielraum freier Gestaltung?

In H 5 ko¨nnte der Eindruck entstehen, als vertrete Aristoteles auch bezu¨glich der rationalen Vermo¨gen eine dezidiert deterministische Position. Der Unterschied der rationalen zu den nicht-rationalen Vermo¨gen sei nicht der von Indetermination und Determination, sondern nur, dass es bei den rationalen Vermo¨gen zur Determination eines zusa¨tzlichen Moments bedarf, eines Strebens, in dem sich eine Entscheidung manifestiert. Ein nicht-rationales Aktivvermo¨gen bewirkt unfehlbar etwas Bestimmtes, wenn es auf das korrespondierende Passivvermo¨gen trifft unter Bedingungen, fu¨r die sein Wirken bzw. sein Erleiden definiert ist (1048a5 – 7). In einer solchen Situation kann ein rationales Vermo¨gen noch nicht beta¨tigt werden, weil es angesichts seiner Offenheit fu¨r Kontra¨res Gegenteiliges bewirken mu¨sste, was unmo¨glich ist (7 – 10). Daher bedarf es zu seinem Wirksamwerden eines zusa¨tzlichen ausschlaggebenden Faktors (kyrion, 10), der Entscheidung und eines Strebens. Ist dieser gegeben, ist die Wirkung offenbar ebenso unausweichlich festgelegt wie bei nicht-rationalen Vermo¨gen. Was ein rational Handelnder nicht bloß unverbindlich wu¨nscht, wonach er vielmehr ernstlich und damit handlungsentscheidend (kyrio¯s) strebt, das wirkt er, wenn er unter angemessenen Randbedingungen auf einen Gegenstand trifft, der seine Wirkung zu erleiden vermag (11 – 13). Aristoteles spricht hier ausdru¨cklich von Notwendigkeit: „Alles aufgrund eines begrifflichen Verstehens (logos) Vermo¨gende bewirkt, wenn es nach dem strebt, wozu es das Vermo¨gen hat, und in einer Weise, wie es vermag, das Erstrebte notwendig (ananke¯).“ (13 – 15) Wenn die Wirkung bei dieser Konstellation nicht zustande kommt, ist gar kein Vermo¨gen zu wirken gegeben (16). Hier scheint Aristoteles nicht bloß eine psychologisch-ethische Determination (durch Entscheidung und Streben), sondern einen eigentlichen metaphysischen Determinismus anzunehmen. Dieser tritt bei ihm freilich nicht in der heute gela¨ufigen Gestalt eines kausalen Determinismus22 auf. Rechnet Aristo22 In der Forschungsliteratur geht man, sofern man bei Aristoteles nicht bloß eine ethischpsychologische Determination sieht, sondern diese in einem metaphysischen Determinismus begru¨ndet glaubt, zumeist doch von einer kausalen Determination aus. Dies la¨ßt sich

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

283

teles doch damit, dass in sich kausal zusammenha¨ngende und daher determinierte Ereignisreihen zufa¨llig zusammenstoßen und dass dieser Zufall als akzidentelle Ursache (kata symbebe¯kos aition, E 3,1027a32) den weiteren Geschehensablauf bewirkt. Vielmehr vertritt Aristoteles hier offenbar die restlose Determination durch eine Totalmo¨glichkeit23. Diese Konzeption legt Aristoteles in der Parenthese 16 – 21 zugrunde, um zu begru¨nden: Man braucht die Verwirklichung der einander entsprechenden Vermo¨gen, wenn sie unter geeigneten Bedingungen aufeinandertreffen, nicht von der zusa¨tzlichen Voraussetzung abha¨ngig zu machen, kein a¨ußeres Moment verhindere sie. Dies ergibt sich aus dem Begriff des Vermo¨gens, wenn man es im Sinne einer Totalmo¨glichkeit versteht, die alle denkbaren Hindernisse ausschließt. „Denn das Vermo¨gen besitzt er in der Form, dass es ein Vermo¨gen des Wirkens ist (dynamis tou poiein)“ (17 f.), d. h. ein Vermo¨gen, das auf jeden Fall zu einer Wirkung fu¨hrt. Dies aber ist ein Vermo¨gen nicht unter allen Umsta¨nden (panto¯s), sondern nur unter ganz bestimmten Bedingungen (echonto¯n po¯s) (18 f.): Ein Vermo¨gen muss so vollsta¨ndig durch Bedingungen definiert sein, dass in diesen Bedingungen fu¨r das Vorliegen des Vermo¨gens alle denkbaren a¨ußeren Hindernisse eines Wirksam-

dann rechtfertigen, wenn man Aristoteles keinen eigentlichen Determinismus unterstellt, der durch das Postulat einer lu¨ckenlosen kausalen Determination definiert ist, sondern nur eine so weitgehende Determination, daß dadurch Freiheit in dem pra¨gnanten Sinne (etwa Kants) ausgeschlossen ist, spontan oder kausal unbedingt eine neue Handlungs- oder Ereignisreihe in Gang setzen zu ko¨nnen. Ein solches spontanes Handeln ist dann nicht mo¨glich, wenn menschliches Handeln in lu¨ckenlos in sich zusammenha¨ngende Kausalreihen eingebunden ist. Denn auch wenn Aristoteles Zufall in Gestalt eines kausal nicht vorherbestimmten Zusammenstoßes zweier solcher Ereignisreihen zula¨ßt, ist dies fu¨r die Mo¨glichkeit des Menschen irrelevant, urspru¨nglich aus sich heraus einen neuen Geschehensablauf initiieren zu ko¨nnen. Denn ein solches zufa¨lliges Zusammenstoßen kann ein Mensch auch dann nicht absichtsvoll herbeifu¨hren, wenn es zu einem erstrebenswerten Resultat fu¨hrt, das er (alternativ) aufgrund bewußter Entscheidung bewirken ko¨nnte. Als einen derartigen Gegenstand mo¨glicher Entscheidung (prohaireton) zeichnet Aristoteles das zufa¨llig sich Fu¨gende (apo tyche¯s) innerhalb des spontan Zustandekommenden (apo tou automatou) aus (phys. II 6, 197b21 f.). Die heute verbreitete Auffassung, obgleich Aristoteles das lebensweltlich indeterministische Versta¨ndnis menschlichen Handelns zu wahren und zu verteidigen suche, fu¨hre seine Ontologie zur Annahme einer Determination, geht auf Loening 1903 zuru¨ck, der etwa S. 282 f. betont, Aristoteles’ Begriff heko¯n habe mit einer kausalen Unbedingtheit menschlichen Wollens nichts zu tun. Vertreten wird sie etwa von Everson 1990, Sauve´ Meyer 1993, z. B. Kap. 6, z. T. von Engberg-Pedersen 1983: Kap. 9. Jedan 2000 versucht Kap. 9 – 15 aufzuweisen, indem er die handlungsbedingenden Vermo¨gen durchgeht: der Mensch sei aufgrund keiner seiner mentalen Prozesse ein unbewegt Bewegendes, das in seinem Handeln spontan eine neue Ereignisreihe beginnen ko¨nne. Diese deterministischen Interpretationen versuchen durchweg kompatibilistisch die Rede von Freiheit und Verantwortung (in einem eingeschra¨nkten Sinne) als berechtigt, sowie die Praktiken des Lobes und Tadels als sinnvoll zu erweisen. 23 Vgl. Seel 1982, bes. 305 – 307.

284

Michael-Thomas Liske

werdens ausgeschlossen sind (19 – 21). Wenn das so definierte Vermo¨gen vorliegt, dann muss es wirklich werden. Nun zeigt der wenn-dann-Satz, dass sich dieser Gedankengang auch anders als im Sinne eines strikten metaphysischen Determinismus auslegen la¨sst. Es braucht hier nicht um die metaphysische Behauptung einer unausweichlichen Festlegung zu gehen, sondern nur um eine Begriffserkla¨rung, was ein sehr starker, pra¨gnanter Begriff der Mo¨glichkeit einschließt, ohne dass ein Vermo¨gen unter allen Umsta¨nden (panto¯s) so verstanden zu werden bra¨uchte. Logisch gefasst: Aristoteles behauptet hier nichts kategorisch, sondern stellt nur hypothetisch einen Zusammenhang her : Wenn eine durch die Gesamtheit der ermo¨glichenden Einzelbedingungen definierte Mo¨glichkeit vorliegt, muss sie wirklich werden. Damit aus dieser Notwendigkeit eines Bedingungszusammenhangs (necessitas consequentiae) die deterministische Notwendigkeit des Geschehenden wird, dass etwas mit Notwendigkeit wirklich wird (necessitas consequentis), muss die Voraussetzung notwendig eintreten. Jede ermo¨glichende Einzelbedingung muss sich notwendig einstellen; damit kommen sie notwendig alle zusammen und dadurch liegt notwendig die durch diese Gesamtheit definierte Mo¨glichkeit vor. Eine der notwendigen Bedingungen fu¨r das Wirken eines rationalen Vermo¨gens ist nach H 5 die Entscheidung (prohairesis). Damit das vom rationalen Vermo¨gen initiierte Geschehen notwendig ist, mu¨sste sich folglich der Entscheidungsvorgang notwendig vollziehen. Nun definiert Aristoteles aber die Entscheidung als ein zu Rate gehendes Streben (orexis bouleutike¯, NE VI 2,1139a23). Hiernach muss jede Entscheidung aus einem Zurategehen erwachsen, d. h. einem Abwa¨gen verschiedener Mo¨glichkeiten, um mit Gru¨nden die beste Alternative zu ermitteln.24 Sicherlich kann auch ein Kompatibilist wie ¨ berlegen als sinnvollen mentalen Akt betrachten. Leibniz ein abwa¨gendes U Damit er sinnvoll ist, bra¨uchten keine Alternativen im realen Geschehensablauf ¨ berlegenden, der in seinem endlichen Intellekt offenzustehen; lediglich dem U das unendlich komplexe Determinationsgeschehen nicht erfasst, mu¨ssten mehrere Mo¨glichkeiten zu bestehen scheinen. Fu¨r Freiheit reiche es, wenn er durch seinen Entscheidungsvorgang der Urheber ist, der die Festlegung auf eine Mo¨glichkeit zustande bringt, mag der Entscheidungsvorgang in seinem Ergebnis und damit das so zustandekommende Geschehen immer schon festgelegt gewesen sein. – Aristoteles demgegenu¨ber vertritt int. 9,18b26 – 33 die lebensweltliche Sicht. Auch real darf keine der Alternativen bereits feststehen, wenn es sinnvoll sein soll, u¨ber verschiedene Handlungsoptionen und ihre Konsequenzen zu Rate zu gehen. Und so wie er Indetermination des realen Geschehens ¨ berlegung 24 Garcı´a Ninet 1998 nimmt an, die Entscheidung sei durch die voraufliegende U notwendig festgelegt.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

285

fordert, akzeptiert er auch keine ethisch-psychologische Determination im strengen Sinne. Die Konzeption der Tugend als Disposition der sittlichen Entscheidung (hexis prohairetike¯) schließt diese keineswegs ein. Weil in den Prozess des Abwa¨gens von Alternativen so unendlich vielfa¨ltige Gesichtspunkte des Einzelfalls einzugehen haben, reicht die erworbene Grundhaltung der Entscheidung niemals aus, jemanden jeweils auf seine tatsa¨chlichen Einzelentscheidungen festzulegen.25 Eine solche restlose Determination ko¨nnte keine einzelne Disposition leisten, dazu mu¨sste der innerseelische Vorgang des Zurategehens und Entscheidens als Teil in ein weltumspannendes Determinationsgeschehen eingebunden sein (vgl. Sek. II). Die sittliche Grundhaltung legt immer nur auf eine bestimmte Grundausrichtung der Entscheidung fest, innerhalb derer Spielraum fu¨r nicht unbedeutend verschiedene Einzelentscheidungen bleibt.26 Denn auch wenn die Tugend oder das Berufsethos des Inhabers einer techne¯ auf das Ziel festlegen und die Entscheidung nur die Mittel betrifft, kann es auch bezu¨glich der Mittel sittlich bedeutsam unterschiedene Alternativen geben, die eine sittlich relevante Entscheidung verlangen, selbst im Bereich der technai, der rationalen Vermo¨gen im engeren Sinn. Die beiden Komponenten eines handwerklich-technischen Wissens: (definitorisches) Erfassen des Herzustellenden als des Ziels und Kenntnis sowie operationelle Beherrschung der Mittel, dieses Ziel zu erreichen, stehen na¨mlich nicht beziehungslos nebeneinander. Zeichnet es doch den Inhaber des technischen Wissens vor dem reinen Empiriker aus, z. B. den wissenschaftlich gebildeten Arzt vor dem aus bloßer Erfahrung Heilenden, dass er sein Vorgehen begru¨nden kann. Im Begru¨nden aber entfalten sich die Zusammenha¨nge zwischen Mittel und Ziel. Werden doch die gewa¨hlten Mittel dadurch begru¨ndet, dass aufgewiesen wird, inwiefern sie am angemessensten sind, das gesteckte Ziel zu erreichen. Dieser Zusammenhang von Mittel und Ziel aber bedingt, dass es auch bezu¨glich der Mittel sittlich relevante Entscheidungen geben kann. Gewiß, urspru¨nglich stellt nur das Ziel als das Erstrebte einen Wert dar. Die Mittel sind an sich wertneutral. Nun kann es aber von den Mitteln abha¨ngen, wie weitgehend und wie sicher das Ziel erreicht wird. Dadurch kann indirekt auch bei den Mitteln eine sittlich bedeutsame Entscheidung gefordert sein. Wenn es mehrere Mittel gibt, durch die das vorgegebene Ziel (z. B. u¨berhaupt an einen bestimmten Ort zu gelangen) jeweils voll25 Zum Verha¨ltnis von fester Charakterhaltung (hexis) und Wahl (prohairesis) vgl. Freeland 1982. 26 In diesem Sinne argumentiert auch Sorabji 1980, bes. 229 – 233: Zur Willentlichkeit brauchen keine absoluten Neuanfa¨nge (fresh starts) angenommen zu werden. Auch wenn eine Handlung verursacht ist, braucht sie nicht notwendig herbeigefu¨hrt zu sein (causation versus necessitation); sie kann wesentlich einen inneren Ursprung haben, ohne daß dies a¨ußere Vorbedingungen ausschließt.

286

Michael-Thomas Liske

sta¨ndig und mit (einer lebenspraktisch ausreichenden) Sicherheit erreicht werden kann, ist die Wahl der Mittel sittlich indifferent und perso¨nlichen Vorlieben anheimgestellt. Im zweiten Fall, dass ein Ziel (z. B. bis zu einem bestimmten Termin einen Ort zu erreichen) zwar vollsta¨ndig, aber nicht bei jedem Mittel sicher erreicht werden kann, ist es Sache taktischer Klugheit, das Mittel mit der wahrscheinlichsten Erfolgsaussicht zu wa¨hlen. Sittlich bedeutsame Entscheidungen sind im dritten Fall gefordert, wenn zwischen verschiedenen Graden abzuwa¨gen ist, wie vollkommen einerseits und wie sicher andererseits das Ziel erreicht wird. Ein Arzt mag vor die Wahl gestellt sein zwischen einer sicheren konservativen Behandlung, die die gesunden Ko¨rperfunktionen nur in geringerem Maße wieder herzustellen verspricht, und einem operativen Eingriff, durch den die ko¨rperliche Leistungsfa¨higkeit vollkommener, aber mit ho¨heren Risiken wiederhergestellt werden du¨rfte, oder zwischen einer erprobten traditionellen Methode, bei der die gro¨ßere Sicherheit mit einem geringeren Heilerfolg erkauft ist, und einem wesentlich riskanteren innovativen Verfahren, das im Falle des Gelingens die Unversehrtheit des Lebens vollkommener herzustellen verspricht. Selbst wenn wir davon ausgehen, der betreffende Mediziner sei durch sein Berufsethos allein dem Wohlergehen des Patienten verpflichtet (ungeachtet seines wissenschaftlichen Renommees oder finanzieller Vorteile, die das Gelingen der neuen Methode verheißt), stellt die Mittelwahl ihn hier vor eine sittlich bedeutsame Entscheidung. Es la¨sst sich keine scharfe Gegenu¨berstellung ansetzen: Auf das sittlich bedeutsame Ziel sind wir festgelegt. Unser Gestaltungsspielraum betrifft nur die sittlich indifferenten Einzelheiten oder a¨ußeren Bedingungen seiner Realisation. Da vielmehr Mittel und Ziel einander bedingen, von der Mittelwahl Grad und Sicherheit abha¨ngen kann, mit der das sittlich gebotene Ziel verwirklicht wird, haben wir bezu¨glich der Mittel zuweilen sittlich bedeutsame Entscheidungen zu treffen. Durch sittlich relevante Entscheidungen und die ihnen entspringenden Handlungen aber haben wir die Chance, auf lange Sicht die sittliche Grundausrichtung, also die hexis der Tugend, zu beeinflussen.

Literatur Anton, A. L. 2006. „Breaking the Habit: Aristotle on Recidivism and How a Thoroughly Vicious Person Might Begin to Improve“, in: Philosophy in the Contemporary World 13 (2): 58 – 66. Aubry, G. 2002. „Dunamis et Energeia dans l’E´thique Aristote´licienne: L’E´thique du De´monique“, in : G. Aubry / Rhomeyer-Dherbey (eds.), L’Exellence de la Vie. Sur l’E´thique a` Nicomaque et L’E´thique a` Eude`me d’Aristote, Paris: 75 – 94. Barnes, J. (ed.) 1984. The Complete Works of Aristotle, Princeton.

Aristoteles’ hexis-Konzeption der Tugend

287

Bien, G. (ed.) 19854. Aristoteles: Nikomachische Ethik, Hamburg. Bondeson, W. 1974. „Aristotle on Responsibility for One’s Character and the Possiblity of Character Change“, in: Phronesis 19: 59 – 65. Bostock, D. 2000. Aristotle’s Ethics, Oxford. Brickhouse, T. C. 1976. „A Contradiction in Aristotle’s Doctrines Concerning the Alterability of Moral „Hexeis“ and the Role of „Hexeis“ in the Explanation of Action“, in: Southern Journal of Philosophy 14: 401 – 411. Broadie, S. 1991. Ethics with Aristotle, Oxford. Broadie, S. / Rowe, C. 2002. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics. Translation, Introduction and Commentary, Oxford. Burnyeat, M. 1980. „Aristotle on Learning to Be Good“, in: Oksenberg Rorty, A. (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley u. a.: 69 – 92. Curren, R. 1989. „The Contribution of Nicomachean Ethics iii 5 to Aristotle’s Theory of Responsibility“, in: History of Philosophy Quarterly 6: 261 – 277. Curzer, H. J. 2002. „Aristotle’s Painful Path to Virtue“, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 40: 141 – 162. Dirlmeier, F. 199910. Aristoteles. Nikomachische Ethik, u¨bersetzt und kommentiert (Ari¨ bersetzung, hg. v. E. Grumach, Berlin. stoteles, Werke in deutscher U DiMuzio, G. 2000. „Aristotle on Improving One’s Character“, in: Phronesis 45: 205 – 219. DiMuzio, G. 2008. „Aristotle’s Alleged Moral Determinism in the Nicomachean Ethics“, in: Journal of Philosophical Research 33: 19 – 32. Donini, P. L. 1989. Ethos: Aristotele e il determinismo, Torino. Engberg-Pedersen, T. 1983. Aristotle’s Theory of Moral Insight, Oxford. Everson, S. 1990. „Aristotle’s Compatibilism in the Nicomachean Ethics“, in: Ancient Philosophy 10(1): 81 – 103. Freeland, C. 1982. „Moral Virtues and Human Powers“, in: Review of Metaphysics 36: 3 – 22. Furley, D. 1977. „Aristotle on the Voluntary“, in: J. Barnes / M. Schofield / R. Sorabji (eds.) Articles on Aristotle, vol. 2: Ethics and Politics, London : 47 – 60. Garcı´a Ninet, A. 1998. „El determinismo de la accio´n en Aristo´teles“, in: Agora: Papeles de Filosofia 17(1): 33 – 53. Garver, E. 1989. „Aristotle’s Metaphysics of Morals“, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 27: 7 – 28. Gauthier, R. A. / Jolif, J. Y. 19702. Aristote. L’E´thique a` Nicomaque. Introduction, Traduction et Commentaire, tome I, deuxie`me partie, Louvain/Paris. Guckes, B. 2008. „Handlungs- und Willensfreiheit bei Aristoteles“, in: K. Corcilius / C. Rapp (ed.), Beitra¨ge zur Aristotelischen Handlungstheorie, Stuttgart: 185 – 194. Hardie, W. F. R. 19802. Aristotle’s Ethical Theory, Oxford. Hutchinson, D. S. 1986. The Virtues of Aristotle, London / New York. Irwin, T. H. 1980. „Reason and Responsibility in Aristotle“, in: A. Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley u. a.: 117 – 155. Jacobs, J. 2001. Choosing Character. Responsibility for Virtue and Vice, Ithaca/London. Jansen, L. 2002. Tun und Ko¨nnen. Ein systematischer Kommentar zu Aristoteles’ Theorie der Vermo¨gen im neunten Buch der „Metaphysik“, Frankfurt/Main. Jedan, Chr. 2000. Willensfreiheit bei Aristoteles?, Go¨ttingen. Joachim, H. H. 1951. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics. A Commentary, Oxford.

288

Michael-Thomas Liske

Kenny, A. J. P. 1979. Aristotle’s Theory of the Will, Oxford. Kosman, L. A. 1980. „Being Properly Affected: Virtues and Feelings in Aristotle’s Ethics“, in: Oksenberg / A. Rorty (eds.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley u. a.: 103 – 116. Liske, M.-Th. 2007. „Lassen Aristotelische Tugenden sich als rationale Vermo¨gen gema¨ß Metaphysik Theta 2 und 5 auffassen?“, in: Theologie und Philosophie 82(2): 329 – 350. Liske, M.-Th. 2008. „Unter welchen Bedingungen sind wir fu¨r unsere Handlungen verantwortlich?“, in: K. Corcilius / C. Rapp (eds.), Beitra¨ge zur Aristotelischen Handlungstheorie, Stuttgart: 83 – 103. Loening, R. 1903. Die Zurechnungslehre des Aristoteles, Jena [Seitenzahlen nach Reprographischem Nachdruck Hildesheim 1967]. Morel, P.M. 1997. „L’habitude. Une seconde nature?“, in : P. M. Morel (ed.), Aristote et la notion de nature, Bordeaux: 131 – 148. Natali, C. 2002. „Reponsibility and Determinism in Aristotelian Ethics“, in : M. CantoSperber / P. Pellegrin (eds.), Le style de la pense´e, Paris: 267 – 295. Reeve, C. D. C. 1992. Practices of Reason. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Oxford. Roberts, J. 1989. „Aristotle on Responsibility for Action and Character“, in: Ancient Philosophy 9: 23 – 36. Sauve´ Meyer 1993. Aristotle on Moral Responsibity. Character and Cause, Oxford. Seel. G. 1982. Die Aristotelische Modaltheorie, Berlin / New York. Siegler, F. A. 1968. „Voluntary and Involuntary“, in: The Monist 52: 268 – 287. Sherman, N. 1989. The Fabric of Character. Aristotle’s Theory of Virtue, Oxford. Sherman, N. 1999. „The Habituation of Character“, in: N. Sherman (ed.), Aristotle’s Ethics, Lanham u. a.: 231 – 260. Sorabji, R. 1980. Necessity, Cause and Blame. Perspectives on Aristotle’s Theory, London. Tonietto, G. 2008. La liberta` in questione. Uno studio su e oltre Aristotele, Milano. Urmson, J. O. 1988. Aristotle’s Ethics, Oxford. Wolf, U. 2002. Aristoteles’ ,Nikomachische Ethik‘, Darmstadt. Wolf, U. 20082. Aristoteles. Nikomachische Ethik, Reinbek.

Dorothea Frede

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

1.

Antike und moderne Ethik: der grundlegende Unterschied

Bevor wir uns der Frage des Nutzens und Nachteils zuwenden ko¨nnen, ist erst einmal zu kla¨ren, was sich hinter dem so interessant klingenden Begriff ,Tugendethik‘ eigentlich verbirgt. Und dazu muss ich leider etwas weiter ausholen, weil man in der Antike in wesentlichen Hinsichten eine andere Konzeption von Ethik hatte als heute. Denn wa¨hrend wir uns auf die Regeln und Normen des gegenseitigen Umgangs konzentrieren – auf richtig und falsch, auf Rechte und Pflichten – bescha¨ftigten sich die Philosophen der Antike mit dem ,guten Leben‘. Das mag in unseren Ohren wenig ,ethisch‘ klingen, jedenfalls wenn wir mit dem , ¨ berflusses und des Mu¨ßigganges assoziieren, denn guten Leben‘ ein Leben des U das scheint doch einen reichlich egoistischen Standpunkt zu suggerieren. Das trifft die Sache natu¨rlich nicht. Wenn die Ethik in der Antike ego-zentriert war, so war sie dies in einem ganz harmlosen Sinn, wie sich noch zeigen wird. Ihr Interesse galt der Frage, was es bedeutet, ein lebenswertes Leben zu fu¨hren, und zwar sowohl individuell wie auch in der Gemeinschaft.1 Gesucht was das, was man ein ,reiches, erfu¨lltes Leben‘ nennt. Derartiges liest man heute zwar manchmal in Todesanzeigen; die Frage, was damit gemeint ist, mag sich aus der Biographie des so Geehrten ergeben; als eine echte philosophische Frage sieht man das gemeinhin aber nicht an. Daher will ich als erstes kurz darstellen, warum das in der Antike so anders war. Auch warum sich dies im Lauf der Geschichte gea¨ndert hat, wird uns spa¨ter noch kurz bescha¨ftigen. Das, was ich hier als ,gutes‘ oder ,erfu¨lltes‘ Leben bezeichnet habe, hatte im Griechischen einen anderen Namen: Der fragliche Begriff ist ,eudaimonia‘ und danach wird die antike Ethik auch ,euda¨monistisch‘ ¨ bersetzung von eudaimonia mit ,gutem Leben‘ ist genannt. Bekannter als die U 1 Angesichts der negativen Konnotationen, die im Deutschen mit dem Ausdruck ,lebenswertes Leben‘, vor allen in seiner negativen Form verbunden sind, sei darauf hingewiesen, dass es hier nur um die Wu¨rdigkeit des Lebens aus der Perspektive der betroffenen Person selbst geht.

290

Dorothea Frede

freilich die mit ,Glu¨ck‘ oder auch ,Glu¨ckseligkeit‘. Dies ist nun aber wegen der ¨ bersetVieldeutigkeit des Glu¨cksbegriffes eine besonders missversta¨ndliche U zung. Wir sind da im Deutschen zudem besonders arm dran. Denn andere moderne Sprachen haben wenigstens drei oder vier verschiedene Begriffe zur Auswahl, wo wir nur einen haben. So unterscheidet man im Englischen zwischen ,happiness‘, ,luck‘, ,chance‘ oder ,prosperity‘ und a¨hnlich im Franzo¨sischen zwischen bonheur, fortune, fe´licite´, und prosperite´. Im Deutschen dagegen bedeutet ,Glu¨ck‘ sowohl den Glu¨ckszufall wie auch den Erfolg oder das Glu¨cksgefu¨hl. Eines aber bedeutet der Ausdruck nicht und gerade diese Bedeutung ist im Griechischen zentral: Eudaimonia bezieht sich auf objektiv feststellbare zufriedenstellende Lebensumsta¨nde und Inhalte, nicht auf Gefu¨hle. Mit anderen Worten, eudaimonia ist nicht mit Euphorie zu verwechseln. Wenn man im alten Griechenland jemanden als ,glu¨cklich‘ bezeichnete, so ging es darum, ob er alles das hatte, was fu¨r ein reiches, erfolgreiches Leben notwendig ist. Wie der Wortstamm ,daimoˆn‘ in ,eu-daimon-ia‘ erkennen la¨sst, bedeutete das Wort urspru¨nglich, dass der Betreffende unter dem Schutz einer wohlwollenden Gottheit stand. Gemeint war aber kein spiritueller Zustand,2 sondern die Immunita¨t gegen Unglu¨cksfa¨lle, Krankheit, Armut, Schande, Versklavung oder fru¨hen Tod. Das Ideal des guten Lebens schloss also Wohlstand und a¨ußerlichen Erfolg durchaus mit ein. Kurz gesagt: Ein eudaimoˆn war ein Mitmensch, der sich materiellen Wohlstandes, einer sozial hervorgehobenen Stellung und perso¨nlicher Achtung erfreute. ,Glu¨ck‘ in diesem Sinn bezieht sich also auf die objektiven Aspekte des Lebens, nicht auf subjektive Befindlichkeiten. Dieser ,objektive‘ Glu¨cksbegriff war keine Erfindung der Philosophen. Schon bei Homer und den anderen fru¨hgriechischen Dichtern war die Frage nach den ¨ berBedingungen des guten, respektablen Lebens ein Gegenstand sta¨ndiger U legungen;3 so a¨hnlich wie auch Walther von der Vogelweide sich sorgenvolle Gedanken machte, wie man „zer welte sollte leben“.4 Und man bemu¨hte sich um genaue Kriterien dafu¨r. – Heute dagegen ho¨ren Sie auf die Frage nach dem , Glu¨ck‘ oft Repliken wie: „Niemand ist wahrhaft glu¨cklich“ oder „Glu¨ck gibt es allenfalls in ganz wenigen Momenten im Leben.“ Das trifft aber nur dann zu, wenn man unter Glu¨ck einen u¨berschwa¨nglichen Gemu¨tszustand versteht. Solche Augenblicke sind tatsa¨chlich selten und halten auch nicht lange vor. Nicht einmal Tabletten und Drogen ko¨nnen einem auf Dauer eine Hochstimmung im 2 Das Verha¨ltnis der Griechen zu ihren Go¨ttern war ohnehin wenig spiritueller, sondern eher gescha¨ftlicher Natur. Da es kein ,Heiliges Buch‘ gab, sondern eine Unzahl von z. T. auch lokal verschiedenen Traditionen, waren Priester keine theologischen Autorita¨ten, sondern nur fu¨r die korrekte Observanz von Riten verantwortlich. 3 Vgl. de Heer 1964. 4 Zur Frage des Ursprungs der mittelalterlichen ,weltlichen‘ Tugendlehre vgl. die kontroverse Diskussion in Eifler 1970.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

291

Leben garantieren. Aber ,Hochstimmung‘ ist gar nicht das, was die Griechen unter ,eudaimonia‘ oder ,Glu¨ck‘ verstanden; vielmehr ging es ihnen, wie gesagt, um ein lebenswertes Leben. Die Vorstellungen daru¨ber, was ein besonders gutes Leben ausmacht, wechselten bei den Griechen u¨ber die Jahrhunderte mit den Vorbildern und Wertmaßsta¨ben. Und damit kommen wir zum Begriff der Tugend. Wie bei der eu¨ bersetzung des griechischen Begriffs der areteˆ ins daimonia ist auch die U heutige Deutsch ein notorisches Problem, weil ,Tugend‘ nicht nur altmodisch, sondern auch moralinsauer klingt. Areteˆ heißt auf Griechisch aber urspru¨nglich so etwas ,Mannhaftigkeit, genau wie auch das lateinische virtus. Schon fru¨h wurde es zur Bezeichnung fu¨r jede hervorragende Tauglichkeit oder Fa¨higkeit verwendet, ob im Krieg, in der Kunst, in der Politik, im Sport, einfach u¨berall; sogar auf Tiere und Gera¨tschaften wurde es angewandt. So findet man bei Homer sogar ,tugendhafte Pferde‘ – also solche, die besonders schnell und außerdem gut zu lenken sind.5 Die homerischen Helden zeichneten sich natu¨rlich durch ganz bestimmte Tugenden aus: vor allem durch Tapferkeit – wie Achilleus oder Hektor, aber auch durch Schlauheit wie der listenreiche Odysseus, durch Klugheit wie Nestor, und durch Macht – wie Agamemnon. Mit zunehmender Urbanisierung a¨nderten sich natu¨rlich die Vorbilder : Neben die homerischen Helden traten Staatsma¨nner wie Solon oder Perikles, freilich auch die beru¨hmtberu¨chtigten Machtmenschen, die Tyrannen. Schiller liegt also ganz richtig, ¨ gyptens Ko¨nig die wenn er Polykrates angesichts des ,beherrschten Samos‘ an A ¨ ¨ Aufforderung richten lasst: „Gestehe, dass ich glucklich bin.“6 Viele Griechen ha¨tten eben dies bejaht. Macht und Reichtum waren ein wesentlicher Bestandteil ihrer Glu¨cksvorstellungen. Die griechischen Philosophen fanden also ein allgemeines Interesse am , guten Leben‘ bereits vor. Das Besondere an ihnen liegt also nicht darin, dass sie ¨ berlegungen sich mit dem ,Glu¨ck‘ befassten, sondern dass sie systematische U daru¨ber anstellten, worin es bestehen soll, und daraus eine philosophische Disziplin wurde. Außerdem arbeiteten sie auf eine gewisse Umwertung herko¨mmlicher Werte hin, weil sie die gewo¨hnlichen Vorstellungen nicht teilten, was der Mensch eigentlich ist, und daher auch recht andere Vorstellungen davon hatten, worauf es im Leben eigentlich ankommt. Eben darum geht es in der antiken Ethik. Verantwortlich fu¨r diese Vera¨nderung der Wertmaßsta¨be war 5 Homer, Ilias 23, 276 6 Schiller hat den Stoff wie auch die Fragestellung Herodots Historien entnommen, der das Problem der Besta¨ndigkeit des Glu¨cks der Ma¨chtigen zum Gegenstand seiner Reflexionen macht und durch Beispiele illustriert, wie etwa der Warnung des Solon an Kro¨sus, sein Glu¨ck nicht vor seinem Ende zu loben und nach Verlust seines Reiches dem Scheiterhaufen nur knapp entging (I, 30 ff.)- Zur Geschichte des Polykrates, der schließlich vom persischen Satrap in einen Hinterhalt gelockt und gekreuzigt wurde, vgl. Herodot, III, 22 ff.

292

Dorothea Frede

eindeutig Sokrates. Es ist zwar eine umstrittene Frage, ob Platon, unser Hauptzeuge u¨ber Sokrates, ein historisch getreues Bild von ihm gibt. Aber wie es damit auch bestellt sein mag, soviel ist unstrittig: Sokrates’ Kreuzverho¨re seiner Mitbu¨rger, was die Fundiertheit ihrer Grundu¨berzeugungen u¨ber ihre Lebensfu¨hrung anging, war der Anfang der Ethik als einer systematischen Disziplin. Seine diesbezu¨gliche Maxime du¨rfte allgemein bekannt sein (Ap. 38a): „Das ungepru¨fte Leben ist nicht lebenswert.“ Mit dieser Herausforderung hat also alles angefangen. Von dann an lagen die Fragen auf dem Tisch: Welche Art von Leben ist denn lebenswert? Welche obersten Ziele sollte man sich setzten? Und: welche Art von Mensch muss man sein, um ein lebenswertes Leben zu fu¨hren? Wie man sich denken kann, fielen die Antworten auf diese Fragen unter den griechischen Philosophen sehr unterschiedlich aus. Daher gab es in der Antike eine breite Palette unterschiedlicher Ethiken, von Platon u¨ber Aristoteles bis zu den Stoikern, Epikureern und zu den ,Hippies‘ unter den Philosophen, den Kynikern.7 Platon z. B. setzte voraus, dass die Menschen – jedenfalls in ihrer besten Form – sich durch Wissen auszeichnen. Daher muss das gute Leben fu¨r ihn auf dem Wissen vom Wahren, Scho¨nen und Guten beruhen.8 Aristoteles ging von anderen Grundu¨berlegungen aus als sein alter Lehrer. Er war nicht umsonst der Vater der Biologie. So sieht er im Aktiv-Sein das allen Lebewesen gemeinsame Prinzip. Jedes Lebewesen erreicht seine Hochstufe, wenn es seine spezifischen Fa¨higkeiten nicht nur voll entwickelt hat, sondern auch aktiv ausu¨bt. Dass es bei Aristoteles dennoch keine ,glu¨cklichen Ku¨he‘ gibt, liegt daran, dass nur ein bewusst gestaltetes Leben (bios, nicht zoˆe´) ein Leben im vollen Sinn ist.9 Nur der Mensch ist daher fa¨hig, ein erfu¨lltes, glu¨ckliches Leben zu fu¨hren. Vorbedingung dafu¨r ist aber die Entwicklung und die Ausu¨bung unserer besten Fa¨higkeiten, eben der ,Tugenden‘ oder ,hervorragenden Fa¨higkeiten‘. Sie sehen, wir na¨hern uns dem Tugendbegriff. Die besten Fa¨higkeiten, durch die sich der Mensch von den Tieren unterscheidet, sind die geistigen Fa¨higkeiten.10

¨ bersicht gibt Annas 1993. 7 Eine U 8 Deswegen war Platon der unverso¨hnliche Feind der Sophisten, weil diese fast durchweg eine ¨ berzeugungen relativistische Auffassung von Wahrheit und Moral vertraten: Menschliche U waren fu¨r sie eine Frage von Konvention und Gewohnheit. Diesem Relativismus gegenu¨ber bestand Platon darauf, dass nur das Wissen der wahren und unvera¨nderlichen Wirklichkeit die Basis des guten Lebens sein kann. Diese Grundu¨berzeugung bestimmte nicht nur seine Ethik, sondern seine ganze Philosophie, d. h. seine Metaphysik, Erkenntnistheorie, Politik und seine Erziehungstheorie. 9 Dass Tiere der eudaimonia nicht fa¨hig sind, erkla¨rt Aristoteles wiederholt (EN I, 10 1099b32 – 35; X, 7 1178b27; EE I, 7 1217a22 – 29). 10 In diesem Punkt trifft sich Aristoteles also wieder mit seinem alten Lehrer Platon. Auch er meint, dass der Mensch seinem Wesen nach auf Erkenntnis aus ist.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

293

Im Unterschied zu Platon nimmt Aristoteles aber mehrere Arten von rationalen Fa¨higkeiten an: neben der theoretischen Vernunft auch eine produktive und eine praktische Vernunft. Eben letztere befa¨higt uns zum Leben in der Gemeinschaft; damit erkla¨rt sich auch das beru¨hmte Schlagwort vom Menschen als zoon politikon – vom Lebewesen, das in einer organisierten Gesellschaft, einer polis, lebt. Ein Automatismus besteht da freilich nicht: Zwar haben wir von Natur aus entsprechende Anlagen, wir mu¨ssen diese aber selbst durch eigene Anstrengungen entwickeln. Die kulturelle Vervollkommnung ist also Teil unserer naturgegebenen Veranlagung. Der Mensch ist sozusagen von Natur aus ein kulturelles Gemeinschaftswesen. Vernachla¨ssigt er diese Entwicklung, so verfehlt er gewissermaßen sein ,natu¨rliches Klassenziel‘. Wie Aristoteles es einmal ausdru¨ckt: Wer permanent außerhalb einer polis lebt, ist entweder ein Gott – oder ein Tier, also entweder ein u¨bermenschliches oder ein untermenschliches Wesen.11

2.

Die ,moralischen‘ Tugenden

Damit haben wir aber noch immer nicht alles beisammen, was fu¨r das Versta¨ndnis der aristotelischen Tugendethik notwendig ist. Denn nicht nur unterscheidet Aristoteles verschiedene Arten von ,intellektuellen Tugenden‘, na¨mlich theoretisches Wissen, durch das sich Wissenschaftler auszeichnen, praktisches Wissen, das der Lebensfu¨hrung dient und u¨berdies noch produktives Wissen, was wir zum Herstellen von Dingen brauchen. Er nimmt noch eine zweite Art von menschlicher Tugend oder Tauglichkeit an, weil er meint, dass intellektuelle Fa¨higkeiten allein nicht ausreichen, um aus intelligenten Menschen gute Menschen zu machen. Aristoteles ging davon aus, dass die Bereitschaft zum richtigen Handeln keine rein rationale Angelegenheit ist, sondern wesentlich durch Neigungen und Abneigungen aller Art mitbestimmt wird. Und diese Neigungen und Abneigungen sind nicht angeboren, sondern man erwirbt sie durch eine Gewo¨hnung an ein entsprechendes Verhalten von klein auf. Zur Erziehung geho¨ren also auch ,Lehrjahre des Gefu¨hls.‘ Diese zweite Art von Tugenden betrifft also das, was wir Charakterdispositionen nennen. Ohne diese emotionsbestimmten Charaktereigenschaften, so muss man betonen, nu¨tzt in Aristoteles’ Augen der Verstand nichts. Der hochintelligente Schuft ist fu¨r ihn also keine contradictio in adjecto. Und daher sind diese Charaktertugenden nachgerade das Markenzeichen der aristotelischen Ethik. Natu¨rlich wussten die Griechen schon vor Aristoteles, dass die Menschen bessere und schlechtere Vorlieben und Absichten haben und dass die betref11 Politika I, 2 1253a29.

294

Dorothea Frede

fenden Neigungen ihre Perso¨nlichkeit ausmachen. Aristoteles war aber der erste, der den Gedanken systematisch entwickelt hat, dass die charakterliche Perso¨nlichkeit die Basis der Ethik ist. Wir lieben, ersehnen, hassen, verachten, verabscheuen bestimmte Menschen und Handlungsweisen; wir bewundern oder beneiden unsere Nachbarn, bemitleiden sie oder empfinden Schadenfreude, wenn sie sich la¨cherlich machen. Und all diese Vorlieben und Ablehnungen sind nicht allein eine Sache des Denkens, sondern auch unserer emotionalen Einstellung, einer Einstellung, die tief in unserer Perso¨nlichkeit verankert ist und alle unsere Entscheidungen und Handlungen mitbestimmt. Aristoteles war davon u¨berzeugt, dass man diese Charakter-Anlagen nur schwer loswerden kann, wenn sie sich einmal verfestigt haben. Sie sind keine Frage einer rationalen Entscheidung, sondern der Eingewo¨hnung von klein auf: Zum Machtmenschen entscheidet man sich nicht: man wird und ist es, wenn man einmal dazu geworden ist. Das gleiche gilt fu¨r Genuss-. Erwerbs und andere Menschentypen. Aus diesem Grund legt Aristoteles großen Wert auf die charakterliche Erziehung, d. h. er sieht es als wichtig an, dass der Mensch sich auch im emotionalen Bereich richtig entwickelt. Zwar wusste er, dass es bestimmte natu¨rliche Pra¨ponderanzen gibt; er war aber der Meinung, sie ließen sich durch das richtige moralische Training von klein auf korrigieren. Da der Charakter durch Gewohnheit an bestimmte Verhaltensweisen erworben wird, hat Aristoteles die Charaktertugenden als ,ethisch‘ bezeichnet und dazu ausdru¨cklich vermerkt, dass ,eˆthikos‘ von ,e˘thos‘ = Gewohnheit stammt.12 Es war also Aristoteles, der den Ausdruck ,Ethik‘ fu¨r diese Sparte der Philosophie eingefu¨hrt hat; obwohl – wie man betonen muss – der Ausdruck eigentlich nur die eine Seite der Medaille bezeichnet, weil die Verstandestugenden ja gleichwohl eine wichtige Rolle spielen. Nachdem der Ausdruck ,Ethik‘ aber einmal etabliert war, haben ihn auch die anderen Philosophenschulen in der Antike u¨bernommen, auch wenn sie gar nicht mit Aristoteles die Charaktertugenden in den Mittel¨ bersetzung ,mopunkt stellten. Aus ,ethisch‘ wurde dann in der lateinischen U 13 ralis‘. ,Ethisch‘ und ,moralisch‘ bedeuten also eigentlich dasselbe; heutzutage verwendet man aber das Wort ,Moral‘ zur Bezeichnung der herrschenden Werte und Normen, wa¨hrend man mit ,Ethik‘ die Theorie bezeichnet, die deren Grundzu¨ge und Prinzipien untersucht und rechtfertigt. Daher bieten wir in der Philosophie auch keine Kurse u¨ber Moral an, sondern nur u¨ber Ethik. Diese Auseinanderentwicklung ist aber eine spa¨te Angelegenheit; noch im 19. Jahrhundert wurden ,ethisch‘ und ,moralisch‘ als austauschbar verwendet.

12 EN I, 13 1103a3 – II, 1 1003a18. 13 Cicero De Fato 1 leitet es von mores ab und meint damit auch ausdru¨cklich die Gebra¨uche und Sitten.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

3.

295

Charakter und Intellekt

Der gute Charakter ist fu¨r Aristoteles freilich nur die eine Seite, wie ich schon angedeutet habe: Er war nicht der Auffassung, dass die emotional richtigen Einstellungen allein ausreichen, um uns zum richtigen Handeln und Planen unseres Lebens zu fu¨hren. Ebenso notwendig ist die praktische Vernunft (phroneˆsis). Dass Aristoteles den Charaktertugenden so viel mehr Aufmerksamkeit schenkt als der praktischen Vernunft, obwohl sie es doch ist, die im Einzelfall die Entscheidungen trifft, ist darauf zuru¨ckzufu¨hren, dass er sich bewusst war, mit dem Begriff der Charaktertugend etwas ganz Neues eingefu¨hrt zu haben. Deswegen wendet er in der Nikomachischen Ethik (EN), seinem Hauptwerk, viel Zeit und Mu¨he auf die Entwicklung dieses Begriffes wie auch auf die Erla¨uterung der einzelnen Arten von Charaktertugenden. Sein Tugendkatalog ist ziemlich lang. Ein Mensch von gutem Charakter muss sich u. a. durch Tapferkeit, Besonnenheit, Freigebigkeit, Großzu¨gigkeit, Großmut, gesunden Ehrgeiz, Freundlichkeit und vor allem durch Gerechtigkeit auszeichnen. Die Diskussion dieser Charakterzu¨ge und der dazugeho¨rigen schlechten Charaktereigenschaften fu¨llt beinah die Ha¨lfte der 10 Bu¨cher der Nikomachischen Ethik. Die praktische Vernunft wird dagegen zusammen mit den anderen ,intellektuellen Tugenden‘ in einem einzigen Buch abgefertigt, und zwar erst in Buch VI. Das verleiht der Diskussion eine gewisse Schlagseite, aber Aristoteles war offensichtlich nicht nur davon u¨berzeugt, das Neue, die Charaktertugenden, ausfu¨hrlich darstellen zu mu¨ssen, sondern er hat sie wohl auch deswegen den Erkla¨rungen zum praktischen Vernunftvermo¨gen vorangestellt, damit sie nicht als bloßer Appendix zur Vernunft erscheinen wu¨rden, wie das bei Platon der Fall ist, der die Charaktereigenschaften recht stiefva¨terlich behandelt. Aristoteles ging also davon aus, dass man, um ein gutes Leben zu fu¨hren, eine charakterlich wohltemperierte Perso¨nlichkeit sein muss. Er setzt dafu¨r auch einen Maßstab an: Bei jeder Charakterdisposition gibt es eine richtige Mitte ¨ bertreibung und Untertreibung. So ist zwischen Zuviel und Zuwenig, zwischen U die Tapferkeit hinsichtlich der Furcht die richtige Mitte zwischen Feigheit und Waghalsigkeit; die Besonnenheit betrifft die richtige Mitte zwischen Ausschweifung in ko¨rperlichen Genu¨ssen und Sauerto¨pfischkeit. Freigebigkeit ist die richtige Einstellung gegenu¨ber dem eigenen Besitz; sie ha¨lt die richtige Mitte zwischen Verschwendungssucht und Geiz. Und so weiter und so weiter.14 Wichtig ist es, dabei im Auge zu behalten, dass die ,Mitte‘ zugleich eine emotionale Gestimmtheit voraussetzt. All dies muss gegeben sein, damit die Ver14 Aristoteles pra¨sentiert in EN II, 7 eine la¨ngere Liste solcher mittleren Charakterdispositio¨ bermaßes und Mangels, die er in III, 9 – IV eingehend erla¨utert. Dass dieser nen, ihres U Katalog vollsta¨ndig sein soll, deutet er in III 9, 1115a5 an.

296

Dorothea Frede

nunft richtige Entscheidungen fa¨llen kann. Soviel muss hier zur Vorzeichnung der aristotelischen Tugendethik genu¨gen, d. h. warum sie diesen Namen hat und was mit dem Begriff ,Tugend‘ gemeint ist.

4.

Aristoteles’ Konzeption des guten Lebens

Wir mu¨ssen uns jetzt, ganz kurz, nochmals mit dem zentralen Punkt in der aristotelischen Ethik befassen, na¨mlich mit seiner eigenen Konzeption des Glu¨cks, der eudaimonia. Obwohl ich gleich zu Anfang betont habe, dass das , Glu¨ck‘ fu¨r die Griechen nicht mit Euphorie gleichzusetzen ist, schließt das nicht aus, dass man seine Freude an dem hat, was man tut, – dass man das Leben genießt oder guter Laune bei seinen Aktivita¨ten ist. Im Gegenteil: Aristoteles sagt ganz explizit, dass der Mensch, der richtig lebt, das auch mit Lust tut, und zwar einschließlich der dafu¨r erforderlichen Anstrengungen und Mu¨hen. Das moralisch richtig erzogene Individuum verbringt sein Leben mit eben denjenigen Aktivita¨ten, zu denen es sich von Natur aus eignet, die es gut kann und die ihm daher auch Vergnu¨gen bereiten. So freut sich der großzu¨gige Mensch daru¨ber, andere entsprechend zu behandeln, der Gerechte beta¨tigt sich gern im Dienste der Gerechtigkeit, der Tapfere ha¨lt Gefahren – wenn auch vielleicht nicht gerade mit Lust – dann doch mit dem Gefu¨hl einer gewissen Genugtuung stand. All diese Ta¨tigkeiten bringen daher immer auch ihre eigene Art von Lust oder Freude mit sich – sie tun es jedenfalls dann, wenn man sie so ausfu¨hrt, wie man es soll und kann. Daher hat ein Mensch von gutem Charakter, wenn alles gut geht, ein durchaus erfreuliches Leben. Die ,Lust‘ steht somit zwar nicht im Zentrum der aristotelischen Ethik, sie spielt aber eine wichtige Nebenrolle. Denn sie stellt eine Art von Lakmus-Test dar. Wer an den richtigen Handlungen seine Freude hat, der hat einen guten Charakter. Wer dabei keine Lust sondern Unlust empfindet, der hat – jedenfalls in dieser Hinsicht – keinen guten Charakter. Wer also nur mit saurem Gesicht Geld fu¨r eine gute Sache herausru¨ckt, ist ein Geizkragen, wer sich gern vor jeder Gefahr dru¨ckt, ein Feigling; wer anderen ungern hilft, ist engherzig.15 Nun klingt es ja ganz verlockend, dass das gute, d. h. das ,erfu¨llte Leben‘ im Zentrum der Ethik stehen soll und die Entwicklung und Beta¨tigung unserer besten Talente entha¨lt, an denen man obendrein seine Freude haben darf. Dieses Zentrum bleibt aber so lang leer, als man nicht weiß, worin das gute Leben bestehen soll. Man muss also genauere Vorstellungen daru¨ber haben, was es 15 Das Gleiche gilt auch fu¨r intellektuelle Fa¨higkeiten oder Tugenden: Wenn einem eine Ta¨tigkeit, die man gelernt hat, keinen Spaß macht, wa¨re dies nach Aristoteles ein sicheres Zeichen, dass man sich dafu¨r nicht eignet.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

297

heißt, ein erfu¨lltes Leben zu fu¨hren. Diese Vorstellungen mu¨ssen allgemein genug sein, um als Basis fu¨r eine Ethik zu dienen, und sich zugleich so konkretisieren lassen, dass auch der Einzelne damit etwas anfangen kann. Das scheint deswegen ein schwieriges Unterfangen zu sein, weil die Vorstellungen u¨ber das, was ein lebenswertes Leben ausmacht, nicht nur individuell stark divergieren, sondern auch vom Zeitgeist abha¨ngen. Das haben u¨brigens schon Sokrates und Platon nicht nur gewusst, sondern sie suchten darauf auch Einfluss zu nehmen: Sie wollten die Vorstellungen ihrer Zeitgenossen daru¨ber radikal vera¨ndern, was es heißt, ein vorbildlicher Mensch zu sein und ein menschenwu¨rdiges Leben zu fu¨hren. Denn wie sie es sahen, waren ihre Mitmenschen allzu sehr auf Reichtum, Macht und Reputation fixiert. Ihr eigenes Ideal war vielmehr der seiner selbst bewusste Mensch, der Herr seiner Triebe und Gelu¨ste ist und sein Leben daher auch nicht damit verbringt, seinen Nachbarn in Hinblick auf Reichtum, Macht, Ruhm und dergleichen zu u¨berbieten, sondern in friedlicher Kooperation die gemeinsamen Aufgaben erledigt – und dazu auch noch Philosophie betreibt. Auf eben dies zielt die vorhin zitierte Maxime hin: „Das ungepru¨fte Leben ist nicht lebenswert.“ Wenn ich hier nochmals auf Sokrates und Platon zuru¨ckgegriffen habe, so um zu zeigen, dass die Vorstellung von eudaimonia als Zentrum der Ethik zwar von allen Philosophen vorausgesetzt wurde, dass sie mit diesem Begriff aber ganz Unterschiedliches verbanden. Aristoteles’ Vorstellung vom Glu¨ck ist denn auch viel extrovertierter als die von Sokrates/Platon. Das liegt daran, dass er andere Vorstellungen von der menschlichen Natur hegt als Platon. Denn fu¨r ihn besteht das Leben, wie bereits gesagt, nicht nur im Aktivsein, sondern u¨berdies in der Kooperation. Das aber bedeutet, dass wir unsere Erfu¨llung nur in einer Gemeinschaft mit anderen finden, zu der wir auch aktiv beitragen. Wir brauchen die Gesellschaft anderer nicht bloß zur Sicherstellung des Lebensnotwendigen: Erna¨hrung, Wohnung, Kleidung und gegenseitigen Schutz. Vielmehr brauchen wir die Gesellschaft anderer, um uns geistig und intellektuell voll zu entfalten.16 Bei Aristoteles passt also alles zusammen: Die polis, die politisch und o¨konomisch autarke Lebensgemeinschaft, sorgt nicht nur fu¨r das Lebensnotwendige, sondern bietet auch Gelegenheit fu¨r die kulturelle und intellektuelle Entwicklung, die der Mensch braucht, wenn er sein Potential voll entwickeln soll. Denn eben dies ist der Schlussstein der aristotelischen Ethik: Menschen sind nicht nur von Natur aus gesellige Lebewesen, wie eine Herde Schafe, sondern sie sind auch von Natur aus aktive geistige Lebewesen. Es reicht daher auch nicht aus, alle mo¨glichen moralischen und intellektuellen Tugenden nur zu besitzen. Wir 16 Darin besteht auch laut Pol. I, 2 1253a9 – 18 die Funktion der Sprache: Mit ihrer Hilfe entwickeln wir Begriffe von Gut und Schlecht, von Recht und Unrecht, die wiederum zu den Voraussetzungen einer funktionierenden Gemeinschaft geho¨ren.

298

Dorothea Frede

mu¨ssen sie auch anwenden ko¨nnen. Und daher setzt die beste Lebensweise, das Glu¨ck, fu¨r uns alle voraus, dass wir unsere Fa¨higkeiten auch ausu¨ben ko¨nnen. Dauerhafte Unta¨tigkeit ist mit unserer Natur unvertra¨glich, so meint jedenfalls Aristoteles. Wenn wir Erholung und Entspannung brauchen, so um danach umso besser ta¨tig sein zu ko¨nnen.17 Nun war Aristoteles u¨berdies der Auffassung, dass die Qualita¨t des Leben von der Qualita¨t der Fa¨higkeiten abha¨ngt: je ho¨her das Talent, desto besser das Leben. Es kann daher nicht u¨berraschen, dass er zwei Formen des Lebens als die besten auszeichnet: Das Leben des politisch Aktiven einerseits, und das Leben des Philosophen andererseits. Der eine lebt seine praktische Vernunft voll aus, der andere seine theoretische, – wobei man beru¨cksichtigen muss, dass die Philosophie fu¨r Aristoteles sa¨mtliche Wissenschaften entha¨lt. Wissenschaftliche Ta¨tigkeit ist in seinen Augen das Ho¨chste, dessen der Mensch fa¨hig ist. Er stellt sie daher noch u¨ber die Aktivita¨t des Staatsmannes. Soviel also in aller Ku¨rze zur Kennzeichnung der aristotelischen Vorstellung vom ,glu¨cklichen Leben‘ und von der Rolle, die die ,Tugenden‘ des Charakters und des Intellekts darin spielen. Wir ko¨nnen uns damit, endlich, unserem eigentlichen Thema widmen, na¨mlich dem Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben.

5.

Der Nutzen der aristotelischen Tugendethik

Sich den Nutzen vorzustellen, kann angesichts dieser im Ganzen positiven Kennzeichnung der aristotelischen Position eigentlich nicht schwer fallen. Aristoteles geht davon aus, dass das, was fu¨r die Gemeinschaft gut ist, auch gut fu¨r das Individuum ist – jedenfalls in Gemeinschaften von der richtigen Art. Und daher sah er es als die vordringliche Aufgabe der Gemeinschaft an, ihren Bu¨rgern die richtige moralische und geistige Erziehung zu vermitteln. Denn wenn man einmal eine Bu¨rgerschaft hat, die an dem, was sie tun soll, auch noch ihre Freude hat, dann bedarf es keines Zwanges und keiner No¨tigung. Jeder, der entsprechend konditioniert ist, wird sich ganz natu¨rlich so verhalten, wie Anstand und Vernunft es erfordern. Nicht nur das: All diejenigen, die besondere politische Fa¨higkeiten haben, werden sich im Interesse der Gemeinschaft beta¨tigen. Die u¨brige Bevo¨lkerung ist frei, ihren Interessen und Fa¨higkeiten nachzugehen, so lange sie diese nicht in Konflikt mit ihren Nachbarn bringt. Es ist nun genau diese Grundkonzeption des ,Bahn frei dem Tu¨chtigen und Talentierten‘, die Aristoteles besonders gute Noten bei den Vertretern des modernen Liberalismus eingetragen hat. Denn die Vorstellung, dass alle die Chance 17 Vgl. EN X, 6 1176b32 – 1176a11.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

299

haben sollen, ihre Fa¨higkeiten zu entfalten und auszuu¨ben und eben darin die Erfu¨llung ihres Lebens finden, so dass man auf Zwang verzichten kann, klingt natu¨rlich wie jedermanns Traum. Ferner : Wenn so alle Bu¨rger ihre o¨konomische und kulturelle Nische finden ko¨nnen, dann sollte ihr Leben friedlich und auch perso¨nlich zufriedenstellend verlaufen, weil alle das tun, wozu sie sich eignen, und eben daran auch noch Gefallen finden. Denn wenn sie die richtigen moralischen Standards von klein auf mitbekommen haben, werden sie sich freiwillig danach richten. Die so erworbene ,zweite Natur‘ garantiert, dass unter normalen Bedingungen Konflikte gar nicht erst aufkommen. Dies setzt allerdings nicht nur ein geeignetes Erziehungssystem voraus, sondern auch eine passende Verteilung der Talente. Wir werden darauf wieder zuru¨ckkommen, wenn wir zu den Nachteilen dieses Systems kommen. Die Tugendethik im Stile des Aristoteles hat nun in den letzten Jahrzehnten in der Philosophie eine bemerkenswerte Renaissance erfahren, nachdem man sie fu¨r Jahrhunderte als ,tot‘ angesehen hatte. Die Gru¨nde fu¨r dieses Wiederaufleben lassen sich kurz zusammenfassen. ¨ berzeugung, dass die Motivation zum Erstens: Viele Ethiker sind heute der U richtigen Handeln nicht allein von der intellektuellen Einsicht in die Richtigkeit allgemeiner Gesetze und Regeln bestimmt wird und werden kann. Denn wie man weiß, wenn man sich einmal mit dieser Problematik bescha¨ftig hat, ist gerade die Rechtfertigung solcher Gesetze und Regeln ein besonderes Problem. Wenn man sich nicht auf eine absolute Autorita¨t wie etwa auf Gottes Gebote stu¨tzen will oder kann, dann sind alle ,Grundlegungen‘ der Ethik bloßes Menschenwerk – und daher auch grundsa¨tzlich anfechtbar. Dies ist aber nicht das einzige Problem. Es kommt noch hinzu, dass Individuen sich auch emotional mit dem identifizieren mu¨ssen, was sie tun sollen, sonst braucht man eine Menge an ¨ berwachung und No¨tigung, um sie zur Konformita¨t zu zwingen. Polizeistaat ist U ein ha¨ssliches Wort, aber darauf muss es hinauslaufen, wenn den Bu¨rgern all das, was von ihnen erwartet wird, in tiefstem Herzen widerstrebt. Zweitens: Auch die Vorstellung vom ,guten Leben‘ als Zentralbegriff in der Ethik spielt wieder eine wichtige Rolle. Viele Ethiker sind heutzutage u¨berzeugt, dass allgemeine Begru¨ndungen fu¨r Verhaltensregeln oder Prinzipien zur Lo¨sung von moralischen Konflikten auf eine positive Lebenskonzeption angewiesen ¨ berzeugung hat nicht nur zu einer bemerkenswerten Renaissance sind. Diese U der aristotelischen Ethik, sondern auch zu einer reichhaltigen Literatur u¨ber die Begriffe von ,Tugend‘ und ,Glu¨ck‘ gefu¨hrt. Zwar stammen die meisten Beitra¨ge nicht von Aristoteles-Spezialisten, sondern von Ethikern, die sich um neue Lebenskonzeptionen bemu¨hen und dabei auch die Charaktereigenschaften mit

300

Dorothea Frede

einbeziehen. Sie haben aber in der Regel nichts dagegen, wenn man ihr Anliegen als ,neoaristotelisch‘ bezeichnet.18 ¨ berzeugung vom Nutzen der Tugendethik ist kurz Angesichts dieser neuen U etwas daru¨ber zu sagen, warum sie so lange von der Bildfla¨che verschwunden war. Von ihrem Verschwinden zeugt eben die Tatsache, dass ihre beiden Zentralbegriffe ,Tugend‘ und ,Glu¨ck‘ ihre alte Bedeutung verloren haben. Wie nun schon mehrfach betont, haben diese Wo¨rter im gewo¨hnlichen deutschen Sprachgebrauch nicht mehr die Bedeutung, die sie im Griechischen hatten. Wenn wir jemanden als ,glu¨cklich‘ bezeichnen, so meinen wir damit gewo¨hnlich nur seinen augenblicklichen subjektiven Gemu¨tszustand. Der ,Tugend‘ ist es noch schlechter ergangen als dem ,Glu¨ck‘. Der Ausdruck ist fast ganz aus der Alltagssprache verschwunden. Zwar kommt im Deutschen ,Tugend‘ von ,Taugen‘ und im Mittelalter wurden damit auch noch alle Arten von Tauglichkeiten bezeichnet; heute sprechen wir aber nicht mehr von Tugenden, sondern von , Talenten‘ einerseits und von ,guten Charaktereigenschaften‘ andererseits. ,Tugend‘ ist in die Ecke ,christlicher Tugenden‘ geraten und dort mit Keuschheit, Selbstlosigkeit, Bescheidenheit, Geduld und Fleiß auch geblieben. Wenn wir jemanden ,tugendhaft‘ nennen – falls wir das u¨berhaupt je tun – dann verbinden wir damit gewiss nicht die ,altgriechische‘ Assoziation, er sei besonders erfolgreich. Eher meinen wir das Gegenteil. Nur der vom lateinischen virtus abgeleitete Virtuose hat den Glanz der urspru¨nglichen Bedeutung von ,Tugend‘ beibehalten. Denn unter einem Virtuosen versteht man einen hervorragenden Vertreter seines Faches – vor allem in der Musik; man spricht aber auch von einem virtuosen Chirurgen oder auch von einem virtuosen Koch. Ohne dieses italienische Flair aber fu¨hrt der Begriff der Tugend ein wenig beachtetes Schattendasein. Die Frage, die jeden historisch interessierten Menschen bescha¨ftigen sollte ist nun: Wie ist es zu dieser ,Abwertung‘ gekommen? Ich muss hier eine lange Geschichte ganz knapp zusammenfassen: Das Christentum war es, und zwar sowohl im Fall der ,Tugend‘ wie auch in dem des ,Glu¨cks‘. Wenn das Leben auf Erden nur eine Pru¨fung ist und die wahre Glu¨ckseligkeit erst nach dem Tod kommt, wenn sie u¨berhaupt kommt und nicht die ewige Verdammnis, dann verliert dieser Begriff, auf das Leben im Diesseits angewendet, seinen Sinn. Man kann dies gut bei den Philosophen des Mittelalters beobachten. Dies gilt nicht nur fu¨r ,Voluntaristen‘ wie Duns Scotus und Bonaventura, die dem Willen Gottes alles, dem des Menschen nur sehr wenig zutrauten. Es gilt auch fu¨r ,brave Aristoteliker‘ wie Thomas von Aquin. 18 Die dazu geho¨rige Literatur ist inzwischen kaum mehr zu u¨berblicken und die eingeschlagenen Richtungen sind so vielfa¨ltig, dass hier jeder Versuch unterbleiben muss, darauf einzugehen. Einen guten Einblick geben Annas 2011, Foot 1978, Gill 2005, Hursthouse 1999, Nussbaum / Sen 1993, Russell 2013.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

301

Zwar akzeptiert er die Grundlagen der aristotelischen Ethik, aber mit der entscheidenden Einschra¨nkung, dass es die wahre Glu¨ckseligkeit erst nach dem Tod gibt. Eben diese Verschiebung des ,wahren Lebens‘ ins Jenseits hat dem Wort , Glu¨ckseligkeit‘ diesen u¨berschwa¨nglichen Ton verliehen, den es heute fu¨r uns hat.19 Dass der Begriff des Glu¨cks im Sinne von ,erfu¨lltem Leben‘ auch nach der ¨ Sakularisierung nicht wieder auferstanden ist, liegt daran, dass die Aufkla¨rung mit ihrer rationalistischen Ausrichtung andere Wege ging. So ha¨lt Kant den Begriff der Glu¨ckseligkeit fu¨r zu unklar und zu subjektiv bestimmt, als dass er als ¨ hnlich ist es auch dem Begriff der Basis fu¨r eine rationalistische Ethik taugt. A Tugend ergangen, und aus den na¨mlichen Gru¨nden. Die christlichen Tugenden sind nicht ,Bestheiten‘, mit denen der Mensch gla¨nzen kann, sondern sie kommen ganz asketisch daher. Man denke nur an die Forderung nach Demut und Selbstverleugnung – vor allem was sexuelle Freuden angeht. Diesen ,Geruch‘ ist der Tugendbegriff nie wieder losgeworden und wirkt auf uns daher altmodisch, abgestanden oder weltfremd. Es bleibt abzuwarten, ob die Philosophen der Gegenwart mit ihren Bemu¨hungen um eine Wiederbelebung einer Ethik des Glu¨cks auf der Basis von Tugenden Erfolg haben. Sie mu¨ssten, mangels besserer Ausdru¨cke, na¨mlich zugleich eine Wiederbelebung der alten Wortbedeutungen bewirken. Ich habe meine Zweifel, dass das gelingen kann. Es scheint nahezu unmo¨glich, den herrschenden Sprachgebrauch gegen den Strich zu bu¨rsten. Vielmehr nehme ich ¨ ffentlichkeit an, dass der Sprachgebrauch einer der Gru¨nde dafu¨r ist, dass die O von diesem neuen philosophischen Trend, den es nun schon seit ein paar Jahrzehnten gibt, nur wenig Notiz genommen hat. Man braucht nur den Test zu machen: Auch gebildete Leute sehen sich mit der Frage in Verlegenheit gesetzt, ob sie sich unter einer ,Moral des Glu¨cks auf der Basis der Tugenden‘ etwas vorstellen ko¨nnen. Schon die Begriffe scheinen Schwierigkeiten zu bereiten.

6.

Die Nachteile der aristotelischen Tugendethik

Die ,Widerspenstigkeit‘ der Alltagssprache ist aber nicht der einzige Grund, warum die Verfechter einer neuen Tugendethik und des Glu¨cksbegriffs nicht so erfolgreich sind, wie sie es sich wu¨nschen. Das ganze Projekt hat auch mit sachlichen Schwierigkeiten zu ka¨mpfen, und auf diese sei zum Abschluss noch 19 Diese starke Vereinfachung u¨bergeht die ,hausgemachten‘ Probleme der individualistisch gepra¨gten aristotelischen Ethik, die ihr bereits im Mittelalter eine gewisse Randstellung gaben und sie als autoritative Theorie angesichts des Autorita¨tenverfall in nachreformatorischer Zeit nicht mehr tauglich erscheinen ließen.

302

Dorothea Frede

eingegangen, weil sie auch die versprochenen Nachteile der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben betreffen. Welche Nachteile kann denn eine Lebenskonzeption mit sich bringen, der zu Folge der Mensch ein ,wohltemperiertes‘ Wesen ist, das – wenn alles gut geht – seine Erfu¨llung in der Beta¨tigung seiner besten Talente findet? Das klingt doch sehr verlockend. Die Sache ist die: ,wenn alles gut geht‘. Dies ist aber ein bedeutungsschweres ,Wenn‘. Eine Reflexion auf die dafu¨r erforderlichen Bedingungen fu¨hrt uns zu den Voraussetzungen dieser Ethik. Ihre Sta¨rke ist zugleich ihre Schwa¨che: das Problem ist der naturalistische Ansatz der aristotelischen Theorie. Er geht davon aus, dass der Mensch eine auch im normativen Sinn feststehende Natur hat, die es durch die richtige Erziehung und in einer geeigneten Umwelt zu realisieren gilt. Wie wir gesehen haben, begnu¨gt er sich nicht mit minimalistischen Vorstellungen, sondern er vertritt einen starken Begriff von der vollentwickelten menschlichen Perso¨nlichkeit. Zu dieser Vorstellung haben ihn, wie ich anfangs sagte, zweifellos seine biologischen Studien ermutigt: Auch Tiere und Pflanzen haben eine spezifische Natur, welche die einzelnen Vertreter der Spezies bis zur vollen ,Blu¨te‘ bzw. ,Reife‘ entwickeln. Manche tun das natu¨rlich mehr, manche weniger, aber insgesamt la¨sst sich ein ,Bestzustand‘ jeder Spezies durchaus diagnostizieren. Eine zusa¨tzliche Ermutigung bezog Aristoteles sicherlich aus der allfa¨lligen Analogie zwischen Ko¨rper und Geist. Analog zur Gesundheit des Ko¨rpers mu¨sste es doch auch die Gesundheit des Geistes geben. In der Tat haben wir keine Schwierigkeit, die Gesundheit des Ko¨rpers als objektiv bestimmbaren Zustand zu begreifen. Schließlich sprechen wir sta¨ndig daru¨ber, geben viel Geld dafu¨r aus – unterziehen uns allerhand Prozeduren, um sie zu erhalten oder wieder herzustellen. Und wir meinen auch, dass es Spezialisten dafu¨r gibt, die genau wissen, wie alles funktionieren sollte. Wie steht es aber mit ,geistiger Gesundheit‘? Gewiss, wir sprechen von Geisteskrankheiten und psychischen Sto¨rungen, wenn Menschen nicht so ,funktionieren‘, wie man das als Normalmensch tut. Also muss es doch auch eine entsprechende Gesundheit geben. Dies ist aber nicht die Art ,geistiger Gesundheit‘, die Aristoteles in der Ethik im Sinne hat. Vielmehr geht es ihm um das, was wir , moralische‘ oder ,charakterliche‘ Gesundheit nennen wu¨rden. Hier wird es nun problematisch. Denn obwohl wir durchaus einen Begriff von Anstand haben und von Maßsta¨ben, denen alle Menschen genu¨gen mu¨ssen, die wir moralisch fu¨r ,vollwertig‘ nehmen wollen, so ist das doch ein sehr allgemeiner und vager Begriff. Nicht zufa¨llig ist daher die Gegenposition zum aristotelischen Naturalismus a¨lter als seine eigene Theorie, na¨mlich der moralische und kulturelle Relativismus und Konventionalismus der Sophisten. Sie konnten sich dabei auf die Erfahrung stu¨tzen, dass verschiedene Gesellschaften sehr verschiedene Vorstellungen daru¨ber hegen, was sie als ,natu¨rlich‘ und als , richtig‘ und ebenso, was sie als ,unnatu¨rlich‘ und als ,falsch‘ ansehen. Damit

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

303

machten sie sich zwar bei den konservativen Mitgliedern der Gesellschaft keine Freunde; das Aufsehen, das sie damit erregten, zeigt aber, dass diese Theorie den traditionskritischen ,Zeitgeist‘ in vieler Hinsicht traf.20 Die Problematik, eine normative Bestimmung der allen Menschen gemeinsamen Natur zu finden, spiegelt sich heutzutage etwa in dem Bemu¨hen um die Rechtfertigung von Menschenrechten wider – seit Ende des 2. Weltkriegs ein Dauerthema – ohne dass ein Ende abzusehen wa¨re. Selbst u¨ber einen minimalen Katalog la¨sst sich nur schwer Einigkeit herstellen. Zwar kann man sagen, dass Gerechtigkeit, Mut, Selbstbeherrschung, Aufrichtigkeit und gegenseitiger Respekt Tugenden sind, die jede Gesellschaft voraussetzt, auch wenn ihre Auspra¨gungen unterschiedlich ausfallen mo¨gen. Das ist aber gerade der Punkt: Was man unter Gerechtigkeit versteht, ist oft so unterschiedlich, dass der Verdacht ¨ bereinstimmung. nahe liegen ko¨nnte, es gebe u¨berhaupt nur eine nominelle U Daher ist es schwer, wenn nicht unmo¨glich, zu sagen, welche Charaktereigenschaften und Verhaltensweisen die Bu¨rger aller Staaten entwickeln und zur Schau tragen sollten. In einer Zeit, in der Toleranz und kulturelle Pluralita¨t als hohe Werte gelten, mu¨ssen diese Schwierigkeiten besonders deutlich sein. Verschwunden ist der Optimismus und der missionarische Eifer bei der ,Heidenbekehrung‘ – und das ist nicht nur im religio¨sen Sinne gemeint. Selbst die Frage, wo die Grenzen des Menschenunwu¨rdigen liegen, ist nicht leicht zu beantworten. Natu¨rlich meinen wir, dass Vo¨lkermord, Sklaverei, die Unterdru¨ckung von Frauen und von Minderheiten nie richtig sind und waren, ganz gleich, ob hochintelligente Vertreter aus hochentwickelten Zivilisationen daru¨ber anderer Meinung waren, wie etwa Aristoteles bezu¨glich der Sklaverei, der Stellung der Frauen und der Gleichwertigkeit aller Menschen.21 Aber schon all diese Minimalforderungen finden nicht u¨berall Zustimmung – auch heute nicht. Und ¨ bereinstimmung daru¨ber je anspruchsvoller man wird, desto schwerer ist es, U zu erzielen, was denn die Bedingungen eines menschenwu¨rdigen Lebens sind, wenn es nicht bei leeren Worthu¨lsen bleiben soll. War sich Aristoteles dieser Problematik bewusst? Da er die Herausforderung durch die Sophisten kannte, kann er sie nicht u¨bersehen haben. In der Tat hat er versucht, die Argumente zu entka¨rften, Moralita¨t beruhe allein auf Tradition und Konventionen. Er konnte aber diesbezu¨glich nicht viel mehr tun, als ein Bild einer Gesellschaft zu entwerfen, die ihren Bu¨rgern ein friedliches Zusammenleben ermo¨glicht und den besten Talenten die Gelegenheit gibt, diese nicht nur 20 Solcher ,Traditionalismus‘ wirkt sich meist zum Vorteil derjenigen aus, die von der jeweiligen Gesellschaft am meisten profitieren und als besonders gute Exemplare von Menschen gelten. Nicht nur gelten sie als bewunderns- und nachahmenswert, sondern sie profitieren auch am meisten von der Aufrechterhaltung von Recht und Ordnung in einem materiellen Sinn. Eben dies forderte auch zur Kritik heraus. 21 Vgl. dazu Pol. I, 3; 4 – 8.

