A Companion To Ancient Philosophy PDF

a c o m pa n i o n t o a n c i e n t p h i l o s o p h y
S er ie s E dit or
John Russon
REREADING ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY

A COMPANION
TO ANCIENT
PHILOSOPHY
Edited and with an

introduction by
Sean D. Kirkland
and Eric Sanday
northwestern university press • e va n s t o n , i l l i n o i s

Northwestern University Press
www.nupress.northwestern.edu
Copyright © 2018 by Northwestern University Press.
Published 2018. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kirkland, Sean D., editor. | Sanday, Eric, editor.
Title: A companion to ancient philosophy / edited and with an
introduction by Sean D. Kirkland and Eric Sanday.
Other titles: Rereading ancient philosophy.
Description: Evanston, Illinois : Northwestern University Press,
2018. | Series: Rereading ancient philosophy
Identifiers: LCCN 2018024921 | ISBN 9780810137868 (pbk. :
alk. paper) | ISBN 9780810137875 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN
9780810137882 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Philosophy, Ancient.
Classification: LCC B171 .C67 2018 | DDC 180—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/201802492
contents
Introduction ix
Sean D. Kirkland and Eric Sanday
Time Line xx
Abbreviations xxiii
Early Greek Thinking: The Emergence of Philosophy
Physis in Pre-Socratic Thought: Seeking with Xenophanes 5

Robert Metcalf
Going with the Flow: Soul and Truth in Heraclitus 21

Drew A. Hyland
Justice, Change, and Knowledge: Aristotle, Parmenides,

and Melissus on Genesis and Natural Science 37
Rose Cherubin
“As He Says in His Poetical Way”: Anaximander and

Empedocles on the Motive Forces of Kosmos 53
Phil Hopkins
The Human as (W)hole: Aristophanes’s Contest with

Socrates in Clouds 67
Damian Stocking
Classical Greek Philosophy: Plato and Aristotle
Erōs and Eris: Love and Strife in Ancient Greek Thought

and Culture 83
John Russon
Plato and Aristotle: More Than a Question of
‘Separate Forms’ 97
Francisco J. Gonzalez
Measure, Excess, and the All: To Agathon in Plato 109

Claudia Baracchi
In the Wake of Socrates: Impossible Memory 123

Walter Brogan
The Origins of Political Life in Plato’s Republic and Laws 135

George Harvey
Being in Late Plato 147

Eric Sanday
Aristotle on Physis: Analyzing the Inner Ambiguities

and Transgression of Nature 161
Marjolein Oele
Human Logos in Aristotle 177

Ömer Aygün
Developing Emotions: Aristotle’s Rhetoric II.2–11 191

Greg Recco
Hontina tropon gignetai philos: Genesis versus Alteration

in the Forming of Friendships 203
John McCumber
The Political Context for Virtue: Aristotle’s Politics 215

Eve Rabinoff
Mimēsis: Plato and Aristotle on the Political Power

of Tragedy 229
Patricia Fagan
The Hellenistic Schools
Ataraxia: Tranquility at the End 245

Pascal Massie
A Well-Ordered World: The Developing Idea of Kosmos

in Later Greek Philosophy 263
Gina Zavota
Searching for the ‘Why’: Plotinus on Being and the

One beyond Being 275
Michael Wiitala
Contributors 287
Index 293
introduction
Sean D. Kirkland and Eric Sanday
The essays collected in this volume are intended to grant the reader a certain
entrée into ancient Greek and Roman philosophy, from the Pre-Socratics
(sixth and fifth centuries b.c.e.) through Plato (429–347 b.c.e.) and Aristo-
tle (384–322 b.c.e.) up to and including the Hellenistic period (322 b.c.e. to
third century c.e.).1 This broad coverage and this introductory function are
precisely what one expects from a ‘companion’ volume. However, the specific
approach taken here to the performance of this function departs in sig-
nificant and self-conscious ways from that of ostensibly similar collections.
Indeed, we editors see the volume’s unorthodox character as a radicalization
of the notion of companionship itself.
Companionship as Hermeneutic
From the very earliest stages of planning this collection, it seemed to us that
any ‘companion’ to ancient philosophy worthy of its name would have to,
in a sense, situate itself between its historically distant subject matter and
its audience, having as its organizing aim that of bringing together reader
and text. In this, its hermeneutic task seemed to us twofold. On the one
hand, and first and foremost, such a volume must accompany its readers back
toward the ancients, bringing the reader face to face with the concerns, con-
cepts, terminology, and arguments at work in these highly complex ancient
philosophical texts, as well as allowing the reader to appreciate the ways in
which each of these texts reflects its specific historical context. On the other
hand, this volume must in a sense accompany ancient works into the present,
insofar as it should allow the text, to the extent that the texts’ own form and
content permit, to speak meaningfully to us today, addressing and relating to
living philosophical questions and issues.
The task represented by such a double companionship entails, then,
that the authors of these essays maintain what we think of as a rigorous
openness, in two senses. First, in approaching the ancient texts our authors
read them closely and comprehensively. This task sounds easy enough, but
it requires remaining open and attentive especially to the unexpected and
ix
x sean d. kirkland and eric sanday
unfamiliar ways in which the ancients might address themselves to us.

Indeed, our authors seek to avoid anachronistic (even if widely accepted)
scholarly presuppositions as well as any premature projection of meaning,
allowing meaning instead to manifest itself as the individual elements of the
text, the discrete words, arguments, and passages, merge into a whole in the
very process of reading itself. This goal demands that one not begin with
a list of isms and long-established philosophical positions, then set out to
determine where on that list a given ancient thinker belongs. Instead, one
confronts the ancient text on its own terms, attending to the directives and
constraints it offers the interpreter, but also opening oneself up to its strange-
ness, its complexity as a whole, even at times its irresolvability. Second, our
authors attempt to allow just that interpretive experience to come to the fore
in their own essays. That is, they invest their own texts with a certain open-
ness vis-à-vis the volume’s reader, allowing the interpretive work to show
itself, explicitly confronting ambiguities, multiple meanings, variations, and
tensions inherent in the ancient works, thereby providing the reader with
the space to make up his or her own mind about the interpretive and deeper
philosophical questions at stake there.
This general ‘rigorously open’ attitude takes multiple forms throughout
these chapters, from a analysis of argument and terminology in one essay
that unveils tensions and even inconsistencies in the text to a phenomeno-
logical interpretive posture in another essay that attends to the ways in which
the ancients move from initial murky appearances to the clarity of a defined
essence, from one author’s method of situating an ancient work in light of
its complicating philosophical precursors and within its specific historical
context to another author’s thoughtful consideration of the way an ancient
work already resonates with and becomes retroactively illuminated by the
subsequent history of philosophy, up to and including some of today’s most
important thinkers. These methods and approaches, and many others, are
brought to bear on ancient works presented, always with an eye toward stay-
ing as true as possible to the texts and revealing them in their extraordinary
richness.
As a result of its commitment to this mode of companionship, this collec-
tion departs from other guides, primers, and introductions, primarily insofar
as the authors of the essays collected here make a habit of submerging them-
selves and their readers in cited passages and in the concrete and complex
dynamics of specific ancient philosophical texts, grappling with the actual
questions, arguments, vocabulary, and images. As will no doubt become clear,
this presents a stark contrast to the usually panoptic, summary, and detached
perspective of other primers. Indeed, this collection means to relate to other
introduction xi
introductory volumes in the way that a tour led by an experienced guide

through some wild and beautiful terrain relates to a printed map of that same
region.
Finally, this volume possesses one particular virtue that all similar vol-
umes lack, insofar as they are not ‘companions’ in our sense. In addition to
providing a fundamental and encompassing introduction to the content of
ancient philosophy, these essays also offer various models of how to read and
interpret ancient texts. Companionship becomes, thereby, a kind of appren-
ticeship, a training in the practice of close and open reading, encouraging and
ultimately enabling the readers of our volume to go on and engage directly
with ancient texts they had not yet read or to return to those texts with
which they were already familiar, seeing them anew, illuminated and reju-
venated by the probing and foundational treatments offered by our authors.
By focusing again and again on the most central and the most basic themes
in the works addressed here, and by pursuing those themes with our authors
through passages that are especially rich and complex in their implications,
we hope that the readers of this volume, novice and expert alike, will find
themselves freshly oriented in ancient Greek and Roman philosophy.
Companionship and ‘Continental’ Readings of the Ancients

Although the companionship we see being enacted by our contributors is
not to be identified exclusively with the ‘continental’ side of an ‘analytic-
continental’ divide, it is nonetheless true that the close readings offered
throughout this collection resonate deeply with much of the work done by
figures associated more with the continental than with the analytic tradi-
tion. To be sure, the attempt to draw a fixed and thoroughgoing distinction
between these two modes or schools or traditions of philosophizing has been
frequently criticized and exposed as problematic, such that the very distinc-
tion itself has been pronounced unhelpful or even obscuring. Nevertheless, it
appears to us that, whatever the value of such a distinction generally, there are
indeed two distinct scholarly families working on ancient Greek and Roman
philosophy, and within those families the members share in some striking
and fundamental resemblances. Surely readers of the ancients such as Hegel,
Nietzsche, Heidegger, Gadamer, Foucault, Derrida, Irigaray, and Butler can
be seen to be engaged in related and overlapping projects, even as all of them
seem to depart quite dramatically from the various approaches and methods
of contemporary analytic readers of ancient philosophy.
No features or tendencies can be ascribed to every continental-leaning
reader of the ancients, and indeed even among the authors collected here
xii sean d. kirkland and eric sanday
we will find a broad spectrum of interpretive presuppositions and methods.

Nonetheless, it might be helpful to set out what we see as two very common
elements that many continental readers, including many of our authors, do
seem to share, elements that at the very least seem to distinguish them from
most analytic scholars of ancient philosophy:
1. Whether employing a phenomenological, hermeneutic, structural-
ist, poststructuralist, psychoanalytic, Marxist, or some other methodology,
continental interpreters of the Greeks, generally speaking, are not exclusively
interested in arguments. Rather than extracting a given argument and for-
malizing it in order to better assess its validity (in purportedly universal and
ahistorical terms), a continental reader will usually wish to place the reason-
ing moments within the text as a whole, and thus in relation to that which
is other than reason: for example, poetry, drama, myth, rhetoric, history, or
everyday prephilosophical experience. A reader of Heraclitus will want to
take very seriously the philosophical significance of paradoxical and even
contradictory utterances, entertaining the possibility that this disruption of
conventional logic or reason might be intended by Heraclitus to reveal a fea-
ture of reality itself. A reader of Plato will insist we include in our assessment
of ‘Platonic philosophy’ a consideration of the dramatic or literary elements
in Plato’s work, even beginning from the significance of the simple fact that
Plato chose to communicate his philosophy in the mode of dialogues, thus
presenting not doctrines but the activity of philosophy itself situated always
in a specific setting and on a specific occasion, and undertaken always by
characters with specific perspectives. Again and again, continental read-
ers will want to include in their interpretations a consideration of what is
excluded or dismissed by the more strictly argument-focused approach. In
sum, continentals generally seem to recognize the boundary between rea-
soning and all of these ‘others of reason’ as more fluid, less absolute, and this
recognition requires of them a kind of attentiveness to other elements of the
text and a flexibility of interpretation.
2. Whereas scholars associated more with an analytic approach, as well
as those working in a more traditional ‘history of ideas’ mode, tend to see
the history of ancient philosophy as an object to be studied in as scientific a
mode as possible, continentals will often view as philosophically suspect any
such unquestioning faith in the truth-securing capacity of ‘science’ and as
hermeneutically naive any such belief in the virtue (or even possibility) of an
interpreter’s stepping outside his or her own culturally and historically situ-
ated perspective. Scholars working in this vein, then, tend to engage not in a
straightforward historiographical study of the past, but rather in something
like what Foucault calls a “history of the present.”2 That is, they approach
introduction xiii
the past as what is always already informing and participating in our present
historical moment. For this project, the past is not something to which we
must secure access by the deployment of scientific method; instead it is our
past, a phenomenal or an appearing historical past that is presenting itself to
us, even if that initial prephilosophical or prereflective appearance requires
interpretation and clarification. With respect to a past thus understood, not
the objective past but the phenomenal past, the interpreter’s task cannot be
to erase him or herself from the interpretive equation. Rather, in the herme-
neutic and genealogical modes formulated most powerfully in the work of
Schleiermacher, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Gadamer, and Foucault, the task of
the interpreter would be to clarify to the extent possible what these ancient
texts are saying to us.
And the hermeneutic or genealogical relation in which we find ourselves
vis-à-vis ancient Greek and Roman philosophy proves to be especially com-
plex. For, at least to the editors of this volume, it seems that any inheritor of
Western culture, indeed anyone at all who feels the influence today of the
European tradition, can and perhaps even should view the philosophy of the
ancient Greeks and Romans as something more than a mere historical curi-
osity. The Pre-Socratics, Plato, Aristotle, and the Hellenistic thinkers present
themselves not simply as one group of sophisticated minds existing on a long
list of others, from other regions of the world and other historical periods,
all of whom on examination may or may not prove to pique our interest.
Instead, we would suggest that the reading and reanimating of these think-
ers presents itself today as a task of peculiar urgency and importance, not
because they accessed some universal and timeless truths about our world
and our human condition, but simply because, from the sixth century b.c.e.
to the third century c.e. in the northern and central to eastern Mediter-
ranean, many of our own most fundamental concepts and values first came
on the scene and received some of their most decisive formulations. Indeed,
these concepts and values, as well as the arguments, images, and associa-
tions through which they were articulated, came to delimit and direct the
subsequent historical development of Western thought, a development that
leads from those ancients all the way down to us. We therefore find ourselves
bound to them in a fundamental way.
This task is of course complicated by more or less inscrutable dynamics
of historical transmission and translation, according to which the content of
these ancient philosophies has been refined, revised, and radically reformu-
lated over the centuries. And it is also true that, existing as it does in a more
and more thoroughly globalized planetary context, the tradition arising from
these ancient Greeks and Romans represents only one among many rich
xiv sean d. kirkland and eric sanday
cultural historical strands that weave together to constitute our own contem-
porary worldviews. Nonetheless, these thinkers’ original insights into such
fundamental philosophical themes as being, nature, reason, language, truth,
ethics, and human community remain vital and profoundly influential in our
experience of our world and of ourselves today. Indeed, William Faulkner’s
words seem especially true of Greek and Roman thought: “The past is never
dead. It’s not even past.”
Pushing even further, we might read these thinkers not simply in an
attempt to better understand and more fully immerse ourselves in our own
historically determined present moment, but even in the hopes of beginning
to think beyond its current limits. This suggestion may be paradoxical, but it
will seem less so if we notice that any origin or source, any historical begin-
ning at all, always seems to hold more within it than what is recuperated and
transmitted in the tradition that follows from it. There are always tensions,
associations, and accidental influences at work as contributing elements of
any beginning, all of which tend to be eliminated or lost as an emergent idea
or value is streamlined and transferred to other historical and cultural con-
texts. Furthermore, the long-celebrated thinkers of the ancient world seem
to us to have been incomparably sensitive to the subtle dynamics of such ini-
tiating moments, confronting their world and generating the very structures
of intelligibility according to which something philosophically graspable
appears for the first time. Their textual records document the nexus of forces
at work in that original and originating experience—what Nietzsche refers
to as an Entstehungsherd, or ‘threshold of emergence.’3 Thus, precisely at
this moment in history, when our own concepts have become constraining,
when our hierarchical valuations, our binary oppositions, and even our most
fundamental rational principles and rules of inference, are meeting with fun-
damental critiques and calls for emendation, it may well be the case that we
find within the tensions and conflicts of their own historical origins precisely
the resources that are necessary to think beyond the territory mapped by
our inherited ideas, logic, and values.4 On this model, interpretive treatments
of Greek and Roman texts may aspire to be “untimely” in the Nietzschean
sense, and thereby “work counter to our time and thereby on our time and
hopefully for the benefit of a time to come.”5
In sum, our volume has two primary aims and two secondary aims. First,
as indicated above, the essays collected here are directed at introducing their
readers to the central questions, concepts, and arguments of ancient Greek
and Roman philosophy, even as they seek to model for those readers how
to approach these difficult texts by reading closely and responsibly. Second,
insofar as these ancient works constitute what Gadamer would call our
introduction xv
Überlieferung, that is, insofar as they are ‘traditionary texts’ that our readers
might receive as housing and conveying a tradition those readers understand
to be importantly their own,6 we the editors also imagine this collection
might aid readers in immersing themselves more thoughtfully in their his-
torically determined present. And they will do so, perhaps, even as they go
on to engage in some untimely reading of their own, extending or expanding
their thinking through a confrontation with its complex Greek and Roman
origins and thereby pushing beyond the limits of their present, beginning to
philosophize in ways that are as yet unanticipatable.
All of this requires that our readers receive the claims, observations, and
interpretations presented here actively. That is to say, our authors are to be
understood not as making authoritative pronouncements to be merely under-
stood, accepted, and internalized. Rather, they should be seen as extending
invitations to the reader to think along with them in confronting ancient
texts, and even as providing means of access to begin thinking along with
the ancients themselves as they confront the phenomena in which the world
presents itself. We might well learn from the ancients (and from the authors
here reading them, mirroring them) that irrefutability and mastery are not
always the proper aims of philosophical thinking. Rather, the sources of
meaning in our world, the roots or grounds from which meaning and value
arise in our experience, may well be most truthfully grasped not when torn
out of their concealment and subjected to the demands of exhaustive intel-
ligibility, but perhaps when that concealment, that abiding uncertainty and
questionworthiness, is respected and even nurtured.
The Ancient Textual Remains

As should be clear by now, the essays here assembled are fulfilled only when
readers, having been empowered and enriched by them, set this book aside
and take up the writings of the ancients directly. The reader will do so, ideally,
not in the belief that the apprenticeship is over, but rather having recognized
the virtues of a kind of perpetual mode of apprenticeship and companion-
ship. That is, the reader will have come to respect the abiding vitality and
pertinence of the ancient philosophical text and will continue to take it up in
the spirit of openness and shared inquiry that this volume hopes to inculcate
in its audience. Given this, we might in closing remark on the condition of
the ancient philosophical textual remains that our readers will hopefully be
called by these essays to confront directly and wrestle with on their own.
As we move through the ancient period from the Pre-Socratics to Plato
and then from Aristotle to the Hellenistic thinkers, we have at each stage a
xvi sean d. kirkland and eric sanday
very different set of textual challenges. What remains of the writings of the
Pre-Socratics is fragmentary and exceedingly sparse, more or less so depend-
ing on the thinker in question. From some of these early thinkers we have
extended passages, while from others we seem to have only a line or a few
lines of their own writing, and from still others we may well have no direct
quotations at all, but only summary remarks by later adherents, chroniclers,
and historians.7 By contrast, we can with relative certainty claim to have
the entire corpus platonicum; every single one of the dialogues of Plato (and
except for a lecture or two he seems only to have made his thought public in
dialogue form) and perhaps even a few of his letters have been handed down
to us, even if not all of the fifty-some texts attributed to him are authentic
and even if it is a matter of some scholarly dispute which of these remains are
Plato’s own and which are not. In any case, with Plato we are quite certain
that no texts are lacking. When we move to Aristotle, we have yet another
situation: we have fragments of dialogues that he published, and some of
these are of decent length; and then we have what seem to be lecture notes
for courses given at his school, the Lyceum, which were sometimes revised
and edited along the way (presumably by Aristotle) and which were subse-
quently assembled by a editor into the collections with which we are now
familiar: the Metaphysics, Physics, Nicomachean Ethics, Politics, and so on.
Finally, with respect to many of the Hellenistic thinkers here discussed, we
have once again mostly fragmentary textual evidence, a few letters, and many
secondhand accounts, but the fragmentary texts we have are quite copious, in
contrast to those of the Pre-Socratics. Plotinus represents yet another situa-
tion, insofar as we seem to have everything he wrote, which ended up being a
series of loosely connected problem-specific essays that he only began com-
posing quite late in life.
Given the challenging condition of many of the ancient texts, we encourage
readers of this volume to consider and question again and again for them-
selves the inevitably mediated relation we have to ancient thought today. This
is surely obvious and undeniable if one is reading a translation, and when this
is the case the reader must learn about the varying quality and approaches
of the different translators, looking especially for those who include with
their work a thoughtful and sophisticated statement of the translator’s theory
and practice of translation.8 But even when one is dealing with texts in their
original language, one’s relation to the object of interpretation is still subject
to mediating distance. Indeed, even in the most scholarly and most respon-
sible editions of the Greek or Latin texts, it is important to realize that one
always confronts an object constituted by an editor after a certain amount
of interpretative labor. A great many decisions and judgments have already
introduction xvii
been made in the processes of transmission and transformation according to

which an original written document, one generally lacking luxuries such as
word separation, diacritical marks, or punctuation, becomes the authoritative
(and apparently indisputable) version one finds on the page of the mod-
ern scholarly edition. Philologists generally bring to these decisions a deep
understanding of the ancient language in question, its vocabulary, grammar,
morphology, and development, as well as a vast familiarity with the exist-
ing contemporary literature in that language and with the relevant cultural
history. Nonetheless, these are decisions, and real decision-making always
occurs in the face of what is less than certain. The process of deliberation is
preserved and indicated in the apparatus criticus, that record of the scholarly
conversation involving generations of classicists that is situated below the
thin line at the bottom of the page in most scholarly editions of Greek and
Latin texts. Here one finds reported evidence of divergences in manuscript
traditions and past scholarly opinions, and we encourage our readers eventu-
ally to make use of this resource.
In the end, our hope is that, after perusing this volume and then con-
fronting the texts themselves, our readers will be well-practiced not in the
elimination of questioning, wonder, and the work of interpretation, but
rather, quite to the contrary, in the sustaining of just these activities as the
responses proper to what we find most of all present in the ancient philo-
sophical text—a seemingly infinite power to resist any final and totalizing
interpretation and, precisely thereby, to remain abidingly relevant.
Notes
1. It is not uncommon in the periodization of ancient philosophy to locate the closing
of the Hellenistic period with the emergence of the Roman Empire at the Battle of Ac-
tium in 31 b.c.e. We have chosen to extend the period covered by our volume to include
Stoic thinkers such as Epictetus (first to second century c.e.) and Marcus Aurelius (121–
180 c.e.) and even the pagan Neo-Platonist, Plotinus (204/205–270 c.e.). We have done
so because it seems to us that these later Hellenistic thinkers are working very much in the
vein of their Classical precursors, while the more decisive break occurs after them with the
emergence of the age of medieval theology.
2. Michel Foucault, Surveiller et punir: Naissance de la prison (Paris: Gallimard, 1975),
31.
3. See for example Nietzsche’s genealogical critique of the value of selflessness or self-
denial in Friedrich Nietzsche, Zur Genealogie der Moral, in Kritische Studiean Ausgabe, Bd.
V, ed. G. Colli and M. Montinari (1967–1977; reprint, Berlin: Deutsche Taschenbuch
Verlag/Walter de Gruyter, 1988), I.2.
4. Although continentals often deploy methods that depart from his more traditional
approach to the history of ideas, W. K. C. Guthrie begins his magisterial multivolume
study A History of Greek Philosophy by remarking on precisely those two aspects of Greek
philosophy that we have emphasized here: (1) the dramatic emergence with the Greeks
xviii sean d. kirkland and eric sanday
of fundamental concepts from conditions that precede and exceed those concepts, and (2)
the abiding pertinence today of those emergent ancient concepts. Guthrie opens his gen-
eral introduction thus: “To write a history of Greek philosophy is to describe the forma-
tive period of our own thought, the making of the framework which supported it until at
least the latter part of the nineteenth century . . . It is this fundamental and dateless char-
acter of much Greek thought which makes it worth while to attempt a fresh presentation
of it for the contemporary reader. There is another side to the coin. With the Greeks we
stand at the beginning of rational thought in Europe. It follows that we shall not only be
concerned with the reasoned explanation or scientific observation, but shall be watching
the emergence of these activities from the mists of a pre-scientific age.” W. K. C. Guthrie,
A History of Ancient Greek Philosophy, vol. 1: The Earlier Presocratics and the Pythagoreans
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), 1.
5. Friedrich Nietzsche, “Vom Nutzen und Nachtheil der Historie,” in Unzeitgemäße Be-
trachtungen: Kritische Studiean Ausgabe, Bd. I, ed. G. Colli and M. Montinari (1967–1977;
reprint, Berlin: Deutsche Taschenbuch Verlag/Walter de Gruyter, 1988), foreword, 247.
6. The term ‘traditionary text’ is often used to translate the term Überlieferung, when it
appears in the work of H.-G. Gadamer. A ‘traditionary text’ is not simply a work that is
judged to be part of this or that tradition. Rather, it is a text that presents itself to us, i.e.
that we receive and experience, as bearing our own tradition. Tradition is an Überlieferung
or literally a ‘delivering over,’ an active passing on and receiving of a meaningful cultural
past.
7. The standard way of referring to the fragments of the Pre-Socratics is by their DK
number, a reference to the authoritative collection of actual fragments, summaries, and
testimonia by H. Diels and W. Kranz. These numbers convey a good deal of information
when cited in full. For example, with DK 22B1, the first number indicates the thinker in
question according to the order of presentation by Diels and Kranz (“22” refers to Hera-
clitus), the letter refers to the type of fragment (“B” refers to ipsissima verba or passages
taken to be actual citations, while “A” refers to testimonia or biographical and summary
accounts and “C” refers to later imitations that take the author as their model), and the last
number refers to the fragment in question, again in the editors’ order of presentation (“1”
is the first fragment they list, and it is also likely the opening of Heraclitus’s book). See
Hermann Diels and Walther Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 3 vols., 6th rev. ed.
(Berlin: Weidman, 1952).
8. See for instance the translations by Eva Brann, Peter Kalkavage, and Joe Sachs.
B.C.E. 800 750 700 650 600 550
Homer Hesiod Thales
Xenophanes
Anaximander
Anaximenes
Pythagoras
Greek Dark Ages c. 1100–850
B.C.E. 250 200 150 100 50 0
Cleanthes Carneades Cicero Antiochus Seneca

Archimedes Lucretius
Chrysippus Philo
Arcesilaus
Dissolution
of Roman
Republic 27
C.E. 350 400 450 500 550
Augustine Boethius
Closure of the Academy

in Athens 529
500 450 400 350 300
Parmenides Socrates Aristotle Euclid
Zeno of Elea Democritus Diogenes of Sinope