304

Dorothea Frede

zu entwickeln, sondern auch auszuu¨ben. Genau an diesem Punkt aber sto¨ßt der aristotelische Entwurf eines glu¨cklichen Lebens und des betreffenden ,Idealtyps‘ an seine Grenzen. Zum einen ließe eine solche Ordnung sich nur in einem u¨berschaubaren Stadtstaat verwirklichen – etwa so groß wie Lu¨neburg mit Hinterland. Zum anderen beruht Aristoteles’ ideale Gesellschaft auf einer stramm geordneten Hierarchie. Denn er war durchaus elita¨r gesonnen: den intellektuell und charakterlich Besten die besten Chancen! Das hat auch praktische Folgen. Damit die Talentiertesten ihre Fa¨higkeiten voll entwickeln und ausu¨ben ko¨nnen, muss es eine ganze Klasse von Leuten geben, welche die harte Arbeit zur Beschaffung des Lebensnotwendigen tut. Aristoteles war sich dieser Notwendigkeit vollkommen bewusst. Aus diesem Grund verteidigt er die Institution der Sklaverei. Er war allerdings nicht der Meinung, damit werde den Betreffenden Unrecht getan, weil er als natu¨rliche Sklaven diejenigen ansah, die von Natur aus nicht genug praktische Vernunft besitzen, um ihr Leben selbst zu gestalten.22 Aus unserer Perspektive ist es leicht, u¨ber diese Borniertheit die Nase zu ru¨mpfen und zu sagen: Gottseidank, diese Zeiten sind vorbei. Gleichwohl besteht das Grundproblem weiter : Zwar wird die schwere Arbeit heute meist von Maschinen getan;23 dennoch ist keineswegs gesichert, dass alle Leute ein Leben fu¨hren ko¨nnen, welches den aristotelischen Bedingungen fu¨r das ,erfu¨llte Leben‘ genu¨gt, na¨mlich ein Leben, in dem sie ihre besten Fa¨higkeiten entwickeln und ausu¨ben ko¨nnen. Die meisten von uns profitieren auf die ein- oder andere Weise davon, dass es eine große Menge von Menschen gibt, die ihren Lebensunterhalt durch stumpfsinnige Arbeit verdienen. Man pflegt dann sein schlechtes Gewissen, wenn man eines hat, mit dem Gedanken zu beruhigen, dass solche Arbeit besser als keine Arbeit ist, – und dass die Betroffenen weder ho¨here Talente haben, noch sich ein besseres Leben vorstellen ko¨nnen. Dies ist aber ein wirklich matter Trost, der uns nicht weit von Aristoteles’ Rechtfertigung der Sklaverei wegfu¨hrt, bis auf die Tatsache, dass heute der Mensch offiziell nicht als Handelsware gelten darf. Die Nachteile der aristotelischen Tugendethik lassen sich also in drei Punkten zusammenzufassen: (1) Die Entwicklung von Charaktertugenden, so wu¨nschenswert und sogar unverzichtbar sie auch erscheinen mo¨gen, setzt eine Art normativer , anthropologischer Einigkeit‘ voraus, von der schwer zu sehen ist, wie man ihr universelle Gu¨ltigkeit verschaffen kann. (2) Das gute Leben der ho¨her Talentierten geht auf Kosten der weniger Begu¨nstigten. (3) Angesichts der Notwendigkeiten und Zwa¨nge, auf denen eine gut organisierte Gemeinschaft 22 Vgl. Pol. I, 5 und Pellegrin, Hausverwaltung und Sklaverei, in Ho¨ffe 2001. 23 Da sich technische Hilfsmittel in der klassischen Zeit auf der Ebene des Flaschenzugs hielten, war schwere Arbeit wirklich schwere Arbeit.

Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der aristotelischen Tugendethik fu¨r das Leben

305

beruht, wird die Vorstellung, dass wirklich alle mit natu¨rlichen Begabungen ein sie erfu¨llendes Leben fu¨hren ko¨nnen, wohl immer eine wohlmeinende Illusion bleiben.

Nachwort In den hier genannten Bedenken liegen freilich keine so schwerwiegenden Nachteile, dass die Tugendethik damit ,erledigt‘ wa¨re. Insbesondere ist damit der Gedanke nicht vom Tisch, dass das lebenswerte Leben in der Entwicklung und Ausu¨bung unserer besten Talente bestehen sollte. Noch auch ko¨nnen die Vorbehalte bedeuten, dass es niemandem erlaubt sein soll, seine Talente zu entwickeln und auszuleben, wenn es nicht alle ko¨nnen. Die Ku¨nste, Wissenschaften und Technik sind schließlich das Produkt der aristotelischen ,intellektuellen‘ Tugenden. Man denke nur, wo wir ohne sie wa¨ren. Ferner setzt nicht nur ihre Entstehung, sondern auch der richtige Gebrauch all dieser geistigen Errungenschaften voraus, dass sie mit den Charaktertugenden einhergehen. Denn eben dies hoffen wir ja alle: Dass sich Missbrauch ausschließen la¨sst und der allgemeine Nutzen im Vordergrund steht. Dazu bedarf es der aristotelischen Charaktertugenden. Auch wenn Aristoteles vom Geist seiner Zeit bestimmt ist, so haben doch die meisten Kandidaten auf seiner Liste der Charaktertugenden auch heute noch ihre Bedeutung fu¨r das Zusammenleben. Zwar wa¨re es naiv zu meinen, dass der Besitz eines guten Charakters, gute Absichten und ein wacher praktischer Verstand allein die Probleme der Welt lo¨sen ko¨nnten. Daher hat eine Ethik der Charaktertugenden ihre Grenzen. Ihr Funktionieren setzt eine wohlgeordnete Gesellschaft voraus, in der ein Konsensus u¨ber die Ziele und Werte des Lebens herrscht – im o¨ffentlichen wie im privaten. In Konfliktfa¨llen wa¨re zu pru¨fen, wie weit der Konsensus reicht. Ein solideres Fundament hat die aristotelische Ethik also nicht zu bieten. Man muss allerdings zu ihren Gunsten sagen, dass das auch fu¨r alle anderen Arten von Ethiken gilt. Die Grundprinzipien zur Bestimmung, was der Mensch sei, was ihm frommt und was ihm schadet, muss man immer auf ,Treu und Glauben‘ akzeptieren, ganz gleich, ob es sich um eine Pflichtenethik a` la Kant, um eine utilitaristische Ethik a` la Mills – oder eben um eine Tugendethik nach Aristoteles handelt.

306

Dorothea Frede

Literatur Annas, J. 1993. The Morality of Happiness, Oxford. Annas, J. 2011. Intelligent Virtue, Oxford. Eifler, G. 1970. Ritterliches Tugendsystem, Darmstadt. Foot, Ph. 1978. Virtues and Vices, Oxford. Gill, Ch. (ed.) 2005. Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity. Issues in Ancient and Modern Ethics, Oxford. Heer, C. de 1964. Makar – Eudaimoˆn – Olbios – Eutycheˆs. A Study of the Semantic Field Denoting Happiness in Ancient Greek to the End of the 5th Century B.C., Amsterdam 1964. Hursthouse, R. 1999. On Virtue Ethics, Oxford. Nussbaum, M. / Sen, A. (eds.) 1993. The Quality of Life, Oxford. P. Pellegrin 2001. „Hausverwaltung und Sklaverei“, in: O. Ho¨ffe (ed.) Aristoteles. Politik, Berlin: 37 – 57. Russell, D. (ed.) 2013. The Cambridge Companion to Virtue Ethics, Cambridge.

Hellenistic philosophy

Julia Annas

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy1

The Stoics divide philosophy into three parts, logic, physics and ethics, and we find two correspondingly different ways of presenting Stoic philosophy. One is a ‘mixed’ presentation, which puts propositions from the three parts together as parts of a single package. Diogenes Laertius tells us that the Stoics made the presentation or paradosis of their philosophy mixed.2 The most extensive examples of this kind of approach that we have are the Discourses of Epictetus and the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In these we find ethical and metaphysical propositions (and occasionally in Epictetus the development of logical arguments) put together in a way which is ‘mixed’ in that thoughts are developed using all three types of proposition, moving from one to another without comment and sometimes drawing attention to relationships between them. It is, however, difficult to be sure whether these are examples of what Diogenes (or his source) had in mind.3 An alternative way is to study the three parts of philosophy separately. Stoic philosophers had varying orders in which they presented the three parts. Our evidence from Diogenes is that Zeno and Chrysippus began with logic, then went on to physics, ending with ethics. Panaetius and Posidonius began with physics, while Diogenes of Ptolemais began with ethics.4 Sextus tells us of a Stoic order logic-ethics-physics, and gives us the rationale for it: The Stoics too say that logical matters lead, that ethical matters take second place, and that physical matters come last in order. For they hold that the intellect must first be fortified, with a view to making its guard of the tradition hard to shake off, and that the 1 This essay is a revised version of Julia Annas: “Ethics in Stoic Philosophy”, in: Phronesis 52, 2007: 58 – 87. The editors of this volume are grateful to the editors of the journal Phronesis for permission to publish this essay. 2 Diogenes Laertius VII 40. 3 Marcus is writing a diary for himself, and the works of Epictetus that we have are most plausibly seen as records of his teachings to students who were also learning logic, physics and ethics in more technical ways. 4 Diogenes Laertius VII 39 – 41; cf. Sextus PH II 13.

310

Julia Annas

area of dialectic tends to strengthen one’s thinking; that, second, one must add ethical reflection with a view to the improvement of character-traits (for the acquisition of this on top of the already present logical ability holds no danger); and that one must bring in physical reflection last (for it is more divine and needs deeper attention).5

Chrysippus explicitly adopted this order also, as we know from a quotation in Plutarch.6 What is the content of the ethical part of philosophy? In our sources we find it divided into a number of topics. Diogenes Laertius tells us that from Chrysippus onwards the Stoics divided the ethical part of philosophy into the topics of impulse, goods and evils, the emotions, virtue, the end, primary value and actions, appropriate actions and encouragements and discouragements. Diogenes himself does not follow this order closely, nor do our other major ancient sources for Stoic ethics, Cicero and Arius Didymus (if he is the author) in a passage in Stobaeus.7 All our sources add the topics of lives, and of the wise person or sage, and they discuss indifferents along with virtue. This is the cluster of linked topics which form the distinctive subject-matter of the ethical part of Stoic philosophy. To understand these topics properly requires mastering some technical Stoic distinctions and analyses, such as the difference between virtue and the indifferents and that between choosing and selecting; the distinctive Stoic account of the emotions; the sharp distinction between the wise and the foolish, and so on. In Diogenes and Arius we find a fairly dry presentation which has been plausibly taken as stemming ultimately from handbooks in the Chrysippean tradition.8 In Cicero we find a conscious attempt to put forward Stoic ethics in a strong and attractive form. The cluster of topics that they deal with is, however, the same. Becoming a good Stoic requires more, however, than mastering the ethical

5 Sextus, M VII 20 – 23; translation from Sextus Empiricus, Against the Logicians, translated by Richard Bett, Cambridge 2005. In the corresponding short passage at PH II 12 – 13 Sextus reports, without rationale, a Stoic order logic-physics-ethics, which is also the order which Sextus himself follows in both his works. 6 Plutarch, de St. Rep. 1035 A-B. The passage will be discussed below. Chrysippus introduces the division as one of different kinds of theoremata. 7 Diogenes Laertius VII 84; the whole passage is 84 – 116. The division of Eudorus (Stobaeus II 42.7 – 45.10) differs in its organization, and appears to cover a variety of theories, but the topics covered are similar : impulse, action, ends and objectives, virtue and preferred things, as well as more specific topics such as skills and practices, friendship and love, pleasure, reputation and relationships. 8 The Diogenes and Arius passages are compared, and parallel passages listed, in my Introduction to Ario Didimo, Diogene Laerzio: etica stoica, a cura di Carlo Natali, introduzione di Julia Annas, Laterza 1999.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

311

part. Stoic philosophy consists of all three parts strongly unified into a whole (a point indicated in two of our major sources for the ethical part of Stoicism.9) Katerina Ierodiakonou has illuminated for us the relation of its parts to Stoic philosophy as a whole.10 Philosophy here is not philosophia strictly understood, for that is the physical state of the wise person’s soul, like knowledge. It is ho kata philosophian logos, ‘philosophical discourse’, made up of theoremata or propositions, which has parts.11 Ierodiakonou points out that we find two approaches to the division of philosophical discourse. It could be seen as divided by partition into parts (mere or topoi), each of which deals only with some philosophical theoremata; on this approach philosophy is seen ‘as a unitary whole divided into interdependent parts which deal separately with a portion of the philosophical theorems.’ Or it could be seen as divided by division into species (eide); on this approach philosophy is viewed “as a plurality of independent parts which are united as far as they all share the same theorems from different perspectives”.12 Seeing logic, physics and ethics as species and as parts are different and complementary ways of looking at them. Both views imply that studying just the ethical part of philosophy will not be adequate for a full understanding even of ethics. Ethics is a part of philosophy ; thus it is a study of a distinguishable area which can be studied independently of the other two parts. Further, ethics is also a species of philosophy, thus sharing its theoremata with the other parts but studying them from its own distinctive perspective. Once again, ethics has something distinctive, namely its perspective, but the propositions it studies cannot be fully grasped until they have been studied from all three perspectives, as is true of the theorems of physics and logic too. Whether as species or as parts, logic, physics and ethics are items that contribute to a unitary whole. In what follows I shall pass over this technical distinction between part and species, and revert to simply calling logic, physics and ethics the three parts of Stoic philosophy, as ancient authors generally do. The person who has studied ethics, then, needs to go on not only to study the other two parts but to integrate their results with ethics to produce a unified understanding from all three perspectives.13 9 Cicero, De Finibus III, 73, Diogenes Laertius VII 85 – 89. 10 Ierodiakonou 1993. I have learnt much from this excellent article. 11 See Ierodiakonou 1993: 58 – 61 for the evidence. We are told that Zeno of Tarsus thought philosophy itself to be tripartite, presumably into logical, physical and ethical virtues of the philosopher. 12 Ierodiakonou 1993: 61 – 67, especially p. 67. 13 Stoic metaphors for philosophy bring out just how closely unified the parts are, comparing philosophy to an egg, with logic as its protecting shell, and different pairings of physics and ethics with the yolk and the white, or to an animal, with logic as its supporting bones and different pairings of physics and ethics with flesh and animating spirit. See Ierodiakonou 1993: 71 – 74. I agree with her that the metaphor of a garden (and that of a city in the

312

Julia Annas

Seneca, in Letter 89 on the parts of philosophy, gives us some idea of the ideal of unified wisdom which would be the result of perfected philosophizing:14 [W]e can be brought more easily through the parts to understanding of the whole. If only, just as the entire face of the universe meets our gaze, philosophy could be present to us as a whole, a sight very like that of the universe! For philosophy would then seize on all mortals to wonder at her, leaving aside those things which we now think great, in ignorance of what is great…The mind of the sage, indeed, embraces its whole structure, and surveys it not less swiftly than our glance does the heavens. We, however, have to break through fog, and our sight fails us about things near at hand; for us it is easier for individual things to be shown, as we are not yet able to grasp the universe.15

Seneca defends the study of parts of philosophy as useful and necessary for the person striving for wisdom. He defends the Stoic tripartition of philosophy in particular against those who recognize more or fewer parts.16 He clearly regards ethics as the most important for a learner, warning his reader Lucilius to relate his logic reading directly to matters of character.17 To make progress towards the overall unified view of the sage that we aspire to, we have to learn philosophy by learning ethics, physics and logic, but the aim is clearly an integration of the findings of all three parts in a unified view which the sage can ultimately grasp synoptically. As Diogenes Laertius says, “no part is preferred to any other ; they are mixed.”18

14 15

16 17 18

Diogenes passage, which she does not discuss) is less satisfactory for representing the unity of Stoic philosophy. I am very grateful to Brad Inwood for pointing out to me this very important passage, and for extensive helpful discussion of the issues raised in this paper. Seneca, Letter 89, 1 – 2. The idea of philosophy as a view of the big picture also dominates the following Letter 90, where Seneca relies on it to refute Posidonius’ view that it was philosophy which discovered technological devices to improve human life. Far from this being the case, Seneca claims, philosophy judges whether such devices when invented do in fact improve, rather than corrupting, human life. The need to integrate our beliefs in order to achieve knowledge is also stressed more informally in Letter 84. (For an English translation of Sencas’ philosophical letters see B. Inwood: Seneca. Selected Philosophical Letters, translation with an Introduction and Commentary by B. Inwood, Oxford 2007). He criticises the Peripatetics for redundancy, the Epicureans and Cyrenaics for claiming to reject parts which they recognized in practice, and Aristo of Chios for wrongly limiting the philosopher’s sphere of concern. Letter 89, 14 – 18. Ethics is divided into correct estimation of value, ordering of impulse and harmonizing of action with the first two. Physics is the study of the corporeal and incorporeal. Logic is divided into dialectic and rhetoric. The MSS reading, prokekristhai,has been restored in M. Marcovich’s Teubner text, and in Long and Sedley’s text of the passage (26B in Long and Sedley 1987). Cobet’s conjecture apokekristhai has the merit of making the phrase concern a single issue, the mixing of the parts, whereas the MSS reading brings in two separate issues, that the parts are mixed and that none of them is preferred. There is no good reason, however, for rejecting the MSS reading, and no reason to think that the specifically Stoic doctrine of total mixture is at issue here.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

313

We can call the above familiar account of Stoic philosophy ‘the integrated picture’. We are aspiring towards the view of the sage, which, as in Seneca, comes to see the findings of all the parts of philosophy as integrated into one overall synoptic and unified view. It is at this point that we can come to appreciate Stoic claims about the identity or equivalence of what seem like very different things. Common nature, we are told, for example, is the common reason of nature, and is fate and providence and Zeus.19 Statements like these are presented without any indication of how they are to be understood, and in isolation, like other striking Stoic claims, may well appear baffling. We find a claim of equivalence or identity important for the present issue in the section on the telos or end in Arius Didymus’ treatment of Stoic ethics.20 Arius begins by giving us the accounts of the final end ascribed to various early Stoics. Zeno defined the end thus: “living in agreement”: that is, to live in accordance with a single and consistent reasoning, as those who live in conflict are unhappy. His successors articulated this further and expressed it thus: “living in agreement with nature”, supposing that Zeno’s expression was an incomplete predicate. Cleanthes, the first to take over the school, added “with nature” and defined it thus: “the end is living in agreement with nature”. Chrysippus, wanting to make this clearer, expressed it this way : “living in accordance with experience of what happens naturally”.21

Arius then adds the definitions given by later heads of the Stoa, Diogenes, Archedemus and Antipater, specifies three ways in which the Stoics talk of the telos, distinguishes the end, telos, from the objective, skopos, and differentiates goods necessary for happiness, eudaimonia, from those that are not. Then he continues: They say that the end is being happy ; everything is done for its sake while it is not done for the sake of anything further. This consists in living in accordance with virtue, in living in agreement and, this being the same thing, in living in accordance with nature. Zeno defined happiness this way ; happiness is a smooth flow of life. Cleanthes also uses this definition in his writings, and so do Chrysippus and all his followers, saying that happiness is no other than the happy life, though they say that happiness is set up as the objective, while the end is achieving happiness. It’s clear from this that the following are equivalent (isodunamei): living in accordance 19 Plutarch, de St. Rep. 1050b. 20 The passage traditionally numbered 6 in Stobaeus Eclogae II (75.11 – 78.17), pp. 36.25 – 42.8 in Arius Didymus: Epitome of Stoic Ethics, translated and edited by A. J. Pomeroy, Society of Biblical Literature Texts and Translations 44, Graeco-Roman 14, Atlanta, GA 1999. 21 Stobaeus II, 75-11-76. 8, Pomeroy 36.30 – 38. 9. However, I do not accept his in line 76.3 (Pomeroy 38.2).

314

Julia Annas

with nature, living finely, living well, also the fine and good and virtue and what partakes of virtue, and that everything good is fine, and similarly everything shameful is bad; hence the Stoic end is equivalent (ison dunasthai) to living according to virtue.22

These claims are hard to understand if we look at them in isolation, or ask which part of philosophy is best suited to study them. They seem to be rather claims which we can understand only when we both have studied more than one part of philosophy and are in a position to see their findings as contributing to a unified view. They cannot be fully understood from any one part of philosophy alone, but need an integrated grasp of more than one part to be fully understood.23 So far I have presented a conservative interpretation of our evidence for the parts of Stoic philosophy and their relations, going on to a discussion of the puzzling identity or equivalence statements we find in the Stoics. I shall now look at a modern interpretative strategy that finds one of the parts, physics, to be foundational for another part, ethics. I argue that this strategy fits the ancient texts poorly and raises serious theoretical problems. It does pick out something very important in the ancient texts, but this is not foundationalism. There are two passages which have been taken actually to make a foundational claim, but I argue that they do not support it; they fit into the integrated picture. Some modern interpreters of the Stoics assume that the above account of Stoic method is compatible with, or even, in stronger versions, demands, an important asymmetry in one part of the system, and in one part only. That is, they claim that Stoic ethics is grounded in,24 or parasitical on,25 Stoic physics, in such a way that Stoic physics can be called the foundations, or first principles, of Stoic ethics.26 This, however, turns out to involve severe difficulties as an interpretation of Stoic thought. If one thing is a foundation for a second, there is an important asymmetry. A foundation is something distinct from and in some way prior to what it is a foundation for. This would, I think, be fairly uncontroversial as an account of what it is for one thing to be a foundation for another, and many ethical theories are foundational in this sense. But how well does this fit the Stoics? We should clearly be cautious before introducing foundationalism into interpretations of Stoicism, given the picture of Stoic methodology that we have seen, and its great distance from any modern 21 Stobaeus II 77.16 – 78.6 (Pomeroy 40.11 – 32). 23 They can well be made from within one part of philosophy, as these are in the ethical part; they simply call attention to the need to study another part fully to understand these claims. 24 “The Stoics’ eudaimonism is principally grounded in their beliefs about the relation in which human beings stand to a determinate and providentially governed world.” (Long 2004c). 25 “Stoic ethics is ultimately parasitical on physics.” (Long 1968: 341). 26 “The foundations of Stoic ethics are to be sought … in cosmology or theology.” (Striker 1996: 231).

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

315

version of philosophical methodology. The different parts of philosophy, thought of as parts, concern distinguishable areas of study, and can be distinguished as different in that way. However, how can one be prior to another? It is equally true of each of the three parts of Stoic philosophy that if it is removed we no longer have the whole. Nothing in the integrated picture supports the view that one of the parts is dependent on another. Still, the integrated view, even though it does not demand it, certainly does not rule out the idea that there might be an asymmetry such that physics is prior to ethics, even though each of logic, physics and ethics has its own distinguishable subject-matter and is needed to make up the unified whole. So let us see if we can find a sense of priority such that physics can be prior to ethics, and thus a foundation for it, without creating difficulties as an interpretation of ancient Stoicism. The desired priority might be priority in content: that is, the idea that even to get right what the distinguishable subject-matter of ethics is we have to go through physics to define it. But this has no footing in the ancient texts. The ethical part of philosophy is the study of certain topics such as impulse, virtue, emotion, the sage and so on. These topics are not defined in terms of or derived from pneuma and matter, or Providence. They have to be defined and discussed in their own terms. This is not a point which needs argument but just an aspect of the fact that ethics is a distinct part of philosophy with its own distinct subject matter. Some modern presentations of Stoic ethics do not take sufficient account of this point. An account of Stoic ethics will begin with repeated assurances that Stoic ethics must be understood in terms of Stoic physics, sketching a providential view of cosmic nature, but will then go on to discuss impulse, emotion, virtue and indifferents and the other ethical topics we find in the ancient sources, and do so without once bringing in pneuma or the cosmos, indeed often locating Stoic understanding of these topics in engagement with Socratic and other traditions of ethical thinking.27 But if virtue, impulse and so on are introduced in their own right from the ethical part of Stoic philosophy, we have no support for the claim that Stoic ethics can only be understood in terms of the concepts of Stoic physics. It can be responded that claims about foundations do have support, even though we find no texts in which virtue, impulse and the like are derived from Stoic physics rather than being introduced in their own right. For, it is claimed, foundationalism is supported by the mixed presentations I mentioned earlier. It 27 One example is Long 1986. In contrast, Sharples clearly discusses the topics of the ethical part of Stoic philosophy, in a eudaimonist framework, before raising the issue of their relation to Stoic physics (Sharples 1996: 100 – 113).

316

Julia Annas

is easy to find passages in Marcus and Epictetus where we find ethical conclusions drawn apparently from considerations about the cosmos and its ordered nature. We find the following in Marcus, for example, “In no case is nature inferior to art”; for the arts merely imitate natural things. And if that is so, the nature which is the most perfect and comprehensive of all cannot be deficient in technical proficiency. Now all the arts create the lower for the sake of the higher, so universal nature surely does the same. And this accounts for the origin of justice, and it is from justice that all the other virtues spring; for justice will not be maintained if we value indifferent objects, or are readily deceived, and hasty in our judgement, and lacking in constancy.28

It is important to recognize that the existence of this kind of reasoning, which involves propositions from the different parts of philosophy in a presentation which mixes them, raises quite different issues from, and in no way supports, the claim that physics, as a part of philosophy, is a foundation for ethics, as another part of philosophy. That claim, as we have seen, is a claim that there is one (and, as it happens, only one) asymmetry of a hierarchical sort in the relations between the three parts. And this claim is in no way whatever supported by the obvious point that in mixed presentations propositions from the three different parts are – mixed. Given this, it is entirely unsurprising that we often find ethical claims supported by physical ones. In any case we should surely be cautious before concluding from passages like the above that even in mixed presentations we find ethical conclusions derived from physical ones. Following Christopher Gill, I think that what we find in these passages is more like mutual illumination between ethical and physical claims. In this passage justice is said to have its origin in universal nature, but there is nothing that could be called a derivation of justice from a prior account of nature. Rather, we move between all parts of philosophy. We make a point about skill from nature, then argue by analogy from skill to nature; we trace justice to nature but then fill out the thought about justice by considering other virtues and indifferents, and conclude that what is required if someone is to be just requires developed intellectual dispositions. What is sought in these passages can well be seen as integration of ethical thoughts in a unified way with thoughts about soundness of reasoning and order in the cosmos as a whole. All three parts of philosophy are involved. Rather than one-way priority between two parts, we find aspiration to a synoptic view like the one indicated in Seneca, building on and bringing together thoughts from all three parts of philosophy in a synoptic understanding. 28 Marcus Aurelius, Meditations XI, 10, translated by Robin Hard in: Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, with selected correspondence, translated by R. Hard, with an introd. and notes by Ch. Gill, Oxford 2011.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

317

Might the desired priority be motivational? The thought here is that what we get from the ethical part of philosophy alone is insufficiently powerful to get us to the counterintuitive conclusions that a Stoic needs to accept and live by. John Cooper, for example, points out that Stoic views about virtue imply that an event such as one’s child dying horribly at 15 is not bad, and thus nothing to regret. He says, “I can find no pressure [italics mine] from within the ‘ethical’’ that would ‘lead us all by itself to this totally new way of conceiving what virtue is, and of conceiving the value of all things other than virtue itself.” “I cannot,” he says, “see at all how this quite counterintuitive conclusion could be arrived at at all” without reliance on thoughts about Providence and what seems bad for the part being really good for the whole.”29 What is here taken to be the scope of ‘the ethical’? Cooper takes ‘the ethical’ to be ‘our practical attitudes and our motivational set as we come to the study of philosophical ethics, plus our commitment to finding a conception of a single overall good to direct our lives by.’ This, however, understates what the ethical part of Stoic philosophy involves. For this precisely does lead us beyond what our initial beliefs and motivational commitments provided, to accept counterintuitive conclusions such as that nothing but vice is bad, and that emotions like regret are all mistaken. Once we appreciate the difference between virtue and indifferents, between appropriate action and fully right action, between emotion and the virtuous person’s ‘good state’, we do see that one’s child dying at 15 is not bad, and thus nothing to regret. Even the driest epitome forces us to accept that conclusion. We have not understood Stoic ethics – the part studying virtue, happiness, impulse, appropriation and the rest of these ideas – if we think that we have mastered it but not already had to revise thoroughly whatever beliefs and motivational set we brought to it.30

29 Cooper 1995, quotes from p. 596. Similar claims can be found in White 2002: 312: “Grasping the goodness of the kosmos is essential, the Stoics maintain, for an understanding of the value of anything whatsoever”, and Striker 1996: 230 – 231. 30 Cooper (1995) sees as very limited any revisions brought about within the motivational set one brings to philosophy, augmented only by a commitment to a eudaimonistic structure; this leads him to identify appeal to Providence as an “external” as opposed to an “internal” reason in Bernard Williams’ sense (Williams 1995a). Williams’ view, however, is that I have a reason to do something if there is a sound deliberative route to my doing this from the set of motivations I already have. ‘Sound deliberative route’ is not limited to instrumental efficiency, and ‘motivation’ is not limited to desire, but Williams explicitly holds that I do not have an ethical reason if my motivational set does not antecedently contain ethical motivations. For Williams, external reasons are reasons where there is no sound deliberative route to my motivational set so understood, and he doubts that there are any. In the context of ancient Stoicism, we reach claims about Williams’ external reasons well within the ethical part of philosophy, in conclusions about virtue and emotion, for example. Williams’ “external reasons”, then, have nothing to do with appeal to the cosmos as opposed to eudai-

318

Julia Annas

However, Cooper’s talk of pressure from within the ethical suggests a more sympathetic interpretation of his concern. We can take the thought to be that we could technically reach the counterintuitive conclusion by reading a dry account like that of Arius, but we could not take it seriously, could not adopt it as part of a way of systematically living our lives, unless we saw it as part of a larger scheme of thought about Providence and the way apparent misfortunes are part of the excellent working of the whole. This is a thought that we may well sympathize with. This point, however, is entirely compatible with the integrated picture, and requires no priority of physics to ethics of the sort that would make the former a foundation for the latter. It is highly plausible that learning the ethical part of Stoic philosophy, whether from a dry epitome or from a more rhetorically gripping presentation like Cicero’s, would be effective up to a point in getting you to think, act and be motivated as a Stoic, but would be incomplete in itself to turn you into a Stoic. To use Cooper’s example, you might be convinced that your child’s death is not an evil, but might find this cold comfort, because it did not enable you to live well, or maybe not even to cope, in the world in which this could happen. This chimes with Long’s claim that Epictetus and Marcus, who frequently appeal to Providence and the rational ordering of the cosmos, are more successful than Cicero, who does not, at ‘conveying the emotional attractions of Stoicism.’31 Strictly speaking, of course, Stoicism should not be appealing to our emotions, but I take Long’s point to be that seeing ourselves in a providential world connects with thoughts which enable us to make considerations of virtue and happiness more rooted and forceful, and thus more motivationally powerful, in our lives. We make more effective sense of our thoughts about our lives if we see them as part of a larger set of thoughts about the world. None of this implies that Stoic ethics on its own is too weak to lead us to counterintuitive and revisionary thoughts about our lives. Stoic ethics, the ethical part of philosophy, leads us to conclusions about virtue and happiness which already require a thoroughgoing transformation of our lives, our attitudes, actions and motivations. These ethically transformative conclusions are indeed strengthened when they are seen not independently, but in the context of and integrated with physical conclusions about Providence and the rational ordering of the world. Thus ethics is better understood and more stable in the agent’s psychology when integrated with physical conclusions about Providence. But this clearly does not grant physics as a part of philosophy priority monistic thinking. See Williams, “Internal reasons and the obscurity of blame”, in Williams 1995a, and Williams 1995b. 31 Long 2004c: 201.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

319

over ethics as a part of philosophy. This is patent if we reflect that ethics also gains comprehensibility and stability from the logical part of philosophy (as illustrated in examples such as the above one from Marcus), and that not very much is done for ethics by some parts of physics, parts of which later Stoics indeed felt free to reject while remaining otherwise orthodox.32 We have, then, failed to find a sense in which physics is motivationally prior to ethics.What we have found is a highly general consideration, visible in Cooper and Long and others, namely the consideration that thoughts about Providence are uniquely powerful in Stoicism.33 Thoughts about virtue and happiness, or the indemonstrables, on this view, can be merely academic and fail to lead the aspiring Stoic to the firmly internalized and rationally defended grasp of Stoicism that is needed for progress to wisdom; thoughts about Providence, however, are uniquely effective in getting the aspirant to accept and rationally defend the rest of the system. This is a claim about human psychology, a claim that Providence appeals in a deeper and more transformative way than virtue and happiness alone ever could. For present purposes I shall just accept that this is a true claim about ancient psychology, and so true of the Stoics and those to whom they addressed their works.34 It is important that this is a point about the way the system is best presented to its audiences.35 There may be other senses of priority worth exploring, in which physics can be claimed to be, as a part of philosophy, prior to ethics, and so a foundation for it, but our results so far are not encouraging about the prospects of success for this project.36 It is worth concluding this section of the paper with a general worry about talk 32 Panaetius, for example, rejected divination and the conflagration (Testimonia 130 – 140 in Panezio di Rodi 1997); see chapter 3 of Alesse 1994. Panaetius’ orthodoxy is vigorously defended in Tieleman 2007: 103 – 142. 33 As we shall see below, this thought encourages the assumption that physics will be the way to present Stoic ethics. 34 The appeal, or not, of Providence to moderns is an entirely different issue. As we shall see below, one attraction of the foundationalist interpretation of Stoic ethics is that it enables scholars to make a neat contrast between Stoic ethics, taken to depend on accepting Providence, and modern ethical theories which do not, and thus to represent Stoic ethics as entirely distinct from modern ethical theories. 35 Does this point support the position argued for here, as opposed to that of the foundationalists? It certainly explains why many modern scholars have thought that physics, particularly Providence, should be in some way essential for ‘Stoic ethics’ (an area which then no longer corresponds to the ethical part of Stoic philosophy as described in the ancient sources). 36 I have not here considered the possible role, in interpreting ancient Stoicism, of widespread assumptions in modern ethical debate to the effect that ethics should have foundations of a metaphysical kind. It is possible that scholars have brought these assumptions to the ancient texts. Modern debates about ethical foundations are too dissimilar to ancient concerns to be themselves usefully applied.

320

Julia Annas

of foundations in ancient Stoicism. Foundations are, obviously, what ground something else, but the question will ultimately arise of what their own standing is. This is a question which concerns Plato in the Republic and Aristotle in the Posterior Analytics, so it is not unreasonable to think that the Stoics should have an answer to it. Modern interpreters who think Stoic ethics has foundations are, however, surprisingly untroubled by this point, and it is unclear what their answer to it would be. Long does commit himself, saying robustly that Stoic physics is ‘the theocratic postulate’ on which the ethics depends.37 The idea of postulating the foundations of a system is one way of solving the problem of the status of a system’s foundations, but it is surely foreign to Stoic epistemology. Long explicates what he means by calling it ‘a radical intuition concerning “nature” or the divine government of the world’, which removes any suggestion of arbitrariness from that of a postulate, but the idea that the Stoics, with their ideal of a unified system, would take it to be founded on intuition, something by definition unintegrated with other thoughts, is surely at variance with the ancient texts. In general we can expect difficulty in fitting any foundations into a holistic system such as Stoic philosophy. Defenders of the view that Stoic physics is foundational for Stoic ethics may at this point claim that, whatever the theoretical and textual difficulties, there are two passages which simply say that Stoic physics is foundational for Stoic ethics.38 This has rightly been found important, and so we should look carefully at them. One of these passages is in Diogenes Laertius’account of Stoic ethics.39 This passage has often been put into strong contrast with the Arius passage, on the grounds that Arius presents Stoic ethics entirely in terms of the ethical part of Stoic philosophy, whilst the Diogenes passage allegedly sets it on a physical foundation. However, when the passages are compared their approach is interestingly similar. Diogenes begins his account of Stoic ethics by listing the topics it covers, then giving a brief sketch of oikeiosis,40 rejecting pleasure as the object of our primary 37 A. A. Long 2004c, “Stoic eudaimonism”, p. 186 and later ; the phrase is repeated and emphasized. The phrase “radical intuition” is on p.185. 38 For example, Tieleman refers to “repeated statements by Chrysippus to the effect that morality trickles down from the cosmic order and that philosophical ethics starts from theology”, Tielemann 2003: 143, in Chrysippus’ On Affections: reconstruction and interpretation by T. Tieleman, Leiden 2003. 39 Diogenes Laertius VII 87 – 88; I use the Teubner text of M. Marcovich (Stuttgart 1999). 40 This is a real contrast with the Arius passage, in which this topic is not treated. This may be due to clumsiness in the way the original has been abbreviated, however, and we should not draw far-reaching conclusions from it about the passage’s original structure and approach. Malcolm Schofield, in his “Stoic Ethics” (2003: 233 – 256), finds the Arius passage to be an

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

321

impulse and concluding that for the Stoics it is the life according to reason which rightly becomes the life according to nature, since reason is the ‘craftsman’ of impulse. He continues: That is why Zeno in his On human nature first said that the end was living in agreement with nature, which is living in accordance with virtue; for nature leads us towards it. Similarly Cleanthes in his On Pleasure and Hecaton in On Ends. Again, living in accordance with virtue is equivalent (ison) to living in accordance with experience of what happens by nature, as Chrysippus says in the first book of his On Ends; for our natures are parts of the nature of the whole. Hence the end comes to be living in accordance with nature, that is, in accordance with our own nature and that of the universe, doing no action usually forbidden by the common law, which is right reason, pervading all things and the same as Zeus, who is this ruler of the ordering of the universe. And this very thing is the virtue of the happy person and a good flow of life, when everything is done in accordance with harmony of each person’s spirit in relation to the will of the orderer of the universe.41

Diogenes then adds the acounts of the end given by Diogenes and Archedemus. Like Arius this passages gives us the definitions of the end offered by early heads of the Stoa (adding some by later ones), taking these all to be making different versions of the same claim. We then (after supplementary material in Arius) find the claim that the ethical project of living in accordance with virtue is ‘equivalent to’ something explicated in physical terms, as being in accordance with the nature of the world as a whole. It has been too little emphasized, in connection with the Diogenes passage, that this is the same claim as the one in the Arius passage. Moreover, it is just the sort of equivalence or identity claim that, as we have seen above, cannot be fully understood in terms of any one of the parts of philosophy alone, only as contributing to a unified perspective. We find cosmic nature in a discussion of ethics introduced by one of the statements of equivalence or identity which, to be fully grasped, require an integration and unification of the parts. Diogenes, unlike Arius, gives us at this point an explication in terms of physics of what living in accordance with nature is. But it would hardly be appropriate to take him as introducing foundations for the claims about living in accordance with virtue. To do so, we would have to argue that the explication given here shows that the physical considerations are prior to the ethical ones in some significant way. We have seen above that no claim of priority has been successfully made out, though it remains open whether one could be argued for.42 Moreover, we have seen that for the Stoics explication in example of ‘working through the key concepts of Stoic ethics’ as opposed to explaining and arguing for some key Stoic thesis (as Cicero does in De Finibus III). 41 Diogenes Laertius VII 87 – 88. 42 It has been under-appreciated that argument is needed to establish that the explication here in physical terms amounts to providing a foundation – perhaps because of a widespread

322

Julia Annas

physical terms enlarges our understanding by integrating different parts of philosophy, not by ranking them hierarchically. And further, living in accordance with nature is explicitly, in both passages, said to be equivalent to or the same thing as living in accordance with virtue. A foundation can hardly be the same thing as or equivalent to what it is a foundation for.43 What kind of work is Diogenes drawing from here? The context suggests that it was an ethical work, but it needn’t have been a work whose content was limited to the cluster of topics making up the ethical part of philosophy. The notion of an end or telos is one which can be discussed, as it is by Aristotle, both from a viewpoint that discusses it in relation to virtue, happiness and the like, in ethics, and also from a viewpoint, in physics, which sees ends, human and other, as parts of nature as a whole. Our quotation strongly suggests that the work was one in which Chrysippus discussed ends both ‘ethically’ and ‘physically’. Arius and Diogenes thus both give us examples where early Stoics regard the ideas of living according to virtue and living according to nature to be ‘equivalent’ or ‘the same thing’, and in Diogenes we get an example of the kind of explication that living according to nature gets from physics. This illuminates the idea of living according to virtue, which is also in both passages explicated in terms of the ethical part of Stoic philosophy. Living according to virtue is living according to my nature, which is explicated by showing how it fits into the nature of the universe as a whole. Deferring in my reasonings to the will of Zeus as that is revealed in the ordered universe makes my life ‘flow’ well, as is achieved only by the virtuous. We can see here that physics and ethics are mutually illuminating. We can see how progress is possible from understanding just one part of philosophy to gaining a more synoptic view which will grasp how the results of the different parts are mutually supporting, and how this might proceed towards the sage’s viewpoint, as sketched by Seneca.44 We will surely also learn from examination of other passages in the Stoics where claims made within the different parts of philosophy are brought together in mutually supporting ways.45 The other passage alleged to support a physical foundation for Stoic ethics modern assumption that explanation provides foundations. As we have seen, not only has no suitable notion of foundation been argued for here, but foundations do not fit into the Stoic project. 43 Of course there are modern foundationalist theories which do claim this, by reducing or eliminating one kind of item in favour of its foundation, but this modern concern has no footing in ancient Stoicism. 44 Cf. C. Gill 2004. 45 One example suggested to me in discussion of the paper at Oxford is the way that Cicero’s De Fato opens with a fragmentary reference to ethics, followed by a fuller one to a problem arising from fate within logic. Gill’s work stresses the way that the treatments of fate and determinism in the different parts of Stoic philosophy are mutually fortifying; cf. C. Gill 2004, especially pp. 114 – 116.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

323

consists of some quotations from Chrysippus that have been preserved for us in Plutarch’s polemical work where he claims to find the Stoics contradicting themselves.46 Plutarch begins by saying that Chrysippus held that young men should attend lectures on logic first, then on ethics and finally on physics; he then quotes Chrysippus as saying, Now I believe first, in accordance with the correct statements of the ancients, that there are three types of philosophical propositions (theoremata), logical, ethical and physical; next, that of these the logical should be ordered first, second the ethical and third the physical; and of the physical the final should be the account of the gods; hence they have called its transmissions ‘fulfilments’ (or ‘initiations’, teletai).47

Plutarch complains that Chrysippus in fact begins from physics in discussing ethical topics. But this very account of the gods, which he says should be last in order, he habitually orders first and puts in front of every ethical enquiry. For whether it is about ends or justice or goods and evils or marriage and child-rearing or law and government, he says nothing at all unless (just as those who propose decrees to the city preface them with “Good Fortune”) he makes a preface of Zeus, Fate, Providence, the universe’s being one and bounded and held together by a single power – of none of which anyone can be persuaded who has not been deeply immersed in the accounts of physics.48

So Chrysippus discussed ethical topics in a way which began from providential physical doctrines. We have seen this already, in the Diogenes passage, where we had an example from a work on goals where the subject was treated ‘physically’, and physics was clearly central to its explication of what is appropriate for human nature (though we do not know, of course, whether the work Diogenes draws from actually began with physics). Clearly Chrysippus sometimes discussed ethical issues in a way which began from, and explicated them in terms of, physical doctrines. (Plutarch suggests, with his analogy of the preface to a decree, that the appeal to physics was perfunctory, but this may well be unfair ; our evidence from Diogenes and Plutarch suggests rather that Chrysippus’ discussions of ethical topics from a physical perspective were substantial.) What Plutarch fails to point out, and what some modern scholars have insufficiently appreciated, is that this does not at all rule out Chrysippus’ having also produced works within the ethical part of philosophy alone, works which dealt independently with the topics of impulse, virtue, emotion, the sage and so on in the way we find in the Diogenes and Arius passages.49 Finding that Chrysippus 46 The whole passage is at De Stoicorum Repugnantiis, 1035 A-F. I use the text of H. Cherniss in the Loeb edition, Cambridge, Mass.; Harvard University Press 1976. 47 1035 A-B. 48 1035 B-C. 49 Even Long, a staunch foundationalist, accepts that “we may be reading a good deal of

324

Julia Annas

frequently treated ethical topics from a physical point of view, either alone or in combination with an ethical treatment, does nothing whatsoever to undermine the thought that ethics and physics are distinctively different parts of philosophy and that Chrysippus and others at other times presented them as such. Plutarch goes on to make the stronger claim that Chrysippus actually contradicts himself, juxtaposing the first quotation with three more: Hear what he says in the third book of On the Gods: “ It is not possible to find another starting-point or another origin for justice than the one from Zeus and from common nature; for it is from that that every such thing must have its starting-point, if we are going to say anything about goods and evils.” Again in his Physical Theses: “For there is no other or more appropriate way of approaching the account of goods and evils, or virtue or happiness, than from common nature and the organization of the universe.” And further on again, “For one should join on the account of goods and evils to these things, since there is no other better starting-point or reference-point for them, nor is physical theory taken up for the sake of anything other than the discrimination of goods and evils.” The account of physics then, according to Chrysippus, comes to be “at once both before and behind” ethics. Or rather the overturning of the order leaves us completely at a loss, if we must order A after B when we can grasp nothing of B apart from A. The conflict is clear in someone who makes the account of physics the startingpoint for that of goods and evils, but orders it to be taught not before it but afterwards.50

Many scholars have leant heavily on these quotations from Chrysippus,especially the second and the third, to claim that Stoic physics is foundational for Stoic ethics. But we can see that Plutarch is pulling passages out of context, and there are problems in what he is doing. We certainly cannot claim that physics is foundational for ethics just on the grounds that sometimes Chrysippus put physics before ethics; for the point of the passage is that he sometimes also put ethics before physics. Scholars have not argued from this that Chrysippus also sometimes made ethics foundational for physics. There is an interestingly large number of indications in these passages that Chrysippus is commenting on ways of talking about or presenting philosophy. The first quotation takes off from Chrysippus’ views about the order in which young men should attend lectures, and the quotation itself mentions theoremata, the logos concerning the gods, and paradoseis or handings-down. The second quotation is about what we are to say about goods and evils. (‘Say something’ indicates saying something worth saying, as opposed to ‘saying nothing’, that is, saying nothing worth saying.) The third talks of ‘the account (logos) of goods

Chrysippus in Arius Didymus”, in passages which discuss ethical topics with no mention of physics. See A. A. Long 2004a. 50 1035 C – D. Note that Cherniss translates in a way which builds Plutarch’s view of the last quotation into the translation; see below n. 55.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

325

and evils’, and so does the fourth, which also mentions the phusike theoria or theory of physics. Moreover, Plutarch in his criticism reveals that it is the order in which subjects are handed down or taught which is at issue. He starts by quoting Chrysippus on a good teaching order of subjects for young men, then complains that in some works he proceeds in the opposite way, which leaves the learner doing the supposedly advanced subject before the supposedly introductory one. This is a good objection, we should note, only if the audience for the quoted works is the same young men that Chrysippus was originally concerned for, and the teaching order employed the same one that Chrysippus was originally talking about. If these assumptions are not justified then Plutarch’s complaint misfires. We already have, then, several indications that the right way to take these passages is that of Katerina Ierodiakonou, who takes it that the quotations show that on different occasions Chrysippus introduced different pedagogical orders ‘because of different expository criteria’, so that there is no contradiction. ‘For example, if for a given audience one wanted to present a very strict and highly scientific account of ethics, this would have to be based on a prior treatment of physics; if, on the other hand, the audience required a lower level introduction to ethics, an antecedent account of physics would not be necessary.’51 This view is supported by what Plutarch goes on to say : If someone says that Chrysippus, in On the Use of Logos, wrote that the person taking up logic first should not altogether hold off from the other [parts], but should take from them too, as provided52 – well, he will speak the truth, but only confirm the charge. For Chrysippus conflicts with himself, in some places telling us to take up the account of the gods last and as a completion, on the grounds that it is because of this that it is called a “fulfilment”, and in other places saying that when we begin we should also take from this account at the same time. There is nothing left of the order if in every part we shall have to take from them all.53

Plutarch’s final point simply repeats what he has already said: Even worse, having made the account of the gods the starting-point of that of goods and evils, he tells us not to begin from this when taking up ethics. Rather, when taking up ethics we are to take from the account of the gods as provided, and then go on to it from ethics, though he says that there is no starting-point of approach for ethics apart from the account of the gods.54 51 Ierodiakonou 1993: 71. I do not know what Ierodiakonou has in mind by “strict and highly scientific account”, but, as we have seen, for the Stoics a ‘scientific’ account is not one in which ethics has foundations in the modern sense, but rather one in which ethics and physics are integrated in a way ultimately progressing towards the viewpoint of the wise person. 52 The phrase is kata to didomenon. Cherniss translates “as opportunity offers”. 53 1035 E. 54 1035 E-F.

326

Julia Annas

Plutarch, then, continues throughout the passage to fault Chrysippus for giving allegedly conflicting directives as to the order in which people – presumably the young men first introduced – should ‘take up’ the study of each logos – the logical, physical and ethical. Chrysippus’ last point, as reported here, is simply sensible pedagogy : mixed presentations will often be most suitable for a beginner. Interestingly, we find here a rationale for Chrysippus writing works that mix physics and ethics, such as the work on ends referred to by Diogenes Laertius. We have seen that this does nothing whatever to weaken the status of physics and ethics as distinct parts of philosophy. Plutarch has no reply other than bluster. He claims that if while working in one part of philosophy we can draw from others, then ‘there is nothing left of the order’. But this plainly begs the question at issue, namely, whether there is only one order. Since we have seen that it is plausible that Chrysippus recognized more than one order for presenting the parts of philosophy, Plutarch’s objection fails. We should note that, although there are two indications in the passage that Chrysippus is concerned with beginners, there is no reason to limit the claims made in it to elementary teachings. The point is one about the presentation of philosophy, and so applies to advanced discussion and engagement as well as introductory lectures. Hence, although I think it is reasonable to talk in terms of ‘pedagogy’, especially given the focus of the quotations from Chrysippus here, this should be taken to cover the presentation of Stoic philosophy at a variety of levels and, as Ierodiakonou points out, to a variety of audiences. ‘But,’ some will say, ‘the second and third quotations clearly say that there is no other starting-point or origin of justice and goods and evils than from cosmic nature. How can a presentation claiming to be the only one turn out to be just one alternative among others?’ In my experience many think this a decisive consideration. If we think so, then we are agreeing with Plutarch that there is such a thing as the correct way to present Stoic ethics, so that all we need to find out is, which it is; and since we find a claim here that it is from cosmic nature, that easily settles the issue. But, quite apart from the difficulties we have seen so far, there are three considerations here which suggest that this conclusion would be premature. Firstly, we have equally good evidence from this passage that Chrysippus sometimes put ethics before physics. This has to be explained somehow, either in Plutarch’s way or some other. We cannot just claim that Chrysippus made physics foundational for ethics and leave it at that, for this would be to ignore the fact that the statements come from a source in which they are presented as half of an alleged contradiction. Nor should we be tempted to try to defuse the alleged contradiction by holding that Chrysippus’ statements about ethics preceding physics concern pedagogical procedure, whereas his statements about physics

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

327

preceding ethics claim that physics forms a metaphysical foundation for ethics. This claim would be acceptable if based on independent evidence for foundationalism, but is obviously not available to anyone appealing to this passage as evidence for foundationalism. Secondly, we can see from the ancient evidence that there was no such established thing as the way to present Stoic ethics. Cicero presents it in a very different way from Arius; Epictetus is different again. We also know of the other variations on the logic-ethics-physics order mentioned above, as well as mixed presentations. From our evidence we can reasonably infer that how ethics was presented was a matter of pedagogy ; it could be put forward either from a physical background or as being the goal of physical understanding. Moreover, this is just what we would expect in a holistic system like Stoicism, where the goal is unified and synoptic understanding of the different parts, grasped in an ever more integrated way. What matters is not what your entry-point is, but that you should go on from limited understanding of each part to try to integrate this with other parts. There is no one privileged path to doing this which will work equally well for every audience whatever their background. Finally, the quotations are clearly ripped out of context, and so it is unsafe to infer from them that Chrysippus in fact made the claim often ascribed to him on the basis of this passage, namely that physics is only possible presentation of ethics u¨berhaupt, in all contexts and for all audiences without exception. Moreover, this would not in any case be a reasonable interpretation of the quotations. When we make claims about the only, or only possible way of presenting something, this is generally relative to some expository context. The best way of presenting material to a given audience is often thought of as the only way of presenting the material to that audience – within, that is, pedagogical assumptions which are taken for granted, usually because they are obvious. And indeed the last two quotations make it apparent that this is what is going on: Chrysippus says that there is no other or more appropriate way to come to the account of goods and evils than from cosmic nature, and that there is no other better starting-point or reference-point. These are odd phrases. If we insist that they claim that there really is no other way, the points about better or more appropriate ways are strikingly illogical. It is surely more reasonable to take these to indicate that the claim about there being no other way is relative to some assumed framework of presentation, of which Plutarch has deprived us. Thus I suspect that if we had the contexts from which Plutarch has ripped out these quotations, we would find that the only way of presenting ethics, viz from cosmic nature, is in fact the only appropriate way given an assumed pedagogic context.55 55 There is an under-scrutinized oddity in the fourth quotation, which says that we should attach the account of goods and evils to these things (toutois), for there is no other or better

328

Julia Annas

To sum up: If Chrysippus is saying in these two quotations that there is only one way, ever, in any context, to any audience, to present Stoic ethics, namely through physics, then he is indeed, as Plutarch says, contradicting what he says elsewhere, as well as conflicting with much of his own practice and the practice of other Stoics. We have seen, however, that it would be uncharitable to force on him the problematic claim that there is such a thing as the way to put forward Stoic ethics. There are many pedagogical orders, the differences corresponding to different audiences and different pedagogical needs. Moreover, this reflects the point that Stoic ethics is part of a unified whole, and that we come to grasp ethical propositions from different perspectives, going from a specifically ethical understanding to a unified understanding that embraces all the parts of philosophy. There is a moral here for modern scholars, I think, which is that it is a mistake to think that there is such a thing as the correct way of presenting Stoic ethics; there are many ways, all of which can be justified on a variety of grounds. Hence it will be a mistake to insist that one way of presenting Stoic ethics is the only proper way to do so, and to disparage other ways of presenting it. Modern scholars have been too quick to follow Plutarch in asking, Which is the correct way to present Stoic ethics? In hunting the chimera of the, or the authoritative, way to present Stoic ethics we have failed to do justice to its sheer difficulty, and to the huge ambitions of Stoic philosophy as a whole, with its goal of integrated philosophical understanding. It is also a mistake to rely too heavily on a particular favourite passage for one’s account and claim that an approach which does not stress it is wrong. In the scholarly literature there is something of a division between those who think that the key text to expound Stoic ethics is Cicero De Finibus III, which does not present Stoic ethics via cosmic nature, and those who foreground Diogenes Laertius VII 85 – 89, which does.56 My conclusion here, irenic if rather boring, is starting-point and point of reference for them (auton). Cherniss translates as Plutarch wants us to read this: ‘since good and evil have no better beginning and point of reference’ – presumably ‘than these things’, assuming ‘these things’ to be physical principles. Yet this is followed by oude,which should introduce another consideration to the same effect as we have had – and what follows is a reason for giving ethics some kind of primacy : physical theorizing is undertaken for nothing other than discriminating goods and evils. What precedes the oude should thus likewise be a reason for giving ethics, not physics, some kind of primacy. This is what we get if we read auton as referring not to goods and evils but rather to the preceding toutois (whatever they are). This gives a much less convoluted reading of the Greek sentence. If this is right, then Plutarch is forcing this quotation to appear more parallel to, or supportive of, the previous two than it really is. 56 Long puts extraordinary weight on the Diogenes passage, especially in “The Logical Basis of Stoic Ethics” (Long 2004b), where he says (p. 153) that it “is almost certainly our most authoritative testimony for the primary principles”. I have myself countered that what we find in Cicero “is a normal ancient presentation of Stoic ethics, different in kind from the

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

329

that both are right; each passage is, in its context, the appropriate way of presenting Stoic ethics to that audience. We should, then, recognize a plurality of equally legitimate ways of presenting Stoic ethics, none being the, or the authoritative way to do it. For ultimately the ambitious goal is to unite the understanding of the different parts in a synoptic grasp of the big picture. Foundationalists might make a response to this which aims to preserve the spirit of their project while recognizing the problems with it pointed out here. They might claim that a presentation of Stoic ethics which puts it forward through the providential part of Stoic physics has a certain primacy, since this seems to have been the approach which answered best to ancient psychology ; this is the approach which the ancients themselves found most compelling. Without making it explicit, modern scholars often adopt such a stance; sometimes their presentation of Stoic ethics uses Providence to base the appeal of the ethics, without formally requiring a derivation of ethical concepts or principles from physical ones.57 This response has a point. It is a good way for us to see an important attraction of ancient Stoic ethics for its audience. It is also a good indication of the way the aspiring Stoic might begin to move towards integrated understanding of Stoic philosophy. Moreover, it marks a sharp contrast between this presentation of Stoic ethics, which relies on a providential view of the universe, and modern ethical theories which explicitly abjure any such appeal. Stoic ethics has other attractions, however. As we find it in a presentation like that of Cicero in de Finibus III, we can see it as offering to thoughtful people an ethical framework which can be seen to emerge from and answer to the issues discussed by philosophers for centuries. An Aristotelian framework in particular appeals to many of our deep-seated intuitions, but Aristotle’s own ethical theory raises systematic difficulties, particularly about the relation of virtue to happiness. Stoic ethics presented in a eudaimonistic framework presents a rigorous and satisfying solution to these difficulties. Presented in this way, Stoic ethics suggests more points of affinity to, than divergence from, modern theories. The major problem for modern scholars and interpreters I take to be that of metaphysically based discussions of which we have some fragments,” p. 607 of Annas 1995, on the grounds that Cicero is our most intelligent ancient source and his presentation is the result of debate and argument. Both approaches try to privilege one text over the other, a project which now seems to me a mistake. 57 As for example in “Stoic ethics” by Brad Inwood and Pierluigi Donini (1999: 675 – 738). Gisela Striker (1996) introduces physical foundations for Stoic ethics by way of meeting what she takes to be requirements on ethical theory. I critically discuss her reconstruction of Stoic ethics, which she judges harshly, in Annas 1998.

330

Julia Annas

doing justice to both ways of presenting Stoic ethics, that located in providential nature and that resulting from rigorous thought about virtue and happiness. Given what I have argued here, it appears that the latter is more suited to thought within the ethical part of philosophy alone, while the former moves to the thought that living according to virtue is ‘equivalent to’ or ‘the same as’ living according to providential nature, and thus moves us further along the way to the sage’s synoptic understanding.58 We should at any rate be careful how we take the modern pedagogical unit ‘Stoic ethics’ to be related to the ancient texts. Some scholars and interpreters discuss ‘Stoic ethics’ using, in ancient terms, the ethical part of Stoic philosophy. For others ‘Stoic ethics’ corresponds in ancient terms to the ethical part of Stoic philosophy plus the providential part of Stoic physics. As explained above, both approaches are legitimate and mutually enriching. It is clearly a mistake, however (one not always avoided) for proponents of the latter approach to complain that the former approach does not do justice to the ancient evidence. We are under no obligation to conform our use of the term ‘Stoic ethics’ to the ethical part of philosophy as understood by the Stoics themselves; but I have suggested that our understanding of Stoic ethics and its place in Stoic philosophy as a whole is enriched if we do take seriously the Stoic division of philosophy into parts, and examine what they thought about the relations of physics and ethics. If we do so we shall be less inclined to demand foundations for ethics within a philosophy where living according to nature is not a foundation for, but rather equivalent to, and the same thing as, living according to virtue.59

References Alesse, F. Panezio di Rodi e la tradizione stoica, Napoli 1994. Altham, J. E. J. / R. Harrison (eds.) 1995. World, Mind and Ethics. Essays on the ethical philosophy of Bernard Williams, Cambridge. 58 We should remember that ‘mixed’ presentations are in themselves no guarantee that the author has achieved this level of understanding. Physical and ethical propositions can be discussed together in mutually illuminating ways without the author having a full grasp of either of the parts of philosophy concerned. Marcus’ Meditations illustrates this; see Annas 2004. 59 I am very grateful to Brad Inwood, Christopher Gill, Bob Sharples, Eric Brown and Clerk Shaw for discussion and written comments on earlier versions of this paper. I am also grateful to my audience for the version of this paper presented at the fiftieth meeting of the Southern Association for Ancient Philosophy at Corpus Christ College, Oxford in September 2005, and in particular Peter Adamson, Gabor Betegh, Sarah Broadie, David Sedley, Malcolm Schofield and David Charles.

Ethics in Stoic Philosophy

331

Annas, J. 1995. “Reply to Cooper”, in: Philosophy and Phenomenological Research LV, 3: 599 – 610. Annas, J. 1998. “From Nature to Happiness”, in: Apeiron 31, 1: 59 – 73. Annas, J. 1999. “Introduzione”, in: Ario Didimo, Diogene Laerzio: etica stoica, a cura di C. Natali, introduzione di Julia Annas, Laterza 1999. Annas, J. 2004. “Marcus Aurelius: Ethics and its Background”, in: Rhizai 2: 103 – 119. Cooper, J. 1995. “Eudaimonism and the Appeal to Nature in the Morality of Happiness: comments on Julia Annas’ The Morality of Happiness”, in: Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 55, 3: 587 – 599. Gill, C. (ed.) 1997. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, (translated by Robin Hard) Wordsworth Editions, Ware. Gill, C. 2004. “The Stoic Theory of Ethical Development: in what sense is nature a norm?”, in: J. Szaif / M. Lutz-Bachmann (eds.), Was ist fu¨r den Menschen Gute? / What is Good for a Human Being?, Berlin / New York: 101 – 125. Ierodiakonou, K. 1993. “The Stoic Division of Philosophy”, in: Phronesis 38: 57 – 74. Inwood, B. / Donini, P. 1999. “Stoic ethics”, in: K. Algra / J. Barnes / J. Mansfeld / M. Schofield (eds.), The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, Cambridge: 675 – 738 (paperback 2005). Long, A. A. 1968. “The Stoic Conception of Evil”, in: Philosophical Quarterly 18: 329 – 343. Long, A. A.1986. Hellenistic Philosophy, Stoics, Epicureans, Sceptics (Classical Life and Letters), London. Long, A. A. 2004a. “Arius Didymus and the Exposition of Stoic Ethics”, in: Stoic Studies, Cambridge: 107 – 133. Long, A. A. 2004b. “The Logical Basis of Stoic Ethics”, in: Stoic Studies, Cambridge: 134 – 155. Long, A. A. 2004c. “Stoic eudaimonism”, in: Stoic Studies, Cambridge: 179 – 201. Long, A. A. / D. N. Sedley (eds.) 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Vol. 1: Translations of the Principal Sources, with philosophical commentary, Cambridge. Long, A. A. / D. N. Sedley (eds.) 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Vol. 2: Greek and Latin Texts with Notes and Bibliography, Cambridge. Schofield, M. 2003. “Stoic Ethics”, in: B. Inwood (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, Cambridge: 233 – 256. Sharples, R. W. 1996. Stoics, Epicureans and Sceptics, London. Striker, G. 1996. “Following Nature”, in: Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics, Cambridge: 221 – 280. Tielemann, T. 2007. “Panaetius’ place in the history of Stoicism. With Special Reference to his Moral Psychology“, in A. M. Ioppolo / D. N. Sedley (eds.), Pyrrhonists, Patricians and Platonizers. Hellenistic Philosophy in the Period 155 – 86 BC., Proceedings of the Tenth Symposium Hellenisticum, Napoli: 103 – 142. Williams, B. 1995a. Making Sense of Humanity, Cambridge. Williams, B. 1995b. “Internal and External Reasons (a reply to John McDowell)”, in J. E. J. Altham / R. Harrison (eds.), World, Mind and Ethics. Essays on the ethical philosophy of Bernard Williams, Cambridge: 186 – 194. White, N. 2002. Individual and Conflict in Greek Ethics, Oxford.

Brad Inwood

Moral Judgement in Seneca1

We are all familiar with the notion of a moral judgement. In the vocabulary of ethical debate, this term is so common as to be a cliche´. While we have different theories about how we make such judgements, it would seem distinctly odd to observe that ‘judgement’ is a term transferred from another semantic domain and to attempt to sort out its meaning by scrutinizing its source or to impugn the clarity or usefulness of the term on the grounds that it began its conceptual career as a mere metaphor. Whatever origins the term may have had, they now seem irrelevant. But is this really so? I want to argue that moral judgement has not always been taken as a bland general synonym for moral decisions and that it need not be; to see that we can consider uses of the terminology of moral ‘judgement’ in which the original semantic sphere for such language (the judicial sphere) is still relevant to understanding how it is used.2 One such use comes from the Stoic Seneca, and I will argue that he did take the notion of moral judgement as a live metaphor, one which he used to develop his own distinctive Stoic views on moral thinking. That the particular language we use in talking about moral decision and moral assessment should matter is not surprising. Even for us, this is not the only way to talk about such matters; we also invoke the notions of deducing, calculating, and analysis, for example. Perceptual language is also familiar – we speak of discernment, moral intuition, even perception itself. Such terminology can have an influence on our moral theory, for it may well be more than mere terminology ; it may reflect a model or paradigm for moral reasoning. (Of course, the causal relationship may also run the other way ; if we are self-con1 I am especially grateful to Miriam Griffin for critical comments on an earlier version of this essay. This essay is a revised version of chapter 7 of Inwood 2005. The editors of this volume are grateful to Oxford University Press for permission to publish this essay. 2 As Janet Sisson reminds me (in correspondence), the judicial metaphor is also used in relatively straightforward epistemological contexts as well, as by Plato at Theaetetus 201. But the issues involved with moral judgement are markedly different, as we shall see.

334

Brad Inwood

sciously critical about our theory we may well make a deliberate choice of terminological model.) If our model for moral decisions is, for example, calculation, we might be drawn unwittingly to certain substantive views in moral theory, such as the notion that there is a single commensurable value at the core of our reasoning. If our model is deduction, we search (perhaps in frustration) for a satisfactorily universal rule under which we might subsume our experience and our deliberations. If we are in the habit of talking about moral discernment or perception, we no doubt tend to seek moral truth in the details. The effect of such models is evident in the ancient tradition too. The so-called ‘practical syllogism’ of Aristotle is one such model, and so is his use of geometrical analysis in discussions of moral deliberation. At other times he uses the language of perception. Our interpretation of his theory is to some extent guided by our choice of which model to treat as central to his theory.3 To speak of moral decision in the language of passing judgement is to adopt one model in place of other possibilities. It is significant for one’s moral theory. Yet the term moral judgement seems not to carry this kind of significance any more. I don’t know when it ceased to do so, but that would be a question for historians of a later period in the history of philosophy. My attention was drawn to this theme for a simple reason. There is a remarkable absence of this model, based on the activity of legal decision making, characteristic of a judicial decision maker, in most ancient texts dealing with moral decisions or moral theory. Not a total absence, of course, just the presence of a quiet whisper to contrast with the noisy omnipresence of this idea in our own discourse. I only became aware of how scarce this kind of language is in most ancient texts when I began reading Seneca – reading him for his own sake rather than as a source for earlier Stoic ideas. For I was struck by how very frequent the language of judging is in his works. The nouns iudex and iudicium abound, and not in trivial or trivially metaphorical senses; the verb iudicare, which is certainly common in a broadly extended sense in Latin generally, occurs frequently in contexts which invite (or even demand) that we consider the import of the underlying notion of judicial determination. Latin writers do draw on such language more than Greek authors – for the Roman elite seems to have dealt more consistently with judicial experience than their Greek counterparts did, if for no other reason then because every paterfamilias held the position of judge and magistrate with regard to his own household.4 But even the lawyer Cicero

3 In Plato too there are examples of such models. Socrates’ account in the Protagoras of moral decision as a matter of measurement and calculation is an obvious example of such a philosophical redescription. 4 My thanks to Michael Dewar for this observation.

Moral Judgement in Seneca

335

does not, in my reading, show such a propensity for thinking and talking about moral assessment and decision in terms of judging and passing judgement. I doubt that the facts support the extravagant claim that Seneca ‘invented’ the idea of moral judgement. But his elaboration of the metaphor of judges and judging is pervasive and insistent; its use is both original and illuminating. So I do want to suggest that whatever its origins, we find in Seneca an intriguing, influential, and creative exploitation of this notion in the service of his own moral philosophy.5 In this provisional discussion I can neither explore Seneca’s exploitation of this concept thoroughly, nor can I explore the possibility of its influence on later uses of the idea. It will, I hope, suffice if I draw attention to the interest and complexity of his thinking on the topic. The verb iudicare and the noun iudicium are common, and while I hope to show that Seneca self-consciously uses them to develop his own original views, it would be difficult to start from those terms. In considering his usage we would certainly find far too much noise and nowhere near enough signal. A more effective entre´e into the topic comes from consideration of the agent noun iudex. For Seneca says some striking things about judges – moral judges, in particular – and if we can come to an understanding of those oddities we will be well on the way to an understanding of his thoughts on the topic of moral judgement more generally. From the outset I want to make a confession, though. The notion of a moral judge equivocates between two distinguishable ideas: the demands on an actual judge to act by relevant moral standards in carrying out his or her duties as a judge; and the notion that someone making a moral decision or evaluation is to be conceptualized as a judge. My main interest is, of course, in the latter notion. But the morally proper behaviour of a real judge would tend to show 5 This nexus of ideas has not been fully explored in Seneca, though I am aware of three helpful discussions. First, Du¨ll 1976; though jejune, it nevertheless confirms the realism and legal accuracy of Seneca’s handling of legal concepts. (Indeed, his discussion of the exceptio (377 – 80) would shed useful light on discussions of ‘reservation’ in Seneca’s works, though I will not pursue that issue here.) Second, Gregor Maurach makes some tantalizing but underdeveloped suggestions along the lines I pursue here in “Zur Eigenart und Herkunft” (Maurach 1975). The pertinent remarks are on pp. 316 ff. Closer to my argument is Maria Bellincioni’s discussion of the judicial metaphor in connection with the theme of clemency (Bellincioni 1984, repr. in Bellincioni 1986). In this paper, I think, her view of how Seneca uses the metaphor is somewhat one-sided: “The sense… is, then, always just one: it is an invitation to seek in human relations, such as they are, the sole authentic justice which is born from an attitude of love” (124); compare her remarks about Ep. 81 on p. 115, which opposes clementia to the rigidity of the iudex rather too starkly. I will argue, first, that the judicial metaphor is more of a conceptual tool for thinking through a range of problems; and second, that Seneca makes more positive use of the notion of a moral judge than Bellincioni allows for. Her thesis is (in outline) that humanitas, love, and forgiveness stand in opposition to the rigidity of ‘judging’, whereas I think Seneca leaves considerable room for an idealized form of judging which is practicable only for a sage. I am grateful to Miriam Griffin for pointing out the importance of Bellincioni’s work for my discussion. (See too her book Griffin 1984.)