Heraclitus Antisthenes Plato Theophrastus
Empedocles Archytas Pyrrho
Anaxagoras Epicurus
Zeno of Citium
Ionian Revolt 499–493 Peloponnesian War 431–404
Persian War 499–478 Alexander 356–323
Macedonian Occupation
340–323
C.E. 50 100 150 200 250 300
Epictetus Sextus Empiricus Plotinus

Marcus Aurelius Diogenes Laertius
Iamblichus
Edict of
Milan 313
a b b r e v i at i o n s
Aeschylus
Choe. Choephori (Libation Bearers)
Prom. Prometheus Bound
Suppl. Suppliants
Aetius
Plac. Placita
Andronicus
Pass. On Passions
Aristotle
An. post. Posterior Analytics
An. pr. Prior Analytics
Cat. Categories
De an. On the Soul (De anima)
De cael. On the Heavens (De caelo)
De int. On Interpretation (De interpretatione)
EE Eudemian Ethics
EN Nicomachean Ethics
GA Generation of Animals
GC On Coming-to-Be and Passing Away
HA History of Animals
MA Movement of Animals
Met. Metaphysics
Meteor. Meteorology
PA Parts of Animals
Phys. Physics
Poet. Poetics
Pol. Politics
Resp. On Respiration
Rhet. Rhetoric
Sens. Sense and Sensibilia (On Sense and Sensibles)
S&W On Sleep and Waking
xxiii
xxiv abbreviations
Soph. Ref. Sophistic Refutations

Spir. On Breath
Top. Topics
Aristotle (Spurious)
De aud. De audibilibus (On Things Heard)
Prob. Problemata (Problems)
Aristophanes
Brd. Birds
Cl. Clouds
Fr. Frogs
Num. Numes
Aulus Gellius
AN Attic Nights
Marcus Aurelius
Med. Meditations
Chalcides
Ch.Tim. On the Timaeus
Cicero
Acad. On the Academy (Academica)
CLaws On the Laws
Dut. On Duties
Fin. On the Ends of Good and Evil (De finibus bonorum et
malorum)
Luc. Lucullus
ND On the Nature of the Gods (De natura deorum)
Tusc. Tusculan Disputations
Clement
Misc. Miscellanies
Epictetus
Disc. Discourses
Ench. Enchieridion
abbreviations xxv
Epicurus
Ep. Id. Letter to Idomeneus
Ep. Men. Letter to Menoeceus
Euclid
El. Elements
Euripides
Alc. Alcestis
Androm. Andromache
Bacch. Bacchae
Hel. Helen
Her. Heracles
Med. Medea
Phoen. Phoenician Women
Thy. Thyestes
Galen
DPH Doctrines of Plato and Hippocrates
Herodotus
Hist. Histories
Hesiod
Op. Works and Days
Theog. Theogony
Hippolytus
Haer. Refutatio omnium haeresium
Homer
Il. Iliad
Od. Odyssey
Homeric Hymns
Apoll. To Apollo
Herm. To Hermes
Hyppolytus
Ref. Refutatio
xxvi abbreviations
Diogenes Laertius
Lives Lives of Eminent Philosophers
Origin
Princ. On Principles
Philo of Alexandria
Alleg. Allegories of the Laws
Plato
Ap. Apology of Socrates
Chrm. Charmides
Cra. Cratylus
Cri. Crito
Ep.VII Epistle VII
Euthd. Euthydemus
Euthphr. Euthyphro
Grg. Gorgias
Hp. Ma. Hippias Major
Hp. Mi. Hippias Minor
Ion Ion
La. Laches
Lg. Laws (Leges)
Ly. Lysis
Men. Meno
Mx. Menexenus
Phd. Phaedo
Phdr. Phaedrus
Phlb. Philebus
Plt. Statesman (Politicus)
Prm. Parmenides
Prt. Protagoras
R. Republic
Smp. Symposium
Sph. Sophist
Tht. Theaetetus
Ti. Timaeus
Plato (Disputed or Spurious Works)

Alc. I Alcibiades I
abbreviations xxvii
Ax. Axiochus
Cleit. Cleitophon
Hipparch. Hipparchus
Pindar
Isth. Isthmian Odes
Ol. Olympian Odes
Pythian Pythian Odes
Pliny the Elder

Nat. Hist. The Natural History
Plotinus
Enn. Ennead
Plutarch
Adv. col. Adversus Colotem
Pleas. Life That Epicurus Actually Makes a Pleasant Life Impossible
SSR Stoic Self-Refutations
Porphyry
Ep. Marc. Letter to His Wife, Marcella
Seneca
Ep. Epistles (Epistulae)
Ira On Anger (De ira)
Tranq. Of Peace of Mind (De tranquillitate animil)
Sextus Empiricus
Adv. math. Adversus Mathematicos
Outlines Outlines of Pyrrhonism
Simplicius
in Phys. in Aristotelis de Physica Commentarii
Sophocles
Ant. Antigone
OC Oedipus at Colonus
OT Oedipus the King
xxviii abbreviations
Stobaeus
Sel. Selections
Thucydides
PW Peloponnesian War
Virgil
Georg. Georgics
Xenophon
HG Historia Graeca (Hellenica)
Mem. Memorabilia
XAp. Apology of Socrates
X.Smp. Symposium
a c o m pa n i o n t o a n c i e n t p h i l o s o p h y
Early Greek Thinking:
The Emergence of Philosophy
Physis in Pre-Socratic Thought:
Seeking with Xenophanes
Robert Metcalf
That Pre-Socratic philosophy was principally a matter of investigating physis

is something widely agreed on by ancient authors, even while they disagree
as to whether Socrates himself had engaged in such investigation. Most
provocative among these ancient accounts is the absurd caricature of Pre-
Socratic thinking in Aristophanes’s Clouds, where Socrates is presented as
investigating what might be called ‘natural causes’ for phenomena tradition-
ally attributed to the will of the gods, and as rejecting the traditional gods in
favor of novel, quasi-materialistic deities.1 In Plato’s Apology, Socrates recalls
this comedic portrait of him as a philosopher and emphatically denies hav-
ing ever “investigated into things below the earth and in the heavens [ζητῶν
τά τε ὑπὸ γῆς καὶ οὐράνια]” (Ap. 19b5). Xenophon, too, echoes this denial
in his Memorabilia, and in doing so underscores a widely held view of Pre-
Socratic philosophy: “No one ever saw Socrates doing anything impious or
irreverent, nor did anyone ever hear him utter such things. For he did not
discuss the nature of all things [περὶ τῆς τῶν πάντων φύσεως]—that which
was the focus of investigation for most of the others, what the Sophists call
the kosmos, and by what determinants each part of the heavens comes to be”
(Mem. I.1.11).2 In light of these denials about Socrates in the Apology and in
the Memorabilia, it is striking that in Plato’s Phaedo Socrates claims that, in
his youth, he was “wondrously desirous of this wisdom which they call the
study of nature [νέος ὢν θαυμαστῶς ὡς ἐπεθύμησα ταύτης τῆς σοφίας ἣν δὴ
καλοῦσι περὶ φύσεως ἱστορίαν] . . . to know the causes of each thing [εἰδέναι
τὰς αἰτίας ἑκάστου], why each thing comes to be and why it perishes and
why it is” (Phd. 96a7–9). Indeed, he says that he “was always unsettling him-
self by examining such things [καὶ πολλάκις ἐμαυτὸν ἄνω κάτω μετέβαλλον
σκοπῶν πρῶτον τὰ τοιάδε]” until finally he made up his mind that he was
“naturally unfit for this examination [πρὸς ταύτην τὴν σκέψιν ἀφυὴς εἶναι]”
(Phd. 96b1–c2).3
5
6 robert metcalf
The great irony of this passage (and irony is, of course, a core feature of
Plato’s writings) lies in the reversals suffered by Socrates: whereas he had
set out to acquire wisdom about physis as a whole, he ends up concluding
something about his own physis—namely, that he is, by nature, not cut out
for such wisdom. Although this passage alters our view of Socrates’s possible
involvement with philosophizing about physis, it does agree very generally
with Plato’s Apology and Xenophon’s Memorabilia, and even with Aristo-
phanes’s Clouds, on one specific point: namely, that each text presents the
type of philosophy before or concurrent with Socrates as being altogether
audacious in its aspiration to know the nature of all things, of those things
below the earth and in the heavens.4 However fitting it may or may not be
to describe Pre-Socratic philosophy as a whole according to the characteris-
tics noted above—investigating things below the earth and in the heavens,
studying the physis of all things in order to know the causes of coming to be
and passing away, jettisoning traditional religious beliefs as they pertain to
physis, and so on—these characteristics do apply fairly well to the spirit and
letter of Xenophanes’s writings. Xenophanes addresses, as explicitly as any
Pre-Socratic thinker, “those things below the earth and in the heavens” (most
clearly in B28 and A41a); he addresses the source, or archē, of all coming-to-
be/passing-away (most famously in fragments B27, B29, and B33); and in
one text he dismisses the traditional belief that identifies the rainbow with
the goddess Iris:
And she whom they call Iris, this too is by nature a cloud, / purple
and red and greenish-yellow to behold [ἥν τ’ Ἶριν καλέουσι,
νέφος καὶ τοῦτο πέφυκε / πορφύρεον καὶ φοινίκεον καὶ χλωρὸν
ἰδέσθαι]. (B32)5
Thus, we should ask ourselves how, in particular, Xenophanes approached

physis in such a way as to address the central concerns of Pre-Socratic phi-
losophy as a whole while, at the same time, marking the limits of human
knowledge in a way that anticipates the Socrates portrayed in Plato’s
dialogues. Let us begin by attending to the details of Xenophanes’s fragmen-
tary texts.
One text that gives us a good initial sense of the range of Xenophanes’s
thinking about physis is the following testimonium:
Xenophanes thinks that a mixture of the earth with the sea comes
about [μῖξιν τῆς γῆς πρὸς τὴν θάλασσαν γίνεσθαι], but that in time
[the earth] becomes freed from the moisture [καὶ τῷ χρόνῳ ὑπὸ
ph y s i s in pre-s ocratic thought 7
τοῦ ὑγροῦ λύεσθαι], and he asserts that there are proofs for these
ideas [τοιαύτας ἔχειν ἀποδείξεις]: that shells are found inland and
in mountains, and he says that in quarries in Syracuse imprints
of fish and seals were found; and in Paros the imprint of coral in
the deep of the marble and on Malta slabs of rock containing all
sorts of sea creatures. He says that these things came about when
long ago everything was covered with mud, and then the imprint
dried in the clay. And he says that all men will perish when the
earth is brought down into the sea and becomes mud, at which
time generation begins again and this foundation (or: transforma-
tion) happens for all orders-of-the-world [ἀναιρεῖσθαι δὲ τοὺς
ἀνθρώπους πάντας, ὅταν ἡ γῆ κατενεχθεῖσα εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν
πηλὸς γένηται· εἶτα πάλιν ἄρχεσθαι τῆς γενέσεως, καὶ ταύτην πᾶσι
τοῖς κόσμοις γίνεσθαι καταβολήν (or: μεταβολήν)]. (A33)
In this passage, Xenophanes offers “demonstrations” (apodeixeis) that long

ago the order-of-the-world (kosmos) was very different from its present order.
To explain this difference, Xenophanes speculates that there is a mixing of
earth and sea at work over time, resulting in the cataclysm whereby the earth
is brought down into the sea entirely and turns to mud, thus killing off all
the human beings as well as, presumably, many other animal and plant spe-
cies. Most interesting for our purposes is the final sentence of this passage,
where Xenophanes addresses most directly the relation between ‘beginning’
(archē), ‘coming-to-be’ (genesis), and ‘order-of-the-world’ (kosmos). Given his
use of the plural kosmoi, it is clear that Xenophanes understands kosmos as
something temporal: it lasts from one cataclysmic foundation or transfor-
mation to the next, and genesis—the coming-to-be of humans and other
life-forms—begins again once the earth reemerges from the sea and can
again sustain life.
This cataclysmic cosmogeny can be read in conjunction with Xenophanes’s
famous lines about earth and water:
For all things are from the earth and to the earth all things come in
the end [ἐκ γαίης γὰρ πάντα, καὶ εἰς γῆν πάντα τελευτᾷ]. (B27)6
All things which come into being and grow are earth and water [γῆ
καὶ ὕδωρ πάντ’ ἔσθ’ ὅσα γίνοντ’ ἠδὲ φύονται]. (B29)
For we all come into being from earth and water [πάντες γὰρ γαίης
τε καὶ ὕδατος ἐκγενόμεσθα]. (B33)
8 robert metcalf
Given the influence of Aristotle’s interpretation of the ‘earliest philosophers,’ it

is difficult not to read these fragments as identifying what Aristotle called the
archē: namely, that material source “out of which all things are, and from which
they first come to be, and into which they perish in the end [ἐξ οὗ γὰρ ἔστιν
ἅπαντα τὰ ὄντα καὶ ἐξ οὗ γίγνεται πρώτου καὶ εἰς ὃ φθείρεται τελευταῖον] . . .
This they say is the element and source of things [τοῦτο στοιχεῖον καὶ ταύτην
ἀρχήν φασιν εἶναι τῶν ὄντων]” (Met. I.983b8– 11). On such a reading,
whereas Thales identified the archē with water, and Anaximenes identified it
with air, Xenophanes proposes earth—or, alternatively, earth/water—as the
archē.7 While it is possible that Xenophanes understands earth or earth/water
as an archē in this Aristotelian sense, and such a reading is compatible with
the cataclysmic cosmogeny of A33, we must keep certain points in mind. One
is the curious fact that Aristotle does not credit Xenophanes with the view
that earth or earth/water is the archē, and, furthermore what Aristotle says
about Empedocles’s innovation in adding earth to the plural archai (along
with water, air, and fire) strongly suggests that Aristotle did not understand
Xenophanes to be offering a theory of some material archē.8 More impor-
tantly, even if Xenophanes does propose earth or earth/water as an alternative
to Thales’s water and Anaximenes’s air, we should notice that the Aristotelian
interpretation of these concepts requires that we understand them in the very
limited capacity of material cause, distinct from and excluding other kinds of
‘cause.’ This is a complicated issue requiring further elaboration.
To be sure, Aristotle’s influential but limiting interpretation of the Pre-
Socratics occurs from the perspective of his own developed theory of the
four causes as part of the study of physis, and carries with it a definite agenda.
In Metaphysics Book I Aristotle surveys those contributions of the Pre-
Socratics that strike him as relevant to his own philosophical achievement
for the express purpose of confirming his own theory or identifying some-
thing in their thought that might contribute to it.9 But this agenda-driven
approach to interpreting the Pre-Socratics comes with the risk of reading
the basic concepts of the earliest philosophers (water, air, earth, and so on)
as signifying nothing more than what Aristotle means by ‘matter [ὕλη]’ or
‘substrate [ὑποκείμενον],’ rather than what the Pre-Socratic thinkers mean
by these basic concepts. Indeed, in discussing the way in which “the thing
itself at issue opened the way for [the earliest Greek thinkers] and contrib-
uted in forcing them to inquire [αὐτὸ τὸ πρᾶγμα ὡδοποίησεν αὐτοῖς καὶ
συνηνάγκασε ζητεῖν]” (Met. I.984a17), Aristotle writes:
However true it may be that all generation and destruction proceed

from some one principle, or even more than one, why does this
happen and what is the cause? For, indeed, the substrate itself does
not cause itself to change [οὐ γὰρ δὴ τό γε ὑποκείμενον αὐτὸ ποιεῖ
μεταβάλλειν ἑαυτό]. What I mean, for example, is this: neither the
wood nor the bronze causes itself to change; the wood does not
make a bed, nor the bronze a statue, but some other thing is the
cause of the change [ἀλλ’ ἕτερόν τι τῆς μεταβολῆς αἴτιον]. Now
to seek this is to seek another source, namely, as we might say, the
source of change/motion [τὸ δὲ τοῦτο ζητεῖν ἐστὶ τὸ τὴν ἑτέραν
ἀρχὴν ζητεῖν, ὡς ἂν ἡμεῖς φαίημεν, ὅθεν ἡ ἀρχὴ τῆς κινήσεως].
(Met. I.984a17–27)
What is especially telling in this passage are the examples that Aristotle
uses for the material substrate: the wood to be used in building the bed, the
bronze to be used in sculpting the statue. In both cases, we have an inert
material that does not issue from itself the requisite change in becoming a
bed or statue. What is required in these specific cases is some other cause or
source of change to bring the material substrate into its intended form. By
interpreting the sixth-century philosophers in this particular way, Aristotle is
able to criticize them by contrast with the fifth-century ‘pluralists,’ Anaxago-
ras and Empedocles. He writes:
Following these thinkers and their archai [τὰς τοιαύτας ἀρχάς],

since such archai were not sufficient to generate the nature of
what is [ὡς οὐχ ἱκανῶν οὐσῶν γεννῆσαι τὴν τῶν ὄντων φύσιν],
later thinkers, forced once more by truth itself as we said, sought
the next principle [πάλιν ὑπ᾽ αὐτῆς τῆς ἀληθείας, ὥσπερ εἴπομεν,
ἀναγκαζόμενοι τὴν ἐχομένην ἐζήτησαν ἀρχήν]. When someone
said that intelligence exists in nature [νοῦν . . . ἐνεῖναι], as in ani-
mals, and that it is the cause of the arrangement and of every kind
of order in nature [ἐν τῇ φύσει τὸν αἴτιον τοῦ κόσμου καὶ τῆς
τάξεως], he appeared like a sober man in contrast to his predeces-
sors who talked erratically. (Met. I.984b8–18)
However, the critical interpretive question for us is whether Xenophanes or

the other sixth-century thinkers mean ‘water,’ ‘earth,’ ‘air,’ and so on to sig-
nify inert material substrates like the wood or bronze in Aristotle’s examples.
It is far from evident that when Xenophanes writes, “For we all come into
being from earth and water” and “All things which come into being and grow
are earth and water,” he means earth and water as inert material substrates
requiring some other source of change. Unless Xenophanes does mean earth
10 robert metcalf
and water in the narrow sense of Aristotle’s material substrate, the argu-
ment Aristotle presents as to the insufficiency of material cause is a rather
misleading vantage point from which to assess Pre-Socratic thinking about
physis.
Here we might reflect on the fact that there are meanings for the Pre-
Socratics’ basic concepts, like ‘earth and water,’ beyond the Aristotelian sense
of inert material substrates. For example, ‘earth and water’ is used in Homer
to refer to the elements (in the nontechnical sense) from which we mortals
come to be and into which, ultimately, we will waste away, without conveying
the Aristotelian sense of archē. For example, in Book VII of Homer’s Iliad,
after Hektor challenges any one of the Achaeans to come forward and fight
him man-to-man, Menelaus observes that his fellow warriors are hesitant to
face Hektor and he says to them:
May you one and all turn to earth and water [ἀλλ’ ὑμεῖς μὲν πάντες
ὕδωρ καὶ γαῖα γένοισθε], / You who sit there each man with
no heart in him, utterly inglorious [ἕκαστοι ἀκήριοι ἀκλεὲς]. /
Against this man will I myself arm; but from on high are the issues
of victory held by the immortal gods [νίκης πείρατ’ ἔχονται ἐν
ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσιν]. (Il. VII.96–102)10
The remark about turning to earth and water here has contrastive force in
relation to the prospect of winning undying glory in battle—indeed, Hek-
tor himself asserted that his glory will never die if he slays the best of the
Achaeans on the battlefield (Il. VII.91). Failing to win such glory, even fail-
ing to face this challenge on the battlefield, is tantamount to allowing oneself
to fade back into the elements from which one came to be. Thus, the sense
of ‘earth and water’ in Homer signifies perishability, the unavoidable mortal-
ity to which all human beings are condemned save the exceptional figure,
like Hektor or Achilles, whose glory will not die with him. It is fitting that
Menelaus’s words here close with his resolve to take up arms himself while
drawing their attention to the immortal gods. The gods’ immortality brings
into sharp relief the fact that human beings come to be from earth and
water and return to these elements, once dead.11 A reading of Xenophanes’s
fragments on earth/water along these lines highlights his significance as
a theorist of mortality—something captured by Diogenes Laertius when
he writes: “[Xenophanes] was the first person to proclaim that everything
which comes to be is perishable [πρῶτός τε ἀπεφήνατο ὅτι πᾶν τὸ γινόμενον
φθαρτόν ἐστι], and that the soul is breath [καὶ ἡ ψυχὴ πνεῦμα]” (Lives of the
Eminent Philosophers IX.2.19).
Still another possibility for understanding these fragments is what we

might call the ‘phenomenological’ reading, as found, for example, in Mar-
tin Heidegger’s interpretation of Pre-Socratic basic concepts—for example,
earth, sky, and the so-called elements—as “essential modes of disclosure and
concealment [wesenhafte Weisen der Entbergung und Verbergung].”12 A more
recent phenomenological approach to Pre-Socratic thinking on physis can be
found in John Sallis’s work, particularly on Anaximenes of Miletus, but more
generally on the so-called elements as they figure into early Greek thought.13
For our purposes, what is most important in Sallis’s approach is the way that
he calls into question Aristotle’s predetermination, in Metaphysics I, that the
‘elements’ in Pre-Socratic thought are to be understood as the “from-which
of composition.” Instead, Sallis proposes that we think of the elements as the
from-which of manifestation, or, as he puts it, “the elements as they bound and
articulate the expanse of the self-showing of things themselves.”14
One indication that Xenophanes thinks of earth and water as the ‘elemen-
tal’ in Sallis’s sense is the fact that the phenomenal character of earth and
water figures prominently in Xenophanes’s extant fragments. Consider, first
of all, a famous fragment on the so-called roots of the earth:
This upper limit of the earth is seen here at our feet [γαίης μὲν τόδε
πεῖρας ἄνω παρὰ ποσσὶν ὁρᾶται], / pushing up against the air, but
that below goes on without limit [ἠέρι προσπλάζον, τὸ κάτω δ’ ἐς
ἄπειρον ἱκνεῖται]. (B28)
Aristotle interpreted this fragment as an attempt to explain the stability of

the earth by asserting that the earth goes down ad infinitum without bother-
ing to offer a reason for this assertion. However, the fragment itself allows for
a phenomenological reading: namely, that when we speak of ‘earth,’ what we
see of it here at our feet is but the upper limit—what is in contact with air—
but the ‘below’ part of the earth stretches out “without limit [ἐς ἄπειρον].”15
Arguably, this phenomenological reading does more justice to the poetic
structure of the fragment, according to which the first line ends with the
verb, horatai, the ‘seeing’ that we do when we look upon the earth here at our
feet, and the second line ends with the verb, hikneitai—the ‘reaching’ that the
earth herself does in reaching out into that without limit. In other words,
Xenophanes has written this fragment in such a way as to juxtapose our
human attitude toward the elemental earth—we see one limit of the earth
in contacting another element (air)—with the operation of the elemental
itself in extending beyond the reach of human apprehension. Heidegger’s
remark, in his Parmenides lecture course, that “earth is the in- between,
12 robert metcalf
namely, between the concealment of what is below the earth and the lumi-
nosity, the disclosiveness, of what is above the earth”16 fits Xenophanes’s B28
better than any other fragment of Pre-Socratic thinking.17 The earth herself
is ‘monstrous’ in the phenomenological sense articulated by Sallis—that is,
its “exceeding the things of nature while also . . . belonging to nature”—
precisely in the way that earth exceeds the limits that belong to ‘things.’18
Yet earth is not the only elemental that Xenophanes understands to be
‘without limit’ in the relevant sense. Consider the following fragment on the
source of water:
Sea is the source of water, and the source of wind [πηγὴ δ’ ἐστὶ
θάλασσ’ ὕδατος, πηγὴ δ’ ἀνέμοιο·], / for without the great sea there
would be no wind [οὔτε γὰρ ἐν νέφεσιν <πνοιαί κ’ ἀνέμοιο φύοιντο
ἐκπνείοντος> ἔσωθεν ἄνευ πόντου μεγάλοιο] / nor streams of riv-
ers nor rainwater from on high [οὔτε ῥοαὶ ποταμῶν οὔτ’ αἰθέρος
ὄμβριον ὕδωρ]; / but the great sea is the begetter of clouds, winds
and rivers [ἀλλὰ μέγας πόντος γενέτωρ νεφέων ἀνέμων τε καὶ
ποταμῶν]. (B30)19
Although Xenophanes does not specify in this fragment that water is

apeiron, it would seem to follow as a clear implication. In arguing that sea is
the source of water, Xenophanes lays out that sea is the source of wind, riv-
ers, rainwater, clouds, and so on, which suggests that he understands water
not as something delimited—a thing among other things—but rather as
that world-order, or kosmos, which gathers together sea, rivers, wind, clouds,
and rain in their interrelations. It would thus seem to follow that one could
say of water exactly what Xenophanes says of earth: namely, that while one
limit of it is something seen (say, the surface of water on the sea or river),
as elemental it stretches away from human apprehension, into that without
limit. Indeed, more generally we see that Xenophanes uses the expression eis
apeiron not in the sense of ‘ad infinitum’ (as the expression is used most com-
monly in Aristotle’s texts), but rather as signifying what exceeds the limits of
human apprehension. Consider, for example, how eis apeiron is used in the
following testimonium:
Xenophanes (said that) there were many suns and moons through-
out the regions, sections, and zones of the earth [πολλοὺς εἶναι
ἡλίους καὶ σελήνας κατὰ τὰ κλίματα τῆς γῆς καὶ ἀποτομὰς καὶ
ζώνας], and at a certain time the disk drops into some section of
the earth not inhabited by us [κατὰ δέ τινα καιρὸν ἐκπίπτειν τὸν
δίσκον εἴς τινα ἀποτομὴν τῆς γῆς οὐκ οἰκουμένην ὑφ’ ἡμῶν] and so,
like stepping into a hole, makes the eclipse (or sunset) appear [καὶ
οὕτως ὡσπερ εὶ κενεμβατοῦντα ἔκλειψιν ὑποφαίνειν]. He also says
that the sun goes onward without limit [ὁ δ᾽ αὐτὸς τὸν ἥλιόν εἴς
ἄπειρον μὲν προιέναι], but appears to go in a circle because of the
distance [δοκεῖν δὲ κυκλεῖσθαι διὰ τὴν ἀπόστασιν]. (A41a)
The ‘descent’ of the sun—as though it were stepping into a hole—is what
gives rise to the appearance of an eclipse or sunset, but it is a phenomenon
relative to human apprehension. Similarly, the sun appearing to circle is itself
relative to the human observer, since the sun’s movement is into a space with-
out limit.
The fact that Xenophanes uses eis apeiron (in B28 and A41a) in the sense
of what, phenomenologically, is at the very limit of manifestation suggests
that his formulation of the ‘from which,’ ek . . . (in B27 and B33) is to be
construed in terms of what Sallis calls the “from-which of manifestation.”20
Arguably, these latter fragments offer us a phenomenology of earth and
water as the from-which of manifestation not unlike the account of physis
developed by Martin Heidegger, when he writes:
Phusis, phuein . . . is said of the earth, hē gē phuei—the earth lets