336

Brad Inwood

many of the same features as the morally proper behaviour of any moral agent acting on the model of a judge; hence I propose to allow these two ideas to blend together for the purposes of this paper. Several works are of particular importance for Seneca’s exploration and exploitation of the idea of a moral judge: De Clementia, De Ira, and De Beneficiis stand out for their close connections, though there does not seem to be a planned coordination with regard to the theme. In De Clementia Seneca naturally deals with the proper behaviour of a judge. For much of what the young emperor whom he is advising will have to do will involve acting in his capacity as a judge of other men, indeed a judge from whom appeal is impossible. In 1.5 he argues for the exercise of leniency on the grounds of the extraordinary power of the emperor, but in 1.6 his tack shifts. He asks Nero to consider that his great city would be reduced to a wasteland if its population were thinned out by the judgements of a severus iudex, an obvious consideration in favour of not being unduly severus. The stern judge is one who never relaxes his judgement in the light of important mitigating factors. I quote from the excellent translation of John Procope´ :6 Think what an empty waste there would be if nothing were left of it save those whom a stern judge would acquit! How few investigators there are who would not be found guilty under the very law by which they make their investigation! How few accusers are blameless! Is anyone more reluctant, I wonder, to grant pardon than he who has all too often had reason to seek it? We have all done wrong, some seriously, some more trivially, some on purpose, some perhaps under impulse or led astray by the wickedness of others. Some of us were not firm enough in our good intentions, losing our innocence unwillingly, clutching at it as we lost it. Nor have we merely transgressed – to the end of our lives we shall continue to transgress. Suppose, indeed, that someone has so purged his mind as to be beyond further reach of confusion or deception. His innocence has been reached, none the less, through doing wrong.

The stern judge, then, is someone who judges others as harshly as the law permits, despite the fact that such judgement would, if exercised consistently, lead to his own condemnation under the same laws. And even if he is now morally perfect it remains the case that, at some point in his past, a stern judge could have brought his career, if not his life, to an end. A severus iudex, then, would be undermining his own credibility as a judge by implicitly relying on a double standard. (More on this below.) He would, then, be weakening his own authority and so compromising his effectiveness as well as behaving unreasonably. Further light on the propriety of passing judgement comes from the closing sections of this fragmentary work, in 2.7. Seneca is discussing the topic of forgiveness: 6 Cooper, J. M. / Procope´, J. F. (eds. & trs.) 1995.

Moral Judgement in Seneca

337

‘But why will he not forgive?’ Come now, let us make up our minds as to what pardon is, and we shall realize that a wise man ought not to grant it. Pardon is the remission of deserved punishment. The reason why the wise man ought not to grant this is given at greater length by those whose theme it is. [Here Seneca refers to Stoic philosophers acting in their doctrinally official capacity.] I for my part, as though to summarize a case that is not my own,7 would say : a person can only be forgiven if he deserves to be punished. But the wise man does nothing that he ought not to do and omits nothing that he ought to do. So he will not excuse a punishment which he ought to exact. But what you want to achieve through pardon [venia] can be granted to you in a more honourable way. The wise man will spare men, take thought for them, and reform them – but without forgiving, since to forgive is to confess that one has left undone something which ought to have been done. In one case, he may simply administer a verbal admonition without any punishment, seeing the man to be at an age still capable of correction. In another, where the man is patently labouring under an invidious accusation, he will order him to go scot-free, since he may have been misled or under the influence of alcohol. Enemies he will release unharmed, sometimes even commended, if they had an honourable reason – loyalty, a treaty, their freedom – to drive them to war. All these are works of mercy [clementia], not pardon. Mercy has a freedom of decision. It judges not by legal formula, but by what is equitable and good. It can acquit or set the damages as high as it wishes. All these things it does with the idea not of doing something less than what is just but that what it decides should be the justest possible…. [tr. Procope´]

The wise man is here envisaged as a judge acting in pursuit of the just outcome in every case. Mercy is a factor internal to the determination of the just decision, whereas pardon is external to that decision. The wise man judges with freedom of decision (liberum arbitrium), not constrained by the formula which would guide a judge in the court room.8 This is the latitude which makes it possible for his consideration of relevant factors to be based ex aequo et bono rather than on more mechanical considerations. The reformative goal of punishment remains paramount. Evidently the wise man does not play the role of a severus iudex in his dealings with others, whether or not he is an actual judge presiding at a tribunal, and we may infer that the stern judge neglects the broad range of relevant factors because he fails to acknowledge his own human fallibility and its relevance for his 7 tamquam in alieno iudicio dicam – I think that Propope´’s translation is wrong here. I would prefer to translate “as though I were speaking at someone else’s trial” – which he is not really doing, since this issue affects us all. 8 Bellincioni, Potere ed etica in Seneca, 1984: 95 comments on the legal metaphor here: “Liberum arbitrium is in fact the freedom of judgement of the arbiter, who, in the Roman legal system is contrasted with the normal iudex, who, by contrast delivered his verdict for the case in question on the basis of the praetor’s formula furnished to him on each occasion”. See below on the arbiter. Chapter two of Bellincioni, Potere e etica, “La clemenza del giudice”, is useful background for my treatment of the metaphor. See too Bellincioni Clementia, 1986, esp. 120 – 122.

338

Brad Inwood

own judgements. The wise man of De Clementia 2 will have become wise after having erred, and awareness of that personal history will enter into his subsequent judgements. This is in itself an interesting insight into moral judgement, and one which militates vigorously against some models of moral decision making. One thing of special note, though, is that the insight – which applies to actual judges as much as it does to anyone called upon to condemn or to forgive – is developed and expressed in quite explicitly legal language. For we have not merely the language of the iudex, but also other technical legal terms such as formula. In the context of advice to Nero, this is not surprising, but its broader implications are brought out by a consideration of similar ideas in De Ira. For the relevance of such a personal history to the capacity of the sage to act as a moral judge had been of interest to Seneca for some time. In a familiar passage of the treatise De Ira (1.16.6 – 7) the same collocation of ideas occurs. Here Seneca is arguing that the judgement on misdeeds which is required should be carried out in a spirit of quasi-judicial calm and control. Violent emotions are not needed to stimulate the judge to take action. His interlocutor suggests, ‘A readiness to anger is needed for punishment.’ But Seneca replies (tr. Procope´): Tell me, does the law seem angry with men whom it has never known, whom it has never seen, whom it hoped would never exist? That is the spirit to be adopted, a spirit not of anger but of resolution. For if anger at bad deeds befits a good man, so too will resentment at the prosperity of bad men. What is more scandalous than the fact that some souls flourish and abuse the kindness of fortune, when no fortune could be bad enough for them? Yet he will view their gains without resentment and their crimes without anger. A good judge (bonus iudex) condemns what is damnable; he does not hate it. ‘Tell me then. When the wise man has to deal with something of this sort, will his mind not be touched by some unwonted excitement?’ It will, I admit it. He will feel a slight, tiny throb. As Zeno says, the soul of the wise man too, even when the wound is healed, shows the scar. He will feel a hint or shadow of them, but will be without the affections themselves.

The good judge envisaged here is a wise man, for only such a person is free of the passions relevant to his situation. And the wise man, in dealing with provocations to anger, will be like that good judge; he will still feel something in his soul, a reminder of the passionate and foolish past which he, like the judge of the treatise De Clementia, has had. Like that judge, he will act with an awareness of his former self and its failings. In judging others without anger he will remember his own fallibility. In fact, this whole section of the treatise De Ira (1.14 – 19) is built on the model of the judge. Consider the description of the aequus iudex at 1.14.2 – 3 (tr. Procope´):

Moral Judgement in Seneca

339

What has he, in truth, to hate about wrong-doers? Error is what has driven them to their sort of misdeeds. But there is no reason for a man of understanding [prudens] to hate those who have gone astray. If there were, he would hate himself. He should consider how often he himself has not behaved well, how often his own actions have required forgiveness – his anger will extend to himself. No fair judge [aequus iudex] will reach a different verdict on his own case than on another’s. No one, I say, will be found who can acquit himself; anyone who declares himself innocent has his eyes on the witness-box, not on his own conscience. How much humaner it is to show a mild, paternal spirit, not harrying those who do wrong but calling them back! Those who stray in the fields, through ignorance of the way, are better brought back to the right path than chased out altogether.

The prudens here may or may not be a sage yet; but he is certainly someone in a position of authoritative judgement who acts under two constraints: he must be fair, using the same considerations for his own case and others; and he must act in the light of his own fallibility and proven track record for moral error. Anyone who has ever been in need of forgiveness9 must extend to the objects of his judgement the kind of well-rounded consideration which makes possible his own forgiveness. He will not act in light of what he can get away with (with an eye to the witness box, believing that no one can prove that he has erred) but on the basis of true self-knowledge, in honest realization of his fallible character. As Seneca says in 1.15.3, this judicious attitude is a key to making the educational purpose of punishment succeed. He does not say why this should be so, but it is not hard to see what he has in mind: if the person punished believes that the judge is even-handed and fair-minded, he or she is more likely to avoid the kind of recalcitrance often provoked by the perception of a double standard. In the chapters which follow (1.17 – 19) reason’s judgement is preferred to that of a passion like anger in large measure because the rational agent has the judicial quality of holding itself to the same standard as others, whereas anger is in totum inaequalis, grants itself special standing (sibi enim indulget), and impedes any correction of its own judgement (1.17.7). Seneca returns to this important feature of fair judging in book 2 (2.28). The aequi iudices will be those who acknowledge that no one is without culpa. What provokes resentment (indignatio), he says, is the claim by a judge that he is free of error (nihil peccavi, nihil feci), and this resentment at hypocritical double standards makes punishment inefficacious. And in considering the unlikely claim that someone might be free of crime under statute law, Seneca gives yet another reason for preferring a broader standard for judgement than merely legal requirements. The iuris regula is narrow, the officiorum regula is a wider and more relevant standard (and these officia include the requirements for 9 venia; the term is used differently than in Clem. above.

340

Brad Inwood

humane and generous treatment of our fellow men). The innocentiae formula is a narrow and legalistic requirement for evaluation, Seneca maintains, and we should take into account in our judgements our own moral self-awareness. If we bear in mind that our own behaviour may have been only technically and accidentally proper – though still proper enough to make us unconvictable – then we will be more fair in our judgements of those who actually do wrong (2.28.3 – 4). Such a broad and inclusive judgement is again recommended at 3.26.3: if we consider the general state of human affairs we will be aequi iudices, but we will be unfair (iniquus) if we treat some general human failing as specific to the person we are judging. Seneca is clearly self-conscious in his use of the figure of the judge to sketch a standard of rational fair-mindedness in moral dealings with other people. A central feature of that fair-mindedness lies in knowing oneself, that is, in coming to see that one’s own moral behaviour is and has been flawed (although we also have to admit that this is a relevant factor in our judgements of others). His systematic use of the model of a trial before a judge extends even to this process of self-knowledge; not only does he contrast working with an eye to the witness box to working with an eye to one’s own conscientia (above), but even in De Ira 3.36, the famous passage recommending Sextius’ practice of daily self-examination, the trial model is detectable: each day the mind is to be summoned to give an account of itself; Sextius used to interrogate his own mind – and quite aggressively too. Seneca clearly takes this as a trial: ‘your anger will cease or moderate if it knows that each day it must come before a judge’ (tr. Procope´). And when he applies this lesson to himself, Seneca again uses trial language: cotidie apud me causam dico. So far we have seen Seneca working with the model of a judge to outline a moral norm, a conception of fair-minded interaction with other people based on certain important general principles. The aequus iudex is opposed to the severus iudex at least in so far as the latter is a narrow judge of legality, exercising a kind of judgement compatible with a form of moral blindness which undermines his own effectiveness. I want now to shift attention to a later stage in Seneca’s career, to the time of the treatise De Beneficiis (and one of the Epistulae Morales which reflects on the same theme). In De Beneficiis Seneca carries forward several of the features of the iudex model from these earlier works. Thus in 2.26.2, when discussing the causes of ingratitude, he notes the prevalence of the sort of onesided and unequal judgement we have noticed already : in the giving and receiving of favours, which is a matter of estimating meritorious service and the value of recompense for it, nemo non benignus est sui iudex.10 We discount the value of what others give us in a way that we do not discount our own services. 10 See below on 3.7.5 on indulgent interpretation.

Moral Judgement in Seneca

341

The aequus iudex Seneca has already established would not do that – a benignus sui iudex is an iniquus iudex. By contrast, in 4.11.5 he points out that even ordinary people can escape this kind of selfish favouritism when conditions are right: And yet we never give more carefully nor do we ever give our judging faculties a tougher workout than when all considerations of utility are eliminated and only what is honourable stands before our eyes. We are bad judges of our responsibilities (officiorum mali iudices) as long as they are distorted by hope, fear, and pleasure (that most sluggish of vices). But when death eliminates all of that and sends an unbribed judge in to deliver sentence, then we seek out the most worthy recipient for our goods; we prepare nothing with greater care than the things which don’t matter to us.

In matters of practical reason, we are thought of as judges weighing the merits of various courses of action, our officia. Selfish considerations are the bribes which corrupt our moral judgement and the only way an ordinary man can be counted on to set aside such selfishness in his choices is to wait until he is so close to death that he cannot count on benefitting from the choice.11 At 3.12.2 – 3 Seneca refers to comparable limitations on the good judgement of a moral judge; the values placed on various kinds of benefits are variable, prout fuerit iudex aut huc aut illo inclinatus animo. (Cf. Ep. 81.31.) In a later book of the De Beneficiis there is another echo of the iudex model developed so far. In 6.6.1 – 2 Seneca is emphasizing the freedom of judgement of the moral judge. Unlike legally defined offences, favours are bound by no specific laws and the agent plays the role of an arbiter, free of the narrow constraints of interpreting specific bits of legislation. In those cases, nothing is in our own power (nostrae potestatis), we must go where we are led. But in the case of favours I have full discretion (tota potestas mea est), I am the judge. And so I do not separate or distinguish favours and injuries, but I refer them to the same judge (ad eundem iudicem mitto).

The difficult task of weighing benefit and injury must be done in a coordinated way and demands a judge with full power to decide on the relevance of all factors. The formula and leges which bind an ordinary judge would be unreasonable constraints in such cases; though he refers to himself as an arbiter in such cases, it is clear that the arbiter is thought of as a judge with particular latitude, but still as a judge.12 This contrast between the freedom of the moral judge and the constraints binding the ordinary judge is a disanalogy, and Seneca uses the contrast to give 11 One might compare this to the myth in Plato’s Gorgias, which tells how the judges of men’s lives appointed by Zeus did a poor job as long as they exercised their judgements while still alive. 12 See Bellincioni 1986: 123 – 124, and below n. 13.

342

Brad Inwood

sharper definition to his model of moral judgement. In book 3, sections 6 – 8, Seneca considers the question of whether it should be possible to bring legal actions for ingratitude.13 His reply, in brief, is no: this is a job for moral not legal judgement. But in setting out this reply his use of the model of legal judgement gives clearer shape to the concept of moral judgement he has been developing. It is not the case, Seneca argues, that ingratitude is not a very serious offense; yet the tradition at Rome as almost everywhere else is not to punish it (3.6). One explanation for this is that the assessments involved in such cases are extremely difficult (cum difficilis esset incertae rei aestimatio) that we suspend our own judgements and refer the matter to divine iudices. Variable human inclinations cloud human assessments, just as they do the decisions of judges. In 3.7 he outlines justifications for exempting ingratitude from actual legal judgement and reserving it for moral judgement. The first three do not bear closely on our theme of moral judgement, but at 3.7.5 – 8 the iudex model comes into play again. I translate: Moreover, all the issues which are the basis for a legal action can be delimited and do not provide unbounded freedom for the judge. That is why a good case is in better shape if it is sent to a judge than to an arbitrator, because the formula constrains the judge and imposes fixed limits which he cannot violate; but an arbitrator has the freedom of his own integrity [libera religio] and is not restricted by any bounds. He can devalue one factor and play up another, regulating his verdict not by the arguments of law and justice but in accordance with the demands of humanity and pity [misericordia]. A trial for ingratitude would not bind the judge but would put him in a position of complete freedom of decision [sed regno liberrimo positura]. For there is no agreement on what a favour is, nor on how great it is. It makes a big difference how indulgently [benigne] the judge interprets it. No law shows us what an ungrateful man is: often even the man who returned what he received is ungrateful and the man who did not is grateful. There are some matters on which even an inexperienced judge can give a verdict, as when one must decide that someone did or did not do something, or when the dispute is eliminated by offering written commitments, or when reason dictates to the parties what is right. But when an assessment of someone’s state of mind has to be made, when the only matter at issue is one on which only wisdom can decide, then you cannot pick a judge for these matters from the standard roster – some man whose wealth and equestrian inheritance put him on the list. So it is not the case that this matter is inappropriate for referral to a judge. It is just that no one has been discovered who is a fit judge for this issue. This won’t surprise you if you consider the difficulty that anyone would have who is to take action against a man charged in such a matter.

After outlining the range of complicated assessments that would need to be made, Seneca continues:

13 See Bellincioni 1986: 116 – 118.

Moral Judgement in Seneca

343

Who will weigh up these factors? It is a hard verdict, and calls for investigation not into the thing itself but into its significance. For though the things be identical, they have different weight if they are given in different ways. This man gave me a favour, but not willingly ; rather he complained that he had done so, or looked at me with more arrogance than he used to, or gave so slowly that he would have done me more service if he had said a rapid ‘no’. How will a judge go about appraising these things, when one’s words or hestitation or expression can destroy the gratitude in a service?

Ordinary human judges would not be capable of the fair-minded and complex assessments which a ‘trial’ for ingratitude would demand. Yet these are matters which an ideal judge, the sage, could decide on,14 and although Seneca rather hyperbolically contrasts the freedom from constraint of the arbiter from the restrictions imposed on a judge (even saying in 3.7.5 that he follows humanitas and misericordia rather than lex or iustitia), it emerges from the whole context that the moral judge is expected to weigh facts and assess merit by principles of fairness and justice. The various forms of fallibility which impair the rest of us lead, in such cases, not to more cautious judgements but to none at all. The question of whether a realization of one’s personal limitations should induce us non-sages to temper or to avoid passing moral judgements returns in one of Seneca’s letters. Letter 81 introduces one more kind of judge to deal with in outlining Seneca’s model of moral judgement. Here he addresses a detailed problem about the assessment of favours. In sections 4 – 6, Seneca uses the model of judgement to discuss another difficult evaluation (which involves balancing prior good deeds against more recent injuries). But the way he sets out his approach to the decision is important for present purposes. He asks what the verdict of a rigidus 14 Contrast the view of Bellincioni, who thinks that for Seneca judging per se is a bad model for moral behaviour and assessment. At Clementia 1986: 117, a propos of this passage, she overstates the opposition of the arbiter to that of the iudex, holding that the former is bound by ‘nessuno schema giuridico’ (whereas there were in fact some procedural guidelines for arbitri, though they were, of course, free of the formula of a praetor). On Bellincioni, Clementia 1986:118 she envisages Seneca propounding as a norm a “judgement” free of all constraints not just of procedure but also of fact. Rather, Seneca merely acknowledges in this text that non-sages cannot be counted on to assess the facts; he is far from urging the positive value of operating without constraint from the facts, guided only by humanitas and misericordia. Similarly on 119 she opposes the constraints of any judicial procedure to an unlimited ‘liberta` di perdonare’, and on 120 – 121 she opposes the arbiter to the iudex in a similarly absolute manner. Two texts of which she needed to take more careful account are Ben. 3.8.1, cited above: ‘it is not the case that this matter is inappropriate for referral to a judge. It is just that no one has been discovered who is a fit judge for this issue’; and Clem. 2.7.3, cited above, does not oppose the activity of judging to that of the arbiter, but notes that mercy judges with liberum arbitrium. Hence the opposition of the iudex to the arbiter cannot be supported by this passage. It is safer, I think, to take the activity of the arbiter as a form of judging (one which has a freedom and sensitivity which the formula denies) rather than an activity opposed to the rational activity of judging per se.

344

Brad Inwood

iudex might be – and it turns out that such a judge would make the difficult assessments which are required to come to a firm assessment of the relative values of benefit and injury, including the detailed assessment of the state of mind of the agents involved. As he says in 81.6: ‘a good man (vir bonus) makes his calculation in such a way as to limit himself15 : he adds to the benefit and subtracts from the injury. But that other remissior iudex, whom I prefer to be, will order the parties to forget the injury and remember the service.’16 It is now, I think, clear what is going on in this case.17 The sage (vir bonus) enters into the difficult business of making fine assessments of people’s motivations and the values of their actions, while Seneca himself, as an ordinary moral agent, must be a looser sort of judge. He must handle the case in such a way that judgements which he cannot in fact make accurately are not called for. So he does not reduce the weighting assigned to the injury, he eliminates it, thus simplifying a moral dilemma in a manner with which many who have been faced with the challenge of weighing the imponderable can sympathize. The sage, and he alone, can properly form a rigida sententia, a verdict which is both exact and inflexible. It takes enormous self-confidence to formulate such a verdict; no wonder only the sage can do it. I indulge in a slight digression at this point to bring in an interesting parallel to the sort of self-critical modesty in judgement which Seneca displays here in moral matters. In the Quaestiones Naturales – a somewhat neglected work with a strong epistemological subtext not advertised in its title18 – Seneca shows the same sensitivity. In the fragmentary book 4b Seneca raises a curious Stoic theory about snow (5.1) and at the same apologizes for introducing a theory which is (shall we say) less than compelling (infirma is Seneca’s word). I dare neither to mention nor to omit a consideration adduced by my own school. For what harm is done by occasionally writing for an easy-going judge [facilior iudex]? Indeed, if we are going to start testing every argument by the standard of a gold assay, silence will be imposed. There are very few arguments without an opponent; the rest are contested even if they do win.

An easy-going judge is one, I think, who does not impose the highest standards on every theory, simply because he or she is aware that in a field like meteorology the demand for demonstrative proof cannot be met. Epistemic humility and 15 This is the interpretation of circumscribere also arrived at by Bellincioni Clementia, 116. The rejected possibility is that circumscribere means “cheat”. 16 Compare rigidus vs. remissus in Epistulae Morales 1.10. 17 Contrast the discussion by Maria Bellincioni in Clementia 1986: 113 – 116. She treats the rigidus iudex too simplistically when she regards him solely (115) as a foil for what she sees as Seneca’s preferred solution based on humanitas. See n. 13 above. I also discuss this text in Inwood 2005: chapter 3, written before I was aware of Bellincioni’s work. 18 See Inwood 2005: chapter 6.

Moral Judgement in Seneca

345

pragmatism suggest the wisdom of being a facilior iudex where certainty is not attainable. As in the moral sphere, so here, Seneca works out this essentially liberal notion through the metaphor of judging. If one wants a chilling picture of the results a rigida sententia can lead to if it is formed by some lesser man, one need only to turn back to the treatise De Ira. In his discussion of the traits of the aequus iudex in book 1, Seneca tells the story of one Cn. Piso: ‘he was free of many vices, but he was perversely stubborn and mistook rigor for constantia’ (1.18.3). Constantia, of course, is a virtue of the sage – Seneca wrote a short treatise on the constantia of the sage – and as we see in the anecdote which follows (1.18.3 – 6, tr. Procope´) rigor is the vice which corresponds to it. I can remember Gnaeus Piso, a man free of many faults, but wrong-headed in taking obduracy [rigor] for firmness [constantia]. In a fit of anger, he had ordered the execution of a soldier who had returned from leave without his companion, on the grounds that if he could not produce him, he must have killed him. The man requested time for an enquiry to be made. His request was refused. Condemned and led outside the rampart, he was already stretching out his neck for execution when suddenly there appeared the very companion who was thought to have been murdered. The centurion in charge of the execution told his subordinate to sheathe his sword, and led the condemned man back to Piso, intending to exonerate Piso of guilt – for fortune had already exonerated the soldier. A huge crowd accompanied the two soldiers locked in each other’s embrace amid great rejoicing in the camp. In a fury Piso mounted the tribunal and ordered them both to be executed, the soldier who had not committed murder and the one who had not been murdered. What could be more scandalous? The vindication of the one meant the death of the two. And Piso added a third. He ordered the centurion who had brought the condemned man back to be himself executed. On the self-same spot, three were consigned to execution, all for the innocence of one! How skilful bad temper can be at devising pretexts for rage! ‘You,’ it says, ‘I command to be executed because you have been condemned; you, because you have been the cause of your companion’s condemnation; and you, because you have disobeyed orders from your general to kill.’ It invented three charges, having discovered grounds for none.19

When we consider letter 81 we realize how very risky a rigida sententia would be for anyone except a sage. Seneca holds the Stoic view that anyone except a sage is vicious and morally unreliable. So everyone except a sage needs to exercise his role as a moral iudex with a self-restraint that the sage would not need. Seneca’s respect for the epistemic and moral limitations of ordinary human beings leads him to develop a model of moral judgement worked out in terms drawn from the practices and institutions of iudices in Roman society, a model that many of us might still find worth considering. Such judges seek fairness through selfknowledge; they find their way to clemency through reflection on the univer19 Cf. 3.29.2 on pertinacia.

346

Brad Inwood

sality of human failings and the fact that they too share those faults; they work to rehabilitate others more effectively by not placing themselves on a moral pedestal; in unmanageably hard cases they refuse to judge and in others adopt a decision-making strategy designed to obviate the need for exact decisions about the motivations of others which they are in no position to make. The ideal judge and the ordinary judge share one important trait: as moral judges they need to have latitude to consider the widest possible range of relevant factors (though of course they will use this latitude differently). Both kinds of judge make independent decisions guided but not constrained by detailed legislation and the praetor’s formula for the case. So far we have, I think, at least prima facie evidence that Seneca was selfconsciously and creatively exploiting aspects of the (to him) familiar notion of a iudex as a guide to reflection on the kind of rationality appropriate to situations which call for moral decision-making. This is an example of one of the ways Seneca’s philosophical creativity emerges in his works. This project can also be observed in his exploitation of the corresponding notion of judgement itself, iudicium. I cannot range so widely over the corpus to illustrate this claim, but will simply focus on a small number of especially revealing texts. I want to recall, first of all, a passage to which I have already alluded. In De Ira 3.36 Seneca recommends the practice of daily moral self-examination, and in so doing he presents the review as an internal trial. He brings his awareness of his daily behaviour before an internal judge: apud me causam dico he says (3.36.2). There is, in the life of this metaphor, an internal trial at which a verdict can be reached. We might compare here the end of letter 28: ‘So, as far as you can, bring charges against yourself, conduct an enquiry against yourself. First, play the role of prosecutor, then of judge and only then, finally, plead for mitigation. Be tough on yourself at last’ (Epistulae Morales 28.10). This internal judgement is described elsewhere as a iudicium. In De Otio 1.2 – 3, for example, Seneca laments the fact that our own iudicia are corrupt and fickle (prava, levia) and that in our weakness we remain dependent on aliena iudicia instead of on our own. There are, in fact, many places where Seneca contrasts this kind of internal judgement (whether of ourselves or of the morally significant factors we face in our life) to that of others, and these passages alone don’t suffice to show that the legal model is alive and functioning. After all, iudicium is a common enough term in Latin for assessments, beliefs and decisions of all kinds. Of slightly greater weight, perhaps, is De Clementia 2.2.2, where iudicium refers to the kind of settled and reflective judgement which confirms tendencies which are otherwise merely matters of impetus and natura (this is, I suspect, pretty much the sense that iudicium has in De Ira 2, where it

Moral Judgement in Seneca

347

used to demarcate passion from rational action and seems to have close ties, especially in chapters 1 – 4, to the earlier Stoic notion of assent.20 Another aspect of moral iudicium, its stability, appears clearly in the treatise De Vita Beata. Here Seneca articulates a contrast between judging and merely believing (1.4 – 5), in which ‘judging’ is clearly an act of fully deliberate and selfconscious moral decision: No one goes wrong only for himself, but he is also the cause and agent of someone else’s mistake … and as long as each and every person prefers believing to judging he never makes a judgement about his life, merely forms beliefs, and the mistake passed from hand to hand overturns us and casts us down headlong.21

Here ‘judgement’ in the strong sense is aligned with what is stable, internal, and our own. This is also apparent in section 5: allied with his claim that rationality is the indispensable key to happiness is his summary definition of the happy life: it is a life in recto certoque iudicio stabilita et immutabilis. That immobility and consistency yields a pura mens, soluta omnibus malis. As he says at 6.2, the happy man is exactly he who is iudicii rectus.22 This remark comes in the midst of his discussion of the role of pleasure in the happy life, a discussion which culminates in section 9.2 – 3 with an apt statement of the normal Stoic view on pleasure:23 It is not a cause or reward for virtue, but an adjunct [accessio] to it. The highest good is in iudicium itself and the condition of a mind in the best state, which, when it has filled up its own domain and fenced itself about at its boundaries is then the complete and highest good and wants for nothing further. For there is nothing beyond the whole, any more than there is anything beyond the boundary.

The location of happiness in judgement and the close connection of it to a mental disposition (rather than a transient act of mental decision) suggests that iudicium for Seneca plays much the same role that prohairesis plays in Epictetus, as a term signifying both a morally significant act of decision making, a form of assent, and as a stable disposition which constitutes the locus of happiness.24 As in De Ira 2.4.2 iudicium is connected closely to the idea of stable and irreversible moral decision. In this sense iudicium verges on becoming a faculty – as also at De Beneficiis 4.11.5 where we are said to torment our iudicia when we work 20 Compare De Beneficiis 2.14.1: iudicium interpellat adfectus. Also Epistulae Morales 45.3 – 4 where iudicium is contrasted to externally motivated indulgentia. Tony Long pointed out that sunkatathesis (so important in Stoic analysis of the passions) is originally a legal term for casting a vote at a trial. I have discussed this passage of De Ira in Inwood 2005: chapter 2. 21 In 1.5 the term iudicium is used generically too – Seneca avoids technical precision and consistency. At De Beneficiis 1.10.5 it is iudicare which is used for unstable opinion in contrast to scire. 22 Compare Epistulae Morales 66.32 sola ratio inmutabilis et iudicii tenax est. 23 See DL 7.85 – 86, where pleasure is an epigenneˆma. 24 See Epistulae Moralis 108.21: iudicium quidem tuum sustine.

348

Brad Inwood

through a tough moral decision. We might say that such decisions are a test of ‘character’; for Seneca it is our judicial capacity which is being put to the test. Throughout the Epistulae Morales Seneca uses the language of judgement for moral assessments of many kinds, and a close consideration of how his usage varies and grows would be interesting. But in letter 71 (which deals extensively with moral decisions) Seneca strengthens this connection between a robust notion of judgement and the kind of ideal prohairesis which constitutes the stable character state of the sage. The passage of interest deals with the Stoic paradox that all goods are equal (Epistulae Moralis 71.17 ff.). After some familiar argumentation on the topic, Seneca describes his notion of virtue in lofty terms (18 – 20). He compares it to the criterion (regula, i. e., the kanoˆn) for what is straight (rectum) which cannot vary without rendering the notion of straight meaningless. Similarly, virtue is recta (indeed, must be if it is to function as a standard of rightness) and so admits of no bending (flexuram non recipit). In the corrupt sentence which follows25 there was clearly some reference to virtue being rigida as well – natural enough since it is also said to be unbending, and its unbending straightness could not be preserved if it were not rigid. Virtue, Seneca adds, makes judgements about all things and nothing judges it. Like other standards, virtue is an unqualified instance of the property it measures in others.26 This rigidity of virtue, its inflexibility (so termed explicitly at Epistulae Moralis 95.62 also: inflexibile iudicium), is tied here to its status as an instrument of judgement. Let us move ahead to section 29, where Seneca affects to anticipate Lucilius’ impatience, as he so often does: venio nunc illo quo me vocat expectatio tua. He concedes that the wise man will suffer a variety of physical pains but that these are not bad things unless the sage’s mental reaction makes them so. At section 32 – 3 he summarizes: This point can be stated quickly and quite succinctly : virtue is the only good and certainly there is no good without it; virtue itself is situated in the better part of us, the rational part. So what is this virtue? A true and immovable iudicium; this is the source of mental impulses, and by this we put to the test every presentation which stimulates impulse. It is appropriate for this iudicium to judge that all things touched by virtue are both good and equal to each other.

25 In Reynolds’ edition (OCT) rigidari quidem amplius quam intendi potest. 26 It is the invariability of virtue which forms the basis for the argument in support of the main proposition under discussion, that all goods are equal. Since the other goods are measured by virtue and (as goods) found to measure up to its standard, they must all be equal with regard to the trait measured by that absolute standard (in this case, straightness, Epistulae Moralis 71.20). See also Epistulae Moralis 66.32: Ratio rationi par est, sicut rectum recto; … Omnes virtutes rationes sunt; rationes sunt, si rectae sunt; si rectae sunt et pares sunt.

Moral Judgement in Seneca

349

Here again our judgement is an unchangeable inner disposition, cognitive in its function and determinative in the process of regulating actions. It is, in the relevant sense, our perfected heˆgemonikon, our prohairesis. I want to conclude by emphasizing just two points. First, it really is remarkable that Seneca uses the language of legal judgement to express this idea. I will concede happily that the noun iudicium does not always carry the full weight of a live legal metaphor. But in the context of the brief survey I have offered of Seneca’s active and long-term interest in that metaphorical field it seems implausible to suggest that it plays no role here – even if the non-legal idea of kanoˆn is also prominently in play in this letter. And second, this is a good and effective metaphor with which to work. Consider only the key point of this letter, the notion that the iudicium of the sage is unbendable and rigid. Seneca had written elsewhere about rigidity of judgement – we think of the perverse and passionate iudex Cn. Piso from the De Ira. Yet here judgement in its normative sense is supposed to be rigid and unbending. The merely human judge on the bench, like the ordinary man exercising moral judgement, must not be a severus or rigidus iudex, for reasons we know about from his other discussions of moral judgement: human affairs call for the kind of fine evaluations and judgement calls which lead anyone with a grain of selfknowledge to refrain, to suspend, to wait. On matters so complex that it is wiser (as Seneca says in De Beneficiis 3.6) to refer them to the gods, only the sage, Zeus’ intellectual equal, can truly judge. The inflexibility suitable for gods27 and for the sage would be mad rigidity for us. It is often said that Seneca, like all later Stoics, adopts a double code of ethics, one for the sage and one for miserable mankind. I have argued before that this is not so.28 What Seneca accomplishes in this bold experiment of thinking by means of a living legal metaphor is to show that despite all of the differences between sage and fool there is still but one norm by which all humans should live. The inescapable fact that we are all moral judges, each according to his or her abilities, unites us in the shared humanity which Seneca urged so ineffectively on Nero in his address De Clementia.

References Bellincioni, M. 1984. “Clementia Liberum Arbitrium Habet”, in: Paideia 39: 173 – 183. repr. in: M. Bellincioni, Studi Senecani e Altri Scritti, Brescia 1986: 113 – 125. 27 I am grateful to Tony Long for directing my attention to what the Stoic Hierocles says about divine judgements in Stobaeus (Ecl. i p. 63, 6 W): they are unswerving and implacable in their krimata. The virtues on which this rigidity is based are epistemological, of course (ametaptoˆsia and bebaioteˆs), and shared with the sage. 28 See Inwood 2005: chapter 4.

350

Brad Inwood

Cooper, J. M. / Procope´, J. F. (eds. & trs.) 1995. Seneca: Moral and Political Essays, Cambridge. Du¨ll, R. 1976. “Seneca Iurisconsultus”, in: Aufstieg und Niedergang der Ro¨mischen Welt II 15: 365 – 380 Griffin, M. 1984. Potere ed etica in Seneca: clementia e voluntas amica, Brescia. Inwood, B. 2005. Reading Seneca. Stoic Philosophy at Rome, Oxford. Maurach, G.1975. “Zur Eigenart and Herkunft”, in G. Maurach (ed.), Seneca als Philosoph, Darmstadt.

Julie Piering

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

Thanks to their celebrated unruliness and their prominent progeny the Cynic’s contribution to ancient ethics is regularly overlooked. As trenchant critics of both Athenian culture and philosophical theories, the Cynics’ improvisational quips and quirks can come across more as comedy than philosophy. Unsurprisingly, then, Cynicism is largely absent from all major English language collections, anthologies, and histories of Hellenistic philosophy.1 The aim of this essay, then, is to offer something of a corrective to this disregard by thinking through the distinctive ethical position the Cynics hold and attending to the philosophical merits contained therein. The neglect of Cynic philosophy is in some sense understandable. The rowdiness of Cynic behavior raises particular problems for discussing their philosophical tenets; even scrupulous studies run the risk of stumbling into a couple of pitfalls. The first, of which Dudley’s position is an elaboration, is the supposition that nothing of philosophical significance originates in Cynicism.2 There is, on the other hand, an equal danger in paying such singular attention to Cynic philosophical views as to overlook, or even suppress, their bawdier side. For example, as one moves backward from the Stoics to their Cynic origin, it can be tempting to ‘Stoicize’ Cynic activity,3 thereby sanitizing the Cynic attitude 1 The two most prominent collections, Gerson / Inwood 1998 and Long / Sedley 1987, neglect them except in reference to other schools. They are mentioned briefly in Long’s chapter on the Socratic legacy in Hellenistic thought in Algra / Barnes / Mansfeld / Schofield 1999. In some 800 pages surveying Hellenistic philosophy, the Cynics receive about 10 pages of attention, a proportion which seems representative of their treatment within contemporary AngloAmerican scholarship. 2 Dudley makes this clear on the first page of his introduction. After having claimed that Cynicism is of little worth philosophically he gives a reason for bothering with so debased a version of Socratic thought: “But to the student of social history, and of ancient thought as distinct from philosophy, there is much of interest in Cynicism” (Dudley 1937: 9). For Dudley Cynicism is a fascinating, if crude, moment in the history of ancient thought, but it ought not to be confused with the serious business of philosophy. 3 The Stoics themselves were not immune to this proclivity. Athenodorus attempted to free

352

Julie Piering

and misconstruing their unique philosophical contribution. To fully appreciate the Cynic position within ancient ethics, one must engage Cynicism as a philosophically significant moment in the history of thought without reducing the Cynics to ‘proto-Stoics.’4 To make matters worse for their prospects of being included in the history of philosophy, the Cynics treat theoretical standpoints as at best superfluous and at worst absurd. Diogenes of Sinope, the most memorable of the Cynics, mercilessly ridicules Platonic metaphysics and skeptical arguments against such things as motion. As such, it would be difficult, if not contradictory, to try to discover a Cynic metaphysics or epistemology. Some have taken this to mean that Cynicism is a way of life rather than a philosophical position. However, a different conclusion can be drawn that makes better sense of the Cynic attention to living: how one lives matters more than what one claims about the nature of the universe or the boundaries of knowledge. Cynicism is, then, primarily an ethical philosophy ; in Cynicism a way of life is a philosophical position. Cynic ethics can be generalized as an art of living and in this sense is akin to other ethical stances of antiquity.5 They differ, though, from most of their philosophical contemporaries in how radically they lived their lives. It is these vibrant and distinctive Cynic biographies which pose yet another burden to the study of Cynic thought. The triumph of the Cynic as a literary character complicates discussions of the historical individuals, a complication further troubled by a lack of sources. The evidence regarding the Cynics is limited to apothegms, aphorisms, and ancient hearsay ; none of the many Cynic texts have survived.6 This is, perhaps, a propitious accident. The chreia tradition records the tenets of Cynicism via their lives. It is through their practices, the selves and Stoicism from scandalous Cynic practices: “Isodorus likewise affirms that the passages disapproved by the school were expunged from [Chryisppus’] works by Athenodorus the Stoic, who was in charge of the Pergameme library” (Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of Eminent Philosophers, trans. R.D. Hicks, 7.34). Once his handiwork was discovered, Athenodorus was made to replace the passages. 4 An example of this appears in the introduction to Long / Sedley 1987: “In a way the greatest triumph of Cynicism was its formative influence on the work of Zeno [of Citium], whose first philosophical training had been with the Cynic Crates” (Long / Sedley 1987: 3). Hopefully, this essay will elucidate other Cynic triumphs. 5 The view of ancient ethics as an aesthetics of existence has received increasing attention over the last few decades. Among the most thoroughgoing of the accounts remains Hadot 1995. He argues that the theoretical positions of ancient philosophers are inextricable from their ways of living. In fact, Hadot contends that the life lived determines philosophical discourse and not the other way around. “Le discours philosophique prend donc son origine dans un choix de vie et une option existentielle et non l’inverse” (Hadot 1995: 18). I would argue that in Cynicism the connection is stronger still: the life lived is the discourse. 6 See Diogenes Laertius 6.15 – 18 and 6.80 for the titles attributed to Antisthenes and Diogenes, respectively.

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

353

lives that they cultivated, that we come to know the particular Cynic e¯thos. As such, one can avoid the danger of applying systems and theories where they are inappropriate by approaching Cynicism via practice, or aske¯sis.7 By focusing on aske¯sis, Cynic coarseness emerges alongside ethics, underscoring the inextricability of the specifically Cynic behavior from Cynic philosophy.8 It is this emphasis on the life lived that lends this essay its title, which is arrived at through a clever observation made by Christopher Hitchens. In reviewing Nixon’s memoir, Hitchens remarks that: “It shows only that the unlived life is not worth examining.”9 We could play a little further with Hitchens’ Socratic corollary and note that the Cynic life is worthy of examination precisely because of the way in which it is lived. Socrates held fast to his belief that the unexamined life was not worth living; Antisthenes and Diogenes remind us that only the lived life is worth examining. In unpacking Cynic ethics, then, the lives of the Cynics provide the sole basis for determining their philosophical positions.10 Given this, it would be, on the one hand, an artificial imposition to systematize Cynicism. On the other hand, it is impossible not to note that certain fundamental tenets emerge from the anecdotes. Cynicism is not a ‘school’ in the way that the Epicureans, Stoics, or Skeptics are. They act out their philosophical commitments improvisationally in the marketplace rather than elaborating them theoretically in an established location. It is through their ad hoc and often humorous exploits that the Cynics offer a fruitful way for thinking about happiness, the nature and acquisition of virtue, how to live the best life, and, especially, about what we ought to care. In short, though they are not systematic in doing so, the Cynics address precisely the concerns which anchor ancient ethics.

7 The term aske¯sis can be defined as ‘exercise’ or ‘practice’ and is appropriated from athletic training. Bracht Branham and Marie-Odile Goulet-Caze´ point this out in Branham, B. / Goulet-Caze´, M.-O. 1996. The difference between the athlete and the Cynic was the end of the training: “while the athlete trained his body with a view to victory in the stadium, the Cynic trained it in order to strengthen his will and ensure his capacity for endurance” (Branham, B. / Goulet-Caze´, M.-O. 1996: 26). In both, though, bodily training is crucial to aske¯sis. I would add that for the Cynic, the training becomes a way to discipline the soul as well as the body. 8 I am focusing specifically on the aspects of Cynic practice that help to illuminate their ethical theory. Thus, other aspects of Cynic aske¯sis will be omitted. Happily, Goulet-Caze´ has produced a detailed survey of Diogenes’ aske¯sis in L’Asce`se Cynique. 9 Hitchens’ review is entitled “Nixon: Maestro of Resentment,” and can be found in For the Sake of Argument. See especially p. 244. 10 The reports about Antisthenes and Diogenes are the most useful since they are the most prolific.

354

I.

Julie Piering

Aske¯sis

The type of asceticism central to Cynic activity has its roots in the Socratic discourses, or So¯kratikoi logoi.11 Consistent with this heredity, aske¯sis is part of a larger concern for the self. Self-discipline is meaningful insofar as it is an ethical practice, a training that flows from a care of the self. A change occurs between the ethics that surfaces in the figure of Socrates and that which is elaborated in its Cynic reception: virtue is wholly predicated upon a commitment to aske¯sis. Whereas in Socratic ethics intellectualism is essential and there remains an ambiguity regarding the sufficiency of virtue for happiness, for the Cynics right practice engenders virtue which in turn leads to happiness.12 Goulet-Caze´ outlines the Cynic move to aske¯sis as a philosophical method in terms of its effect. “…Diogenes refuses to pose questions that he knows in advance are unanswerable. He challenges systems as ideologies.”13 Once ideological doctrines are rejected action remains. Cynic ethics makes sense only as a life lived. The specificity of their lives, then, shed light on the Cynics’ ethical commitments.

A.

‘Plainness of Living’ and Autarkeia

What comes to be translated as ‘plainness of living,’ euteleia, could be rendered as thrift and refers to the Cynic’s ability to live a life without extravagance. Diogenes of Sinope’s ‘thrift’ is reflected in his accommodations and diet. On having arrived in Athens he famously took a tub, a pithos, for an abode.14 Diogenes discovers that he has no need for conventional shelter or any of the ‘dainties’ others strive for from watching a mouse.15 The lesson that the mouse

11 Though sketching this connection is outside the scope of this project, the disregard for material wealth can serve as a representative example. If one compares Plato’s Apology 30a-b (Socrates’ exhortation to make the well-being of one’s soul a higher priority than the concern for wealth, reputation, etc.) with Antisthenes’ position in Xenophon’s Symposium (where that of which he is most proud is the wealth of his soul though he does not possess ‘an obol’) Cynic indigence looks to be rooted in a Socratic style of living. 12 Throughout such texts as Plato’s Apology Socrates sees virtue as necessary for happiness; it is less clear whether virtue is sufficient. By contrast, Antisthenes “held virtue to be sufficient in itself to ensure happiness, since it needed nothing else except the strength of a Socrates” (Diogenes Laertius 6.11). For the Cynics, aske¯sis is the means for achieving virtue. 13 Goulet-Caze´ 1993: 15 (translation mine). 14 “He had written to some one to try and procure a cottage for him. When this man was a long time about it, he took for his abode the tub in the Metroo¨n, as he himself explains in his letters” (Diogenes Laertius 6.23). 15 Diogenes Laertius 6.22.

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

355

(and nature in general) teaches is that he can adapt himself to any circumstance. Diogenes’ radical adaptability grows into Cynic aske¯sis.16 The aske¯sis evident in taking up residence in a pithos is mirrored in his other activities: Diogenes discards his cup when he notices a child using his hands to drink water;17 he folds his cloak double so that he can use it to sleep at night and to shield himself from the sun in the day ;18 he hugs snowy statues and rolls in his pithos over scalding summer sand.19 The point of his activities is to become inured to any exigencies. Poverty, exile, and homelessness were considered extreme hardships, and yet for Diogenes such an opinion is merely a matter of perspective, and he has chosen to view life from the perspective of physis, or Nature.20 “He would often insist loudly that the gods had given to men the means of living easily, but this had been put out of sight because we require honeyed cakes, unguents and the like.”21 Living well is always possible, no matter the circumstances into which one falls. It is not, then, fortune which makes people unhappy, but desires for unnecessary items to which they become enslaved.22 In transforming desires into needs, humans place happiness outside their control. The thrift and resource exemplified by Antisthenes, Diogenes, and Crates,23 is advocated because it accords self-sufficiency and freedom.24 As mentioned 16 Diogenes’ asceticism has a precursor in Antisthenes’ austerity. In Xenophon’s Symposium the banqueters take turns extolling that about which they are most proud. Antisthenes is most pleased with his wealth, but when questioned it turns out he has no money and almost no land. He explains that wealth and poverty are terms to describe the state of one’s soul, not the assets of one’s estate. He details his wealth or, as most Athenians would view it, his poverty, with relish at 4.37 – 40: he has satisfactory amounts of food, drink, and clothing; his home and bedding are warm and comfortable; the women he makes advances toward are happy to welcome him. “In a word, all these items appeal to me as being so conducive to enjoyment that I could not pray for greater pleasure in performing any one of them, but could pray rather for less – so much more pleasurable do I regard some of them than is good for one” (4.39 – 40). 17 Diogenes Laertius 6.37. 18 Diogenes Laertius 6.22. There are some suggestions that Diogenes was the first to manipulate his tribo¯n in this manner, but the same is said of Antisthenes. For both, the cloak’s purpose is to protect from heat and cold and not for fashion or the preservation of modesty. 19 Diogenes Laertius 6.23. 20 Though all the ‘curses of tragedy’ had been visited upon him, Diogenes maintained that “to fortune he could oppose courage, to convention nature, to passion reason” (Diogenes Laertius 6.38). This is entirely in keeping with the Cynic sentiment that one ought to live in accord with nature rather than convention. 21 Diogenes Laertius 6.44. 22 “He said that bad men [phaulos] obey their lusts [epithumia] as servants obey their masters” (Diogenes Laertius 66). 23 Though Diogenes’ asceticism is the most well documented, Antisthenes and Crates both follow a plainness of living. Antisthenes is referenced above at note 17 and Crates, who was from a prominent Theban family, had a great deal of wealth with which he parted in order to become a philosopher. See D.L. 6.87 and epistle 9 in The Cynic Epistles (hereafter Epistles). 24 The term being translated as self-sufficiency is autarkeia and could just as accurately be

356

Julie Piering

above, it frees one from unnatural desires and the troubles that come with trying to attain them.25 Antisthenes held this so strongly that he “used repeatedly to say, ‘I’d rather be mad than feel pleasure.’”26 The ethical aspect of self-sufficiency has a political dimension as well. “On being asked what he had gained from philosophy, [Diogenes] replied, ‘This at least, if nothing else – to be prepared for every fortune [tuche¯].’ Asked where he came from, he said, ‘I am a citizen of the world [kosmopolite¯s].’”27 The desire to be a citizen of a certain polis and the excessive pride felt at so being is as foolish as the longing for conventional pleasures.28 To be self-sufficient, to have autarkeia, is true freedom, or eleutheria. One is neither a slave to one’s passions nor to the political situation in the citystate in which one finds oneself. Such freedom is bolstered by and evident in another form of Cynic freedom, the freedom of speech.

B.

Parrhe¯sia

To speak truthfully and frankly is parrhe¯sia, a term rich in meaning and central to Cynic aske¯sis. Quite literally, it is saying all that there is to be said. This lends itself to both a positive connotation of openness and freedom of speech and to a negative connotation of licentiousness. It comes to be associated with a type of fearless truth telling. Importantly, this is more than mere honesty ; it is speaking the truth even when so doing endangers one’s life. As such, parrhe¯sia stands in direct opposition to flattery. Whereas the flatterer tells his audience precisely what he believes they want to hear, the parrhesiast tells the truth even when doing so is risky.29 Some stunning examples of Cynic parrhe¯sia occur in exchanges between Diogenes of Sinope and Alexander the Great. “Alexander once came and stood opposite him and said, ‘I am Alexander the great king.’ ‘And I, ’said he, ‘am

25 26 27 28 29

translated as independence. Freedom, or eleutheria, means liberty as well and is often used in a political sense. For the Cynics, the two are importantly intertwined. A nice example of the trouble such desires can get one into is commented upon by Antisthenes as he sees an adulterer running for his life. “Poor wretch, what peril you might have escaped at the price of an obol” (Diogenes Laertius 6.4). Diogenes Laertius 6.3. Diogenes Laertius 6.63. Antisthenes “showed his contempt for the airs which the Athenians gave themselves on the strength of being sprung from the soil by the remark that this did not make them any better born than snails or wingless locusts” (Diogenes Laertius 6.1). The obvious source of Cynic parrhe¯sia is Socrates. Not only does he prove himself to be a parrhesiast at his trial where he tells the truth though doing so injures him in the eyes of the jurors, he makes much of the importance of truth telling for the good of the soul. At Plato’s Gorgias 487a Socrates lists the three characteristics for judging the soul of another : knowledge, good will, and frankness, parrhe¯sia.

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

357

Diogenes the Dog.’”30 Alexander’s self identification is an assertion of power, one fully undercut by Diogenes’ own declaration. Being a king is, to Diogenes, no more impressive than being a ‘Dog.’31 Diogenes’ lack of political interest is echoed all the more forcefully in another more famous encounter with the great king. “When he was sunning himself in the Craneum, Alexander came and stood over him and said, ‘Ask of me any boon you like.’ To which he replied, ‘Stand out of my light.’”32 No one is more powerful than Alexander, and yet he has nothing Diogenes wants. An important reason for this is the hidden cost of Alexander’s generosity : Diogenes’ freedom. This becomes evident when one considers Diogenes’ response to the praise being afforded Callisthenes for the good fortune of sharing in Alexander’s magnificence. Diogenes finds Callisthenes’ situation regrettable “for he breakfasts and dines when Alexander thinks fit.”33 The theme of paying a political price to rulers occurs again in an interchange with Plato. “Plato saw [Diogenes] washing vegetables, came up to him and quietly said to him, ‘Had you paid court to Dionysius, you wouldn’t now be washing vegetables,’ and that he with equal calmness made answer, ‘If you had washed vegetables, you wouldn’t have paid court to Dionysius.”34 Though the context is missing for this exchange, Diogenes is likely washing off discarded vegetables in order to eat them. Plato is offering him some friendly advice for extricating himself from such need. Diogenes, by contrast, is offering Plato some advice in return: poverty frees one from the more debilitating need for political allegiance. Parrhe¯sia is employed to protect the Cynic’s freedom, even when doing so is risky, as when it is employed against the powerful. It likewise keeps the Cynic from falling into the most morally dangerous form of speech, one most often required in political situations, namely flattery. It strikes the Cynics as obvious that paying court to a king would cost them, at the very least, their parrhe¯sia. Flattery, though, is equally dangerous to the one being flattered. “[Antisthenes] used to say…that it is better to fall in with crows than flatterers; for in the one case you are devoured when dead, in the other, case while alive.”35 The Cynics consistently criticize flattery. “Being asked what creatures bite is the worst, [Diogenes] replied, ‘Of those that are wild a sycophant’s; of those that are

30 Diogenes Laertius 6.60. 31 Though he still maintains his superior position, Alexander seems struck by the Cynic lesson: “Alexander is reported to have said, ‘Had I not been Alexander, I should have liked to be Diogenes’” (Diogenes Laertius 32). 32 Diogenes Laertius 6.38. 33 Diogenes Laertius 6.45. 34 Diogenes Laertius 6.58, translation slightly amended. 35 Diogenes Laertius 6.4.

358

Julie Piering

tame a flatterer’s.’”36 And again, “Ingratiating speech he compared to honey used to choke you.”37 The same view is echoed in the sayings of Crates. “Those who live with flatterers he declared to be as defenseless as calves in the midst of wolves; for neither these nor those have any to protect them, but only such as plot against them.”38 Cynic loathing for flattery is widespread and the reason seems clear : flattery is ethically defeating. Flatterers will never point out one’s faults or shortcomings. It is difficult to improve morally when surrounded by persons who claim one has no flaws. Thus, when Antisthenes is asked what one ought to do in order to become good and noble (kalos kagathos), he replies “You must learn from those who know the faults you have are to be avoided.”39 Moral improvement depends upon first knowing that improvement is necessary. The flatterer could facilitate moral stagnation by stifling self examination, but, given the Cynic observations about flattery, the flatterer more often encourages moral decline. Flattery’s contrary is parrhe¯sia. Thus, whereas flattery compromises the freedom of the addresser and the ethical progress of the addressee, parrhe¯sia supports both freedom and virtue. “Being asked what was the most beautiful thing in the world, he replied, ‘freedom of speech [parrhe¯sia].’”40

C.

Reason and Virtue

For the Cynics self-sufficiency (autarkeia), freedom (eleutheria), and virtue (arete¯) are all made possible via aske¯sis. The ‘plainness of living’ that Diogenes endorses is philosophically interesting for it requires recognizing true goods over the apparent ones. How, though, might one discover what is truly good? The answer is tied to logos or reason. In Diogenes’ philosophical fragments, reason plainly has a role to play. “He would continually say that for the conduct of life we need right reason [logos] or a halter [brochos].”41 Each individual should either allow reason to guide her conduct, or, like an animal, she will need to be lead by a leash. Reason guides one away from mistakes and toward the best life. Diogenes does not despise knowledge as such, but pretensions to knowledge that serve no purpose. 36 37 38 39 40 41

Diogenes Laertius 6.51. Ibid. Diogenes Laertius 6.92. Diogenes Laertius 6.8. Diogenes Laertius 6.69. Diogenes Laertius 6.24. Under the Cynic rubric, the halter is more often called for since human beings show little sign of the proper use of reason. A more sinister reading of the term brochos is as the hangman’s noose.

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

359

He is especially scornful of sophisms. He disproves an argument that a person has horns by touching his forehead, and in a similar manner, counters the claim that there is no such thing as motion by walking around.42 He constantly disputes Platonic definitions and from this comes one of the more memorable anecdotes. “Plato had defined the human being as an animal, biped and featherless, and was applauded. Diogenes plucked a fowl and brought it into the lecture-room with the words, ‘Here is Plato’s human being.’ In consequence of which there was added to the definition, ‘having broad nails.’”43 Diogenes is a harsh critic of Plato, regularly disparaging Plato’s metaphysical pursuits.44 Once again, ethics is approached through practice and theoretical doctrines are taken to be unnecessary and a bit silly. In the end, for a human to be in accord with nature is to be rational, for it is in the human being’s nature to act in accord with reason. Diogenes has trouble finding such humans, and expresses his sentiments regarding this difficulty theatrically. “He lit a lamp in broad daylight and said, as he went about, ‘I am searching for a human being.’”45 The Cynic life in accord with reason is lived in accord with nature, and therefore is greater than the bounds of convention, and, as in the claim to cosmopolitanism, the polis. The various kinds of Cynic practice all amount to the same end: virtue. Diogenes is especially clear on this point. He explains the relationship between aske¯sis and excellence or virtue (arete¯) in the crafts and athletics. This relationship is then extended: “Nothing in life, however, he maintained, has any chance of succeeding without practice [aske¯sis]; and this is capable of overcoming anything. Accordingly, instead of useless toils men should choose such as nature recommends, whereby they might have lived happily.”46 The ethical goals of happiness (eudaimonia) and the life lived in accord with nature (kata 42 Diogenes Laertius 6.39. 43 Diogenes Laertius 6.40, translation amended. It should be noted that it is more than just the Platonic theories against which Diogenes rails. He indicts Plato, as Antisthenes had, for being prideful and for his desire for material luxury. In addition to their exchange about washing vegetables at Diogenes Laertius 6.58 another story that offers corroboration appears at 6.67. Diogenes is scolded for begging when Plato does not, to which he quotes Homer to describe Plato’s entreaties: ‘He holds his head down close, that none may hear.’ 44 In fairness, Plato often emerges dignified in the exchanges. In fact, Plato seems to be the only one in all the chreiai who can meet Diogenes’ stabs. For instance, when Diogenes claims to be unable to see ‘cuphood’ or ‘tablehood’ Plato replies, “you have the eyes to see the visible table and cup; but not the understanding by which ideal tablehood and cuphood are discerned” (Diogenes Laertius 6.53). 45 Diogenes Laertius 6.41, translation amended. For another of the instances in which Diogenes is disappointed by the so-called humans around him, see Diogenes Laertius 6.32: “One day he shouted out for human beings, and when people collected, hit out at them with his stick, saying, ‘It was humans I called for, not scoundrels.’” 46 Diogenes Laertius 6.71.

360

Julie Piering

physin) are made possible via aske¯sis. Furthermore, since the good life is one lived in accord with nature, conventions and the emotions that they produce, such as shame or pride, are in need of reconsideration.

II.

Shame and Shamelessness

Many of the most well known episodes within the lives of the Cynic philosophers are illustrations of their shamelessness. This is especially true of Diogenes, the most creative Cynic in his art of living, who eats and masturbates in public and seems indifferent to his often uncontrollable body.47 The Cynic activities and attitudes regarding shame capsize the common view. It is not the case that one ought not to feel any shame; one must, though, feel shame about the appropriate things. Cynic shamelessness highlights the foolishness of those conventions which cause the feeling of shame. One should properly feel shame when one holds a mistaken position or is morally inept. This Cynic inversion can be traced back to Antisthenes. “To the youth who was posing fantastically as an artist’s model he put this question, ‘Tell me, if the bronze could speak, on what, think you, would it pride itself most?’ ‘On its beauty,’ was the reply. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘are you not ashamed [aischune¯] of delighting in the very same quality as an inanimate object?’”48 This same sentiment will be later echoed in Stoicism where one ought not to be proud of those things which are not up to one. Beauty is an external good over which one has ultimately no control and therefore is morally neutral. Feeling pride in physical beauty is to feel pride in something that is not particular to the human being and is, therefore, shameful. In short, he takes what is conventionally a cause for pride and turns it into a source of shame. Diogenes of Sinope uses his body to upend the conventional association of decorum with the good. He breaks etiquette by publicly carrying out activities an Athenian would typically perform in private. For example, he eats, drinks, and masturbates in the marketplace, and ridicules the shame felt when one makes a bodily blunder, such as dropping a loaf of bread.49 As with Antisthenes, this does not mean, however, that there is nothing about which a person ought to feel shame. 47 “It was his habit to do everything in public, the works of Demeter and of Aphrodite alike” (Diogenes Laertius 6.69). Diogenes’ indecent behavior is usually accompanied by a characteristic one-liner in response to reproach. Thus, he says of masturbation, among the most shameless of behaviors in his repertoire, that he wished “it were as easy to banish hunger by rubbing the belly” (Ibid). 48 Diogenes Laertius 6.9. 49 Diogenes Laertius 6.35.

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

361

Observing a fool tuning a harp, “Are you not ashamed [aischune¯],” he said, “to give this wood concordant sounds, while you fail to harmonize your soul with your life?” To one who protested “I am unfit to study philosophy,” he said, “Why then live, if you do not care to live well?” To one who looked down upon his father, “Are not you ashamed [aischune¯],” he said, “to look down on him to whom you owe it that you can so pride yourself.” Seeing a handsome youth chattering in an unbecoming way, “Are you not ashamed [aischune¯],” he said, “to draw a lead dagger from an ivory scabbard?”50

Diogenes redefines that about which a person should feel shame. The arrogance of a son embarrassed by his father, the way the harpist lives his life, the excuses of one ill equipped for philosophy, the nonsense babbled by a good looking young man, all of these things should inspire shame. The Athenian criteria for shame are amiss, and Diogenes means to overturn them. As Diogenes’ reappraisal of shame suggests, the Cynics are not relativists. Nature replaces convention as the standard for judgment. It is through nature that one can live well and not through conventional means such as etiquette or religion. This is concomitant with a standard for how one should live. “He would rebuke men in general with regard to their prayers, declaring that they asked for things which seemed to them to be good, not for such as are truly good.”51 This captures the crux of the Cynic notion of living in accord with nature and contrary to convention. Praying for wealth and fame and all of the other trappings that convention leads one to believe are good is a mistaken enterprise. Life, as given by nature, is full of hints as to how to live it best, but humans go astray, ashamed by petty things and striving after inconsequential objects. The Cynic is no nihilist. “When someone declared that life is an evil, he corrected him: ‘Not life itself, but living ill.’”52 These multiple moments point to the positive content of Cynic philosophy and lead to the conclusion that reason has a profound function in the Cynic conception of living well, that is, in ethics. What distinguishes Cynic ethics from other ancient positions is the operative rigor which their path to virtue requires.

III.

The Cynic Shortcut

In his discussion of Zeno Diogenes Laertius summarizes the fundamental aspects of Stoic doctrine. The activities of the Stoic sage are not neglected and among them we find that the sage “will also play the Cynic, Cynicism being a shortcut to virtue, as Apollodorus calls it in his Ethics.”53 This description of 50 51 52 53

Diogenes Laertius 6.65. I have changed Hicks’ translation in several places. Diogenes Laertius 6.43. Diogenes Laertius 6.55. Diogenes Laertius 7.122. For a discussion of Apollodorus and the reception of Cynicism as a

362

Julie Piering

Cynic activity as a ‘shortcut to virtue’ is a late characterization of Cynicism and juxtaposes the Cynic way with the longer path, the path of study, one might travel. It is interesting that it surfaces in the context of the Stoic sage, given that the Stoic path to virtue would require detours into logic, metaphysics, and epistemology, regions the Cynic road never crosses. Two paths to virtue appear in the pseudepigraphical tradition as well.54 Letter 30, from Diogenes to his father Hicesias, tells of Antisthenes’ physical demonstration of the two ways to reach virtue.55 According to the letter home, Diogenes goes to listen to Socrates’ companion who was lecturing about happiness (eudaimonia). “Now he happened to be lecturing at the time about the two roads that lead to it. He said that they are two and not many : the one a short cut, and the other the long way.”56 The following day Diogenes urges Antisthenes to say more on this topic, and Antisthenes leads them to the acropolis to point out two roads to reach the top. One is long and easy, the other steep and difficult. After being the only student to choose the steep road, Antisthenes gives Diogenes his first double tribo¯n, staff, and the other Cynic accessories.57 This graphic representation of the Cynic shortcut demonstrates the fundamental point about Cynic practice: though the Cynic path is harder than slow, meticulous study, it arrives at virtue first. The toil and hardiness of the Cynic life is opposed to the moderated asceticism and demand for textual study of the journey to virtue found in such schools as the Stoics.

54

55 56 57

shortcut to virtue in the second century BCE, see Goulet-Caze´ 1993: especially 22 – 28. Her first and lengthy footnote (note 22) is especially helpful. Though they purport to represent correspondences between Cynics such as Antisthenes, Diogenes, and Crates, the Cynic letters are composed centuries after the first Cynics had lived and died. In the introduction to The Cynic Epistles, their relevance is discussed. “The value of these letters lies in the fact that they are Cynic writings which provide evidence of Cynicism at the time when it was reawakening” (Epistles, p. 2). Malherbe’s choice of the term ‘reawakening’ is a good one. Cynicism appeared first in Greece in the fourth and third century BCE and then reappeared in the Roman era from the first century of this era until late antiquity. For some ideas on the two phases of Cynicism, see Branham, B. / Goulet-Caze´ 1996: 5 – 6. The Cynic epistles are likewise important for an understanding of the Cynic in the first centuries of this era. Epictetus, for example, clearly relies on the pseudepigraphical letters of Diogenes in his formulation of the Cynic vocation. See for example 3.22 of his Discourses. The letters are clearly not written by Diogenes as first evidenced in Boissonade’s study from 1818 (Boissonade 1818). Moreover, the letters are not all written by the same author. See Epistles, p. 131. Since virtue is necessary and sufficient for happiness, the shortcut to happiness is necessarily the shortcut to virtue. Of course, it is farfetched that on Diogenes’ second day with Antisthenes he should prove himself worthy by scrambling up to the top of the acropolis. It is even sillier that Antisthenes would have at his disposal all the trappings of a Cynic to drape over Diogenes upon his ‘graduation.’

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

IV.

363

Conclusion

The Cynics take the ethical foundation of Socrates and bring to it an emphasis on aske¯sis. The practices that allow Socrates to care for himself and others become more intensely realized in Cynic exercises. To borrow from Billerbeck’s list, the core concepts of ancient Cynicism and therefore Cynic ethics are: “training (aske¯sis), self-sufficiency (autarkeia), frugality, the positive evaluation of effort and labor (ponos), and the disdain for pleasure.”58 These Cynic mainstays have one aim that goes by two names: virtue and happiness. If Cynicism is so compelling an ethical theory, what, then, is the relation between these philosophers of antiquity and their contemporary namesakes? Cynicism was and is a term of degradation.59 However, the Greek and Roman Cynics are remarkably different from the modern cynic. By looking at what makes a Cynic a Cynic, perhaps the gulf between Cynicism and cynicism will be made clear. In contemporary discourse cynicism is much maligned. It has come to mean “A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”60 Small ‘c’ cynicism is synonymous with cold and callous opportunism, and has none of the joy or humor of its ancient cousin. Perhaps the fundamental distinction between the Cynic and the cynic is found in laughter. The Cynic laughs and brings others to laughter. The laughter of the Cynic is neither frivolity, which is opposed to true seriousness and truth, nor is it derision, which is scornful and mocking. The laughter of the Cynic is the adversary of dogmatism, static conceptions of virtue, and hierarchy, but it is not contemptuous of human beings, contrary to Dudley’s assertion. Mikhail Bakhtin, in discussing Rabelais, provides insight into exactly this kind of laughter : Laughter has a deep philosophical meaning, it is one of the essential forms of the truth concerning the world as a whole, concerning history and man; it is a peculiar point of view relative to the world; the world is seen anew, no less (and perhaps more) profoundly than when seen from the serious standpoint. Therefore, laughter is just as admissible in great literature, posing universal problems, as seriousness. Certain essential aspects of the world are accessible only to laughter.61

58 Billerbeck distinguishes between the prevalence of these themes in the chreiai and pseudeoigraphical tradition as opposed to the more idealized emphasis on the ‘divine’ Cynic that appears in Julian and Epictetus, among others. See “The Ideal Cynic” in Branham, B. / Goulet-Caze´ 1996: 205 – 221, and for the quote above, 209. 59 Though it is not incontrovertible that the appellation began as an insult, as Diogenes Laertius asserts, it surely was used as one. 60 Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan, Act 3 (1893). 61 Bakhtin 1984: 66. Throughout this text, Bakhtin distinguishes true seriousness, which is “aware of being a part of an uncompleted whole” (Bakhtin 1984: 122) as for example in

364

Julie Piering

Bakhtin’s comments about the importance of laughter in literature are transferable to philosophy. Aspects of thought that are closed off by the false seriousness of official truth are disclosed through laughter. The Cynic strategy of laughter that releases thought often employs the exhibition of the body. The exhibitionism that is the hallmark of Cynic virtue leaves us with as many questions as answers. But, perhaps this is the point. Just as Plato’s early dialogues end in aporia, the Cynics open up examination rather than closing it down. The emphasis on examination that Socrates inaugurates becomes improvisational: it is acted out in the streets of Athens where common notions of goodness, courage, piety, pride, virtue, and so on are questioned. The questions have more teeth than they did under their Socratic instantiation, but that is part of the Cynic bite. Among the various practices the Cynics exercise, parrhe¯sia is especially ethical and intersubjective. Clearly it is communicative, but communication is not always ethical. With parrhe¯sia the Cynic provides an example of the implementation of aske¯sis in such a way that it bolsters the agency of the person who is practicing it. As such, the Cynic relation to society can only be that, a relation. In a community bereft of corrupted conventions and vice the role of the Cynic becomes superfluous. Finally, the open-ended nature of Cynic formulations has a pedagogical significance. The Socratic method premises the concern for others on the ability to bring others to care for themselves. The Cynic is, in this regard, no different. In the end, then, laughter is one part of the Cynic example and the Cynic lesson. By exposing the humor of conventions, the Cynics teach virtue. It is, admittedly, a hard lesson. Unlike contemporary cynics, the Cynic philosophers set an ethical standard via their lives, establishing a model which is meant to be extreme. As a regulative ideal the Cynic lays bare the surest path for achieving virtue and happiness, that is, for living the best kind of life. “[Diogenes] used to say that he followed the example of the trainers of choruses; for they too set the note a little high, to ensure that the rest should hit the right note.”62

Shakespearean or ancient Greek tragedy, from false seriousness, which is “petrified” (Bakhtin 1984: 73) and claims to be the sole arbiter of the true and the good. 62 Diogenes Laertius 6.35.

Cynic Ethics: Lives Worth Examining

365

References Algra, K. / Barnes, J. / Mansfeld, J. / Schofield, M.( eds.) 1999. The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, Cambridge. Bakhtin, M. 1984. Rabelais and His World. Trans. He´le`ne Iswolsky. Bloomington, Indiana. Billerbeck, M. 1991. Die Kyniker in der modernen Forschung, Amsterdam. Boissonade, Fr. 1818. “Notices des letters ine´dits de Dioge`ne le Cynique”, in: Notes et extraits des MSS. de la Bibliothe`que Nationale X, Paris, 1818). Branham, B. / Goulet-Caze´, M.-O. (eds.) 1996. The Cynics: The Cynic Movement in Antiquity and Its Legacy, Berkeley. Diogenes Laertius. Lives of Eminent Philosophers Vol. I – II. Tr. R. D. Hicks. Cambridge, Mass. 1979. Dudley, D. R. 1937. A History of Cynicism from Diogenes to the 6th Century A.D, Cambridge. Epictetus 1928. The Discourses as Reported by Arrian. Trans. W. A. Oldfather, Cambridge. Gerson, L. / Inwood, B. (eds.) 1998. Hellenistic Philosophy : Introductory Readings, Indianapolis. Goulet-Caze´, M.-O. 2001. L’Asce`se cynique: Un commentaire de Dioge`ne Lae¨rce VI 70 – 71, Deuxie`me edition, Paris. Goulet-Caze´, M.-O. / Goulet, R. (eds.) 1993. Le Cynisme ancien et ses prolongements, Paris. Hadot, P. 1995. Qu’est-ce que la philosophie antique?, Paris. Hitchens, Ch. 1993. For the Sake of Argument: Essays and Minority Reports. London 1993. Hume, D. 1998. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Second Edition. Richard Popkin (ed.), Indianapolis. Hicks, R. D. (trans.) 1979. Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers Vol. I – II, Cambridge. Long, A. A. / Sedley, D. N.( eds.) 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Volume 1and Volume 2, Cambridge. Malherbe, A. J. (ed.) (trans.) 1977. The Cynic Epistles, Missoula, Montana. Navia, L. E. 1990. Diogenes of Sinope: The Man in the Tub, Westport, Connecticut. Navia, L. E. 1996. Classical Cynicism: A Critical Study, Westport, Connecticut. Paquet, L. (ed.) 1988. Les Cyniques grecs: fragments et te´moignages, Ottawa. Plato. Apology. Trans. Harold North Fowler, Cambridge, Mass. 1914. Plato. Gorgias. Trans. W. R. M. Lamb, Cambridge, Mass. 1925. Xenophon. Symposium. Trans. O. J. Todd. Cambridge, Mass. 2013.

Plotinus

Lloyd P. Gerson

Being as Goodness

There are two complaints commonly made against Plotinus and Neoplatonism generally. The first is that they have little concern for ethical matters; the second is that such concern as they do have is focused on the intellectually elite. It is undoubtedly true that there is a dearth of casuistry in the works of the Neoplatonists. It is, however, question begging to identify ethics with casuistry. Indeed, I shall argue that the central theme of Plotinus’ Enneads is ethical, though not casuistical. In order to see this, we shall have to try to understand something that is increasingly remote from contemporary approaches to ethics, namely, the Platonic view of the inseparability of ethics from metaphysics.1 This remoteness is evident in the puzzling fact that most discussions of Plato’s ethics take little or no notice of the fact that Plato calls the first principle of his metaphysical system “the Idea of the Good.”2 Aristotle was perhaps the first critic of Plato to complain that if there were such an Idea, it would be practically useless.3 That is, acquiring knowledge of such an Idea would be useless as a guide to doing or being good. Aristotle evidently supposes that the uselessness of such putative knowledge is obvious. Perhaps his argument is found in a related objection, namely, that goodness in one particular area is different from goodness in another ; hence, a superordinate Idea of the Good could not contain the specific content of any area of goodness. So, we should not suppose that knowing this Idea will give us any direction how, say, to do good things or how to achieve the human good. The substance of the present paper is Plotinus’ Platonizing response to this objection.

1 See Kristeller 1929 for an influential and extensive argument for the Platonic metaphysical basis of Plotinus’ ethics. 2 See Republic 508d10 ff. That the Idea of the Good is a metaphysical principle is clear from 509b5 – 8 where it is said to provide eWmai and oqs¸a to the Forms, being itself 1p´jeima t/r oqs¸ar. 3 See Nicomachean Ethics 1. 6. 1096a11 – 1097a14 for the panoply of Aristotelian criticisms of the Idea of the Good.

370

Lloyd P. Gerson

1. The first step in Plotinus’ response is a proof aiming to show that there is an absolutely simple first principle of all. This will be followed by a proof that this first principle is aptly called “the Good.” The metaphysical primacy of the Good will enable Plotinus to show how this principle is and is not relevant to ethical questions. The clearest version of the existence proof is found in Ennead 5.4.1 where Plotinus argues for two conclusions: (1) every composite must be accounted for by that which is incomposite or absolutely simple and (2) there can be only one absolutely simple thing. We can better understand the reasoning for (1) if we concentrate first on the reasoning for (2). Assume that there is more than one absolutely simple thing. Then, there would have to be something that each one had that made it at least numerically different from the other, say, for example, a unique position. But that which made it different would have to be really (not merely conceptually) distinct from that which made it to be the one thing it is.4 That which had the position would be really distinct from the position itself. But then something which had a position and so was distinct from it would not be absolutely simple. So, that which is absolutely simple must be absolutely unique. Only the first principle of all is unqualifiedly self-identical; the self-identity had by anything else is necessarily qualified. This argument suggests the meaning of “composite” that Plotinus has in mind when he argues for (1). A composite is anything that is distinct from any property it has. What we might call a “minimally composite individual” is one with one and only one property from which it is itself distinct.5 Compositeness then entails and is entailed by qualified selfidentity. It is owing to the compositeness of everything other than the first principle of all or “the One” that potency is introduced into the intelligible world.6 To be Intellect is then to be in potency, a potency that Intellect’s cause, the One, does not possess. The One is not just the cause of the oqs¸a in which Intellect partakes, but the cause of Intellect’s being itself. Intellect is limited by the oqs¸a in which it partakes, even though it partakes of all possible oqs¸a. The absence of limititation in the One is indicated by the fact that it is “beyond oqs¸a.” 4 The possibility of real distinctiveness within one thing follows from a denial of nominalism, which is the view that all self-identity is unqualified self-identity. To claim, for example, that x is f, is for Platonists to acknowledge that f somehow identifies that which is nevertheless distinct from the identifying property. 5 Plotinus’ argument seems to be inspired by Plato’s Parmenides 142B5-C2 where it is argued that that which is one must partake in the ousia of oneness and hence be distinct from that. 6 See Enneads 5.9.6.9 – 10 where Intellect is said to be like a genus in relation to particular intellects or like a whole to parts.

Being as Goodness

371

So, now the question is: why should any composite need the unique, absolutely first principle of all to account for it? Plotinus’ concise answer is: “All beings (emta) are beings by the One (i. e., the first principle of all).”7 Here, the word “being” refers to that which partakes in whatever property it has. Why is it that the One explains this? Plotinus answers that if anything is deprived of the “oneness” that is said of it, then it is not that “one.”8 Here, “one” or “oneness” refers to a second-order property of whatever property that the being has.9 Thus, a being is one being having whatever properties it has owing to the first principle of all. The “oneness” belongs not to the oqs¸a alone nor to the being that has it, but to the composite. The oqs¸a alone is neither one nor many ; the being that has the oqs¸a is not one by itself since it is unqualified in any way. The composite being is (qualifiedly) one owing to its cause, the absolutely simple first principle of all. The One is needed to explain any composite being because no composite being is self-explicable. The One explains as an efficient cause of the being of any composite whatsoever.10 Composites are necessarily what we may call “heteroexplicable.” Heteroexplicability follows from the fact that the oqs¸a in which something partakes could not uniquely constitute the being’s identity. If it could, then that being would be unqualifiedly identical with its oqs¸a, a possibility which has already been excluded by the argument for the uniqueness of that which is absolutely self-identical. Something gets to be what it is by partaking in some oqs¸a, which means, minimally, that the oqs¸a is what that thing is. The One is, however, as Plato said, “beyond oqs¸a.” It cannot be the oqs¸a that explains the being of anything with oqs¸a. Instead, the One is “virtually all things” (d¼malir t_m pamt_m),11 roughly in the way that “white” light is virtually all the colors of the spectrum or in the way that a function is virtually its domain and range. As such, it is absolutely self-explicable or “self-caused.”12 The identification of the first principle of all with the Idea of the Good of course has its provenance in Plato’s discussion in Book 6 of his Republic. Plato characterizes the Idea of the Good as that which is the cause of the being and essence of the Forms and also as that which is the cause of their knowability.13 7 See 6.9.1.1. The dative t\/ 1m¸ is instrumental. Cf. Plato Phaedo 100d7: “all beautiful things are beautiful by the beautiful (t\/ jak\/).” 8 6.9.1.4. 9 6.9.1.27. 10 See 5.3.15.12 – 13; 5.3.15.28; 5.3.17.10 – 14; 6.4.10; 6.7.23.22 – 4. 11 See 5.4.1.23 – 6; cf. 5.4.2.38, 6.7.32.31, 6.9.5.36, etc. 12 6.8.14.41. Cf. 6.8.20.9 ff where the One is also said to be “activity” (1m´qceia), but activity “without oqs¸a.” 13 See Republic 509b6 – 10. Cf. (1) 505a3: …the thing by which just things and the others become useful and beneficial; (2) 508e1 – 4: “So, the provider of truth to the things known and the giver of power to know to one who knows is the Idea of the Good. And though it is the

372

Lloyd P. Gerson

This Idea itself is “beyond essence.”14 We need to ask, however, for the justification for this identification. Plato could have, for example, made the Good just another Form on an equal footing with the Form of Justice or the Form of Triangularity. Why did he clearly want to insist that the Idea of the Good is “beyond oqs¸a?” It is not too difficult to imagine what the Platonic answer to this question would be, but we shall have to wait until Plotinus for an explicit expression of it. Let us begin by distinguishing first-order properties like just or courageous from second-order properties like good. If goodness belongs to the Form in which something partakes, then when it partakes in that Form, it will be good, too. If Justice is good, then a just deed will be good. Assuming that something just is good, being good or a good is a second-order property of just things exactly in the way that Symposium explains that being beautiful is a second-order property of some bodies, souls, institutions, laws, etc.. To state this point in a slightly different manner, the kºcor of Beauty is unique, but the kºcoi of the beauty of bodies or souls are multiple and distinct and must include features belonging solely to bodies or souls. If goodness were an oqs¸a, it would be a limited nature or essence. This would not preclude something from having that oqs¸a in virtue of having another oqs¸a, for example, in the way that something is odd because it is three. But just as being three entails not being even, so one might suppose that something might not be good because of the oqs¸a it has. Yet Plato makes the superordinate Idea of the Good that which provides being and knowability to all the oqs¸ai that the Forms are or have. The provider of being and essence cannot also belong among the beings that partake of essence, because a principle must stand outside that of which it is a principle. That is, the explanans must be other than the explananda. There is no doubt that the Idea of the Good is or has being in some sense; it does not, however, have oqs¸a. The source or cause of being and essence is also the source or cause of goodness because goodness is a property of any being that has oqs¸a. The goodness of a being is the achievement or fulfillment of being in the light of that being’s original endowment. Since Forms are eternal, they eternally achieve the essence they have; there is a coincidence between endowment and achievement in them. But that which is not eternal comes to be with a “gap” between its endowment and achievement as a function of that endowment. Goodness is cause of knowledge and truth, it is also an object of knowledge.” (3) 533c8-d1: the Idea of the Good is the first principle (!qw¶) of all. 14 I do not take Republic 534b8 to contradict 509b8. The first passage says that dialectic aims to give a kºcor of the oqs¸a of each thing; the second, that one aims to do as much for the Good. But giving a kºcor of the Good does not, I would argue, entail that it has an oqs¸a distinct from the oqs¸ai of which it is the cause. Contra this interpretation see Baltes 1997: ch. 8. And for a rebuttal of Baltes, see Ferber 2003.

Being as Goodness

373

just that achievement from the perspective of the endowment. So, whatever Plato’s implicit reasoning for holding that there must be an absolutely first principle of being and essence applies to his claim that this principle is also a principle of goodness. As we have already seen, Plotinus makes explicit a proof for the existence of an absolutely simple first principle of all. Given Plotinus’ fidelity to his master, it would have been astonishing if he had denied an identification of this principle with the source of all goodness. In fact, Plotinus makes explicit a number of points implicit in the Platonic identification. Things share in goodness to the extent that they share in form or in unity (1.7.2.2 – 3). A Platonic Form is a “one” in relation to its many instances. To share in a Form is to share in its particular kind of oneness. The “one” that a Form is is a property of the being that it receives from the Good. So, unity or form are marks of a thing’s goodness. They are also marks of a thing’s beauty. Any Form reveals the Good as attractive; therefore, beauty is extensionally equivalent with all the Forms (1.6.9.35 – 6; 5.8.9.40 – 2). Proximity to the first principle of all is gradable, so that things are more or less good or one or beautiful the closer or farther they are from the One. The basic gradation is downward from Intellect to Soul to lifeless things to matter (1.7.2.1 ff). So, things that have intellects as well as life are better than things that only have soul (i. e., are alive) which are in turn better than lifeless things. At the bottom of the hierarchy is matter which, bereft entirely of form, is evil (1.8.1.17 – 19; 1.8.8.10 – 11; 1.8.10.1 – 5; 1.8.11.1 – 6; 6.7.28.12).

2. Within the above metaphysical framework, the Idea of the Good and matter or evil can be viewed as termini on a single line. Things are arrayed hierarchically along this line. Generally, a thing’s good is in the achievement of its nature, the nature with which it was endowed. But moral judgments pertain only to human beings or moral agents. If a non-human living thing fails to achieve its nature, no moral opprobrium attaches to this fact. If a non-human living being achieves its nature, it has not thereby done something morally good. How, then, does moral good differ from good simpliciter? Plotinus’ answer to this question is found explicitly in his treatise 6.8 “On Free Will and the Will of the One.” There he asks, “How could something borne towards the Good be under compulsion since its desire for the Good will be voluntary if it knows that it is good and goes to it as good (4.12 – 15).” Everything seeks its own good, but only human beings do so conscious of the fact that they are seeking that which is good. The morally good is any good consciously

374

Lloyd P. Gerson

sought as good. Plotinus’ theory of morality is thus in a way “adverbial.” But the only thing unqualifiedly good is the Good itself. The good that belongs to Forms as a first order property and to things that partake of Forms as a second order property is only, Plotinus says, “good in form” (!cahoeid´r, 6.2.17.28; 6.7.15.9, 23; 6.7.16.5; 6.7.18.14, 25; 6.7.22.33). The “good in form” is in contrast to the Good itself which is without form (6.7.17.36). Thus, there is a kind or type of goodness that belongs to the virtues or life or intellect as such. Formal goodness belongs to these as a first order property. It belongs to them because the cause of their being is the Good itself (6.7.18.41 – 3). The patent circularity of the line of reasoning in the last sentence is recognized by Plotinus. His response is to argue that what one desires when one desires to be virtuous or to live or to acquire knowledge is the goodness in each of these (6.7.20). Why, though, should we not insist with Aristotle that the goodness of, say, virtue is not identical with the goodness of, say, life and that therefore to desire the goodness of each is just to desire that, not some “good” over and above it. What is the content of “the goodness of virtue” as opposed to the content of “the goodness of life” apart from the differences between virtue and life themselves? Plotinus’ answer to this question is in my view at the very foundation of what he takes Platonism to be. The first principle of all, in endowing the intelligible world with existence and being and knowability, is eternally engaged in activity (1m´qceia) (6.7.17.10; 6.6.16.16; 6.8.20.15). This employment of an Aristotelian term in the exposition of the Platonic position is no accident. Most important, though, is the fact that the intelligible world itself is the One’s activity “externalized,” that is, the One’s activity as this is found in that which is not perfectly simple. So, we can say both that life, thought, or virtue are sought because of the goodness that they possess “intrinsically” and that that goodness comes to them from outside of them. In desiring virtue as good, one is desiring the externalized activity of the Good. However we conceive of the possession of virtue when we achieve our desire for it, that possession is the possession of the Good, as externalized. Since the goodness of virtue is a property of it, to desire the goodness of virtue is to desire something other than virtue as such, even though goodness, as a property, necessarily belongs to virtue (6.7.22.5 – 7). Desiring virtue as good is neither desiring virtue “for its own sake,” whatever that might mean, nor desiring virtue as instrumental to goodness, but rather desiring the goodness that belongs to virtue as such (cf. 5.5.12.8 – 9). The Good is desired because it is good, it is not good because it is desired (6.7.25.16 – 18; cf. 6.7.27.26 – 7).

Being as Goodness

375

3. Everything is good insofar as it participates in the first principle of all, via the Forms in which it directly partakes. Human beings alone can also direct their activities towards the Good (1.7.1.11 – 13). This self-direction Plotinus identifies with “assimilation to the divine” (blo¸ysir he\/, 1.2.1), the prescription found in Plato’s Theaetetus (176 A-B) that Platonists generally took to express the fundamental moral imperative. Assimilation to the divine is the goal; its opposite is separation from the divine. These termini can be expressed in the language of unification versus dispersal or fulfillment versus being impoverishment or dissolution. Whatever the metaphors employed, the questions that animate most ethical discourse and that Neoplatonists generally are accused of failing to ask are what sort of actions or activities promote or fail to promote the achievement of the goal. “Doing good and avoiding evil” may be a fundamental axiom of an ethical system, but it hardly speaks to the practical concerns of ethical life. Is the injunction to “assimilate oneself to the divine” a moral theory or an empty and arcane slogan substituting for a moral theory? Plotinus’ implicit answer to this question begins by assuming that because the ethical in inseparable from the metaphysical, the gradations of a Platonic world can be mapped onto the moral universe. That is, just as the sensible world is an image of the intelligible world, so embodied life is an image of the ideal disembodied life. Only moral agents are capable of the awareness of their own embodiment and the possibility or even desirability of detachment from the bodily. This detachment is also characterized as “practice for dying” mentioned in the Phaedo.15 It is a kind of purification (jah²qsir).16 Socrates makes a specific identification of purification and the practical in at least one respect when he says that, “in fact, temperance and justice and courage are a sort of purification of these things [i.e., of worldly considerations] and wisdom (vqºmgsir) itself a kind of purifying ritual (jahaqlºr).”17 This process of purification is interpreted by Plotinus as a sort of self-transformation, not simply or primarily a reform of behavior. More particularly, in the light of the injunction to “assimilate oneself to the divine,” the purification is a transformation of psychological agency.18 Whereas most people, including those prior to their putting on the mantle of philosopher, are moved by their particular and idiosyncratic embodied desires, 15 Phaedo 64a5 – 6. Cf. 67d7 – 10. 16 Phaedo 67c5. 17 Ibid. 69b8-c3. See Greek Commentaries on Plato’s “Phaedo” volume 2: Damascius, sections 147 – 149, and 164 on the distinction between purifying and civic virtues in this passage. 18 Cf. 2.3.9.30 – 1; 1.4.4.12 – 15 where Plotinus distinguishes between the two senses of “human being,” the endowed composite and the separated intellectual soul. Only the successful philosopher recognizes his identification with the latter.

376

Lloyd P. Gerson

the one who has been purified can identify himself with a “God’s eye view” of the world. Just as God, the locus of perfect justice, does not accord a privileged status to one’s bodily appetites in judging what is best, so the one who lives the best life possible for a human being is one who is oriented away from his own appetites and towards the transcendent, impersonal, and intelligible. A human being acquires immortality “as far as possible” by identifying with the immortal or rational part of his soul – “as far as possible.”19 And this means identifying with the part in him that is oriented towards the objective rather than the subjective. It means wanting only what reason dictates. If one only wanted this, one’s own appetites would never be the principle or !qw¶ of his action. But this identification is never complete so long as one is embodied. And this is to say that appetites are never extirpated, only subordinated. Reason in fact frequently dictates that appetites be satisfied. But their satisfaction is determined objectively just as one would ideally strive to satisfy or refuse to satisfy the appetites of a child in one’s care. So, following Plato, Plotinus connects “assimilation to the divine” with virtue or moral practice via the notion of purification. Again following Plato, Plotinus distinguishes between virtues that are purificatory and those that are not. Plato himself contrasts these virtues with what he calls “popular or political virtue” (tµm dglotijµm ja· pokitijµm !qet¶m), “temperance” and “justice” so called, developed from custom and practice without philosophy and intellect.20 The difference between these popular or political virtues and the virtues that purify is that the former do not result in self-transformation. They are entirely behavior oriented. One who practices these virtues may perform actions for all sorts of motives including those that are not ignoble, but these actions are not done as one who is purified would do them.21 In Republic, Plato seems to identify this “popular or political virtue” with the virtue defined at the end of book four.22 This is, by implication, contrasted with the virtue of the aristocratic man (i. e., the philosopher) in books seven and eight. His “divine virtue of intellect”23 is precisely what justifies his rule in the 19 See Timaeus 90b1-d7. 20 Phaedo 82a10-b3. Cf. 69b6 – 7, where this sort of virtue is called an “illusory fac¸ade” (sjiacqav¸a), fit for slaves. 21 The contrast is most vivid at 3.1.10.10 – 15 where the practice of virtue imposes no constraint only on those who have identified with their intellectual souls. 22 Cf. Republic 365c3 – 4 and especially 500d8 with 518d3 – 519a6 where the ‘popular’ virtues are identified as the “so-called virtues of the soul” and especially 619c7-d1 for participation in virtue by “custom” (e[qei) “without philosophy.” At 430c3, courage is characterized as “political.” At 443c10-d1, characterizing justice, Plato contrasts “external” (5ny) behavior with “internal” (1mtºr) virtue, which is concerned with what is “truly oneself and one’s own.” Only the philosopher is concerned with what is truly “his own.” 23 Republic 518e2.

Being as Goodness

377

ideal state. Of course, this virtue consists in more than intellectual achievement, as impressive as this might be after 50 years of education. It consists in transformation into one who has completely identified himself as a subject of thought. So identifying himself, he desires only what reason dictates; he desires his own good and the good of everyone else by desiring the Good. Plotinus in his treatise On Virtues expresses what became the basis for the standard Neoplatonic interpretation of the virtues.24 The treatise begins with a reflection on the Theaetetus passage. Plotinus asks how the practice of virtue can make us like the divine and intelligible reality since there is no virtue there. The divine has no need of virtue because it is perfect.25 In particular, it has no need of the popular or political virtues, which Plotinus identifies as achievements of an embodied tripartite soul.26 Among the Forms, a Form of Virtue is present, but as the paradigm of virtue it is not virtuous.27 Likeness to God consists in becoming like eternal intellect, absorbed in the contemplation of eternal reality. All true virtues are understood as advancements towards identification of the person with the activity of a disembodied intellect.28 Plotinus asks if the popular or political virtues are real virtues. And his answer is an insistence that whatever serves to make us godlike is a virtue.29 These virtues do truly organize our lives and make us better by giving limit to and giving measure (letqoOsai) to our appetites and in general to all our feelings (t± p²hg). And they eliminate false beliefs, by what is generally better and by limiting the unmeasured and unlimited.30

24 For Porphyry’s elaboration of this see Sentences Leading to the Intelligible World (also translated as Auxiliaries to the perception of Intelligible Natures) sentence 32, in: Select Works of Porphyry, tr. by Th. Taylor, Amsterdam 1994). On Plotinus’ account of the grades of virtue see Dillon 1983, especially 93 – 102. Also, see the useful remarks of J. O’Meara 1994. K. Ierodiakonou (1999, especially 149 – 155) traces some of the Peripatetic and Academic background to the general idea of levels or degrees of virtue. However, she identifies imperfect virtue with “natural” virtue, not civic or political virtue. 25 Cf. 1.2. 3. 31. 26 1 2.1; 1.1.10.11 – 13. 27 1.2. 2. 3 – 4. Plotinus understands that self-predication of Forms is based on a confusion. He says that a perceptible house is made in the likeness of the intelligible house, without the intelligible house being like the perceptible one. Cf. I 2. 1, 42 – 5. Thus, the infinite regress argument of Parmenides 132d – 133a does not get off the ground since the Form does not have the property that the Form’s name names in the way that what participates in the Form does. Things that participate in the Form do so as a result of the intelligent activity of the Demiurge who makes the world according to the eternal paradigm. So, when Plotinus says that there is no virtue in the intelligible world, he is inferring the particular conclusion from the general principle. 28 See 1.1.10.11 – 14, where Plotinus distinguishes the virtues that result from “habit” as belonging to the “composite” whereas the intellectual virtues belong to the true person. 29 1.2.1.23 – 6. 30 1.2.2.13 – 18. These virtues are here understood according to a general account of Philebus

378

Lloyd P. Gerson

These virtues, as they are described by Plato in the fourth book of Republic, are aspects of an embodied life under the aegis of reason. The practice of these virtues contributes to our godlikeness because they nudge us towards identification with our rational faculty.31 They do this because acting as reason dictates means at least sometimes acting against our appetites or emotions. Since every person acts on behalf of his own good as he perceives that, continual acting under the aegis of reason and over the blandishments of appetite and emotion contributes to a self-identification with the former. We become habituated to believing that what reason determines is good is our good. This is the principal true belief that virtue substitutes for false beliefs. What, then, of the “higher” virtue that is a “purification?” In contrast to the popular and political virtues which consist essentially in behavior, these virtues constitute a disposition (di²hesir) of the soul. According to this disposition, the soul “thinks and is in this way free of affections” (!pah¶r).32 It is not entirely mistaken to see in the latter claim a Stoic element. Yet the goal of Neoplatonic ethics, unlike Stoic ethics, is unmistakably otherworldly and this difference I think inevitably affects one’s orientation to embodied life.33 Plotinus, no more than Plato, is endorsing or even contemplating the extirpation of anything that is natural to the embodied state. It is a confusion to see in this a recommendation of a kind of mortifying asceticism. It is something else. Plotinus goes on to argue that the person purified by virtue will have transcended incontinence or weakness of the will.34 This means that the person has no or few desires that are unchosen (!pqoa¸qetom), meaning not that he never desires food or sleep or sex or other pleasures, but that he never acts on them except under the aegis of reason.35 And that is because, as a virtuous person, he has identified with his rational self and never supposes that his own good is other

31

32 33 34 35

23bff., especially 26b-c, in which the imposition by the Demiurge of form on the sensible world is taken to be the imposition of limit on the unlimited. Plotinus actually says, 1. 2. 3.9 – 10, that Plato denies that the political virtues “produce likeness.” Plotinus may be making a distinction between “being made like” (bloioOshai) and “the process of becoming like” (blo¸ysir). If this is so, he is perhaps distinguishing between virtuous behavior which is a kind of likeness of the Form of Virtue and the life of the divine and the self-transformation that occurs with a genuine conversion to a philosophical life. 1.2. 3.19 – 20. See Thiel 1999. 1.2. 5.17 – 21. Cf. Phaedo 64d3 – 6. As others have noted, Plotinus’ asceticism is not equivalent to that of the Stoics. The distinction here between desires that are “chosen” and those that are not may be compared with the passage in Nicomachean Ethics 7. 6. 1147b23 ff, where Aristotle distinguishes between “necessary” pleasures (those concerned with food, sex, and other bodily desires) from those that are “chosen for themselves” (t± aRqet± jah( art±;, that is, victory, honor, wealth, etc.) The truly virtuous man, according to Plotinus, will not choose the latter and will not give in to the former against the deliverances of reason.

Being as Goodness

379

than a rational one. We should notice here in particular how Plotinus uses incontinence to make the conceptual distinction between the two types of virtue. The popular and political virtues in Republic are developed on the basis of a theoretical argument explaining how incontinence is possible. The incontinent person, like the pathetic Leontius, has an appetite he knows is bad but cannot control. A continent person is one who has the bad appetite, but can control it. Someone practicing continence would be practicing the “lower” virtues. But the truly virtuous person has been purified of bad desires. He does not have them in the first place. Or at least ideally so. Plotinus seems to recognize degrees of purification and an ideal purified state which is, nevertheless, not unqualifiedly ideal since it is still embodied.36 The distinction between the two types of virtue parallels exactly the distinction between the virtuous person envisioned at the end of book four of Republic and the philosopher or “aristocratic human being” envisioned at the end of book nine. The Neoplatonists recognized that the virtues described in book four are capable of being present in a man, as Plato later says, “without participating in philosophy.”37 In the case of every virtue of the purified person, there is an activity “in the direction” of intellect.38 The person in each case affirms his identity with reason much as someone might be said to identify with a cause or the fate of another. Such a person is profoundly different, for example, from the wise person as described in book four.39 The latter’s wisdom consists entirely in knowing what is “beneficial” (toO sulv´qomtor) for each part of the soul and for the whole soul together. This prudential wisdom is available to one who knows that he ought to obey the dictates of the philosopher even though he himself has no philosophy in him.40 It is only he who pursues philosophy “in a sound manner” (rci_r) who is destined for happiness.41 In the last chapter of the treatise, Plotinus asks two questions: (1) do the virtues entail each other and (2) do the higher and lower virtues entail each 36 1.2. 4.1 – 7. One might argue that in Republic 4, Plato holds that the presence of ethical virtue rules out continence, not just incontinence. But this is not I believe so clear. If the appetitive part of the soul (t¹ 1pihulgtijºm) does its job and obeys the rational part of the soul (t¹ kocistijºm), this does not necessarily mean that there are present no appetites whose satisfaction (like that of Leontius) would constitute a vicious act. It just means that they are not “strong” enough to prevail. I am inclined to believe that if we take seriously the distinction between popular or political virtue on the one hand and the true virtue of the philosopher on the other, we shall be obliged to recognize that only the latter transcends continence. That is, only the latter is authentically virtuous. 37 See Republic 619c6-d1. 38 Enneads I 2. 6, 23 – 7. 39 See Republic 442c5 – 8. 40 See Republic 445c10-d1 where the philosopher is described as a lover of truth and where, by implication, his wisdom consists in attaining that truth. 41 See Republic 619d8-e1.

380

Lloyd P. Gerson

other? The answer to the first question is that since in the intelligible world all the Forms are mutually implicatory or virtually identical, so here below possession of one virtue entails possession of all. More convincingly, Plotinus argues that since there is a single process of purification, when that process is completed, all the virtues are present, that is, all the “natural” virtues are purified and so completed.42 This is the “principal part of the life of the serious human being” (b spouda?or).43 The answer to the second question would seem to be equally straightforward, but though the person in possession of the higher virtues is said to have the lower “in potency,” it is not so clear that he will practice these in the way that the one in possession only of these practices them.44 Plotinus is here worried about how one who has been purified of attachments to embodied life can be said to possess the virtues which consist in giving “limit and measure” to desires. He seems to think that practicing the lower virtues implies an “impure” attachment to embodied life, in other words, a political life. But when he [the one who is purified] attains to higher principles and different measures, he will act according to these. For example, he will not locate self-control in that measure [i.e., of the lower virtues], but completely separating himself as much as possible, he will completely not live the life of the good human being as political virtues conceives of it (!nio?), but leaving this behind, he will choose another life, the life of the gods. For assimilation is in the direction of these, not in the direction of good men. The latter type of assimilation is a case of making one image like another, both of which are derived from another. Assimilation to the other [the life of the gods] is in the direction of the paradigm.45

As many scholars have pointed out, this claim implies neither world-renouncing asceticism nor Nietzschean transcendence of value any more than Socrates’ claim that philosophy is preparation for dying is an endorsement of suicide.46 There is nothing inconsistent in choosing not to live a political life and yet practicing political virtue insofar as this is required. That is the key. Practicing this virtue as required is opposed to fetishizing it.47 As Plotinus elsewhere says,

42 1.2.7.8 – 10. 43 See 1.4.16, where Plotinus compares b spouda?or with the ideal of political life, b 1pie¸jgr % mhqypor. See Schniewind 2003: esp. chs. 3 – 5. 44 1.2.7.10 – 12. Cf. 1.3.6.17 ff where he suggests that the lower and higher virtue can grow at the same time. 45 1.2.7. 21 – 30. 46 See, e. g., Bussanich 1990; Dillon 1996; Smith 1999. Porphyry’s biography of Plotinus gives a vivid and moving picture of the contemplative as he navigates through everyday life. 47 See VI 8. 6, 14 – 18 where Plotinus expresses the core world-renouncing idea. One may compare in this regard the point of Martin Luther’s obviously exaggerated remark: “Christianity has nothing to do with virtue.”

Being as Goodness

381

one does not wish for the drowning of a child in order that one can practice one’s virtue by saving him.

4. Plotinus’ response to Aristotle’s challenge to the ethical relevance of an Idea of the Good is to concede first of all that a desire for the Good and the knowledge that the Good is virtually all intelligible reality is not equivalent to knowing what the good thing to do is in a particular situation. Aristotle seems to agree with this when he says that to be virtuous it is not sufficient to do what the virtuous man does; one must do it in the way that the virtuous man does it. Doing a virtuous deed as the virtuous man does it means doing it because it is good, not because it is pleasurable or expedient (cf. EN 3. 6. 1113a15-b2). The goodness that the deed possesses is exactly the second order property that Plotinus claims it to be. But if there is no Idea of the Good in reality, what are we then to suppose this property to be? Plotinus might ask Aristotle, “what would motivate one to perform an action which had nothing to recommend it other than that it was good?” Aristotle’s vqºmilor or practically wise man is the embodiment of virtue precisely because a “link” is need between the Good and how the Good is to be instantiated here and now. That the vqºmolor is the link implies that there are two relata to be linked, one of which is, for Platonists, the first principle of reality. From Plotinus’ Platonic perspective, Aristotle errs in thinking that the “formality” of the Idea of the Good entails that it is “contentless.” On the contrary, the Good is maximally contentful – virtually. A rich ethical life, far from being made irrelevant by one’s orientation to the Good, is given its only conceivable non question begging justification.

References Baltes, M. 1997: “Is The Idea of the Good in Plato’s Republic Beyond Being”, in: M. Joyal (ed.), Studies in Plato and the Platonic Tradition, Aldershot, Hampshire. Bussanich, J. 1990. “The Invulnerability of Goodness. The Ethical and Psychological Theory of Plotinus”, in: J. J. Cleary / Md. Lanham (eds.), Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium on Ancient Philosophy 6, Md.: 151 – 184. Dillon, J. 1983. “Plotinus, Philo and Origen on the Grades of Virtue”, in: Blume, H.-D. / Mann, F. (eds.), Platonismus und Christentum, Aschendorf: 92 – 105. Dillon, J. 1996. “An Ethic for the Late Antique Sage”, in: L. Gerson (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus, Cambridge: 315 – 335. Ferber, R. 2003. “L’idea del bene e` o non e` transcendente?”, in: Bonazzi (ed.), Platone e la tradizione platonica, Milano: 127 – 149.

382

Lloyd P. Gerson

Ierodiakonou, K. 1999. “Aspasius on Perfect and Imperfect Virtue”, in: A. Alberti and R. Sharples (eds.), Aspasius: The Earliest Extant Commentary on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berlin / New York: 142 – 161. Kristeller, P.-O. 1929. Der Begriff der Seele in der Ethik Plotins, Tu¨bingen. O’Meara, J. 1994. “Political Life and Divinization in Neoplatonic Philosophy”, in: Hermathena 157: 155 – 164. Smith, A. 1999. “The Significance of Practical Ethics for Plotinus”, in: J. J. Cleary (ed.), Traditions of Platonism. Essays in Honour of John Dillon, Brookfield: 227 – 236. Schniewind, A. 2003. L’e´thique du sage chez Plotin. Le paradigme du spoudaios, Paris. Thiel R. 1999. “Stoische Ethik und Neuplatonische Tugendlehre. Zur Verortung der Stoischen Ethik im Neuplatonischen System in Simplikios’ Kommentar zu Epiktets Enchiridion”, in: M. Erler / T. Fuhrer K. / Schlapbach (eds.), Zur Rezeption der hellenistischen Philosophie in der Spa¨tantike, Stuttgart: 93 – 103.

Sylvain Delcomminette

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

1.

Le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

La liberte´ est souvent conside´re´e comme un pre´suppose´ ne´cessaire de toute e´thique. Il n’en a pas toujours e´te´ ainsi: dans l’Antiquite´, le champ de la moralite´ e´tait plutoˆt de´fini par le concept de “ce qui de´pend de nous” (t¹ 1v’ Bl?m). Comme l’a montre´ S. Bobzien,1 ce concept est originellement inde´pendant de celui de liberte´ et le demeure dans la tradition stoı¨cienne; c’est seulement a` partir du moyen platonisme que la question de la liberte´ comme fondement de la moralite´ commence a` se de´velopper. Le point culminant de cette re´flexion est certainement le traite´ de Plotin intitule´ par Porphyre “Sur ce qui est de plein gre´ et sur la volonte´ de l’un” (Peq· toO 2jous¸ou ja· hek¶lator toO 2mºr, Enn. VI 8 [39]2), dans lequel, pour la premie`re fois de manie`re aussi explicite et syste´matique, le concept de “ce qui de´pend de nous” est mis en relation avec celui de liberte´. L’examen de ce traite´ me paraıˆt de`s lors particulie`rement indique´ dans le contexte d’un volume consacre´ aux fondements de l’e´thique ancienne, d’autant plus que son proble`me central est pre´cise´ment un proble`me de fondation. En effet, si le traite´ s’ouvre sur une interrogation “the´ologique”, a` savoir la le´gitimite´ d’appliquer l’expression “ce qui de´pend de nous” aux dieux (1.1 – 8), celle-ci nous concerne directement, car selon Plotin, nous sommes loin d’eˆtre totalement inde´pendants de la vie des dieux, dont au contraire nous de´rivons. S’interroger sur les dieux revient de`s lors a` s’interroger sur le fondement de notre propre existence. Or, si ce fondement n’est pas lui-meˆme libre, comment ce qu’il fonde le serait-il? Notre propre liberte´ est conditionne´e par celle des principes dont nous de´rivons.

1 Bobzien 1998. 2 Le texte de re´fe´rence est celui de Henry / Schwyzer 1983. Toutes les traductions sont personnelles, mais s’inspirent des trois traductions franc¸aises les plus re´centes: Leroux 1990; Lavaud 2007.

384

Sylvain Delcomminette

Mais n’y a-t-il pas un paradoxe, voire une contradiction, a` soutenir que notre liberte´ se fonde dans celle d’un autre eˆtre? Comment un eˆtre qui de´rive d’un autre eˆtre pourrait-il eˆtre libre? Plotin e´nonce lui-meˆme cette objection: De manie`re ge´ne´rale, comment cela serait-il par lui-meˆme (paq’ artoO), ce qui est par un autre (paq’ %kkou) et a son principe dirige´ vers un autre d’ou` il est ne´ tel qu’il est ? Car il vit selon celui-la` et comme il a e´te´ fac¸onne´. (2.21 – 23)

Question radicale, qui pourrait nous inciter a` penser que la liberte´ correspond a` un niveau “originaire” qui ne peut de´river de quoi que ce soit. Plotin va pourtant montrer que la fondation de la liberte´ humaine, d’abord dans la liberte´ de l’intelligence, puis dans l’un ou le bien comme “plus que libre”, loin de repre´senter une menace pour la premie`re, garantit celle-ci et lui donne son sens ve´ritable. En effet, le fondement dont il s’agit ici n’est pas un fondement exte´rieur a` la liberte´, mais comme son centre qui l’anime de l’inte´rieur. De fait, les dieux ne sont pas pour Plotin des entite´s qui nous demeureraient e´trange`res: tout en e´tant radicalement transcendants par rapport a` notre expe´rience commune, ils sont ce qui nous est le plus inte´rieur, ce qu’il y a de plus profond en nous. Comme l’e´crit Jean Trouillard, chez Plotin, le proble`me du transcendant “n’est pas le proble`me de l’autre, mais celui du plus soi que soi”.3 Car notre moi est lui-meˆme e´tage´, et coı¨ncide dans ses parties supe´rieures avec les principes fondateurs de tout le reste. De`s lors, s’interroger sur la liberte´ des dieux, c’est s’interroger sur le cœur meˆme de notre liberte´.4 Or, une telle interrogation va nous permettre de mettre au jour la nature de la liberte´ beaucoup plus efficacement que, par exemple, l’examen de la manie`re dont elle se manifeste dans notre expe´rience quotidienne. En effet, dans cette dernie`re, la liberte´ est toujours meˆle´e a` la non-liberte´, car elle doit composer avec les circonstances, qui lui sont donne´es de l’exte´rieur avant toute initiative de sa part. Au contraire, sur le plan du divin, la liberte´ apparaıˆt a` l’e´tat pur, puisque celui-ci pre´ce`de ontologiquement celui ou` la non-liberte´ fait son apparition. Remonter jusqu’a` ce plan, c’est donc laisser la liberte´ se re´ve´ler telle qu’elle est vraiment, dans toute sa puissance non entrave´e, comme e´tant non seulement inde´pendante de tout le reste, mais encore “avant” tout le reste, ne se fondant sur rien d’autre qu’elle-meˆme. C’est cet e´clairage de´cisif apporte´ par la de´marche plotinienne sur la nature de la liberte´ que je chercherai a` mettre ici en e´vidence, en commenc¸ant par suivre pas a` pas la manie`re dont Plotin remonte jusqu’au bien comme fondement ultime de la liberte´. 3 Trouillard 1955: 114 (souligne´ dans le texte). 4 La situation est diffe´rente dans le ne´oplatonisme tardif, comme l’a re´cemment souligne´ Steel 2008 – ce qui ne signifie pas pour autant, comme le montre tre`s bien Steel, que les conceptions de Proclus sur la liberte´ des dieux n’aient pas elles aussi une pertinence relativement a` l’homme.

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

2.

385

La fondation de la liberte´ de l’aˆme dans la liberte´ de l’intelligence

L’objet annonce´ des premiers chapitres du traite´ (1 – 6) est de nous examiner nous-meˆmes pour voir ce que signifie l’expression “quelque chose de´pend de nous” et quelle est la notion (5mmoia) qui lui correspond, afin de de´terminer dans un second temps si et dans quel sens on peut transfe´rer (letav´qeim) cette expression aux dieux e´galement (1.13 – 21). Dans la progression du texte, ces deux e´tapes ne sont pas clairement se´pare´es: c’est par l’examen du sens de l’expression “ce qui de´pend de nous” et de la partie de notre aˆme a` laquelle elle peut s’appliquer que nous serons progressivement reconduits jusqu’a` la liberte´ divine, a` savoir celle de l’intelligence. Une fois celle-ci atteinte, Plotin re´examinera la liberte´ de l’aˆme et montrera en quoi sa fondation dans la liberte´ de l’intelligence permet d’e´clairer sa nature. Dans la pre´sente section, j’e´tudierai cette argumentation en trois e´tapes: 1. le sens de l’expression “quelque chose de´pend de nous” (1.21 – 44); 2. la partie de l’aˆme a` laquelle cette expression peut s’appliquer et la remonte´e a` l’intelligence (chs. 2 – 3); 3. les conse´quences pour la liberte´ de l’aˆme (ch. 5). Je re´serverai l’examen du ch. 4, dans lequel la liberte´ de l’intelligence est fonde´e dans le bien, pour la section suivante. 1. Plotin commence par remarquer que la question de savoir si quelque chose ´ depend de nous n’est nullement “the´orique” et “abstraite”, mais profonde´ment existentielle: ` quoi pensons-nous donc lorsque nous parlons de ce qui de´pend de nous et pourquoi A cherchons-nous ? Je crois pour ma part que, agite´s par des fortunes contraires, par les ne´cessite´s et par les impulsions violentes des passions qui prennent possession de notre aˆme, et pensant que toutes celles-ci sont nos maıˆtresses, que nous en sommes les esclaves et que nous sommes porte´s la` ou` elles nous me`nent, nous nous demandons si nous ne sommes pas rien (oqd´m 1slem) et s’il y a quelque chose qui de´pend de nous… (1.22 – 27)

Plotin pose ici une identite´ entre nous-meˆmes et notre liberte´, de sorte que si nous ne sommes pas libres, nous ne sommes rien. Dans la suite, il ira plus loin encore, en faisant de la liberte´ non seulement la condition de notre eˆtre, mais e´galement celle de l’eˆtre en ge´ne´ral, en tant qu’elle est la manifestation la plus pure de l’un. Or d’apre`s ce texte, cette liberte´ ne se manifeste pas dans notre expe´rience imme´diate, qui est plutoˆt une expe´rience de non-liberte´. Plotin continue d’ailleurs en sugge´rant que la notion de “ce qui de´pend de nous” se constitue de manie`re ne´gative: elle de´signe ce que nous accomplirions sans eˆtre esclaves des fortunes, de la ne´cessite´ et des passions violentes (1.27 – 29). Cette premie`re caracte´risation est imme´diatement comple´te´e par une de´termination positive, a`

386

Sylvain Delcomminette

savoir que seul de´pendrait de nous ce que nous accomplirions par notre pure volonte´ (bo¼kgsir) non entrave´e (1.29 – 30). Afin de donner un contenu a` ce concept encore vide, Plotin entre en de´bat avec Aristote, ainsi qu’avec son interpre´tation par Alexandre d’Aphrodise.5 Il commence par distinguer “ce qui de´pend de nous” (1v’ Bl?m) de “ce qui est de plein gre´” (2jo¼siom). Alors que la premie`re expression de´signe tout ce que nous faisons en en e´tant maıˆtres (j¼qioi), la seconde suppose en plus le savoir (t¹ eQd´ mai) (1.33 – 34).6 Mais quel savoir? Aristote conside´rait que la seule ignorance qui puisse empeˆcher qu’un acte soit accompli de plein gre´ e´tait l’ignorance des circonstances particulie`res et des effets de l’action, tandis que l’ignorance des re`gles ge´ne´rales (jahºkou) ne pouvait en aucun cas de´douaner l’agent de la responsabilite´ de ses actes (E´thique a` Nicomaque, III, 2). Plotin, en bon platonicien, ne peut accepter cette analyse, et fait remarquer qu’il est absurde de conside´rer que l’acte de tuer, accompli par quelqu’un qui en est maıˆtre, ne serait pas de plein gre´ si l’agent ignorait que la victime est son pe`re ou un ami, mais le serait s’il ignorait qu’il ne doit pas (lµ de?) tuer en ge´ne´ral. La re´ponse des pe´ripate´ticiens serait sans doute qu’il aurait duˆ (5dei) l’apprendre (cf. E´thique a` Nicomaque, III, 7, 1113 b33 – 1114 a3). Mais cela ne fait que reporter le proble`me, car, re´torque Plotin, encore lui faut-il savoir qu’il aurait duˆ l’apprendre, et l’ignorance de cela n’est pas non plus de plein gre´ (1.39 – 44). ` ce Plotin institue ainsi la primaute´ du savoir sur le devoir pour la moralite´. A stade, ce n’est pas le devoir qui nous enjoint de rechercher la connaissance, mais la connaissance qui nous re´ve`le le contenu du devoir. Nous verrons que ce rapport se renversera au niveau de la relation entre l’un, qui sera assimile´ au pur devoir, et l’intelligence, qui est la connaissance par excellence. Cependant, il ne s’agira plus alors du contenu du devoir, mais de sa forme, c’est-a`-dire de ce qu’il est purement en tant que devoir. En revanche, de`s que le devoir s’exprime au sein d’autre chose que lui-meˆme, il pre´suppose la me´diation de la connaissance qui lui re´ve`le les re`gles a` suivre dans tel ou tel cas. La connaissance n’est qu’une e´tape sur la voie de la liberte´ pure, mais c’est une e´tape ne´cessaire. 2. Plotin pose alors une nouvelle question: a` quelle partie de nous-meˆmes fautil attribuer ce qui de´pend de nous? (2.1 – 2) Il est a` premie`re vue e´tonnant que Plotin revienne ici sur ce qui de´pend de nous et paraisse ignorer la distinction 5 Le roˆle joue´ par le Traite´ du destin d’Alexandre dans ce traite´ de Plotin est particulie`rement bien mis en e´vidence par L. Lavaud dans l’introduction et les notes de sa traduction. 6 Le ja¸ de la ligne 34 pourrait sugge´rer que le fait d’eˆtre maıˆtres de ce que nous faisons serait une condition s’ajoutant a` celles qui de´finissent ce qui est de plein gre´ (cf. les traductions de Leroux et de Lavaud). Mais la suite du chapitre montre clairement que c’est bien plutoˆt le contraire: “ce qui de´pend de nous” inclut “ce qui est de plein gre´”, mais la re´ciproque n’est pas vraie. Le ja¸ a sans doute ici simplement pour fonction de souligner l’apport d’une information nouvelle par la relative (cf. Denniston 1950: 294 – 296).

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

387

qu’il vient d’e´tablir entre cette notion et celle de ce qui est de plein gre´. Son but est sans doute de montrer que meˆme la notion de ce qui de´pend de nous telle qu’elle a e´te´ de´finie, lorsqu’on examine ses conse´quences, nous me`ne a` la connaissance comme a` sa condition de possibilite´. De fait, dans ce chapitre 2, c’est en se basant exclusivement sur la de´finition de ce qui de´pend de nous comme “ce dont nous sommes maıˆtres (j¼qioi)” (cf. lignes 8, 18, 19, 20 et 28) que Plotin fait progressivement remonter cette notion jusqu’a` la raison et la connaissance (cf. son re´sume´ en 3.2 – 5). De sorte qu’en de´finitive, les notions de ce qui de´pend de nous et de ce qui est de plein gre´ se confondent, la distinction terminologique du chapitre pre´ce´dent n’ayant eu pour but que de fournir une premie`re approche de la ne´cessite´ de la connaissance pour la liberte´. Plotin n’en fera d’ailleurs aucun usage dans la suite et abandonnera le vocabulaire du “de plein gre´” lorsqu’il s’e´le`vera a` l’examen de la liberte´ et de la volonte´ du bien.7 Plotin commence par examiner si l’on peut attribuer ce qui de´pend de nous a` un e´lan (bql¶) ou a` un de´sir (eqenir), dont il cite, dans une synthe`se entre la tripartition platonicienne de l’aˆme et la division aristote´licienne de l’eqenir (et en ayant sans doute e´galement en vue la the´orie stoı¨cienne de l’bql¶), trois espe`ces: l’appe´tit (1pihul¸a), l’ardeur (hulºr) et le raisonnement sur ce qui est utile accompagne´ de de´sir (kocislºr toO sulv´qomtor let’ aq´neyr) (2.2 – 5). Il e´limine rapidement l’appe´tit et l’ardeur, car les admettre nous obligerait a` accorder que certaines choses de´pendent de ceux qu’ils dominent, comme les enfants, les beˆtes ou les fous (2.5 – 8).8 Le cas du raisonnement est plus complexe. D’abord, pour Plotin, seul le raisonnement correct, et donc le de´sir correct, est un candidat potentiel (2.8 – 10).9 Ensuite, si l’on admet que le raisonnement dont il est question est accompagne´ de de´sir (let’ aq´neyr), on peut envisager deux possibilite´s: soit c’est le raisonnement qui meut le de´sir, soit celui-ci meut celui-la` (2.10 – 12). Commenc¸ant par la seconde branche de l’alternative, Plotin fait remarquer que si le de´sir dont il est question de´pend du compose´ d’aˆme et de corps, l’aˆme se contente de suivre la ne´cessite´ de la nature et ses actions ne peuvent eˆtre dites de´pendre d’elle; mais s’il s’agit d’un de´sir propre a` l’aˆme seule, alors beaucoup de choses que nous disons de´pendre de nous ne de´pendront en re´alite´ pas de nous (2.12 – 16). Cela ne constitue pas encore une objection, car en de´finitive, Plotin exclura effectivement de ce qui de´pend de nous un grand 7 Comme le remarque Lavaud 2007: 181 – 2. 8 Plotin s’oppose ici a` Aristote, qui, en E´thique a` Nicomaque, III, 3, conside`re que les actes accomplis par appe´tit ou ardeur sont de plein gre´ (2jous¸yr), en faisant notamment valoir que dans le cas contraire, on ne pourrait dire que les beˆtes ou les enfants agissent de plein gre´ (1111 a25 – 26). 9 Alexandre conside`re au contraire que tout acte qui s’accompagne d’un assentiment conforme a` une raison et a` un jugement (sans autre pre´cision) de´pend de nous: 1v’ Bl?m… t¹ cimºlemom let± t/r jat± kºcom te ja· jq¸sim sucjatah´seyr (Traite´ du destin, 14, p. 183.28 – 29 Bruns).

388

Sylvain Delcomminette

nombre de choses que nous aurions tendance a` y inclure. Cependant, il ne pousse pas l’examen de cette possibilite´ plus avant pour l’instant et en vient a` la premie`re branche de l’alternative, a` savoir que ce serait au contraire le raisonnement qui meut le de´sir. Sa re´ponse est encore plus lapidaire: quel serait ce raisonnement pur (kocisl¹r xikºr) qui pre´ce´derait les passions? (2.16 – 17) Plutoˆt que de re´pondre directement a` cette question, Plotin reprend tout le proble`me a` partir d’un nouvel angle. Les trois parties de l’aˆme peuvent eˆtre caracte´rise´es comme des de´sirs. Or la nature du de´sir en ge´ne´ral n’est-elle pas contradictoire avec ce qui de´pend de nous? Le de´sir suppose un manque et n’est donc pas maıˆtre de ce vers quoi il tend. Bien plus, ce qui de´sire ne de´sire que parce qu’il a e´te´ fait tel qu’il est par un autre. En ce sens, il ne diffe`re pas des eˆtres inanime´s, qui eux aussi agissent conforme´ment a` la manie`re dont ils ont e´te´ engendre´s (2.17 – 25). On objectera que les actes de l’aˆme et de l’eˆtre anime´ s’accompagnent, quant a` eux, de connaissance. Cependant, celle-ci ne fera la diffe´rence que si elle ne se contente pas de percevoir l’acte lorsqu’il se produit, mais le de´termine en s’opposant au de´sir et en le maıˆtrisant. Cette action peut se comprendre de deux manie`res: soit comme produisant un autre de´sir soit comme faisant cesser le de´sir pour rester en repos, auquel cas il apparaıˆt clairement que ce qui de´pend de nous ne re´side pas dans l’action, mais dans l’intelligence (moOr) (2.25 – 37). Ces deux possibilite´s ne sont d’ailleurs pas incompatibles, car comme nous le verrons, le retrait en soi-meˆme de l’intelligence coı¨ncide avec le de´sir du bien. C’est donc l’intelligence qui est le ve´ritable lieu de ce qui de´pend de nous, principe de ce “raisonnement pur” qui pre´ce`de les passions et graˆce auquel nous pouvons e´chapper a` leur force contraignante, ou encore de cette connaissance, distincte de la simple opinion droite, par laquelle nous pouvons posse´der la libre disposition de nous-meˆmes (t¹ aqteno¼siom). Sera librement dispose´ celui qui se trouvera libre (1ke¼heqor) des passions du corps du fait des actes de l’intelligence (di± moO t_m 1meqcei_m) (3.19 – 21). Or, dit Plotin, ces premiers re´sultats nous ont de´ja` rapproche´s des dieux (3.1 – 2), dans la mesure ou` ceux-ci vivent guide´s par l’intelligence et le de´sir qui en de´coule (3.25 – 26). Si l’intelligence est le lieu de la liberte´, alors seuls les dieux sont ve´ritablement libres, car eux seuls sont seulement intelligence. Cela signifie-t-il que notre aˆme ne peut jamais eˆtre libre? Au contraire: elle est libre pre´cise´ment en tant qu’elle se fonde dans cette liberte´ divine. Voyons a` pre´sent ce que cette fondation nous apprend sur la nature de notre propre liberte´. 3. Plotin pose le proble`me en ces termes: La libre disposition de soi et ce qui de´pend de soi dans la seule intelligence qui pense, c’est-a`-dire dans l’intelligence pure, ou bien aussi dans

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

389

l’aˆme dont l’activite´ (1meqco¼s,) est conforme a` l’intelligence et qui agit (pqatto¼s,) selon la vertu ? (5.1 – 3)

La re´ponse s’impose d’elle-meˆme: si l’intelligence est le lieu de la liberte´, rien de ce qui lui est e´tranger ne peut eˆtre dit de´pendre de nous. C’est le cas de tout ce qui a trait a` l’action, dans laquelle ce qui de´pend de nous se manifeste toujours a` l’e´tat me´lange´ (2.35 – 37). Il convient de`s lors de “purifier” nos actions afin de retrouver ce qui en elles de´pend a` proprement parler de nous. On exclura d’abord la re´ussite de l’action (teOnir), tributaire du hasard dont nous ne sommes pas maıˆtres (5.3 – 5). Meˆme l’accomplissement vertueux de l’action ne peut eˆtre dit de´pendre pleinement de nous, car il est subordonne´ aux circonstances sans lesquelles nous n’aurions pas a` agir. Or le me´decin pre´fe´rerait qu’il n’y ait pas de malades, et la vertu, qu’il n’y ait ni guerre, ni injustice, ni pauvrete´ qui lui donne l’occasion de s’exercer (5.6 – 22). La vertu doit avoir une positivite´ par ellemeˆme, inde´pendamment de toute circonstance; elle n’est pas subordonne´e aux circonstances qui suscitent son exercice, mais les pre´ce`de (ontologiquement). Elle ne peut de`s lors se situer dans l’action elle-meˆme, mais seulement dans la volonte´ (bo¼kgsir) qui pre´ce`de l’action, qui n’est rien d’autre que l’acte inte´rieur par lequel la vertu pense et contemple (5.22 – 27, 6.19 – 22). La vertu peut e´galement eˆtre conside´re´e comme un e´tat et une disposition (6nir ja· di²hesir) qui met de l’ordre dans une aˆme de´re´gle´e. Ce faisant, loin de nous dominer comme un maıˆtre rigide, elle nous libe`re, non seulement en ne permettant plus que nous soyons esclaves de nos passions et de nos de´sirs, mais encore, positivement, en nous procurant la liberte´ et le fait de de´pendre de nous (jatasjeu²fei t¹ 1ke¼heqom ja· t¹ 1v’ Bl?m, 5.32 – 33 ; tµm xuwµm 1keuh´qam paqasw´shai, 6.10), parce qu’elle est elle-meˆme libre (1keuh´qam, 6.9). La vertu ainsi comprise est “comme une autre intelligence” (oXom moOr tir %kkor) et “un e´tat qui fait que l’aˆme pour ainsi dire s’intellectualise” (6nir oXom moyh/mai tµm xuwµm poioOsa) (5.34 – 36). On le voit, c’est en devenant “autre” qu’elle-meˆme que l’aˆme peut devenir ve´ritablement libre: notre liberte´ n’est rien d’autre que la liberte´ de l’intelligence en nous. Cela ne revient nullement a` nous “de´posse´der” de notre liberte´, car cet “autre” est en re´alite´ notre ve´ritable soi. Mais ce soi est le plus souvent recouvert par une multitude d’e´le´ments e´trangers, si bien que nous en venons a` croire que nous ne sommes rien et que rien ne de´pend de nous. La libe´ration suppose que nous nous identifiions non plus a` ces e´le´ments e´trangers, mais a` l’intelligence. Ce qui revient a` dire que nous ne pouvons eˆtre libres que par la pense´e et dans la mesure ou` nous pensons, pour autant du moins que nous pensions de manie`re authentique. Si la liberte´ de l’aˆme se fonde dans celle de l’intelligence, encore faut-il assurer cette dernie`re. C’est ce que fait Plotin dans le chapitre 4, qui a e´te´ laisse´ de coˆte´ ci-

390

Sylvain Delcomminette

dessus et vers lequel nous devons a` pre´sent nous tourner. Nous allons voir qu’il y proce`de de manie`re analogue, a` savoir en fondant la liberte´ de l’intelligence dans un principe encore supe´rieur, qui sera ici le bien ou l’un.

3.

La fondation de la liberte´ de l’intelligence dans le bien

Dans ce chapitre, Plotin e´tudie la liberte´ de l’intelligence pour elle-meˆme, telle qu’elle se manifeste chez les dieux. Il l’aborde par le biais de trois objections entremeˆle´es dans le texte, que l’on peut organiser de la manie`re suivante: 1. Une premie`re objection consiste a` contester que l’expression “ce qui de´pend de soi” puisse s’appliquer au sens propre a` des eˆtres tels que l’intelligence, chez qui l’action (pq÷nir) est absente (4.7 – 9). Plotin re´torque que si cette expression ne convenait pas, ce serait au sens ou` l’intelligence est supe´rieure a` ce a` quoi elle convient, et il faudrait tout de meˆme dire que l’intelligence de´pend d’elle-meˆme en ce sens qu’elle ne de´pend pas d’autre chose, parce qu’elle est un principe (4.29 – 32). L’intelligence n’est pourtant pas le principe supreˆme, e´tant subordonne´e a` l’un. Ne pourrait-on pas dire que celui-ci est son “maıˆtre” ? Et dans ces conditions, comment l’intelligence serait-elle encore libre? L’examen de la deuxie`me objection va permettre de re´pondre a` cette question. 2. Celle-ci est en re´alite´ la premie`re formule´e par Plotin, qui ne l’oppose pas directement ni uniquement a` la possibilite´ de la liberte´ de l’intelligence. Elle de´veloppe un motif que nous avons de´ja` rencontre´ plus haut: comment ce qui se produit selon un de´sir (jat’ eqenim) pourrait-il eˆtre libre, alors que le de´sir suppose un manque et est tourne´ vers l’exte´rieur (1p· t¹ 5ny)? Que l’objet du de´sir (t¹ aqecºlemom) soit en l’occurrence le bien n’empeˆche pas que ce soit lui qui me`ne le de´sir. (4.1 – 4) Plotin re´pond en deux temps: (a) D’abord (4.12 – 22), toute aspiration au bien est de plein gre´ (2jous¸om), pour autant qu’elle connaisse le bien comme tel (eQd½r fti !cahºm). En effet, tous les eˆtres aspirent au bien, le seul proble`me e´tant de de´terminer ce qu’il est. En revanche, tout e´loignement du bien est contre son gre´ et ne peut re´sulter que d’un de´tournement impose´ par un autre eˆtre, bref de l’esclavage. Ce raisonnement n’est toutefois valide que si le bien en question est le bien propre de chacun – ce que Plotin reconnaıˆt d’ailleurs explicitement, en distinguant le bien propre (t¹ ! cah¹m t¹ 2autoO) du bien d’un autre (t¹ !cah¹m t¹ %kkou). Mais cette distinction ne vaut qu’a` un niveau superficiel, car celui qui connaıˆt re´ellement le bien comprend que son bien propre coı¨ncide avec le bien en soi, et donc avec le bien propre de tout autre. Le bien ne nous est pas e´tranger, il est ce qu’il y a de plus profond en nous. C’est ce que Plotin va montrer dans la deuxie`me partie de sa re´ponse.

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

391

(b) En effet, il revient sur cette objection a` la fin du chapitre (4.32 – 40), en disant que s’il est vrai que l’intelligence a un autre principe, ce principe n’est pas exte´rieur a` elle, mais re´side dans le bien – qui doit donc eˆtre compris comme inte´rieur a` l’intelligence. De`s lors, plus l’intelligence se conforme a` ce bien, plus elle de´pend d’elle-meˆme et est libre; car c’est de lui qu’elle proce`de, et, en se tournant vers lui, elle se tourne vers elle-meˆme. Nous retrouvons ici un mouvement analogue a` celui que nous avions observe´ a` propos de l’aˆme, qui e´tait d’autant plus libre et d’autant plus elle-meˆme qu’elle se rapprochait de l’intelligence, voire s’identifiait a` elle. Mais a` ce niveau, ce mouvement s’expliquait par la nature de l’intelligence comme lieu ve´ritable de la liberte´. Qu’y a-t-il dans la nature du bien qui permette de fonder la liberte´ de l’intelligence? La re´ponse de Plotin a` la dernie`re objection va nous fournir une premie`re piste pour re´pondre a` cette question. 3. Cette objection consiste a` se demander si l’on peut dire que l’intelligence est libre et de´pend d’elle-meˆme, alors qu’elle accomplit (1meqc_m) conforme´ment a` sa nature ce qu’elle est par nature, sans qu’il de´pende d’elle de ne pas agir (t¹ lµ poie?m) (4.4 – 7). Autrement dit, l’intelligence n’est-elle pas esclave de sa propre nature (4.10 – 11)? Plotin commence par re´torquer qu’il n’y a pas de sens a` parler d’esclavage lorsque ce n’est pas un autre qui nous contraint (4.11 – 12). Cette re´ponse peut sembler insatisfaisante, car lorsque nous nous plaignons d’eˆtre esclaves de notre propre nature, nous nous mettons a` distance de celle-ci et la conside´rons comme autre que nous. C’est pourquoi Plotin revient sur cette objection un peu plus bas, en disant qu’elle n’a aucun sens relativement a` une nature simple (!pk/) comme l’intelligence, en laquelle il est impossible de distinguer ce qui serait esclave de ce dont il serait esclave, l’acte de l’essence, car la`bas, eˆtre et agir sont la meˆme chose (t¹ aqt¹ tº eWmai 1je? ja· t¹ 1meqce?m) (4.22 – 29). Ce texte est essentiel, car il montre que ce qui rend l’intelligence pleinement libre est sa simplicite´ : l’unite´ est la condition de la liberte´. C’est pour cette raison que l’intelligence est d’autant plus libre qu’elle se conforme au bien, c’est-a`-dire a` l’un, car c’est de cette manie`re qu’elle e´carte d’elle-meˆme toute dualite´ et de`s lors toute possibilite´ d’une distinction entre une partie dominante et une partie domine´e. Le bien est donc la cause de la liberte´ de tout le reste: non seulement de l’intelligence, qui est toujours libre parce que, e´tant naturellement tendue vers le bien, elle le posse`de e´ternellement, mais aussi de l’aˆme, qui devient libre lorsqu’elle tend vers le bien par la me´diation de l’intelligence, c’est-a`-dire en s’identifiant autant que possible a` celle-ci (7.1 – 6). Le bien, dira plus loin Plotin, est ce qui rend libre (poie?m 1ke¼heqom), il est cre´ateur de liberte´ (1keuheqopoiºm) (12.18 – 19), “ce par quoi les autres choses posse`dent le fait de de´pendre d’ellesmeˆmes” (di’ d t± %kka 5wei t¹ 1v’ arto?r, 7.4 ; voir aussi 13.26 – 27 : è ja· t± %kka

392

Sylvain Delcomminette

2auto?r 1stim eWmai), expressions qui ne semblent paradoxales que si l’on ne perc¸oit pas l’identite´ fondamentale entre le bien et le soi ve´ritable de chaque eˆtre.

4.

Le bien comme fondement de la liberte´

Reste toutefois a` s’assurer que le bien est un fondement suffisamment solide. Il est en effet menace´ par un “discours te´me´raire” (tir toklgq¹r kºcor) qui affirme que la nature du bien se trouve par hasard (tuwoOsa) eˆtre telle qu’elle est sans en eˆtre maıˆtresse, de sorte qu’elle n’est pas ce qu’elle est par elle-meˆme et ne posse`de pas la liberte´ ni le fait de de´pendre de soi-meˆme, e´tant bien plutoˆt contrainte (Am²cjastai) d’accomplir ou de ne pas accomplir ce qu’elle accomplit ou n’accomplit pas (7.11 – 15).10 Comme y insiste Plotin, ce discours “supprimerait totalement la nature de ce qui est de plein gre´ et de la libre disposition de soi, ainsi que la notion de ce qui de´pend de nous” (7.16 – 18). Le bien ayant e´te´ reconnu comme le fondement de la liberte´ des niveaux infe´rieurs, sa soumission au hasard ou a` la ne´cessite´ minerait a` la base la possibilite´ de toute liberte´ en ge´ne´ral. La question qui sous-tend toute la suite du traite´ peut de`s lors eˆtre e´nonce´e de la manie`re suivante: que doit eˆtre le bien pour pouvoir eˆtre le fondement de la liberte´ de tout le reste? Selon une premie`re approche, le bien doit se situer au-dela` de la liberte´ qu’il fonde et ne peut donc eˆtre libre lui-meˆme. Cette approche participe de la voie ne´gative selon laquelle tout pre´dicat doit eˆtre nie´ de l’un qui, e´tant au-dela` de l’eˆtre, ne peut eˆtre limite´ par aucune de´termination (cf. ch. 8). Cependant, refuser a` l’un la liberte´, n’est-ce pas le faire sombrer dans la non-liberte´ ? Afin de pre´venir ce risque, Plotin introduit a` coˆte´ de cette premie`re voie un versant positif, en vertu duquel il s’autorise a` e´noncer des affirmations au sujet de l’un pre´ce´de´es d’un oXom (“comme si”, cf. 13.47 – 50). Comme y insiste W. Beierwaltes,11 cette modification n’e´quivaut pas a` une pure et simple ne´gation, sans quoi une telle de´marche ne ferait que redoubler inutilement la voie ne´gative. Elle doit au contraire rendre possible la re´solution de proble`mes insolubles du point de vue pre´ce´dent. En l’occurrence, il s’agit de de´terminer comment il convient de penser le bien pour que la liberte´ de l’intelligence – et, partant, de l’aˆme – soit garantie. Pour ce faire, Plotin s’appuie sur certaines de´terminations de l’intelligence et remonte a` partir d’elles jusqu’au bien en tant que celui-ci en est la condition de possibilite´.12 Ce proce´de´ lui permet e´galement d’e´clairer la nature de la liberte´ 10 Sur l’origine de cet argument, voir la claire mise au point de Leroux 1990: 107 – 23, ainsi que O’Meara 1992: 344 – 6 et Lavaud 2007: n. 105 p. 266 – 7. 11 Beierwaltes 1999: en particulier 193 – 196. 12 L. Lavaud souligne que l’argumentation de Plotin s’appuie souvent sur des raisonnements a

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

393

elle-meˆme, comme j’essayerai de le montrer en examinant quatre the`mes par lesquels le bien est approche´ dans la dernie`re partie du traite´ (chapitres 8 – 21). 1. L’objection du “discours te´me´raire” consiste a` dire que c’est accidentellement que le bien est advenu tel qu’il est, en ce sens qu’il aurait pu eˆtre autre. Formule´e ainsi, elle comporte trois erreurs. Tout d’abord, il n’y a aucun sens a` parler d’une advenue du bien quelle qu’elle soit, dans la mesure ou` celui-ci n’est jamais ne´ (7.35 – 36, 8.21 – 27, 9.37 – 38, 10.21, 11.35 – 37). Le bien transcende le devenir, de meˆme d’ailleurs que l’e´ternite´ (cf. 20.25: pq·m aQ_ma), puisque celle-ci est le milieu propre de l’intelligence. Ensuite, il est errone´ de dire que le bien est (advenu) “tel qu’il est” ou “ainsi” (ovtyr), car cela sugge`re que ce qu’il est n’est qu’une possibilite´ parmi d’autres. Certes, en un sens, le bien est “quelque chose de de´termine´” (¢qisl´mom ti), car il n’est pas n’importe quoi au hasard, mais ce qu’il y a de meilleur (9.6 – 10). Mais, en un autre sens, il est “inde´termine´” (!ºqistom), dans la mesure ou` seul ce qui est limite´ est “ainsi” plutoˆt qu’ “autrement”, tandis que le bien transcende toutes les de´terminations particulie`res (9.38 – 49). Enfin, il est absurde de dire que le bien est (advenu tel qu’il est) par accident (sum´bg) ou par hasard (t¼w,, eQj0), car meˆme dans le monde en devenir, les re´gularite´s que nous observons nous obligent a` reconnaıˆtre que certaines choses au moins adviennent non pas par hasard, mais “conforme´ment a` la raison” (jat± kºcom). Cette raison n’est autre que l’intelligence et les principes rationnels qui en sont les images dans l’aˆme, par la me´diation desquels la premie`re donne aux choses en devenir “spe´cificite´, limite et forme” (eWdor ja· p´ qar ja· loqv¶m), e´cartant par la` meˆme le hasard.13 Principe d’ordre, l’intelligence est le contraire du hasard et ne peut de`s lors en aucun cas lui eˆtre soumise. Or, c’est ce qui arriverait si le bien lui-meˆme e´tait (advenu) par hasard. En tant que “racine de la raison” (N¸fa… kºcou), le bien doit donc eˆtre encore plus e´loigne´ du hasard que l’intelligence (10.1 – 18, 15.28 – 36, 17.1 – 24). 2. De tout ceci, il re´sulte que la liberte´, en tant qu’elle trouve son lieu propre dans l’intelligence, est tout le contraire de l’arbitraire: elle est bien plutoˆt un principe d’ordre et de de´termination. Mais ne risque-t-elle pas alors de sombrer dans l’e´cueil oppose´ et de se transformer en ne´cessite´ ? Dire que le bien n’est pas fortiori du type: si l’intelligence n’existe pas par hasard, le bien qui lui est supe´rieur sera a fortiori e´loigne´ de toute contingence (Lavaud 2007 : 190 – 1). De tels raisonnements semblent reposer sur une pe´tition de principe, dans la mesure ou` la ve´rite´ des ante´ce´dents se fonde sur celle des conse´quents: si le bien e´tait soumis au hasard, la totalite´ de l’e´difice sombrerait dans le hasard, comme Plotin le reconnaıˆt lui-meˆme (cf. 10.1 – 6). Mais le but de ce dernier est moins d’argumenter en faveur de la liberte´ de l’un que de montrer comment celui-ci doit eˆtre pense´ pour rendre possible la liberte´ de l’intelligence, pre´suppose´e a` ce stade. 13 Sur l’ambiguı¨te´ du terme kºcor dans ce passage (10.6 – 11), cf. L. Lavaud 2007: 179, 282 – 3, que je ne suis toutefois pas lorsqu’il identifie l’!qw¶ de la ligne 7 au bien : il me semble pre´fe´rable d’y voir, avec G. Leroux, une re´fe´rence a` l’intelligence en tant qu’elle e´carte le hasard des choses en devenir.