come forth [die Rede läßt hervorgehen] . . . a coming-forth out of
concealedness, of the germ and the root from the darkness of the
earth into the light of day . . . The phuein of phusis, the letting come
forth and the emergence, lets what emerges appear in the uncon-
cealed [Das phuein der phusis, das Aufgehenlassen und Aufgehen, läßt
das Aufgehende in das Unverborgene erscheinen].21
There are a number of critical points in Heidegger’s remarks that invite

comparison with Xenophanes’s fragments. Most obviously, we find here the
connection already noted in B28 between phyein and the earth as its source.
But there is also a point that merits further examination in Xenophanes:
namely, that time is key for understanding earth and the other elements as
the from-which of manifestation, since the self-manifestation that is physis
occurs over time. Heidegger addresses time on the same page of the Par-
menides lecture-course when he writes: “For primordial Greek thinking . . .
time, always as dispensing and dispensed time, takes man and all beings
essentially into its ordering and in every case orders the appearance and
disappearance of beings. Time discloses and conceals [Die Zeit entbirgt und
verbirgt].”
14 robert metcalf
That final point on time is crucial for understanding what is undoubtedly

one of Xenophanes’s most important texts:
By no means did the gods reveal all things to mortals from the
beginning [οὔτοι ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς πάντα θεοὶ θνητοῖσ’ ὑπέδειξαν], / but
over time, by searching, they discover better [ἀλλὰ χρόνῳ ζητοῦντες
ἐφευρίσκουσιν ἄμεινον]. (B18)
B18 is both a magnificent bit of poetry and one that conveys philosophical
meaning in a remarkably concise way.22 At the same time, the form is such
that it allows for varied interpretations; not surprisingly, this has resulted in
ongoing scholarly debate. Its structure is simple: a negative claim in the first
line, followed by a positive claim in the second. But its force turns on the
multiple oppositions playing off one another: gods/mortals—this opposition
heightened by the immediate juxtaposition of the words θεοὶ θνητοῖσ, in
the Greek; “reveal/discover [ὑπέδειξαν/ ἐφευρίσκουσιν]”—the first verb tak-
ing the gods as its subject, the second implying mortals as its subject; “from
the beginning” or “from the outset [ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς]” or “over time [χρόνῳ]”—an
opposition that underscores the very different temporal character of the
gods vis-à-vis the temporal character of mortals (B18).23 Thus, if mortals are
to discover, ἐφευρίσκουσιν (a verb that suggests suddenness of discovery),
they must attempt to do this over time through the work of seeking, χρόνῳ
ζητοῦντες. Finally there is the opposition “all things”/“better”: what the gods
are able to reveal, were they revealing it to mortals, is ‘all things,’ πάντα, the
entirety of what is, whereas mortals are left to scratch out a discovery of
something better, ἄμεινον.24 Of course, the implication of this latter oppo-
sition is that the discoveries made through mortal zētein are by their very
nature ongoing, incomplete. To discover, over time, something better than
what was discovered previously is not to discover or ‘reveal’ everything in its
complete truth.25
B18 would therefore seem to fit well the thought expressed, most famously,
in the following fragment:
No man knows, or ever will know [καὶ τὸ μὲν οὖν σαφὲς οὔτις
ἀνὴρ γένετ’ οὐδέ τις ἔσται], / the truth about the gods and about
everything I speak of [εἰδὼς ἀμφὶ θεῶν τε καὶ ἅσσα λέγω περὶ
πάντων·]: / for even if one chanced to say what is absolutely the
case [εἰ γὰρ καὶ τὰ μάλιστα τύχοι τετελεσμένον εἰπών], / still he
would not know, as seeming is wrought over all things [αὐτὸς ὅμως
οὐκ οἶδε· δόκος δ᾽ ἐπὶ πᾶσι τέτυκται]. (B34)
To work, through zētein, toward further discoveries within the insurmount-

able context of seeming is the portion, moira, that is allotted to us as mortals.
B34 does not explicitly state that knowledge belongs to the gods alone, but
when read in conjunction with B18, it would seem to imply this. The gods
may have the power to reveal the truth about “the gods and all things (of
which Xenophanes speaks),” but they have not done so. Instead, the allot-
ment for human beings is “seeming wrought over all things [δόκος δ᾽ ἐπὶ
πᾶσι τέτυκται]” (B34), and to work through zētein toward some better
discovery. Thus, even if knowledge is not explicitly reserved for the divine,
Xenophanes’s claim as to the allotment that befalls mortals is intensified by
this implicit contrast with the divine. Xenophanes’s other extant texts about
the gods, and particularly about the one god who “is greatest among gods
and men” (B23), make this intensification all the more vivid.26
The sharp difference between the temporal character of human life and
that of the divine comes through in a famous example of Xenophanean the-
ology, as preserved for us by Aristotle:
Xenophanes used to say that those who say the gods are born are
just as impious as those who say that they die [ὁμοίως ἀσεβοῦσιν οἱ
γενέσθαι φάσκοντες τοὺς θεοὺς τοῖς ἀποθανεῖν λέγουσιν·], since in
both ways it follows that there is a time when the gods do not exist
[ἀμφοτέρως γὰρ συμβαίνει μὴ εἶναι τοὺς θεούς ποτε]. (A12)27
On one reading of this passage, it would appear that Xenophanes’s God is

removed from the ever-changing/moving realm of physis, since it would be
impious to think that there is ever a time in which the gods are not (μὴ
εἶναι). Accordingly, the gods’ remove from physis renders more vivid the tem-
poral character of human activity—including, most important, the human
activity of seeking for causes, and the discovering of something better over
time.28 However, as an alternative interpretation, there is the view, derived
from Aristotle, that Xenophanes identifies God with physis. In Metaphysics
Book I, Aristotle refers to Xenophanes as “the first of the unifiers [πρῶτος
τούτων ἑνίσας]” (a group that includes Parmenides and the Eleatics), and
then writes: “[Xenophanes] made nothing clear [οὐθὲν διεσαφήνισεν] . . .
but, looking at the heaven/sky as a whole, he says that the one is God [ἀλλ’
εἰς τὸν ὅλον οὐρανὸν ἀποβλέψας τὸ ἓν εἶναί φησι τὸν θεόν]” (986b21–
25). On the issue of whether, in fact, Xenophanes identifies God and physis
there is ongoing scholarly controversy.29 Nonetheless, if we take B18 seri-
ously, it may well be that the question of whether God is identical with
physis remains, necessarily, an open question for Xenophanes—that it awaits
16 robert metcalf
further ‘discovery,’ so to speak. Indeed, just as A12 may be read as a heuristic

argument (“If it is impious to say that there is a time when the gods do not
exist, it is therefore impious to say that the gods are born”), so B26 presents
an apodeixis for getting at theological truth—or, if not ‘truth,’ exactly, at least
something better than what was thought before:30
He remains for ever in the same place, entirely motionless [αἰεὶ δ’ ἐν

ταὐτῷ μίμνει κινούμενος οὐδέν], / nor is it proper for him to move
from one place to another [οὐδὲ μετέρχεσθαί μιν ἐπιπρέπει ἄλλοτε
ἄλλῃ]. (B26)
In this way, we can see how apodeixis as practiced by Xenophanes is heuristic:

it facilitates discovery by revealing the implications of what is already set
forth, and there is no reason a priori to think that these conclusions could
not be revised or rejected in light of subsequent ‘discovery.’31
In conclusion, Xenophanes’s extant fragments allow us to call into ques-
tion the received interpretation of Pre-Socratic thinking with regard to both
its ‘Socratic’ and ‘Aristotelian’ layers. Against the ‘Socratic’ interpretation, it is
not true that the Pre-Socratics were concerned with physis without heeding
the limitations of human knowing—for Xenophanes does mark these limita-
tions even while he seeks to understand physis better than it was understood
previously. Against the ‘Aristotelian’ interpretation, it is far from evident that
the earliest Greek thinkers tried to explain all coming-to-be / passing-away
by appeal to an inert material substrate that would then stand in need of
an external source of movement. Certainly, Xenophanes’s pregnant lines
about earth and water do not fit Aristotle’s pattern for interpreting the Pre-
Socratics, perhaps because they lend themselves more to a phenomenological
reading of earth/water as the from-which of manifestation. Further, however
Xenophanes understands the relation between God and physis, we can infer
at least the following: if God is identified with physis, then what Xenophanes
says about earth/water must itself have theological significance, and, con-
versely, the apodeictic arguments that Xenophanes presents concerning God
have significance for his understanding of physis. If, on the other hand, Xeno-
phanes does not identify God and physis, then, at the very least, Xenophanes’s
theology intensifies the contrast between the human and the divine, such
that we can better appreciate the limitations placed on our human-all-too-
human efforts at seeking knowledge. On the reading that I have sketched out
here, Xenophanes’s provisional, incomplete, open-ended, and experimental
thinking models for us a kind of philosophical inquiry (zētein) into physis
that can be appropriated anew in our own time.
Notes
1. See, in particular, his argument that Zeus does not exist, but only clouds exist—
“everything else is drivel” (Aristophanes, Clouds, ll. 365–371). He admonishes Strepsiades
to “believe in no god but ours: this Chaos, and the Clouds, and the Tongue, these three” (ll.
422–423). Finally, at the end, Strepsiades laments having “tossed out the gods on account
of Socrates” (ll. 1476–1477).
2. On the problematic character of translating the Greek physis as ‘nature,’ see Martin
Heidegger, Introduction to Metaphysics, trans. Gregory Fried and Richard Polt (New Ha-
ven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2000), 15–16.
3. The passage gives some specificity to the sort of questions under examination in such
a study: e.g., “whether heat and cold, by a sort of fermentation, bring about the organiza-
tion of living things, as some people say. And whether blood is that by which we think,
or is it air or fire? Or is it none of these, but the brain is what produces the sensations of
hearing and seeing and smell, from which arise memory and opinion, and from memory
and opinion—once at rest—arises knowledge?” (Phd. 96b1–7).
4. The audacious, revolutionary aspirations of Pre-Socratic philosophy is reflected in Aris-
tophanes’s Clouds, where the Thinkery (φροντιστήριον) is presented as a place where young
men go to learn a form of persuasion that is informed by the ongoing study of physis: e.g., the
heavens are a stove, and we are charcoal, etc. (see, for example, Clouds, ll. 94–99). On the view
of Pre-Socratic historia peri tēs physeōs from the vantage of Plato’s Phaedo, see André Laks,
Introduction à la “philosophie présocratique” (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2006), 8–9.
5. For the numbering of Xenophanes’s fragments and testimonia, see Hermann Diels
and Walther Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 9th ed. (Berlin: Weidmannsche Ver-
lagsbuchhandlung, 1960). See James H. Lesher, “Xenophanes’ Scepticism,” Phronesis 23,
no. 1 (1978): 9–10, for a list of the phenomena traditionally viewed as divine ‘signs’ that
Xenophanes accounts for in naturalistic terms: (1) sun and stars coming from clouds, (2)
eclipses, (3) comets, (4) lightning, (5) evaporation/rain.
6. Translation by Lesher, in James H. Lesher, Xenophanes of Colophon: Fragments (To-
ronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992).
7. See Lesher’s dual-archē reading of earth and water in Lesher, Xenophanes of Colophon,
133. Against the idea that Xenophanes holds such a theory, see Christian Schäfer, Xeno-
phanes von Kolophon: Ein Vorsokratiker zwischen Mythos und Philosophie (Stuttgart: B. G.
Teubner, 1996), 142.
8. See Aristotle, Met. I.3.984a6–11, and Jaap Mansfeld, “Aristotle and Others on
Thales, or the Beginnings of Natural Philosophy: With Some Remarks on Xenophanes,”
Mnemosyne 38 (1985): 110n4. Michael Stokes comments: “The fragments of Xenophanes
prove false Aristotle’s generalization that none of the physikoi made earth the arche.” See
Stokes, One and Many in Presocratic Philosophy (Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic
Studies, 1971), 49.
9. Harold Cherniss makes this point with a sharper edge in “The History of Ideas and
Ancient Greek Philosophy,” in Cherniss, Selected Papers, ed. Leonardo Tarán (Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 1977), 41–42.
10. Homer, Iliad, trans. Stanley Lombardo (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997).
11. To say that earth and water evoke perishability is not identical to saying that these
elements are the ‘material principles’ of living things. Christian Schäfer reaches the latter
conclusion from considering the Homeric meaning of these terms in Schäfer, Xenophanes
von Kolophon, 135.
18 robert metcalf
12. Martin Heidegger, Parmenides, trans. André Schuwer and Richard Rojcewicz

(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), 70 (GA 54: 104).
13. See, in particular, John Sallis’s interpretation of Anaximenes in “Doubles of Anax-
imenes,” in The Presocratics after Heidegger, ed. David C. Jacobs (Albany: State University
of New York Press, 1999): “Presumably Anaximenes was setting forth air as the source or
origin from which all things somehow come forth into their presence, their manifestness.
But how, precisely, is one to understand archē without merely assuming for it the sense that
was later to be explicitly determined for it by Aristotle?” (147).
14. John Sallis, Force of Imagination: The Sense of the Elemental (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 2000), 154–155. See also Sallis, Platonic Legacies (Albany: State Univer-
sity of New York Press, 2004), 142.
15. Various interpreters have sided with reading es apeiron here as ‘into that without
limit’ rather than as ‘ad infinitum’—for example, Schäfer, Xenophanes von Kolophon, 141.
16. Heidegger, Parmenides, 60 (GA 54: 88). I have altered the translation by Schuwer
and Rojcewicz.
17. Admittedly, Heidegger does not include Xenophanes among the select company
of ‘primordial thinkers.’ That designation was reserved for Anaximander, Parmenides, and
Heraclitus. See Heidegger, Parmenides, §1a.
18. Sallis, Force of Imagination, 158.
19. Compare Xenophanes’s other relevant testimonia: A32, A40, and A39.
20. See also Michael Stokes’s argument against Gregory Vlastos’s view that, for the
Milesians, something just is whatever it comes from, in Stokes, One and Many in Preso-
cratic Philosophy, 40–41.
21. Heidegger, Parmenides, 142 (GA 54: 211–212). See also Heidegger’s association
of earth with sheltering/concealing, in his reading of Homer’s Iliad XXIII, 244, in Par-
menides, 60 (GA 54: 88).
22. On this, see Karl Popper, “The Unknown Xenophanes,” in The World of Parmenides:
Essays on the Presocratic Enlightenment, ed. Arne F. Petersen, with the assistance of Jørgen
Mejer (London: Routledge, 1998), 39.
23. On the difference between the human and the divine, see Bruno Snell, Die Ent-
deckung des Geistes, 4th ed. (updated) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1975), 129.
24. On ameinon in fragment 18, Lesher writes: “Since the neuter accusative singular of
the comparative form of an adjective serves also as the comparative of the adverb, ameinon
is ambiguous between ‘find a better (thing)’ and ‘find out better.’ ” See Lesher, Xenophanes
of Colophon, 150.
25. Christian Schäfer notes that the contrast between the aorist hypedeixan and the
present epheuriskousin intensifies the temporal character of the human seeking, over
against the absent divine revelation. See Schäfer, Xenophanes von Kolophon, 123.
26. B23 reads: “One God is greatest among gods and men, not at all like mortals in
body or in thought [εἱς θεός, ἐν τε θεοῖσι καὶ ἀνθρώποισι μέγιστος / οὔτε δέμας θνητοῖσιν
ὁμοίιος οὔτε νόημα].”
27. From Aristotle, Rhetoric 1399b6–10.
28. Lesher also notes this specifically theological ground for Xenophanes’s thinking
about human seeking in B18: see James H. Lesher, “Xenophanes on Inquiry and Discov-
ery: An Alternative to the ‘Hymn to Progress’ Reading of Fr. 18,” Ancient Philosophy 11
(1991): 242.
29. For opposing views on this issue, see Aryeh Finkelberg, “Studies in Xenophanes,”
Harvard Studies in Philology 93 (1990): 111; Lesher, Xenophanes of Colophon, 101.
30. The fact that both demonstrative arguments turn on ethical concepts—namely,
what is ‘proper’ (epiprepei) for God, and what is ‘impious’ (asebēs) to say about God—
supports Nietzsche’s claim that Xenophanes “sublates the identification of God and man
in order to equate God and nature. In this regard he leads a heightened ethical consciousness
that seeks to hold at a distance all things human and unworthy of the gods.” See Fried-
rich Nietzsche, The Pre-Platonic Philosophers, trans. Greg Whitlock (Urbana and Chicago:
University of Illinois Press, 2001).
31. On apodeictic argumentation in Xenophanes, see Michael Papazian, “Gods and
Fossils: Inference and Scientific Method in Xenophanes’ Philosophy,” in Philosopher Kings
and Tragic Heroes, ed. Heather L. Reid and Davide Tanasi (Sioux City, Iowa: Parnassos,
2016).
Key Readings
Cherniss, Harold. Aristotle’s Criticism of Presocratic Philosophy. New York: Octagon Books,
1971.
Diels, Hermann, and Walther Kranz. Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. 9th ed. Berlin: Wei-
dmannsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1960.
Heidegger, Martin. Early Greek Thinking. Translated by David Farrell Krell and Frank A.
Capuzzi. San Francisco: Harper, 1984.
———. Parmenides. Translated by André Schuwer and Richard Rojcewicz. Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1992.
Kirk, G. S., J. E. Raven, and M. Schofield. The Presocratic Philosophers. 2nd ed. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Laks, André. Introduction à la “philosophie présocratique.” Paris: Presses Universitaires de
France, 2006.
Lesher, James H. Xenophanes of Colophon. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992.
Long, A. A., ed. The Cambridge Companion to Early Greek Philosophy. Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1999.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Pre-Platonic Philosophers. Translated by Greg Whitlock. Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 2001.
Sallis, John. Force of Imagination: The Sense of the Elemental. Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
versity Press, 2000.
———. Platonic Legacies. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2004.
Schäfer, Christian. Xenophanes von Kolophon: Ein Vorsokratiker zwischen Mythos und Phi-
losophie. Stuttgart: B. G. Teubner, 1996.
Going with the Flow: Soul and Truth in Heraclitus
Drew A. Hyland
One can hardly begin a study of the thought of Heraclitus without an

orienting reflection on the unique style in which he writes, his famed but
enigmatic aphoristic style. That unorthodox style must first be placed in
historical context. Although Heraclitus was from ancient times given the
epithet ‘the obscure,’ his style may have been somewhat less jolting to his
contemporaries than to us. Among the many reasons for this, one stands
out immediately. Today there is a ‘default’ writing style that verges on being
mandatory for philosophic writing: the essay format, exemplified by this
essay and all of the others in this volume. So pervasive is the assumption
that this is the ‘proper’ way to write philosophically that today one hardly
has to make a conscious decision to write in essay format when one decides to
write philosophically. This was by no means the case when Heraclitus wrote,
presumably around the turn from the sixth to the fifth century b.c.e. No
such default format had been established; indeed, in that time there was a
rich palette of styles to choose from. There were, of course, the “Concern-
ing Nature” treatises of the early Milesian philosophers, of which we have at
most one-sentence fragments. But thinkers soon to follow Heraclitus, such
as Parmenides and Empedocles, would present their philosophic thinking in
poetic verse. And not long after that, a philosopher named Plato came along
with a style of presentation that more closely resembled the great Greek
tragedies and especially comedies than previous philosophic works. All this
must have meant that in that epoch, thinkers who decided to write philo-
sophically had a much more conscious decision to make about just how they
would write: A prose treatise? Poetic verse? The format of the theater? To
this array Heraclitus added one uniquely his own: the aphoristic style for
which he is famous—or infamous.
Why might he have chosen this format? I offer the following sugges-
tion: suppose that you held a ‘doctrine’ that there was a changeless, eternally
stable truth, accessible by a rigorous process of reasoning, and you wanted
to make that truth available to your readers. In that situation, might not the
21
22 drew a. hyland
most appropriate writing style be the essay format, in which you set out that
reasoning process as clearly and persuasively as possible?1 This assumption no
doubt informs most philosophic ‘essays,’ then and now.
But suppose you held a very different sort of view? Suppose you experi-
enced the world as a constantly changing flux of oppositions, struggles, even
contradictions, which over the course of time had a certain logos,2 a certain
ordered way of ‘making sense’ that, though indeed ordered, nevertheless itself
flowed and changed over the coursing of time? How would you best express
that experience? If you did so in a way that was thoroughly consistent, a step-
by-step progress to an eternally stable conclusion—in short, if you wrote in
the essay format—wouldn’t the very way you present your experience, impos-
ing the pretense of stability on the very flux you are trying to articulate, be
misleading? What will it even mean to articulate such a position? Won’t that
bring it to a linguistic halt in an eternally stable proposition? Won’t that be
inherently misleading, if not contradictory? Perhaps, then, Heraclitus wrote
in his aphoristic style because he wanted to exhibit the tensions, the opposi-
tions, even the contradictions, yet also the flowing, ever-changing logos that
he experienced, and, above all, because he wanted the reader to experience,
to be challenged by, that ever-changing and sometimes oppositional logos.
One thing is for sure: Heraclitus challenges every reader to make sense of—
to find the logos in—the often-oppositional, often-hidden, often-enigmatic
meaning of his sentences. Understanding Heraclitus is practice for under-
standing the flux of things.3
My reflection on Heraclitus’s enigmatic sentences on the soul begins in
this spirit.4 Those reflections then lead to a consideration of how the notion
of truth, alētheia, plays out in his writings, which in turn leads to a reflection
on the metaphors for knowing that Heraclitus engages. This will be not a
comprehensive account of Heraclitus’s fragments but a highly selective one,
one that will hopefully shed some light on (or, to anticipate an important
Heraclitean motif, be in attunement with) part of Heraclitus’s larger logos.
I begin with perhaps the two decisive fragments that refer explicitly to the
soul, fragments 115 and 45.5
Fragment 115: The soul has a logos which increases itself.
Fragment 45: One could not discover the limits of the soul, even if
one traveled every path, so deep is its logos.
The soul has a logos: immediately we see a multiplicity of possible senses

of logos come into play. Does this mean that there is an account of the soul?
going with the flow 23
A rational account? Does it say that the soul contains reason? Does it invoke
the intimacy of the soul with the word, and so with language? Or, invoking
Charles Kahn’s notion of ‘linguistic density,’ might all of the above be in play
in this sentence of Heraclitus, and perhaps even more? However we inter-
pret it, the invocation of the intimacy of soul and logos already points to the
genuinely revolutionary understanding of the soul in Heraclitus compared
to what had come before in Greek literature and thought. As Martha Nuss-
baum has convincingly argued, the notion of ‘soul’ prior to Heraclitus, and
especially in the great Greek epics, was a much more amorphous and simple
phenomenon that remained close to the early meaning of ψύχη as ‘breath.’6
With Heraclitus, however, and with this sentence in particular, the soul now
begins to take on those qualities associated with logos, and as other fragments
will show, even more qualities of ethical responsibility and unity. In sum, the
soul begins to become the unity of the individual person.7 We are suddenly on
the way to the soul as the locus of selfhood.
We can see this if we think this first fragment not in terms of its revo-
lutionary step from the past but in terms of what it points toward in our
understanding of the soul: “The soul has a logos, which increases itself.” It is
as if Heraclitus is already anticipating two future understandings of the soul,
each of which he wants to avoid and between which he wants to navigate.
The soul has a logos: taken in a stronger, more static way than Heraclitus
seems to intend, this phrase becomes in later thinkers (and not very later) the
notion that the soul is somehow something permanent, even immortal, that
whatever the soul is, it is that set of qualities permanently. This view will also
entail a certain epistemological optimism: the soul can be known, known
definitively in its essence and structure, once and for all, eternally. Plato is
often taken as an exemplar of this doctrine regarding the soul, though I will
call that opinion into question toward the end of this essay.
However, this is evidently not the understanding of the soul that Heracli-
tus seems to have in mind, as the concluding phrase of the sentence makes
clear: “The soul has a λόγος, which increases itself.” The logos of the soul is
not something permanent, unchangeable, known once and for all; instead, it
increases itself; it changes, advances, or recedes; in any case it does not remain
the same, always. But this points immediately to the second polar under-
standing of the soul that Heraclitus also seems to want to avoid. For often,
the view that the soul is in constant flux is accompanied by the conviction
that this constantly changing soul is thus something fundamentally irra-
tional, unknowable. In this conception, the soul lacks the basic element of
stability that is a first requirement for intelligibility and rationality. This view
usually carries with it, conversely to the earlier one, a certain epistemological
24 drew a. hyland
pessimism: the soul, in constant flux as it is, cannot be known; self-knowledge