394

Sylvain Delcomminette

(advenu) par hasard, n’est-ce pas impliquer qu’il est de toute ne´cessite´ et n’est donc pas maıˆtre de ce qu’il est? Une premie`re re´ponse consiste a` dire que cette objection repose sur une conception errone´e de la ne´cessite´, qui y voit une contrainte (b¸a) exte´rieure (9.12 – 13). Au contraire, la ne´cessite´ est toujours inte´rieure: elle est “le de´veloppement de la nature d’un eˆtre telle qu’elle de´rive du principe supe´rieur”.14 En tant qu’il transcende l’ordre dans lequel ce de´veloppement s’effectue, ce principe n’est pas lui-meˆme soumis a` la ne´cessite´ qui s’y manifeste, mais en est la source. Loin d’eˆtre incompatible avec la liberte´, la ne´cessite´ trouve son fondement dans celle-ci: elle est la forme que la liberte´ se donne lorsqu’elle se manifeste au sein d’une multiplicite´.15 Par la cohe´rence des liaisons qu’elle e´tablit entre les e´le´ments de cette multiplicite´, la ne´cessite´ exprime l’unicite´ de l’acte dont elle de´rive. Cet acte peut, dans le cas de l’intelligence, eˆtre celui de l’un lui-meˆme, relativement auquel l’intelligence apparaıˆt de´ja` comme une multiplicite´ re´gie par des lois ne´cessaires qui en font une totalite´ parfaite; mais il peut e´galement, dans le cas des ordres infe´rieurs, eˆtre celui de l’intelligence, qui apparaıˆt comme une unite´ relativement a` la multiplicite´ extrapose´e qui les caracte´rise. Dans tous les cas, la source de la ne´cessite´ est l’unite´ en tant que telle, de sorte que toute ne´cessite´ est en de´finitive reconductible a` l’un ou au bien comme a` sa source ultime. C’est pourquoi Plotin e´crit que le bien est lui-meˆme la ne´cessite´ et la loi des autres eˆtres (aqtoO !m²cjgr t_m %kkym ousgr ja· mºlou, 10.34 – 35): il est le fondement ultime de toute ne´cessite´. De`s lors, le bien ne peut eˆtre soumis a` aucune ne´cessite´, celle-ci ne faisant son apparition que dans les eˆtres de´rive´s (9.11 – 12). Pourtant, nous venons de voir qu’il n’est pas non plus soumis au hasard ou a` l’arbitraire – sans quoi il ne pourrait d’ailleurs eˆtre le fondement de la ne´cessite´. S’il n’est pas soumis a` la ne´cessite´, c’est au sens ou` il la transcende et correspond a` une forme supe´rieure de ne´cessite´, a` savoir ce que Plotin nomme, apre`s Platon, le devoir (t¹ d´om, 18.44 – 47, cf. Platon, Phe´don, 99 c6; Politique, 284 e7): est donc cela qu’il fallait pre´cise´ment qu’il soit (fpeq 1wq/m eWmai), et non autre chose. Il n’advient de`s lors pas ainsi par accident, mais il devait (5dei) eˆtre ainsi. Et ce “devait” est le principe de tous les autres “devait”. (9.13 – 15)

Cette formulation pourrait sugge´rer que le bien respecte en quelque sorte une injonction qui le “pre´ce´derait”, ne fuˆt-ce que logiquement – comme s’il apparaissait “d’abord” comme un devoir-eˆtre, et “ensuite seulement” comme un eˆtre conforme a` ce devoir-eˆtre. Tel n’est e´videmment pas le cas, ces deux “moments”

14 L. Lavaud 2007: 152, 278. 15 Sur les rapports entre ne´cessite´ et liberte´, cf. Trouillard 1955: 118 – 22; Combe`s 1996; O’Brien 1977.

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

395

ne pouvant absolument pas eˆtre distingue´s dans le bien. Aussi Plotin e´crit-il plus loin: “ce qui doit eˆtre et l’acte de ce qui doit eˆtre sont un; et ce qui doit eˆtre n’est pas comme un substrat (¢r rpoje¸lemom), mais comme un acte premier qui se porte lui-meˆme au jour (1jv¶masa) comme ce qu’il devait eˆtre” (18.51 – 53). C’est seulement pour les eˆtres qui viennent apre`s lui que ces deux moments deviennent logiquement distinguables, et c’est seulement de leur point de vue que le bien est ce qu’il devait eˆtre, en ce sens que quand ceux-ci le contemplent, ils doivent reconnaıˆtre qu’il ne peut eˆtre advenu tel qu’il est par accident (9.17 – 23). Il n’en reste pas moins que, s’il est vrai que le devoir demeure une approximation de ce qu’est le bien en soi, il correspond a` la manie`re dont le bien apparaıˆt lui-meˆme et en lui-meˆme lorsqu’on le contemple. Il se distingue donc de la ne´cessite´, qui correspondait quant a` elle a` la manie`re dont le bien se manifestait dans un ordre infe´rieur. Le devoir ne se confond pas avec la ne´cessite´, il en est le principe. En assimilant le bien au devoir, Plotin accorde la priorite´ a` celui-ci sur l’intelligence, et donc sur la connaissance, a` l’inverse de l’ordre qu’il avait e´tabli plus haut relativement a` l’action. Cependant, comme nous l’avons vu, la priorite´ de la connaissance au niveau de l’action se justifiait par le fait que le devoir y e´tait toujours de´ja` “incarne´” dans des re`gles, des lois, qu’il fallait d’abord connaıˆtre. Au contraire, le devoir dont il est ici question, principe de tous les autres devoirs, n’a encore aucun contenu, puisqu’il “pre´ce`de” toutes les de´terminations qui feront seulement leur apparition au niveau de l’intelligence. Il est le devoir “pur” qui n’a d’autre contenu que lui-meˆme et dont tout devoir particulier est une manifestation de´termine´e. En tant que tel, il ne fournit aucune prescription et n’est donc d’aucune utilite´ directe au niveau de l’action. C’est pourquoi celui qui agit n’a acce`s au devoir que par la me´diation de la connaissance, c’est-a`-dire de l’intelligence au niveau de laquelle le devoir pur s’incarne dans des contenus particuliers. La liberte´ ainsi rapproche´e du devoir est a` mille lieues de ce “pouvoir de choisir entre les contraires” auquel les pe´ripate´ticiens voulaient la re´duire.16 Plotin refuse explicitement d’attribuer au bien un tel “pouvoir”, qu’il conside`re bien plutoˆt comme une “impuissance” (!dumal¸a), a` savoir l’impuissance a` demeurer dans ce qu’il y a de meilleur (21.3 – 7). D’ailleurs, le bien e´tant parfaitement isole´, il n’y a a` son niveau pas de contraires entre lesquels il pourrait choisir : il ne peut que se choisir lui-meˆme (cf. 13.40). La me´thode “purificatrice” de Plotin nous montre ainsi que conside´re´e en elle-meˆme, la liberte´ ne peut eˆtre re´duite au choix entre des possibles, car elle serait alors subordonne´e a` autre chose et perdrait toute positivite´ propre, a` l’inverse de ce qui se passe lorsqu’elle est pense´e comme devoir. Le choix entre les contraires n’apparaıˆt d’ailleurs pas au 16 Voir surtout Alexandre d’Aphrodise, Traite´ du destin, 12, qui de´finit ainsi “ce qui de´pend de nous” (t¹ 1v’ Bl?m), notion qu’il identifie ensuite a` la liberte´ (B 1nous¸a).

396

Sylvain Delcomminette

niveau de l’intelligence, pour laquelle tout choix est toujours total, en ce sens que toute de´termination qu’elle se donne inclut en elle-meˆme toutes les autres dans une unite´ indissoluble. Il n’apparaıˆt qu’au niveau de l’aˆme, contrainte de choisir parce qu’elle se meut dans un monde ou` les possibles ne coı¨ncident plus dans l’unite´. Cependant, la fondation de la liberte´ de l’aˆme dans le bien par la me´diation de l’intelligence nous apprend que meˆme a` ce niveau, la liberte´ ne re´side pas dans la possibilite´ du choix lui-meˆme, mais seulement dans la volonte´ d’agir par devoir : l’intention qui pre´side a` l’action n’est re´ellement libre que lorsqu’elle s’identifie a` la connaissance du devoir par l’intelligence. 3. Cette caracte´risation du bien pourrait toutefois sugge´rer que celui-ci n’est pas ce qu’il est par volonte´, puisqu’il n’avait pas le choix. En un sens, cela est vrai: le bien est encore supe´rieur au vouloir et a` la volonte´ (t¹ h´keim, B bo¼kgsir), qu’il a pose´s apre`s lui (9.46 – 48). Mais si le bien n’a pas a` proprement parler de volonte´, c’est parce qu’il est le principe de toute volonte´. Car la volonte´ n’est pas un pouvoir de l’arbitraire: toute volonte´ ve´ritable est volonte´ du bien, et, a` titre second, volonte´ de soi-meˆme, en tant que c’est seulement par le bien qu’un eˆtre quelconque peut eˆtre et eˆtre ce qu’il est. Or, a` la diffe´rence de ce qui lui est subordonne´, il n’y a dans le bien aucune distinction entre ce qu’il est et ce qu’il veut: e´tant le bien lui-meˆme, il est l’objet imme´diat de sa propre volonte´, ou plus pre´cise´ment il n’est rien d’autre que cette volonte´ en tant qu’elle se veut ellemeˆme. Tout comme il est devoir pur, le bien est volonte´ pure, non dirige´e vers un quelconque objet, mais seulement vers elle-meˆme: volonte´ de volonte´ donc, qui n’est subordonne´e a` aucune fin, mais est pure auto-affirmation d’elle-meˆme. Mais en quoi une telle volonte´ “pure” se distingue-t-elle de l’arbitraire? De quel droit peut-on affirmer la coı¨ncidence entre cette “volonte´ de volonte´” et la volonte´ du meilleur? D’abord parce que seul ce qui est parfait peut ne rien vouloir d’autre que lui-meˆme: toute imperfection est une entrave a` la volonte´, en ce qu’elle conduit cette dernie`re a` vouloir y reme´dier et de`s lors a` se subordonner a` ` l’inverse, ce qui n’est rien d’autre que ce qu’il veut ne autre chose qu’elle-meˆme. A peut se vouloir que parfait, car s’il se voulait et donc e´tait imparfait, il ne pourrait plus continuer a` ne rien vouloir d’autre que lui-meˆme. La volonte´ pure ne peut se de´ployer pleinement que dans la perfection (10.21 – 35, 13.1 – 59, 15.1 – 10, 16.21 – 24, 21.1 – 19). Les implications de ces affirmations sont de´cisives. En effet, en assimilant le bien, objet ultime du de´sir de tous les eˆtres, a` la volonte´ pure, Plotin sugge`re que tout de´sir est en dernie`re instance de´sir de la volonte´ dans sa perfection non entrave´e, c’est-a`-dire de la liberte´ absolue. Bref, si tout eˆtre de´sire le bien, c’est que tout eˆtre de´sire eˆtre libre – meˆme si c’est le plus souvent me´diatement, le de´sir imme´diat de l’eˆtre en question se fixant sur ce qui lui apparaıˆt, correctement ou non, comme les conditions de son atteinte. L’affirmation de l’orientation de tout

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

397

de´sir vers le bien est donc l’antithe`se radicale de la soumission de la volonte´ a` une norme exte´rieure. 4. Nous avons fonde´ la liberte´ de l’aˆme dans la liberte´ de l’intelligence, puis celle-ci dans le bien. Si nous voulons e´viter une re´gression a` l’infini, encore faut-il montrer que ce dernier terme est le fondement ultime de la liberte´, non seulement de fait, mais encore de droit. C’est ce qu’e´tablit Plotin en examinant le rapport entre le bien et la causalite´. Nous avons vu que si les choses en devenir e´chappent au hasard et a` la pure dispersion, c’est parce qu’elles trouvent leurs principes dans l’intelligence. En ce sens, c’est dans l’intelligence que ces choses ont leur eˆtre ou leur essence, qui est en meˆme temps la cause du fait qu’elles sont ce qu’elles sont: “de sorte que l’eˆtre et la cause sont une seule et meˆme chose (¦ste 4m ja· t¹ aqt¹ t¹ eWmai ja· t¹ aUtiom, 14.29)”. En revanche, l’intelligence est identique a` sa propre essence, et donc a` sa propre cause: c’est pour cette raison qu’elle e´chappe au hasard et est pleinement maıˆtresse d’elle-meˆme. La simplicite´ est donc la condition de l’e´loignement du hasard et de la maıˆtrise de soi. Or, au niveau de l’intelligence, cette simplicite´ n’est pas absolue, car il est toujours possible de distinguer en elle une certaine dualite´ entre ce qui maıˆtrise et ce qui est maıˆtrise´ – distinction qui est seulement de raison, mais est rendue possible par le fait qu’il y a de´ja` dans l’intelligence une certaine multiplicite´. Au contraire, la simplicite´ du bien, acte pur qui n’est rien d’autre qu’acte ou meˆme au-dela` de l’acte, est absolue. De`s lors, le bien est au-dela` de la maıˆtrise de soi, au sens ou` il en est la condition; et dans la mesure ou` la maıˆtrise de soi caracte´rise l’eˆtre en tant que cause, le bien peut eˆtre dit “pe`re de la cause et de l’essence causale (aQt¸ar ja· oqs¸ar aQti¾dour pat¶q, 14.37 – 38)”, ou encore “cause de la cause (aUtiom… toO aQt¸ou, 18.39)”, “cause au sens e´minent, le plus causal et le plus ve´ritable (leifºmyr… oXom aQti¾tatom ja· !kgh´steqom aQt¸a, 18.39 – 40)”. Source de toute causalite´, le bien ne peut avoir de cause autre que lui-meˆme: il est ne´cessairement position absolue, “cause de soi (aUtiom 2autoO, 14.41)”, e´ternelle auto-production de lui-meˆme. Il est donc le principe ultime que nous recherchons, en tant que fondement auto-fonde´ de toute causalite´, de toute maıˆtrise de soi et de toute liberte´ (7.46 – 54, 12.1 – 37, 14.1 – 42, 17.24 – 27, 18.39 – 42, 20.1 – 39). Par cette notion de causa sui, Plotin atteint ce que l’on peut appeler, avec S. Breton, “l’absolu de la liberte´”;17 car, s’il est vrai que cette notion ne peut pre´tendre, pas plus que n’importe quelle autre, rendre compte a` proprement parler de ce qu’est l’un ou le bien lui-meˆme dans sa suressentialite´, elle saisit en revanche parfaitement la liberte´ comme pur surgissement et auto-position absolue. Certes, une telle notion peut paraıˆtre contradictoire ou, du moins, inutile, si l’on conc¸oit l’union entre cause et effet comme une annulation pure et simple des 17 Breton 1986 : 349.

398

Sylvain Delcomminette

deux termes.18 Mais il s’agit plutoˆt de penser que dans cette union est certes surmonte´e la dualite´, mais est en revanche pre´serve´e l’activite´ propre a` la causalite´ en tant que telle. Dire du premier principe qu’il est (comme) cause de soi, c’est bien plus que dire qu’il n’est cause´ par rien d’autre: c’est en faire un principe profonde´ment dynamique, ou plutoˆt le principe d’un dynamisme qui en est la premie`re et supreˆme expression. Ce dynamisme, qui est la liberte´ elle-meˆme, anime l’eˆtre de part en part; bien plus, il est le principe de l’eˆtre, dans lequel celuici puise la force de se faire eˆtre ce qu’il est. En tant qu’origine absolue, la liberte´ n’est pas seulement l’origine d’elle-meˆme, mais encore l’origine de tout ce qui la suit et trouve sa source en elle. Peu de philosophes sont alle´s aussi loin dans la fondation de leur syste`me dans la liberte´, et il faudra attendre l’ide´alisme allemand pour que re´apparaissent des tentatives aussi radicales en ce sens.19 On voit ainsi une nouvelle fois comment la de´marche consistant a` fonder la liberte´ dans le bien, loin de nous e´loigner de la liberte´, nous reconduit jusqu’au lieu ou` elle surgit a` l’e´tat de purete´. Nous-meˆmes ne sommes libres qu’en tant que cette liberte´ est agissante en nous et que nous la reconnaissons comme notre liberte´. Bien plus, nous pouvons remonter jusqu’au bien comme fondement de la liberte´, qui constitue le cœur de notre eˆtre. Lorsque nous nous identifions a` celuici, nous sommes non plus seulement libres, mais “plus que libres et plus que librement dispose´s (pk´om C 1ke¼heqoi, ja· pk´om C aqteno¼sioi, 15.22 – 23)”. Nous pe´ne´trons alors dans “la vie ve´ritable (t¹ !kghim¹m f/m, 15.24 – 25)”, principe de toute vie en tant qu’elle est la source de tout de´sir, de tout mouvement. C’est alors seulement que nous ne sommes pas “rien”, comme nous le serions si nous e´tions re´duits au jeu des influences exte´rieures, car nous nous identifions a` ce principe qui, loin d’eˆtre soumis au cours du monde, est comme la cause de toutes les autres causes. C’est pourquoi la liberte´, en tant qu’elle est sa manifestation la plus pure, est la condition de l’eˆtre en ge´ne´ral, et donc aussi la condition de notre eˆtre, ce graˆce a` quoi nous sommes ce que nous sommes et tels que nous le voulons – de toute e´ternite´.

References Beierwaltes, W. 1999. “Causa sui. Plotins Begriff des Einen als Ursprung des Gedankens der Selbstursa¨chlichkeit”, in : J. J. Cleary (ed.), Traditions of Platonism. Essays in Honour of John Dillon, Aldershot: 191 – 226, Bobzien, S. 1998. Determinism and Freedom in Stoic Philosophy, Oxford. Bre´hier, E´. (ed.) 1938. Plotin: Enne´ades, Tome VI (2e`me partie), Paris. 18 Voir par exemple Narbonne 1993: 193 – 4. 19 Sur ce point, voir la comparaison entre Plotin et Schelling propose´e par Halfwassen 2003.

Plotin et le proble`me de la fondation de la liberte´

399

Breton, S. 1986. “Re´flexions sur la causa sui”, in: Revue des sciences philosophiques et the´ologiques 70: 349 – 364. Brisson, L. / Pradeau, J.-Fr. (eds.) 2007. Plotin: Traite´s: 38 – 41, Paris. Combe`s, J. 1996. “Ne´cessite´ stoı¨cienne et exigence plotinienne”, in: E´tudes ne´oplatoniciennes, Grenoble: 9 – 34. Denniston, J. D. 1950. The Greek Particles, Oxford. Halfwassen, J. 2003. “Freiheit und Transzendenz bei Schelling und Plotin”, in: B. Mojsisch / O. F. Summerell (eds.), Platonismus im Idealismus. Die platonische Tradition in der klassischen deutschen Philosophie, Mu¨nchen, Leipzig: 175 – 193. Henry, P. / Schwyzer, H.-R. (eds.) 1983. Plotini Opera, T. III, Oxford. Leroux, G. 1990. Plotin: Traite´ sur la liberte´ et la volonte´ de l’Un [Enne´ade VI, 8 (39)], Paris. Narbonne, J.-M. 1993. “Plotin, Descartes, et la notion de causa sui”, in: Archives de philosophie 56: 177 – 195. O’Brien, D. 1977. “Le volontaire et la ne´cessite´ : re´flexions sur la descente de l’aˆme dans la philosophie de Plotin”, in: Revue philosophique de la France et de l’e´tranger 167: 401 – 22. O’Meara, D. J. 1992. “The Freedom of the One”, in: Phronesis, 37: 344 – 349. Steel, C. 2008. “Liberte´ divine ou liberte´ humaine? Proclus et Plotin sur ce qui de´pend de nous”, in: M. Broze / B. Decharneux / S. Delcomminette (eds.), “Mais raconte-moi en de´tail…” Me´langes de philosophie et de philologie offerts a` Lambros Couloubaritsis, Paris-Bruxelles: 525 – 42. Trouillard, J. 1955. La purification plotinienne, Paris.

General Topics

Christoph Halbig

Die Einheit der Tugenden. ¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems U

1.

Einleitung

Das Problem der Einheit der Tugenden, die Frage also, ob jemand, der u¨ber eine einzige Tugend verfu¨gt, ipso facto auch u¨ber alle anderen verfu¨gen muss, und umgekehrt, ob jemand, dem eine einzige Tugend fehlt, eben deshalb auch u¨ber keine der anderen Tugenden verfu¨gen kann, geho¨rt zu den philosophischen Fragen, die gleichermaßen pha¨nomenologisch einleuchtend, philosophiegeschichtlich bedeutsam und systematisch grundlegend sind: Pha¨nomenologisch weisen unsere Intuitionen in dieser Frage in durchaus unterschiedliche Richtungen: Dass jemand, der aus Geldgier eine Bank u¨berfa¨llt, dabei bemerkenswerten Mut an den Tag legen kann, ko¨nnte als unproblematisch erscheinen; ein Laster, die Geldgier und die aus ihr resultierende Ungerechtigkeit, wu¨rde in diesem Fall zusammen mit der Tugend des Mutes koexistieren. Allerdings wu¨rden wir auch in einem solchen Fall kaum davon sprechen wollen, dass es wu¨nschenswert wa¨re, wenn der Bankra¨uber noch mutiger werden wu¨rde (und damit vielleicht noch erfolgreicher bei seinem na¨chsten Coup). Zwischen der Ausbildung einzelner Tugenden und der moralischen Verbesserung oder Depravierung einer Person als ganzer scheinen wir also einen Zusammenhang zu unterstellen, der kaum versta¨ndlich zu machen wa¨re, wenn es sich bei Tugenden bzw. Lastern um voneinander isolierte Charakterzu¨ge handeln wu¨rde. Entsprechend zo¨gern wir, etwa einem Arzt die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit abzusprechen, der darauf verzichtet, seinen Freunden eine fu¨r sie nu¨tzliche Information u¨ber einen Patienten weiterzugeben, weil diese Handlung in einer anderen Hinsicht als derjenigen der Wohlta¨tigkeit lasterhaft wa¨re, na¨mlich z. B. insofern sie die Patientenrechte verletzt und damit ungerecht wa¨re. Ha¨tte sich der Arzt in ho¨herem Maße als wohlta¨tig gezeigt, wenn er das Geheimnis zum Nutzen seiner Freunde ausgeplaudert ha¨tte? Die Begru¨ndung fu¨r ein solches Zo¨gern wird wiederum auf einen Zusammenhang der einzelnen Tugenden rekurrieren mu¨ssen, der u¨ber ihre bloße Koexistenz als unterschiedlicher Charaktermerkmale hinausgeht.

404

Christoph Halbig

Dass unsere Intuitionen in der Frage nach der Einheit der Tugenden in so unterschiedliche Richtungen weisen, legt es zumindest nahe, dass es sich bei ihr nicht um ein Konstrukt philosophischer Theoriezwa¨nge, sondern um ein genuines Problem handelt. Auf die lange philosophiegeschichtliche Tradition des Einheitsproblems von den sokratischen Dialogen u¨ber die Platonische und Aristotelische Philosophie, die Stoa, fu¨r deren Lehrentwicklung das Einheitsproblem von zentraler Bedeutung war, bis hin zu Debatten im Mittelalter – mit Thomas von Aquin als wichtigstem Verteidiger der Einheitsthese, Duns Scotus als ihrem wichtigsten Gegner – und in der fru¨hen Neuzeit kann ich hier nicht eingehen;1 ich mo¨chte mich lediglich auf die Beobachtung beschra¨nken, dass das Theorem der Einheit der Tugenden, obgleich es unstrittig einen integralen Bestandteil der antiken Tugendlehren gebildet hat,2 von der gegenwa¨rtigen Renaissance der Tugendethik bisher bemerkenswert wenig profitiert hat. Selbst Autoren, die einen entscheidenden Beitrag dazu geleistet haben, die Tugendlehre wieder ins Zentrum der Ethik zu stellen, lehnen die Einheitsthese zumeist ohne weitere Begru¨ndung ab. Bernard Williams etwa betrachtet es als Platitu¨de,3 dass wir u¨ber einige Tugenden verfu¨gen ko¨nnen, wa¨hrend andere uns fehlen,4 Peter Geach sieht die Einheitsthese im Konflikt mit „human experience all the world over“5 und beklagt ihre „devastating consequences“,6 zu denen er za¨hlt, dass Tugend vor dem Hintergrund der Einheitsthese zu einem unerreichbaren Ideal werden mu¨sse, Alasdair MacIntyre schließlich hebt die Einheitsthese sogar ausdru¨cklich als Beispiel dafu¨r hervor, dass eine Erneuerung der aristotelisch/thomistischen Tradition in der Ethik in der Gegenwart den Verzicht selbst auf zentrale Elemente dieser Tradition erforderlich mache.7 Ganz unabha¨ngig von der jeweils im Einzelfall zu pru¨fenden Frage, ob und unter welchen Bedingungen eine solche Erneuerung unter Verzicht auf ein Theorem von der strukturellen Bedeutung der Einheitsthese gelingen kann, stellt sich vor diesem Hintergrund jedoch systematisch die Frage, welche Argumente eigentlich fu¨r die Einheitsthese sprechen. Erst eine Pru¨fung dieser Argumente wird es erlauben, daru¨ber zu entscheiden, ob die Einheitsthese eine bloße historische Hypothek darstellt, oder ob sie

¨ berblick zur Problemgeschichte vgl. Mu¨ller 1998a: 173 – 176. Fu¨r einen konzisen U Zur antiken Diskussion des Problems der Einheit der Tugenden vgl. Annas 1993: 73 – 84. Williams 1993: 36. Auch Hurka betrachtet es als Implikat des common sense, dass eine solche Mo¨glichkeit besteht. Vgl. Hurka 2001: 114. 5 Geach 1977: 163. 6 Ebd. 7 MacIntyre 1979: 180. Vgl. auch Slote 1997: 184: „This view (sc. die These der Einheit der Tugenden) also grates against much of our modern ways of seeing things, and I believe there is no reason to adopt it.“

1 2 3 4

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

405

weiterhin ein unverzichtbares Element einer Erneuerung der Tugendlehre in der philosophischen Ethik bildet. Zuna¨chst muss pra¨zisiert werden, was die Einheitsthese eigentlich beinhaltet.

2. Die Debatte, die in der gegenwa¨rtigen philosophischen Forschung unter dem Titel der ,unity of the virtues‘, bzw. der ,Einheit der Tugenden‘ gefu¨hrt wird, leidet unter einer grundlegenden Ambiguita¨t im Versta¨ndnis dieser ,unity‘ bzw. , Einheit‘, die je nach Autor zum einen zur Bezeichnung einer strikten Identita¨tsthese, zum anderen zur Kennzeichnung eines wechselseitigen Implikationsverha¨ltnisses der Tugenden verwendet wird: Identita¨tsthese: Ontologisch existiert Tugend nur im Singular ; die Pluralita¨t der Tugenden ergibt sich nur epistemisch aus unterschiedlichen Hinsichten, in denen die eine Tugend betrachtet werden kann. (= I) These der Reziprozita¨t der Tugenden: Ontologisch existiert eine Pluralita¨t von Tugenden, und zwar in der Weise, dass jemand nur dann u¨ber eine dieser Tugenden verfu¨gen kann, wenn er u¨ber alle anderen verfu¨gt.8 (= R) Sowohl I wie R stehen im Gegensatz zur These der wechselseitigen Unabha¨ngigkeit der Tugenden, bei der wiederum eine starke von einer schwachen Variante zu unterscheiden ist: Unabha¨ngigkeitstheseschwach : Ontologisch existiert eine Pluralita¨t von Tugenden, und zwar in der Weise, dass jemand u¨ber eine dieser Tugenden verfu¨gen kann, ohne u¨ber alle anderen zu verfu¨gen. ( = Uschwach) Unabha¨ngigkeitsthesestark : Ontologisch existiert eine Pluralita¨t von Tugenden, und zwar in der Weise, dass jemand u¨ber eine dieser Tugenden verfu¨gen kann, ohne u¨ber irgendeine andere zu verfu¨gen. (= Ustark)

8 Verwirrenderweise wird die These der Einheit der Tugenden in der Literatur sowohl zur Kennzeichnung der Reziprozita¨tsthese als auch der Identita¨tsthese verwendet. Rhonheimer schla¨gt (als Verteidiger der hier als Reziprozita¨tsthese eingefu¨hrten Position) daher vor, vom Zusammenhang statt von der Einheit der Tugenden im Sinne der scholastischen Kategorie der connexio virtutum zu sprechen, um Verwechselungen mit der Identita¨tsthese vorzubeugen, vgl. Rhonheimer 2001: 217.

406

Christoph Halbig

Zuna¨chst muss hier festgehalten werden, dass die Identita¨tsthese das Problem der Einheit der Tugenden nicht eigentlich lo¨st, sondern es auflo¨st, indem sie bestreitet, dass es ontologisch eine Pluralita¨t von Tugenden u¨berhaupt gibt, deren Zusammenhang dann zu kla¨ren wa¨re – aus diesem Grund wird die Identita¨tsthese im folgenden nur insofern in Betracht kommen, als zu pru¨fen sein wird, ob die Argumente fu¨r die Reziprozita¨tsthese nicht bei na¨herer Pru¨fung fu¨r eine sta¨rkere Konklusion als die beabsichtigte, na¨mlich eben die Identita¨tsthese, sprechen. Die Unterscheidung von Tugenden ergibt sich im Rahmen der Identita¨tsthese lediglich epistemisch, insofern je unterschiedliche Zusammenha¨nge, in denen sich die eine Tugend bewa¨hrt, hervorgehoben werden sollen. Diese Implikation der Identita¨tsthese wird pra¨gnant durch den Stoiker Ariston von Chios aufgezeigt, dessen einschla¨gige Position Plutarch wie folgt charakterisiert: Ariston von Chios machte die Tugend ebenfalls dem Wesen nach zu einer einzigen Sache […], eine gewisse Differenzierung und Mehrzahl brachte er andererseits durch Relationalita¨t [pqºr t¸] hinein, […] wie das Messer, das ein einziger Gegenstand ist, aber zu verschiedenen Gelegenheiten verschiedene Gegensta¨nde schneidet […]. (Plutarch, De virtute morali, 440E-F)

Die eine Tugend kann also aus Sicht des Vertreters einer strikten Identita¨tsthese wie Ariston etwa als Gerechtigkeit angesprochen werden, insofern sie der Reglung unseres Zusammenlebens dient, als Besonnenheit, insofern sie unser Streben nach Lust reguliert etc. – damit wird aber ihre Identita¨t ebenso wenig in Frage gestellt wie die eines Messers dadurch, dass man es zum Schneiden unterschiedlicher Dinge verwendet.9 Auch in der Gegenwart wird die Identita¨tsthese etwa von G. von Wright vertreten.10 Inhaltlich fasst er sie als Selbstbeherrschung (self-control) auf und spricht ganz im Sinne Aristons davon, dass sich Selbstbeherrschung in unterschiedlichen Feldern zu bewa¨hren habe, etwa angesichts von Regungen der Furcht (dann kann sie als Mut angesprochen werden), oder angesichts eines scha¨dlichen Strebens nach Lust (dann kann sie als Besonnenheit angesprochen werden) usw., ohne dass Mut und Besonnenheit deshalb distinkte Tugenden wa¨ren. Die historisch wichtigste Variante der These der Reziprozita¨t der Tugenden stellt die aristotelische Tugendlehre dar : Ihr zufolge setzen die moralischen Tugenden wie Mut die intellektuelle Tugend der Klugheit voraus, die eine richtige Vorstellung u¨ber das beinhaltet, was gut und schlecht fu¨r den Menschen ist, wa¨hrend die Klugheit wiederum auf die ethischen Tugenden angewiesen ist, 9 Vgl. Plutarch, De virtute morali 2/3, 440Eff. 10 Vgl. Wright 1963: 148: „It seems to me that there is some foundation for the statement that there is, fundamentally, but one virtue.“

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

407

die die Voraussetzungen dafu¨r schaffen, das fu¨r den Menschen Gute zu erkennen und es verla¨sslich anzustreben: So gewinnen wir aus dem Gesagten das Ergebnis, dass es unmo¨glich ist, ein wertvoller Mensch im eigentlichen Sinne zu sein – ohne sittliche Einsicht, und dass man sittliche Einsicht nicht haben kann ohne die Trefflichkeit des Charakters. (Aristoteles, NE VI 13, 1144b 30 – 32.)

Der Unabha¨ngigkeitsthese zufolge gibt es hingegen keine solchen Implikationsverha¨ltnisse zwischen den Tugenden. In ihrer schwachen Form schließt die Unabha¨ngigkeitsthese Implikationsverha¨ltnisse zumindest zwischen einigen Tugenden freilich nicht aus. Nur in ihrer starken Form beinhaltet sie die Mo¨glichkeit, u¨ber jede einzelne Tugend zu verfu¨gen, ohne dass irgend eine andere Tugend vorliegt. Trifft die Unabha¨ngigkeitsthese zu, ero¨ffnet sich die Mo¨glichkeit, dass jemand ¨ bermaß u¨ber eine Tugend verfu¨gt.11 Definiert man etwa die Tugend der im U Großzu¨gigkeit als Disposition, etwas, das man selbst wertscha¨tzt, aus Sorge um das Wohlergehen anderer aufzugeben, ohne dazu moralisch verpflichtet zu sein12, und betrachtet sie im Sinne von U als unabha¨ngig von anderen Tugenden, dann muss auch jemandem der all seinen Besitz verschenkt und damit seine eigene Lebensgrundlage fu¨r die Zukunft gefa¨hrdet, zugestanden werden, dass er großzu¨gig gehandelt haben mag. Nur hat er eben nicht das Richtige getan – sein Handeln versto¨ßt etwa gegen Forderungen der Klugheit und der Gerechtigkeit (wenn er verarmt anderen zur Last fa¨llt). Aus Sicht von U krankt sein Handeln indes nicht daran, dass es nicht la¨nger als Ausdruck der Tugend der Großzu¨gigkeit verstanden werden kann, sondern dass es diese auf Kosten anderer Tugenden in unzula¨ssig starker, eben exzessiver Weise zum Ausdruck bringt. Es koexistieren also in dieser Deutung des Beispiels die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit und die Abwesenheit der Tugenden der Gerechtigkeit und Klugheit bzw. die Anwesenheit der entsprechenden Laster. Wie die Identita¨tsthese kann im folgenden die starke Form der Unabha¨ngigkeitsthese außer Betracht bleiben. Erstens bringt die Behauptung, dass es keinerlei Implikationsverha¨ltnisse unter den Tugenden gibt, sehr hohe Beweislasten mit sich: Dass etwa die Tugend des Mutes fu¨r sich allein bestehen kann, ohne dass irgendeine der anderen Tugenden vorliegt, erscheint als wenig plausibel, weil ohne diese anderen Tugenden nicht angemessen entschieden werden kann, wann u¨berhaupt eine Situation vorliegt, die die fu¨r den Mut charakteris¨ berwindung von Furcht zugunsten eines dies rechtfertigenden Gutes tische U verlangt. Zweitens reicht bereits die schwache Form der Unabha¨ngigkeitsthese 11 Zum Problem der „Virtues in Excess“ vgl. den gleichnamigen Aufsatz von Watson 1984. 12 Vgl. Wallace 1978: 135.

408

Christoph Halbig

aus, um die Kernannahme der Einheitsthese zu widerlegen, insofern sie den Schluß vom Vorliegen einer einzigen Tugend auf das aller anderen Tugenden verbietet. Beschließen mo¨chte ich diesen Vorschlag zur Klassifikation des Einheits¨ berlegungen, deren erste beiden die Reichweite der Einproblems mit drei U heitsthese und deren dritte ihren Status betreffen: Erstens korrespondiert dem Problem der Einheit der Tugenden kein Problem der Einheit der Laster. Nicht nur kann jemand geizig, nicht aber feige sein, Laster wie Geiz und Verschwendungssucht schließen einander sogar aus.13 Dass jemandem seine Feigheit bei einer ungerechten Handlung in die Quere kommen kann, sich also Laster auch wechselseitig aufheben ko¨nnen, bildet ein vertrautes und willkommenes Element der Moralpha¨nomenologie – wie Thomas hervorhebt, ist es fu¨r ein blindes Pferd besser, wenn es langsam ist.14 Zweitens stellt sich das Einheitsproblem nicht fu¨r Charakterzu¨ge wie Spontaneita¨t, Schlagfertigkeit oder Pu¨nktlichkeit, die wir umgangssprachlich durchaus auch als Tugenden bezeichnen. Ga¨lte auch fu¨r solche, sog. minor virtues die Reziprozita¨tsthese, wu¨rde folgen, dass jemand, dem es an Pu¨nktlichkeit mangelt, nicht u¨ber die Tugend der Gerechtigkeit verfu¨gen kann.15 Dasselbe gilt fu¨r die sog. large-scale virtues, die herausragende Leistungen oder große Mittel voraussetzen – dass Fehlen dieser Voraussetzungen wu¨rde den Besitz dieser Tugenden und damit gema¨ß der Reziprozita¨tsthese den Besitz aller anderen Tugenden unmo¨glich machen. Solche Konsequenzen erscheinen als nicht akzeptabel. Die Reichweite der Einheitsthese ist also beschra¨nkt nicht nur auf die Tugenden im Gegensatz zu den Lastern, sondern zudem auf eine bestimmte Teilmenge der Tugenden (es sei denn, man tra¨fe die terminologische Entscheidung, die minor virtues nicht mehr als Tugenden anzusprechen). Doch nach welchem Kriterium ist diese Teilmenge zu individuieren? Auch wenn eine trennscharfe Abgrenzung kaum mo¨glich sein wird, ergibt sich ein entscheidender Hinweis auf ein solches Kriterium bereits aus Thomas’ Diskussion der Probleme, die Tugenden wie die der Großartigkeit (magnificentia)16, wie sie sich etwa in dem Stellen von Kriegsschiffen im Dienst des Gemeinwesens oder der Ermo¨glichung einer Theaterauffu¨hrung ausdru¨ckt, fu¨r die auch von Thomas

13 Darauf weist bereits Hartmann 1926: 530 hin, vgl. auch Geach 1977: 162 und Mu¨ller 1998b: 160. 14 S. Th. I – II, q. 58 a. 4. Vgl. auch Geach 1977: 167 f: „So far, then, from accepting the doctrine of the unity of the virtues, I hold that two vices may be better then one, or at any rate less bad, even for the man’s own condition.“ 15 Zu den Problemen, die sich aus solchen minor virtues fu¨r das Problem der Einheit der Tugenden ergeben vgl. Adams 2006: 201 – 204 und Badhwar 1996: 306 f. 16 Vgl. Aristoteles, NE IV.4 – 5; 10. Vgl. dazu Irwin 1988a.

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

409

verteidigte Reziprozita¨tsthese aufwerfen:17 Fu¨r die Tugend der magnificentia bedarf es großer finanzieller Mittel. Wem diese Mittel fehlen, fehlt ipso facto die notwendige Voraussetzung fu¨r den Erwerb dieser Tugend. Doch disqualifiziert ihn dies vom Erwerb anderer Tugenden wie Mut und Gerechtigkeit? Eine solche Folgerung vermeidet Thomas, indem er darauf verweist, dass Tugenden wie Mut und Gerechtigkeit sich durch folgendes Merkmal auszeichnen: virtutum moralium quaedam perficiunt hominem secundum communem statum, scilicet quantum ad ea quae cummuniter in omni vita hominum occurunt agenda.18

Wa¨hrend also Tugenden wie Mut und Gerechtigkeit den Menschen in Bezug auf Handlungsfelder vervollkommnen, die unausweichlicher Bestandteil eines jeden menschlichen Lebens sind, gibt es andere Tugenden, wie eben die magnificentia, die den Menschen lediglich „secundum eminemtem statum“19 vervollkommnen, wobei ein solcher Status den meisten Menschen vorenthalten bleibt (etwa aufgrund ihrer finanziellen Situation), ohne dass ihnen dies moralisch zuzurechnen wa¨re. Die Reziprozita¨tsthese gilt mithin nur fu¨r diejenigen Tugenden, die – wie die klassischen Kardinaltugenden – unverzichtbar sind fu¨r jedes menschliche Leben, ungeachtet der besonderen Umsta¨nde, in denen es gefu¨hrt wird, ohne dass damit ausgeschlossen wa¨re, dass solche besonderen Umsta¨nde wie etwa das Verfu¨gen u¨ber große finanzielle Mittel weitere Tugenden ermo¨glichen und vielleicht sogar erfordern. Auch hier wird dann aber mit Thomas davon zu sprechen sein, dass eine Tugend wie die der magnificentia nicht a¨ußerlich zu den bereits vorhandenen hinzutritt, sondern in ihnen – hier insbesondere in der der liberalitas – bereits „in potentia propinqua“20 angelegt ist. Ebenfalls aus dem Gegenstandsbereich der Einheitsthese ausgeschlossen sind mit diesem Kriterium Tugenden, die an bestimmte Berufe oder an partikulare kulturelle Traditionen gebunden sind und die damit ipso facto nicht Bestandteil eines jeden menschlichen Lebens sein ko¨nnen.21 Solche Tugenden implizieren einander nicht nur nicht wechselseitig, sondern ko¨nnen einander sogar ausschließen: Die skrupulo¨se Gewissenhaftigkeit des Entomologen mag mit der Spontaneita¨t des Ausdrucksta¨nzers durchaus unvereinbar sein. Eine kritische Diskussion der Einheitsthese muss also – soll sie die strittige Frage nicht von vornherein pra¨judizieren – von vornherein ihren Anwendungsbereich in der beschriebenen Weise einschra¨nken. Wie aber ist es um den Status dieser Einheitsthese bestellt: Dient sie der realistischen Beschreibung der Voraussetzungen fu¨r das Vorliegen von Tugenden oder formuliert sie ein – 17 18 19 20 21

Vgl. S. Th. I – II, q. 65 a. 1. Ebd. ad primum. Ebd. Ebd. Vgl. zu diesen beiden Arten von Tugenden Adams 2006: 202 – 206.

410

Christoph Halbig

vielleicht unerreichbares – normatives Ideal, das einen Orientierungspunkt fu¨r die Verbesserung des menschlichen Charakters vorgibt?22 Insbesondere Philosophiehistoriker, die der Frage nachgehen, warum die Einheitsthese, sei es in Form der Identita¨tsthese oder in derjenigen der Reziprozita¨tsthese in der antiken Philosophie trotz ihrer aus moderner Sicht offenkundigen Spannung zu zentralen Intuitionen des common sense allgemein akzeptiert wurde, fu¨hren dies darauf zuru¨ck, dass mit der Einheitsthese eben ein Ideal vorgegeben werden sollte,23 das durch den Umstand seiner Unerreichbarkeit fu¨r die meisten oder gar alle Menschen als solches nicht in Frage gestellt wird.24 Unabha¨ngig davon, ob sich eine solche Unterscheidung philosophiegeschichtlich als hilfreich erweist, soll die Einheitsthese im Folgenden nicht als Implikat eines im Rahmen philosophischer Theoriebildung gesetzten Ideals, das sich bewußt revisiona¨r gegenu¨ber dem common sense verha¨lt, sondern als Versuch verstanden werden, ein zentrales Implikat unserer Praxis der Zuschreibung von Tugenden zu explizieren. Nur so kann das Spannungsverha¨ltnis, das sich hier zu zentralen Intuitionen des common sense zu ergeben scheint, u¨berhaupt in den Blick kommen und nach Strategien zur Bewa¨ltigung dieser Spannung gesucht werden.

3. ¨ berlegungen sprechen eigentlich dafu¨r, u¨berhaupt anzunehmen, Doch welche U dass alle Tugenden einander wechselseitig voraussetzen? Einen ersten Ansatz¨ berlegung, dass wir zo¨gern, davon zu punkt liefert die bereits oben angestellte U ¨ sprechen, jemand habe im Ubermaß tugendhaft gehandelt – etwa wenn er alle 22 Vgl. fu¨r diese Alternative Annas 1993: 83. 23 Vgl. Annas ebd. und Broadie 1991: 83, die Aristoteles’ Reziprozita¨tsthese als revisiona¨ren Vorschlag deutet, im Dienst praktischer Ethik die „logic of the terms“, hier der Tugendbegriffe, so zu vera¨ndern, dass „mixed messages“, na¨mlich die gleichzeitige Zuschreibung einer Tugend und eines Lasters zu dem Charakter einer einzigen Person, ausgeschlossen bleiben – obwohl solche „mixed messages“ nach Broadie außerhalb der philosophischen Terminologie einen selbstversta¨ndlichen Bestandteil der antiken Alltagskommunikationen gebildet haben. Die These der Einheit der Tugenden ergibt sich hier per definitonem aus dem unterstellten Vorschlag zur revisiona¨ren Umdeutung der Logik der Tugendbegriffe. 24 Insbesondere in der stoischen Tradition wird die extreme Seltenheit tugendhafter Menschen ausdru¨cklich betont, eine Position, die freilich bereits in der Antike zu einem zentralen Bezugspunkt anti-stoischer Polemik wurde: „Denn wenn nach ihnen (sc. den Stoikern) Tugend und Laster allein gut bzw. schlecht sind […], und wenn von den Menschen die Mehrzahl schlecht ist, oder besser, wenn es […] ein oder zwei gute Menschen gegeben hat, a¨hnlich wie ein sonderbares und von Natur aus selteneres Lebewesen als der a¨thiopische Pho¨nix, und wenn alle schlechten Menschen gleich schlecht wie alle anderen sind […], wie ko¨nnte der Mensch dann nicht das unglu¨cklichste aller Lebewesen sein?“ (Alexander von Aphrodisias, De fato 199,14 – 22)

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

411

seine Mittel erscho¨pft hat, um jemand anderem eine Wohltat zu erweisen, dadurch aber selbst in der Zukunft anderen zur Last fallen wird. Und was erkla¨rt im strukturell umgekehrten Fall unsere Bereitschaft, auch dann noch jemandem eine Tugend zuzusprechen, wenn sie gerade nicht zur Ausu¨bung kommt, weil ihr andere normative Erwa¨gungen mit gro¨ßerem Gewicht entgegenstehen? Wer eine Wohltat, die ihn ruiniert, verweigert, scheint sich dadurch keineswegs als weniger wohlta¨tig zu erweisen als jemand, der sie gewa¨hrt. Unsere Intuitionen scheinen hier einen Zusammenhang zwischen tugendhaftem und moralisch richtigem Handeln vorauszusetzen, der sich in der Form der folgenden These ausdru¨cken la¨ßt: Th: Es ist unmo¨glich, dass aus einer Tugend eine schlechte Handlung resultiert.25

In der Tradition findet sich entsprechend bei Thomas die klassische Formulierung, dass Tugend genannt werde, was niemand schlecht gebrauche: „virtus dicitur qua nullus male utitur.“26

In der Gegenwart schließt sich etwa John McDowell dieser Auffassung an, wenn er davon spricht, „that a virtue issues in nothing but right conduct.“27

Akzeptiert man Th, la¨sst sich nun das folgende Argument A fu¨r die Einheitsthese ¨ berlegungen zur Struktur des Einformulieren, das ich meinen folgenden U heitsproblems zugrunde legen mo¨chte: P1: Th: Es ist unmo¨glich, dass aus einer Tugend eine schlechte Handlung resultiert. P2 : In unserer aktualen Welt ist es immer mo¨glich, dass es normativ relevante Gesichtspunkte gibt, die den Tugenden zugeordnet sind, die einer Person, die nicht u¨ber alle Tugenden verfu¨gt, fehlen, und deren Nichtberu¨cksichtigung (im Widerspruch zu P1) dazu fu¨hren wu¨rde, dass aus ihren vorhandenen Tugenden schlechte Handlungen resultieren. P3 : Eine Handlung kann nicht Ausdruck einer Tugend sein, wenn sie nur deshalb richtig ist, weil die in P2 genannte Mo¨glichkeit in der konkreten Handlungssituation nicht erfu¨llt ist: Tugendhaftes Handeln darf nicht glu¨cksabha¨ngig sein. C: Es ist notwendig, dass, wer aus einer Tugend heraus handelt, auch u¨ber alle anderen Tugenden verfu¨gt.

Zur Veranschaulichung von A mag das bereits oben erwa¨hnte Beispiel des Arztes dienen: Insofern er u¨ber die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit verfu¨gt, wird er geneigt sein, seinen Freunden Gutes zu tun. Wenn das Ausplaudern einer vertraulichen 25 Vgl. etwa Rhonheimer 2001: 220: „Zum Begriff der Tugend geho¨rt gerade, dass sie nur zum Guten ,gebraucht’ werden kann.“ 26 S. Th. I – II, q. 55, a. 4. 27 McDowell 1979: 52.

412

Christoph Halbig

Information u¨ber einen Patienten durch den Arzt zwar den eigenen Freunden Nutzen bringt, jedoch die Rechte Dritter verletzt, wa¨re die entsprechende Handlung als moralisch schlecht zu qualifizieren. Gema¨ß Th ko¨nnte dann auch nicht davon die Rede sein, dass es sich bei ihr um einen tugendhaften Akt, in diesem Fall der Wohlta¨tigkeit, handelt. Um einen solchen Fall zu vermeiden, muss der Arzt mithin nicht nur u¨ber die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit, sondern auch u¨ber die der Gerechtigkeit verfu¨gen, die ihm dazu verhilft, in unserem Fall die Rechte Dritter angemessen zu beru¨cksichtigen. Da nach der zweiten Pra¨misse jedoch in einer Handlungssituation prinzipiell alle fu¨r die einzelnen Tugenden charakteristischen Gesichtspunkte fu¨r die Entscheidung daru¨ber, welche Handlung moralisch gefordert ist, relevant sein ko¨nnen, und tugendhaftes Handeln nach der dritten Pra¨misse nicht davon abha¨ngen darf, dass faktisch keine der Gesichtspunkte fu¨r die Richtigkeit der Handlung relevant sind, die den Tugenden korrespondieren, die einer Person, die nicht u¨ber alle Tugenden verfu¨gt, gerade fehlen, bedarf es, so die Konklusion, aller Tugenden, um auch nur einer einzigen Tugend gema¨ß handeln zu ko¨nnen. Nichts weniger als das Verfu¨gen u¨ber alle Tugenden stellt sicher, dass auch nur im Sinne einer einzigen Tugend, etwa der Wohlta¨tigkeit, tugendhaft gehandelt werden kann, ohne dabei gegen den in P1 enthaltenen Grundsatz zu verstoßen, dass aus einer Tugend keine schlechte Handlung resultieren kann. In den drei folgenden Abschnitten mo¨chte ich nun anhand von zwei Fragestellungen, die sich an das Argument A richten lassen, die innere Struktur des Einheitsproblems und die systematischen Optionen, die sich in Bezug auf es ero¨ffnen, na¨her zu erkunden versuchen: (1) (2)

Treffen die drei Pra¨missen des Arguments zu? (dazu unten Kapitel 4) Was genau zeigt das Argument – spricht es fu¨r die Einheitsthese im Sinne von I oder von R? (dazu unten Kapitel 5)

4. Um einscha¨tzen zu ko¨nnen, ob das Argument zugunsten der Einheitsthese tatsa¨chlich u¨berzeugen kann, bedarf es zuna¨chst einer na¨heren Pru¨fung seiner drei Pra¨missen. Ich mo¨chte zuna¨chst P1 als zutreffend voraussetzen und P2 und P3 untersuchen (4.1), um dann den P1 selbst einer kritischen Pru¨fung zu unterziehen (4.2).

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

413

4.1. Mit Blick auf P2 und P3 zeigt sich, dass diese Pra¨misse nur dann u¨berzeugen kann, wenn ein holistisches Versta¨ndnis des Richtigen bzw. Falschen vorausgesetzt wird – und zwar in doppelter Hinsicht sowohl mit Blick auf seine interne Struktur (4.1.1.) wie auf seine Reichweite (4.1.2.). 4.1.1. Soll A u¨berzeugen, muss erstens das Richtige bzw. Falsche im Sinne einer organischen Ganzheit28 gedeutet werden, wobei ich unter organisch verstehe, dass der Wert der einzelnen Elemente einer solchen Ganzheit konstitutiv durch ihren Bezug auf diese Ganzheit und ihre Stellung in ihr bestimmt wird, wobei die Tugenden hier die Elemente dieser Ganzheit bilden. Ein Charakterzug wie Wohlta¨tigkeit wu¨rde demzufolge sein positives evaluatives Vorzeichen, das es erlaubt, diesen Charakterzug als Tugend zu bezeichnen, verlieren, insofern er sich in falschem Handeln ausdru¨ckt – z. B. wie im Fall des Arztes dadurch, dass der der Wohlta¨tigkeit zugeordnete normative Gesichtspunkt der Fu¨rsorge fu¨r andere, hier die der Freunde des Arztes, einen unzula¨ssigen Vorrang gegenu¨ber dem Gesichtspunkt der Rechte anderer, hier des Patienten, wie er der Tugend der Gerechtigkeit entspricht, erha¨lt. Zugleich muss vorausgesetzt werden, dass in einer solchen organischen Struktur auch jedes einzelne dieser Elemente den Wert der Ganzheit vera¨ndern kann. Wenn es etwa einen lexikalischen Vorrang der Gerechtigkeit vor anderen Tugenden in dem Sinne geben wu¨rde, dass eine Handlung, die den Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit genu¨gt, ipso facto die all things considered richtige Handlung wa¨re, dann wu¨rde diese Tugend im Widerspruch zu P2 notwendig zu richtigem Handeln fu¨hren, auch wenn durch das Fehlen anderer Tugenden die gerechte Person keinerlei Sensibilita¨t fu¨r die ihnen entsprechenden normativen Gesichtspunkte ha¨tte. Dafu¨r, dass das Richtige bzw. Falsche, wie es in A in Anspruch genommen ¨ berlegung: In wird, eine solche organische Struktur aufweist, spricht folgende U unserem Beispiel muss der Arzt aufgrund seiner Schweigepflicht in der Tat darauf verzichten, seinen Freunden die nu¨tzliche Information zu u¨bermitteln, 28 Der Begriff der „organic wholes“ geht auf G.E. Moore 1903: §§ 18 – 23 zuru¨ck. Wa¨hrend Moore jedoch insofern eine invariablistische Position vertritt, als er den Teilen einer solchen Ganzheit immer derselben intrinsischen Wert zuschreibt, gleich in welche Ganzheiten sie eingebettet sind (wa¨hrend sie jedoch andererseits zum Wert der Ganzheit selbst mehr oder weniger Wert beitragen ko¨nnen, als sie selbst besitzen), ero¨ffnet das hier zugrunde gelegte Versta¨ndnis von organischen Ganzheiten die Mo¨glichkeit, dass die Teile ihr evaluatives Vorzeichen je nach ihrer Stellung in unterschiedlichen Ganzheiten a¨ndern. Vgl. dazu auch Dancy 2004: Kap. 9 & 10.

414

Christoph Halbig

weil sonst im Widerspruch zu P1 aus der Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit eine schlechte Handlung resultieren wu¨rde. Er darf also nicht allein u¨ber die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit verfu¨gen, sondern muss auch Gesichtspunkten der Gerechtigkeit gegenu¨ber zuga¨nglich sein. Erst aus der Art und Weise, wie sich Gesichtspunkten der Wohlta¨tigkeit und solche der Gerechtigkeit zu einem normativen Gesamtprofil der Handlungssituation integrieren, ergibt sich eine Antwort darauf, wie die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit angemessen, na¨mlich in richtigem Handeln, zum Ausdruck gebracht werden kann. Und umgekehrt – wie Thomas unter Voraussetzung der hier hervorgehobenen organischen Struktur bemerkt: „Mangelnde Klugheit in einem Bereich des Handelns wu¨rde einen solchen Mangel auch in anderen Bereichen nach sich ziehen. [meine Hervorhebung, C. H.]“29 Wer in einer solchen Situation gegenu¨ber den Pflichten der Gerechtigkeit blind bleibt, dem fehlt ein Element der Ganzheit, die aufgrund ihrer organischen Struktur konstitutiv fu¨r das Versta¨ndnis dessen ist, was es bedeutet, hier wohlta¨tig zu sein. Genau dieser Umstand erkla¨rt unser Zo¨gern, das Handeln von jemandem, der wahllos und unter Vernachla¨ssigung dessen, was er sich und von ihm Abha¨ngigen schuldet, sein Vermo¨gen verschenkt, als Ausdruck von Wohlta¨tigkeit zu verstehen. Die Ru¨cksicht, die Wohlta¨tigkeit hier etwa auf Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit zu nehmen hat, ist der Wohlta¨tigkeit also keineswegs a¨ußerlich, sondern bildet ein konstitutives Element dessen, was es heißt, im konkreten Fall wohlta¨tig zu sein. An dieser Stelle wird zugleich die Funktion von P3 deutlich: P3 wird beno¨tigt, um zu verhindern, dass jemand ohne u¨ber alle Tugenden zu verfu¨gen, dennoch aus schierem Glu¨ck im Sinne einer Tugend tugendhaft handeln kann – jemand hat etwa die Neigung, anderen Gutes zu tun, der er freien Lauf lassen wu¨rde, auch wenn Gesichtspunkte der Gerechtigkeit oder der Besonnenheit ein solches Verhalten moralisch ausschließen wu¨rden. In der Handlungssituation jedoch sind solche Gesichtspunkte einfach nicht relevant. Hier wu¨rden wir bestenfalls konzedieren, dass eine richtige Handlung vorliegt, nicht aber, dass sie etwa die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit zum Ausdruck bringt, da tugendhaftes Handeln nicht von solchen kontingenten Glu¨cksfa¨llen abha¨ngig sein darf. Aber impliziert ein solcher organische Zusammenhang, dass jemand, um u¨ber eine einzige Tugend zu verfu¨gen, tatsa¨chlich u¨ber alle anderen charakterlichen Vorzu¨ge in einem Maß verfu¨gen muss, das es rechtfertigt, von ihnen als Tugenden zu sprechen? Oder genu¨gt etwas schwa¨cheres? Abgeschwa¨chte These der Reziprozita¨t der Tugenden: Ontologisch existiert eine Pluralita¨t von Tugenden, und zwar in der Weise, dass jemand nur dann u¨ber eine dieser Tugenden verfu¨gen kann, wenn er fu¨r die fu¨r alle anderen Tugenden charakteristischen 29 Thomas, I – II, 65a1, ad 4: „defectus prudentiae circa unam partem agibilium induceret defectum etiam circa alia agibilia.“

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

415

Gesichtspunkte hinreichend zuga¨nglich ist, wobei ,hinreichend‘ nicht bedeutet, dass er dies in einem Maß tut, das fu¨r den Besitz dieser Tugenden ausreicht.30 (= AR)

Was hier hinreichend meint, kann entweder in einem kognitiven oder in einem affektiven Sinne oder in beiden verstanden werden: In kognitiver Hinsicht stellt sich die Frage, ob es nicht mo¨glich wa¨re, dass eine Person P zwar in der Situation unseres Beispiels den Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit das ihnen zukommende Gewicht gegenu¨ber solchen der Wohlta¨tigkeit einra¨umt, in Fa¨llen aber, wo sie mit Forderungen anderer Art konfligieren (die im vorliegenden Fall nicht relevant sind), ihnen gegenu¨ber gleichgu¨ltig bleibt – warum sollte dieser Umstand dazu zwingen zu bestreiten, dass in der aktualen Situation eine tugendhafte Handlung vorliegt? In affektiver Hinsicht wa¨re zu fragen, ob nicht, selbst wenn keine solchen kognitiven ,blinden Flecken‘ zugelassen werden ko¨nnen, die Mo¨glichkeit bleibt, dass P zwar darum weiß, dass etwa in der vorliegenden Situation die Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit dagegen sprechen, den Neigungen der Wohlta¨tigkeit freien Lauf zu lassen, und dieses Wissen auch motivational wirksam werden la¨sst, dies aber in der fu¨r einen bloß Selbstbeherrschten charakteristischen Weise geschieht, insofern das Wissen um die Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit nicht in angemessener Weise auf der affektiven Ebene implementiert ist – P also z. B. mit Regungen des Widerwillens gegen das als richtig Erkannte zu ka¨mpfen haben wird.31 Diese fehlende affektive Kraft von Gesichtspunkten der Gerechtigkeit spricht dagegen, P die Tugend der Gerechtigkeit zuzuschreiben – aber warum sollte sie hier dagegen sprechen, P die Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit zuzuschreiben? Dies zu unterstellen, hieße, so scheint es, die organische Ganzheit zu u¨berfordern. In dem Maße, in dem die Mo¨glichkeit solcher kognitiver oder affektiver Lu¨cken zugelassen wird, schwa¨cht sich die Beweiskraft von A zugunsten der Einheitsthese ab. Hier gilt es aber, zweierlei festzuhalten: Erstens ist keineswegs klar, ob sich nicht ein ausreichend starkes Versta¨ndnis des organischen Zusammenhangs verteidigen la¨sst: Der Widerwille gegen die Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit in unserem Beispiel etwa bleibt, so ko¨nnte man 30 AR bildet den Kern der von Gary Watson vertretenen „weak unity thesis“, vgl. Watson ¨ berlegungen von Wolf 2007: 161 ff. Ihr 1984: 60. In dieselbe Richtung weisen auch die U zufolge muss eine Person, um u¨ber eine einzelne Tugend zu verfu¨gen, nicht u¨ber alle anderen Tugenden selbst, sondern nur u¨ber das fu¨r sie charakteristische Wissen u¨ber die ihnen entsprechenden normativen Gesichtspunkte verfu¨gen; dabei kann offen bleiben, ob eine solche Person u¨ber das Wissen hinaus auch u¨ber die fu¨r das Vorliegen solcher Tugenden notwendigen emotionalen und motivationalen Muster verfu¨gt. In unserem Beispiel genu¨gt es also, wenn der Arzt um die Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit weiß und sie in seinem ¨ berlegen beru¨cksichtigt; falls er aber keine Freude am gerechten Handeln hat, praktischen U ko¨nnte ihm die Tugend der Gerechtigkeit selbst nicht zugeschrieben werden, ohne dass dies die Zuschreibung der Tugend der Wohlta¨tigkeit in Frage stellen wu¨rde. 31 Aufgeworfen wird diese Frage von Annas 1993: 77

416

Christoph Halbig

entgegnen, kein ,lokales‘ Problem der Tugend der Gerechtigkeit, sondern geht in ¨ berlegen als Ganzes ein (lohnt es, meinen Widerwillen zu das praktische U u¨berwinden? etc.) und wirkt sich damit auch auf die Bereiche anderer Tugenden aus.32 Gera¨t der Handelnde etwa in eine Situation, in der nicht nur Forderungen der Wohlta¨tigkeit und solche der Gerechtigkeit beteiligt sind, sondern auch die einer dritten Art, die in diesem Fall die Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit verdunkeln, wird er vielleicht in einer moralisch falschen Weise handeln. Nur wenn sichergestellt ist, dass er den Forderungen der Gerechtigkeit verla¨sslich das ihnen zukommende Gewicht einra¨umt, er also tatsa¨chlich u¨ber die Tugend der Gerechtigkeit in ihren kognitiven wie affektiven Dimensionen verfu¨gt, kann ein solcher Fall ausgeschlossen werden. Dasselbe gilt dann auch fu¨r alle anderen Tugenden. Zweitens sollte gerade der Vertreter der Einheitsthese einem gradualistischen Versta¨ndnis des Zusammenhangs der Tugenden gegenu¨ber offen sein: Seine Position fordert nur, dass jemand, der u¨ber eine Tugend verfu¨gt, u¨ber alle anderen verfu¨gen muss, aber nicht, dass er u¨ber alle in demselben Maße verfu¨gen muss. Es genu¨gt, dass ihre Bedingungen soweit erfu¨llt sind, dass von einem Vorliegen der anderen Tugenden gesprochen werden kann.33 4.1.2. Die Einheitsthese stu¨tzt sich indes nicht nur auf das gerade erla¨uterte organische Verha¨ltnis zwischen den Tugenden einerseits und dem richtigen Handeln andererseits, sie setzt auch voraus, dass die Tugenden ausschließlich der Person als ganzer pra¨diziert werden, nicht aber der Person relativ auf eine bestimmte Hinsicht, etwa ihre berufliche Ta¨tigkeit, ihre soziale Rolle etc. Nur so kann die Mo¨glichkeit einer bloß bereichsspezifischen Reziprozita¨t von Tugenden ausgeschlossen werden: Eine Person P ko¨nnte in diesem Sinne qua Familienvater in einer Weise tugendhaft sein, die die einzelnen Tugenden in der durch die Einheitsthese geforderten Weise integriert, jedoch qua Chef eines Unternehmens 32 Vgl. dazu auch die Entgegnung Irwins auf Kraut 1988, in: Irwin 1988b: 88 f. 33 Zu schwach erscheint mir die Position von Mu¨ller 1998b: 166: „Die These von der Unzertrennlichkeit der Tugenden gilt, wo¨rtlich genommen, nur fu¨r das Ideal.“ (Vgl. auch Mu¨ller 1998a: 193: „Freilich ist es nur der vollkommene Besitz einer Tugend, der den Besitz auch anderer Tugenden verlangt.“) Damit wa¨re die Mo¨glichkeit ero¨ffnet, dass jemand u¨ber eine Tugend, wenn auch im unvollkommenen Maße, verfu¨gt, die mit einer Reihe von Lastern koexistiert. Abgesehen davon, dass die Unterscheidung zwischen dem vollkommenen und dem unvollkommenen Besitz einer Tugend unklar bleibt, wa¨re mit einer solchen Positon die Reziprozita¨tsthese entgegen der erkla¨rten Absicht von Mu¨ller, sie zu verteidigen, doch aufgegeben. Ein gradualistische Position kann der Vertreter der Einheitsthese nur in Bezug auf das Maß, in dem der der Besitzer einer Tugend u¨ber alle anderen Tugenden verfu¨gt, vertreten; dass er u¨ber alle anderen verfu¨gt, muss aber sichergestellt bleiben.

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

417

durchaus lasterhaft sein.34 Gegen eine solche ,Regionalisierung‘ der Tugend ließe sich freilich wiederum aus holistischer Sicht einwenden, dass jemand, der fu¨r seinen Mitmenschen nur qua Familienmitglied, nicht aber qua Mitarbeiter Hilfsbereitschaft aufbringen kann, nicht einmal gegenu¨ber ersterem in der rechten Weise handeln kann, insofern er na¨mlich in seinem Verhalten die Rollenidentita¨t dieser Person, in einer verwandtschaftlichen Beziehung zu ihm selbst zu stehen, gegenu¨ber seinem Eigenrecht als eigensta¨ndige Person einseitig u¨berbewertet. Die Einheit der Tugenden la¨sst sich nicht auf soziale Rollen relativieren, weil eben diese Rollen ihrerseits nicht voneinander isoliert sind, sondern die Frage aufwerfen, wie sie sich integrieren lassen, um so ein richtiges Handeln der Person als ganzer zu ermo¨glichen.

4.2. P2 und P3 eigenen sich indes nur dann als Pra¨missen fu¨r die Einheitsthese, wenn die These zutrifft, die den Inhalt von P1 bildet. Aber beruht, so bleibt zu fragen, diese These nicht insgesamt auf einer verfehlten Auffassung u¨ber den Zusammenhang zwischen tugendhaftem und richtigem Handeln und sollte daher aufgegeben (4.2.1.) oder abgeschwa¨cht werden (4.2.2.)? 4.2.1. Die These Th unterstellt per definitionem als wahr, dass aus einer Tugend keine schlechte Handlung resultieren kann. Dass ein Zusammenhang zwischen Tugend und richtigem Handeln besteht, ist unkontrovers: Von einem tugendhaften Menschen erwarten wir, dass er verla¨sslich das Richtige zu tun versucht und dass ihm dies auch verla¨sslich gelingt. Aber ist der definitorische Zusammenhang, der durch Th zwischen Tugend und richtigem bzw. falschem Handeln behauptet wird, nicht ein zu enger, der weit u¨ber die unkontroverse Annahme hinausgeht? Hinter dieser Frage steht die Befu¨rchtung, dass durch den in Th unterstellen Zusammenhang die irreduzible Bedeutung, die aretaische Kategorien im Unterschied zu deontischen wie richtig bzw. falsch fu¨r unsere Praxis moralischer Bewertung besitzen, aus dem Blick geraten ko¨nnte. Wenn wir eine Handlung als 34 Der Nachweis einer solchen „disunity in practical wisdom and in virtue across different domains of a person’s life“ (S. 315) steht im Zentrum von Badhwars Verteidigung einer , begrenzten Einheit der Tugend’: Nach Badhwar la¨sst sich die Einheitsthese nur bereichsspezifisch anwenden: Eine Person P muß als Staatsmann nicht nur gerecht, sondern auch mutig usf. sein, kann aber als Familienvater durchaus ungerecht sein, gefordert ist lediglich, dass er nicht in allen anderen Bereichen durchweg lasterhaft ist (vgl. Badhwars Bedingung (2), ebd., S. 308). Zu Badhwars Kriterien fu¨r die Abgrenzung solcher Bereiche vgl. ebd., S. 316.

418

Christoph Halbig

tugendhaft oder lasterhaft bezeichnen, charakterisieren wir sie (i) mit Blick auf den Charakter des Handelnden, der sich in ihr manifestiert, und wir charakterisieren sie (ii) in einer Weise, die moralische Ambivalenz zula¨sst: Wenn wir im Sinne von (i) mit Begriffen der Tugenden und Laster prima¨r nicht die Handlungen selbst, sondern das, was hinter diesen, na¨mlich im Charakter des Handelnden, liegt,35 charakterisieren, dann, so scheint es, o¨ffnet sich begrifflicher Raum fu¨r Handlungen, die sich einem tugendhaften Charakter verdanken und dennoch moralisch falsch sein mo¨gen. Eine zu wohlta¨tige Handlung etwa mag einen Charakterzug zum Ausdruck bringen, der in dem Sinne lobenswert ist, dass er die Zuschreibung der entsprechenden Tugend rechtfertigt, und doch falsch sein: Und dies nicht einmal deshalb, weil es dem Handelnden an anderen Tugenden gefehlt hat, sondern vielleicht nur deshalb, weil er eine wichtige, in diesem Zusammenhang relevante Information vergessen hat. Zudem erlauben aretaische Kategorien im Sinne von (ii) anders als deontische ambivalente Charakterisierungen: Eine Handlung, die all things considered richtig ist, kann nicht zugleich falsch sein. Warum aber sollte nicht eine Handlung wie die des exzessiven Wohlta¨ters, die all things considered falsch ist, gleichermaßen eine positive und eine negative aretaische Charakterisierung erlauben – sie ist eben wohlta¨tig und ungerecht zugleich. Vor diesem Hintergrund ko¨nnte es geboten erscheinen, Th wenn nicht vollsta¨ndig aufzugeben, so doch zumindest durch eine schwa¨chere Variante zu ersetzen.

4.2.2. Fu¨r eine Abschwa¨chung von Th, die die Mo¨glichkeit ero¨ffnet, auch dem qua Voraussetzung falsch handelnden Bankra¨uber die Tugend des Mutes zuzuschreiben, ohne den Zusammenhang zwischen tugendhaften und richtigem Handeln zu durchtrennen, pla¨diert Philippa Foot. Foot schla¨gt vor, Tugenden als Fa¨higkeiten zu verstehen, gute Handlungen hervorzubringen. Ebenso wie wir aber davon sprechen, dass Gifte als Fa¨higkeiten, toxisch zu wirken, in Fa¨llen, wo eine toxische Wirkung ausbleibt, Gifte bleiben, aber nicht als solche wirken, besteht nach Foot auch die Mo¨glichkeit, von Tugenden zu sprechen, die nicht als Tugenden wirken.36 Mit Blick auf das Argument A ergibt sich damit die folgende Modifikation von P1: Th*: Es ist unmo¨glich, dass aus einer Tugend, insofern sie sich als Tugend auswirkt, eine schlechte Handlung resultiert.

35 Vgl. Adams 2006: 9. 36 Vgl. Foot 1978: 124 f.

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

419

Wenn eine Person, die uns in ihrem Handeln als mutig erscheint, einen Bankraub begeht, dessen Durchfu¨hrung wir als mutig zu charakterisieren geneigt sind, dann bleibt, wenn das Argument A zutrifft, nur die Mo¨glichkeit, entweder zu leugnen, dass (i) der Bankra¨uber tatsa¨chlich u¨ber die Tugend des Mutes verfu¨gt (vielleicht ist er lediglich tollku¨hn), oder (ii) zu konzedieren, dass er in der Tat u¨ber Mut verfu¨gt, aber zu bestreiten, dass es sich beim Mut in solchen Fa¨llen um eine Tugend handelt. Foots Gedanke ero¨ffnet nun eine dritte Mo¨glichkeit, na¨mlich (iii) dem Bankra¨uber die Tugend des Mutes zuzuschreiben, jedoch zu bestreiten, dass sie sich beim Bankraub als solche ausgewirkt habe, insofern dieser Mut zum Gelingen einer a¨ußerst ungerechten Handlung beigetragen hat. Entgegen der Einheitsthese besteht also die Mo¨glichkeit, dass ein Laster (hier das der Ungerechtigkeit) mit einer oder mehreren Tugenden koexisitert, die sich jedoch nicht als solche artikulieren wu¨rden. Gegen Foot la¨sst sich jedoch einwenden, dass die von ihr bemu¨hte Analogie von Tugenden und Giften der spezifisch normativen Dimension ersterer nicht gerecht wird: Dass das Laster der Ungerechtigkeit beim ,mutigen‘ Bankra¨uber die normale kausale Wirkung des Mutes in demselben Sinne verhindert, wie ein Gegengift die des Giftes, erweist sich als unvereinbar mit unserer Intuition, dass Laster den Mut in einer Weise korrumpieren, die nicht dessen kausale Wirkung betrifft, sondern diesen selbst in seinem Status als Tugend. Haben wir es mit einem zutiefst bo¨sen Charakter zu tun, der Handlungen vollzieht, die denen eines Mutigen a¨hneln, unterstellen wir gerade nicht, dass er u¨ber eine Tugend verfu¨gt, deren kausale Wirkung bedauerlicherweise durch andere Faktoren abgeschirmt wird. Im Gegenteil: Lesen wir davon, dass jemand, der einen Ertrinkenden unter Einsatz seines Lebens gerettet hat, ein Vergewaltiger ist, wird uns fraglich, ob wir es tatsa¨chlich mit einem mutigen Menschen zu tun gehabt haben ko¨nnen. Die beiden Alternativen (i) und (ii) erweisen sich also als ausreichend, um den Fall des ,mutigen Bankra¨ubers‘ abzudecken – entweder war er in der Tat nicht mutig, oder mit Mut beziehen wir uns auf eine natu¨rliche Anlage im Sinne der aristotelischen natu¨rlichen Tugenden, die jedoch den Namen Tugend nur uneigentlich tra¨gt. Es besteht daher pace Foot kein Anlass, das Th in P1 durch Th* zu ersetzen.

5. Wenn die drei Pra¨missen verteidigt werden ko¨nnen, bleibt dennoch die Frage offen, was eigentlich aus ihnen folgt. Insbesondere ist zu kla¨ren, ob das Argument A auf die Einheitsthese in Form der Identita¨tsthese oder in Form der Reziprozita¨tsthese fu¨hrt. Zwingt es nicht dazu, so ko¨nnte man fragen, anstatt von einer Pluralita¨t der Tugenden zu reden, den Begriff der Tugend nur noch im

420

Christoph Halbig

Singular zu verwenden, um damit in sokratischer Tradition das Wissen um das, was in der Situation zu tun richtig ist, zu bezeichnen? McDowell als ein zeitgeno¨ssischer Vertreter dieses Arguments spricht in diesem Zusammenhang nicht zufa¨llig abwechselnd von der Tugend als „single sensitivity“ und als „single complex sensitivity“.37 Die Frage ist nun aber gerade, inwiefern von der Tugend als Wissen um das Richtige noch als einer komplexen Fa¨higkeit im Gegensatz zu einer einzigen Fa¨higkeit gesprochen werden kann – mit welchem Recht sprechen wir weiterhin von einer mutigen, wohlta¨tigen etc. Handlung anstatt in jedem dieser Fa¨lle gleichermaßen von einer tugendhaften Handlung? Ein erstes Prinzip der Individuation der einzelnen Tugenden, die deren Kollabieren in die eine Tugend des Wissens verhindert, stellt bereits die Tradition bereit, und zwar mit der Lehre von den natu¨rlichen Tugenden.38 Viele Menschen verfu¨gen glu¨cklicherweise u¨ber solche natu¨rliche Anlagen, etwa zur Hilfsbereitschaft. Diesen Anlagen eignet auch eine kognitive Dimension – der Hilfsbereite wird geneigt sein, die Hilfebedu¨rftigkeit eines Mitmenschen zu ¨ berlegen beizumessen –, sie erkennen und ihr Gewicht in seinem praktischen U erscho¨pfen sich aber nicht darin. Vielmehr zeichnen sich die natu¨rlichen Tugenden durch weitere Merkmale wie emotionale Muster (die Art und Weise, wie auf die erkannte Hilfebedu¨rftigkeit reagiert wird, etwa durch Empathie, Mitleid etc.) sowie charakteristische Motivations- und Verhaltensstrukturen aus (also im Falle des Hilfsbereiten die selbstversta¨ndliche Hintanstellung eigennu¨tziger Ziele, sofern sie mit der Hilfeleistung konkurrieren). Diese natu¨rlichen Tugenden bilden keine Einheit,39 wer u¨ber eine natu¨rliche Anlage zur Hilfsbereitschaft ¨ ngstlichkeit neigen. Ohne auf das verfu¨gt, kann gleichzeitig zur u¨bertriebenen A Problem ihrer genauen Individuierung hier na¨her eingehen zu ko¨nnen, eignen sich solche natu¨rlichen Tugenden jedenfalls als ,Anker‘, die es erlauben, die Einheitsthese im Sinne einer Pluralita¨t von einander implizierenden Tugenden zu deuten: Genau wie die natu¨rlichen Tugenden nur im Vorgriff auf ihre Kultivierung durch die praktische Vernunft u¨berhaupt als Tugenden bezeichnet werden, kann in umgekehrter Richtung davon die Rede sein, dass diese natu¨rlichen Anlagen im Zuge einer solchen Kultivierung ,aufgehoben‘ im Hegel’schen Sinne der Bewahrung werden.40 Doch welche Rolle spielt die Pluralita¨t der voneinander unabha¨ngigen natu¨rlichen Tugenden noch, nachdem es gelungen ist, einen im Sinne der Reziprozita¨tsthese tugendhaften Charakter zu erwerben? Kollabiert dann nicht die 37 McDowell 1979:53. 38 Vgl. Aristoteles NE VI. 13 und die entsprechende Unterscheidung bei Thomas zwischen virtus perfecta und virtus imperfecta, S. Th. I – II, q. 65, auch 1. 39 Vgl. Aristoteles, NE VI.13, 1144b32 – 1145a1. 40 Zum Verha¨ltnis von natu¨rlichen und ethischen Tugenden vgl. auch Mu¨ller 1998a, bes. Abschnitt 4.1.

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

421

Einheit der Tugenden in die eine Tugend, etwa des Wissens um das Richtige? Dass dies nicht der Fall ist, zeigt indes ein Blick auf die deliberative Perspektive des Tugendhaften, der sich fragt, wie er handeln soll. Seine Tugenden stellen ihm die kognitiven und affektiven Ressourcen bereit, die in der konkreten Situation fu¨r sein Handeln relevanten normativen Gesichtspunkte wahrzunehmen und sie zu einem Urteil daru¨ber, was zu tun fu¨r ihn richtig ist, zu integrieren. Bei der ¨ berlegens kommt Gewichtung dieser Gesichtspunkte im Zuge des praktischen U den einzelnen Tugenden indes in der Regel ein durchaus unterschiedliches Gewicht zu: Im Beispiel des Arztes sind es Erwa¨gungen der Gerechtigkeit, die ¨ berlegen als hervorstechend (salient) erweisen sich bei korrektem praktischen U sollten. Die damit konkurrierenden Gesichtspunkte der Wohlta¨tigkeit werden auch dem Tugendhaften zwar bewusst sein, zugleich sollte er diese aber aufgrund der „Filterwirkung“ seiner den Rechten des Patienten geschuldeten Schweigepflicht gar nicht erst gegen die Gesichtspunkte der Gerechtigkeit abwa¨gen.41 Andere Gesichtspunkte wie etwa die des Mutes oder der Besonnenheit mo¨gen hingegen in der konkreten Situation keine Rolle spielen und nur in dem kontrafaktischen Sinne relevant sein, dass, wu¨rden sie eine Rolle spielen, sie im ¨ berlegens angemessen Beru¨cksichtigung finden Rahmen des praktischen U 42 wu¨rden. Die Handlung des Arztes verdient vor diesem Hintergrund deshalb die Bezeichnung als gerecht, weil der Handelnde im Rahmen seines praktischen ¨ berlegens die Situation prima¨r unter dem Gesichtspunkt wahrgenommen hat, U dass seine Pflichten gegenu¨ber dem Patienten hier die Unterlassung der Weitergabe der nu¨tzlichen Information verlangt. Die Individuierung der Pluralita¨t der Tugenden erfolgt also hier u¨ber den je eigensta¨ndigen Beitrag, den sie zum ¨ berlegen leisten. Da das Ziel dieses U ¨ berlegens freilich wiederum praktischen U 41 Mit McDowell 1979: § 3 sollte hier zwischen dem Abwa¨gen zwischen Gru¨nden einerseits, dem Zum-Schweigen-Bringen (silencing) von Gru¨nden andererseits unterschieden werden: Der Tugendhafte zeichnet sich nicht nur dadurch aus, dass er die richtigen Abwa¨gungen zwischen unterschiedlichen Gru¨nden trifft, sondern zusa¨tzlich dadurch, dass er bestimmten ¨ berlegen gewa¨hrt. Der Tugendhafte Gru¨nden gar nicht erst Eingang in sein praktisches U wird etwa im Unterschied zum bloß Selbstbeherrschten in einer Situation, in der die Rettung eines Menschenlebens fu¨r ihn physische Unannehmlichkeiten (nicht aber ernsthafte Gefa¨hrdungen seines eigenen Lebens) mit sich bringt, diese gar nicht erst in Betracht ziehen und gegen die Hilfeleistung abwa¨gen. Vgl. auch McDowell 1978: § 8f. 42 Annas 1993: 82 f. gibt im Zuge ihrer Diskussion der stoischen Debatte um die Einheit der Tugenden folgende Antwort auf die Frage, worin denn der Unterschied zwischen den Tugenden bestehe: „It is an intellectual difference of a kind – but one of priority rather than that of content.“ (S. 82) Die Priorita¨t wiederum ist nach Annas keine zeitliche in dem Sinne, dass bei Handlungen, die wir als mutig bezeichnen, diejenigen Aspekte der Situation, die die ¨ berwindung von Furcht erfordern, zuerst Eingang in den Prozeß des praktischen U ¨ berU legens gefunden ha¨tten. Vielmehr handele es sich um eine normative Priorita¨t, die etwa den Gesichtspunkten des Mutes in der Perspektive, in der sich der Handelnde des normativen Profils der Handlungssituation vergewissert, zukomme.

422

Christoph Halbig

auf Einheit angelegt, na¨mlich auf die Beantwortung der Frage, was all things considered zu tun richtig ist, kommt dem Hervorheben einer einzigen Tugend, die dann die Handlung als ganze charakterisiert, eine durchaus beschra¨nkte Rolle zu: Stillschweigend bleibt unterstellt, dass die Handlung vom Handelnden als die richtige intendiert wird; der Verweis auf eine einzelne Tugend vermittelt lediglich die zusa¨tzliche Information, welcher Gesichtspunkt bei der Beantwortung der Frage nach dem richtigen Handeln normativ im Vordergrund gestanden hat.

6. ¨ berlegungen zum Einheitsproblem geAuf welche Ergebnisse haben unsere U fu¨hrt? Ausgehend von der Unterscheidung zwischen Identita¨ts- und Reziprozita¨tsthese als den beiden Varianten der Einheitsthese und der Beobachtung, dass das Problem der Einheit der Tugenden streng genommen nur durch letztere zu lo¨sen ist, wurde ein Argument fu¨r die Einheit der Tugenden formuliert, das auf der These beruht, dass Tugenden nicht in schlechten Handlungen resultieren ko¨nnen. Dieses Argument vermag indes nur in dem Maße zu u¨berzeugen, als ein in doppelter Hinsicht holistisches Versta¨ndnis der kognitiven und affektiven Konstitutionsbedingungen richtigen Handelns verteidigt werden kann. In einem weiteren Schritt wurde gefragt, ob das Argument nicht in dem Sinne zu stark sein ko¨nnte, als es auf die Identita¨tsthese und damit auf die Aufhebung einer Pluralita¨t der Tugenden fu¨hrt; demgegenu¨ber wurden zwei Verteidigungsstrategien der Reziprozita¨tsthese, die sich jeweils auf die Einbeziehung der natu¨rlichen Tugenden einerseits und der deliberativen Perspektive des Handelnden andererseits stu¨tzen, formuliert. Eine Entscheidung des Einheitsproblems muss freilich außerhalb der Grenzen dieses Beitrags bleiben; sie wu¨rde eine umfassende Kontextualisierung des Problems im Rahmen sowohl einer Tugendlehre wie einer normativen Ethik voraussetzen. Mo¨glicherweise aber hat sich zumindest mit Blick auf die eingangs zitierten pauschalen Verdikte gegen die Einheitsthese gezeigt, dass das Einheitsproblem gerade insofern es ein Querschnittsproblem darstellt, in dem so ¨ berlegens, der unterschiedliche Problembereiche wie die Theorie praktischen U Begriff des richtigen Handelns, der Zusammenhang von kognitiven und affektiven Einstellungen, Motivationstheorie, der Zusammenhang von Moral und menschlichem Gedeihen etc. konvergieren, in weiten Bereichen der tugendethischen Debatte der Gegenwart eher verdra¨ngt als in der Sache erledigt ist.

¨ berlegungen zur Struktur eines Problems Die Einheit der Tugenden. U

423

Literatur Adams, R. M. 2006. A Theory of Virtue, Oxford / New York. Annas, J. 1993. The Morality of Happiness, Oxford. Annas, J. 2006. „Virtue Ethics“, in: D. Copp (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Ethical Theory, Oxford: 515 – 536. Badwhar, N. 1996. „The Limited Unity of the Virtues“, in: Nous 30,3: 306 – 329. Baier, A. 1985. Postures of the Mind, London. Broadie, S. 1991. Ethics with Aristotle, New York / Oxford. Chappell, T. (ed.) 2006a. Values and Virtues, Oxford. Chapell, T. 2006b. „The Variety of Life and the Unity of Practical Wisdom“, in: T. Chappell (ed.) (2006a): 136 – 157. Copp, D. / Sobel, D. 2004. „Morality and Virtue. An Assessment of Some Recent Work in Virtue Ethics“, in: Ethics 114: 514 – 554. Dancy, J. 2004. Ethics Without Principles, Oxford. Driver, J. 1996. „The Virtues and Human Nature“, in: R. Crisp (ed.), How Should One Live?, Oxford/New York: 111 – 129. Driver, J. 2001. Uneasy Virtue, Cambridge.

Foot, Ph. 1978. Virtues and Vices, Oxford.

Foot, Ph. 1989. „Von Wright on Virtue“, in: P. A. Schilpp / L. E. Hahn (eds.), The Philosophy of Georg Henrik von Wright, La Salle: 271 – 279. Foot, Ph. 2001. Natural Goodness, Oxford. Geach, P. 1977. The Virtues, Cambridge. Halbig, Ch. 2013. Der Begriff der Tugend und die Grenzen der Tugendethik, Berlin. Hartmann, N. 1926. Ethik, Berlin / Leipzig. Hartmann, N. 1944. „Die Wertdimension der Nikomachischen Ethik“, (ND) in: Hartmann, N. 1957. Kleine Schriften, Bd. 2, Berlin: 191 – 214. Hurka, T. 2001. Virtue, Vice and Value, Oxford / New York. Hursthouse, R. 1999. On Virtue Ethics, Oxford / New York. Irwin, T.H. 1988a. „Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues“, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy supp. vol.: 61 – 78. Irwin, T.H. 1988b. „Reply to Kraut (1988)“, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy supp. vol.: 87 – 90. Kraut, R. 1988. „Comments on Irwin (1988)“, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, supp. Vol.: 79 – 86. Lemos, J. 1993. „The Unity of the Virtues and its Recent Defenses“, in: Southern Journal of Philosophy 31: 85 – 106. Long, A. / Sedley D. (eds.) 2000. Die hellenistischen Philosophen, Stuttgart 2000. MacIntyre, A. 1979. After Virtue, Notre Dame. McDowell, J. 1978. „Are Moral Requirements Hypothetical Imperatives?“, in: PAS, supp. volume 52: 13 – 29. McDowell, J. 1979. „Virtue and Reason“, in: Monist 62: 331 – 350. McDowell, J. 1981. „The Role of Eudaimonia in Aritotle’s Ethics“, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley : 359 – 376. Moore, G. E. 1903. Principia Ethica, Cambridge.

424

Christoph Halbig

Mu¨ller, A. W. 1998a. „Einheit der Tugend oder Einheit der Tugenden?„, in: Theologie und Philosophie 73: 173 – 195. Mu¨ller, A. W. 1998b. Was taugt die Tugend?, Stuttgart. Murdoch, I. 1970. The Sovereignty of the Good, London. Pieper, J. 1996. Schriften zur Philosophischen Anthropologie und Ethik: Das Menschenbild der Tugendlehre, Hamburg. Rhonheimer, M. 2001. Die Perspektive der Moral, Berlin. Roberts, R. C. 1984. „Will Power and the Virtues“, in: Philosophical Review 93: 227 – 247. Slote, M. 1983. Goods and Virtues, Oxford. Slote, M. 1990. „Some Advantages of Virtue Ethics“, in: O. Flanagan / A. O. Rorty (eds.), Identity, Character and Morality, Cambrige, MA / London: 429 – 448. Slote, M. 1992. From Morality to Virtue, Oxford / New York. Slote, M. 1996. „Agent-based Virtue Ethics“, in: Midwest Studies in Philosophy 20: 83 – 101. Slote, M. 1997. „Virtue Ethics“, in: M. Baron / Ph. Pettit / M. Slote (eds.), Three Methods of Ethics, Oxford: 175 – 238. Slote, M. 2001. Morals from Motives, Oxford / New York. Swanton, C. 2003a. Virtue Ethics. A Pluralistic Approach, Oxford / New York. Taylor, G. 2006. Deadly Vices, Oxford. Wallace, J. 1978. Virtues and Vices, Ithaca. Watson, G. 1984. „Virtues in Excess“, in: Philosophical Studies 46: 57 – 74. Williams, B. 1976. „Persons, character and morality“, ND (Reprint) in: B. Williams (ed.), Moral Luck, Cambridge 1981: 1 – 19. Williams, B. 1976. „Moral Luck“, ND (Reprint), in: B. Williams (ed.), Moral Luck, Cambridge 1981: 20 – 39. Williams, B. 1981. „Justice as a Virtue“, ND (Reprint) in: B. Williams (ed.), The Sense of the Past, Princeton, 2006: 207 – 217. Wiliams, B. 1993. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, London. Williams, B. 1995. „Acting as a virtuous person acts“, in: R. Heinaman (ed.), Aristotle and moral realism, London: 13 – 23. Wolf, S. 2007. „Moral Psychology and the Unity of the Virtues“, in: Ratio 20: 145 – 167. Wright, G. H. von 1963. Varieties of Goodness, London. Wright, G. H. von 1989. „Reply to Foot“, in: P. A. Schilpp / L. E. Hahn (eds.), The Philosophy of Georg Henrik von Wright, La Salle: 290 – 293.

Wolfgang Detel

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics1

I What is the source of ethical normativity? It is often thought that the ancient world-view provides an easier answer to this question than the modern scientific picture of the world. The traditional diagnosis is that the ancients conceived of the universe as being a teleological structure. The real is supposed to be in some sense normative and human life has a purpose which depends on the teleology exhibited by the universe as a whole. This is supposed to be sufficient to establish that ethics really is normative and that its demands on us are justified. The ancient view, then, seems to ground ethical normativity firmly in nature. The normativity of nature is supposed to be the foundation of ethics. According to the traditional diagnosis, the modern scientific world view has deprived us of the idea that the world has a purpose or telos. In the modern view, nature is taken to be the realm of laws that are in no way teleological or normative. From this point of view, normativity in general seems to be a mystery, and the question of the source of normativity becomes a serious and difficult problem. Indeed, modern moral philosophy can be read as a search for the source of normativity, indicating that modern moral philosophers have endorsed the traditional diagnosis just sketched. In response, they have come up with a number of answers to the question of the source of normativity, answers that they have been taken to be mutually exclusive. Modern ethics looks for the source of moral normativity within the framework of the modern scientific world-view and offers a set of alternative theories on this basis.2 One of the most influential of these theories is voluntarism. According to this view, moral obligation derives from the command of someone who has legit1 Part of this article is a reprint of my contribution to Ch. Gill (ed.): Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity, Oxford 2005: 113 – 144. I thank Christopher Gill and Oxford UP for the permission to reprint parts of this text in the present article. 2 See Korsgaard 1996.

426

Wolfgang Detel

imate authority over the moral agent and so can make laws for her. You must do the right thing because a political leader commands it or because a political sovereign whom you have agreed to obey makes it law. Normativity springs from a legislative will. Another theory is ethical realism or objectivism. The basic idea is that normative claims can be true and are true if there are intrinsically normative entities or facts which they correctly describe. Realists try to establish moral normativity by arguing that values or obligations or reasons really exist; and they argue against the various forms of scepticism about intrinsically normative entities. Ancient ethics can, of course, be seen as one brand of realism. A third influential kind of modern ethics works with an appeal to autonomy. The idea here is that the laws of morality are those of the agent’s own free will and that its claims are ones she is prepared to make on herself. The capacity for selfconscious reflection about our own actions confers on us a kind of authority over ourselves, and it is this authority which gives normativity to moral claims. One of the most debated ethical theories in recent decades works with the idea of rationality. The basic assumptions are that humans behave sometimes in a social way that is at the same time rational and that the presuppositions of rational behaviour are the decisive source of ethical normativity. One kind of rationalistic ethics sees semantic normativity as a basic form of normativity. Moving in the logical space of reasons, or participating in the game of giving and asking for reasons, is taken to be an important part of leading a good life. Initiation into conceptual capacities as a basic condition for moving in the logical space of reasons is, according to this view, an indispensable part of ethical upbringing. Semantic normativity belongs to the foundation of ethics. Semantic norms are norms that, if they exist, govern semantic facts such as representing something, that is, being true and also semantic transitions such as inferential relations between contentful sentences or thoughts. Such norms seem to recommend that thoughts and sentences be true instead of false, and inferences be valid instead of invalid. ”In logic we do not want to know how the mind actually operates and has proceeded so far in thinking about things; rather, we want to know how the mind should think.’ This remark in Kant’s so-called Ja¨sche Logik3 belongs to the foundations of a longstanding tradition that attributes a normative dimension to our ways of thinking and speaking. A century later, formal logic supported this tradition by presenting itself as a normative theory designed to prove which inferences are valid, and by grounding these proofs on the meaning of logical terms. With the publication of works such as Sellar’s (1956) or Kripke’s (1982) account of Wittgenstein’s discussion of what it 3 Kant, Logic, Prussian Academy edition, vol. 1, 6. In the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant says that in nature normativity of the sort that connects reasons does not occur, Prussian Academy edition, vol. 1, 547.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

427

is to follow a rule, the claim about the normativity of semantics was extended again from logical inferences to thinking and speaking in general, pretty much in the Kantian sense. ”Meaning is normative’ was the new slogan in the philosophy of language. If we mean something by an expression, then we should use it in a certain way, and if we do not use it in the required way, we make a mistake and use it incorrectly. It needs to be emphasized that modern normative semantics tends to see normativity as being internally related to content and meaning: the normative force is supposed to flow directly from semantic facts.4 In recent discussions on semantics, some philosophers have strongly rejected, and others have strongly supported, the claim that semantic facts or semantic relations are normative. In semantics, causal-informational theories (for instance, Fodor 1990b and Dretske 1988) or conceptual role theories (such as Peacocke 1992) typically reject this claim, while, for example, Davidson5 and the modern Sellarsians (McDowell 1994, Brandom 1994) stick to it. Some of the most influential normative semanticists, notably Davidson and Brandom, take normative semantics as presenting a theory of rationality that is essential for the human mind and ethical behavior. According to these thinkers, normative semantics is a modern version of ancient anthropology and its crucial claim that a human being is basically an animal rationale. However, the modern endorsement of the traditional diagnosis, the focus on moral normativity, and the foundationalist move of picking out just one form of normativity as the only and exclusive source of normativity are, in my view at least, theoretical mistakes that generate a lot of problems. The most important of these problems is that the gap between the normative and the natural seems to be either too big (for instance, in the case of Kantian or rationalistic ethics) so that we can no longer see how the normative can be related to nature; or this gap seems to be too small (in the case of reductive versions of normative realism that suggest we can bake a normative cake exclusively from non-normative ingredients) so that we are in danger of falling prey to naturalistic fallacies. And I doubt that modern ethical approaches can adequately locate the source of genuine normativity. I call the state of a creature genuinely normative only if this state has an intrinsic value independently of whether other creatures confer a value on this state or not. An intrinsic value must somehow matter to the

4 See e. g. Glu¨er 1999 / Wikforss 2001. This is also, of course, in general the Wittgensteinian view, see Dummett 1991: 85. Compare also the discussion of Kripke’s normativity condition in Boghossian 1989, especially 513. 5 Some readers of Davidson’s works doubt that he takes normativity to be essential for the mental realm of contentful thoughts and sentences, and there are, indeed, not many passages that are unambiguous on this issue. For a recent, unambiguous statement, see Davidson 1998: 101 – 2. Cf. also e. g. Dummett 1991: 85, 91, McDowell 1998.

428

Wolfgang Detel

creature which possesses this intrinsic value.6 More precisely, if a state or activity is to be genuinely normative for a creature, this creature must have the authority to evaluate the state or activity, and at least part of this evaluation must be mentally accessible to the creature in question. There a good reasons to think that Plato and Aristotle were the first thinkers to defend a sort of normative semantics. Plato did not, of course, have a clear notion of semantic facts or relations in the modern sense; in particular, he did not have a clear idea of formal logic or logical validity. But Plato certainly recommended that we should care about the truth and use specific patterns of argument. That is why Plato is often seen as the first thinker to have discovered the realm nowadays called ”the logical space of reasons’ and to have entertained the idea of normative semantic facts. Aristotle seems to have developed a pretty clear idea of semantic contents and meanings of linguistic items.7 And there is evidence that for Aristotle it makes sense to recommend that we follow, and not violate, the rules of logic. So one way of trying to identify the foundation of ancient ethics is to examine whether Plato and Aristotle looked at semantic normativity as genuine normativity belonging to the foundations of ethics. What interests me both from a historical and a philosophical point of view is that Plato and Aristotle seem to base recommendations about truth and inference ultimately on the idea of a good life.8 While they take the production of good arguments to be an example of good human functioning, they also believe that the normativity of truth and of good arguments has a source that is distinct from truth conditions and patterns of argument. Hence, the normativity of truth and of good arguments seems to be, in part, a derived one (though it can form part of a larger system that gives rise to genuine normativity). Plato, for instance, points to three different kinds of normativity : first, the well-functioning of large parts of the universe in general, second the specific well-functioning of human activities including the productions of good arguments, and thirdly the criteria of a good life. Of course, there are important relations between these three kinds of normativity, but the kinds of normativity are definitely distinct. That is to say, Plato and Aristotle did not entertain unified theories of normativity, like for instance Korsgaard and other leading modern ethicists did; instead, the ancient thinkers developed a kind of hybrid theory of normativity. This is what I try to show in the first part of the present paper. In the second part, I examine the two leading varieties of modern normative semantics: first a Davidson-style semantics (in my view, the most influential 6 See e. g. Papineau 1993. 7 Compare Charles 2000. 8 Of modern thinkers, McDowell comes closest to this view; see e. g. McDowell 1994: 125.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

429

modern semantics and, in many respects, a breakthrough for serious semantic theory), and secondly Brandom’s inferential semantics (in my view, the most sophisticated type of a thoroughly normative semantics). I will argue that neither of these theories explains the sources of the normativity of semantic relations in a wholly adequate way, though they highlight types of normativity that may serve as ingredients of a hybrid theory of normativity of a kind that I outline in the last sections of this paper. Part of this theory is the claim that we must take feelings to be another important source of the normativity of semantic relations – a source that has been widely neglected in semantic theory. If all this is basically correct, then we can not only recover Plato’s and Aristotle’s insight that the normativity of good judgements is a derived one and has an external source;9 we can also see that modern ethics can learn from ancient ethics that hybrid theories of normativity still represent a promising theoretical option.

II According to the traditional reading of Plato’s theory, our human conceptions of a good life rest on Platonic Forms as entities that are intrinsically and objectively valuable, especially the Form of the Good. For instance, Mackie says, in his criticism of moral realism, that ”Plato’s Forms give a dramatic picture of what objective values would have to be … An objective good would be sought by anyone who was acquainted with it, because … it has to-be-pursuedness somehow built into it.’ Similarly, Christine Korsgaard, in outlining Plato’s socalled moral realism, points as evidence to the well-known passage of the Phaedo that suggests that two perceivable sticks, while not being exactly identical, seem somehow to aim at identity (Phd. 74a – 75b). Therefore, Korsgaard thinks, Form in Plato’s view represents value. Since Form is, at the same time, the true and perfect nature of all things partaking in it, being guided by value is being guided by the way things ultimately are. In ethics, this comes down to being guided by what we really are: ”So the endeavour to realize ethical perfection is just the endeavour to be what you are – to be good at being what you are.’10 If we look more closely at the Phaedo passage and at similar passages, however, it becomes clear that, for Plato, a perceivable entity E partaking in a form F is deficient, compared to F itself, simply in the sense that E is sometimes not-F (while F is, in a sense, always F). This is an extremely general and thin kind of structural normativity. There is, however, no straightforward path, in Plato’s 9 Among modern semantic theorists, David Papineau (e. g. 1990, 1993) comes closest to this position. 10 See Mackie 1977: 40, Korsgaard 1996: 2 – 3.

430

Wolfgang Detel

theory, from this thin ideal normativity to ethical normativity. Thin ideal normativity by no means implies concepts of ethical normativity that tell us how to live best. Although the Form of humanity is certainly a specific Form exhibiting thin ideal normativity, it is an oversimplification to say that Plato thinks that we humans aim at realizing our true nature in exactly the same sense in which, for instance, identical or coloured things in our world aim at becoming perfectly identical or coloured. The source of genuine ethical normativity must be something that explains why some things and states matter to us. This is surely not just thin ideal normativity ; rather, it is the specific determination of what we, as human beings, are supposed to aspire to that really matters to us and is the crucial source of ethical normativity. Thus, according to Plato, part of our human nature is the essential source of genuine normativity, and it is from this source that the conceptions of a good life ultimately emerge. There are a number of passages in Plato’s dialogues in which certain patterns of argumentation are shown to be invalid. In a short passage of the Euthydemus, for example, Dionysodorus, having forced Socrates to answer him, tries to show that Socrates contradicts himself. One out of a number of similar arguments is that, since Chaeredemus, as Socrates agrees, was the father of Patrocles, but not the father of Socrates himself, Chaeredemus was father and not father. Socrates admits that it seems that Chaeredemus is not a father, but brings out very clearly that Chaeredemus, while being the father of Patrocles, is not the father of Socrates. He makes the same point in answering similar questions proposed by Dionysodorus (Euthd. 297c – 298a). Therefore, it is pretty obvious that Plato wants his readers to understand that to say that a person P instantiates a relation R and does not instantiate R is only a shortened way of making the fully consistent claim that there are two different persons Q and Q* such that P stands in relation R to Q but not to Q*. Hence, Socrates highlights two things: first, that Dionysodorus uses a certain general pattern of argument, and second, this pattern of argument is invalid. In the same dialogue, Euthydemus also asks the boy Clinias whether he thinks the wise or the ignorants are learners. Clinias, answering that the ignorant are learners, is led by Euthydemus to admit that the wise are learners, and, having admitted that, is then forced to agree that it is the ignorant that are learners (Euthd. 275d – 277c, cf. Tht. 165a – e). Helping Clinias out, Socrates shows him that Euthydemus played with two different senses of the notion of learning, and that a failure to recognize the proper function of homonymous words in all these cases leads one to be caught in contradiction (Euthd. 277b – 287b). This is one of the rather rare places in which Socrates explicitly proves that, and why, a pattern of argument is invalid.11 But it is not 11 See also the remark about the trick argument in Meno 80e. Scholarly work on Plato’s semantic theory has mostly looked at the Cratylus, Parmenides, and Sophist, though without

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

431

only the Sophists whom Plato shows relying on certain patterns of argument, albeit invalid ones; Socrates himself also uses certain general patterns of argument to examine, and refute, claims made by his companions. In some of the earlier dialogues, for example, he regularly uses this pattern of argument. If the definition ”A is B’ is at stake, he shows, first, that A’s are good things, and second, that there are at least some B’s that are not good. It follows that A cannot be the same as B, in the sense that something is A if and only if it is B.12 Another pattern of argument Socrates sometimes relies on is designed to examine definitions of the form ”A is knowledge of B’; in this case, Socrates shows, first, that every object of knowledge has a certain property C, and second, that B does not have this property. It follows that A cannot be the knowledge of B (for instance, La. 194e – 197e). What is more, these patterns of argument turn out, from a formal point of view, to be logically valid (at least the first one is a valid syllogism, in Aristotelian terms). Sometimes we even find general advice about constructing arguments. For instance, in a good argument, we should not confuse talk about principles with talk about consequences as destructive critics do (Phd. 101e); and there is a distinction between the right and the wrong method of conversation (for instance, if you care about virtue, you should not be unfair in the way that you argue with people, Tht. 176e). In general, Socratic elenchus relies, obviously, on the logical principle of non-contradiction. We must assume that Plato took these and similar patterns of argument to be valid or at least reliable, although he did not yet, of course, have a clear idea about logically valid deductions (the patterns just outlined are indeed logically valid, according to syllogistic and modern logical standards, but Plato did not realize this).13 It seems, then, that Plato wanted to distinguish between good and bad arguments and even between good and bad general patterns of argument. It is not surprising that Plato later calls the method of refutation that is designed to purify the soul from false beliefs, prejudices, and stupidity (stupidity being the ignorance that one is ignorant) an art, more specifically a certain art of education, namely ”sophistry of noble lineage’ (Sph. 229a – 231b). In the later dialogues, it is, of course, the method of dialectic that is recommended, by Plato, as a general pattern for philosophical conversation and exploration. Dialectic involves attempts to establish adequate divisions and collections of conceptual structures sometimes called Forms. More exactly, it can be defined as the art of defining and dividing kinds (Sph 253c – d). Therefore, any appreciation of Plato’s theoretical progress in terms of modern semantics, see for example Bestor 1980, 1980a, Pelletier 1990, Sedley 2003. See, however, Detel 2001. The question of semantic normativity concerning Plato’s views has so far not been addressed. 12 See e. g. La. 197e – 199e; Euthphr. 6e – 8a, 9e – 11b; Chrm. 160e – 161a. 13 See Detel 1973, 1974.

432

Wolfgang Detel

discussion is the most difficult part of philosophy (Rep. 6, 498a). In dialectical reasoning, everything depends on recognizing the intermediates – this makes all the difference between a philosophical and a contentious discussion.14 According to Plato, some people pretend to apply the proper divisions and distinctions to the subject under consideration, while in reality pursuing purely verbal oppositions, and thus practising eristic, not dialectic (Rep. 454a). However, there seems to be no way in which ”men who could not render and exact an account of opinions in discussion would ever know anything of the things we say must be known’ (Rep. 531e). Dialectic as a way and process of inquiry is a method of tracking difficult and obscure things, such as the sophist (Sph. 218d), a pattern of how to reach an understanding of things (Sph. 221c). So dialectic as the method of definition and division must be recommended as the best way of reaching the truth of things (Phdr. 227b). Again, dialectic is an art that can be applied to different things, so it is truly a sort of general pattern; it should be practised on lesser things, but is indispensable for getting insight into the highest and most valuable things (Plt. 286a). It also looks at the consequences of one’s assumptions to examine these assumptions: Whenever you suppose that anything whatsoever exists or does not exist or has any other character, you ought to consider the consequences with reference to itself and to any other things that you may select, or several of them, or all of them altogether, and again you must study these others with reference both to one another and to any one thing you may select, whether you have assumed the thing to exist or not to exist, if you are really going to make out the truth after a complete course of discipline. (Prm. 136 b – c)15

So the method is an abstract one; it can and should be repeated, with different entities taken as subjects.

III If we ask why Plato recommends the benevolent Socratic technique of refutation and the art of dialectic, why we should, from Plato’s point of view, adopt these general patterns of philosophical argument, and in which sense these patterns can be seen as norms that we are somehow supposed to follow, then the answer seems to be straightforward: Following these patterns or norms improves our epistemic state, either by moving us from ignorance of ignorance to the 14 Phlb.17a. For a more specific advice on how to construct good divisions see e. g. Phdr. 265d – e. 15 English translations of quotations from Plato’s dialogues are from Hamilton and Cairns 1989.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

433

knowledge of ignorance, or by moving us from the knowledge of ignorance towards substantive knowledge. Improving our epistemic state is surely valuable, or so it seems. Commenting on the refutation of the slave boy during the geometry lesson in the Meno, Socrates says: Observe, Meno, the stage he has reached on the path of recollection. At the beginning he did not know the side of the square of eight feet. Nor indeed does he know it now, but then he thought he knew it … Now however he feels perplexed. Not only does he not know the answer, he does not even think he knows. (Meno 84a)

And Socrates makes it plain that the boy is now ”in a better position and that the numbing process was good for him.’ Moreover, the boy will now be ”quite glad to look for the right answer’ (84b – c). He feels challenged, and he now wants to know the right answer. This attitude, however, is not only a sort of good behaviour; it is, as Socrates emphasizes, a virtue: we shall be better, braver, and more active people if we believe it right to look for what we don’t know than if we believe there is no point in looking because what we don’t know we can never discover. (Meno 86 b – c)

Similarly, dialectic must be recommended as the best way of getting to the truth of things (Phdr. 277b), and is in particular able to provide an insight into the Form of the Good.16 All this makes sense, of course, if truth is an intrinsic value and the achievement of truth something which is to be recommended. But what about the notion of truth in Plato? This is, of course, a big topic in itself, so I must confine myself to a few remarks. I take it that Plato talks about truth in at least two different ways. Sometimes truth is seen as a property of things or reality in so far as they are proper objects of genuine knowledge; and sometimes Plato talks about the truth of judgements.17 There is a close relationship between these two notions of truth, but the ontological truth talk seems to be more restricted than the propositional truth talk. Ontologically, it is the essential aspects of reality that are called truths, whereas the truth of judgements is not conceptually restricted to the relationship between judgements and certain aspects of reality. Only the truth of judgements can be counted as a semantic fact in the modern sense, and I restrict my remarks to Plato’s propositional truth talk. Plato’s famous analysis of true and false statements in the Sophist (262d – 263d) has been for a long time a subject of intense debate. Here, I want only to note that, however this analysis is to be understood in detail, it is, certainly, formulated in a non-normative language. Plato arrives at his definition of truth and falsehood at the end of an extremely long and complicated argument that 16 R. 532a ff.; also 511c. 17 See Detel 1972, Szaif 1996.

434

Wolfgang Detel

covers two of his most profound dialogues, the Theatetus and the Sophist. So we are definitely entitled to read his final analysis of truth anf falsehood as offering a philosophically adequate account. Plato basically claims that true statements state things about an X that are identical with some things that are the case with respect to X, while false statements state things about an X that are different from all things that are the case with respect to X. In the same way thoughts, understood as inward statements formed by the mind without spoken sound, are true or false, respectively. This is, as Plato’s Stranger explicitly notes, the nature of true and false statements and thoughts.18 So, to describe adequately the truth and falsehood of statements, we do not need to refer to any normative notion. In particular, we can understand fully what propositional truth and falsehood are without assuming that truth is, in general, something good, and that falsehood is, in general, something bad. However, grasping the truth, like using valid patterns of argument, is necessary for achieving knowledge. Just as good and valid arguments are valuable because they improve our epistemic state, so truth is valuable because knowledge requires grasping the truth. Indeed, if knowledge is, as Plato points out in the Meno and in the Theaetetus, true and justified belief, it is precisely the combination of truth and good arguments that is required for knowledge. It follows that good arguments and truth are genuinely valuable if and only if knowledge is intrinsically valuable. But why should knowledge in general be something that is intrinsically valuable? It is the same knowledge or art that is directed to the contraries, that is, to that which is good within its domain and to that which is bad within its domain.19 So science and art can be abused – they can be used to harm people (Grg. 456d – e). They do not, therefore, always benefit us – except in cases where they are guided by the science or knowledge of the good and evil.20 Rather, it is primarily some specific kinds of knowledge that are, according to Plato, valuable in themselves – namely those that are virtues (in particular, the knowledge of the good or of good and bad things). We can only do what we really want if we frame true thoughts about our purposes and the right means for achieving what we want (Grg. 466d – 468e). Every kind of knowledge that contributes in some way to the knowledge of the good is then also, in a derived way, valuable. It is in this sense that Plato believes that having a mental state or property of the soul called truth is the beginning, or presupposition, of the truly good life,21 and that the intellectual life that consists, among other things, of pursuing as many truths as 18 Sph. 264b – d. See Detel 1972. 19 Ion 532a; see also the Lesser Hippias. 20 Chrm. 174 c. There is even a sort of knowledge that can be harmful for those who possess it (Prt. 313a – 314b). 21 See e. g. R. 490a – b. See further Szaif 1996: 65 ff.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

435

possible is the best form of life.22 Likewise, the use of good arguments is to be recommended in so far as it contributes to a good life. The elenchus in the earlier Platonic dialogues is not only an examination of a certain claim, but also an examination of a person, her character, and her way of life.23 Learning not only sciences such as geometry, but also improving our skills in dialectical reasoning has, according to Plato’s later dialogues (in particular the Republic), a function within the framework of a philosophical education: it helps us to grasp the Forms and especially the Form of the Good, thereby becoming good persons who know how to conduct a good life. Virtue is, after all, a sort of knowledge of the good. The overall picture that emerges from this analysis is that Plato conceived of at least three different levels of normativity. There is, first, the thin functional normativity that most of the things in the universe exhibit as they partake in Forms. There is, second, an important case of this kind of normativity : rational and semantic normativity that is specific to humans and that allows us to distinguish between truth and falsehood, as well as between good and bad arguments or between knowledge and ignorance, without being forced, however, to describe these distinctions in terms of genuine normativity. Finally, there is ethical normativity connected to the normativity of the human mind that can generate adequate notions of a truly good life. Functional normativity pervades the other kinds of normativity too, but it is only by seeing that semantic normativity contributes to a good life that we can attribute a derived normativity to truth and good arguments. In my view, the conclusion of all this is that we can see Plato as the first thinker to have developed a kind of hybrid theory of normativity.

IV This Platonic approach was taken over, and pursued further, by Aristotle. In the well known first chapter of Part.Anim. Aristotle expresses his normative attitude to forms of reasoning in quite general terms: should be able to form a fair judgement as to the goodness or badness of an exposition… to judge nearly all branches of knowledge… and not merely some special subject…It is plain then that, in the science which inquires into nature, 22 See Szaif 1996, part 2, §§11 – 12. 23 La.187e ff., Ap.38a. For a clear account of this aspect of the Socratic elenchus, see e. g. Brickhouse and Smith 2000: 135 – 40. For a careful and thourogh exploration of Plato’s theory of “eudaimonistic knowledge” (involving an intrinsic relation between knowledge of the Good, ethical normativity, and conducting a good life see Hardy 2011.

436

Wolfgang Detel

there must be certain canons, by reference to which a hearer shall be able to critizise the method of a professed exposition, quite independently of the question whether the statements made be true or false.24

Being the founder of formal logic, Aristotle feels, unsurprisingly, that expositions of whatever sort can be good or bad for formal or methodological reasons and that there are specific canons (criteria) according to which expositions are good or bad, respectively, for formal or methodological reasons alone. This view is expressed in many other passages, for instance at the beginning of Soph. El.: That some deductions are genuine, while others seem to be so but are not, is evident… For a deduction rests on certain statements such that they involve necessarily the assertion of something other than what has been stated, through what has been stated; a refutation is a deduction to the contrary of the given conclusion. Now some of them do not really achieve this, though they seem to do so for a number of reasons.25

From the perspective of a developed formal logic it is easy to detect various sorts of wrong or deficient reasoning. For instance it can be shown that it is an error to think that the method of division entails logically valid deductions (Pr.An. I 31, Post.An. II 5) or that, “whenever something necessary results from given premises, this is a valid deduction; rather, we are deceived in such cases because something necessary results from what is assumed, since deduction is also necessary. But that which is necessary is wider than deduction; for every deduction is necessary, but not everything which is necessary is a deduction.”26 Moreover, “men are frequently deceived about deduction because the inference is necessary, as has been said before; sometimes they are deceived by the similarity in the positing of the terms … Men will frequently fall into error through not setting out the terms of the proposition well.”27 And in general, the truth values must be properly distributed in valid deductions and demonstrations, respectively : From true premises it is not possible to draw a false conclusion, but a true conclusion may be drawn from false premises – true however only in respect to the fact, not to the reason. The reason cannot be established from false premises: why this is so will be explained in the sequel.28

24 PA.639a1 – 15. See George 1993. For Aristotle’s semantics see Charles 2000 and de Rijk 2002. These are excellent and substantial books. The authors do not, though, discuss the question of semantic normativity in Aristotle. See further Detel 2001: 61 – 64. 25 Soph. El. 164b24 – 165a5. 26 Pr. An. I 32, 47a32 – 35 27 Pr. An. I 33, 47b15 – 17; I 34, 48a1 – 2. 28 Pr. An. II 2, 53b5 – 10

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

437

These remarks suffice to show that according to Aristotle there is something normative about reasoning: there are good and bad deductions – good deductions are valid, bad deduction are invalid, and there are a number of ways in which we can be deceived in assuming that a given reasoning is good and valid. But is this normativity of good arguments and deductions genuine, in the sense defined above? According to Aristotle, not quite: There are both deductions and refutations that appear to be genuine but are not really so. Now for some people it is better worth while to seem to be wise, than to be wise without seeming to be (for the art of the sophist is the semblance of wisdom without the reality, and the sophist is one who makes money from an apparent but unreal wisdom). For them, then, it is clearly necessary to seem to accomplish the task of a wise man…It is the business of one who knows a thing, himself to avoid falsities in the subjects which he knows and to be able to show up the man who makes them; and of these accomplishments the one depends on the faculty to produce an argument, and the other upon the faculty to exact one.29

So it is not in the interests of the sophists, and therefore not good for them, to use valid deductions, but rather deductions that seem to be valid, but are in fact invalid. It is only when we strive for genuinely knowing things that we better use valid instead of invalid deductions. Indeed, as Aristotle formulates his famous definition of truth and falsity in non-normative terms30 (like Plato did before, as we have seen), so he sets out his syllogistic without using normative vocabulary ; rather, he examines and shows, how valid deductions come about – so to speak, as a matter of fact. The syllogistic theory is introduced by the following sentence: We now state by what means, when, and how every deduction is produced.31

At the face of it, Aristotle does not present his formal logic as a normative theory that describes, and proves, good rules of reasoning, but rather as a theory that explores term-relations which generate valid deductions in the sense that certain things being stated, something other than what is stated follows of necessity from their being so.32 I want to support this important point by examining briefly the infamous way Aristotle shows, in the assertoric syllogistic, that certain syllogisms are invalid.

29 Soph. El. 1, 165a19 – 28 30 Metaph. IV 7, 1011b26 – 28 (“To say of what is that it is not, or of what is not that it is, is false, while to say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true”). 31 Pr. An. I 4, 25b27 – 28 32 Pr. An. I 1, 24b19 – 20

438

Wolfgang Detel

V Prima facie Aristotle seems to ground the validity of the perfect syllogisms firmly on the meaning of the syllogistic relations,33 although he certainly did not have a clear notion of meaning (as distinct from reference) in the modern Fregian sense. After having introduced and justified the Barbara-syllogism34, Aristotle goes on to remark (*) However, if the first extreme follows all the middle and the middle belongs to none of the last, there will not be a deduction of the extremes, for nothing necessary results in virtue of these things being so. For it is possible for the first extreme to belong to all as well as to none of the last. Consequently, neither a particular nor a universal conclusion becomes necessary ; and, since nothing is necessary because of these, there will not be a deduction. Terms for belonging to every are animal, man, horse; for belonging to none, animal, man, stone.35

This is the first, and actually the most comprehensive, case of Aristotle’s famous countermodel technique of showing that certain syllogisms are not valid. He does not always use exactly the same form of argument, but this passage represents certainly the standard form, and it is the only passage that is preceded by a short explanation and will therefore suffice as a basis for making my point. Clearly, Aristotle is talking, in this passage, about the two syllogistic premises AaB and BeC, and he is claiming that no syllogistic conclusion containing the extreme terms, viz. A and C, follows syllogistically from these two premises. In particular he points out, correctly of course, that since the truth of AaC as well as of AeC is compatible with the conjunction of the premises, this goes also for the truth of AiC and AoC. In the final sentence of the passage he introduces empirical predicates as examples of his argument: (a) Animal (=A) is predicated of every man (=B); man is predicated of no horse (=C); but at the same time, animal (=A) is predicated of every horse (=C); (b) Animal (=A) is predicated of every man (=B); man is predicated of no stone (=C); but at the same time, animal (=A) is predicated of no stone (=C).

33 For instance, the remark “we say (legomen) ”predicated of every’ when none of the subject can be taken of which the other term cannot be said, and we say ”predicated of none’ likewise” (Pr. An. I 1, 24b28 – 30) seems to point to the semantics of the crucial logical constants of his syllogistic. 34 This justification relies on the semantics: “For if A is predicated of every B and B of every C, it is necessary for A to be predicated of eyery C. For it was stated earlier in which way we say the of every” (An. Pr. I4, 25b37 – 40, cf. also, e. g., ibid. 26a23, 27 – 28). 35 ibid. 26a2 – 9.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

439

It follows, of course, that also the true sentences “animal is predicated of some horses” and “animal is not predicated of some stones” are compatible with the truth of both premises. The passage continues as follows: (**) Nor when neither the first belongs to any of the middle nor the middle to any of the last, there will not be a deduction in this way either. Terms for belonging are science, line, medicine; for not belonging, science, line, unit.36

Here Aristotle is obviously talking about the premises AeB and BeC, and the claim is, again, that both AaC and AeC (and therefore also AiC and AoC) are compatible with the conjunction of the two premises: (c) Science (=A) is predicated of no line (=B); line is predicated of no medicine (=C); but at the same time, science (=A) is predicated of every medicine (=C); (d) Science (=A) is predicated of no line (=B); line is predicated of no unit (=C); and at the same time, science (=A) is predicated of no unit (=C). The frequent use of the short argumentation form (**)37 instead of the longer form (*) has supported the impression that the quote of a triple of universal empirical terms is the core of Aristotle’s way of refuting the validity of certain syllogisms. Therefore the debate about Aristotle’s countermodel technique has concentrated on the validity of this technique.38 Some modern logicians complain that Aristotle’s use of counter-examples relies on extra-logical knowledge which they think is not appropriate, and cannot contribute to proofs, in formal logic.39 In his seminal study on Aristotle’s syllogistic Patzig presents an interpretation that looks elegant and avoids this sort of criticism.40 Put as briefly as possible, his reading is as follows. We should start by looking at Aristotle’s criteria for validity. Aristotle thinks: (e) A pair P of syllogistic premises containing the universal terms A, B and C is valid, in the sense that there are valid syllogistic deductions containing these 36 ibid. 26a10 – 13. 37 Compare, for instance, the number of examples in the first part of An. Pr. I 5, 26b34 – 27b10. 38 Some modern commentators and logicians think that the technique is just fine and became later even usual, for instance Smith in: Aristotle. Prior Analytics, transl., with introd., notes, and comm., by R. Smith, Indianapolis 1989: 114. Some ancient commentators and older modern scholars think that Aristotle wants to show by means of empirical examples that two syllogistisc premises do not imply syllogistically any syllogistic conclusion exactly if two empirical conclusions can be deduced from these premises that contradict each other, for instance, Alexander von Aphrodisias in Anal. Pr. 55, 21 – 26; Philoponus in Anal. Pr.74, 30 – 75; Maier 1896 – 1900, II 1: 75 f. This interpretation is, of course, logically flawed because the conclusions Aristotle is quoting and discussing in most cases do not logically follow from the premises (and Aristotle does not say so either). 39 See Lukasiewicz 1957: 72. 40 Patzig 1963: 180 – 196.

440

Wolfgang Detel

premises, that is, just in case that for all A, B and C, P implies AaC, or for all A, B and C, P implies AeC, or for all A, B and C, P implies AiC, or for all A, B and C, P implies AoC. By using (e) we can determine what an invalid pair P* of syllogistic premises is: (f) A pair P* of syllogistic premises containing the universal terms A, B and C is invalid iff P* is not valid (in the sense of (e), that is), just in case that there are terms A, B, C such that P* and AaC is true, and that there are terms A, B, C such that P* and AeC is true, and that there are terms A, B, C such that P* and AiC is true, and that there are terms A, B, C such that P* and AoC is true. As Patzig emphasizes, (f) ist simply the logical negation if (e). And that (f) is satisfied, can indeed be proved by providing one single empirical example simply because (f) is a conjunction of existential quantifications. According to Patzig, this is exactly what Aristotle’s counter-example technique is doing. On this reading, Aristotle’s procedure does not seem in any way problematic or flawed. From a purely logical point of view Patzig’s reading is correct, but it does not improve our understanding of what exactly valid syllogisms are describing and how syllogistic validity is related to the empirical world. How can it be that empirical counter-examples can decide correctly about logical invalidity and so indirectly also about logical validity? It has escaped the notice of most scholars that the longer passage (*) indicates that the abstract reasoning preceding the empirical counter-example suffices to complete the proof and that the introduction of empirical terms is only an illustration that has not much autonomous argumentative force.41 What is more, there are also cases in which, as Aristotle emphasizes correctly, it is for logical reasons not possible to give concrete empirical counter-examples. In these cases the proof of invalidity can only be given in an abstract way, “from the indeterminate”, as Aristotle says.42 41 There are a few more passages of this extended form (e. g. Pr. An. I 4, 26a39). 42 A case in question is this (see An. Pr. I 5, 27b10 – 23): In the second syllogistic mood, the claim is that the premises BeA and BoC are invalid, because AaB as well as AeB are possible, i. e. are consistent with the premises. For the subcase AeB concrete examples can be given: black (=B), snow (=A), animal (=C). That is to say, black e snow, black o animal, snow e animal are all true. But for the subcase AaB no empirical example can be given, since if AaB were true, then it would follow according to Celarent, by relying on one of the presupposed premises, viz, BeA, that BeC is true, which is, however, inconsistent with the second premiss, viz. BoC. Therefore, the proof of invalidity by emprical counter-examples cannot be completed. Instead, a proof from the indeterminate must be constructed. This is, in short, the following reasoning: We know already that the premises BeA and BeC are invalid; now BeC is stronger than the original second premiss BoC; and we can invoke the principle that if a pair of premises is invalid, then a pair of weaker premises is also invalid. What is indeterminate here is simply that the proof does not really distinguish between the premises BeC and BoC.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

441

VI It seems important, then, to ask how, in Aristotle’s proofs of invalidity, abstract logical reasoning and the quote of empirical concrete counter-examples are theoretically related to each other. A first move is to realize that logical relations between syllogistic premises and conclusions – whether valid or invalid – are relations between set-relations, like set-inclusion in the case of AaB or setintersection in the case of AiB. As is well-known, modern logicians use the VennDiagram-Technique to illustrate these syllogistic relations by using a circle for each set.43 The Venn-diagram-technique supports the theoretical insight that in Aristotle’s syllogistic all proofs of validity and invalidity can be given on an abstract level and in the very same manner – after all, the circles in the diagrams represent variables of syllogistic terms that can be instantiated and illustrated by empirical predicates; but the proofs are not really dependent on this instantiation or illustration. However, by using Venn-diagrams, we can only check whether specific given syllogisms are valid or invalid. It is less obvious how we could check whether a given pair of premises cannot yield any correct syllogistic conclusion whatsoever or is consistent with any syllogistic sentence containing the extreme terms, as Aristotle shows in the Prior Analytics. But if we illustrate syllogistic terms in the well known more traditional way (given the sets we are talking about are not empty), then it becomes more obvious what Aristotle is up to. In the traditional way, we represent syllogistic terms by circles and syllogistic relations between, say, A and B (that is, syllogistic sentences containing A and B) by relations of circles (for instance, AaB: A includes B; AeB: A and B are disjunct; AiB: A and B overlap). We can then diagram the two syllogistic premises concerning the AB-relation and the BC-relation seperately and take them as conditions or constraints for diagramming the AC-relation by trying to put them together. Thus, for Barbara we see immediately that the two premises constrain the AC-relation to AaC. But in case we have invalid syllogisms we can see that there is in fact no such constraint since we can diagram the AC-relation in all four possibilities, that is as AaC, AeC, AiC or AoC, for instance (a) BaA, BaC invalid; (b) AaB, BeC invalid (Aristotle’s very first example (see above) in 26a2 – 9); (c) BeA, BoC invalid, reducible to BeA, BeC invalid (the complicated example in 27b10 – 23 discussed above). These examples and figures indicate that we can get insight into the invalidity of syllogisms in the same manner as we can get insight into the validity of the perfect syllogisms (since the validity of the imperfect syllogisms can be proved). 43 A particularly illustrative exposition of the Venn-diagram-technique is presented in Copi 1968: 160 – 177.

442

Wolfgang Detel

The question is, though, what is this manner? Interestingly, in the case of invalidity Aristotle’s reasoning does not seem obviously to be related to the meaning of the syllogistic constants. To approach this problem, we have briefly to look at some passages in which Aristotle indicates that abstract semi-logical patterns can be grasped by induction. For instance, the claim that non-accidental change occurs only in contraries or contradictories can be shown by induction (Phys. V 1, 224b27 – 30). More interestingly for our purposes, according to Aristotle it is clear by induction that what is contrary to a good thing is necessarily bad (Cat.11, 13b37 f.); likewise, it is made plane by induction that the contrary of the species must be of necessity in the contrary of its genus, if there is any contrary to the genus (Top.IV3, 123b6 – 8). Obviously, then, for Aristotle even necessary relations of structures can be revealed by induction. So why should this not go for logical relations? Indeed, he says that the logical pattern “if AaB, then not-B a not-A” can be grasped by induction (Top.II 113b15 – 21). Here we have an explicit remark about a sort of relation between logic and experience. The best interpretation of this material I can think of is to say that Aristotle conceived of necessary relations between various sorts of structures as parts or aspects of the empirical world, pretty much in the sense of a de re – necessity. The de-re -necessities entail also logical (i. e. syllogistic valid) relations. Employing the way Frank Jackson has recently expressed this idea44 we can say : A pattern Q of an entity E is necessarily related to patterns Pi of E if (a) every phenomenon in our world that makes it true that E has one of the Pi, also makes it true in our world that E has Q, and if (b) in every possible world that is identical with our world in containing the fact that E has one of the Pi, it is also true that E has Q. Ontologically speaking Q is here strictly the same in any of the Pi : there is this identity in difference. And it is basically this identity that creates the metaphysical necessity of the relations between Pi and Q. This notion of a necessary metaphysical relation seems, according to Aristotle, to hold also for the structures expressed by valid syllogisms and by claims about the invalidity of certain syllogisms. This would, if acceptable, help to explain why Aristotle tries to justify his claims about invalid pairs of syllogistic premises in an abstract way and why the induction of concrete empirical examples, while certainly being an important basis for logical pattern-recognition, has nevertheless mostly an illustrative and heuristic force. Metaphysically speaking Aristotle feels that logical relations are not, as many modern semanticists have it, semantic norms binding us in our argumentation, but second order relations of set-relations that have a modal ontological status such that the modality involved in logical relations is de 44 See Jackson 1998.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

443

re. If syllogisms are valid, then the logical second order relations are de re necessary ; if, however, the syllogisms are invalid, then the logical second order relations are de re possible. In this way logic is, according to Aristotle, founded in nature, and this is why we human sophisticated pattern-recognizers can become aware of logical relations by looking at examples of triples of empirical terms that metaphysically realize second order logical relations. This conception of logic confirms the impression that from Aristotle’s point of view logically sound arguments are not genuinely normative.

VII The result we have reached so far is the same as in Plato’s case. For Aristotle a normative attitude towards (forms of) arguments makes sense, but at the same time, forms of arguments are not genuinely normative. Therefore, for Aristotle too the normativity of good or valid arguments must be a derivative one. Indeed, it is the relation between intellectual activities and eudaimonia, and in particular between formal disciplines and paideia, that represents the link between the paradigmatic genuinely normative state (eudaimonia) and the normativity of (forms of) arguments. After all, eudaimonia is for Aristotle, “an activity of the soul in accordance with excellence”.45 To flourish and to live a successful life involves for humans, among other things, the exercise of intellectual excellences like being able to grasp the truth, having good judgement and practical wisdom. While Aristotle certainly felt that this exercise, as being the thing that marks off humans from other animals, is extremely enjoyable, the main point he wanted to make is not that happiness consists in intellectual activities, but that intellectual activities, at least if they are excellent, are constitutive for a flourishing life and eudaimonia as the highest intrinsic values. It is, as all scholars agree, because of their relation to eudaimonia that intellectual activities are, for Aristotle, ultimately to be recommended. This goes in particular for using the methods of the formal disciplines, viz. dialectic, syllogistic, and philosophy of science.46 The first thing to remember here is that in Aristotle’s classification of all sciences47 dialectic, logic, and theory of science are missing. Aristotle does not seem to count them among the sciences. Of course, this has provoked a debate among scholars.48 The suggestion 45 46 47 48

Aristotle NE 1098a. This is not always sufficiently appreciated in the literature. Metaph.VI 1. e. g., Ross 1923: 20, Barnes 1982: 25, Ackrill 1981: 79.

444

Wolfgang Detel

offered by the Aristotelean tradition is that Aristotle considered these disciplines as mere tools of the sciences. But Aristotle himself gives us some clues that help to understand better how he looked at the status of logic, dialectic, and the theory of science. Specific sciences proper are defined by the specific domain, or genus, they deal with. And since the specific domains or genera of the sciences are sharply separated from each other (such that scientists are not permitted to cross them in demonstrations), this definition is a unique characterization. However, dialectic, logic, and theory of sciences do not have a specific domain; for neither of them deals with the nature of any definite subject, but they are mere faculties of furnishing arguments.49 In addition, they do not seem to be looking for causes. In these crucial respects they differ from sciences proper. More importantly, recognizing and following general methodological rules is a matter, not of science, but of education (paideia). Thus, the wrong demand that everything should be demonstrated50 is due to want of education, for not to know of what things one may demand demonstration, and of what one may not, argues simply want of education.51 Likewise, it is the mark of an educated man to look for precision in each class of things just so far as the nature of the subjects admits.52 In general, concerning every study and investigation, there are, according to Aristotle, two different kinds of proficiency : one is a kind of acquaintance with the subject, provided by sciences proper ; the other is what may be properly called educated knowledge of the subject. For an educated man should be able to form a fair judgement as to the goodness or badness of an exposition in nearly all branches of knowledge, and not merely in some special subject. Therefore in the sciences, in particular in the natural sciences, there must be certain canons, by reference to which a hearer shall be able to critizise the method of a professed exposition, quite independently of the question whether the statements made be true or false, and to be educated is to do this, and the man of general education we take to be such.53 These remarks show how Aristotle conceives of the true status of logic and a theory of science: learning and mastering these disciplines is, not to be a scientist, but to be educated in the most general sense; logic and theory of science are the very core of paideia. One important aspect of this general education is a rational critical attitude towards the structure and validity of proposed arguments. To use modern terminology, to be educated in this general sense, i. e. to use logic and scientific methodology in a critical and rational way, is to move in 49 50 51 52 53

Ar. Rhet. 1356a32 – 34; see also APr. 24a24 – 26 This is discussed in some detail in APo. I 3. Metaph.1000a5 – 8. EN 1094b24 – 25. PA 639a1 – 15. See George 1993.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

445

the space of reason, to participate in the game of giving and asking for reasons. The process of learning logic and scientific methodology is to tame nature and to move from the realm of nature into the space of reasons, and this is certainly one of the most important conditions for living a good life. It is, then, the ethical idea of a good life and of education as constitutive ingredient of a good life that provides, according to Aristotle at least, the basis for deriving the normativity of good and valid (forms of) arguments. Eudaimonia in connection with paideia is for humans the crucial state of functioning well, i. e. of reaching the specific human telos.54 However, according to Aristotle it is, of course, not only humans that can exercise functions and can be attributed different kinds of a telos; rather, this goes for all other animals and some other things too.55 The ultimate general source of functions for all animals is the goal of partaking, as finite beings, in immortality.56 But there is an even more general cosmological background of this goal: for Aristotle, the fulfillment of this goal is just one of the cases of eternal cyclical movement that takes place in the universe, and this eternity, or absolute necessity, is something intrinsically valuable. Moreover, Aristotle also feels that the eternal cyclical sequences of perishable substances are teleologically caused by the cyclical revolution of the heavens (GC 338a18-b6) and “imitate” them (GC 336b25 – 337a8). So ultimately we would have to look at astronomy and the theory of the prime movers to understand some of the ultimate causes of why participating in eternity is the highest goal animals aspire to. From the perspective of the highest goal animals aim at, the specific essential features and functions of certain kinds of animals can be seen as rendering more precise the particular ways and forms by which animals try to reach this goal – they try to do this, for instance, by actualizing their capacities of perception, self-motion and self-nutrition, or, in the case of humans, by leading a flourishing life and getting as far as possible into the state of eudaimonia. From a methodological point of view some additional, more specific claims about essential properties and functions of animals are required for specifying their goals and functions. For from the highest teleological premises alone pointing to the highest goal animals aim at, almost nothing, and certainly nothing interesting, can be logically deduced. In short, Aristotle distinguishes, like Plato does, between, first, the general normativity connected to the functioning of all animals and the cosmological structure of the universe, second, the specific semantic normativity that consists 54 As is well known, the crucial passage that sets out this view is EN I 6. 55 In Physics VIII 10 Aristotle even attempts to prove that all things in the universe have aims and functions due to their relation to the unmoved mover. 56 See Detel 1997.

446

Wolfgang Detel

in producing good and valid arguments, and third, the genuine normativity that flows from the human soul and its specific capacities and functions connected to the state of eudaimonia. Both Plato and Aristotle entertain hybrid theories of normativity designed to locate the source of genuine ethical normativity and to distinguish three forms and levels of normativity : cosmological, semantic, and psychological normativity. And both Plato and Aristotle develop the same picture of the relations between these levels of normativity. While cosmological normativity provides the most general background for all other sorts of normativity, it does not entail them. Rather, psychological normativities in different animals including humans are specific instantiations of cosmological normativity due to specific functions of animals that cannot be derived from cosmology alone, but must be explored by specific sciences like biology, psychology, and ethics. Finally, semantic normativity, which is specific for humans, can be derived from human psychological normativity and an adequate ethical specification of eudaimonia and paideia that shows that semantic normativity is a constitutive part of the way educated and happy people act and communicate.57

VIII I now consider two versions of modern normative semantics to see whether, and if so where, these theories locate the origin of the normativity of semantic norms. I proceed from the assumption that there is a good sense in which we can say that thoughts or statements should be true and that, if we take some of them to be true we should also take some other thoughts or claims to be true; and I take it that some of these transitions can be justified by looking at the contents of the thoughts or statements in question (logically valid transitions are, of course, only one example, albeit an important one). But, at the same time, I take the claim seriously that semantics can be treated, to a considerable extent, in non-normative vocabulary. One of the aims here is to show how these two intuitions can be seen as consistent. Donald Davidson entertains what might be called an interpretavionist conception of psychology. This conception involves the idea that our understanding of people (understanding not in the sense of scientifically explaining, but rather in the sense of the German “Verstehen”) is in some way normative. Davidson stresses that we need to make sense of the whole of the set of attitudes and the whole of the set of contentful utterances we ascribe to a person in order to render them intelligible to us.58 Interpreting people’s utterances, mental states, and 57 Gill 2005 shows that all this goes also for the Stoics. 58 In a well-known passage, he writes that to ascribe attitudes or to interpret someone we must

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

447

actions successfully implies being able to reconstruct the whole set of these utterances, states and actions as being governed by a number of principles of rationality such as consistency and truth, or having good reasons for one’s beliefs and claims, or believing and stating the obvious. There cannot be any doubt that these principles are meant to be normative in character and that the notion of rationality is meant to be a normative one.59 In short, understanding a person’s mental states, words or actions is to be able to rationalize them, that is, to see them as rational ones given other mental states, statements or actions of this person. It is important to keep in mind that, for Davidson, being interpretable in this rational, logical, and normative way is constitutive of speaking a natural language, having contentful mental states, and performing actions that are describable under some contentful intention. This kind of deep normativity is non-optional: it does not make sense to think about the possibility of violating these norms, but it is still the deepest sort of normativity characteristic of creatures mastering natural languages and having a mental life. This is the crucial reason for the universality, and in this sense, the objectivity of this sort of non-optional normativity. It is a logical consequence of a semantic theory in a broadly Davidsonian style that the general standards of rationality of all interpreters and interpretands must be the same. That is why the interpreter, in trying to understand a creature, must apply the principle of charity, and must seek to maximize the agreement between the interpretand and herself concerning consistency, truth, and justification of their beliefs, claims, and intention. This theory has, for me at least, and for many others, still a great appeal. Nevertheless, as far as the claims about normativity are concerned, it is problematic. The easiest way to see this is to look at some details of the construction of Davidson’s theory of interpretation, in particular, in two respects. A theory of interpretation is supposed to be an empirical theory based on the so-called Ttheorems used as empirical evidence; furthermore, this theory is supposed to be constructed, in a situation of radical interpretation, by interpreters who have already mastered a natural language and have contentful thoughts. Interpreters begin to construct a theory of meaning for a given object language by establishing, in an empirical manner, a lot of T-theorems of the form s is true if and work out a theory of what the person means, thus simultaneously giving content to his attitudes and to his words. In our need to make sense, we will try for a theory that finds the person consistent, a believer of truths, and a lover of the good. See Davidson 1980: 253, and in general Davidson 1990. See also n. 21 above. 59 Daniel Dennett, for instance, who entertains a type of interpretavism himself, has pointed out that: ”A system’s beliefs are those it ought to have, given its perceptual capacities, epistemic needs and biography … Deciding that something is an intentional system permits predictions having a normative or logical basis rather than an empirical one;’ Dennett 1978: 13, 48 – 9.

448

Wolfgang Detel

only if p (where ”s’ is a meta-linguistic name for a statement in the object language). The notion of truth enters this construction in two different ways. First, it is obviously used to formulate the T-theorems. On this level, the notion of truth, while, of course, belonging to the meta-language spoken by the interpreter, does not mean more than ”stating something assertively’ in the object language. This notion of truth is absolutely basic for the theory of interpretation, and it is strictly non-normative. Secondly, the interpreter must take the T-theorems themselves to be true. This notion of truth is, therefore, applied to statements in the meta-language, for instance to T-theorems. Does Davidson think that this notion of truth is already a normative one? Does it make sense to say that Ttheorems should be true? To my knowledge, Davidson never discusses this question, but I think the answer must be positive. In constructing an empirical theory of interpretation, we already rely on the usual methodology well-known from the philosophy of science that is supposed, among other things, to recommend how to proceed if we want to establish a good empirical theory. Part of this recommendation is, of course, that the test-basis for our theory should consist of true empirical statements or sentences. T-theorems containing a non-normative notion of truth do not necessarily give us the meanings of the statements of the object language that they mention. Rather, as already indicated, they have only to be true as material equivalences in the logical sense. This implies, obviously, that the notion of truth as applied to the object language must be taken to be nonnormative and that the relation between different T-theorems is not yet a logical or normative one. But how do Ttheorems become interpretative? By being incorporated, according to Davidson, into a satisfying axiomatic theory of interpretation that reveals how all the statements of the object language are related to each other. Put in an oversimplified way, it is the holism of this theory that turns T-theorems into sentences that give us the meanings of statements in the object language – if this theory remains empirically successful, and thus enables us to deduce all true Ttheorems for the object language. However, in order to construct a satisfying theory of interpretation, the interpreter has to make use of the principle of charity and apply all those principles of rationality that are constitutive of speaking natural languages and having contentful beliefs. It is by maximizing agreement between interpreter and interpretand concerning these principles that T-theorems turn out to be interpretative, that their relations turn out to be governed by normative logical rules, and that the notion of truth applied to statements of the object language is equipped with a normative dimension that enables the interpreter to say, for instance, that the interpretand should take certain statements to be true given that she takes certain other statements to be true.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

449

All this shows that Davidson’s theory of meaning and content may reveal some normative conditions that are characteristic for speaking a natural language and having contentful thoughts. But Davidson is not able to illuminate the source of this semantic normativity. This is obvious because, in his theory, semantic and methodological normativity must theoretically be presupposed as governing the meta-language spoken, and the interpretation theory constructed, by the interpreter. One could even say that Davidson’s whole theoretical approach precludes any attempt to say something about the source of semantic normativity, because the approach proceeds from analysing situations of radical interpretation that must already presuppose that semantic normativity is given with respect to the meta-language. Theoretically, the introduction of rationality and normativity must be taken, in a Davidsonian type of semantics, as completely ad hoc. According to Davidson, the ultimate source of semantic normativity is the constitutive ideal of rationality that the principle of charity refers to. But this ideal of rationality is simply declared to be normative. Another way to see this is to reflect briefly on Davidson’s ”causal theory’ of reference as part of his broadly externalist semantics. His basic idea here is that in the most fundamental cases our thinking or stating that p is caused by p. But, at the same time, Davidson thinks he can avoid any more detailed analysis of this causation; in particular, he thinks that a theory of perception is not necessary for semantics. In this way, he tries also to avoid the introduction of the notion of representation into semantic theories. These moves are not at all convincing, however ; Davidson’s so-called theory of reference is much too simple and really nothing more than a vague sketch. Filling out this sketch and developing it into a full-scale theory must imply an analysis of representational perception, much as outlined in teleosemantics.60 Thus, we can see that there is no problem in talking about successful representation or misrepresentation in a completely non-normative way.61 The same holds for the distinction between truth and falsehood of statements and beliefs. Like successful representations, true beliefs and statements provide an adequate mapping of external states of affairs (to put it very simply), but there is nothing genuinely normative in this, except that true beliefs and linguistic signs help to increase the probability of survival and reproduction in some sense. This is, of course, not to say that successful representation or truth must be defined in terms of reproductive success or utility. Rather, success and utility are an explicable effect of successful representation and truth. So we need more theoretical ingredients to show, instead of simply proceeding from intuition, that semantic relations are, and how they become, genuinely normative. Davidson’s 60 See below, fn. 63. 61 See Millikan 1984, Neander 1995.