is impossible.
But the first phrase of Heraclitus’s sentence denies this polar interpreta-
tion as well: the soul has a logos. It is intelligible, knowable, at least in a certain
way, as Heraclitus makes clear enough in another fragment, fragment 116:
“All people can partake in knowing themselves and thinking soundly.”
If Heraclitus’s sentence is denying these two polar understandings, what
more precisely is being said here? Perhaps it is something like this: yes, the
soul does have a logos: there is a rational account to be given of it; it is in a
way knowable. But the soul, and therefore the logos thereof, is not something
permanent, stable, ‘what it is and not another thing.’ There is a logos of the
soul, but it is a logos that flows, like the soul itself and like Heraclitus’s larger
logos of the whole. The soul, which now means something like the self, or
who we are, develops, changes, as time goes on, but it changes in such a way
that one can get into an attunement with that development, and so know it as
it develops. Self-knowledge, then, cannot be a once-and-for-all attainment, a
“Now I know myself, and can move on to other things” affair. Neither is self-
knowledge simply impossible. Rather, self-knowledge is an ongoing project,
a challenge to each of us to stay aware of, stay in attunement with, our own
developing character, our souls. As the Heraclitean metaphor of ‘attunement’
suggests, we might be helped in understanding what Heraclitus has in mind
here by thinking of the process of listening to, and so in a sense ‘knowing,’ a
musical composition. Our comprehension ‘flows’ with the music.
This understanding is confirmed, I would argue, by the second fragment
cited above, fragment 45: “One could not discover the limits of the soul
even if one traveled every path, so deep is its λόγος.” The soul’s ‘limits’ are
inaccessible to us; we can thus never hope to ‘define’ the soul, articulate its
permanent being once and for all. But not because it is simply unintelligible!
The soul has a logos; it is just so deep—which I take to mean so ongoing,
so ever-developing—that its limits can never be attained. Self-knowledge,
understood as knowledge of the soul, is a viable project, but an ongoing
project, one whose limits we will never reach. I thus take Heraclitus to be
saying here that the soul has no ‘limits’ because it is not the sort of thing to
have fixed, stable boundaries; rather, the soul is a flow, something develop-
ing, changing, but in an ordered way to which one can, with work, become
attuned. The soul, we might say, is a constant movement not unlike the breath
that is its original meaning. This would seem to be explicitly confirmed by
the substance of fragments 12 and A15, if indeed they are authentic: “The
soul is an exhalation that perceives; it is different from the body, and always
flowing.”8
Perhaps this view implies something about the question that seems inevi-
tably to arise whenever the issue of the soul comes to the fore: Does the soul
live on after death?—is it immortal? Heraclitus is characteristically ambigu-
ous if not contradictory on this issue. Defenders of the view that Heraclitus
did believe the soul lives on after death usually cite first fragment 98: “Souls
smell in Hades” (that is, “Souls have the sense of smell in Hades”). Does this
not at very least take us back to the Homeric notion of ‘shades’ in Hades, and
is it not consistent with the understanding of the soul as essentially ‘breath’?
If so, it would point toward two important claims: first, Heraclitus seems to
hold to at least a quasi-materialistic understanding of the soul: it is some sort
of amorphous ‘breath,’ an ‘exhalation that perceives.’ And second, in at least
some sense the soul lives on after the body dies, even if in a very reduced state,
with only the faintest traces of anything like personality.
The first view, that the soul is in some sense physical, is supported by a
number of other fragments on the soul. Fragment 36 reads, “For souls it is
death to become water, and for water death to become earth. Water comes
to be out of earth, and the soul out of water.” The basic thought is reiter-
ated in fragment 77: “It is delight or death for souls to become moist.”9 To
which Heraclitus adds in fragment 118, “A gleam of light is a dry soul, wisest
and best.”
Just what is Heraclitus saying here about the soul? On the one hand, it is
difficult if not impossible to read these fragments plausibly without attrib-
uting to Heraclitus the view that the soul is at least in some sense physical:
either fire, as some scholars have interpreted it, or, more plausibly in my
opinion, analogous to ‘breath.’10 Either way, this will bear directly on the
second question regarding immortality, to which we will soon turn. But it
is important to remember that with Heraclitus, meanings are rarely univo-
cal; yes, it is surely plausible to understand him as asserting, as part of the
meaning of soul, that it is physical. It is death for it to become moist, it is
best when dry, and so on. At the same time, it is no less clear that Heraclitus
means by these sentences more than just asserting the physicality of soul.11
The image of ‘dry’ souls invokes the notion of fire, which on the one hand
seems to be Heraclitus’s foundational ‘element,’ and on the other is his cru-
cial image for the constant flux and change that he finds in the world. And
in our souls! So the closer our souls are to the dryness of fire, the ‘purer’ they
are (the Greek word for ‘fire’ is pur), the ‘wiser and better’ they are. Another,
more prosaic meaning no doubt refers to the dangers of drunkenness, as in
fragment 117: “When a man is drunk, he is led by a beardless boy, stumbling,
not aware of where he is going, having his soul moist.” In a way, then, we
can understand Heraclitus as beginning the project that is still the project of
26 drew a. hyland
many today, to give a ‘materialist’ account of the human self that somehow
can still make sense of the emotional, moral, and intellectual experience of
conscious selfhood.
Heraclitus may indeed be an important precursor of modernity, but we
need not make such a long leap to appreciate his powerful influence on his
fellow Greeks—on Plato, for example. In a way this claim is surprising, since
when Heraclitus is addressed by characters in the Platonic dialogues, it is
often in a critical vein, as in the Theaetetus (180a ff.), where Socrates reduces
Heraclitus’s position to one of the most radical flux imaginable, forgetting
almost entirely the presence of logos, and so rendering the position virtually
incoherent. It is surely hardly recognizable as Heraclitus’s position. And when
it comes to the question of the soul, the Platonic Socrates would seem to be
as far as possible from Heraclitus, arguing, as he does famously in the Phaedo,
for example, for an immaterial soul, one that lives on after death, and one that
is at least ‘more like’ the eternal and changeless than like the changeable. But
this is not always the case: in the Symposium, for example, the same Socrates,
speaking in agreement with the priestess Diotima, presents an understanding
of the soul strikingly similar to that of Heraclitus. The passage is worth quot-
ing at some length. Having developed a recognition that the body changes
and develops constantly as one grows older, Diotima continues,
This is so not only with regard to one’s body, but also with regard
to one’s soul. One’s habits, characteristic traits, opinions, desires,
pleasures, pains, fears, none of these ever stays the same in anybody;
some are coming into being while others are passing away . . .
Everything that is mortal is preserved in this way, not by being the
same in every way forever, like what is divine, but by having what
is old and departing leave behind another like itself that is new. By
this means, Socrates, she continued, a mortal thing participates in
immortality, both in terms of the body and in all other regards. An
immortal thing operates in a different way. (Smp. 207e ff.)12
Like Heraclitus, Socrates/Diotima here present an understanding of the

soul as by no means stable or permanent but constantly developing, yet with
hardly a hint that such a situation falls into incoherence. To the contrary,
they are setting this out as precisely the logos of the soul. One could thus say
of at least this account of soul in the Platonic dialogues that “the soul has a
logos, which increases itself.” And it is perhaps no accident that in this very
dialogue, contrary to the apparent teaching of certain other dialogues and
especially the Phaedo, personal immortality is straightforwardly denied. Only
the gods live forever and are immortal in that sense, says Diotima; the only
immortality possible for humans is that of leaving behind something of our-
selves. This leads us directly to the second question raised above.
What does this imply regarding the second question, that of the pos-
sible immortality of the soul? Notwithstanding fragment 98 discussed above
(“Souls smell in Hades”), the predominance of Heraclitus’s fragments clearly
point to a denial at least of anything like personal immortality. When Hera-
clitus says in fragments 36 and 77 that it is death for souls to become water
or moist, the point seems straightforward enough: the soul dies, not just the
body. And when, in the wonderfully enigmatic fragment 27 he says, “What
awaits humans at death they neither expect nor imagine,” perhaps the most
plausible reading of this is that nothing at all awaits them!13 Of course, it
is possible, given Heraclitus’s predilection for multiple meanings, that there
is a sense in which souls continue on after death, namely, that since soul
participates in the constant movement between water, air, and fire, forever
becoming now one and now the other, that, for example, the dead soul, as
water, continues as water. But this is obviously not the same thing as remain-
ing a conscious soul.14
For Heraclitus, then, there would seem to be no personal immortality of
the soul. If that is not our fate, what is? He may hint at an answer in fragment
119: “Man’s character is his fate [or ‘destiny’].” Even though our ‘destiny’ may
not be personal immortality, we do have one, but it is here and now, and
is determined by our character (ethos). His is a fundamentally ‘this-worldly’
understanding of our fate and destiny, and moreover, that fate is largely in
our hands. Wisdom, in a certain way, is attainable, but it is attainable by
living in a certain way. Thus the importance of this crucial fragment of Hera-
clitus, fragment 112: “To think soundly is the greatest virtue, and wisdom is
speaking and acting the truth, paying heed to the nature of things.”15
This remarkable fragment raises many thought-provoking issues, but we
will concentrate only on the understanding of truth implied therein, for it
is remarkable indeed. The first striking thing we are told is that wisdom is
speaking and acting the truth. If Heraclitus had said simply that wisdom is
speaking the truth, this would have been interesting but hardly surprising,
especially in the still largely oral culture in which Heraclitus lived. Presum-
ably his predecessors, such as the Milesian philosophers, were making a
claim to speak the truth—when Thales called the archē of all things water,
or Anaximander apeiron, or Anaximenes air. In understanding truth as fun-
damentally spoken, we are already on the way toward an understanding of
truth, and so wisdom, as ‘theoretical,’ and eventually even as ‘propositional.’
Truth, that is, is something that gets articulated, spoken in an oral culture,
28 drew a. hyland
eventually both spoken and written. But Heraclitus refuses to limit truth to
this sense, indeed radically transforms what truth must be by insisting as well
that truth must also literally be enacted. Truth in some sense is something
done, something lived. Truth, then, can never be merely ‘theoretical,’ merely
an affair of speaking (or writing). Even before the understanding of truth
and wisdom as a matter of theory can become predominant, Heraclitus calls
it into question with this sentence.
Nor is he saying that truth/wisdom is instead a matter only of ‘praxis.’
Prior to the dawn of the theory/practice distinction, Heraclitus would seem
to destabilize any such distinction. Truth, and so wisdom, is spoken, yes, but
not merely spoken. It is acted out as well; truth is lived. When, a bit later, the
Platonic Socrates speaks of philosophy not as a ‘position’ or set of opinions
but as a way of life,16 he is a true follower of Heraclitus.
What would truth be, that it could be something both spoken and enacted?
Perhaps no one has shed as much light on the Greek notion of truth as
Martin Heidegger.17 Beginning with the etymological meaning of the Greek
alētheia, ‘unhiddenness,’ Heidegger emphasizes at various times a number of
important features of the Greek notion of truth. First, it means that for the
Greeks, alētheia is not a ‘theory’ in the vein of the ‘correspondence theory
of truth’ or the ‘coherence theory of truth’; rather, alētheia is an experience of
truth, the experience of something that had been hidden being brought to
unhiddenness. This difference is more important than it may at first appear,
for if truth is a ‘theory,’ then of course its primary if not exclusive manifes-
tation will be in logos, in speech. Truth would then be ‘speaking the truth,
paying heed to the nature of things,’ but surely not ‘acting the truth.’ But if
we think truth as an experience, then we are already prepared to think of it as
something lived, and so as a kind of enactment. Second, truth so understood
is a certain movement: something that was hidden is brought out of hid-
denness into unhiddenness, into the open, into a clearing/lighting (German
Lichtung). At times Heidegger will speak of this movement as our “wresting”
truth from the hiddenness of things in the spirit of Heraclitean πόλεμος
(struggle, war); at times he will emphasize instead the way the movement is
“vouchsafed” to humans as a “gift,” granted by the happening of truth itself.
Third and decisively, every bringing to unhiddenness, every “event” of truth,
leaves something that remains hidden precisely in the manner in which it
reveals. All “truth” is therefore finite; there is no complete, unmitigated, or
absolute truth granted to finite humans. Or as Heidegger dramatically puts it
in Being and Time, “Truth is always in the untruth.”18
Is there anything of this understanding of truth in play in Heraclitus’s
text? In fragment after fragment, Heraclitus seems to be ‘paying heed’ to
something like this experience of truth. To begin with fragment 112 which
I have already cited, if we think of truth not just as a ‘theory’ or as primar-
ily ‘propositional,’ but as the experience of something hidden being brought
from time to time to unhiddenness, then it will make sense for Heracli-
tus to speak of it not only as spoken (although certainly as spoken) but as
something ‘acted,’ that is enacted, participated in, by the one to whom truth
‘happens.’ By taking the etymological meaning of alētheia literally, we can
thus make sense of this most important of Heraclitean fragments. Truth will
indeed be ‘spoken and acted,’ if truth is something like the movement from
hiddenness to unhiddenness.
There are other fragments that even more directly are spoken under the
sway of this understanding of truth. Among the most striking are these,
which I list together before discussing each:
Fragment 18: “If one does not expect the unexpected (or “hope for
the unhoped for”), one will not discover it, for it is difficult to dis-
cover, and without a path.”
Fragment 54: “An unapparent attunement is better (or “stronger”)

than an apparent one.”
Fragment 93: “The lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither says nor
conceals, but gives a sign.”
Fragment 123: “Nature loves to hide.”
In fragment 18, Heraclitus asks us to be attuned to a world in which we

should orient ourselves appropriately toward “the unexpected.” That is, what
is going to happen, often, perhaps even typically, is “hidden” from us until
the unexpected is revealed as what happens. Moreover, the attunement he
clearly recommends is that we expect the unexpected, that is, orient ourselves
toward the world with the expectation (or even “hope”) that what is hidden
is not what we are counting on, not what we consider ordinary in the cours-
ing of things. Our attunement should thus be, first, toward what is hidden,
but toward it in a way that is open to the event that what we might “expect”
to reveal itself, to come into unhiddenness, will not be what happens. Our
attunement should be that of a certain responsive openness toward things,
ready and attuned to the possibility that it will be the new, the unexpected,
that emerges into unhiddenness. Only with such an attunement, Hera-
clitus suggests, will we discover the unexpected even when it emerges into
30 drew a. hyland
unhiddenness. As he somewhat sarcastically suggests in other fragments,

most of us, unattuned to the event of unhiddenness and so failing to discover
it, are like those “not comprehending, they hear like the deaf. The saying is
their witness: absent while present.”19 Our world is a world of the constant
and often surprising movement from hiddenness to unhiddenness, to which
we must be appropriately attuned or we will be oblivious to its happenings.
In this sense, our world is a world of truth.
This helps us to make sense of fragment 54: “An unapparent attunement
is better (or stronger) than an apparent one.”20 ‘Apparent attunements’ are
the ordinary, the everyday, what we are aware of if we just ‘go along’ with
things. Only the proper, listening attunement opens us to those stronger/
better attunements that are hidden to most, but will show themselves to the
properly attuned. The happening of things, that is, is already in Heraclitus
a double happening, the happening of what is hidden and revealed, or as in
this fragment, the apparent and the unapparent, and the happening of the
particular attunement of the ‘listener,’ who is either openly attuned to these
happenings or oblivious to them.
This same world-happening is true of the divine as well, as fragment 93
attests. “The lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither says nor conceals, but
gives a sign.” The divine, like the happening of things, is neither obvious and
straightforwardly apparent nor entirely hidden from human comprehension.
It “gives a sign,” that is, will be available to those who are properly attuned.
The unhiddenness of the divine, like that of things, again, needs humans since
it must in every case be interpreted, and the manner of interpretation, better
or worse, stronger or weaker, will be a function of the attunement of the one
who experiences the event.
Finally and perhaps most explicitly and decisively, fragment 123 reads,
“Nature loves to hide.” In paying heed to this fragment, it is important to
recall that the Greek φύσις, ‘nature,’ preserves its etymological sense of ‘that
which emerges, that which grows.’ ‘Nature’ thus should be taken not in the
modern mechanistic sense, but rather in the Greek sense of ‘the emergence of
things.’ So we might understand this fragment as “The emergence of things
loves to hide.” The fragment thus points to the very ground-experience out
of which the Greek word for ‘truth,’ alētheia (ἀλήθεια), might have arisen.
Nature, the emergence of things into unhiddenness, “loves,” that is, has a
natural tendency toward, hiddenness. The truth will thus not be apparent to
all, but only to the properly attuned, to whom truth, unhiddenness, can hap-
pen.21 And even to them, the revealing will be always and only partial, finite.
There is thus in Heraclitus, as in so many of the Greeks, a double source
of the finitude of human knowledge. One source is the finitude of human
capacity; our own finitude will always limit the extent to which we can com-
prehend (in the literal sense: take all together) our experience. The other is
nature itself, which “loves to hide,” which therefore will always contain, in
the midst of the deepest revelations, a remainder of ineluctable mystery.
Throughout the discussion so far, the reader may have noticed that I
have vacillated between visual and auditory metaphors for ‘understanding’
or ‘knowing,’ with a certain predominance of auditory metaphors. In doing
so, I have tried to be true to Heraclitus’s own language. The Greek word for
‘truth,’ alētheia, might seem most naturally to call forth metaphors for sight.
The movement from hiddenness to unhiddenness thus might seem most
naturally to be something that we see, and indeed, Heraclitus understandably
often does use sight metaphors for knowing or understanding. More often,
however, his preferred metaphor for such understanding is that of hearing,
and we should consider the significance of that choice. But first we must
reflect on the fact that it was a choice, reflect, that is, on the significance of
the Greek—and our—metaphors for understanding.
Like the Greeks, we tend to employ three sense metaphors for under-
standing and knowing: sight, touch, and hearing. We say often, “Do you see
what I mean?” or, almost as often, “Do you grasp my meaning?” or again
sometimes, “Do you hear what I’m saying, does that sound right to you?” In
the vast majority of cases, we take these different metaphors as more or less
synonymous, and rarely do we consider the very different nuances in play
in each of the sense-metaphors. But I believe there is good evidence that
the Greeks in general and Heraclitus in particular were much more self-
conscious about their choice of these metaphors, much more attuned—to
employ a hearing metaphor loved by Heraclitus—to the different nuances of
each metaphor. Let us briefly consider some of those nuances.
Begin with the sight metaphor, probably the predominant metaphor
for understanding for both the Greeks and us. Note first that for us to see
something, it must have a certain amount of stability, motionlessness. If
something is moving at a high speed, it becomes increasingly difficult to see.
The sight metaphor, that is, is most appropriate when we assume that the
objects of our understanding are stable, in the best cases even permanent and
unchangeable. Little wonder, then, that the sight metaphor is Plato’s pre-
ferred metaphor for his ‘forms,’ the primary words for which, εἶδος and ἰδέα,
are derived from words for ‘seeing.’ A second important feature of the sight
metaphor, especially by contrast to the other two, is distance. For someone
to see something, there must a certain distance from the observer (if I bring
something right up against my eyes, I can no longer see it), and with that dis-
tance goes a certain presumption of independence between object and seer.
32 drew a. hyland
When I ‘see’ something (at least in the everyday sense), it preserves a certain
independence from me. My ‘seeing’ it does not change it. In general, then,
the sight metaphor is perhaps the most appropriate metaphor to use when
we want to claim that our knowledge is ‘objective,’ a more or less pure ‘vision’
of stable objects.
Things are very different with the metaphor for touch, which historically
has usually taken the form of ‘grasping,’ as in “I grasp your meaning.” In
grasping, the distance in the sight metaphor is obliterated. To say that I grasp
something thus can imply that I have it in my power. In early modernity, as
the notion that ‘knowledge is power’ became predominant, it is hardly sur-
prising that the grasping metaphor for knowing also rose to prominence. It
should be added, however, that more recently some philosophers, and partic-
ularly some feminist philosophers, have decisively transformed the metaphor
of touch from the notion of power and control to the much more intimate
sense of the caress.22
To ‘hear’ something entails some very different nuances. For one, in seeing
and touching, the object seen or touched stops at the surface of our bodies,
but in hearing, the sound actually enters into our bodies and is experienced
as such.23 There is therefore something much more intimate about the hear-
ing metaphor. Perhaps even more important for Heraclitus, the ‘object’ we
hear, the sound, is itself in motion. Unlike the object of sight and touch, sound
is continually, constantly moving. The symphony flows, the notes disappear
as I hear them, and this is no less true of the words in the sentences we
utter. Hearing, that is, is the metaphor for understanding that reminds us
that things need not be stable for us to have intellectual access to them, that
that which is constantly moving can nonetheless be intelligible to us—if we
listen in the right way.
Can it be surprising, then, that Heraclitus would choose as his predomi-
nant metaphor for understanding that of hearing and listening? “Listening
not to me but to the λόγος, it is wise to agree that one (is) all,” says fragment
50. To cite just a few of the many other fragments that engage the metaphor
for hearing: what nearly everyone agrees is the first of Heraclitus’s frag-
ments, which opens his text, begins, “Of the λόγος which is forever, people
are uncomprehending, both before they have heard it and when they have
heard it.” Fragment 19 reads, “(People) do not know how to listen or how to
speak.” Fragment 34 reads, “Not comprehending, they hear like the deaf. The
saying is their witness: absent while present.” And speaking of the divine, in
fragment 92, Heraclitus says, “The Sibyl, with raving mouth utters things
mirthless and unadorned and unperfumed, and her voice carries through a
thousand years, because of the god.”
Why might Heraclitus privilege the somewhat less typical metaphor of

hearing? First of all, he speaks again and again, as we have seen with refer-
ence to the soul, but also with reference to the cosmos, of the λόγος, and it
must be remembered that in the still largely oral culture that is Heraclitus’s,
λόγος meant first and primarily spoken λόγος. As fragment 50 quoted above
well attests, the λόγος is first and fundamentally that which we must listen to.
Even further, we must recall that the λόγος of the soul is not something per-
manent and stable (which might make the sight metaphor more appropriate)
but increases itself, like the ongoing flow of music, or the flow of our speech.24
And the larger λόγος of the cosmos, the λόγος which is the ever-flowing
yet ordered harmony of oppositions and struggles that constitutes the hap-
pening of things, that λόγος also is best comprehended as heard. As my own
language in trying to understand Heraclitus has tried to intone, the proper
way of understanding for us is not to stand still or try to ‘halt’ the λόγος, but
to get into an attunement with the happening of things, move along in accord
with its flow. To harmonize with this sense of the way the world is, Heracli-
tus would seem to have privileged just the right metaphor, unusual as it may
be. To understand the world is to listen to the λόγος, harking (ἐπαῖοντας), as
Heraclitus tells us, to the nature of things. For those of us who have ears, let
us hear!
Notes
1. Pace Parmenides! This of course makes ever more question-worthy why Plato, who,
we are usually told, held just such a ‘doctrine,’ decided instead to present his thinking in
dialogues—and only in dialogues.
2. Throughout, I simply preserve the Greek λόγος, so that each readers may determine
the nuance most appropriate in each instance. The problems of how to translate λόγος,
and quite especially in Heraclitus, are notorious. It can mean ‘word,’ ‘speech,’ ‘sentence,’
‘account,’ ‘measure,’ ‘reason,’ and ‘language,’ among others. A particular problem in Hera-
clitus is to decide whether by λόγος he is usually referring to his own λόγος, that is, what
he is writing, or whether he is referring to a larger, even ‘cosmic’ λόγος, the ordered move-
ment of the world. Or both! My own preference is usually to give priority to the larger
notion of λόγος, to which Heraclitus’s own λόγος will refer just insofar as he is in ‘attun-
ement’ with the larger λόγος. This is a good example of Charles Kahn’s important notions
of ‘linguistic density’ and ‘resonance.’ See Charles Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 89.
3. One of the most thought-provoking and challenging longer discussions of Heracli-
tus’s style is the chapter “On Reading Heraclitus” in Kahn, The Art and Thought of Hera-
clitus, 87–95.
4. There is an inevitable arbitrariness in choosing to write on this or that topic in Hera-
clitus’s writing. He certainly did not divide his own thinking into ‘topics.’ Not surprisingly,
therefore, a consideration of his sentences on the soul will inevitably invoke many other
issues in his thinking, only a small selection of which I take up in this short essay.
34 drew a. hyland
5. I follow the standard enumeration of Diels-Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker
(1903; reprint, Zurich: Weidmann, 1968). Translations are my own, though they often
follow other standard ones. The Diels-Kranz is perhaps as close to a ‘neutral’ ordering as
one could get, since the fragments are simply arranged alphabetically by the source from
which they are derived. Kahn’s proposed ordering in The Art and Thought of Heraclitus is
certainly fruitful, but not as widely available or accepted. We do not know, of course, what,
if any ordering, Heraclitus himself had in mind. One is reminded in this regard of the
soon to be written fragment 5 of Parmenides: “It is all the same to me from what point I
begin, for I shall return again to this same point.”
6. See Martha Nussbaum, “Psychē in Heraclitus, II,” Phronesis 17, no. 2 (1972): 153–170.
7. Ibid., 169.
8. For the controversy over authenticity, see Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus, 79,
259–260.
9. There is some controversy as to whether the ‘or’ (Greek ἤ) should be ‘not’ (Greek μὴ).
If the latter, it may seem to contradict fragment 36. In any case, the authenticity of this
fragment is often contested. For discussion, see Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus,
77, 245, 332.
10. There is a good discussion of this controversy in his commentary on this series of
fragments in Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus, 237–254. Kahn himself argues con-
vincingly for the ‘breath’ hypothesis.
11. Ibid., 248.
12. Cobb translation, slightly modified. William Cobb, The Symposium and The Pha-
edrus: Plato’s Erotic Dialogues (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993).
13. Nussbaum, “Psychē (Greek) in Heraclitus, II,” 158.
14. This is in agreement with Kahn’s position. Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus,
251ff.
15. Because there was no punctuation in written Greek at the time of Heraclitus, how
the sentence is read must be left to interpretation. For example, it could read instead, “To
think soundly is the greatest virtue and wisdom, speaking and acting the truth, paying
heed to the nature of things.” Once again, Heraclitus may have intended the ambiguity,
thus invoking both meanings.
16. Perhaps paradigmatically in the Apology.
17. As representative of his address of this issue, particularly with reference to Hera-
clitus, see “Logos (Heraclitus, Fragment B 50),” pp. 70ff, and especially “Aletheia (Hera-
clitus, Fragment B 16),” both collected in Martin Heidegger, Early Greek Thinking, trans.
David Farrell Krell and Frank A. Capuzzi (New York: Harper & Row, 1975). Both articles
are originally from Heidegger’s 1954 Vortrage und Aufsätze.
18. Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh (Albany: State University of
New York Press, 1996), 204. In his Plato’s Doctrine of Truth, with a Letter on Humanism,
Heidegger argues that Plato paves the way for the abandoning of this earlier (and more
authentic) understanding of truth as unhiddenness, in favor of a conception of truth as
‘correctness.’ I attempt to call into question this reading in my Finitude and Transcendence
in the Platonic Dialogues (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995). See espe-
cially chapter 6, “Truth and Finitude: On Heidegger’s Reading of Plato,” 139–164.
19. Fragment 34. See also fragments 1, 71, 89.
20. I employ Kahn’s translation because ‘attunement’ preserves the musical, and so the
‘hearing’ intonation of the Greek harmoniē. Kahn’s excellent discussion of this fragment
(The Art and Thought of Heraclitus, 202–204) rightly emphasizes that the Greek word was
not as targeted toward the musical as our ‘harmony’ is, but nevertheless does have that
intonation among others.
21. Hyland, Finitude and Transcendence in the Platonic Dialogues. As I argue in chapter 6
of that book, truth as alētheia is everywhere in the Platonic dialogues.
22. See especially Luce Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference, trans. Carolyn Burke
and Gillian C. Gill (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993), especially the chapter
titled “The Fecundity of the Caress.” This momentous transformation is surely worth its
own study.
23. See Victor Zuckerkandl, Sound and Symbol, trans. Willard Trask and Norbert
Guterman (New York: Pantheon, 1956), for an excellent discussion of this matter.
24. Or, to cite another famous Heraclitean metaphor, like the flow of a river: “As they
step into the same rivers, other and still other waters flow upon them” (fragment 12; see
also fragment 91).
Key Readings
Brann, Eva. The Logos of Heraclitus. Philadelphia: Paul Dry Books, 2011.
Hegel, G. W. F. Hegel’s Lectures on the History of Philosophy, vol. 1. New York: Humanities
Press, 1963.
Heidegger, Martin. Early Greek Thinking. Translated by David Farrell Krell and Frank
Capuzzi. New York: Harper & Row, 1975.
Heidegger, Martin, and Eugen Fink. Heraclitus Seminar, 1966–67. Translated by Charles
H. Seibert. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1970.
Jacobs, David C., ed. The Presocratics after Heidegger. Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1999.
Kahn, Charles. The Art and Thought of Heraclitus: An Edition of the Fragments with Transla-
tion and Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks. Translated by Marianne
Cowan. Washington, D.C.: Regnery, 1962.
———. The Pre-Platonic Philosophers. Translated by Greg Whitlock. Urbana: University
of Illinois Press, 2006.
Robinson, T. M. Heraclitus: Fragments, a Text and Translation with a Commentary. To-
ronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987.
Justice, Change, and Knowledge: Aristotle,
Parmenides, and Melissus on Genesis and
Natural Science
Rose Cherubin
Probably we must first ask this question: whether generation is or is

not. The earlier people who philosophized concerning the truth dif-
fered both from the accounts we state now and from one another.
For some of them did away entirely with generation and destruction;
for they say that none of the things that are come-to-be or perish,
but only seem to us [to do so]; such were those around Melissus and
Parmenides; who, even if they otherwise spoke rightly, yet must be
considered as not speaking as students of nature; for that some of
the things that are ungenerated and are entirely unmoving belong to
another and more primary investigation than the science of nature.
And those [thinkers], supposing that nothing other than the sub-
stance [ousia] of sensible things is, and being the first to reflect that
some such natures will be if indeed any knowledge [gnōsis] or practi-
cal wisdom [phronēsis] is to be, thus transferred onto those [sensible]
things the account from that [the ungenerated and unmoving
objects]. (Aristotle, On the Heavens [De cael.] III.298b12–25)1
Aristotle extensively criticized Eleatic treatments of physis (roughly, nature).