450

Wolfgang Detel

theory of interpretation and meaning does not give us these additional theoretical ingredients.

IX Let me now look briefly at Robert Brandom’s big book Making It Explicit (1994, henceforth MIE). There are actually two major projects in MIE. One is to analyse, and demarcate, genuinely conceptual practices. The basic idea here is that what is special about human beings is being bound by reason and rationality, which amounts to recognizing, and being subjected to, inferential norms that govern the propositional contents of mental episodes, signs, and acts that we humans can rationally understand. But to understand fully what is special about linguistic practices we need, as Brandom sees it, to understand also the relationship between genuinely conceptual practices and pre-conceptual practices. The challenge is to tell a story about how linguistic practices arise out of nonlinguistic practices. This is what Brandom offers in the first four chapters of MIE. The second project is to outline a social and inferential route to representation. More generally, the task is to introduce, and explain, the traditional semantic vocabulary on the basis of the account of inferential norms presented in the first part of MIE. In particular, the challenge is to reconstruct the ways of representing things by looking at the ways of inferentially articulating and recognizing things (and not vice versa, as in most semantic approaches). While I think that MIE is in many respects an impressive book (particularly, chapters 5 to 7, which are usually discussed less intensively, if at all), it seems to me that both big projects in MIE are questionable. In the present paper, it is the first of these projects that concerns me most. How is it that, for Brandom, semantic normativity arises, and where must we locate the source of this normativity? The overall picture presented in MIE is this. Brandom proceeds from the assumption that neither regulism nor regularism is acceptable. Regulism is the view that norms are explicit rules. Regularism is the view that norms are regularities. Regulism is false because it implies a regress, since it can always be asked whether the rule is applied correctly. Regularism fails due to the gerrymandering argument. This is that, for anything one might go on to do, there is some regularity such that one might count the act as going on the same way ; hence, to distinguish between regular and irregular, and thus, between correct and incorrect, patterns of behaviour, there must be a way of picking out some of all the regularities exhibited by the behaviour as somehow privileged. However, there is, simply, no such way. Consequently, Brandom wants to start from norms given implicitly in practices. Such practices have to be described

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

451

both as not involving explicit rules and as distinct from regularities. He rejects the approach endorsed by theorists such as Haugeland that norms implicit in practices can be introduced by pointing to sanctions conceived in terms of conditioning and reinforcement. Brandom’s main point is that sanctions of this kind are non-normative states or regularities, and so the gerrymandering argument can be generated again at the level of physical sanctions. Brandom’s suggestion is, therefore, that we should think of norms implicit in practices as instituted by practical attitudes of assessment and acknowledgement. Performances are correct or incorrect by being taken, or assessed, by actors as being correct or incorrect. Practical assessment can be understood as sanctioning, but these sanctions must themselves have normative significance, that is, there must be changes in the normative status of the people that are being sanctioned, for instance by their being granted privileges or being released from duties. In this way, norms are operative all the way down. As it does not make sense to explain modal vocabulary by reducing it to non-modal terms, so it does not make sense to explain normative vocabulary by reducing it to non-normative vocabulary. There can only be internal explanations of modal or normative terms. This goes especially also for conceptual norms, and thus, for semantic normativity. While it is certainly correct to think, as Brandom does and Kant and others did before him, that norms come into existence, in a sense, by people’s assessing and evaluating things or performances, Brandom’s line of argument does not, in my view, give us a secure theoretical basis for his conclusions. As in Davidson’s case, normativity, specifically, for Brandom, the normativity in our practices of assessment, does not get theoretically introduced or explained in any illuminating way. One reason for this may be that the distinction between physical and normative sanctions that Brandom adopts is too sharp. But the main reason is, I think, that it is hard to understand what it means for norms to be given implicitly in practices; likewise, it is hard to understand what it means to follow a rule implicitly – an idea on which Wittgensteinians rely in seeing language as a set of linguistic conventions. There are actually two problems here: one is that we are supposed to understand that an agent’s behaviour is guided by rules or norms that are not cognitively realized in the agent’s mind because they have not been verbally introduced to him. The other problem is that Davidsonians, Wittgensteinians, and Brandomians presuppose, in their philosophy of language, a social background (”practices’) without in any way explaining what it is for a form of behaviour to be a practice or to be social in a normative sense. I doubt that we can explain what it is to follow a rule or what it is for behaviour to constitute a social practice without already invoking talk of content-rich thoughts and contentful utterances. Thus, the review of the two semantic theories sketched here suggests that, technically speaking, the semantic theorist can and should proceed without

452

Wolfgang Detel

relying on normative vocabulary. Once the difference between truth and falsity is modelled on the non-normative distinction between successful representation and misrepresentation, we can introduce notions such as consistency and valid inference in a non-normative way too. For instance, valid inferences preserve truth, sentences are incompatible if the negation of one of them follows from the other on the basis of valid inferences, and a set of sentences is consistent if it does not contain incompatible sentences. Nonetheless, human beings who have mastered a natural language are clearly capable of producing second-order thoughts and of using them to examine critically whether they should accept, or reject, some of the accessible contents of first-order sentences and thoughts. This capacity seems to indicate that we are right in assuming that, even if we can understand at the theoretical level what content and meaning are and how they function without referring to anything more than physical normativity, there is a sort of genuine normativity that, while not being constitutive for content and meaning, is nonetheless bound up with the use of natural languages by human beings. But, if this is right, we must ask how genuine normativity enters the semantic picture. In the final sections of this paper, I want to outline an answer to this question, though only in the most general way.

X The first move is to look at neurobiology and cognitive psychology, as is commonly done in this context. Details and niceties aside, neurobiologists inform us that a main function of the brain, in particular of the limbic system, at least of mammals, is to evaluate unconsciously and nonlinguistically external states for, and internal states of, the organisms it belongs to. These evaluations can be described in a purely physicalist vocabulary. For an organism X to evaluate a state of type Y in environment E consists, basically, of reacting causally to Ystates in E in such a way that X develops dispositions for behaving in future cases of Y-states in E in such a way that this behaviour increases the probability of the survival and reproduction of X.62 It seems, interestingly, that most, if not all, organisms capable of evaluating things in this sense are, at the same time, representational systems in the teleosemantic sense,63 but that unconscious 62 See, for instance, Panksepp 1998, Roth 2001. 63 The teleosemantic theory of sublinguistic representations and teleo-content relies on an idea of proper functions: The teleosemantic notion of a proper function relies on the concept of a reproductive familiy as a set of things that reproduce each other, that is, that produces copies of existing members of the family. Now let R be a reproductive family and m a member of R, then it is the proper function of m to do F iff, first, m exists now, second, C is a property that

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

453

evaluations are independent of representational capacities in the sense that representation does not imply evaluation, although it might be the case that evaluation presupposes representation. Not every representation constitutes an evaluation;64 but creatures that are in principle incapable of representing things cannot evaluate them. All mammals including human beings display a lot of unconscious mechanisms of evaluation that have specific biological functions. In animals that have memory and are capable of associative learning, the evaluative mechanisms can take on the form of conditioning by reinforcement, although this is by no means the only way of learning at an unconscious and nonlinguistic level. Clearly, evaluative mechanisms are, in addition to non-linguistic representations and misrepresentations, the second important case of mechanisms displaying physical normativity. As such, they belong to the physical world. In a sense, organisms equipped with a limbic system have a sort of authority in evaluating things. The limbic system that is doing the job of evaluation belongs, after all, to individual organisms. But the evaluations provided by the limbic system are clearly not accessible to the organisms themselves: they do not establish the kind of self-relation that is required for genuine normativity. However, in mammals it is precisely the limbic system that is closely correlated with the occurrence of feelings, that is, drives and emotions.65 Psychological theories of feelings assume that there are a number of elementary drives (such as hunger, thirst, sexual drive) and emotions (such as anger, fear, pleasure, curiosity)66 common to most mammals. Among biologists and psychologists, there is fundamental agreement about the biological functions of states of drives and emotional states. For every organism there are, as a matter of fact, certain classes of dangerous and valuable events in the internal or external environment; gets copied among the members of R, third, the positive statistical relation between C and F becomes greater during the history of members of R, and finally, these points contribute to explaining why m exists now. Now, it is the proper function of the brain to produce brainstates that map on to the world and produce actions that guide the system adequately in its behavior. This is what the sublinguistic representation of brain-states basically consists in. Likewise, it is the proper function of a sign-producer to produce signs that map on to the world and guide an interpreter adequately in her actions. This is what sublinguistic teleocontents of signs basically consist in (mapping here means that there is an isomorphism between the qualified states of a type of events and the qualified states of a type of mental states or signs). See Millikan 1984. 64 However, in the case of mammals many representations are evaluative. At the most fundamental level, for instance, the ”pure’ perception of red things that philosophers like to talk about as a prime example is a fiction. In most cases, redness indicates something dangerous, in other cases readiness for sexual intercourse and so on. Perception of coloured things is in most cases evaluatively laden. 65 The psychology of emotions distinguishes rather sharply between ”drives’ and ”emotions’, see Izard 1999. 66 There are slightly different assumptions about the set of primary emotions. E. g. Damasio 1999: 50 mentions six: happiness, sadness, fear, anger, surprise, disgust.

454

Wolfgang Detel

hence, drives are reactions to internal evaluative events, while emotions are reactions to external evaluative events (Damasio 1999: 54). In any case, both drives and emotions can be positive or negative attitudes and are correlated not only with complex patterns in the body’s chemical profile, as regards the states of the viscera, the degree of contraction of muscles (for instance, of the face, throat, trunk, and limbs), but also with structures of neural circuits in the brain, most prominently in the limbic system – structures that cause all the physiological states just mentioned. That is why there is sometimes an ambiguity in the way neurobiologists and psychologists talk about drives and emotions: sometimes drives and emotions are simply identified with specific neural and physiological states, sometimes they are taken to be conscious feelings that are themselves correlated with specific neural and physiological states. This ambiguity is, of course, not really a problem, but we must be aware of it. Actually, it is based on the grand tradition of the three main theories of emotions (and drives). The Cartesian tradition identifies emotions with feelings. The key idea is to treat emotions and drives as purely mental phenomena and to separate them from all bodily aspects, primarily from both perceptions preceding them and from physiological changes that follow them. In this view, drives and emotions are a sort of reflexive awareness of things going on in one’s own body.67 The behaviourist tradition identifies emotions and drives with physiological and neural states including motor reactions to these states.68 The Aristotelian tradition offers a cognitive theory of emotions and drives. According to this theory, emotions and drives have contents and amount to evaluative judgements.69 I agree emphatically with those theorists who see each of these three theories as picking out just one of the important aspects of emotions and drives, in this way narrowing down a rich and full-scale theory of emotions and drives. Such a rich theory would rather have to appreciate all three aspects emphasized in each of the mentioned traditions. 67 See Descartes 1995 [1649], parts 1 – 2, and his correspondence with Princess Elisabeth. Hume entertained another version of this theory, the main difference being that he tried to explain the impact of emotions on behaviour. The most influential modern advocate of the theory of feelings is William James 1890, vol. 2, ch. 25, who hoped to develop a scientific theory of emotions by examining the behaviour and physiological changes that are correlated with emotional states. 68 J. B.Watson 1919: 192 ff., the founder of Behaviorism, suggested such a theory. Cf. also Skinner 1974 and, above all, Skinner and Holland 1961: 210 – 12. 69 Aristotle thinks that emotions, since they have cognitive content, can and do influence the judgements of human beings profoundly in speeches of various kinds; that is why he treats the cognitive theory of emotions primarily in the Rhetoric, see Rh. 2.2 – 11. In early modern Europe, Spinoza advocated the cognitive theory of emotions. In modern philosophy it was most of all Magda Arnold 1960 who rehabilitated this theory. See also Solomon 1976 and Lyons 1980, as the most influential advocates of the cognitive theory of emotions.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

455

Even at a sub-linguistic level, drives and emotions are, according to this comprehensive view, (a) neural and internal physiological patterns, that are (b) often correlated with a sort of conscious awareness, have (c) a teleo-content and result often (d) in typical muscular structures (for instance, of the face) that can be taken to be intentional signs (in the teleosemantic sense) for (a) and (b).70 I suggest that, in talking about issues of normativity, we work with this rich account of emotions and drives, located systematically at a sub-linguistic level. On this view, drives and emotions are part of an area called phenomenal consciousness in the contemporary philosophy of mind; but they are not just pro- or con-attitudes, involving a pleasant or painful conscious awareness of some physiological states caused by some brain states. They also have, in addition, teleo-content based on their biological functions, and are related to external muscular expressions that are intentional signs which can be, and are very often, interpreted in the sub-linguistic teleosemantic sense. It is, by the way, interesting to see that an increasing number of psychologists and neurobiologists are convinced that conscious mental episodes exist in many mammals, that they can be distinguished sharply from unconscious states, that they can be correlated with specific brain-states in the so-called associative cortex, that they have specific biological functions, and that they are characterized by a specific subjective quality of experience.71 In addition, there is now a lot of research going on to explore the neural mechanisms that realize conscious states physically. I claim that drives and emotions, in this rich sense, are one of the most important sources of genuine normativity. It seems to me obvious that drives and emotions of this kind represent the most fundamental level on which all mammals, including human beings, are capable of exercising an evaluative authority that is related to the accessibility of the evaluations in question. This accessibility is due to some sort of awareness and selfrelationship that comes with all degrees of phenomenal consciousness.

XI From a philosophical point of view, this move provokes a number of questions. Thus, there is a considerable debate going on about the question of whether states of consciousness are always or regularly tied to some sort of awareness. Obviously, an answer to this question depends in part on the specific notion of 70 See further Ekman 1980. One of the most forceful and convincing defenders of such a rich theory of emotions is R. De Sousa 1987. The much-debated new book of Antonio Damasio 1999 talks primarily about how emotions, defined in a purely neural and physiological sense, are accompanied by feelings in a broader sense. 71 See again Roth 2001; also Revonsuo 1999, Durstewitz and Windmann 1999.

456

Wolfgang Detel

consciousness that is invoked in this debate. A number of influential writers, for example, take the occurrence of full attention or second-order thoughts to be necessary conditions for phenomenal consciousness to occur.72 Others distinguish between two kinds of consciousness. Thus, Ned Block urges us to draw a distinction between access consciousness and phenomenal consciousness,73 and Michael Tye insists that there is a kind of consciousness that is not related to attention and is not introspectively accessible either. (We can, for instance, be conscious of the logical implications of beliefs we have entertained without paying any particular attention to them, or we can feel how it is to be exposed for a short time to a very loud noise even while being completely inattentive during this time interval.) Consciousness tied to attention is, according to Tye, simply a higher-level kind of consciousness.74 In any case, in order to be able to identify drives and emotions, considered as part of phenomenal consciousness, as important sources of genuine normativity at a non-linguistic level, I must point to those kinds of consciousness that are at least in some minimal way correlated with a sort of awareness, accessibility and thus, self-relationship. I must assume that this kind of consciousness supervenes on brain states that produce representational inner episodes and intentional signs having teleo-content that can be sublinguistically interpreted by members of the same species. One of the most intensive debates in this context concerns the question of whether all these conditions can ever be sufficient to explain the sort of reflective relation of a creature to itself that seems to be connected with its conscious states. There is a long and strong tradition from Herder and Humboldt up to Wittgenstein, Davidson, and Dennett claims that not only the possession of contentful thoughts, but also genuine normativity presupposes the mastering of a natural language (let me call this the Herder-tradition). The Herder-tradition insists that the content of conscious states can only be determined – and thus, that conscious states themselves can only be individuated – by applying and using natural languages. At the same time, the Herder-tradition is extremely critical about carelessly ascribing consciousness to nonlinguistic creatures.75 The claim is that we should be at least agnostic about what conscious states of non-linguistic creatures might be like and whether they possess consciousness at

72 Dennett 1991, Dretske 1999, Becker 2000. 73 Block 1995. For a critical review of this position, see Burge 2001. 74 Tye 1999. Similarly, Searle 1992: 160 – 5, talks about a ”center’ and a ”periphery’ of consciousness connected with different levels of attention. 75 This is, of course, the line of thought proposed by Davidson and Dennett. For a new review, extension and defence of this argument, see Becker 2000. Interestingly, there are also some neurobiologists who have recently supported this philosophical position, e. g. MacPhail 1998.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

457

all. Obviously, this position excludes any attempt to explain semantic normativity by appealing to physical normativity and consciousness. I am not at all sure, however, that the Herder-tradition is correct. There are good reasons to believe that the overall picture offered by the Herder-tradition is too simple. Admittedly, some forms of human consciousness may indeed depend on linguistic capabilities. But, first of all, in the ontogenesis of human beings, there does not seem to be a neural structural reorganization of those parts of the brain that are connected with conscious states around the time period at which humans learn to master a natural language (Roth 2000). Also, psychologists tell us that there are many indications that consciousness comes in degrees. Recent studies on people with damaged brains have shown that there are all sorts of low, diminished or (more or less) suppressed states of consciousness and awareness.76 One well-known case is what is sometimes called dissociation. Patients who have suffered from extreme continuous pain and have undergone a certain routine surgery of the brain say afterwards that they still feel pain (and pleasure) but do not suffer from (do not enjoy) it anymore, that is, they are dissociated from suffering and joy (Dennett thinks that non-linguistic mammals feel drives and emotions in this dissociated way). Also, patients with significant language impairments (up to global aphasia) seem to remain awake and attentive. More importantly, they are often capable of indicating that they are experiencing specific objects or the tragedy of a situation (Damasio 1999: 108 – 12). Finally, recent research on primates and human babies seems to indicate that primates solve problems that human beings cannot solve without conscious attention and that non-linguistic babies have conscious experiences and even intentional consciousness (Roth 2001, ch. 11, Tomasello 1999). So there are surely impressive data that suggest that some non-speaking creatures do have at least lower states of phenomenal consciousness, especially of drives and emotions, that can be taken to be individuated for their bearers and therefore to be examples of accessible states of evaluation. There is another kind of recent research that is extremely interesting in this context and needs to be appreciated. This research is designed to compare the cognitive capacities of adult chimpanzees and young nonspeaking human babies. Two of the most important results of these studies are that, firstly, young human babies are – while even adult chimps are not – capable of understanding other human beings as intentional beings like themselves, and secondly, that from around nine months of age onwards they begin to show behaviour that involves a triadic coordination of their interactions both with other people and 76 See e. g. Damasio 1999, Roth 2000. Recent critics of the claim of the dependence of consciousness on the capacity to speak a natural language include Flanagan 1992 and Block 1993.

458

Wolfgang Detel

objects. Triadic coordination of one’s own interactions both with other people and objects includes at least eight different ways of bringing about joint attention, none of which occurs in the interaction of chimps. These are joint engagement, point following, imitation of instrumental acts, imitation of arbitrary acts, reaction to social obstacles, use of imperative gestures, and use of declarative gestures.77 Remarkably, these measures of joint attention are regularly connected to positive or negative feelings: young non-speaking human babies seem to be regularly pleased if adult people share the attention that the babies want to share with them, and they seem to be clearly disappointed if they fail to get other people to ”tune in’ to their attention. Understanding other human beings as intentional agents at a non-linguistic level presupposes, of course, that the thoughts and signs produced by these agents be representations; it is obviously at this point that we can bring in teleosemantics to account for the significance of thoughts and signs independently of natural languages. Of course, compared with creatures that master natural languages, we are talking about a weaker form of intentional understanding which consists mainly in grasping that other human beings have goals and that these goals are related to their behaviour. For instance, young human babies react differently to what human adults would call random behaviour, on the one hand, and intentional behaviour, on the other hand. All this is, clearly, a scientific expansion and corrobation of what Davidson once called triangulation. The capacity that enables human babies to get involved in a situation of triangulation is in turn, as Davidson argued, one of the conditions of forming a conception of the objective external world. The development of this conception goes along with the emergence of subjectivity and consciousness in its highest human forms (for instance, as the occurrence of second-order thoughts and metarepresentations, and perhaps also as suffering or pleasurable states of drives or emotions78).

XII A more sophisticated picture, then, would be that there are a number of important conditions at a non-linguistic level for the formation of high levels of consciousness (and, at the same time, for a conception of the objective external world). These conditions include (i) representations in the teleosemantic sense, (ii) unconscious evaluation systems (primarily in the limbic system), (iii) in77 Tomasello 1999; see further Carpenter, Nagell, and Tomasello 1998, Carpenter, Tomasello, and Savage-Rumbaugh 1995. 78 Perner 1991.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

459

terpretations of intentional signs having teleocontents, (iv) lower forms of consciousness connected with lower forms of feelings and a lower kind of genuine normativity, and (v) a specifically human capacity for pre-linguistic intentional understanding and sharing attention with other humans. It is on the basis of these five conditions that human babies can master natural languages, which in turn results in, or goes along with, the development of higher forms of consciousness, and thus, of accessible feelings and the human kind of genuine normativity. So even if, in the Herder-tradition, Humboldt is right about the preconditions of, at least, certain kinds of consciousness, it remains true, in my view, that we must look at conditions (i) – (iv) to account for genuine normativity in general. I insist that the Herder-tradition is wrong in assuming that we are entitled to use normative vocabulary to do semantics without relating semantic normativity ultimately to physical normativity and various forms of consciousness. If we take our human way of speaking, understanding, and reasoning to be genuinely normative, as I myself do, then this normativity must be an external and derived one. Consequently, I claim that, if the Herder-tradition is right in assuming that mastering a natural language is necessary for having at least some sorts of conscious mental states, we have, on pain of circularity or arbitrary assumptions, to do semantics in non-normative terms and to explain our mastering of natural languages in a purely non-normative vocabulary. I see no serious problem in doing this. In this sense, we need to do semantics independently of theories of consciousness while admitting, at the same time, that there is a good sense in which we can say that to grasp the truth and to reason well are things we should do, and that this normativity goes back ultimately to feelings as parts of our phenomenal consciousness. In this way, we can save basic insights of (Davidsonian) interpretationism without having to pay the price of introducing ad hoc assumptions or of falling pray to circularity. More importantly, we can explain genuine normativity in an illuminating, non-internal way by identifying the main sources of genuine normativity. In particular, this confirms also Plato’s and Aristotle’s idea (if my interpretation is correct) that the normativity of what I have called semantic norms must have a source that is external to truth and good arguments and is connected to the specifically human mind. It remains to be seen, of course, whether, even if there are feelings that can be said to matter to all creatures having them, including us humans, looking at this sort of normativity can be helpful in reconstructing kinds of human normativity such as conceptions of a good life or moral normativity that interest us most. In particular, I do not want to claim that the sense in which we should grasp the truth and reason well is simply and only that, if we grasp the truth and reason well, we feel better (where ”feeling’ is something very basic at a sub-linguistic level). Rather, in the framework I have in mind, semantic normativity comes in degrees. So there are

460

Wolfgang Detel

certainly kinds of human linguistic practices such that the semantic normativity of these practices depends on higher forms of normativity (such as concepts of a good life) which presuppose that we can master a natural language. The hope is, however, that we can reconstruct, to some degree, the various levels of normativity that come into play. At a very basic level, we need to work with prelinguistic feelings and other elementary cognitive capacities. For instance, assuming that creatures are equipped with pre-linguistic feelings in the rich sense, we can probably account for sanctions based on phenomenal conditioning and therefore for the capacity to follow rules in a basic sense.79 This would be another kind of normativity. My contention is that we need an analytics of normativity that distinguishes, and accounts carefully for, the different levels of normativity, including a notion of rational norms that bind us in ways that can ultimately be seen as contributing to social feelings, ethical objectivity, and even moral norms. But this is another – and much longer – story. The overall theoretical strategy that should be pursued in modern ethics is, then, to put together : (1) a naturalist theory of the evolution of living things that attributes a physicalist normativity based exclusively on Darwinian purposes to all organisms in terms of proper functions, and which includes a naturalist theory of nonconscious evaluative systems of the brain provided mainly by neurobiology and cognitive psychology ; (2) a non-normative semantics for natural languages in broadly teleosemantic and Davidsonian terms that shows that semantic facts exhibit a special and important case of physicalist normativity ;80 and (3) a philosophical theory of consciousness formulated in part in a nonnaturalist vocabulary81 to account for the genuine normativity of feelings in general, and for the derived genuine normativity of semantic norms in particular.82

79 See e. g. Haugeland 1982. Brandom (1994) offers the criticism that, since Haugeland is talking about purely naturalistic phenomena, his acccount is vulnerable to the gerrymandering argument. If I am right about rich feelings, Brandom is wrong, because rich feelings cannot be completely naturalized. 80 This description of stage 2 rests on the presupposition that I have succeeded, in the central sections of this chapter, in showing that not only teleosemantics but also a Davidsonian semantics for natural languages can be naturalized and therefore requires, like teleosemantics, only Darwinian or ”physicalist’ normativity, although a specific one that extends to representation and truth. 81 I proceed here from the assumption that consciousness cannot be described purely in terms of physics or biology. 82 For the notion of derived genuine normativity, see my above explanation. I see the true realm of genuine normativity as one which emerges with consciousness, and feelings as simply the most basic forms of consciousness.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

461

The hope is that, once we have the genuine normativity of semantic norms in place, we can then also account for a notion of rational norms in a sense that can ultimately be seen to contribute to social feelings, ethical objectivity, and even moral norms. Obviously, this is a modern strategy of building a hybrid theory of normativity that embraces, among other things, functional normativity, rational semantic normativity (at a subhuman and a human level), and the normativity which flows from what is specific about the human mind, including – one would hope – ethical and moral normativity. This hybrid theory could, if successful, integrate the basic insights of modern voluntarist, realist, and rationalist ethics while avoiding their shortcomings and restrictions. The strategy of hybrid theory-building in ethics that I am recommending is intended as an rehabilitation of Plato’s and Aristotle’s way of approaching these issues. It does the best it can to appreciate the lesson that these thinkers tried to teach us. Finally, what about the question of whether the genuine normativity on which ethics must be built is founded in nature? The general answer that follows from the account that I have tried to outline and to defend is that, in a sense, genuine normativity is indeed founded in nature, and in another sense, it is not. It is founded in nature in the sense that some of its main sources, the physical normativity of non-linguistic (and perhaps of linguistic) representations and of subconscious evaluations, are surely part of our physical nature. I am also inclined to say that the very fact that some creatures have conscious states can also be called a fact of nature. But at the same time I endorse the claim, supported by many philosophers – and denied by others, of course – that consciousness cannot be naturalized (Chalmers 1995). That is, genuine normativity cannot be theoretically introduced, and explained, just by using the vocabulary of physics, biology, or teleosemantics. In this sense, genuine normativity and semantic normativity are part of something that transcends nature, at least if we conceive of nature as being describable exclusively in terms of physics, biology, or teleosemantics. This is consistent with claiming that consciousness and genuine normativity as characterized here, can be mildly naturalized, that is, treated within the framework of teleosemantics and of a theory of drives and emotions that analyses their cognitive and semantic aspects in a way that depends, among other things, on empirical insights. More importantly, even if phenomenal consciousness and kinds of normativity that depend on consciousness can be mildly naturalized, they are undoubtedly a new kind of phenomenon compared to what we can describe in physics, biology or teleosemantics. It does not come as a surprise that new phenomena require a new vocabulary, for instance, among other things, a normative vocabulary or an intentional vocabulary that can account for the new aspects of subjectivity related to consciousness and feelings. These aspects are part of what is constitutive of being a person and of generating

462

Wolfgang Detel

a difference between what is sometimes called a first- person perspective and a third-person perspective. It does not seem to make sense, and it does not seem to be consistent with, or required by, insights of current cognitive psychology or philosophical semantics to try to explain this difference away.

References Ackrill, J. L. 1981. Aristotle – The Philosopher, Oxford. Akert, K. 1994. “Limbisches System”, in: Drenckhahn / Zenker (eds.), Anatomie Bd. 2, Mu¨nchen: 603 – 627. Arnold, M. 1960. Emotion and Personality, Cambridge. Barnes, J. 1982. Aristotle, Oxford. Becker, A. 2000. Verstehen und Bewußtsein, Paderborn. Bestor, T. M. 1980. “Plato’s Semantics and Plato’s ”Cratylus’”, in: Phronesis 25: 306 – 330. Bestor, T. M. 1980a. “Plato’s Semantics and Plato’s ”Parmenides’”, in: Phronesis 25: 38 – 75. Bieri, P. 2001. “Was macht Bewußtsein zu einem Ra¨tsel?”, in: Th. Metzinger (ed.), Bewusstsein: Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 61 – 78. Block, N. 1993. “Review of Dennett’s Consciousness Explained”, in: Journal of Philosophy 90: 181 – 193. Block, N. 1995. “On a Confusion about the Function of Consciousness”, in: Behavioral and Brain Sciences 18: 227 – 287 Block, N. 1999. “Das neuronale Korrelat des Bewußtseins”, in: Esken / Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 153 – 168. Boghossian, P. 1989. “Content and Self-Knowledge”, in: Philosophical Topics 17: 5 – 26. Brandom, R. 1994. Making It Explicit, Cambridge / Mass. Brickhouse, T. C. / Smith, N. D. 2000. “Socrates’ Elenctic Mission”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 9: 131 – 159. Burge, T. 2001. “Zwei Arten des Bewußtseins”, in: Th. Metzinger (ed.), Bewusstsein: Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 583 – 594. Carpenter, M. / Nagell, K. / Tomasello, M. 1998. Social cognition, joint attention, and communicative competence from 9 to 15 months of age. Mongraphies of the Society for Research in Child Development 63. Carpenter, M. / Tomasello, M. / Savage-Rumbaugh, S. 1995. “Joint Attention and Imitative Learning in Children, Chimpnazees, and Enculturated Chimpanzees”, in: Social Development 4: 217 – 237. Chalmers, D. 1995. “Facing up to the problem of consciousness”, in: Journal of Consciousness Studies 2: 200 – 219, deutsch in Esken / Heckmann (eds.), 1999, Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 221 – 254. Charles, D. 2000. Aristotle on Meaning and Essence, Oxford. Copi, I. M. 1968. Introduction to Logic, New York. Crane, T. / Mellor, D. H. “There is no question of physicalism”, in: Mind 99: 185 – 206. Damasio, A. 1999. The Feeling of What Happens, New York. Davidson, D. 1980. Essays on Actions and Events, Oxford.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

463

Davidson, D. 1990. Wahrheit und Interpretation, Frankfurt. Davidson, D. 1998. Replies, Revista Hispanoamericana de Filosofia Vol. XXX, No. 90: 97 – 112. Dennett, D. 1978. Brainstormes, Cambridge/Mass. Dennett, D. 1991. Consciousness Explained, New York. Descartes 1995 [1649]. The Passions of the Soul, ed. S.Voss, Indianapolis. Detel, W. 1972. Platons Beschreibung des falschen Satzes im Thea¨tet und Sophistes (Hypomnemata 36), Go¨ttingen. Detel, W. 1973. “Zur Argumentationsstruktur im ersten Hauptteil von Platons Aretedialogen”, in: Archiv fu¨r Geschichte der Philosophie 55: 1 – 29. Detel, W. 1974. “Die Kritik an den Definitionen im zweiten Hauptteil der platonischen Aretedialoge”, in: Kant-Studien 65: 22 – 134. Detel, W. 1997. “Why all Animals have a Stomach: Demonstration and Axiomatization in Aristotle’s Parts of Animals”, in: W. Kullmann / S. Fo¨llinger (eds.): Aristotelische Biologie, Stuttgart: 63 – 84. Detel, W. 1998. Macht, Moral, Wissen. Foucault und die klassische Antike, Frankfurt/M., english: Foucault and Classical Antiquity. Power, Ethics, and Knowledge, Cambridge 2005. Detel, W. 2001a. “Teleosemantik: Ein neuer Blick auf den Geist?”, in: Deutsche Zeitschrift fu¨r Philosophie 49: 465 – 491. Detel, W. 2001b. “Haben Fro¨sche und Sumpfmenschen Gedanken? Einige Probleme der Teleosemantik”, in: Deutsche Zeitschrift fu¨r Philosophie 49: 601 – 626. Detel, W. 2005. “Hybrid Theories of Normativity”, in: Gill, Ch. (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity. Issues in Ancient and Modern Ethics, Oxford: 113 – 144. Dretske, F. 1988. Explaining Behavior, Cambridge, Mass. Dretske, F. 1999. “Wozu ist Bewußtsein gut?”, in: Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 73 – 90. Dummett, M. 1991. The Logical Basis of Metaphysics, Cambridge / Mass. Durstewitz, D. / Windmann, S. 1999. “Gibt es Eigenschaften neuronaler Strukturen und Prozesse, die mit Bewußtsein korreliert sind?”, in: Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 127 – 152. Ekman, P. 1980. “Biological and Cultural Contributions to Body and Facial Movement in the Expression of Emotions”, in: Rorty, A. O. (ed.), Explaining Emotions, Berkeley : 73 – 102. Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (eds.) 1999. Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn. Flanagan, O. 1992: Consciousness Reconsidered, Cambridge, Mass. Fodor, J. 1990. A Theory of Content, Cambridge, Mass. George, M. L. 1993. “The Notion of Paideia in Aristotle’s “De Partibus Animaliu””, in: American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 67: 299 – 320. Gill, Ch. (ed.) 2005. Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity, Oxford. Gill, Ch. 2005. “Commentary on Detel from a Stoic Standpoint”, in: Gill, Ch. (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity, Oxford: 145 – 154. Glu¨er, K. 1999. “Some Considerations Concerning the Normativity of Meaning”, in: Acta Analytica 14: 111 – 128. Hardy, J. 2011. Jenseits der Ta¨uschungen – Selbsterkenntnis und Selbstbestimmung mit Sokrates, Go¨ttingen.

464

Wolfgang Detel

Griffith, P. 1997. What Emotions Really Are. The Problem of Psychological Categories, Chicago / London. Haugeland, J. 1982. “Heidegger on Being a Person”, in: Nous 16: 15 – 28. Izard, C. 1971. The Face of Emotion, New York. Izard, C. 1999. Die Emotionen des Menschen, Weinheim. Jackson, F. 1998. From Metaphysics to Ethics, Oxford. James, W. 1890. The Principles of Psychology, 2 vols., New York. Korsgaard, Ch. 1996. The Sources of Normativity, Cambridge. Kripke, S. 1982. Wittgenstein On Rules and Private Language, Cambridge/Mass. Lahaw, R. 1993. “What neuropsychology tells us about consciousness”, in: Philosophy of Science 60: 67 – 85. Lukasiewicz, J. 1957. Aristotle’s Syllogistic from the Standpoint of Modern Formal Logic, Oxford. Lyons, W. 1980. Emotions, Cambridge. Mackie, J.E. 1977. Ethics. Inventing Wright and Wrong, New York. MacPhail, E. 1998. The Evolution of Consciousness, Oxford. Maier, H. 1896 – 1900. Die Syllogistik des Aristoteles, Tu¨bingen. McGinn, C. 1991. The Problem of Consciousness, Oxford. McDowell, J. 1994. Mind and World, Cambridge, Mass. McDowell, J. 1998. “The Constitutive Ideal of Rationality : Davidson and Sellars”, in: Revista Hispanoamericana de Filosofia Vol. XXX, No. 88: 29 – 48. Metzinger, Th. 1999. “Pra¨sentationaler Gehalt”, in: Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 377 – 406. Metzinger, Th. (ed.) 2000. Neural Correlates of Consciousness, Cambridge/Mass. Metzinger, Th (ed.) 2001. Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn. Millikan, R. G. 1984. Language, Thought, and Other Biological Categories, Cambridge, Mass. Millikan, R. G 1993. White Queen Psychology and Other Essays for Alice, Cambridge, Mass. Neander, K. 1995. “Misrepresenting and Malfunctioning”, in: Philosophical Studies 79: 109 – 141. Nieuwenhuis, R. 1985. Chemoarchitecture of the Brain, Heidelberg. Nieuwenhuis, R., et al. 1991. Das Zentralnervensystem des Menschen, Berlin. Panksepp, J. 1998. Affective Neuroscience. The Foundations of Human and Animal Emotions, Oxford. Papineau, D. 1990. “Truth and Teleology”, in: Knowles, D. (ed.): Explanation and its Limits,Cambridge. Papineau, D. 1993. Philosophical Naturalism, Oxford. Patzig, G. 1963. Die aristotelische Syllogistik, Go¨ttingen. Peacocke, Ch. 1992. A Study of Concepts, Cambridge, Mass. Perner, J. 1991. Understanding the Representational Mind, Cambridge, Mass. Revonsuo, A. 1999. “Wie man Bewußtsein in der kognitiven Neurowissenschaft ernst nehmen kann”, in: Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 193 – 218. Ross, D. 1923. Aristotle, London. Roth, G. 2000. “The evolution and ontogeny of consciousness”, in: Metzinger, Th. (ed.), Neural Correlates of Consciousness, Cambridge, Mass: 77 – 97.

Semantic Normativity and the Foundation of Ancient Ethics

465

Roth, G. 2001. Fu¨hlen, Denken, Handeln. Wie das Gehirn unser Verhalten steuert, Frankfurt. Samson, B. / Detel, W. 2002. “Zum Begriff nicht-mathematischer Funktionen”, in: Analyse und Kritik 24: 100 – 129. Searle, J. 1992. The Rediscovery of the Mind, Cambridge, Mass. Sellars, W. 1956. “Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind”, in: Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science 1: 253 – 329. Skinner, B. 1974. About Behaviorism, New York. Skinner, B. / Holland, J. G. 1961. The Analysis of Behavior, New York. Solomon, R.C. 1976. The Passions. Emotions and the Meaning of Life, Indianapolis. Stampe, D. 1977. “Towards a Causal Theory of Linguistic Representation”, in: Midwest Studies in Philosophy 2: 42 – 63. Szaif, J. 1996. Platons Begriff der Wahrheit, Freiburg. Tomasello, M. 1999. The Cultural Origins of Human Cognition, Cambridge, Mass. Tye, M. 1995. Ten Problems of Consciousness: A Representational Theory of the Phenomenal Mind, Cambridge/Mass. Tye, M. 1996. “The burning house”, in: Metzinger, Th. (ed.), Conscious Experience, Paderborn: 81 – 90, deutsch in: Metzinger, Th (ed.), 2001. Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 103 – 114. Tye, M. 1999. “Das Problem primitiver Bewußtseinsformen: Haben Bienen Empfindungen?”, in: Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 91 – 124. Van Gulick, R. 2001. “Was wu¨rde als eine Erkla¨rung von Bewußtsein za¨hlen?”, in: Metzinger,Th (ed.), Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 79 – 102. Watson, J. B. 1919. Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist, Philadelphia. Wikforss, A. 2001. “Semantic Normativity”, in: Philosophical Studies 102: 203 – 226.

Otfried Ho¨ffe

Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

1.

Entmachtung der Lebenskunst?

Lange Zeit verstand sich die Philosophie als eine Lebenskunst, sogar als Kunst, glu¨cklich zu leben. Sie meinte die Kunst zwar nicht in jenem modernen Versta¨ndnis, das sich im Geniekult der Spa¨taufkla¨rung und in der Fru¨hromantik ausbildet, wohl aber, was im Lateinischen ars und im Griechischen techneˆ heißt: ein anwendungsorientiertes Experten-Wissen, das, fachlich geordnet und in Regeln faßbar, lehr- und lernbar ist. Die ersten drei Elemente, die fachliche Ordnung, die Regelfa¨higkeit und die Lehr- und Lernbarkeit, treffen auf eine Lebenskunst nur begrenzt zu. Wa¨hrend die u¨blichen Kunstfertigkeiten sich auf ein Fach konzentrieren, geht es einer Lebenskunst um das Gegenteil jedes Faches, um ein Un-Fach, na¨mlich um das Leben als ganzes. Nur Scharlatane preisen genaue Regeln, Rezepte, fu¨r ein glu¨ckliches Leben an. Der Philosoph begnu¨gt sich mit Regeln zweiter Stufe, mit gewissen Grundsa¨tzen, denen ein außergewo¨hnliches Know how entspricht, Lebenseinstellungen, die wegen ihres positiven Wertes Tugenden heißen. Noch in einer weiteren Hinsicht unterscheidet sich die Lebenskunst von den u¨blichen Ku¨nsten. Fachwissen kann veralten, deutlich sichtbar bei der Heilkunst. Fu¨r die Lebenskunst dagegen erweisen sich die Ratschla¨ge der Alten als immer noch erstaunlich jung, bei rechter Deutung fast so frisch und u¨berzeugend wie vor vielen Jahrhunderten. Ein Kennzeichen der modernen Wissenschaften, die immer wieder neuen Entdeckungen und Erfindungen, ist der Lebenskunst weitgehend fremd. Einer der Gru¨nde: Die zwei entscheidenden Faktoren, die Herausforderungen des Lebens und die glu¨ckstauglichen Antworten, sind wegen ihres Zusammenhangs mit der Conditio humana in ihrem Kern kultur- und epochenunabha¨ngig. Versteht man den Ausdruck „philosophisch“ nicht zu eng, auf mo¨glichst wissenschaftliche Aussagen eingeschra¨nkt, so tritt die philosophische Lebenskunst idealtypisch gesehen in drei Grundmustern auf. Das erste Muster gibt die meist lockere Sammlung von Maximen und Reflexionen ab. In literarisch bril-

468

Otfried Ho¨ffe

lanter Form pra¨sentieren die europa¨ischen Moralisten, also Autoren von den Sieben Weisen Griechenlands u¨ber die Stoa bis La Rochefoucauld, Lichtenberg, ¨ berlegungen zum guten Leben, einschließlich skeptiGoethe und Nietzsche, U scher Einwu¨rfe, oder wie bei Adorno „Reflexionen aus dem bescha¨digten Leben“. Fast immer ist der Stil wesentlich. Die großen Moralisten pflegen ihre je eigene, freilich mit der Sache eng verknu¨pfte Form der Darstellung. Montaignes Essais beispielsweise lieben die bru¨ske Provokation. Ihr entschieden „momentanistischer Individualismus“ nimmt das jeweilige Jetzt der Existenz ernst: Jedes Ich ist anders, und das Ich im jeweiligen Augenblick ist weder mit dem Ich davor noch mit dem danach identisch. Bei Nietzsche fallen dagegen der a¨tzende Sarkasmus und eine Schule des Verdachts auf, die sich zwischen Pathos und Ironie in der Schwebe ha¨lt. Das nichteuropa¨ische Gegenstu¨ck findet sich in der (Le¨ gypten und den davon inspirierten bens-) Weisheit anderer Kulturen, von Alt-A Weisheitsbu¨chern Israels bis zu hinduistischen, buddhistischen, konfuzianischen und daoistischen Texten. Ein zweites Muster philosophischer Lebenskunst besteht in Visionen eines guten Lebens, vor allem aber guten Zusammenlebens. In den Darstellungen idealer Lebensverha¨ltnisse, den sogenannten Utopien, finden sich sowohl religio¨se als auch nichtreligio¨se Paradiesvorstellungen, auf philosophischer Seite etwa die gesunde Polis aus Platons Politeia. Unter dem namengebenden Titel Von der besten Staatsverfassung oder der neuen Insel Utopia schreibt das neuzeitliche Vorbild, der Humanist Thomas Morus. Die Verfasser von Utopien schicken die Vorstellungskraft auf die Reise; sie befassen sich eher mit dem Sehnsuchtsglu¨ck. Schließlich gibt es die prinzipienorientierte Lebenskunst, auch praktische ¨ berlegungen zu einer FundaPhilosophie genannt. Ihr vor allem sind diese U 1 mentalethik verpflichtet. Schon in der Antike, bei Platon und Aristoteles, erreicht die prinzipienorientierte Lebenskunst einen bis heute paradigmatischen ¨ ber das Mittelalter bis weit in die Neuzeit, zu Spinoza und Leibniz, Ho¨hepunkt. U bleibt die Philosophie dem Prinzip Glu¨ck im Sinne von Eudaimonie, dem Strebensglu¨ck, verpflichtet. Bald danach verliert sie aber die Lebenskunst aus dem Blick. Mindestens vier Gru¨nde sind verantwortlich: Erstens wird von der Eudaimonie behauptet, sie sei ein unzureichendes, sogar untaugliches Fundament der Moral. An ihre Stelle tritt die Autonomie, die Selbstbestimmung des Willens. Dieser Vorgang, eine veritable Revolution, schickt zwar die Ethik des Glu¨cks in die philosophische Verbannung. Sie erkla¨rt na¨mlich den Eudaimonismus zur u¨berholten via antiqua und bela¨ßt nur noch der via moderna, der Ethik der Autonomie, ein Recht. Durch die moralphilosophische Revolution werden die Fragen nach dem gelungenen Leben aber nicht 1 Ausfu¨hrlicher in Ho¨ffe 2007, dort Auseinandersetzung mit der klassischen und der zeitgeno¨ssischen Literatur.

Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

469

u¨berflu¨ssig; sie verlieren nur an Gewicht. Im Mittelpunkt stehen nicht la¨nger die Fragen nach dem Glu¨ck und der humanen Selbstverwirklichung, nach dem Menschsein-Ko¨nnen, sondern die nach dem Menschsein-Sollen. An die Stelle einer Philosophie der Lebenskunst tritt die der Lebenspflicht, an die Stelle einer Eudaimonologie, einer Ko¨nnensethik, eine Deontologie, eine Sollensethik. Diese reicht allerdings, wird sich in zeigen, in die Dimension der Lebenskunst hinein. Der Autonomie-Gedanke allein kann jedenfalls die Eudaimonie-Ethik nur entmachten, nicht zersto¨ren. Der Newton der moralphilosophischen Revolution, Immanuel Kant, bekra¨ftigt sogar, dass der Mensch als sinnliches Vernunftwesen notwendig nach Glu¨ck(seligkeit) verlange (z. B. Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, § 3 Anm. II). Gegen eine philosophische Theorie dieser Absicht spricht erst – zweiter Grund – die wissenschaftstheoretische These, Philosophen sollten nach objektiv gu¨ltigen Aussagen suchen, die es fu¨r das menschliche Glu¨ck aber nicht gebe, denn dessen Begriff sei inhaltlich zu unbestimmt. Sofern es fu¨r das Glu¨ck doch ein objektives Wissen gibt, hat die Philosophie drittens eine starke Konkurrenz erhalten. Ob in eigenen Bu¨chern, Zeitschriften oder Kolumnen, ob von Psychologen, Soziologen oder Theologen, ob von Journalisten oder lebenserfahrenen Frauen und Ma¨nnern verfaßt – Ratgeber zu Fragen der Lebenskunst fu¨llen la¨ngst große Bibliotheken. Nicht nur Bahnhofsbuchhandlungen fu¨r die rasche Lektu¨re, auch „serio¨sere“ Orte bieten Woche fu¨r Woche neue Titel an. Mit ihnen kann und will die Philosophie nicht konkurrieren; ein neidvolles Naseru¨mpfen, weil deren Auflagen so hoch sind, braucht sie nicht. Erstaunlich ist ein hohes Maß an Chancengleichheit, auf das die Glu¨cksforschung gestoßen ist. Faktoren, die in (eng) umgrenzten Lebensbereichen zu erheblichen Unterschieden fu¨hren, also Alter, Geschlecht, Aussehen, Intelligenz und Bildung, sind glu¨cklicherweise eudaimonistisch kaum ausschlaggebend. Selbst der Wohlstand erweist sich als nicht anna¨hernd so glu¨ckserheblich, wie oft angenommen wird. Viertens haben zumindest die westlichen Philosophen deshalb u¨ber Lebenskunst und Glu¨ck nachzudenken verlernt, weil sich im Europa des 19. Jahrhunderts mehr und mehr die Erfahrung des Nihilismus breitmacht. Darunter ist hier nicht die moralphilosophische, zugleich ethikkritische These zu verstehen, allgemeine Verbindlichkeiten des Lebens seien unmo¨glich zu begru¨nden. Gemeint ist die geschichtliche Erfahrung, dass die bislang vorherrschenden Grundwerte ihren Wert verlieren. Wo die dem Leben und Sterben sinngebenden Normen und Werte sich entwerten, weil das sie tragende Prinzip, etwa der Glaube an Gott, fragwu¨rdig geworden ist, breitet sich ein Gefu¨hl der Leere und Sinnlosigkeit aus. Der Nihilismus wird nicht etwa herbeigeredet, sondern zur existentiell bedru¨ckenden Erfahrung. Wer die philosophische Lebenskunst nicht allzu naiv zuru¨ckgewinnen will,

470

Otfried Ho¨ffe

kennt die genannten Gru¨nde, sieht in ihnen aber nicht unu¨berwindbare Hindernisse, sondern Schwierigkeiten, die er zu lo¨sen sucht. Im Wissen um die Gefahr des Sinnverlustes sucht er die Sinn- und Glu¨cksfrage auf ein tragfa¨higes Fundament zu stellen. Ohne der Autonomie den Rang eines eventuell neuen Fundaments der Moral abzustreiten, erweitert er die Ethik des Sollens um eine Ethik des eudaimonistischen Ko¨nnens. Bei ihr verla¨ßt er sich nicht auf die Gewißheit eines Experten, eines empirischen Wissenschaftlers, auch nicht auf die andersartige Gewißheit des Propheten, der im Namen seines Gottes wortgewaltig zu Buße und Umkehr aufruft, schließlich nicht auf die Bilderkraft eines Dichters. Auf die sta¨ndige Gefahr fu¨r Philosophen, hochgestellte Erwartungen zu entta¨uschen, bleibt er im nu¨chternen Medium von Begriff und Argument. Und weil unter den Menschen und Kulturen hochgradige Unterschiede bestehen, geht er mit dem Anspruch auf eudaimonistische Aussagen von objektiver Gu¨ltigkeit vor- und umsichtig um. In die Resignation „nur subjektive Aussagen“ fa¨llt er aber nicht.

2.

Grundriss-Wissen

Nach dem antiken Bild vom Bogenschu¨tzen, der sein Ziel, wenn er es klar vor Augen hat, besser trifft, setzt die prinzipienorientierte Lebenskunst beim veritablen Leitziel, dem Prinzip Glu¨ck, an. Als ein Endziel zweiter Stufe ist es aber nur begrenzt mit dem Ziel eines Bogenschu¨tzen zu vergleichen, und genau deshalb fa¨llt die Orientierungskraft anders als vielfach erwartet aus. Die praktische Philosophie liefert „nur“ ein Grundriss-Wissen, das sich bewußt fu¨r Unterschiede in der menschlichen Glu¨ckssuche offen ha¨lt. Dem selbsta¨ndig Handelnden ist dies willkommen, nur dem Unselbsta¨ndigen erscheint es als zu wenig. Eine prinzipienorientierte Lebenskunst argumentiert durchaus facettenreich und lebensnah. Sie beginnt mit dem Begriff des Glu¨cks, entwickelt aus ihm gewisse Kriterien und setzt sich mit deren Hilfe Lebensformen, die das Glu¨ck erwarten lassen, gegen andere ab, die das Glu¨ck strukturell verhindern. Ferner arbeitet sie die Grundbausteine der glu¨ckstauglichen Lebensformen heraus, nennt die Art und Weise, wie man sie erwirbt, und benennt auch grundlegende Hindernisse. Nimmt man all dies zusammen, so darf man das philosophische Wissen sachgerecht, gegebenenfalls auch erfahrungsgesa¨ttigt nennen. Rezepte dafu¨r, wie Individuen fu¨r sich oder mit anderen hier und jetzt glu¨ckstauglich handeln, stellt sie aber nicht auf. Dafu¨r nennt sie einen eudaimonistischen Grund: Auf das entscheidende Strukturgitter, gewissermaßen das eudaimonistische Skelett, konzentriert, bleibt das individuelle Handeln der Verantwortung der Handeln-

Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

471

den, ihrer Begabung, Lage und kulturellen Umwelt, u¨berlassen, folglich mit Notwendigkeit inhaltlich offen. Wa¨hrend die Philosophie sich mit konkreten Regeln zuru¨ckha¨lt, stellt sie, wird sich zeigen, teils mitlaufend, teils stillschweigend grundlegendere Vorschriften auf. Ansonsten u¨berla¨ßt sie das konkrete Handeln den Individuen und der sie umgebenden Kultur. Einer der Gru¨nde fu¨r dieses Vorgehen: Beim moralischen Handeln spielen drei methodisch grundverschiedene Momente eine Rolle. Das rein moralische Moment entspricht dem Gedanken des moralischen als des unu¨berbietbar ho¨chsten Guten; das beschreibende Moment besteht in allgemeinen Anwendungsbedingungen, unter denen das moralisch Gute gefragt ist; hinzu kommt drittens das Handeln in seiner individuellen Konkretion. Offensichtlich liegt das moralische Moment in der Zusta¨ndigkeit der Moralphilosophie. Ihr obliegt es, den Gedanken des schlechthin ho¨chsten Gutes zu begrifflicher Klarheit zu bringen. Da in das zweite Moment die Erfahrung hereinspielt, verfu¨gt die Philosophie hier u¨ber keine Alleinzusta¨ndigkeit, da es zuna¨chst auf allgemeinmenschliche Erfahrungen ankommt, besitzt sie aber eine erhebliche Mitzusta¨ndigkeit. Fu¨r das dritte Moment, die Einscha¨tzung der konkreten Situation, braucht es dagegen eine Fa¨higkeit, die Urteilskraft, fu¨r die der Philosoph keinerlei Sonderkompetenz mitbringt. Hier ist jede mu¨ndige Person selbst zusta¨ndig. Sie muß ihr eigenes Leben fu¨hren und sich dabei auf die eigene Urteilskraft verlassen, auch wenn sie bei wichtigen Fragen und in verwickelter Lage den Rat urteilsfa¨higer Freunde einholt. Welche Orientierung leistet also die Philosophie? Sie vermag Grundschwierigkeiten zu lo¨sen, zum Beispiel gegen die radikale Skepsis seitens des Nihilismus, auch des Relativismus, die moralische Perspektive in ihr Recht zu setzen. Im Streit um das letzte Handlungsprinzip beginnt sie mit einer Begriffsanalyse und gewinnt aus ihr einen Begriff, dann Maßstab. Im Rahmen einer Strebensethik gelangt sie zum Begriff eines Zieles, das sich selbst genug (autark) ist und u¨ber das hinaus kein ho¨heres Ziel gedacht werden kann. Ein derartiges Ziel ist kein Zwischenziel, sondern hat Selbstzweckcharakter. Des weiteren stellt sie fu¨r Grundsituationen des Menschen allgemeine Beurteilungspunkte bereit. Dieses denn doch reiche Arsenal von Orientierungsmitteln verhilft nicht zum einschla¨gigen Handeln, wohl aber das Ziel, im Fall des Eudaimonismus das Strebensglu¨ck, genauer zu sehen und leichter zu treffen. Eine prinzipienorientierte Lebenskunst verbindet ihre Grundorientierung mit einem hohen Maß an Freiheit und einem Recht auf Differenz. Mitlaufend votiert sie fu¨r einen ethischen Liberalismus, der sich hinsichtlich konkreter Lebensentwu¨rfe von allem maternalistischen und paternalistischen Besserwissen freiha¨lt.

472

3.

Otfried Ho¨ffe

Doppelstrategie

Gema¨ß ihrem prinzipienorientierten Muster von Lebenskunst greift die praktische Philosophie zwar gelegentlich auf Lebenserfahrung, Weisheitsliteratur und empirische Forschung zuru¨ck. Sie konzentriert sich aber im wesentlichen auf eine diskursive Lebenskunst. Die nach der Begriffserkla¨rung zweite Reihe von objektiven Aussagen u¨ber das Glu¨ck setzt bei der Erfahrung an, dass ein glu¨ckliches Leben von einer Fu¨lle von Illusionen bedroht ist. Sie beginnen mit den kleinen Illusionen, dass jemand mit „zwei linken Ha¨nden“ Goldschmied oder jemand mit „zwei linken Beinen“ Rennla¨ufer oder Fußballspieler werden will. Der einschla¨gige Grundsatz, man kann das Glu¨ck nur seinen Begabungen entsprechend finden, mag als trivial erscheinen. Wer ihn aber nicht zu beherzigen vermag, wird kaum glu¨cklich. Aus diesem Grund sind zwei Grundfa¨higkeiten zu erwerben: zum einen die intellektuelle Fa¨higkeit, seine eigenen Begabungen realistisch einzuscha¨tzen, also Urteilskraft, zum anderen die charakterliche Fa¨higkeit, sein Leben gema¨ß der Selbsteinscha¨tzung zu fu¨hren, also gegebenenfalls seine Lebenstra¨ume in oft schmerzlichen Lernprozessen den Grenzen der Begabung und den Schwierigkeiten der Weltlage anzupassen. Wer beispielsweise trotz eines bestehenden ¨ berangebots Goldschmied werden will, sollte besonders begabt und engagiert U sein und sich zusa¨tzlich mit bescheideneren Einnahmen begnu¨gen ko¨nnen. Dieselben zwei Grundfa¨higkeiten braucht man gegen mittlere Illusionen, beispielsweise, dass jemand, der Freundschaft sucht, mo¨gliche Freunde von Opportunisten oder Schnorrern zu unterscheiden vermag. Erneut muß man sich und die Welt, hier andere Menschen, richtig einzuscha¨tzen und der Einscha¨tzung gema¨ß zu leben verstehen. In der Regel setzt die Philosophie erst mit der na¨chsten Stufe auseinander. Es ist die große Illusion, die das Glu¨ck aus einer Lebensstrategie erwartet, die unabha¨ngig von der jeweiligen Situation und Perso¨nlichkeitsstruktur, na¨mlich strukturbedingt, kein glu¨ckliches Leben zula¨ßt, denn sie verletzt die begriffliche Bedingung vom Strebensglu¨ck, den Selbstzweckcharakter. Es gibt eine noch gro¨ßere Illusion, weshalb die Philosophie sinnvollerweise mit ihr beginnt: Wer das Glu¨ck nur als Sehnsuchtsglu¨ck kennt oder nur als schwindelerregend u¨berscha¨umende Freude anerkennt, wird auf Dauer nicht glu¨cklich, weder in dieser Welt noch in dieser seiner Haut, na¨mlich als Mensch mit Bedu¨rfnissen, die einander widerstreiten ko¨nnen; mit dem Hang zur ¨ bersa¨ttigung; mit dem „neidischen Blick auf die Fru¨chte in Nachbars Garten“; U mit der Gefahr, dass man von Freunden verlassen oder gar verraten wird; mit der weiteren Gefahr, Unglu¨ck zu erleiden, und in der Erwartung, alt und gebrechlich ¨ ngste und Sorgen, die nicht erst diese und zu werden; nicht zuletzt wegen der A

Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

473

weitere Gefahren, sondern schon die Angst vor solchen Gefahren heraufbeschwo¨ren. Ein mancherorts beklagtes Glu¨cksdefizit besteht in der Kluft zwischen Glu¨ckserwartung und Glu¨ckserfu¨llung. Um diese Kluft zu u¨berwinden, bieten sich zwei Strategien an. Entweder vermindert man die Nachfrage an Glu¨ckserwartungen oder man erho¨ht das Angebot an Glu¨ckserfu¨llung. Weil sich das Angebot schwer erfu¨llen la¨sst, beginnt die philosophische Lebenskunst angesichts der Differenz von Sehnsuchtsglu¨ck und Strebensglu¨ck mit der ersten Aufgabe: Bevor man die Leistung zu erho¨hen versucht, mindert man die Erwartung. Diese Lebensstrategie besteht in der Fa¨higkeit, ein glu¨ckliches Leben zu fu¨hren, ohne auf der Insel der Seligen zu leben: im vollkommenen Heil, der totalen Verso¨hnung und dem ewigen Frieden. Es ist die Fa¨higkeit zum Glu¨ck – trotz bleibender Defizite an Sehnsuchtsglu¨ck. Unter der semantischen Voraussetzung, dass das erste Moment im Glu¨cks¨ ußerste und Letzte“, sowohl anspruchsvoller als auch bescheibegriff, das „A dener ausbuchstabiert werden kann, und der empirischen Bedingung, dass die Realisierbarkeit eines zu anspruchsvollen Begriffs sich an der Conditio humana bricht, also aus der Verbindung einer semantischer Option mit anthropologischen Gegebenheiten, gewinnt die Philosophie einen mehr als bloß subjektiven Ratschlag. Der erste Baustein objektiver Lebenskunst richtet sich gegen ein ¨ bermaß an Erwartungen, das notwendigerweise in Entta¨uschungen umschla¨gt. U Gegen eine Hybris der Glu¨ckssuche, die sich am Ende, wegen der vorhersehbaren Entta¨uschung, selbst bestraft, gebietet der erste eudaimonistische Rat: ¨ bermaß!“, oder professioneller, sozialwissenschaftlicher formu„Nichts im U liert: „Man u¨be sich in Sinnfrustrationstoleranz!“ Nur wer diesem keineswegs moralisierend gemeinten Rat zu folgen vermag, erfu¨llt eine wichtige Eigenschaft des Glu¨cksbegriffs: Die angestrebten Ziele finden sich zu einem Ganzen zusammen, das sich rundet, deshalb den Charakter des Sich-selbst-genug hat. ¨ bermaß“ („meˆden Die schon von den Griechen bekannte Maxime „nichts im U agan“) antwortet auf die generelle Gefahr der Unersa¨ttlichkeit (pleonexia). Hier richtet sie sich gegen die Unersa¨ttlichkeit der Glu¨ckssehnsucht. Das endgu¨ltige Heil ist Sache der Gottheit, das endliche Heil Sache des Menschen. Gegen eine vorschnelle Zufriedenheit mit dem Zweitbesten weiß die Philosophie aber, dass das Go¨ttliche in gewisser Weise schon in uns ist, in der Regel aber nur fu¨r eine kurze Spanne des Lebens. Was Aristoteles von der Theoria, der philosophischwissenschaftlichen Lebenspraxis, sagt, kann es auch andernorts geben, etwa in der Beziehung zu Mitmenschen, zur Natur, zu eigenen Bedu¨rfnissen, nach Auskunft einiger Mystiker sogar im Verha¨ltnis zum Go¨ttlichen selbst: eine Steigerung des Lebens, die bis an den Rand des Sehnsuchtsglu¨cks reicht. Das zweitbeste Glu¨ck schließt das absolut beste nicht notwendig aus. Der erste Ratschlag gebietet keine vorschnelle Zufriedenheit; er verlangt nicht, das

474

Otfried Ho¨ffe

Sehnsuchtsglu¨ck zu vergessen, beispielsweise alle Jugendtra¨ume aufzugeben. Wer noch Sehnsucht „sich leistet“, ko¨nnte im Gegenteil ein erfu¨llteres Leben fu¨hren. Die Zufriedenheit mit dem Zweitbesten ist lediglich ein Glu¨ck „aus Sicherheitsgru¨nden“. Man gebe die Hoffnung auf das große Glu¨ck nicht auf: dass einem beispielsweise etwas Unerwartetes zuteil wird oder dass man voru¨bergehend seiner selbst in einer urspru¨nglichen Einheit mit anderen Menschen oder mit der Natur innewird. Daher ein zweiter philosophischer Ratschlag: „Man halte sich im Werktagsglu¨ck fu¨r das Sonntagsglu¨ck offen!“ – Machen wir einen Gedankensprung:

4.

Autonome Moral und Lebenskunst: ein Gegensatz?

Theorien von Lebenskunst und autonomer Moral gelten oft als Gegensatz, wobei erstaunlicherweise beide Seiten glauben, der anderen u¨berlegen zu sein. Die Theorie der Lebenskunst sagt, was kann es besseres als ein gutes Leben geben, worauf die Theorie der autonomen Moral antwortet, was ein gutes Leben sei, ko¨nne allein sie bestimmen. Innerhalb dieser Gegensatzthese lassen sich noch ¨ bereinzwei Ansichten unterscheiden; ihnen stehen zwei Thesen mo¨glicher U stimmung gegenu¨ber, so dass insgesamt vier Positionen denkbar sind. (1) In der sta¨rkeren Gegensatzthese, der Kontradiktionsthese herrscht zwischen Lebenskunst und Moral ein Gegensatz reiner Unvereinbarkeit, ein vollsta¨ndiger Konflikt. (2) Nach der schwa¨cheren Gegensatzthese, der These einer konsonanzfa¨higen Dissonanz, fallen zwar gelungenes Leben und Moral sowohl nach ihrem Begriff als auch nach ihren Prinzipien auseinander, trotzdem sind beide nicht miteinander unvereinbar. ¨ berlap(3) Nach der bescheideneren Vereinbarkeitsthese, der These der U pung, ko¨nnen Lebenskunst und Moral sich schon von ihren Begriffen und Prinzipien her u¨berschneiden, und im wirklichen Leben treffe dies auch weitgehend zu. (4) Die anspruchsvollere Konvergenzthese schließlich behauptet nicht bloß ¨ bereinstimmung, sondern sogar eine innere Einheit. Sofern eine weitgehende U man beide Seiten richtig versteht, fallen Lebenskunst und Moral zusammen: Keine Lebenskunst ohne Moral und keine Moral ohne Lebenskunst. Welche dieser Thesen zutrifft, ha¨ngt nicht bloß von den Begriffen und den Prinzipien, sondern auch vom offenen und zugleich nu¨chternen Blick auf die Lebenswirklichkeit ab. Unabha¨ngig von aller Lebenserfahrung la¨sst sich zu den vier Thesen keine Entscheidung fa¨llen. Verbindet das Glu¨ck qua Eudaimonie den Begriff und das Prinzip mit Lebenserfahrung, so zeigt sich fu¨r die Lebenskunst das gute Leben einem Eigenwohl, das freilich ein geru¨tteltes Maß von Interesse

Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

475

am Wohl anderer einschließt. Denn wer sich die Sympathie vieler Mitmenschen verscherzt, sto¨ßt bei der Verfolgung des Eigenwohls auf deren Widerstand. Noch wichtiger ist, dass zu unverzichtbaren Bausteinen der Lebenskunst wie der Freundschaft, der Liebe und der Achtung durch andere das Interesse am wechselseitigen Wohlergehen geho¨rt. Ein u¨berlegtes Eigeninteresse verfolgt also nicht bloß das eigene Interesse, und der Rechtschaffene wird zwar nicht immer, aber doch zumeist glu¨cklich. Auch wenn Lebenskunst und Moral in hohem Maß u¨bereinstimmen, bleibt ein wesentlicher Unterschied bestehen. Schon die Elementarstufe einer autonomen Moral, die Pflichtgema¨ßheit oder moralische Legalita¨t, verlangt, auch dort der Moral zu genu¨gen, wo sie dem wohlu¨berlegten Eigeninteresse zuwiderla¨uft. Wie die Antithese von Pflicht und Neigung zeigt, gibt es Konfliktfa¨lle, auf die die Kontradiktionsthese zutrifft: entweder Moral, aber unter Beeintra¨chtigung des Eigenwohls, oder das Eigenwohl, aber zum Preis der Moral. Die Optimalstufe der Moralita¨t fordert sogar, die Moral stets und von vornherein um ihrer selbst willen, ohne jeden Blick auf das Eigenwohl anzuerkennen. Trotzdem lassen sich Lebenskunst und autonome Moral miteinander verso¨hnen. Man kann na¨mlich dem Theoretiker der Lebenskunst recht geben, dass es etwas Besseres als ein gutes Leben nicht gibt – vorausgesetzt, er erkennt zwei Dinge an. Erstens beachte er die Mehrdeutigkeit im Begriff des Guten, deretwegen es ein im technischen, ein im pragmatischen und ein im mehr als pragmatischen, im wahrhaft moralischen Sinn gutes Leben gebe. Dabei – so das zweite – darf er nur jenes Leben gut ohne Zusatz und Einschra¨nkung, also schlechthin gut nennen, das der ho¨chsten, moralischen Bedeutung von „gut“ genu¨gt. Sobald man diese Stufe nicht bloß erkennt, sondern auch als leitend anerkennt, hebt sich der Gegensatz von Lebenskunst und Moral auf. Gema¨ß der These 4, der anspruchsvolleren Konvergenzthese, der nicht bloß weitgehenden, ¨ bereinstimmung, erweist sich der Gegensatz von Lesondern vollsta¨ndigen U benskunst und Moral als nur scheinbar : Wo man die Theorie der Lebenskunst zu Ende denkt, geht sie in die Theorie eines moralischen Lebens u¨ber. Dieser Lo¨sungsvorschlag ist nicht falsch, er unterschla¨gt aber noch eine Differenzierung im Begriff der Eudaimonie. Der strebenstheoretische Superlativ des Guten spaltet sich in zwei Bedeutungen auf, die im Leben zwar ineinander u¨bergehen ko¨nnen, es aber nicht immer und vollsta¨ndig tun: Die Eudaimonie ist sowohl das oberste, dominante, als auch das vollendete, inklusive bzw. integrative Gut. Von diesen zwei Begriffen erfu¨llt das moralische Leben nur den ersten Begriff, den zweiten allenfalls unter glu¨cklichen Umsta¨nden. Folglich ist das moralisch gute Leben keine zureichende Bedingung fu¨r das insgesamt gute Leben, womit die These der nicht bloß weitgehenden, sondern vollsta¨ndigen ¨ bereinstimmung, die These 4, hinfa¨llig wird. Das moralisch gute Leben ist U jedoch eine notwendige Bedingung, denn der zweite, inklusive Begriff der Eu-

476

Otfried Ho¨ffe

daimonie, schließt den ersten, dominanten ein: Ohne das oberste Gut gibt es kein vollendetes Gut, so dass das moralisch gute Leben zum insgesamt guten Leben unverzichtbar ist. Daraus ergibt sich folgende vorla¨ufige Bilanz: Zwischen Lebenskunst und Moral besteht keine Unvereinbarkeit, nicht einmal eine innere Spannung, so dass die beiden Gegensatzthesen, die der puren und die der begrenzten Dissonanz, unzutreffend sind, womit These 1 und These ¨ berschneidung, so dass 2 ausscheiden. Statt dessen findet sich eine erhebliche U zumindest die These 3, die bescheidene Vereinbarkeitsthese, zutrifft. Weil aber das moralisch gute Leben fu¨r das insgesamt gute Leben nur eine notwendige, keine zureichende Bedingung darstellt, trifft auch nicht mehr als die bescheidene Vereinbarkeit zu. Somit entfa¨llt auch die These 4, und nur die These 3 bleibt u¨brig: Zwischen Moral und Lebenskunst besteht eine weitgehende, aber keine ¨ bereinstimmung. vollsta¨ndige U Im Bereich der Nichtu¨bereinstimmung verdient nun die Moral den Vorrang, aber nicht so exklusiv, dass sie der Lebenskunst jedes Recht na¨hme. Kann sich na¨mlich die Moral nur auf Kosten der Lebenskunst durchsetzen, so bleibt ein Defizit, ein Unvermo¨gen. Das menschliche Leben findet nur dort seine volle und runde Wertscha¨tzung, wo Moral und Glu¨ck sich harmonisch verbinden. Infolgedessen gibt sich eine philosophische Ethik nicht mit einer Philosophie der Moral zufrieden. Als ein eigensta¨ndiges, freilich nachgeordnetes Prinzip erkennt sie auch das Glu¨ck an. Denn wer nicht an ein Jenseits glaubt, hat nur ein einziges, das diesseitige Leben. In ihm sorgt er sich um beides, um moralische Rechtschaffenheit und um ein glu¨ckliches Gelingen, und er hofft, beides gleicherweise zu erlangen. Wer an ein Jenseits glaubt, kann freilich gelassener sein. Entgegen einem ersten Anschein kann man eher der autonomen Moral voll genu¨gen als dem Prinzip Glu¨ck. Selbst eine hochentwickelte Lebenskunst vermag na¨mlich das volle und runde Glu¨ck nicht zu garantieren. Nicht Herr u¨ber den Lauf der Welt, kann sie weder natu¨rliche noch soziale Widerfahrnisse verhindern, auch wenn sie fa¨hig ist, einige von ihnen zu verhu¨ten und andere in ihrer Gewalt abzuschwa¨chen. Das moralisch gute Leben interessiert sich fu¨r diese Fa¨higkeit nur am Rande, im Rahmen einer indirekten Pflicht fu¨r das eigene Glu¨ck. Diese Pflicht la¨sst sich etwa so begru¨nden: Der Mensch weiß, dass er in moralische Versuchung geraten kann, und dann nie sicher ist, der Versuchung stets zu widerstehen. Daher hat er eine Pflicht, die Versuchungen, so weit es in seiner Hand liegt, erst gar nicht aufkommen zu lassen. Nun enthalten Situationen von Schmerz und Leid, von Erfolglosigkeit und Demu¨tigung, ferner Notsituationen und vielerlei Widerwa¨rtigkeiten ein Potential an moralischen Versuchungen. Hingegen du¨rften Faktoren wie Gesundheit und materielles Auskommen, ein erfolgreiches Berufsleben, Ansehen bei den Mitmenschen und ein erfu¨lltes Sozialleben das Potential an Versuchung verringern, was der Sorge um sie einen moralischen Rang

Lebenskunst und Moral. Skizze einer Fundamentalethik

477

verleiht. Sie sind aber kein Selbstzweck; vor allem erlauben sie keine unmoralischen Mittel. Sie im Rahmen des moralisch Erlaubten zu verfolgen, ist aber nicht bloß moralisch erlaubt, sondern in der skizzierten indirekten Weise geboten. Bei der Lebenskunst sieht es anders aus. Bei ihr machen die genannten Faktoren einen wesentlichen Bestandteil aus. Sie sind nicht bloß indirekt, sondern direkt geboten, womit hier die Anspru¨che der Lebenskunst u¨ber die der Moral hinausgehen. Diese kann ihrerseits Elemente der Lebenskunst, etwa eine Tugend der Gelassenheit, u¨bernehmen, sie sogar noch vertiefen: Im Bewußtsein, dass es auch dem guten Leben letztlich auf die moralische Selbstachtung ankommt, verlieren submoralische Widerfahrnisse an glu¨cksbedrohender Kraft. Eine erfahrungsgestu¨tzte, aber streng moralische Ethik za¨hlt das Wohlwollen unter die Pflichten, die die Menschen gegeneinander haben. Um das Gerechtigkeitsprinzip der Gleichheit zu erfu¨llen, erstreckt sie diese Pflicht auf die Gesamtheit der Menschen, folglich auch auf die eigene Person: Man darf, man soll sogar sich selber wohl wollen und wohl tun. Das auf sich bezogene, reflexive Wohlwollen ist aber nur unter der Bedingung zula¨ssig, dass man auch jedem anderen wohl will. In einer moralgepra¨gten Lebenskunst steigert sich also eine eudaimonistisch gebotene Wohlgesinntheit zu einem universalen Wohlwollen und schließt im Gegensatz zu einem selbstvergessenen Altruismus die eigene Person ein. Im ¨ bereinstimmung von SelbstUnterschied zum Optimismus einer natu¨rlichen U ¨ und Fremdliebe sieht sie allerdings, dass die Ubereinstimmung nicht stets zutrifft, deshalb oft gesucht werden muß. Und dafu¨r stellt sie ein Kriterium auf, das der universalisierbaren Maxime: Schließe in den Kreis der Personen, deren Wohl du suchst, sowohl dich selbst als auch alle anderen Personen ein. Die autonome Moral verweigert also diesen eudaimonistischen Fa¨higkeiten nicht ihre Anerkennung. Im Rahmen einer Pflicht, sich zu entfalten, und einer weiteren, wenn auch indirekten Pflicht, das eigene Wohl zu befo¨rdern, ha¨lt sie sie sogar fu¨r wu¨nschenswert. Trotzdem fallen hier Lebenskunst und Moral nicht vollsta¨ndig zusammen. Der moralische Standpunkt nimmt eine Auswahl und Gewichtung vor und ra¨umt dem klugheitsgebotenen Anteil nur einen vormoralischen Rang ein; in den Adelsstand der Moral erhebt er den Anteil nicht. Und ¨ berlegungen hier aber schließen. Der wahrhaft moradiese Einsicht mag die U lische Anteil der Lebenskunst bleibt lediglich indirekt geboten, und im Konfliktfall u¨berla¨sst er den direkten Pflichten den Vorrang.

Literatur Ho¨ffe, O. 2007. Lebenskunst und Moral oder Macht Tugend glu¨cklich?, Mu¨nchen.

General Bibliography

1.

Ancient Sources

a)

Eastern Traditions

Bhagavad-gı¯ta¯-bha¯syam of S´amkara, tr. by Gambhirananda, Calcutta 1984. ˙ ˙ Dharmasu¯tras. The Law Codes of Ancient India, a new translation by P. Olivelle, New York 1999. Ma¯nava Dharmas´a¯stra, Manu’s Code of Law: a critical edition and translation of the Ma¯nava Dharmas´a¯stra by P. Olivelle New York 2005. Mencius, tr. D. C. Lau, London 1970. S´rı¯bha¯sya Brahma-Su¯tras or Veda¯nta-Su¯tras with the Commentary of Ra¯ma¯nuja, tr. by G. ˙ Thibaut Delhi 1966. The Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯, tr. and ed. B. S. Miller, New York 1986. The Rig Veda. An Anthology, 108 Hymns Translated from the Sanskrit, transtaled and edity by W. D. O’Flaherty, Harmondsworth 1981. Upanisads. Edited by P. Olivelle, New York 2008. ˙ Xunzi. A Translation and Study of the Complete Works, ed. by J. Knoblock, Stanford 1994.

b)

Western Traditions

Alexandre d’Aphrodise. Traite´ du destin, texte e´tabli et traduit par P. Thillet, Paris 1984. Ario Didimo. Diogene Laerzio, Etica Stoica, a. c. d. C. Natali, introd. di J. Annas, Bari 1999. Aristoteles. Nikomachische Ethik, u¨bersetzt und kommentiert von F. Dirlmeier (Aristo¨ bersetzung) Berlin 1999. teles, Werke in deutscher U Aristoteles. Nikomachische Ethik, hrsg. und u¨bersetzt von U. Wolf, Reinbek 2006. Aristoteles Graece ex recensione I. Bekkeri. Editit Academia Regia Borussica (Aristotelis opera I – II), Berlin 1831. Aristotelis ethica nicomachea. Recognovit brevique adnotatione critica instruxit I. Bywater, Oxford 1894. Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics, translated and edited by Roger Crisp, Cambridge 2000.

480

General Bibliography

Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics: Translation, Introduction, and Commentary by S. Broadie and Ch. Rowe, Oxford 2002. Aristotle on Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse, newly translated with Introduction, Notes, and Appendixes by George A. Kennedy, New York, Oxford 1991. Aristotle: Posterior Analytics, translation and commentary, ed. J. Barnes, Oxford 1975. Arius Didymus, Epitome of Stoic Ethics, ed. by A. J. Pomeroy, Atlanta 1999. Chrysippus’ On Affections: reconstruction and interpretation by T. Tieleman, Leiden 2003. Die hellenistischen Philosophen, ed. A. A. Long / D. N. Sedley, Stuttgart 2000. Diogenes Laertius. Lives of Eminent Philosophers Vol. I – II. Tr. R. D. Hicks. Cambridge, Mass. 1979. Diogenes Laertius. Vitarum philosophorum libri: Vol. I. Libri I – X: 1 (Bibliotheca Teubneriana, 1), ed. M. Marcovicz, Stuttgart 1999. Epictetus. The Discourses as Reported by Arrian. Tr. W. A. Oldfather. Cambridge, Mass. 1928. Hellenistic Philosophy : Introductory Readings, ed. by L. Gerson / B. Inwood, Indianapolis 1998. Homer. Odyssey. Vol. I: Books 1 – 12. Translated by A. T. Murray, revised by G. E. Dimock, Cambridge, Mass. 1995. Homer. Odyssey. Vol. I: Books 13 – 14. Translated by A. T. Murray, revised by G. E. Dimock, Cambridge, Mass. 1995. Homer. The Iliad. Vol. I: Books 1 – 12. Translated by A. T. Murray, revised by W. F. Wyatt, Cambridge, Mass. 1999. Homer. The Iliad. Vol. II: Books 13 – 24. Translated by A. T. Murray, revised by W. F. Wyatt, Cambridge, Mass. 1999. Les Cyniques grecs: fragments et te´moignages, nouvelle e´d., rev., corr. et augmente´e, 3e`me tirage, L. Paquet, Ottawa 1995. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, with selected correspondence, tr. R. Hard, ed. Ch. Gill, New York 2011. Panezio di Rodi 1997. Testimonianze, ed., trad. e comment a cura di F. Alesse, Napoli. Plato. Complete works, ed. with introd. and notes by J. M. Cooper, Cambridge, Ind. 1997. Plato. Apology, tr. H. N. Fowler. Cambridge, Mass. 1914. Plato. Gorgias, tr. W. R. M. Lamb. Cambridge, Mass. 1925. Plato. Meno, tr. R. W. Sharples, Warminster 1991. Plato. Protagoras. Translated with Notes by C. C. W. Taylor, Oxford 1976. Platonis opera, tom. I – V, recognoverunt brevique adnotatione critica instruxerunt I. Burnet, E. A. Duke, W. F. Hicken, W. S. M. Nicoll, D. B. Robinson, J. C. G. Strachan, Oxford 1901 – 1995. Plotin: Enne´ades, Tome VI (2e`me partie), tr. E´. Bre´hier, Paris, Les Belles Lettres 1938. Plotin: Traite´ sur la liberte´ et la volonte´ de l’Un [Enne´ade VI, 8 (39)], ed. G. Leroux, Paris 1990. Plotin: Traite´s 38 – 41, ed. L. Brisson et J.-Fr. Pradeau, Paris, 2007. Plotini Opera, Tome III, editerunt P. Henry et H.-R. Schwyzer, Tomus III, Enneas VI, Oxford, O.C.T. 1983. Plotinus, Ennead I: Porphyry on the Life of Plotinus. Ennead I, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1989.

Modern Works

481

Plotinus, Ennead II, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1966. Plotinus, Ennead III, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1983. Plotinus, Ennead VI, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1984. Plotinus, Ennead V, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1984. Plotinus, Ennead VI, 1 – 5, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1988. Plotinus, Ennead VI, 6 – 9, translated by A. H. Armstrong, Cambridge, Mass. 1988. Plutarch. De Stoicorum Repugnantiis, Plutarch’s Moralia: in sixteen volumes, with an English translation by H. Cherniss. Index comp. by E. N. O’Neil, Cambridge, Mass. 1976. Select Works of Porphyry, translated by Th. Taylor, Amsterdam 1994. Seneca. Clementia Liberum Arbitrium Habet, ed. M. Bellincioni, Studi Senecani e Altri Scritti, Brescia 1986: 113 – 125. Seneca. Moral and Political Essays, Cambridge, edited and translated by J. M. Cooper and J. F. Procope´, Cambridge 1995. Seneca. On Benefits (The Complete Works of Lucius Annaeus Sencea), translated by M. Griffin and B. Inwood, Chicago 2011. Seneca. Selected Philosophical Letters, translation with an Introduction and Commentary by B. Inwood, Oxford 2007. Sextus Empiricus, Against the Logicians, translated by R. Bett, Cambridge 2005. The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. J. Barnes, Princeton 1984. The Cynic Epistles: a study edition, ed. by A. J. Malherbe, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 1977. The Greek Commentaries on Plato’s “Phaedo” volume 2: Damascius, L. G. Westerink, Amsterdam 2009. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Vol. 1: Translations of the Principal Sources, with philosophical commentary, ed. A. A. Long / D. N. Sedley, Cambridge 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Vol. 2: Greek and Latin Texts with Notes and Bibliography, ed. A. A. Long / D. N. Sedley, Cambridge 1987. Xenophon: Memorabilia, Oeconomicus, Symposium, Apology, Translated by E. C. Marchant / O. J. Todd, revised by J. Henderson, Cambridge, Mass. 2013.

2.

Modern Works

Ackrill, J. L. 1981. Aristotle – The Philosopher, Oxford. Adams, R. M. 2006. A Theory of Virtue, Oxford / New York. Adkins. A. W. H. 1965. Merit and Responsibility : A Study in Greek Value, Oxford. Algra, K. / Barnes, J. / Mansfeld, J. / Schofield, M. (eds.), 1999. The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, Cambridge. Akert, K. 1994. “Limbisches System”, in: D. Drenckhahn (ed.), Benninghoff, Anatomie, Makroskopische Anatomie, Embryologie und Histologie des Menschen. Band 2, Mu¨nchen: 603 – 627. Alesse, F. Panezio di Rodi e la tradizione stoica, Napoli 1994. Altham / R. Harrison (eds.), World, Mind and Ethics, Cambridge: 186 – 194. Annas, J. 1993. The Morality of Happiness, Oxford.

482

General Bibliography

Annas, J. 1999. Platonic Ethics, Old and New, Ithaca, London. Annas, J. 1999. “Introduzione”, in: Ario Didimo, Diogene Laerzio: etica stoica, a cura di C. Natali, introduzione di Julia Annas, Laterza 1999. Annas, J. 2004. “Marcus Aurelius: Ethics and its Background”, in: Rhizai 2: 103 – 119. Annas, J. 2006. “Virtue Ethics”, in: D. Copp (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Ethical Theory, Oxford: 515 – 536. Anton, A. L. 2006. “Breaking the Habit: Aristotle on Recidivism and How a Thoroughly Vicious Person Might Begin to Improve”, in: Philosophy in the Contemporary World 13, 2: 58 – 66. Anton, J. P. / Preus, A. (eds.) 1983. Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, vol. II, Albany, NY. Apressyan R. 2002. “Talion and the Golden Rule: A Critical Analysis of Associated Contexts” (Translated by James E. Walker), in: Russian Studies in Philosophy 41, No. 1: 46 – 64. Apressyan R. 2009. “Zolotoe pravilo v etike Aristotelia” (“The Golden Rule in Aristotle’s Ethics”), in: Filosofia i etika (Philosophy and Ethics), Moscow, Alfa-M: 157 – 170; Apressyan R. 2009. “Nastavlenia i istoria Ahikara” (“The Story and Precepts of Ahiqar”), in: Suschnost i slovo (The Essence and the Word), Moscow: 96 – 114. Arnold, M. 1960. Emotion and Personality. Aubry, G. 2002. “Dunamis et Energeia dans l’E´thique Aristote´licienne: L’E´thique du De´monique”, in: G. Aubry / Rhomeyer-Dherbey (eds.), L’Exellence de la Vie. Sur l’E´thique a` Nicomaque et L’E´thique a` Eude`me d’Aristote, Paris: 75 – 94. Aune, B. 1997. “The Unity of Plato’s Republic”, in: Ancient Philosophy 17: 291 – 308. Austin, N. 1975. Archery at the Dark of the Moon: Poetic Problems in Homer’s Odyssey, Berkeley. Avanesov S. 2010. “Aksiologicheskie motivy v poemah Gomera” (“Value Motives in the Homeric epic”), in: SWOKG: Filosofskoe antikovedenie i klassicheskaya traditsia (SWOKG: Classical Studies in Philosophy and Classical Tradition), [Yekaterinburh, Russia], 4. Issue. 2: 260 – 290. Badhwar, N. 1996. “The Limited Unity of Virtue”, in: Nous 30: 306 – 29. Baier, A. 1985. Postures of the Mind, London. Bakhtin, M. 1984. Rabelais and His World. Trans. He´le`ne Iswolsky, Bloomington. Baltes, M. 1997. “Is The Idea of the Good in Plato’s Republic Beyond Being”, in: M. Joyal (ed.), Studies in Plato and the Platonic Tradition, Hampshire, ch. 8. Barnes, J. 1975. Aristotle: Posterior Analytics. Translation and commentary, Oxford. Barnes, J. 1982. Aristotle, Oxford. Barnes, J. (ed.) 1984. The Complete Works of Aristotle, Princeton. Barnes, J., (ed.) 1995. The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle, Cambridge. Barnouw, J. 2004. Odysseus, Hero of Practical Intelligence: Deliberation and Signs in Homer’s Odyssey, Lanham. Bassett S. E. 2003. The Poetry of Homer, new ed. with an introd. by Bruce Heiden, Lanham, Md. Becker, A. 2000. Verstehen und Bewußtsein, Paderborn. Beierwaltes, W. 1999. “Causa sui. Plotins Begriff des Einen als Ursprung des Gedankens der Selbstursa¨chlichkeit”, in: J. J. Cleary (ed.), Traditions of Platonism. Essays in Honour of John Dillon, Aldershot: 191 – 226.

Modern Works

483

Bellincioni, M. 1986. “Clementia Liberum Arbitrium Habet”, Paideia, 39: 173 – 183; repr. in M. Bellincioni, Studi Senecani e Altri Scritti, Brescia: 113 – 25. Bellincioni, M. 1984. Potere ed etica in Seneca: clementia e voluntas amica (Antichita` classica e cristiana), Brescia. Benson, H. 2000. Socratic Wisdom. The Model of Knowledge in Plato’s Early Dialogues, Oxford. Bestor, T. M. 1980. “Plato’s Semantics and Plato’s ‘Cratylus’”, in: Phronesis 25: 306 – 330. Bestor, T. M. 1980a. “Plato’s Semantics and Plato’s ‘Parmenides’”, in: Phronesis 25: 38 - 75. Bien, G. (ed.) 1985. Aristoteles: Nikomachische Ethik, Hamburg. Bieri, P. 2001. “Was macht Bewußtsein zu einem Ra¨tsel?”, in: Th. Metzinger (ed.), Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 61 – 78. Billerbeck, M. 1991. Die Kyniker in der modernen Forschung, Amsterdam. Block, N. 1993. “Review of Dennett’s Consciousness Explained”, in: Journal of Philosophy 90: 181 – 193. Block, N. 1995. “On a Confusion about the Function of Consciousness”, in: Behavioral and Brain Sciences 18, 227 – 287. Block, N. 1999. “Das neuronale Korrelat des Bewußtseins”, in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 153 – 168. Bobonich, Ch. / Destre´e, P. (eds.) 2007. Akrasia in Greek Philosophy. From Socrates to Plotinus, Leiden, Boston. Bobzien, S. 1998. Determinism and Freedom in Stoic Philosophy, Oxford. Boghossian, P. 1989. “Content and Self-Knowledge”, in: Philosophical Topics 17: 5 – 26. Bolton, R. 1993. “Aristotle’s Account of the Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 11. 121 – 152. Bolton, R. 2003. “Aristotle: Epistemology and Methodology”, in: Shields, Ch. (ed.): The Blackwell Guide to Ancient Philosophy, Oxford: 151 – 162. Bondeson, W. 1974. “Aristotle on Responsibility for One’s Character and the Possiblity of Character Change”, in: Phronesis 19: 59 – 65. Bostock, D. 2000. Aristotle’s Ethics, Oxford. Boyle, A. J. 1973. “Plato’s Divided Line: Essay 1: The Problem of Dianoia”, in: Apeiron 7: 1 – 11. Brandom, R. 1994. Making It Explicit, Cambridge, Mass. Brandwood, L. 1990. The Chronology of Plato’s Dialogues, Cambridge. Branham, B. / Goulet-Caze´, M. – O. (eds.) 1996. The Cynics: The Cynic Movement in Antiquity and Its Legacy, Berkeley. Breton, S. 1986. “Re´flexions sur la causa sui”, in: Revue des sciences philosophiques et the´ologiques 70: 349. Brickhouse, T. C. 1976. “A Contradiction in Aristotle’s Doctrines Concerning the Alterability of Moral ‘Hexeis’ and the Role of ‘Hexeis’ in the Explanation of Action”, in: Southern Journal of Philosophy 14: 401 – 411. Brickhouse, T. C. / Smith, N.D. 1984. “Vlastos on the Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 2: 185 – 195. Brickhouse, T. C. 1989. Socrates on Trial, Oxford. Brickhouse, T. C. / Smith, N. D. 1994. Plato’s Socrates, New York, Oxford. Brickhouse, T. C. / Smith, N. D. 2000a. “Socrates’ Elenctic Mission”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 9: 131 – 159.

484

General Bibliography

Brickhouse, Th. C. / Smith, N. D. 2000b. The Philosophy of Socrates, Boulder. Broadie, S. 1991. Ethics with Aristotle, Oxford. Broadie, S. 2007. Aristotle and Beyond, Cambridge. Broadie, S. / Rowe, Ch. 2002. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics: Translation, Introduction, and Commentary, Oxford. Burge, T. 2001. “Zwei Arten des Bewußtseins”, in: Th. Metzinger (ed.), Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 583 – 594. Burgess, J. 2004. “Untrustworthy Apollo and the Destiny of Achilles: Iliad 24.55 – 63”, in: Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 102: 21 – 40. Burkert, W. 1985. Greek Religion, Cambridge, Mass. Burnet, J. 1924. Plato’s Euthyphro, Apology of Socrates and Crito, Oxford. Burnyeat 2003. “Socrates, Money, and the grammar of gignesthai”, in: The Journal of Hellenic Studies 123: 1 – 25. Bussanich, J. 1990. “The Invulnerability of Goodness. The Ethical and Psychological Theory of Plotinus”, Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium on Ancient Philosophy 6, edited by J. J. Cleary, Lanham, Md: 151 – 184. Burnyeat, M. F. 1980. “Aristotle on Learning to be Good”, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley. Cairns, D. L. 1994. Aidoˆs. The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature, Oxford. Carone, G. R. 2001. “Akrasia in the Republic: Does Plato Change His Mind?”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 20: 107 – 148. Carpenter, M. / Nagell, K. / Tomasello, M. 1998. Social cognition, joint attention, and communicative competence from 9 to 15 months of age. Mongraphies of the Society for Research in Child Development 63. Carpenter, M. / Polansky, R. M. 2002. “Variety of Socratic Elenchi”, in: G. A. Scott (ed.), Does Socrates Have a Method? Rethinking the Elenchus in Plato’s Dialogues and Beyond, Pennsylvania: 89 – 100. Carpenter, M. / Tomasello, M. / Savage-Rumbaugh, S. 1995. “Joint Attention and Imitative Learning in Children, Chimpnazees, and Enculturated Chimpanzees”, in: Social Development 4: 217 – 237. Chakrabarti, A. 1983. “Is liberation (moksa) pleasant?” in: Philosophy East and West 33.2: ˙ 167 – 82. Chakrabarti, A. 1988. “The End of Life: A Nya¯ya-Kantian Approach to the Bhagavadgı¯ta¯”, in: Journal of Indian Philosophy 16.4: 327 – 334. Chantraine, P. 1984. Dictionnaire e´tymologique de la langue grecque, Paris. Chalmers, D. 1995. “Facing up to the problem of consciousness”, in: Journal of Consciousness Studies 2: 200 – 219, deutsch in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 221 – 254). Chappell, T. (ed.) 2006a. Values and Virtues, Oxford. Chapell, T. 2006b. “The Variety of Life and the Unity of Practical Wisdom”, in: T. Chappell (ed.) Values and Virtues, Oxford: 136 – 157. Charles, D. 1984. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Action, New York. Cheyns, A, 1967. “Sens et valeur du mot aidos dans les contextes home´riques”, in: Recherches de philologie et de linguistique I: 3 – 33. Charles, D. 2000. Aristotle on Meaning and Essence, Oxford.

Modern Works

485

Cohen, S.M. 1971. “Socrates on the Definition of Piety : Euthyphro 10a – 11b”, in: G. Vlastos (ed.), The Philosophy of Socrates, Garden City, NY: 158 – 76. Collobert, C. 2011. Parier sur le temps: la queˆte he´roique D’immortalite´ dans l’e´pope´e home´rique, Paris. Combe`s, J. 1996. “Ne´cessite´ stoı¨cienne et exigence plotinienne”, in: E´tudes ne´oplatoniciennes, Grenoble: 9 – 34. Cooper, J. M. 1975. Reason and Human Good in Aristotle, Cambridge, Mass. Cooper, J. 1995. “Eudaimonism and the Appeal to Nature in the Morality of Happiness: comments on Julia Annas’ The Morality of Happiness”, in: Philosophy and Phenomenological Research LV, 3: 587 – 599. Cooper, J. M. (ed.) 1997. Plato. Complete Works, Indianapolis, Cambridge. Cooper, J. M. 1999. “The Unity of Virtue”, in: Social Philosophy and Policy 15: 233 – 274. Cooper, J. M. / Procope´, J. F. eds. & trs. 1995. Seneca: Moral and Political Essays, Cambridge. Copi, I. M. 1968. Introduction to Logic, New York. Copp, D. / Sobel, D. 2004. “Morality and Virtue. An Assessment of Some Recent Work in Virtue Ethics”, in: Ethics 114: 514 – 554. Crane, T. / Mellor, D. H. “There is no question of physicalism”, in: Mind 99: 185 – 206. Croiset, A. (ed). 1923. Plato. Oeuvres comple`tes, tome 3, 2e partie: Gorgias – Me´non, Paris. Crotty K. 1994. The Poetics of Supplication: Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Ithaca. Curren, R. 1989. “The Contribution of Nicomachean Ethics III 5 to Aristotle’s Theory of Responsibility”, in: History of Philosophy Quarterly 6: 261 – 277. Curzer, H. J. 2002. “Aristotle’s Painful Path to Virtue”, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 40: 141 – 162. Dahl, N. O. 1984. Practical Reason, Aristotle, and Weakness of the Will, Minnesota (University of Minnesota, Minnesota Publications in the Humanities, V. 4). Danto, A. 1972. Mysticism and Morality : Oriential Thought and Moral Philosophy, New York. Damasio, A. 1999. The Feeling of What Happens, New York. Dancy, J. 2004. Ethics Without Principles, Oxford. Davidson, D. 1980. Essays on Actions and Events, Oxford. Davidson, D. 1990. Wahrheit und Interpretation, Frankfurt. Davidson, D. 1998. “Replies”, in: Revista Hispanoamericana de Filosofia Vol. XXX, No. 90: 97 – 112. Dennett, D. 1978. Brainstorms, Cambridge/Mass. Dennett, D. 1991. Consciousness Explained, New York. Denniston, J. D. 1950. The Greek Particles, Oxford: 294 – 296. Descartes 1995 [1649]. The Passions of the Soul, (ed.) S.Voss, Indianapolis. De Stryker, E. / Slings, S. R. 1994. Plato’s Apology of Socrates, Leiden. Detel, W. 1972. Platons Beschreibung des falschen Satzes im Thea¨tet und Sophistes (Hypomnemata 36), Go¨ttingen. Detel, W. 1973. “Zur Argumentationsstruktur im ersten Hauptteil von Platons Aretedialogen”, in: Archiv fu¨r Geschichte der Philosophie 55: 1 – 29. Detel, W. 1974. “Die Kritik an den Definitionen im zweiten Hauptteil der platonischen Aretedialoge”, in: Kant-Studien 65: 22 – 134. Detel, W. 1997. “Why all Animals have a Stomach: Demonstration and Axiomatization in

486

General Bibliography

Aristotle’s Parts of Animals”, in: W. Kullmann / S. Fo¨llinger (eds.), Aristotelische Biologie, Stuttgart: 63 – 84. Detel, W. 1998. Macht, Moral, Wissen. Foucault und die klassische Antike, Frankfurt/M., english: Power, Ethics, and Knowledge. Foucault and Classical Antiquity, Cambridge 2005. Detel, W. 2001a. “Teleosemantik: Ein neuer Blick auf den Geist?”, in: Deutsche Zeitschrift fu¨r Philosophie 49: 465 – 491. Detel, W. 2001b. “Haben Fro¨sche und Sumpfmenschen Gedanken? Einige Probleme der Teleosemantik”, in: Deutsche Zeitschrift fu¨r Philosophie 49: 601 – 626. Detel, W. 2005. “Hybrid Theories of Normativity”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity. Issues in Ancient and Modern Ethics, Oxford: 113 – 144. Detienne, M. / Vernant, J.P. 1974. Les ruses de l’intelligence, la me`tis des Grecs, Paris. Devereux, D. T. 1992. “The Unity of Virtues in Plato’s Protagoras and Laches”, in: Philosophical Review 101: 765 – 790. Devereux, D. T. 1995. “Socrates’ Kantian Conception of Virtue”, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 33: 381 – 408. Dillon, J. 1983. “Plotinus, Philo and Origen on the Grades of Virtue”, in: H.-D. Blume / F. Mann (eds.), Platonismus und Christentum, Aschendorf: 92 – 105. Dillon, J. M. 1996. “An Ethic for the Late Antique Sage”, in: L. Gerson (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus, Cambridge: 315 – 35. DiMuzio, G. 2000. “Aristotle on Improving One’s Character”, in: Phronesis 45: 205 – 219. DiMuzio, G. 2008. “Aristotle’s Alleged Moral Determinism in the Nicomachean Ethics”, in: Journal of Philosophical Research 33: 19 – 32. Dirlmeier, F. 199910. Aristoteles. Nikomachische Ethik, u¨bersetzt und kommentiert ¨ bersetzung, hg. v. E. Grumach, Berlin. (Aristoteles, Werke in deutscher U Dodds, E. R. 1956. The Greeks and the Irrational, Berkeley. Donini, P. L. 1989. Ethos: Aristotele e il determinismo, Torino. Donlan W. 1982. “Reciprocities in Homer”, in: The Classical World 75, 3: 137 – 175. Doyle, J. 2004. “Socrates and the Oracle”, in: Ancient Philosophy 24: 19 – 36. Dretske, F. 1988. Explaining Behavior, Cambridge/Mass. Dretske, F. 1999. “Wozu ist Bewußtsein gut”, in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 73 – 90. Driver, J. 1996. “The Virtues and Human Nature”, in: R. Crisp (ed.), How Should One Live?, Oxford / New York: 111 – 129. Driver, J. 2001. Uneasy Virtue, Cambridge. Dudley, D. R. 1937. A History of Cynicism from Diogenes to the 6th Century A.D., Cambridge. Du¨ll, R. 1976. “Seneca Iurisconsultus”, in: Aufstieg und Niedergang der Ro¨mischen Welt II 15: 365 – 380. Dummett, M. 1991. The Logical Basis of Metaphysics, Cambridge/Mass. Durstewitz, D. / Windmann, S. 1999. Gibt es Eigenschaften neuronaler Strukturen und Prozesse, die mit Bewußtsein korreliert sind?, in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 127 – 152. Edmonds, R. G. 2004. Myths of the Underworld Journey : Plato, Aristophanes, and the ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets, Cambridge. Eifler, G. 1970. Ritterliches Tugendsystem, Darmstadt.

Modern Works

487

Ekman, P. 1980. “Biological and Cultural Contributions to Body and Facial Movement in the Expression of Emotions”, in: Rorty, A. O. (ed.), Explaining Emotions, Berkeley : 73 – 102. Engberg-Pedersen, T. 1983. Aristotle’s Theory of Moral Insight, Oxford. Esken, F. / Heckmann, D. (ed.) 1999. Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn. Evans, J. D. G. 1987. Aristotle, New York. Everson, S. 1990. “Aristotle’s Compatibilism in the Nicomachean Ethics”, in: Ancient Philosophy 10 (1): 81 – 103. Everson, S. 1995. “Psychology”, in: J. Barnes (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle, Cambridge. Ferber, R. 2003. “L’idea del bene e` o non e` transcendente?”, in: M. Bonazzi / F. Trabattoni (eds.), Platone e la tradizione platonica, Milano: 127 – 149. Ferejohn, M. 1984. “Socratic Virtue as the Parts of Itself”, in: Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 44: 377 – 388. Ferguson, J. 1958. Moral Values in the Ancient World, London. Finley, M. 1977. The World of Odysseus, [1956], 2nd ed., London. Finlay, R. 1980. “Patroklos, Achilleus, and Peleus: Fathers and Sons in the «Iliad»”, in: The Classical World 73, No. 5: 267 – 273. Flanagan, O. 1992. Consciousness Reconsidered, Cambridge, Mass. Fodor, J. 1990. A Theory of Content, Cambridge/Mass. Fogelin, R. J. 1971. “Three Platonic Analogies”, in: Philosophical Review 80: 371 – 382. Foot, Ph. 1978. Virtues and Vices, Oxford. Foot, Ph. 1989. “Von Wright on Virtue”, in: P. A. Schilpp / L. E. Hahn (eds.), The Philosophy of Georg Henrik von Wright, La Salle: 271 – 279. Foot, Ph. 2001. Natural Goodness, Oxford. Fortenbaugh, W. 1975. Aristotle on Emotion: A Contribution to Philosophical Psychology, Rhetoric, Poetics, Politics, and Ethics, London. Fortenbaugh, W. 1991. “Aristotle’s Distinction between Moral Virtue and Practical Wisdom”, in: J. P. Anton / A. Preus (eds.), Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, Albany (SUNY). Freeland, C. 1982. “Moral Virtues and Human Powers”, in: Review of Metaphysics 36: 3 – 22. Furley, D. 1977. “Aristotle on the Voluntary”, in: J. Barnes / M. Schofield / R. Sorabji (eds.) Articles on Aristotle, vol. 2: Ethics and Politics, London: 47 – 60. Gallop, D. 1975. Plato. Phaedo, Oxford. Gambhirananda, S. 1984. Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯ with the Commenatary of S´amkara, Calcutta. ˙ Garcı´a Ninet, A. 1998. “El determinismo de la accio´n en Aristo´teles”, Agora: in: Papeles de Filosofia 17 (1): 33 – 53. Garver, E. 1989. “Aristotle’s Metaphysics of Morals”, in: Journal of the History of Philosophy 27: 7 – 28. Gauthier, R. A. / Jolif, J. Y. 19702. Aristote. L’E´thique a` Nicomaque. Introduction, Traduction et Commentaire, tome I, deuxie`me partie, Louvain/Paris. Geach, P. 1957. “Good and Evil”, in: Analysis 17: 30 – 42. Geach, P. 1977. The Virtues, Cambridge. George, M. L. 1993. “The Notion of Paideia in Aristotle’s ‘De Partibus Animaliu’”, in: American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 67: 299 – 320.

488

General Bibliography

Gerson, L. / Inwood, B. (eds.) 1998. Hellenistic Philosophy : Introductory Readings, Indianapolis. Gill, C. 1996. Personality in Greek Epic. Tragedy, and Philosophy : The Self in Dialogue, Oxford. Gill, C. 2004. “The Stoic Theory of Ethical Development: in what sense is nature a norm?”, in: J. Szaif / M. Lutz-Bachmann (eds.), Was ist fu¨r den Menschen Gute? / What is Good for a Human Being?, Berlin / New York: 101 – 125. Gill, Ch. (ed.) 2005. Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity, Oxford. Gill, Ch. 2005. “Commentary on Detel from a Stoic Standpoint”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.): 145 – 154. Glu¨er, K. 1999. “Some Considerations Concerning the Normativity of Meaning”, in: Acta Analytica 14: 111 – 128. Go´mez-Lobo, A. 1995. “Aristotle’s Right Reason”, in: Apeiron, 25: 15 – 34. Gould J. 1973. “HIKETEIA”, in: The Journal of Hellenic Studies 93: 74 – 103. Goulet-Caze´, M. – O. 2001. L’Asce`se cynique: Un commentaire de Dioge`ne Lae¨rce VI 70 – 71, Deuxie`me edition, Paris. Goulet-Caze´, M. – O. / Goulet, R. (eds.) 1993. Le Cynisme ancien et ses prolongements, Paris. Greenwood, L. H. G. 1909. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Book VI, Cambridge. Griffith, P. 1997. What Emotions Really Are. The Problem of Psychological Categories, Chicago/London. Guckes, B. 2008. “Handlungs- und Willensfreiheit bei Aristoteles”, in: K. Corcilius / C. Rapp (Hg.): Beitra¨ge zur Aristotelischen Handlungstheorie, Stuttgart: 185 – 194. Gulick, R. van 2001. “Was wu¨rde als eine Erkla¨rung von Bewußtsein za¨hlen?”, in: Metzinger, Th. (ed.), Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 79 – 102. Guthrie, W. K. C. 1971. Socrates, Cambridge. Hackforth, R. 1952. Plato’s Phaedrus, Cambridge. Hadot, P. 1995. Qu’est-ce que la philosophie antique? Paris. Halbfass, W. 1988. India and Europe, Albany. Halbfass, W. 1991. Tradition and Reflection, Albany. Halbfass, W. 1997. “Happiness: A Nya¯ya-Vais´esika Perspective”, in: Bilimoria, P. / Moh˙ anty, J.N. (eds.), Relativism, Suffering and Beyond: Essays in Memory of Bimal K. Matilal, New Delhi: 150 – 63. Halbig, Ch. 2013. Der Begriff der Tugend und die Grenzen der Tugendethik, Berlin. Halfwassen, J. 2003. Freiheit und Transzendenz bei Schelling und Plotin, in: B. Mojsisch / O. F. Summerell (eds.), Platonismus im Idealismus. Die platonische Tradition in der klassischen deutschen Philosophie, Mu¨nchen, Leipzig: 175 – 193. Hardie, W. F. R. 19802. Aristotle’s Ethical Theory, Oxford. Hardy, J. 2001. Platons Theorie des Wissens im Theaitet, Go¨ttingen (Hypomnemata 128). Hardy, J. 2010. Seeking the truth and taking care of common goods – Plato on expertise, in: Episteme. A Journal of Social Epistemology 7, 1: 7 – 22. Hardy, J. 2011. Jenseits der Ta¨uschungen – Selbsterkenntnis und Selbstbestimmung mit Sokrates, Go¨ttingen. ¨ bersetzung und Kommentar (Platon. Werke. U ¨ bersetzung Hardy, J. 2014. Platon. Laches. U und Kommentar), Go¨ttingen.

Modern Works

489

Hare, R. M. 1957. “Geach, Good and Evil”, in: Analysis 17: 101 – 111. Hartmann, N. 1926. Ethik, Berlin / Leipzig. Hartmann, N. 1944. “Die Wertdimension der Nikomachischen Ethik”, Reprint in: Kleine Schriften, Bd. 2, Berlin 1957: 191 – 214. Harvey, P. 2000. An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics, Cambridge. Haugeland, J. 1982. Heidegger on Being a Person, in: Nous 16: 15 – 28. Heer, C. de 1964. “Makar – Eudaimoˆn – Olbios – Eutycheˆs. A Study of the Semantic Field Denoting Happiness in Ancient Greek to the End of the 5th Century B.C.”, Amsterdam. Ho¨ffe, O. 2007. Lebenskunst und Moral oder Macht Tugend glu¨cklich?, Mu¨nchen. Hoffman, P. 2003. “Plato on Appetitive Desires in the Republic”, in: Apeiron 36: 171 – 174. Holdrege, B. 2004. “Dharma”, in: Mittal, S. / Thursby, G. (eds.). The Hindu World, New York: 213 – 48. Hull, D. / Ruse, M. (eds.) 1998. The Philosophy of Biology, Oxford. Hume, D. 1998. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Second Edition. Edited by Richard Popkin, Indianapolis. Hurka, Th. 2001. Virtue, Vice and Value, Oxford / New York. Hursthouse, R. 1999. On Virtue Ethics, Oxford / New York. Hursthouse, R. 2006. “Practical Wisdom: A Mundane Account”, in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society : 283 – 307. Hutchinson, D. S. 1986. The Virtues of Aristotle, London/New York. Hutchinson, D. S. 1995. “Ethics”, in: J. Barnes (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle, Cambridge. Iarkho V. 1962. “Vina i otvetstvennost s gomerovskom epose” (“Guilt and responsibility in the Homeric epic ”, in: Vestnik drevney istorii (Bullitin of Ancient History), [Moscow, Russia] 2: 18 – 22. Iarkho V. 1963. “Problema otvetstvennosti i vnutrenniy mir homerovskogo cheloveka” (“The Problem of Responsibility and the Inner World of the Homeric Man”), in: Vestnik drevney istorii (Bulletin of Ancient History), [Moscow], 2: 46 – 64. Ierodiakonou, K. 1993. “The Stoic Division of Philosophy”, in: Phronesis XXXVIII/1: 57 – 74. Ierodiakonou, K. 1999. “Aspasius on Perfect and Imperfect Virtue”, in: Aspasius: The Earliest Extant Commentary on Aristotle’s Ethics, edited by A. Alberti and R. Sharples, Berlin / New York: 142 – 161. Inwagen, P. van 2001. “Meta-Ontology”, in: Ontology, Identity, and Modality. Cambridge: 13 – 31. Inwood, B. / Pierluigi Donini, P. 1999. “Stoic ethics”, in: K. Algra et al. (eds.), The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy : 675 – 738. Inwood, B. 2005. Reading Seneca. Stoic Philosophy at Rome, Oxford. Irwin, T. 1975. “Aristotle on Reason, Desire and Virtue”, in: Journal of Philosophy, 72: 567 – 78. Irwin, T. H. 1977. Plato’s Moral Theory : The Early and the Middle Dialogues, Oxford. Irwin, T. H. – 1979. Plato. Gorgias. Translated with Notes, Oxford. Irwin, T. H. 1985. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Indianapolis, Ind. Irwin, T. H. 1988a. “Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy supp. vol.: 61 – 78.

490

General Bibliography

Irwin, T. H. 1988b. “Reply to Kraut (1988)”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy supp. vol.: 87 – 90. Irwin, T. H. 1994. Articles on Greek and Roman Philosophy, New York. Irwin, T. H. 1995. Plato’s Ethics, Oxford. Izard, C. 1971. The Face of Emotion, New York. Izard, C. 1999. Die Emotionen des Menschen, Weinheim. Jackson, B. D. 1971. “The Prayers of Socrates”, in: Phronesis 16.1: 14 – 37. Jackson, F. 1998. From Metaphysics to Ethics, Oxford. Jacobs, J. 2001. Choosing Character. Responsibility for Virtue and Vice, Ithaca/London. James, W. 1890. The Principles of Psychology, 2 vols., New York. Jamison, S. 1996. Sacrificed Wife, Sacrificer’s Wife: Women, Ritual, and Hospitality in Ancient India, Oxford. Jansen, L. 2002. Tun und Ko¨nnen. Ein systematischer Kommentar zu Aristoteles’ Theorie der Vermo¨gen im neunten Buch der “Metaphysik”, Frankfurt/Main. Jedan, Chr. 2000. Willensfreiheit bei Aristoteles?, Go¨ttingen. Joachim, H. H. 1951. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics. A Commentary, (ed.) by Rees, D.A., Oxford. Kahn, Ch. 1996. Plato and the Socratic Dialogue. The philosophical use of a literary form, Cambridge. Kakoliris, G. 2003. “Refuting Fortenbaugh: The Relationship between Ethike Arete and Phronesis in Aristotle”, in: Philosophia (Athens) 33: 183 – 93. Karasmanis, V. 1988. “Plato’s Republic: The Line and the Cave”, in: Apeiron 21: 147 – 171. Kenny, A. J. P. 1979. Aristotle’s Theory of the Will, Oxford. Knoblock, J. 1994. Xunzi: A Translation and Study of the Complete Works, Stanford. Korsgaard, C. 1986. “Aristotle on Function and Virtue”, in: History of Philosophy Quarterly, 3: 259 – 79. Korsgaard, C. 1996. The Sources of Normativity, Cambridge. Kosman, L. A. 1980. “Being Properly Affected: Virtues and Feelings in Aristotle’s Ethics”, in: A. Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley u. a.: 103 – 116. Kraut, R. 1983. “Comments on Vlastos”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy I: 53 – 70. Kraut, R. 1988. “Comments on Irwin”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, supp. vol.: 79 – 86. Kraut, R. 1993. “In Defense of the Grand End”, in: Ethics 103: 361 – 74. Kripke, S. 1982. Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language, Cambridge, Mass. Kristeller, P.-O. 1929. Der Begriff der Seele in der Ethik Plotins, Tu¨bingen. Lahaw, R. 1993. “What neuropsychology tells us about consciousness”, in: Philosophy of Science 60: 67 – 85. Lau, D. C. (trans.) 1970. Mencius, London. Lemos, J. 1993. “The Unity of the Virtues and its Recent Defenses”, in: Southern Journal of Philosophy 31: 85 – 106. Liddell, H. G. 1996, Greek-English Lexicon, Oxford. Liske, M.-Th. 2007. “Lassen Aristotelische Tugenden sich als rationale Vermo¨gen gema¨ß Metaphysik Theta 2 und 5 auffassen?”, in: Theologie und Philosophie 82(2): 329 – 350. Liske, M.-Th. 2008. “Unter welchen Bedingungen sind wir fu¨r unsere Handlungen ver-

Modern Works

491

antwortlich?”, in: K. Corcilius / C. Rapp (ed.), Beitra¨ge zur Aristotelischen Handlungstheorie, Stuttgart: 83 – 103. Lloyd-Jones H. 1971. The Justice of Zeus, Berkeley. Loening, R. 1903. Die Zurechnungslehre des Aristoteles, Jena (reprint: Hildesheim 1967). Long, A. A. 1968. “The Stoic Conception of Evil”, in: Philosophical Quarterly 18: 329 – 343. Long, A. A. 1986. Hellenistic Philosophy, second edition: 179 – 209. Long, A. A. 1996. “Arius Didymus and the Exposition of Stoic Ethics”, in: Stoic Studies, Berkeley : 107 – 133. Long, A. A. 1996. “The Logical Basis of Stoic Ethics”, in: Stoic Studies, Berkeley, Los Angeles: 134 – 155. Long, A. A. 1996. “Stoic eudaimonism”, in: Stoic Studies, Berkeley, Los Angeles: 179 – 201. Long, A. A. / David N. Sedley, (eds.) 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Volume 1and Volume 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Long, A. / Sedley D. (eds.) 2000. Die hellenistischen Philosophen, Stuttgart. Lorenzen, D. 2004. “Bhakti”, in: Mittal, S. / Thursby, G. (eds.), The Hindu World, New York: 185 – 209. Louden, R. 1997. “What is Moral Authority? Eqbouk_a, s}mesir, and cm~lg vs. ¦q|mgsir”, in: Ancient Philosophy 17: 103 – 118. Losev A. 1960. Gomer (Homer), Moscow. Lukasiewicz, J. 1957. Aristotle’s Syllogistic from the Standpoint of Modern Formal Logic, Oxford. Lyons, W. 1980. Emotions, Cambridge. MacDonald, S. 1989. “Aristotle and the Homonymy of the Good”, in: Archiv fu¨r Geschichte der Philosophie 71: 150 – 157. MacIntyre, A. 1979. After Virtue, Notre Dame. MacIntyre, A. 1991. “Incommensurability, Truth, and the Conversation between Confucians and Aristotelians about the Virtues”, in: Deutsch, E. (ed.). Culture and Modernity : East-West Philosophic Perspectives, Honolulu: 104 – 122. Mackie, J.E. 1977. Ethics. Inventing Wright and Wrong, New York. MacPhail, E. 1998. The Evolution of Consciousness, Oxford. Maier, H. 1896 – 1900. Die Syllogistik des Aristoteles, Tu¨bingen. Matilal, B. K. 2002. The Collected Essays of Bimal Krishna Matilal: Ethics and Epics, New Delhi. Maurach, G. 1987. Seneca als Philosoph, Darmstadt. McDowell, J. 1978. “Are Moral Requirements Hypothetical Imperatives?”, in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, supp. volume 52: 13 – 29. McDowell, J. 1979. “Virtue and Reason”, in: Monist 62: 331 – 350. McDowell, J. 1981. “The Role of Eudaimonia in Aritotle’s Ethics”, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley : 359 – 376. McDowell, J. 1994. Mind and World, Cambridge/Mass. McDowell, J. 1997. “Reason and Virtue”, in: R. Crisp / M. Slote (eds.), Virtue Ethics, Oxford. McDowell, J. 1998. “Some Issues in Aristotle’s Moral Psychology”, in: S. Everson (ed.), Companions to Ancient Thought 4: Ethics, Cambridge. McDowell, J. 1998. “The Constitutive Ideal of Rationality : Davidson and Sellars”, in: Revista Hispanoamericana de Filosofia Vol. XXX, No. 88: 29 – 48.

492

General Bibliography

McGinn, C. 1991. The Problem of Consciousness, Oxford. McPherran, M. L. 1996 (pbk. 1999). The Religion of Socrates, University Park, Pennsylvania. McPherran, M. L. 2000. “Does Piety Pay? Socrates and Plato on Prayer and Sacrifice”, in: N. D. Smith / P. Woodruff (eds.), Reason and Religion in Socratic Philosophy, Oxford. McPherran, M. 2011. “Santas, Socrates, and Induction”, in: G. Anagnostopoulos (ed.), Socratic, Platonic and Aristotelian Studies: Essays in Honor of Gerasimos Santas, Dordrecht: 53 – 74. Metzinger, Th. 1999. “Pra¨sentationaler Gehalt”, in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 377 – 406. Metzinger, Th. (ed.) 2000. Neural Correlates of Consciousness, Cambridge/Mass. Metzinger, Th. (ed.) 2001. Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn. Miller, B. S. 1986. The Bhagavad Gı¯ta¯, New York. Millikan, R. G. 1984. Language, Thought, and Other Biological Categories, Cambridge, Mass. Milikan, R. G. 1993. White Queen Psychology and Other Essays for Alice, Cambridge, Mass. Mohanty, J. N. 1997. “The Idea of the Good in Indian Thought”, in: Deutsch, E. / Bontekoe, R. (ed.), A Companion to World Philosophies, Oxford: 290 – 303. Moore, G. E. 1903. Principia Ethica, Cambridge. Moravcsik, J. M. E. (ed.) 1967. Aristotle, New York. Morel, P. M. 1997. “L’habitude. Une seconde nature?”, in: P. M. Morel (ed.): Aristote et la notion de nature, Bordeaux: 131 – 148. Morgan, M. L. 1990. Platonic Piety, New Haven. Morrison, D. R. 2003. “Happiness, Rationality, and Egoism in Plato’s Socrates”, in: J. Yu / J. Gracia (eds.), Rationality and Happiness: From the Ancients to the Early Medievals, Rochester, NY: 17 – 34. Morrison, J. S. 1977. “Two Unresolved Difficulties in the Line and the Cave”, in: Phronesis, 22: 212 – 231. Morrow, G. R. 1966. Plato’s Gods, in: K. Kolenda (ed.), Insight and Vision: Essays in Honor of Radoslav Andrea Tsanoff, San Antonio, Texas: 121 – 134. Moss, J. 2005. “Shame, Pleasure and the Divided Soul”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 29: 137 – 170. Moss, J. 2007. “The Doctor and the Pastry Chef: Pleasure and Persuasion in Plato’s Gorgias”, in: Ancient Philosophy 27: 229 – 249. Mu¨ller, A. W. 1998a. “Einheit der Tugend oder Einheit der Tugenden?”, in: Theologie und Philosophie 73: 173 – 195. Mu¨ller, A. W. 1998b. Was taugt die Tugend?, Stuttgart. Murdoch, I. 1970. The Sovereignty of the Good, London. Murphy, N. R. 1951. The Interpretation of Plato’s Republic, Oxford: 35 – 36. Naiden F. 2006. Ancient Supplication, Oxford. Nails, D. 1995. Agora, Academy, and the Conduct of Philosophy, New York. Narbonne, J.-M. 1993. “Plotin, Descartes, et la notion de causa sui”, in: Archives de philosophie 56: 193 – 194. Natali, C. 2001. The Wisdom of Aristotle, trans. G. Parks, Albany (SUNY).

Modern Works

493

Natali, C. 2002. “Reponsibility and Determinism in Aristotelian Ethics”, in: M. CantoSperber / P. Pellegrin (eds.), Le style de la pense´e, Paris: 267 – 295. Navia, Luis E. 1990. Diogenes of Sinope: The Man in the Tub. Westport, Connecticut. Navia, Luis E. 1996. Classical Cynicism: A Critical Study, Westport, Conn. Neander, K. 1995. “Misrepresenting and Malfunctioning”, in: Philosophical Studies 79: 109 – 141. Nehamas, A. 1999. “Socratic Intellectualism”, in: Virtues of Authenticity : Essays on Plato and Socrates, Princeton: 27 – 58. Nehamas, A. 1999. “Meno’s Paradox and Socrates as a Teacher”, in: Virtues of Authenticity. Essays on Plato and Socrates, Princeton: 3 – 26. Nieuwenhuis, R. 1985. Chemoarchitecture of the Brain, Heidelberg. Nieuwenhuis, R., et al. 1991. Das Zentralnervensystem des Menschen, Berlin. Nussbaum, M. 2001. The Fragility of Goodness, Cambridge. Nussbaum, M. / Sen, A. (eds.) 1993. The Quality of Life, Oxford. O’Brien, D. 1977. “Le volontaire et la ne´cessite´ : re´flexions sur la descente de l’aˆme dans la philosophie de Plotin”, in: Revue philosophique de la France et de l’e´tranger, 167: 401 – 22. O’ Flaherty, W. D. (ed.) 1981. The Rig Veda, London. Olivelle, P. (ed.) 1986. Upanisads, Oxford. ¯ s´rama˙ System: the history and hermeneutics of a religious instiOlivelle, P. 1993. The A tution, New York, Oxford 1993. Olivelle, P. (ed.) 1999. Dharmasu¯tras. The Law Codes of Ancient India, Oxford. Olivelle, P. (ed.) 2004. The Law Code of Man, Oxford. O’Meara, D. J. 1992. “The Freedom of the One”, in: Phronesis 37: 344 – 346. O’Meara, J. 1994. “Political Life and Divinization in Neoplatonic Philosophy”, in: Hermathena 157: 155 – 64. Pakaluk, M. 2005. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Cambridge. Panksepp, J. 1998. Affective Neuroscience. The Foundations of Human and Animal Emotions, Oxford. Papineau, D. 1990. “Truth and Teleology”, in: D. Knowles (ed.), Explanation and its Limits, Cambridge. Papineau, D. 1993. Philosophical Naturalism, Oxford. Paquet, L. 1988. Les Cyniques grecs: fragments et te´moignages, Ottawa. Patzig, G. 1963. Die aristotelische Syllogistik, Go¨ttingen. Peacocke, Ch. 1992. A Study of Concepts, Cambridge/Mass. Pellegrin, P. 2001. “Hausverwaltung und Sklaverei”, in: O. Ho¨ffe (ed.), Aristoteles. Politik, Berlin: 37 – 57. Penner, T. 1990. “Plato and Davidson: Parts of the Soul and Weakness of Will”, in: D. Copp (ed.), Canadian Philosophers: Celebrating Twenty Years of the Canadian Journal of Philosophy, Supplementary Volume 16 of the Canadian Journal of Philosophy : 35 – 72. Penner, T. 1991. “Power and desire in Socrates: the argument of Gorgias 466a – 466d that orators and tyrants have no power in the city”, in: Apeiron 24: 147 – 202. Penner, T. 1992. “What Laches and Nicias Miss – And whether Socrates thinks Courage is merely a Part of Virtue”, in: Ancient Philosophy 12: 1 – 27. Penner, T. 1992. “Socrates and the early dialogues”, in: R. Kraut (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plato, Cambridge: 121 – 169.

494

General Bibliography

Penner, T. 1997. “Socrates on the Strength of Knowledge: Protagoras 351B-357E”, in: Archiv fu¨r Geschichte der Philosophie 79: 117 – 49. Penner, T. 2002. “The historical Socrates and Plato’s early Dialogues: some philosophical questions”, in: J. Annas / Ch. Rowe (eds.), New Perspectives on Plato. Modern and Ancient, Cambridge: 189 – 212. Penner, T. 2005. “Socratic Ethics: Ultra-Realism, Determinism, and Ethical Truth”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity. Issues in Ancient and Modern Ethics, Oxford. 157 – 187. Penner, T. / Rowe, Ch. 1994. “The Desire for the Good: Is the Meno Inconsistent with the Gorgias?”, in: Phronesis 39: 1 – 25. Perner, J. 1991. Understanding the Representational Mind, Cambridge/Mass. Perrett, R. 1998. Hindu Ethics. A Philosophical Study, Honolulu. Pieper, J. 1996. Schriften zur Philosophischen Anthropologie und Ethik: Das Menschenbild der Tugendlehre, Hamburg. Pincoffs, E. 1986. Quandaries and Virtues, University Press of Kansas. Polansky, R. 1985. “Professor Vlastos’ Analysis of Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 3: 247 – 259. Postlethwaite N. 1998. “Akhilleus and Agamemnon: Generalized Reciprocity”, in: C. Gill, / N. Postlethwaite / R. Seaford (eds.), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece, Oxford: 93 – 104. Preston, B. 1998. “Why is a Wing Like a Spoon? A Pluralist Theory of Functions”, in: Journal of Philosophy 95: 215 – 254. Price, A. W. 2005. “Aristotelian Virtue and Practical Judgment”, in: Ch. Gill (ed.), Virtue, Norms, and Objectivity, Oxford. Ra¯ma¯nuja. 1991. S´rı¯ Ra¯ma¯nuja Gı¯ta¯ Bha¯sya, Ramakrishna Math. ˙ Raven, J. E. 1965. Plato’s Thought in the Making, Cambridge: 146 – 147. Rawls, J. 1971. A Theory of Justice, Harvard University Press. Redfield, J. 1975. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hector, Chicago. Reeve, C. D. C. 1989. Socrates in the Apology. Indianapolis. Reeve, C. D. C. 1992. Practices of Reason: Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Oxford. Reshotko, N. 1990. Dretske and Socrates: The development of the Socratic theme that all desire is for the good in a contemporary analysis of desire, Dissertation. University of Wisconsin-Madison. Reshotko, N. 1995. “A reply to Penner and Rowe”, in: Phronesis 40, 3: 336 – 341. Reshotko, N. 2006. Socratic Virtue. Making the Best of the Neither-Good-nor-Bad, Cambridge. Revonsuo, A. 1999. “Wie man Bewußtsein in der kognitiven Neurowissenschaft ernst nehmen kann”, in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 193 – 218. Rhonheimer, M. 2001. Die Perspektive der Moral, Berlin. Ringbom, S. 1968. “Plato on Images”, in: Theoria 31: 86 – 109. Roberts, J. 1989. “Aristotle on Responsibility for Action and Character”, in: Ancient Philosophy 9: 23 – 36. Roberts, R. C. 1984. “Will Power and the Virtues”, in: Philosophical Review 93: 227 – 247. Roochnik, D. L. 1996. On Art and Wisdom. Plato’s Understanding of Techne. Pennsylvania. Rorty, A. O. (ed.) 1980. Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley.

Modern Works

495

Ross, D. 1923. Aristotle, London. Roth, G. 2000. “The evolution and ontogeny of consciousness”, in: Th. Metzinger (ed.), Bewußtsein. Beitra¨ge aus der Gegenwartsphilosophie, Paderborn: 77 – 97. Roth, G. 2001. Fu¨hlen, Denken, Handeln. Wie das Gehirn unser Verhalten steuert, Frankfurt. Samson, B. / Detel, W. 2002. “Zum Begriff nicht-mathematischer Funktionen”, in: Analyse und Kritik 24: 100 – 129. Rowe, C. 1983. “The Nature of Homeric Morality”, in: Rubino, C.A. / C. W. Shelmerdine (eds.), Approaches to Homer, Austin: 248 – 275. Rowe, C. 2003. “Plato, Socrates, and developmentalism”, in: N. Reshotko (ed.), Socrates and Plato: Desire, Identity, and Existence, Edmonton: 127 – 141. Rowe, C. 2006. “Socrates in Plato’s dialogues”, in: Ahbel-Rappe, S. / Rachana, K. (eds.), A Companion to Socrates, Malden / Oxford: 159 – 170. Rowe, C. J. 2007. Plato and the Art of Philosophical Writing, Cambridge. Rudebusch, G. 1999. Socrates, Pleasure, and Value, Oxford. Rudebusch, G. 2011. Socrates (Blackwell Great Minds), Malden, MA. Russell, D. C. 2005. “Aristotle on the Moral Relevance of Self-Respect”, in: S. Gardiner (ed.), Virtue Ethics, Old and New, Ithaca, New York. Russell, D. 2005. Plato on Pleasure and the Good Life, Oxford. Russell, D. C. 2009. Practical Intelligence and the Virtues, Oxford. Russell, D. C. (ed.) 2013. The Cambridge Companion to Virtue Ethics, Cambridge. Ryle, G. 1949. The Concept of Mind, London. Santana, A. 2003. The Problem of the Socratic Elenchus, Irvine. Santas, G. 1971. “Socrates at Work on Virtue and Knowledge in Plato’s Laches”, in: G. Vlastos (ed.), The Philosophy of Socrates: A Collection of Critical Essays, New York, 1971: 177 – 208. Santas, G. 1979. Socrates, London. Santas, G. 1989. “Desire and Perfection in Aristotle’s Theory of the Good”, in: Apeiron 22: 75 – 99. Santas, G. 2001. Goodness and Justice: Plato, Aristotle, and the Moderns, Oxford. Santas, G. 2006. “Methods of Reasoning about Justice in Plato’s Republic”, in: Santas, G. (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Plato’s Republic, Oxford: 125 – 145. Santas, G. 2010. Understanding Plato’s Republic, Oxford. Sauve´ Meyer 1993. Aristotle on Moral Responsibity. Character and Cause, Oxford. Schmidtz, D. 1994. “Choosing Ends”, in: Ethics 104: 226 – 51. Schniewind, A. 2003. L’e´thique du sage chez Plotin. Le paradigme du spoudaios, Paris. Schofield, M. 1986. “Euboulia in the Iliad”, in: Classical Quarterly 36. 6 – 31. Schofield, M. 2003. “Stoic Ethics”, in B. Inwood (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, Cambridge: 233 – 256. Scott, D. 1995. Recollection and Experience, Cambridge. Searle, J. 1992. The Rediscovery of the Mind, Cambridge, Mass. Sedley (ed.) 2007. Pyrrhonists, Patricians, Platonizers. Hellenistic Philosophy in the Period 155 – 86 Bc. (Tenth Symposium Hellenisticum, Roma, 2004), Napoli. Seel. G. 1982. Die Aristotelische Modaltheorie, Berlin / New York. Sellars, W. 1956. “Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind”, in: Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science 1: 253 – 329.

496

General Bibliography

Sharples, R. W. 1996. Stoics, Epicureans and Sceptics. An Introduction to Hellenistic Philosophy, Oxford / New York. Sherman, N. 1985. “Character, Planning, and Choice in Aristotle”, in: Review of Metaphysics 39: 83 – 106. Sherman, N. 1989. The Fabric of Character. Aristotle’s Theory of Virtue, Oxford. Sherman, N. 1999. “The Habituation of Character”, in: N. Sherman (ed.), Aristotle’s Ethics, Lanham: 231 – 260. Shields, Ch. 1999. Order in Multiplicty : Homonymy in the Philosophy of Aristotle, Oxford. Shields, Ch. 2007. Aristotle, London. Siegler, F. A. 1968. “Voluntary and Involuntary”, in: The Monist 52: 268 – 287. Skinner, B. 1974. About Behaviorism, New York. Skinner, B. / Holland, J. G. 1961. The Analysis of Behavior, New York. Slote, M. 1983. Goods and Virtues, Oxford. Slote, M. 1990. “Some Advantages of Virtue Ethics”, in: O. Flanagan / A. O. Rorty (eds.), Identity, Character and Morality, Cambrige, MA / London: 429 – 448. Slote, M. 1992. From Morality to Virtue, Oxford / New York. Slote, M. 1996. “Agent-based Virtue Ethics”, in: Midwest Studies in Philosophy 20: 83 – 101. Slote, M. 1997. “Virtue Ethics”, in: M. Baron / Ph. Pettit / M. Slote (eds.), Three Methods of Ethics, Oxford: 175 – 238. Slote, M. 2001. Morals from Motives, Oxford / New York. Smith, A. 1999. “The Significance of Practical Ethics for Plotinus”, in: J. J. Cleary (ed.), Traditions of Platonism. Essays in Honour of John Dillon, Brookfield: 227 – 236. Smith, B. K. 2001. “Hinduism”, in: Neusner, J. (ed.), The Life of Virtue, Belmont: 85 – 105. Smith, F. M. 1998a. “Indian Conceptions of Heaven”, in: Craig. E. (ed.), Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Vol. 4, New York: 253 – 56. Smith, F. M. 1998b. “Notes on the Development of Bhakti”, in: Journal of Vaisnava Studies 6: 17 – 36. Smith, N. D. 1996. “Plato’s Divided Line”, in: Ancient Philosophy : 25 – 46. Smith, N. D. 1999. “Plato’s analogy of soul and state”, in: Journal of Ethics 3: 1 – 19. Solomon, R. C. 1976. The Passions. Emotions and the Meaning of Life, Indianapolis. Sorabji, R. 1980a. Necessity, Cause and Blame. Perspectives on Aristotle’s Theory, London. Sorabji, R. 1980b. “Aristotle on the Role of Intellect in Virtue”, in A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley, Los Angeles: 201 – 219. Stampe, D. 1977. “Towards a Causal Theory of Linguistic Representation”, in: Midwest Studies in Philosophy 2: 42 – 63. Steel, C. 2008. “Liberte´ divine ou liberte´ humaine? Proclus et Plotin sur ce qui de´pend de nous”, in: M. Broze / B. Decharneux / S. Delcomminette (eds.), “Mais raconte-moi en de´tail…” Me´langes de philosophie et de philologie offerts a` Lambros Couloubaritsis, Paris, Bruxelles: 525 – 542. Stemmer, P. 1992. Platons Dialektik. Die fru¨hen und mittleren Dialoge, Berlin, New York. Stokes, M. C. 1992. “Socrates’ Mission”, in: Gower, B. S. / Stokes, M. C. (eds.), Socratic Questions, London / New York: 26 – 81, 51 – 68. Stokes, M. C. 1997. Plato: Apology of Socrates, Warminster. Strauss Clay, J. 1983. The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in the Odyssey, Princeton.

Modern Works

497

Striker, G. 1996. “Following Nature”, in: Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics, Cambridge: 221 – 280. Striker, G. 1998. “From Nature to Happiness”, in: Apeiron XXXI 1: 59 – 73. Swanton, C. 2003. Virtue Ethics: A Pluralistic View, Oxford. Szaif, J. 1996. Platons Begriff der Wahrheit, Freiburg. Taber, J. A. 1998. “Indian Conceptions of Duty and Virtue”, in: Craig. E. (ed.): Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Vol. 3, New York: 183 – 87. Taylor, A. E. 1998. Socrates, Oxford / New York. Taylor, C. C. W. 1976. Plato. Protagoras. Translated with Notes, Oxford. Taylor, C. C. W. 1982. “The End of the Euthyphro”, in: Phronesis 27: 109-118. Taylor, C. C. W. 2007. Pleasure, Mind, and Soul: Selected Papers in Ancient Philosophy, Oxford. Telfer, E. 1989. “The Unity of Moral Virtues in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics”, in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 91: 35 – 48. Thalmann, W. G. 1992. The Odyssey : An Epic of Return, New York. Thibaut, G. 1971. The Veda¯nta-Su¯tras with the Commentary by Ra¯ma¯nuja, Delhi. Thiel, R. 1999. “Stoische Ethik und Neuplatonische Tugendlehre. Zur Verortung der Stoischen Ethik im Neuplatonischen System in Simplikios’ Kommentar zu Epiktets Enchiridion”, in: M. Erler / T. Fuhrer / K. Schlapbach, Zur Rezeption der hellenistischen Philosophie in der Spa¨tantike, Stuttgart: 93 – 103. Taylor, G. 2006. Deadly Vices, Oxford. Tieleman, T. 2003. Chrysippus’ On Affections, Leiden. Tieleman, T. 2007. “Panaetius’ place in the history of Stoicism. With Special Reference to his Moral Psychology”, in A. M. Ioppolo / D. N. Sedley (eds.), Pyrrhonists, Patricians and Platonizers. Hellenistic Philosophy in the Period 155 – 86 BC. Proceedings of the Tenth Symposium Hellenisticum, Napoli: 103 – 142. Tomasello, M. 2001. The Cultural Origins of Human Cognition, Cambridge, Mass. Tonietto, G. 2008. La liberta` in questione. Uno studio su e oltre Aristotele, Milano. Trouillard, J. 1955. La purification plotinienne, Paris. Tuozzo, T. 1991. “Aristotelian Deliberation is Not of Ends”, in: J. P. Anton / A. Preus (eds.), Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, Albany (SUNY). Tye, M. 1995. Ten Problems of Consciousness: A Representational Theory of the Phenomenal Mind, Cambridge, Mass. Tye, M. 1996. “The burning house”, in: Th. Metzinger (ed.), Conscious Experience, Paderborn: 81 – 90. Tye, M. 1999. “Das Problem primitiver Bewußtseinsformen: Haben Bienen Empfindungen?”, in: F. Esken / D. Heckmann (eds.), Bewußtsein und Repra¨sentation, Paderborn: 91 – 124. Urmson, J. O. 1988. Aristotle’s Ethics. Oxford. Vlastos, G. 1981 (1972/73). “The Argument in La. 197Eff.”, in: Platonic Studies: 266 – 269. Vlastos, G. 1981. “Starred Notes to Various Essays”, in: Platonic Studies: 443 – 445. Vlastos, G. 1983. “The Socratic Elenchus”, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy I: 27 – 58. Vlastos, G. 1991. Socrates, Ironist and Moral Philosopher, Cambridge. Vlastos, G. 1994. Socratic Studies, edited by M. Burnyeat, Cambridge.

498

General Bibliography

Vlastos, G. 1999. “The Socratic Elenchus” in: Fine, G. (ed.), Plato I. Metaphysics and Epistemology, Oxford: 36 – 63. Wallace, J. 1978. Virtues and Vices, Ithaca. Ward, J. 2008. Aristotle on Homonymy : Dialectic and Science. Cambridge. Watson, G. 1984. “Virtues in Excess”, in: Philosophical Studies 46: 57 – 74. Watson, J. B. 1919. Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist, Philadelphia. Weiss, R. 2001. Virtue in the Cave. Moral Inquiry in Plato’s Meno, Oxford. White, N. 2002. Individual and Conflict in Greek Ethics, Oxford. Wiggins, D. 1980. “Weakness of Will, Commensurability, and the Objects of Deliberation and Desire”, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Berkeley, Los Angeles. Wikforss, A. 2001. “Semantic Normativity”, in: Philosophical Studies 102: 203 – 226. Williams, B. 1995. “Internal reasons and the obscurity of blame”, in: Making Sense of Humanity, Cambridge: 35 – 45, and Williams, B. 1976a. “Persons, character and morality”, Reprint in: Moral Luck, Cambridge 1981: 1 – 19. Williams, B. 1976b. “Moral Luck”, Reprint in: Moral Luck, Cambridge 1981: 20 – 39. Williams, B. 1981. “Justice as a Virtue”, Reprint in: The Sense of the Past, Princeton 2006: 207 – 217. Williams, B. 1985. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, Cambridge. Wiliams, B. 1993. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, London. Williams, B. 1994. Shame and Necessity, Berkeley. Williams, B. 1995a. “Acting as a virtuous person acts”, in: R. Heinaman (ed.), Aristotle and moral realism, London: 13 – 23. Williams, B. 1995b. “Internal reasons and the obscurity of blame”, in: Making Sense of Humanity, Cambridge: 35 – 45. Williams, B. 2006. The Legacy of Greek Philosophy. The Sense of the Past. Essays in the History of Philosophy, Princeton. Wilson D. 2002. Ransom, Revenge, and Heroic Identity in the Iliad, Cambridge. Wolf, S. 2007. “Moral Psychology and the Unity of the Virtues”, in: Ratio, 20: 145 – 67. Wolf, U. 2002. Aristoteles’ ‘Nikomachische Ethik’, Darmstadt. Wood, R. E. 1991. “Plato’s Line Revisited: The Pedagogy of Complete Reflection”, in: Review of Metaphysics 44: 525 – 547. Woodruff, P. 1987. “Expert Knowledge in the Apology and Laches: What a General Needs to Know”, in: Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 3: 79 – 115. Wright, G. H. von 1963. Varieties of Goodness, London. Wright, G. H. von 1989. “Reply to Foot”, in: P. A. Schilpp / L. E. Hahn (eds.), The Philosophy of Georg Henrik von Wright, La Salle: 290 – 293. Yan H. 2003. “Morality and Virtue in Poetry and Philosophy : A Reading of Homer’s Iliad XXIV”, in: Humanitas 16, No.1: 24. Yonezawa, Sh. 2012. “Socratic Courage in Plato’s Socratic Dialogues”, in: British Journal for the History of Philosophy 20, 4: 645 – 665. Young, C. 2006. “The Socratic Elenchos”, in: Benson, H. (ed.), A Companion to Plato, Oxford: 55 – 69. Zanker G. 1998. “Beyond Reciprocity : The Akhilleus-Priam Scene in Iliad 24”, in: C. Gill / N. Postlethwaite / R. Seaford (eds.), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece, Oxford: 73 – 92.