In this passage, however, he allows that some Eleatics spoke rightly on at
least some things. What does Aristotle think that those around Parmenides
and Melissus got right? How is this related to the study of nature?
This essay argues that Aristotle, Parmenides, and Melissus all associated
the quest for understanding with accepting that something is permanent and
stable. Like Parmenides, Aristotle sought to discover what we would need to
say and conceive in order to seek reasoned understanding. Aristotle diverged
from Parmenides and Melissus by exploring a way to delineate an area in
which some limited grasp of movement and change would be possible, a
37
38 rose cherubin
conceptual space wherein the account of movement and change would be

coherent and internally consistent.
Aristotle does not say that we must accept those things because they are
true or accurate. He does not claim that what we say is, is what is. He does
not say that the epistēmē concerning physis is unconditional knowledge of the
nature of what is, knowledge that holds across all contexts and is indepen-
dent of how we conceive things. Rather, he portrays knowledge of mutable
things as an understanding that is possible given certain parameters, axioms,
and hypotheses.
I. Introduction
Aristotle connects the inquiry of On the Heavens to that of the Physics (De
cael. I.268a29ff.). Physics I argues that Parmenides and Melissus worked from
assumptions incompatible with the starting points of an inquiry about physis.
The things that we say are “by nature [physei]” are those that each have “in
itself a principle of motion [kinēsis] and of staying still [stasis],” with respect
to place, to increase or decrease, and/or to alteration (Phys. II.192b11–15).2
Therefore it is not surprising to read in On the Heavens 298b18 that the fol-
lowers of Parmenides and Melissus were “not speaking as students of nature.”
The On the Heavens passage describes Parmenides’s and Melissus’s circles
as the first to reflect that something ungenerated and unperishing will exist if
any gnōsis or phronēsis is to be possible. Aristotle appears to concur with this
reflection. This raises three questions:
1. To what in Eleatic thought does Aristotle refer? Since Aristotle does not
name the thinkers of Parmenides’s or Melissus’s circles, we must look to the
work that attracted these circles. What if anything in Parmenides and Melis-
sus fits Aristotle’s description?
2. Is there evidence that Aristotle accepted that there must be something ungener-
ated and unperishing if we are to have gnōsis and phronēsis? Was Aristotle in
accord with the insight he attributes to those around Parmenides and Melis-
sus? Certainly Aristotle argued that there is something ungenerated and
unperishing that underlies physical change (Phys. I.190a13ff., VIII.250b11–
253a21; De cael. I.270a12ff.). What if anything does that have to do with his
position on the possibility of gnōsis and phronēsis?
3. What if any connection does Aristotle’s response to that Eleatic reflection have
to his work concerning things that move or change? Certain principles that Aris-
totle followed in his work on moving and changing things echo Parmenidean
concerns about inquiry. However, Parmenides’s discussion was oriented toward
alētheia (roughly, truth) alone, whereas Aristotle was interested also in what
justice, change, and knowledge 39
can be demonstrated within certain conditions or under certain hypotheses.

Far from claiming to provide an account of how the world is, independent
of any particular assumptions or conceptions of it, Aristotle’s works on physis
show what can be said with consistency, and what can be inferred about things
that move and change, if we accept certain parameters and assumptions. Aris-
totle shows what needs to be accepted in order to have a consistent account of
things that we suppose to move and change; and he shows the limits of that
consistency. This indicates, we will see, that he took Parmenidean concerns
seriously. In addition, we can see his acknowledgment of starting presupposi-
tions and their limitations as an important part of the search for alētheia.
II. Generation, Destruction, and Knowledge: Parmenides

and Melissus
The term Aristotle uses for ‘coming-to-be’ or ‘generation’ in the passage under
discussion is genesis. Genesis refers to any sort of coming-to-be: birth, cre-
ation, emergence, becoming different. For ‘destruction’ in the On the Heavens
passage Aristotle uses phthora (‘destruction,’ ‘ceasing to be,’ ‘perishing’) and
forms of the related verb phtheirō.
In the fragments of Melissus, Aristotle’s terms gnōsis and phronēsis and
their relatives do not appear. Relatives of each term appear once in Par-
menides: gnoiēs at DK 28B2.7, and phroneein at B16.3.3 Therefore we must
look at uses of these terms in Parmenides and at the uses and associations
of gnōsis and phronēsis in Aristotle. We must then consider whether and how
these meanings and associations might appear in discussions of coming-to-
be and perishing in Parmenides and Melissus.
Gnōsis
Aristotle uses gnōsis to refer to several kinds of knowledge, including technē
(craft knowledge involving knowledge of causes) (Met. I.981a16); knowl-
edge of a universal (kath’ holou) (Met. I.981a16; An. post. I.71a19); knowledge
sought by investigation (De an. I.402a5); knowledge whose acquisition
involves investigating results of hypotheses (Top. VIII.163b9). (For brevity
I cite only the senses most relevant here; see also Met. I.981b11; An. post.
I.71a2, II.99b22, 99b29; De cael. III.302a11; EN I.1094a23.)4
Melissus and Gnōsis

Melissus argues that sensation is unreliable regarding how what-is5 is (DK
30B8). He considers reasoning according to certain principles—today we
would call them principles of identity, noncontradiction, excluded middle,
40 rose cherubin
and modus tollens—to be the way to obtain a correct account of what-is.

Having a correct account of what-is by means of reasoning according to
principles would belong under gnōsis for Aristotle. Aristotle and Melissus
differ as to what kinds of thing count as reliable in an account of what-is, and
as to which accounts are correct. But they agree that reasoned inference is a
way to get a correct account. Therefore when Aristotle wrote that Melissus
or his followers held that gnōsis required the being of ungenerated, unperish-
ing, unchanging things, he may have meant that Melissus et al. thought that
a correct account of what-is required that there be something ungenerated,
unperishing, and unchanging. Do the fragments of Melissus support this
characterization of his work?
Melissus concludes that what- is is one, ungenerated, unperishing,
unchanging, unlimited, and homogeneous. He argues that if there were
many things, they would be such as the one what-is is. This accords with
Aristotle’s contention that Melissus or those around him held that sensible
things, if real, would be ungenerated, unperishing, and unmoving (B8). (For
Melissus, though, sensible things are not. What-is cannot have parts, limits,
or counterparts [B7, B8].)
This does not yet justify Aristotle’s report, for it does not establish that
for Melissus no correct account is possible without there being something
ungenerated, unperishing, and unchanging. What, then, does Melissus take
to be the relationship between the existence of something ungenerated,
unperishing, and unchanging, on the one hand, and a correct account of
what-is, on the other?
Melissus argues that if what-is is, it must not come-to-be, perish, or
change (B1–B3, B7–B8). It must not come-to-be, because it would have had
to come-to-be from nothing (μηδέν, B1), and he takes as axiomatic that no
thing could come from nothing. What-is could not perish or change, because
if it came to an end it would have completed coming-to-be at some time (B2).
That would imply multiplicity (different states), whereas what-is is one (B7).
Melissus seems to have accepted that certain principles of inference are
valid and that they apply to what-is. For example, his argument in B1 seems
to be this:
1. Whatever is either came-to-be or did not come-to-be. (Let us abbre-

viate “Whatever is came-to-be” as X. Then [1] asserts: Either X or
not-X.)
2. If whatever is came-to-be, it must have been nothing before it came-
to-be. (“Not-being = being nothing” appears to be an axiom for
Melissus.)
3. [No thing can come-to-be from nothing.] (unstated axiom)

4. [The conjunction of X and the axiom results in a contradiction.]
(unstated inference)
5. Therefore whatever is did not come-to-be. (Therefore not-X.) (infer-
ence by modus tollens, thus by noncontradiction and excluded middle)
6. [If something is, then either it came-to-be or it always was.]
(unstated axiom)
7. Therefore whatever is always was. (inference by modus tollens)
It looks, then, as though Melissus assumes that something is, assumes that
his principles of inference are valid, assumes that applying these principles
will result in a correct account, and concludes that what-is is ungenerated,
unperishing, and unchanging.
If this reconstruction of his reasoning is correct, then Melissus does not
say quite what Aristotle takes him to be saying. Both the possibility of a
correct account and the conclusion that something is ungenerated, unperish-
ing, and unchanging depend on the principles of inference and the axioms
Melissus accepts (plus the assumption that the principles of inference apply
to all of what-is). From the fragments alone, then, the claim that a correct
account is possible and available does not depend on the claim that some-
thing is unperishing, and unchanging. Rather, both of those claims depend
on a third thing.
There may be more support for Aristotle’s report. Loenen observes that
the paraphrases of Melissus in Simplicius (in Phys. 103, 13) and in On Melis-
sus, Xenophanes, and Gorgias 974a2 suggest that Melissus’s “basic thesis” was
τι ἔστιν, ‘something is.’6 Simplicius presents Melissus’s argument for the the-
sis as “If nothing is, what could be said about it as of something that is? But if
something is, either it is something that comes-to-be or it always is.”7
If Simplicius’s paraphrase is accurate, Melissus rejects the thesis “nothing
is” because one could not formulate a way to speak about nothing as [a] being
(using the logical principles Melissus accepted). Then he would reject the
idea that things could cease to be the way they are, and the idea that things
could cease to be entirely. If this analysis is correct, then Melissus implies
that only if what-is is ungenerated, unperishing, and unchanging could one
have a coherent account, and thus a correct account. For Melissus, the only
correct (consistent) accounts are coherent, and—because he seems to think
that what-is conforms to his logical principles—the only coherent accounts
are consistent and correct.
Simplicius’s Melissus thus connects the notion that what-is is ungenerated
and unperishing with the possibility of a coherent and consistent account
42 rose cherubin
of what-is. Aristotle’s gnōsis, in its use of reasoning toward truth, needs to

be coherent and consistent. Thus if Simplicius is accurate, Melissus in effect
suggests that there will need to be something stable that always is, if a kind
of knowledge that Aristotle would call gnōsis is to be possible.
Gnōsis: Parmenides’s Gnoiēs

We have noted that Parmenides does not use the noun gnōsis, but uses gnoiēs,
from the related verb gignōskein. Fragment B2.7–8 reads,
For neither would you recognize [gnoiēs] what-is-not—for that is

not accomplished—
Nor would you indicate it. (Parmenides DK 28B2)
B2 does not mention generation or destruction. At DK 28B8.20–21, how-

ever, the goddess suggests that if something comes-to-be or perishes, then
it is not or was not or will not be. Thus generation and destruction invoke
what-is-not. A reference to what-is-not need not imply a reference to gen-
eration or destruction. Still, if she holds that recognizing what-is-not is
impossible for humans, and if she holds that generation and destruction
invoke what-is-not, then the goddess implies that gignōskein is not compat-
ible with generation and destruction.
Now, Aristotle’s assertion in the On the Heavens passage was not that
those around Parmenides and Melissus merely associated gnōsis with the
being of something ungenerated and undestroyed. It was that those Eleatic
circles held that the possibility of gnōsis depended on the being of something
ungenerated and undestroyed. Therefore we must look further for whether
anything in Parmenides would support Aristotle’s assertion.
Phronēsis: Parmenides’s Reference to Phroneein

The single use of a relative of phronēsis in Parmenides is in B16.3:
For as on each occasion there is a mixture of much-wandering

limbs,
So mind [noos] is present to humans; for the same
Is that which phroneei and the nature of the limbs in humans
Both for all and for each, and the more is what is thought [noēma].
(Parmenides DK 28B16)
B16 is generally thought to fall within the goddess’s account of the opin-
ions of mortals—opinions she deems untrustworthy (B1.30, B8.52). In the
extant fragments the goddess does not connect phroneein and the being of
something ungenerated, unperishing, and unmoving. Therefore we must ask
whether anything in Parmenides’s fragments connects the being of such an
entity with the possibility of what Aristotle called phronēsis.
Aristotle on Phronēsis
Phronēsis is an intellectual excellence, “a truthful characteristic of acting with
reason concerning matters good and bad for humans” (EN VI.1140b6–8,
1140b21–22). It is the excellence of logistikos (reasoning, calculation) (Top.
VI.145a31). When phronēsis is present in animals, sensation is both for the
sake of self-preservation and “for the sake of the good or well-being” of the
animal (On Sense and What Is Sensed 437a1).8
On the Soul I.404b5 refers to nous “in the sense of,” or “saying” phronēsis.
At Rhetoric I.1364b16ff., “what phronimos people judge to be a greater
good must necessarily be such, either without qualification [haplōs] or in
so far as they have judged according to phronēsis . . . The what, quantity,
and quality of things is such as would be defined by epistēmē and phronēsis”
(cf. Top. V.137a14ff.).9 What and how things really are is supposed to be
such as would be determined by epistēmē and phronēsis (Rhet. I.1364b16–19).
Epistēmē involves knowledge of causes, general principles concerning how
and why things work as they do—at least as far as is required in order to have
regular predictive success (Met. I.981b7–982b10).
Phronēsis also has a connection to alētheia. Phronēsis is alēthēs, truthful (EN
VI.1140b6–8, b21–22). Phronēsis, epistēmē, and alēthēs doxa (true opinion) are
examples of right (orthōs) conceiving/intending/apprehending (noein), con-
trasted with cases of conceiving falsely (pseudōs) (De an. III.427b10ff.).
To summarize, phronēsis in Aristotle is a way of conceiving rightly or truly,
in accordance with alētheia. It has to do on the one hand with correctly iden-
tifying, and then selecting and pursuing, what is good, and on the other with
grasping what things are and how they work. With this in mind, we will
find that there is much more in Parmenides that is pertinent to Aristotle’s
phronēsis than the single use of phroneei in the extant fragments.
Dikē, Anankē, Moira, and the Characteristics of What-Is in Parmenides

Parmenides’s goddess ties inquiry oriented by alētheia to the exclusion of
generation and destruction. She asserts that on a road of inquiry oriented
by alētheia, signs indicate that what-is is ungenerated, unperishing, whole, of
one kind, unshaking, complete, without past or future, all together, one, and
continuous (B8.3–6, corresponding to the road associated with alētheia in
B2). To be on this road of inquiry requires speaking and conceiving (noein)
44 rose cherubin
of what-is in a way that accords with the signs. On this road one is to speak
and conceive of what-is as ungenerated and unperishing because of the
work of dikē (roughly, justice) (B8.13–15). Necessity, anankē, is responsible
for what-is being continuous, complete, and unmoving (B8.29–32). Fate or
portion, moira, ensures that what-is is whole, unified, and not in any way
lacking (B8.33–38). Because the On the Heavens passage concerns genera-
tion, destruction, and movement, and because Parmenides’s goddess appears
to assimilate all change to coming-to-be from and perishing into what-is-
not, for brevity I will treat only dikē here.10
In her discussion of the road of inquiry she recommends, the goddess says
that dikē excludes the coming-to-be and perishing of what-is. This draws on
the traditional meanings and associations of dikē. Dikē was the characteristic
way of a kind of thing, as well as the overall balance, regularity, and order of
the universe. As balance and as provider of regularities, dikē was cosmic justice.
On this conception, if something could come-to-be from nothing or
perish into nothing, there would be no regularities and no predictable or
consistent characteristics. We could not rely on anything to have a stable
identity or recognizable characteristics. A thing could appear or disappear
entirely, or some of its characteristics could appear or disappear, for no trace-
able reason. Inquiry would not work. We could not recognize when we had
found what we sought.
According to the goddess, dikē also prohibits change, including move-
ment. In the B8 discussion of the recommended road of inquiry, she suggests
that all change requires that something come-to-be from or perish into
nothing or not-being or what-is-not. To illustrate what this might mean,
suppose that some eon, some thing, was blue all over and then became yel-
low all over. The blue color or the blueness has disappeared from the thing.
Something that was (a blue thing, or a thing’s blueness) now is not. A yellow
thing, or a thing’s yellowness, has come-to-be from not-being. But dikē does
not allow coming-to-be or destruction; what-is does not come-to-be and
nothing comes-to-be alongside what is (B8.9–15). From B8.22, 8.26–30,
and 8.37–38, what-is is all alike, unchanging, and unmoving.
In Parmenides, then, reasoned inquiry calls for us to understand what-
is as ungenerated and unperishing. Alētheia shares this requisite. Alētheia is
roughly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as conveyed
through trustworthy eyewitness accounts or through accounts that connect
their objects to origins.11 The second kind of transmission certainly calls for
a world where nothing comes from or perishes into nothing or what-is-not.
The possibility of a reliable eyewitness calls for the conditions Parmenides
associates with the workings of dikē. One could not trust identifications or
memory if the conditions Parmenides attributes to dikē were not in effect, or

if one did not conceive that they were.
Dikē in Parmenides is responsible for the ungenerated, unperishing, and
unchanging nature of what-is. We can carry out an inquiry and seek alētheia
if in our inquiry we suppose that dikē is in effect. Conceiving of what-is
under this supposition means supposing that what-is is ungenerated, unper-
ishing, and unchanging in the senses that Parmenides’s goddess intends.
On this reading, there is clear justification for Aristotle’s assertion that
Parmenides or his supporters held that what-is has to be ungenerated, unper-
ishing, and unchanging if what Aristotle called gnōsis and phronēsis are to be
possible. We have seen that for Aristotle, phronēsis is oriented toward alētheia.
Therefore it must respect the requisites of the quest for alētheia. Additionally,
both gnōsis and phronēsis as Aristotle conceived them include knowledge of
what things are and of how things work. Phronēsis also involves an under-
standing of the appropriate places and roles of things. Dikē traditionally
regulated the characteristics proper to things, but also the overall balance and
order of what-is. Thus Aristotle’s phronēsis is connected to Parmenides’s dikē,
and so to the conception of what-is as unchanging, ungenerated, and unper-
ishing. The possibility of Aristotelian phronēsis is tied to the conception of a
world of beings ordered by dikē.
In Parmenides there is a tension between the requisites of inquiry. Inquiry
calls for what-is to be understood as ungenerated, unperishing, unchanging
(and one and continuous); but inquiry also involves multiple steps, the pas-
sage of time, and the identification of distinct things. Even dikē, anankē, and
moira are originally defined in terms of a world of multiple and changing
things, yet when followed to their logical conclusions they point to ungener-
ated everlasting stability.
If we share Parmenides’s account of the requisites of inquiry or Aristo-
tle’s notions of phronēsis and gnōsis, a question arises as to what if any kind
of understanding we might be able to gain of the multifarious changing
observable world. Are we doomed to ignorance, or to deceptive and deficient
opinions about that world? In his work on physical science Aristotle sought
to discover the limits, parameters, and conditions within which we could
develop a consistent account of the nature and workings of the things we
say are.
III. Aristotle and What Is Ungenerated and Unperishing

The remark in On the Heavens with which we began suggested that Aris-
totle agreed that there must be something ungenerated, unperishing, and
46 rose cherubin
unchanging if there is to be phronēsis and gnōsis. But to study physis, and

especially to seek epistēmē (science) concerning physis, Aristotle says, one
must accept that some things move, change, and in some respect come-to-be
and perish (Phys. I.184b26–185a21, I.7). Does anything he says suggest that
we must also accept some ungenerated everlasting stability in order to foster
something like phronēsis or gnōsis specifically regarding physis?
Epistēmē, Hypotheses, and What We Say

Aristotle begins the Physics by noting that in inquiries concerned with prin-
ciples and causes and elements, knowing (epistasthai) and understanding
involve being aware of those principles, causes, and elements (I.184a10–12).
We suppose, says Aristotle, that that of which we have epistēmē in an
unqualified sense cannot be otherwise than it is (An. post. I.71b10–12; EN
VI.1139b20ff.). Having epistēmē about something depends on grasping the
aitiai and archai, causes and principles, of that thing (EN VI.1139b31–35;
Met. I.982a1–6), why it is as it is (Met. I.981a15–30, 981b7–12, 981b25–
982a1, etc.). While the most fundamental causes and principles of what-is
qua what-is are investigated by first philosophy, other epistēmai cut off some
portion of what-is and study only that (Met. IV.1003a21–26). Once its
area of study is delineated, each such particular science investigates neither
the hypotheses and axioms by which it is delineated (An. post. I.71a1–17,
I.72a15– 25) nor the basic principles common to all sciences (Met.
IV.1005b24ff.).
By “hypothesis,” Aristotle means not a statement to be tested, but an
uninvestigated foundational supposition (a literal translation of hypothesis
is ‘something laid under’). As Thomas Upton argues, within the particular
sciences,
technical hypotheses . . . are immune to scientific, i.e. applied

dialectical objections. However, these ἀρχαί are not necessarily
immune to ontological objections to the ontological status (i.e. in
what sense, if any, are genera real beings?) of that subject-genus
which they hypothesize to exist . . .
. . . For the physicist the empirical evidence for the reality of
the essential, common sensible, motion (cf. De An. 418a15–20) is
sufficient enough to base the hypothesis that nature is the cause of
motion and rest, in those things in which it inheres καθ’ αὑτό.12
Upton’s reference to “empirical evidence” draws on remarks such as these:

“Let us lay down [hypokeisthō] that the things of nature, either some or all
of them, are moving things; and this is clear from induction [epagōgē]” (Phys.
I.185a12–14). (Hypokeisthō is a form of hypotithēmi, from which hypothesis
derives.) The things that are said to be by physis appear “to have in themselves
a principle of moving and of staying still . . . physis is then a principle and a
cause of being moved and of being still [ēremein] in those things to which it
belongs primarily . . . and not accidentally” (Phys. II.192b8–23). That there is
physis, is phaneros, visible or manifest. It cannot, Aristotle says, be proven, for
it would have to be proven from what is aphanēs, unseen or unmanifest. That
attempt at proof would encounter the problem that we would not be able to
be sure that the terms we were using referred to or accounted for real, visible
things (Phys. II.193a1–9).
The status in Aristotelian physics of the hypothesis that there are moving
things is the same as the status in geometry of the axioms and hypotheses of
that field (Phys. I.185a15ff.). Aristotle does not claim that one must accept the
suppositions of geometry, except when engaging in geometry; and similarly
he does not claim that one must accept that there are moving things, except
insofar as one seeks an epistēmē of them. He does not claim that the basic
suppositions of physics are unconditionally true, and he does not claim that
they are unproblematic outside the scope of inquiry into nature. He accepts
them for purposes of seeking epistēmē regarding the world we say we observe.
What, then, of the claim that there is something unchanging, ungener-
ated, and unperishing?
The On the Heavens passage, and the Metaphysics IV and Posterior Analytics
I passages mentioned above, place the study of unchanging principles outside
the study of physis, in the inquiry into what-is qua what-is (first philosophy).
This compartmentalization does not remove the potential for conflicts within
the study of physis, however. For Aristotle argues that even within the study
of physis, we must accept that there is some substrate that is ungenerated,
unperishing, and stable (De cael. I.270a12ff.; Phys. I.190a13ff., VIII.1–2).
This threatens to raise Eleatic-style concerns about how something stable
could coherently be said to give rise to changeable and impermanent things.
Aristotle’s response (Phys. I.189b32ff.) focuses on what we say and sup-
pose. He makes no claim about whether what-is is as we say it is:
From all things which come-to-be one may gather this, if one is to
attend carefully to how we speak—that there must be always [aei]
something which underlies that which is coming-to-be and that
this, even if one in number is in form not one; . . . for “in a man”
and “in the unmusical [thing]” are not the same. And the former
persists, while the latter does not. (Phys. I.190a13ff.)
48 rose cherubin
We say that a man persists while becoming a musical man, but that the
unmusical thing he was does not persist. If we say that something always
persists through all changes, we imply that there is something ungenerated,
unperishing, and stable in what it is.
This implication follows from what we say and have so far supposed:
Thus it is clear that, if there are causes and principles of the things
that are by nature, from which they are, and that it is said that they
come-to-be not accidentally but in accordance with their substance/
being, then all come-to-be from the substrate/underlying and the
form. (Phys. I.190b17)
This conclusion provides what Aristotle describes as the solution to the dif-
ficulty posed by earlier thinkers concerning how things can come-to-be. But
as David Bolotin notes, this solution is only apparent, for
the notion of a single substrate that receives in turn the various

forms offers no way of explaining why a certain being must come to
be from definite antecedents . . . This interpretation of the princi-
ples, then, though it may allow us to deny that something can come
to be from nothing, does not rule out . . . the notion that anything,
among the possible beings, can come into being from anything
else.13
That is, the language of forms and substrates does not solve the problem of
why changes occur the way they do and not another way, why some changes
are possible and some are not. Further, we have noted that Aristotle’s use of
the conceptions of form and substrate is grounded in his observations about
what we say. We do not say simply that everything that changes involves a
substrate that takes on various forms. We say that the specific things that
change each have a substrate and can take on specific forms.
In other words, when we describe changes, we invoke the conditions that
Parmenides associated with dikē and that Aristotle associated with the possi-
bility of gnōsis and phronēsis. The conditions that enforced that nothing come
from nothing also enforced the identity of kinds of thing, and the regulari-
ties and limitations of processes.
It is not up to the Aristotelian study of physis to explain how or why these
conditions hold, for we need to assume that they are in place if we are to seek
understanding of the world of motion and change. Without that assumption,
we also could not say that anything was a cause or a principle; we could not
have epistēmē as Aristotle represents it. Aristotle does not say that he accepts
the assumption because he thinks it is independently or unconditionally true.
He indicates that one must accept it in order to conduct a reasoned inquiry
toward an epistēmē of things that come-to-be, perish, and change. This is to
accept the norms that make phronēsis possible.
In Parmenides’s work, as we saw, a tension arose among the things we
are to say and conceive in order to inquire and to seek alētheia. In order to
inquire, we suppose both that what-is is ungenerated, unperishing, unchang-
ing, and one; and that there are distinct things, and events in passing time.
Insofar as they engender contradictions, these suppositions are inadequate
to the task of conveying the alētheia. Yet we could not have uncovered this
without them.
Aristotle built on this Parmenidean insight. Instead of rejecting the pos-
sibility of inquiry into the world of apparently mutable things, Aristotle
explored the conditions that ground and delimit the consistency and pre-
dictive efficacy of our working account of the natural world. In so doing he
revealed a gap between predictive success and alētheia. The contrast between
Aristotle’s approach and that of Parmenides suggests that orienting ourselves
toward alētheia calls on us to seek the limitations of our conceptions, and to
continue to find new ways to investigate what we say.
Notes
1. On the Heavens, trans. W. K. C. Guthrie, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1939). All translations are my own.
2. Physica, ed. W. D. Ross, Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1950).
3. Fragment numbering follows H. Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, ed. W. Kranz,
6th ed. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1951). The text of Parmenides is D. Sider and H. W. John-
stone, The Fragments of Parmenides, Bryn Mawr Greek Commentaries (Bryn Mawr:
Thomas Library, Bryn Mawr College, 1986). The text of Melissus is D. W. Graham, The
Texts of Early Greek Philosophy, part I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).
4. Metaphysica, ed. W. Jaeger, Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1957); Analytica Priora et Posteriora, ed. W. D. Ross and L. Minuo-Paluello,
Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964); Topica et So-
phistici Elenchi, ed. W. D. Ross, Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1958); The Nicomachean Ethics, trans. H. Rackham, rev. ed., The Loeb Classical
Library (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1934); On the Soul; Parva Natura-
lia; On Breath, trans. W. S. Hett, rev. ed., The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1957).
5. To avoid locutions such as ‘what is is,’ I translate Melissus’s τὸ ὄν and Parmenides’s and
Melissus’s τὸ ἐόν as ‘what-is’ or ‘being’; τὸ μὴ ὄν and τὸ μὴ ἐόν as ‘what-is-not’ or ‘not-being.’
6. J. H. M. M. Loenen, Parmenides Melissus Gorgias (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1959), 15ff.,
125ff.
50 rose cherubin
7. Graham, The Texts of Early Greek Philosophy, 468.

8. On the Soul; Parva Naturalia; On Breath.
9. Ars rhetorica, ed. W. D. Ross, Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis (Ox-
ford: Clarendon Press, 1986). Cf. Rhetoric I.1363b14; Met. I.982b6–24.
10. On dikē, anankē, and moira in Parmenides, see H. Fränkel, Parmenidesstudien, in
Wege und Formen frühgriechischen Denkens, 2nd ed. (Munich: Beck, 1960): 157–197, 162–
173; J. Mansfeld, Die Offenbarung des Parmenides und die menschliche Welt (Assen: Van
Gorcum, 1964), 261–273; G. Vlastos, “Equality and Justice in Early Greek Cosmologies,”
in Studies in Greek Philosophy, vol. 1, ed. D. W. Graham (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Uni-
versity Press, 1993), 57–88; A. P. D. Mourelatos, The Route of Parmenides, rev. ed (Las Ve-
gas: Parmenides, 2008), 25–29, 148–154, 160–162; S. Austin, Parmenides: Being, Bounds,
and Logic (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986), chap. 4; C. Collobert, L’Être
de Parménide ou le refus du temps (Paris: Kimé, 1993), 50–59; C. Robbiano, Becoming Be-
ing (Sankt Augustin: Akademia, 2006), chap. 6; R. Cherubin, “Alētheia from Poetry into
Philosophy: Homer to Parmenides,” in Logos and Muthos, ed. W. Wians, 59–72 (Albany:
State University of New York Press, 2009).
11. See T. Krischer, “ΕΤΥΜΟΣ und ΑΛΗΘΗΣ,” Philologus 109 (1965): 161–174; T.
Cole, “Archaic Truth,” Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 42 (1983): 7–28; P. Constan-
tineau, “La Question de la vérité chez Parménide,” Phoenix 41 (1987): 217–240; G. Ger-
mani, “ΑΛΗΘΕΙΗ in Parmenide,” La Parola del Passato 43 (1988): 177–206; M. Detienne,
Les Maîtres de vérité dans la grèce archaïque, rev. ed. (Paris: Éditions La Découverte, 1990).
12. T. Upton, “Aristotle on Hypothesis and the Unhypothesized First Principle,” Re-
view of Metaphysics 39, no. 2 (1985): 283–301, 292.
13. D. Bolotin, An Approach to Aristotle’s Physics (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1998), 17.
Key Readings
Barrett, James. “Struggling with Parmenides.” Ancient Philosophy 24, no. 2 (2004): 267–
291.
Curd, Patricia. The Legacy of Parmenides: Eleatic Monism and Later Presocratic Thought. Las
Vegas: Parmenides, 2004.
Graham, Daniel W. Explaining the Cosmos: The Ionian Tradition of Scientific Philosophy.
Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2006.
Hankinson, R. J. “Philosophy of Science” and “Science.” In The Cambridge Companion
to Aristotle, edited by Jonathan Barnes, 109–139 and 140–167. Cambridge: Cam-
Heidegger, Martin. Early Greek Thinking. New York: Harper & Row, 1975.
———. Parmenides. Studies in Continental Thought. Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1992.
Hermann, Arnold. To Think Like God: Pythagoras and Parmenides, the Origins of Philosophy.
Las Vegas: Parmenides, 2004.
Johansen, Thomas K. “From Plato’s Timaeus to Aristotle’s De caelo: The Case of the Miss-
ing World Soul.” In New Perspectives on Aristotle’s De caelo, Philosophia Antiqua
117, edited by Alan C. Bowen and Christian Wildberg, 9–28. Leiden: Brill, 2009.
Loenen, J. H. M. M. Parmenides, Melissus, Gorgias: A Reinterpretation of Eleatic Philosophy.
Assen, Netherlands: Van Gorcum, 1959.
Miller, Mitchell. “Ambiguity and Transport: Some Reflections on the Proem to Par-
menides’ Poem.” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 30 (2006): 1–47.
Mourelatos, Alexander P. D. The Route of Parmenides. Rev. and expanded ed. Las Vegas:
Parmenides, 2008.
Naddaf, Gerard. The Greek Concept of Nature. SUNY Series in Ancient Greek Philosophy.
Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005.
Robbiano, Chiara. Becoming Being: On Parmenides’ Transformative Philosophy. Internation-
al Pre-Platonic Studies, vol. 5. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag, 2006.
Schürmann, Reiner. Broken Hegemonies. Studies in Continental Thought. Bloomington:
“As He Says in His Poetical Way”: Anaximander and
Empedocles on the Motive Forces of Kosmos
Phil Hopkins
In saying this we mean to intimate that the differentiation of

“nature and spirit” is simply foreign to the Greeks.
—Martin Heidegger
Beginning with the Pre-Socratics, early philosophical thinkers published

their thoughts, read the published works of others, and engaged in frequent
conversation about those works, all of which shaped their questions and their
approaches to those questions and deeply informed their insights. As is the
case with any such conversation, central terms and key concepts can become
fixed from much handling and grow specialized, even technical. Paths of
thinking trod often and in large company become well-worn and take one
always through the same familiar woods.
With respect to early Greek cosmology, those paths typically lead to and
through conceptions of the kosmos that are material and mechanistic. When
pretty much everyone from Aristotle on reads the Pre-Socratics, we tend to
find them engaged in a search for a (or several) material principle(s) out of
which all that is comes to be and is constituted, and for a force, a mechanism,
that puts the kosmos and its dynamic processes in motion and keeps it mov-
ing. We read them as asking primarily about the stuff and motive force of the
kosmos, and we interpret their works with a distinct bias toward the mechani-
cal metaphysics we have found most comfortable inhabiting ourselves for
many centuries now. Scholarship on the question of material principles is
comprehensive and illuminating. Scholarship on the question of motive
force is a bit more tentative, as it can be difficult to interpret what the earli-
est thinkers have to say on this subject, particularly from that mechanistic
vantage point.
53
54 phil hopkins
In scholarship and conversation, as in wandering, one way to overcome

this hermeneutic attenuation is to attend to those moments on our path that
surprise us or unsettle us, to those terms and concepts our usual wandering
makes harder to see or hear. This will be our approach in this chapter: to
listen carefully to the words used by the thinker to articulate his vision, par-
ticularly those that strike us as figurative, metaphorical, or poetic rather than
technical and literal.
We have just this sort of interesting language in the very first bit of philo-
sophical musing that survives in a single sentence from Anaximander. In this
fragment, the question of the nature of kosmos is explicitly framed as a ques-
tion of justice, particularly as a question of what the parts of the kosmos owe
to each other and how they may, in accordance with ‘the assessment of time,’
relate to each other such that each may be accorded its due. Such a framing
illuminates the Greek conception of kosmos. Kosmos and its verbal, kosmei,
primarily signify ‘order.’ A good translation would be ‘world-order’; but this
term also communicates to the Greek ear strife and opposition, even war,
and also, interestingly, beauty. Kosmos is the balanced and balancing order
with which the world adorns (another common meaning of the term) itself
such that justice is possible. Using this clue as our guide, we will examine two
thinkers whose conceptions of the motive forces of the kosmos are very much
concerned with questions of order and justice and the possibility of harmony
amid strife and opposition: Anaximander and Empedocles.
Anaximander’s Just Kosmos

Simplicius quotes the sole fragment of Anaximander that we have reason to
believe is a direct transmission of his language:
Of those who say that it [the original principle] is one, moving, and
infinite, Anaximander, son of Praxiades, a Milesian, the successor
and pupil of Thales, said that the principle and element of existing
things was the ἄπειρον (infinite), being the first to introduce this
name of the material principle. He says that it is neither water nor
any other of the so-called elements, but some other ἄπειρον nature,
from which come into being all the heavens and the κόσμοι in
them. From that source which is the genesis for the things that are,
to that source also they return ‘of necessity’ when they suffer cor-
ruption; ‘for they submit to punishment and make reparation to one
another for their injustice according to the assessment of time,’ as
he says in somewhat poetical terms. (Physica 24.13–21)1
“as he says in his poetical way ” 55
It is the part that Simplicius finds “rather poetic [ποιητικωτέροις]” that is of

particular interest to us. Simplicius is, as are the rest of us, reading Anaxi-
mander after Aristotle. As a result, he doesn’t seem to know quite what to do
with some of Anaximander’s language. He is, perhaps surprisingly when we
think about it carefully, comfortable enough when Anaximander speaks of
the apeiron as the source of both becoming and destruction and of all the kos-
moi (here in the plural, indicating multiple world-orders). He is at home, as is
clear, thinking in terms of primary physical elements. He seems to prefer to
think in terms of categories not only of material theories, but also of material
theorists. It is this odd talk of justice and penalty paid and repaid that throws
him, so much so that he switches from summarizing Anaximander’s position
in terms he finds familiar to quoting him in terms he finds “poetical”: “For
they pay a penalty to each other and return punishment for their injustice, of
necessity, according to the ordering of time.”
I believe we must hesitate before reading this passage as metaphorical.
Certainly it sounds odd to our ears to think of the structure of the kosmos in
juridical terms. So we prefer to think of such language as Anaximander offers
as figuratively characterizing what is in itself a more mechanical structure,
as a hermeneutic aid perhaps, one that seeks to borrow, by analogy, from the
world of our social experience to illuminate some important aspect of its
material composition. But if the kosmos is a machine, then such an analogy is
odd, at best, as Simplicius seems to find it. Perhaps we should listen to that
language a bit more literally, supposing Anaximander to be expressing his
conception of the dynamics of the kosmos more directly.
What that particular language expresses clearly, on its face, is that the
things of the world are engaged with each other in a particular way: they
are quarrelsome. At some time or place, one encroaches on its counterpart,
and then, in turn, at another time or place, makes good the loss and becomes
itself the victim of aggression. Such gains and losses balance overall and
result in order, a kosmos, exemplified in cycles of succession in nature such as
birth and death. But it is not just the mention of injustice and penalty that
should capture our attention, but the notion that there is a force of necessity
at work here, employed by or through time, that is concerned with balancing
the books. We should particularly note that we must conceive of this force
as ‘concerned,’ that Anaximander articulates a purpose at work in the dyna-
mism of the kosmos, even a moral purpose, which although driven by ‘time’
may even be shared by at least some of the elements themselves. They pay
penalties to each other for their injustice. If we are not to think of the elements
themselves as recognizing this injustice and the debts they owe, it is difficult
to see where exactly to locate such a concern or awareness.
56 phil hopkins
This is not the familiar dynamism called to mind by our usual notion of
the kind of necessity following on cause and effect. If Anaximander’s odd
description were the only such language employed by the earliest thinkers, it
might be reasonable to dismiss it as a bit of figurative language, a poetic per-
sonification of material and mechanical dynamics. It is not. As we have said,
the notion of kosmos itself already carries overtones of violence for the Greek
ear. Parmenides, as he is relating the “way of seeming,” has the goddess claim
to declare the diakosmon eoikota (whole world-order or world-ordering).
Mourelatos reminds us that this verb, diakosmeō, means primarily, in Homer,
“to divide and marshal, muster, array,”2 and the reference is usually to a battle
formation.3 When the kosmos is constituted of opposites, as so many of the
early Greeks supposed, the martial connotations are extended. Mourelatos
also reminds us that the terms for opposites that Parmenides uses, antios and
enantios, are Homeric terms for entities engaged in battle. The contraries are
marshaled in ranks against each other, as for battle, a battle in which, accord-
ing to Anaximander, the advantage of one side injures the other and requires
amends. For Anaximander as for Parmenides and also Empedocles, as we
will see, the world-ordering is an ordering of pairs in strife and conflict, but
it is an ordering.
Empedocles’s Love and Strife

Aristotle also had trouble hearing some of the terms of the Pre-Socratics as
a direct articulation of cosmological dynamics. In the Physics, as he summa-
rizes many of the early thinkers’ ideas about physis or ‘nature’ and the material
constitution of the kosmos, he, like Simplicius, doesn’t always seem to know
what to do with some of their specific terms:
We must explain then, first, that nature belongs to the class of

causes which act for the sake of something; and then second about
the necessary and its place in questions of the physical kosmos, for
all thinkers ascribe things to this cause, arguing that since such
things as the hot and the cold are of such and such a kind, therefore
certain things necessarily are and come to be; and if they mention
any other cause (one “love and strife,” another “mind”), it is only to
touch on it, and then dismiss it. (Phys. II.198b10)
Aristotle opens the Physics by discussing both the ideas and the “errors” of
his predecessors, grouping them into his own categories of cosmological
thought. He also states what he believes to be the central principle defining
nature: that a thing has the origin of motion and change within itself. By
the end of the second book, he has outlined his ideas about causes, grouped
them into four main categories, and offered a surprisingly lengthy excursus
into the question of luck and chance as possible motive forces or causes. His
question, as he states here at the beginning of Part 8, is whether things in
nature occur of necessity, as we would expect if nature is a kind of cause-
and-effect machine. As he says, he wants to know the place of necessity in
the physical kosmos, a qualification he apparently feels he needs to make to
clarify his question.4 He shows disdain for other possible “causes,” claiming
that these thinkers only brought these forces up as a kind of aside, one that
can be quickly dismissed. This amounts to a very odd reading of many of his
predecessors. Even a cursory glance at their writing suggests a rather more
central role for nonmechanical dynamic forces.
In his poem, On Nature, Empedocles says:
A twofold tale I shall tell: at one time they [i.e., the “roots”] grew
to be one alone out of many, at another again they grew apart to be
many out of one. Double is the birth of mortal things and double
their failing; on the one hand brought both to birth and destruc-
tion by the coming together of all things, yet again both nurtured
and scattered by being carried apart. And these things never cease
their continual interchange, now through Love [Φιλότης] all com-
ing together into one, now again each carried apart by the hatred of
Strife [Νεῖκος]. <So insofar as they have learned to grow one from
many>, and again as the one grows apart they spring apart as many,
thus far do they come into being and have no stable life; but insofar
as they never cease their continual interchange, thus far they exist
always changeless in the cycle.
But come, hear my words, for learning increases wisdom. As I
said before in declaring the limits of my words, I shall tell a twofold
tale: at one time they grew to be one alone out of many, at another
again they grew apart to be many out of one—fire and water and
earth and the immense height of air, and cursed Strife apart from
them, equal in every direction, and Love among them, equal in
length and breadth. Her must you contemplate with your mind,
and not sit with eyes dazed: she it is who is thought innate even
in mortal limbs, because of her they think friendly thoughts and
accomplish harmonious deeds, calling her Joy by name and Aphro-
dite. She is perceived by no mortal man as she circles among them:
but you must listen to the undeceptive path of my discourse.
58 phil hopkins
All these [roots] are equal and coeval, but each guards what it
honors according to its own character, and they prevail in turn as
time comes round. And besides them nothing further comes into
being nor does anything pass away. How could it in fact be utterly
destroyed, since nothing is empty of these? For only if they were
continually perishing would they no longer exist. And what could
increase this all? Whence could it have come? No, there are just
these, but running through one another they become different
things at different times and yet ever and always the same. (B17)5
Here Love and Strife clearly play a more central role than Aristotle would
credit. We should note that Empedocles himself cautions us against any
impulse to read these “roots” metaphorically, at least indirectly. Empedocles
not only advises us that listening carefully to his words will increase our wis-
dom, presumably about how the kosmos is structured and works, but he also
explicitly calls his discourse “undeceptive [οὐκ ἀπατηλόν].” He is telling us
that all of his speaking, including his talk about Love and Strife, will serve to
inform us truthfully about how things are. We are admonished to take that
talk on its face, as it were, and gain insight and understanding from it.
Even the terms we may take to signify more physical or mechanical rela-
tions have broader meaning than might first appear. There is some ambiguity
concerning the temporal ordering of this twofold. At times it is depicted as a
succession in which, in a detail cognate with Anaximander’s account, each in
turn prevails over its counterpart; but at other times their equality is empha-
sized, which includes not only duration of coexistence, but also possibly a
spatial equality wherein each is portrayed as “running through [ἀλλήλων δὲ
θέοντα]” one another. The terms isos and isotēs (‘equal’ and ‘equality’) are not
often used by the Pre-Socratics, but when they are used, they often carry the
connotations of fair and impartial rather than strict equality in a mathemati-
cal sense, as they will primarily come to connote later. So although there
is reason to take these terms as designating a kind of spatial coextension,
such a reading causes some confusions, as McKirahan amply notes.6 And as
Empedocles articulates their equality, he does so by unpacking that equality
in terms of “prerogative [μέδει τιμῆς]” and “character [ἦθος].”
These latter are quite interesting terms, particularly as applied to either
the material or motive principles of the kosmos. ‘Character’ or ēthos is the
root term for the concept of morality (the root for our term ‘ethics’) and, as
Heidegger has reminded us, means in its originary senses a dwelling place or
habitation. It is what we have accustomed ourselves to, and so has become our
custom. It means a disposition, and, particularly, a moral character brought
about through habituation. It is a term used frequently about people, often

enough of animals (primarily in the sense of dwelling or what we might term
‘habitat’), but rarely of things. Its use here demonstrates that Empedocles is
thinking of all of the “roots,” and not just the two we take metaphorically, to
be imbued with psychic character.
Even more telling is the phrase timēs medei. Literally, these two words
mean guarding what one honors.7 Timē is an honor, award, or even office,
a thing of recognized worth or value, and so the value or worth or price of
things. It is used to signify the value of an assessment, and, interestingly,
the penalty to be paid in compensation for some injustice. The verbal form
was a common term in later Attic legal language meaning ‘to impose a pen-
alty or sentence.’ Its earlier usage already echoes this sense. Medei means ‘to
rule over or control’ but also, and more to the point in this context, ‘to pro-
tect.’ It has a strong intentional register, used often to signify planning for or
devising a protection or rule, being mindful of the need for the same. These
terms strongly echo Anaximander, and the sentence as a whole offers a close
paraphrasis: “All these [roots] are equal and coeval, but each guards what it
honors according to its own character, and they prevail in turn as time comes
round.”
As in Anaximander, Empedocles is telling us that a primary force at work
in the kosmos is a moral force, in which the root elements are themselves
concerned with justice, with protecting their offices and exercising rule as
time dictates in a process of give-and-take, dominance and retribution, both
running through and creating all that is. His description of the kosmos offers
not a metaphorical ‘rule’ over spatiotemporal domains, but a moral/valuative
contest in which each element protects what it values according to its charac-
ter. In the line after his talk of prerogative and character, we are told that each
“dominates [κρατέουσι]” in turn through temporal cycles. The term kratein
can mean rather straightforwardly ‘rule.’ But its primary and root meaning
is ‘to be strong or powerful,’ ‘to conquer, prevail, dominate, get the upper
hand.’ This set of meanings closely glosses Anaximander’s concept of tempo-
ral cycles in which each element transgresses on its oppositional partner and
must pay back what it owes.
Learning to Be What We Are

Empedocles offers similar language in another passage quoted by Aristotle
in the Rhetoric: “But what is lawful [νόμιμον] for all extends without break
through the wide-ruling aither and boundless light” (Rhet. 1373b6). In this
passage law is configured not as a social convention, but as natural, running
60 phil hopkins
throughout the heavens, at the least, without break, in language that mirrors
his description of the extension of Love and Strife.
Empedocles not only asserts that what we might take to be the human
concern for law is actually a natural force, but also presents natural elements
as psychic forces in humans, and, by extension, all things that think and per-
ceive: “For with earth do we see earth, with water water, with air bright air,
with fire, consuming fire, with love [here storgē rather than philotēs] do we see
love, strife with dread strife.” He does not personify love or strife here, but
refers to them among the elements, and refers to all elements as psychologi-
cal forces in human perception. Perhaps we must read this enigmatic passage
to suggest that all things, because all things are composed of these elements,
are able to perceive. If so, then our usual division of the kosmos into distinct
mechanical and psychic aspects is brought directly into question.
Empedocles makes a related observation in his admonition to Pausa-
nias (to whom the poem was written) to cling to his teachings. He finishes
his advice by remarking that “all things have wisdom or understanding
[φρόνησιν] and a share of thought [νώματος]” (B110). Phronesis already
signifies at this time a kind of practical wisdom, a knowledge of how to
live well, and so is a morally inflected term. Empedocles uses a cognate in
B17, highlighted above: “For learning increases wisdom [φρένας].” This is a
straightforward enough claim. But the term for learning, mathē, is used just
a few lines earlier: “Thus in that they [all things] have learned [μεμάθηκε]
to grow [φύεσθαι] to be one out of many.” It is interesting that Empedocles
characterizes things as “growing” to be one. The term translated ‘grow’ is a
form of the word for ‘nature’ (physis) whose primary root meaning is growth.
Further, things have to “learn” to “grow.”
Thus, learning is also a kind of natural force, brought about by two partic-
ular motive forces, love and strife, or desire and hatred, which causes things,
which have a share of thought and possess wisdom, to grow into what they
become. It is possible, just remotely, that all of this is metaphorical language.
It is a much more reasonable reading, at this point, to think of Empedocles’s
kosmos as a distinctly psychic entity, in which things become what they are not
as the result of external forces acting on them to move them mechanically,
but by internal psychic and moral forces teaching each to become according
to its character and nature.8 In this passage, Empedocles turns from material
elements to moral forces without calling attention to any shift because for
him there isn’t a shift. He is not explaining a material kosmos in which merely
material elements constantly interchange by means of mechanical forces, but
a kosmos in which what is material is motivated by intellectual and moral
forces.
There is other language in this passage that further argues for this inter-
pretation. When Empedocles introduces Love as a force and element in the
kosmos, he enjoins us to derkeu or “behold or contemplate” her with our voos
or “understanding,” not stumble around in sense perception. The motive
forces of the kosmos, perhaps because innate in our limbs, as he says here,
are not available to sense perception. And although δέρκομαι has the plain
meaning of ‘see clearly,’ just a few lines later Empedocles warns us that no
mortal has “perceived [δεδαήκε]” her “whirling [ἑλισσομένην]” among them.
Here the term for ‘perceive,’ daō, primarily means ‘learn,’ didaskō, and in the
perfective aspect, as here, to know from having learned. We cannot learn,
it would seem, from sense perception, from just looking at the interactions
of things from an external perspective. Love can and does teach us what to
become, but we must learn about her and her role in the kosmos by contem-
plating her force within us.
We have examined one of Empedocles’s central passages at some length
to adduce what his specific language reveals both about how he conceives the
kosmos and, by extension, how it is possible to conceive of it in other-than-
mechanical terms. Empedocles talks of Love and Strife in other places as the
forces running both through all things and through each other, and acting
on things by producing within them desire and anger.9 Here and elsewhere
(e.g., B110, B96) he speaks of the elements as yearning for each other as a
result of the force of love acting within or on them. Pothein or ‘desiring’ is a
term denoting strong emotion: it means deeply missing, even craving, what
is absent. He tells us that these forces which act on us so strongly are eternal
(B16): there will never be a time when they are not actively shaping what is.
He sharpens the picture of the moral dynamic in B35 where we are
explicitly told that this process of desire and hatred running through all
things is blameless. Both Love and Strife are each explicitly characterized
as amempheōs. If Empedocles’s account has moved us to think of the kosmos
in moral terms in any way, we may be tempted to think of a moral binary in
which Love is the good force in the kosmos, and hatred a more blameworthy
force.10 But such a binary ignores the ‘double story’ that Empedocles repeat-
edly emphasizes he is telling, in which the sources of both generation and
destruction are double. Both forces are at work in both processes, and both
are necessary, even good, in the moral sense, since the result of their blameless
activity is kosmos (order) itself. We are told several times that without these
forces, nothing would be at all.11 There are only these, and through them
things “become mortal that had previously learned [μάθον] to be immortal,
and things previously unmixed became mixed, interchanging or reconciling
[διαλλάξαντα] their paths or journeys [κελεύθους]” (B35).
62 phil hopkins
We have already seen how, in part, this “learning” is possible as a conse-

quence of having the elements within us perceiving themselves, in a sense, to
be reflected in the order of elements external to us. As he says in B109, it is
the yearning and strife within us that allows us to comprehend the yearning
and strife that move the kosmos. But there is a larger isomorphism at work
in the kosmos with respect to thought and learning. In another passage, we
are shown how his model for thought and “insight [φρένας]” mirrors the
cyclic dynamic of the kosmos as a whole: “nurtured in the seas of surging
blood, where most we find what is called thought by humans, for the blood
around the heart in humans is thought” (B105).12 It is the flow, the give-
and-take, of blood in and around the “chest [φρήν]” that is thought and what
we call “thought [νόημα].” For Empedocles, unlike for most of the rest of
us throughout the Western tradition, human cognition is not some separate
process apart from the mechanical dynamics of a cause-and-effect kosmos
that we find difficult to explain. It is the self-same process, the flowing give-
and-take of a thoroughly psychic kosmos.
Justice
We are provided with another description of this cycle and the kind of
dynamism that drives the kosmos in one final interesting passage, where, like
Aristotle, Empedocles takes up the issue of necessity explicitly:
There is an oracle of Necessity, an ancient decree of the gods, eter-

nal and sealed with broad oaths: when anyone sins and pollutes
his own dear limbs with murder, or who sins by swearing a false
oath—spirits whose lot is long-lasting life—for thrice ten thousand
years he wanders apart from the blessed ones, growing throughout
that time into all kinds of mortal things, exchanging one hard path
of life for another. The force of the air chases him into the sea, the
sea spews him out onto the surface of the earth, the earth casts him
into the rays of the shining sun, and the sun into the vortices of the
air. One receives him after another, but all hate him. Of these, I too
am now one, a fugitive from the gods and a wanderer, having put
my faith in raving Strife. (B115)13
Here the kosmos is portrayed as playing a particular role in punishing and

purifying one who sins (amplakein and hamartēma) and pollutes himself and
his environment in terms that emphasize its role as a “matter [χρῆμα] of
necessity [ανάγκης].” It is qualified as an ancient decree of the gods, but it
appears most likely that the divine decree refers to the period imposed. The
elements themselves are characterized as carrying out the punishment and
are explicitly described as “hating [στυγέω]” the one who commits injustice,
propelling him from one to the other in disgusted rejection of his condition.
The verbs are particularly interesting. The air diōkein or ‘chases’ him—it
puts him to flight. The sea vomits (ἀπεπτέυ) him onto the earth. This term
connotes suffering from indigestion, as if the sea received something that
upset it and must regurgitate it. While such a response can be autonomic, or
mechanical, the cause of the upset here is not some physical incompatibility,
but the disgust the sea experiences over the deeds of the wrongdoer. Given
that he changes forms frequently, it is not his mortal form in the moment but
his original and underlying sin that ‘upsets’ the sea. The earth and sun cast
him out. This term has broad meanings, but sometimes means ‘to denounce,’
and this meaning in this context, in company with these other terms, seems
at least a probable echo. Each takes or receives him (dechesthai) only to cast
him out and around the cycle again. In this passage the elements not only
serve as a process of and vehicle for justice, but seem to strongly feel them-
selves the wrongness of the injustice, carrying out the punishment not as a
mechanism designed and implemented by the gods, but as full participants in
the moral judgment, perhaps even acting out of concern for the moral health
of the kosmos. As elsewhere in Empedocles, psychic and moral dynamics are
not just assigned to the motive forces of the kosmos, Love and Strife, but are
also presented as internal and integral to the elements themselves.
The Kosmos in Motion

One of the long-standing puzzles in interpreting early Greek thought about
the kosmos is the question of what sets everything in motion. One reason we
may find the question so puzzling is that mechanism is not motivation—
machines are not motive forces for themselves; they require motive forces.
If we read the kosmos as a machine, we look, perhaps in vain, for a force
that will set it all in motion and keep it moving through all its cycles of
generation and destruction. After the Pre-Socratics, thinkers emphasized
the mechanical dynamics they found in early cosmology: mixture and sepa-
ration, for instance. Many of the earliest thinkers do indeed discuss such
effects, and appear to think of them in at least partially mechanical terms.
For Empedocles, however, these seem to be, in fact, effects that have clear psy-
chological origins. Mixture and separation are results, not causes. The causes
are desire and hatred, or judgment, which all things experience, in one way or
another.
64 phil hopkins
This interpretation also resolves some of the difficulties in locating these

motive forces spatiotemporally, particularly during the periods when each
totally dominates. They are everywhere still, internal to the things that are.
The dominance is not a spatial or material exclusion, which leaves the other
no topos (place) to be, but a psychological or moral dominance, where one
force exerts little or no influence but remains fully within all things. And
because both remain, and because both are in oppositional tension still,
regardless of which is exerting primary or even total influence at a given
moment, the transition must continue.
Certainly each of the Pre-Socratic thinkers had his own primary con-
cerns. Empedocles’s chief concern, like Socrates’s, was the condition of his
own soul. As he clearly states, the goal of his teachings is to enable one to live
well, and our learning about the way things are serves primarily in this capac-
ity. His project is explicitly moral, and the inquiry into the kosmos is anything
but a disinterested materialist investigation. His framing of the inquiry helps
us to see that cosmology was and can be an existential inquiry, an investiga-
tion of the order of relations among what is, and particularly of our place
in that order that does not ignore or forget the role of desire and conflict,
justice, or judgment.
Notes
epigraph: Martin Heidegger, “On the Essence and Concept of Φύσις in Aristotle’s Phys-
ics B, I.,” in Pathmarks, ed. W. McNeill, trans. T. Sheehan (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1998), 186.
1. Parts of this passage are also found in Hippolytus and Pseudo-Plutarch, but they do
not share Simplicius’s quotation of the original, nor his assessment of its character. It is
possible that they did not have the original, but it is also possible they simply considered
it irrelevant. All of these passages are versions of Theophrastus’s view of Anaximander,
which is lost to us. I have put single quotation marks around the parts most scholars take
to be the ipsissima verba. The attempt to interpret this fragment has produced its share of
controversy. For the standard discussions of this fragment, see G. S. Kirk, J. E. Raven, and
M. Schofield, The Presocratic Philosophers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983);
Charles H. Kahn, “Anaximander’s Fragment: The Universe Governed by Law,” in The Pre-
Socratics, ed. A. P. D. Mourelatos (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1974), and
Anaximander and the Origins of Greek Cosmology (New York: Columbia University Press,
1960); and also Uvo Hölscher, “Anaximander and the Beginnings of Greek Philosophy,”
and Gregory Vlastos, “Equality and Justice in Early Greek Cosmologies,” both in Studies
in Presocratic Philosophy, 2 vols., ed. D. J. Furley and R. E. Allen (London: Routledge and
Kegan Paul, 1975).
2. Compare diakosmeō in R. J. Cunliffe, A Lexicon of the Homeric Dialect (Norman: Uni-
versity of Oklahoma Press, 1963), s.v.
3. Mourelatos, “The Deceptive Words of Parmenides’ ‘Doxa,’ ” in Mourelatos, The Pre-
Socratics, 317–318. Diakosmon is a compound form of kosmos in which the prefix signifies
complete and across or throughout the whole. The verb diakosmeō means to arrange and
set in order. Cf. the use of the term in Thucydides (PW 4.93), also noted by Mourelatos.
4. And while Aristotle several times in these passages, and without much argument,
compares nature and what is natural with the productions of technē, he does insist that
nature is not a kind of artifact that makes itself. Still, that he thinks of nature as analogous
to artifacts in any way reveals that he has begun to think of the kosmos as exhibiting some
mechanical relations, analogous to the mechanical manipulation of nature in the produc-
tion of artifacts.
5. The line set apart with angle brackets is inserted by Diels, in order to complete the
sense of the literal fragment, and is taken from B26, which also shares lines 7–8 and
10–13.
6. Cf. R. McKirahan, Philosophy before Socrates (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994), 275–276.
7. Kirk and Raven offer “each has a different prerogative and each its own character.”
See Kirk, Raven, and Schofield, The Presocratic Philosophers, 349. McKirahan, Philosophy
before Socrates, 237, offers “each rules in its own province and possesses its own individual
character.”
8. . “According to our character [ἦθος] and nature [φύσις]” is also a formula used by
Empedocles in B110 to describe how his teachings will come to grow within us.
9. E.g., B35 and B109 as we have noted, and B26, B36, B57, B58, and B21, where he
names strife Kotos (Anger). This term also connotes holding a grudge or vengeance against
one who has wronged you, and so echoes again the concern for justice.
10. McKirahan, Philosophy before Socrates, 262, speaks of Love and Strife as “moral
agents” and says of them that “Love and her effects are good, Strife and its effects are evil.”
11. E.g., B17, B21, B26, and B35.
12. Cited by Porphyry in Stobaeus, Selections I.49.53.
13. Adduced from Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies 7.29.14–23, and Plutarch, On
Exile 607C.
Key Readings
Graham, Daniel. Explaining the Cosmos: The Ionian Tradition of Scientific Philosophy. Princ-
eton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2006.
Guthrie, W. K. C. A History of Greek Philosophy, I: The Earlier Presocratics and the Pythago-
reans. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962.
Heidegger, Martin. “On the Essence and Concept of Φύσις in Aristotle’s Physics B, I.” In
Pathmarks, edited by W. McNeill, translated by T. Sheehan, 183–230. Cambridge:
———. “On the Essence of Ground.” In Pathmarks, edited by W. McNeill, translated by
T. Sheehan, 183–230. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
———. The Essence of Reasons. Translated by T. Malik. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern Uni-
Hölscher, Uvo. “Anaximander and the Beginnings of Greek Philosophy.” In Studies in
Presocratic Philosophy, 2 vols., edited by D. J. Furley and R. E. Allen. London: Rout-
ledge and Kegan Paul, 1975.
Kahn, C. H. Anaximander and the Origins of Greek Cosmology. New York: Columbia Uni-
———. “Anaximander’s Fragment: The Universe Governed by Law.” In The Pre-Socratics,
edited by A. P. D. Mourelatos. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1974.
66 phil hopkins
———. The Art and Thought of Heraclitus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981.
Kirk, G. S. Heraclitus: The Cosmic Fragments. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1962.
Kirk, G. S., J. E. Raven, and M. Schofield. The Presocratic Philosophers. Cambridge: Cam-
McKirahan, Richard. Philosophy before Socrates. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994.
Miller, Mitchell. “The Implicit Logic of Hesiod’s Cosmogony: An Examination of Theog-
ony: 116–133.” Independent Journal of Philosophy 4, no. 1 (1983): 131–142.
Mourelatos, A. P. D., ed. The Pre-Socratics. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,
1974.
Vlastos, Gregory. “Equality and Justice in Early Greek Cosmologies.” In Studies in Preso-
cratic Philosophy, 2 vols., edited by D. J. Furley and R. E. Allen. London: Routledge
and Kegan Paul, 1975.
The Human as (W)hole: Aristophanes’s Contest
with Socrates in Clouds
Damian Stocking
However much laughter Aristophanes’s Clouds may have occasioned over

the last several millennia, for more recent generations of earnest-minded
critics and thinkers it has also proved to be—as Nietzsche once impishly
observed—a perpetual source of both “consternation” and “surprise.”1 It is
one thing, after all, for Aristophanes to have used his prodigious comedic
resources to lambaste the Sophists. What confuses Nietzsche’s “moderns,”
though, is why Aristophanes should have chosen to parody the Sophists in
the person of Socrates, a thinker who spent the better part of his life contesting
the Sophistic movement’s ever-expanding authority and prestige.
Of course, it is not simply these “moderns” who have found Aristophanes’s
identification of the philosopher with his putative lifelong opponents so per-
plexing. Indeed, if we are to rely on Plato’s testimony, the first commentator
on the play to profess himself nonplussed at Aristophanes’s intentions in
Clouds was none other than Socrates himself. In The Apology, the philoso-
pher is utterly baffled as to why the playwright makes him lay claim to a
Sophistic expertise in “making the weaker argument the stronger,” since—
obviously!—he himself knows “nothing great or small” about such matters
(Ap. 19b). Nor indeed can Socrates understand the comedian’s perverse
insistence on associating him with those other intellectually “overactive
[περιεργάζεται]” types, the new breed of cosmologists, physicists, and the
like, who spend their days and nights inquiring after things “subterranean”
and heavenly (Ap. 19b). With all such forms of inquiry, Socrates protests, he
has nothing whatsoever to do (“I have no share in them,” Ap. 19c).
In light of these flabbergasted disavowals, one has to wonder: what pre-
cisely was Aristophanes up to with his portrait of Socrates in Clouds? What
is the meaning of these scandalous ascriptions, these outrageous (and appar-
ently false) attributions to the philosopher’s intellectual character? For David
Konstan, the answer is a straightforward one: Aristophanes’s portrayal of
67
68 damian stocking
Socrates as quasi-Sophist-cum-naturalist is a product of standard “comedic

license.”2 While conceding that there are, here and there, certain “resem-
blances” between the Socrates of Clouds and the Socrates we know from Plato
and Xenophon, Konstan contends that in the main, the thinker presented
to us in the play is little more than a “compound figure,” a “stand-in for the
new currents of critical thought generally.”3 Apparently unconcerned with
the philosophic precision of his portrayal, Konstan’s Aristophanes has simply
employed Socrates as a convenient means for “capturing the popular anxiety”
about all the many forms of rational inquiry emerging at the time, for an
audience of fifth-century Athenians that frankly “would have seen little or no
difference” between a Sophist, a Pre-Socratic, and a Socrates.4 Pressed for an
explanation as to why Aristophanes would elect to “concentrate specifically”
on the philosopher, to make him the representative of all the burgeoning forms
of disenchanted reason, Konstan offers the deflationary response that Socrates
was (1) “odd-looking,” (2) a “local,” and (3) “a bit of a public nuisance.”5 In
Konstan’s view, in other words, Aristophanes must have felt that his Athenian
audience would need little excuse to turn on the newfangled intellectuals of
his day, and Socrates simply provided the comedian with a ripe piece of low-
hanging fruit with which to gratify their prejudice and their hate.6
For all the precision of his analyses, therefore, Konstan basically concedes
Socrates’s point in The Apology: Aristophanes’s send-up of the philosopher
in Clouds really has “nothing to do” with his actual views or practices. In
what follows, however, I would like to challenge that perspective. While not
denying that the Socrates of Clouds is, just as Konstan insists, a “composite”
figure, I would also like to show that Aristophanes has left us several impor-
tant clues to indicate that the playwright did indeed have Socrates’s specific
philosophic aims in mind in Clouds. If Aristophanes has elected to attack
the so-called New Learning of the Classical period by way of Socrates, it is
through neither intellectual irresponsibility nor comedic opportunism; it is,
rather, I contend, because the comedian recognized in Socratic doctrine and
practice the clearest articulation of certain pernicious tendencies driving the
movement as a whole. In attacking Socrates’s project in particular, Aristo-
phanes was able to attack what he took to be most dangerous in the work of
Sophist and naturalist alike.7
Of course, given the dearth of contemporary written testimony concern-
ing Socrates’s actual words and thoughts, it may seem impossible at the
outset to isolate anything like a “Socratic practice as such.” As it turns out,
however, Aristophanes seems to have given us access to precisely that, only
he has done so—characteristically enough—by way of one of his most vulgar
and (seemingly) nonsensical jokes.
the human as (w)hole 69
On his tour of the interior of Socrates’s Phrontisterion, or ‘Thinketeria,’

Strepsiades, the whinging, shockingly amoral, yet dauntless comic antihero
of Clouds—an ancient Larry David of sorts—comes upon two groups of stu-
dents; the first seem to be looking closely at, or are perhaps lying flat on, the
ground. These students are “investigating things under the earth” (Cl. 189).
Having judged this “scientific inquiry” to be nothing more than an inefficient
search for root vegetables, Strepsiades bumbles on toward the next group of
students. These, in contrast to the first, are searching even deeper regions—
the places “below Tartarus” (Cl. 192). Consequently, they have so severely
stooped themselves over as to be bent in two—a fact that becomes clear from
Strepsiades’s next question: “But why then does his/their asshole [πρωκτός]
stare into the heavens?” (Cl. 193). The answer to this question is a strange
one indeed: “By itself, independently, it gives itself instruction in the lawful
regulation of the stars [αὐτὸς καθ’ αὑτὸν ἀστρονομεῖν διδάσκεται]” (Cl. 194).
The phrase, autos kath’ auton, may of course be familiar to some from the
dialogues of Plato, where it is quite frequently employed to characterize the
independence of both the so-called Forms and the ‘separable’ soul from the
contingencies of material existence.8 In that context, of course, the phrase
makes perfect sense. To act or exist kata ti is to be determined in one’s action
and existence by that thing (to act, kata nomous, for example, is to act ‘in con-
formity with the laws’). That which exists autos kath’ auton, therefore, retains
its ‘self-sameness’ and ‘separateness,’ its autonomy, by being ‘related to’ noth-
ing but itself—by existing in conformity with itself alone. In Clouds, however,
autos kath’ auton is applied not to any abstract metaphysical entity, but to the
human anus. Apparently we are to imagine that, even as the student’s head
sinks down toward Tartarus, his “asshole [πρωκτός]” rises up toward the sky,
in a valiant but vain attempt to be alone, to exist autonomously and in rela-
tion to nothing else but itself. (The attempt to achieve this self-determining
independence is suggested, likewise, by the reflexive, nontransitive use of the
middle voice verb, didasketai, ‘to teach oneself.’)
Of course, a hole is the one thing in this world that, by definition, can
never be by itself, alone, or independent. A hole is, so to speak, never wholly
‘whole’—it is an absence that exists only in relation to another thing. The
ridiculousness of the line thus smacks of satiric ‘reference,’ a deliberate
(and mocking) misemployment of terms taken out of their usual context.
As Justin Broackes observes, the phrase autos kath’ auton “makes no good
sense unless it alludes to something, so to speak, offstage.”9 That “something,”
Broackes convincingly argues, can only have been a doctrinal saying of sorts,
one widely associated with the ‘historical’ Socrates. As Broackes points out,
the phrase is an unusual one, with no exact antecedents in the philosophic
70 damian stocking
literature; that such a singular phrase should be associated with Socrates by

two separate authors, by Aristophanes and Plato alike, speaks strongly in
favor of a common historical source.10 Autos kath’ auton must therefore have
been Socrates’s characteristic and peculiar locution.
Clearly, then, Aristophanes has not merely used Socrates as a stand-in
for the New Learning generally, but wished to target Socrates’s own views
and thinking in particular. But what precisely did Aristophanes mean to
parody in this scene? It would be anachronistic to suggest that autos kath’
auton had the same meaning for Socrates as it would eventually have for
Plato. To grasp what Socrates himself might have intended by the locution
autos kath’ auton, we can turn to Eric Havelock’s still quite valuable analyses
of the language of Clouds and The Apology. Havelock notes that throughout
the Apology, Socrates exhorts his fellow citizens to undertake a “curiously
circular” exercise:11 they should not neglect to “think upon their thinking
[φρονήσεως . . . φροντίζεις]” (Ap. 29e1–3). One might suspect that Socrates
is doing no more here than asking his fellow Athenians to sharpen their
mental faculties; against this natural supposition, however, Havelock points
to a similar Socratic admonition to “show concern for yourself, for how you
might be as good at thinking as possible” (36c). A concern for one’s own
thinking, evidently, is equivalent to a concern for one’s own self; for Socrates
therefore, at least according to Havelock, “the essence of life was introspec-
tive thought.”12 And so, as Havelock sees it, the reason Socrates entreats the
citizenry to “think upon thinking” is not so that they might descry some
exterior, objective truth or good by doing so (i.e., so that they might “become
wise”), but rather because it would allow them to engage in a completely self-
related, self-determining activity: “a self-contained procedure: oneself acting
upon oneself.”13 To think upon thinking is, in other words, a technique for
rendering the self into something fully autonomous and independent; and
that, as I see it, is the essence of the Socratic project as such: to render one’s
own self into something that is autos kath’ auton.
For all its relative philosophic imprecision (the metaphysical refinement
of the project would presumably fall to Plato), this characteristic undertaking
and preoccupation on the part of Socrates must have formed—so it seems
to me—the ultimate ground of Aristophanes’s attack on the philosopher in
Clouds. Far from employing the old Athenian thinker as a useful catchall for
the theories of Hippo of Elis, Damon, Diogenes of Apollonia, and the like, it
is this ambition in particular—this desire to achieve perfect self-sufficiency
through a disciplined practice of intellectual self-relation—that must have
most especially provoked Aristophanes’s comedic ire, for he has made it cen-
tral to his characterization of the philosopher’s practice throughout the play.
In their first interview, for instance, rather than having Socrates ask Strepsia-
des in a straightforward manner, “How did you fall into debt?” Aristophanes
has him inquire instead, “How did you forget your own self [σαυτὸν ἔλαθες]
as you were falling into debt?” (Cl. 242).14 When Strepsiades finally resolves
to submit himself to Socrates for rhetorical and “forensic” training, his new
instructor begins with the odd (but as we should now recognize, the entirely
characteristic) request that Strepsiades begin by making a full report on the
“way of your own self [τὸν σαυτοῦ τρόπον]” (Cl. 478). Even the chorus of
clouds does its part in reinforcing the Socratic lesson, urging a rapidly flagging
Strepsiades not merely to “cogitate,” but also to compress, concentrate, and as
it were “coagulate yourself [φρόντιζε . . . σαυτὸν . . . πυκνώσας]” (Cl. 700–703).
Now one might claim that this insistent use of the reflexive sauton is
merely imitative, that Aristophanes has no feeling for its philosophic impli-
cation. To answer this objection, though, we need merely look to Socrates’s
famed arrival on stage in Clouds. For there the philosopher is revealed to us
floating high above all earthly concerns, subject, so he himself fancies, to
the limitations of neither time (he addresses Strepsiades as Ō phēmere—“O
ephemeral one!” [Cl. 223]) nor space (in his opening lines he proudly declares,
Periphronō ton hēlion—which we could render quite literally as “I circum-spect
the sun!” [Cl. 225]). And when Strepsiades ingenuously asks of Socrates’s
student, “Hey, who is this guy?” (Cl. 218), the only answer he receives is the
heavily fraught single-word response autos (Cl. 219). Before even conferring
a proper name on him, the play identifies Socrates with the ‘self-standing’
intensive pronoun autos, one that ‘names’ instead his peculiar philosophic
ambition. He is presented to us explicitly—and derisively—as the would-be
Man Himself, the Self-Same Man, the Man Alone.
Perhaps, though, what is really at issue here is not exactly what Aristo-
phanes sought to attack in the person of Socrates—this much, I hope, should
by now be sufficiently clear—but rather why he sought to attack it, and with
such vehemence. For, as Martha Nussbaum (citing Foucault) has ably shown,
the achievement of a condition of impervious self-sufficiency was in fact a
widely held ideal in Ancient Greece: the “good man” of the city was one who
was always “in control of himself, rather than being controlled by others.”15
What precisely, then, would Aristophanes find objectionable about Socrates’s
aim of rendering the self autos kath’ auton?
The answer to this question lies, it seems to me, in Aristophanes’s self-
proclaimed allegiance to Dionysus, the god of dramatic festivals, the god
“who nourished and raised me! [Διόνυσον τὸν ἐκθρέψαντά με]” (Cl. 518).
In Clouds, Dionysus is presented to us specifically as the god of tragedy and
comedy (cf. 310–311), and within the play itself Socrates is in fact made to
72 damian stocking
stand in direct opposition to both these genres. “Don’t joke around,” Socrates
warns Strepsiades, “nor make like those ‘trugically’ pathetic [τρυγοδαίμονες,
Cl. 296] ones!”—the term ‘trugic’ being, of course, comedy’s way of pairing
itself with tragic song, as the “song of the trux,” or the wine dregs. Socrates’s
antagonism toward tragedy seems no less keen. As a recent graduate from
Socrates’s Thinkery, Strepsiades’s son, Pheidippides, stubbornly refuses to
sing his father one of the old tragic songs of Aeschylus; rather, he insists
on declaiming a Sophistic piece of oratory, a rhesis, on the subject of sib-
ling incest (cf. Cl. 1371). The author of this scandalous rhetorical ‘set piece’
is of course none other than Euripides—an author who, as we learn from
Frogs, “abandoned the tragedian’s art [παραλιπόντα/τῆς τραγῳδικῆς τέχνης]”
(Fr. 1493–1494) when he chose instead to “sit and prattle on with Socrates
[Σωκράτει/παρακαθήμενον λαλεῖν]” (Fr. 1490–1491).
This carefully staged contest between Socrates and the two primary ‘Dio-
nysian’ art forms should in no way be considered incidental to Aristophanes’s
opposition to Socrates’s project for the self as we have reconstructed it. For
as I have attempted to show elsewhere (particularly with regard to tragedy),
these dramatic genres fulfill their sociopolitical—or, more precisely, their
communal—function precisely by enacting the destruction of the selfsame,
contained, and autonomous self, the autos.16 We can see this most clearly in
Greek tragedy, of course, where one tragic hero after another, whether moved
by arrogance, a misplaced sense of civic responsibility, or simple human
anguish, attempts to achieve a condition of total self-sufficiency, yet only
comes to ruin. To cite one example among many—in Sophocles’s Antigone
we find Antigone herself endowed with an intransigent “temper to know
herself alone [αὐτόγνωτος . . . ὀργά]” (Ant. 875); Creon is similarly infatu-
ated with his own “self-will [αὐθαδία]” (Ant. 1028)—yet both act finally only
as catalysts for one another’s destruction.
To explain this peculiar (yet constitutive) feature of Greek tragedy, this
genre-specific insistence on destroying those who either claim or seek abso-
lute self-determination, I have in the past made extensive use of Jean-Luc
Nancy’s concept of being-in-community, of “Being itself . . . as community.”17
Though we may often suppose that community is something ‘added on’ to
human existence, something that free human agents may or may not decide
to engage in, Nancy points out that, in fact, no human being ever exists prior
to its relation to other human beings; there simply is no human being who,
in his or her every action, feeling, or thought, is not ‘always already’ engaged
with some ‘other,’ and that other with some other, and so on. “There is,”
declares Nancy, “no singular being without another singular being . . . There
is therefore what might be called . . . an originary or ontological sociality.”18
To put this matter another way, we are creatures of finitude through and
through, forever coming into existence in relation to an ‘outside’ we can never
finally master. This of course is a situation (as Greek tragedy well knows)
fraught with instability and uncertainty. Inevitably, then, we try to master this
instability. Reacting against our finite being, we seek a perfect immanence—
and this by one of two different ‘policies’ (that is to say, ‘politics’). Either we
withdraw from contact with those whose ‘difference’ threatens to alter us, as
an Antigone or an Ajax might; or else we attempt, in the style of Creon or
Xerxes, to subsume those others into sameness with ourselves.
As Nancy is quick to point out, however, there is a deep irony in such
immanence-seeking gestures. For inasmuch as we are beings-in-relation,
there is no way for us to achieve a truly immanent state of being—such a
condition can be found only in death (whether the death of the ‘other’ or of
ourselves). And so we find that, in tragedy, the same characters who desper-
ately attempt to assert and secure their existential independence inevitably
find themselves surrounded by corpses, or end as corpses themselves.
Obviously, then, we must find a way—even against our own policies of
self-protecting immanence— to maintain ourselves in our openness and
“exposure” to others. But there is a profound difficulty here. We cannot,
Nancy insists, make a “policy” or “work” of exposure to difference; for any
difference we decide to “be open to” must inevitably be a “difference” that we
ourselves would have produced (and would thus be no real difference at all).
This is why, for Nancy, true exposure to the other, true being-in-community,
can only come in the “unworking”—in the “interruption, fragmentation, and
suspension” of our policies and projects.19 Only in the negation of our usual
practices of immanence is real openness to the other made possible—only
thus do we become responsively alive to others, or, indeed, manage to live
on at all. Paradoxically, then, as Nancy’s colleague Jacques Derrida has put
it, the only way a creature of finitude “lives on,” finally, is by finding a way to
“protect itself against its self-protection.”20
This, I take it, was the communal function that tragedy—and, as we will
see, comedy as well, after its own manner—played for the Athenian polis.
The Athenians would, it seems to me, have identified closely with the
immanence-seeking practices of those heroes and heroines presented before
them on the tragic stage. Having witnessed the ruin of a Xerxes or an Ajax,
the audience would come to abandon—if ever so briefly—its own finitude-
destroying policies of self-protection. With their drive to ‘selfsameness’ and
self-determination temporarily suspended, the city’s citizens would come to
open themselves, at long last, to an indeterminate otherness—an otherness
which, for once, they would not seek to master. Through tragedy’s violence
74 damian stocking
against the self-assertive autos, Athenians were able to experience, in its all
fertility (and fragility), that being-in-relation which the “grace of Bromios”
(Bromia charis, Cl. 310) alone might confer on them.
So I think we can see why Aristophanes, as a defender of Dionysian
drama, would wish to oppose the Socratic project for the self. In restoring
us to a sense of our own finitude, such drama is “what undoes, in its very
principle . . . the autarchy of absolute immanence”;21 in its plots, characters,
dialogue, and choral songs, it looks to do nothing else but offer, for the time
that it can, an “interruption of self-consciousness.”22 Yet Socrates, as we have
seen, desires only to perfect the self ’s consciousness of itself, and to achieve
thereby an immanence, or autonomy, of selfhood that would necessarily pre-
clude any determination ‘from the outside.’ Whatever political or personal
stability Socrates imagined such a technique might offer, to Aristophanes it
meant little else than the ruin of all being-in-community as such.
This is a point the playwright makes quite explicit for us in his presenta-
tion of Strepsiades in the second half of Clouds. For there Strepsiades is made
to confront a formally ‘tragic’ reminder of the pain his refusal to pay back
his debts has caused (the so-called second creditor enters the scene with the
familiar tragic intonation “ἰώ μοι μοι,” which Strepsiades himself identifies
with a tragic song of mourning, a “threnody”—cf. Cl. 1259–1260). His only
response to this painful vision of our finite fragility and need, however, is
to offer the now-familiar injunction: “Turn yourself toward yourself [κατὰ
σεαυτόν νυν τρέπου]” (Cl. 1263). Such is the effect of Socratic instruction
in Clouds.
It should be clear enough, then, given Aristophanes’s self-proclaimed
devotion to the Dionysian (and, by implication, the community of finite
beings it sustains), why he should wish to oppose Socrates’s teaching. There
still remains, however, the difficulty of understanding why the comedian has
chosen to collapse the distinctions between Socrates and other intellectuals
of the day. Why make Socrates a stand-in for Pre-Socratics and for Soph-
ists too? As I see it, it can only be because Aristophanes recognized in these
intellectual pursuits one and the same objective, one that Socratic teaching
had simply rendered explicit. From Aristophanes’s point of view, in other
words, the ultimate aim of rational inquiry into the origin and structure of
the cosmos conducted by the Pre-Socratic thinkers, as well as the systematic
investigation of speech and persuasion conducted by the Sophists, was noth-
ing other than the achievement of the self ’s immanence.
Of course, at first blush nothing could seem further from a ‘concern with
the self ’ than something as grand and abstract as a speculation regarding the
constitution of the universe as a whole. But we would do well here to recall
Vernant’s observation concerning the ultimate effect of Greek cosmologi-

cal speculation. In its wake, “the human, the divine, and the natural worlds
made up a unified, homogeneous universe, all on the same plane . . . The
ancient and the primordial were stripped of their grandeur and mystery; they
had the reassuring banality of familiar phenomena.”23 Where once the pro-
cession of starry constellations in the night sky might have served human
beings as reminders of their mortal finitude, the subsequent scientific reduc-
tion of Zeus into a clay watering pot [χυτρεοῦν, Cl. 1474] and of human
beings into lumps of coal existing beneath a large barbecue lid (Cl. 96–97)
tended instead to render all existence continuous with ourselves and our own
day-to-day experience. In light of such rational discoveries, there simply is
nothing that is fundamentally ‘outside’ us. Thus, when thunder is explained
away as a kind of cosmic flatulence in Clouds, and Aristophanes frames the
lesson in specifically Socratic terms (“I will teach you from out of your own
self [ἀπὸ σαυτοῦ ᾿γώ σε διδάξω]” [Cl. 385]), it is not from out of a simple
indifference to intellectual distinctions, but from a really quite profound
insight into the implications of rationalizing inquiry for human community.
Socratic teaching articulates best for Aristophanes the hidden tendency of
‘objective’ scientific thought.
And of course the same can be said of Sophistic practice too. It is not
just that in mastering the medium of political discourse the well-trained
rhetor can enfold all diversity of opinion into sameness with his own, so that
“Tongue [τὴν Γλῶτταν]” (Cl. 424) can displace all the gods of Olympus. Nor
is it simply that language gives us another means of assimilating all existen-
tial difference through resemblances in sound, common word origins, and
the like (Strepsiades is delighted to see that ‘thunder’ and ‘fart,’ βροντή and
πορδή, are “alike [ὁμοίω]” in their names [Cl. 394]). Beyond all that, soph-
istry—at least as figured in Clouds—is concerned not simply with a mastery
of all forms of otherness through language, but is understood at a deeper level
as the attempt to exercise mastery over language. Thus we have Socrates’s
efforts in Clouds to innovate strictly feminine noun forms for feminine
entities (such as “rooster-ess [ἀλεκτρύαινα]” [Cl. 666]) as a means of ‘ratio-
nalizing’ language itself. With the Sophists, apparently, it is no longer true,
as Heidegger would have it, that “language speaks us,” that we live out our
finite lives within its mystery; the Sophists’ essential ambition is ultimately to
remake language, and through it the world as a whole, in their own image.24
So we can now see, I think, just how deeply principled and insightful
was Aristophanes’s decision to make Socrates the stand-in for the whole of
the New Learning; from the comedian’s point of view, philosopher, scientist,
and Sophist were all engaged in the same underlying task, the one Socrates
76 damian stocking
names explicitly with his idiomatic usage, autos kath’ auton. As a votary of
Dionysus, as a believer in tragedy and its vision of our finitude, it is a move-
ment against which he simply had to pit himself. But why, we might ask, has
Aristophanes elected to do so in comedic form? Why not defend our tragic
finitude by means of tragedy itself?
To understand the appropriateness of launching a specifically comedic
attack on Socrates, it is important first to recognize that both comedy and
tragedy are profoundly Dionysian—that is, both are dedicated, through and
through, to maintaining us in our communal being-in-relation; it is just that
they do so in different ways. Tragedy depends, as we have seen, on the audi-
ence’s identification with the subject of immanence-seeking practices, the
practices of exclusion and domination that reduce the other to the dimen-
sions of the autos. But comedy, I would suggest, appeals to us, contrariwise, as
the objects of such practices. Whereas in tragedy we are brought to recognize
our own tendencies to overrule, objectify, or discount the other, in comedy
it is we ourselves who are objectified, discounted, overruled; in comedy, we
are the other—we are, as it were, the ‘beset’ (and ‘beset’ is of course what
all comedians have always been, and must continue to be). Comedy’s task,
then, is to release us from the sterile misery of this objectification, into the
abundant fertility of our finite condition, the possibility and openness of
community.
Now this it can do in any number of ways. It might, for example, contrive
to put before us a comic hero who thoughtlessly transgresses the objective
bounds to which we would gravely subject him or her, but who—while pas-
sively made to suffer the consequences of this transgression—manages to
‘live on’ in any case (so in Clouds we laugh to see the combined might of
philosophy, science, and rhetoric helpless before a man it cannot stop from
masturbating; cf. Cl. 734). Or it might, more actively, seek to ‘objectify the
objectifier,’ allowing us to discount the power of those who had attempted
to discount us first—as when, for instance, feeling abject before the power
of politicians and celebrities, we delight to know they can be easily imper-
sonated, their ‘uniqueness’ mechanically reproduced and packaged at will.
Such ‘counterobjectification’ is of course practiced everywhere on Socrates in
Clouds, from the impersonation of his talk and manner, to the crueler (but no
less comedic, and no less liberating) subjection of this would-be transcendent
“thinker of his own self ” to all the painful contingencies of a mortal, embod-
ied life (whether by pointing out to the audience the measly “prop” rope by
which the great man is suspended as he boasts of “treading the air,” or by
subjecting him to the touch of fire as it does in the end, reducing his once-
proud boasts to a pathetic squeal).
But howsoever it achieves its end, comedy, I submit once again, is just as
committed to our Dionysian finitude, ecstasy, and fertility as tragedy ever
was. If Aristophanes has sought to oppose the newfound enemies of our
mortal being-in-community in comedic form, I surmise it is because at the
time of the writing of Clouds at least, the technique of achieving the self ’s
immanence through intellectual means was not sufficiently widespread to
become a subject for tragedy. For the ancient Athenians it was, one suspects,
a simple matter to identify themselves with the effort to overmaster all forms
of otherness on the basis of physical and political might, genealogical descent,
or religious scruple; what was not so obvious to them is how one might revert
to new practices of rational inquiry as a means for achieving the self ’s abso-
lute self-containment. But if they did not see such things as an options for
themselves, what the Athenians did acutely feel was the degrading effect the
new intellectual techniques had on them—whether it was sophistry’s claim
to be able to manipulate them at will (to make them, as Strepsiades puts it,
“sausage for thinkers”; cf. Cl. 455–456); or science’s reduction of their words,
and their very own selves, to void and whirling air; or Socrates’s intense form
of self-concentration, his heedless gait and unfocused rolling eyes (cf. Cl.
362), that seemed to belittle all around him into pure nonentity (that is, into
“creatures of a day”; cf. Cl. 223).
For the sake of being- relation, for the sake of our finite being-
in-
in-community, these new and disturbing behaviors required radical
disruption—and as Clouds attests, Aristophanes obviously felt equal to the
task. Against the new vision of the human being that systematic rationality
had made possible—the vision of ourselves as capable of rising above our
finitude to achieve to achieve a state of complete immanence, with Socrates
as our guide—the comedian pits his view of us embodied, frail, open to every
influence of pleasure and pain. His vision is not of the human as whole, but
the human as hole—an “asshole,” in fact, staring presumptuously into the
vast night sky.
Notes
1. “It is in this tone, half outraged, half scornful, that Aristophanic comedy usually
spoke of these men (i.e., Euripides and Socrates), to the consternation of those moderns,
who . . . could not get over their surprise that Socrates should figure in Aristophanes’ plays
as the first and leading sophist, as the mirror and quintessence of everything the sophists
were trying to do.” Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, ed. Ray-
mond Guess and Ronald Speirs, trans. Ronald Speirs (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2000), 13.
2. Cf. David Konstan, “Socrates in Aristophanes’ Clouds,” in The Cambridge Companion
to Socrates, ed. Donald R. Morrison (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 79.
3. Ibid., 82, 86.
78 damian stocking
4. Ibid., 87.
5. Ibid.
6. Cf. too Woodruff: “Aristophanes conveniently painted one human target for the con-
servative wrath that both these new trends (i.e., natural science and persuasive argument)
aroused.” Paul Woodruff, “Socrates and the New Learning,” in The Cambridge Companion
to Socrates, ed. Donald R. Morrison (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 94.
7. In a sense, then, this essay takes up Nietzsche’s suggestion above, that Aristophanes
attacks Socrates as the “mirror and essence” of the New Learning in general. Promi-
nent among other critics who have also sought to ‘defend’ Aristophanes’s Clouds ‘philo-
sophically’ would be Nussbaum, whose Aristophanes is opposed to Socrates’s attempt
to reform education on strictly rational principles (Martha Nussbaum, “Aristophanes
and Socrates on Learning Practical Wisdom,” Aristophanes: Essays in Interpretation,
ed. Jeffrey Henderson, Yale Classical Studies vol. 26 [Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 1980], 84); and Freydberg, who (in a reading deeply influenced by the work
of John Sallis) wishes to interpret Clouds as a reflection on the limits of logos, but one
that is in essential accord with “genuine Socratic activity” (Bernard Freydberg, Philoso-
phy and Comedy: Aristophanes, Logos, and Eros [Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
2008], 12). While I agree with Nussbaum that Aristophanes is opposed to the Socratic
demand for a purely rationalized system of education, the grounds for this opposition,
as I hope to show, lie somewhat deeper than a concern for preserving traditional ed-
ucational means which Nussbaum (sometimes) seems to impute to the playwright (cf.
Nussbaum, “Aristophanes and Socrates on Learning Practical Wisdom,” 84, 89). Like-
wise, I agree with Freydberg that Aristophanes happily underscores the limits of logos
in his play; but where Freydberg argues that Aristophanes “deliberately omits” any men-
tion of “serious” Socratic speech “precisely in order to celebrate it” (Freydberg, Philosophy
and Comedy, 21), I argue that Aristophanes engages—and opposes—Socratic thinking
directly.
8. Cf. Broackes’s listing of the phrase’s usage in the Phaedo alone: 64c6, 64c7, 65c7,
65d1, 66e6, 67c7, 67e8, 70a7, 78d6, 79d1, 79d4, 81c1, 83b1, 100b6; in Justin Broackes,
“Autos kath’ hauton in the Clouds: Was Socrates himself a defender of Separable Soul and
Separable Forms?,” Classical Quarterly 59 (2009), 49–50.
9. Ibid., 55.
10. Ibid., 56.
11. Havelock, “The Socratic Self as It Is Parodied in Aristophanes’ Clouds,” Yale Classical
Studies 22: Studies in Fifth-Century Thought and Literature, ed. Adam Parry (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1972), 6.
12. Ibid., 9.
13. Ibid., 7.
14. Significantly, this is essentially the same idiom that Plato has Socrates use in the
opening of The Apology, where Socrates declares himself so impressed at the rhetorical
prowess of his accusers that “I myself almost forgot myself ” (Ap. 17a2–3).
15. Martha Nussbaum, “The Comic Soul: Or, This Phallus That Is Not One,” in The Soul
of Tragedy: Essays on Athenian Drama, ed. Victoria Pedrick and Steven M. Oberhelman,
155–179 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 160. I find myself in far greater
agreement with Nussbaum here than in her 1980 essay (“Aristophanes and Socrates on
Learning Practical Wisdom,” Yale Classical Studies vol. XXVI Aristophanes: Essays in Inter-
pretation, ed. Jeffrey Henderson [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980], 43–98),
especially in her assertion that “Comedy celebrates the human being as a limited bodily
being, in need of ‘external goods’ and other human beings” (“The Comic Soul,” 166). I do
not agree, however, with her implication the comedy takes the part of the ungainly phal-
lused ἥττων λόγος in Clouds. As will be seen below, Aristophanes opposes Socrates on
grounds that set him in opposition to the κρείττων and the ἥττων λόγος alike. See note
21 below.
16. Cf. Damian Stocking, “Antigone, désoeuvré: Tragedy, Finitude, and Community,”
Mosaic 41 (2008): 153–168, and “The Ruin of Song: Community and Autoimmunity
in Sophocles’ Antigone,” in The Returns of Antigone, ed. Tina Chanter and Sean Kirkland
(Albany: State University Press of New York, 2014), 69–86.
17.  Jean-Luc Nancy, The Inoperative Community (Minneapolis: University of Minne-
sota Press, 2004), 6.
18. Nancy, 28.
19. Nancy, 31.
20. Jacques Derrida, Acts of Religion (New York: Routledge, 2010), 80.
21. Nancy, IC, 4.
22. Nancy, IC, 19.
23.  Jean-Pierre Vernant, The Origins of Greek Thought (1962; trans., Ithaca, N.Y.: Cor-
nell University Press, 1982), 103.
24. Thus where Socrates, in his intellectual turning toward himself alone, withdraws
from the threat of otherness in the manner, so to speak, of Antigone, science and sophistry,
in their attempt to homogenize and appropriate all exterior difference, seek immanence
in the manner of Creon. The same schematic difference could apply to the κρείττων and
the ἥττων λόγος; the former seeks Creon-like domination through traditional mores, the
latter an imperviousness to others through self-indulgent shamelessness; Aristophanes, as
a defender of finitude, finds them both worthy of ridicule.
Key Readings
Freydberg, Bernard. Philosophy and Comedy: Aristophanes, Logos, and Eros. Bloomington:
Konstan, David. “Socrates in Aristophanes’ Clouds.” In The Cambridge Companion to
Socrates, edited by Donald R. Morrison, 75–90. New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2011.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings. Edited by Raymond Guess
and Ronald Speirs; translated by Ronald Speirs. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2000.
Nussbaum, Martha. “Aristophanes and Socrates on Learning Practical Wisdom.” In Yale
Classical Studies, vol. 26: Aristophanes: Essays in Interpretation, edited by Jeffrey
Henderson, 43–98. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980.
———. “The Comic Soul: Or, This Phallus That Is Not One.” In The Soul of Tragedy: Es-
says on Athenian Drama, edited by Victoria Pedrick and Steven M. Oberhelman,
155–179. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006.
Stocking, Damian. “Antigone, désoeuvré: Tragedy, Finitude, and Community.” Mosaic 41
(2008): 153–168.
———. “ ‘ The Ruin of Song’: Community and Autoimmunity in Sophocles’ Antigone.” In
The Returns of Antigone, edited by Tina Chanter and Sean Kirkland, 69–86. Albany:
State University of New York Press, 2014.
80 damian stocking
Vernant, Jean-Pierre. The Origins of Greek Thought. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press,
1982.
Woodruff, Paul. “Socrates and the New Learning.” In The Cambridge Companion to
Socrates, edited by Donald R. Morrison, 91–110. New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2011.
Classical Greek Philosophy:
Plato and Aristotle
Erōs and Eris: Love and Strife in Ancient Greek
Thought and Culture
John Russon
When Peleus and Thetis celebrated their marriage, they neglected to invite
Discord.1 Discord sent the gift of a golden apple on which was inscribed “for
the fairest.” Wifely Juno, wise Minerva, and beautiful Venus each claimed to
be named by the inscription, and discord erupted among them. They chose
Paris to judge the matter, and each offered a bribe: Juno offered kingship;
Minerva, military success; and Venus, Helen—the most beautiful woman.
Paris judged Venus to be fairest, forsaking kingship and military success for
the sake of possessing Helen. He took her with him to Troy and thereby
started the Trojan War. This mythical story makes clear how erōs, erotic pas-
sion, characteristically involves us with eris, strife. It reminds us that erotic
passion—the domain of Venus—can present itself so compellingly that it
leads us to reject established order—embodied in Juno and Minerva—and
thereby throw us into a life of strife.2 The story presents in compact fashion
the basic phenomena of eris and erōs and, through the poetry of Hesiod and
the philosophical writings of Aristotle, Heraclitus, and Plato, we will see that
strife and passionate striving define the very fabric of nature and human life.
I. Hesiod on the Nature of Reality

The beginning, according to Hesiod’s Theogony, is ‘gap’: chaos. A gap is an
opening, a space between. Typically, we imagine two things as points of ref-
erence and understand a gap as the space they define, the distance ‘between
them.’ If gap is first, however, the between precedes that which it is between:
the gap, spacing, is the fundamental reality that gives rise to the spaced, to
‘things,’ rather than vice versa.
Gap has three immediate offspring, according to Hesiod: the broad-
breasted, firm seat of all (Gaia), the depths of that broad-pathed domain
(Tartaros), and Erōs, who “unstrings the limbs and subdues the mind and
83
84 john russon
sensible thought in the breasts of all gods and all men.”3 That gap gives rise
to Gaia underlines the sense that the ‘between’ gives rise to that which it is
between: it is gap that enables the “broad” earth. Further, as realizations of
gap, whatever gap is ‘between’ will themselves be gaps: earth is itself “spaced,”
characterized by an opposition of surface and depth, broad-breasted and deep,
Gaia and Tartaros. This is a self-opposed reality, which Heraclitus shortly
will name: the palintropos harmoniē that “differing with itself, agrees with
itself.”4 And what is it like to live this reality, to live as ‘gap’? To experience
the ‘between’ is to experience the insufficiency of what one is, to experience
the longing for the beyond, to know the weakness at the heart of the sub-
stantial, to be “unstrung”: this is the reality of Erōs.
Gap has further offspring, dark (Erebos) and night, both ‘gaps’: realities
that are indeterminate but pregnant, charged. Mark Rothko writes, “Often,
towards nightfall, there is a feeling in the air of mystery, threat, frustration—
all these at once.”5 Night subsequently gives birth to lame, to bitter lament,
to dooms, to fates, to nemesis, to deception, to sexual passion, to old age,
and to Eris, ‘strife.’ Finally, this “loathsome strife” bears “burden, oblivion
and famine” as well as “the tearful sorrows,” “the clashes and the battles and
the manslaughters,” “the quarrels and the lies and argument and counter-
argument,” “lawlessness, ruin, and oath.” These offspring are very much the
realities of our human world, and Hesiod alerts us to their derivative char-
acter: they are realities that need to be explained, and what explains them is
the more fundamental reality of strife—eris—itself a realization of chaos, gap.
Gap, then, confronts us with two striking realities: erōs that unstrings the
limbs and subdues the mind, and eris that gives birth to burdens, clashes,
argument, lawlessness, and oaths. This is the lesson of Hesiod, but “Hes-
iod” is the narrator (i.e., part of the story) of the Theogony, itself a work of
oral-traditional poetry handed down over generations; the Theogony, in other
words, is not the product of an individual author, but an articulation of the
cultural wisdom of generations, of “the poets who are to us just like fathers
and leaders of wisdom,” as Socrates says.6 This is wisdom presented not in the
form of arguments but in the form of stories, suggestive narratives that speak
to the imagination and call on the receptive intelligence of the listener if they
are to be appreciated.7 In Hesiod we get the Greek vision of reality that it is
the work of subsequent philosophers to bring to conceptual articulation.
II. Aristotle and Heraclitus: Reality Is Dynamic

We commonly expect that reality will come in neat packages. We imag-
ine ourselves to have discrete identities, and we imagine things to be
erō s and eri s 85
self-contained—separated from each other and from ourselves. A definitive

feature of ancient Greek philosophy, however, is its attunement to the ways
in which we and the things of the world are not static and self-contained, and
this is particularly illuminated through the paired themes of eris and erōs—
strife and sexual passion. The Greek thinkers emphasize the dynamism of
reality: the ways in which things are defined by a tendency to move, change,
and develop.8 Further, things grow and develop in interaction—often com-
petitive interaction—with their surroundings.
This dynamism and interaction is immediately evident in growth.9 Each
spring, flowers break through the soil and send up shoots that ultimately end
in full bloom, and animals give birth to offspring that quickly learn to control
their bodily movements and grow into independent animals. These plants
and animals grow in and through the process of assimilating the materi-
als of their inorganic and organic environment—materials that equally resist
them. The natural environment presents us with the drama of living, growing
things that, through interacting in both competitive and symbiotic ways, are
each enabled (or not) to carry out their individual processes of growth.
Growing things, furthermore, do not grow in an arbitrary fashion: growth
is the progressive realization of an intrinsic identity—what Aristotle calls
the “what it is” or the “look.”10 What we call an “individual” living thing is
a process of striving to realize an identity that is its own formative, intrinsic
norm—what Aristotle calls its “end,” or “that for the sake of which.”11 We
demonstrate that we are Aristotelians whenever we say, “What a nice dog,”
or “That orchid needs water,” because in each of these cases we recognize
what we see as an enactment of a type, a “species [eidos].” Whereas in a reduc-
tive sense we could say that what is “actually” present is simply a very specific,
finite mass of tissue, what we assert in these recognitions is that what is
“actually” present is a dog, that is, we recognize the finite specificity as a phase
in the realization of an identity that is itself the truth of the situation, even
though that identity is never “actually” or perfectly present as such. This gov-
erning identity is what Aristotle calls the “actuality [entelecheia]” of a living
thing, whereas the finite enactment of the living process is the derivative or
secondary sense of its reality.12 When we say, “There is a dog,” we effectively
see through the finite specificity to recognize the indwelling identity that is
being realized as this specificity. Growth makes sense to us: we recognize in
a changing process the striving of a form to be realized. Further, this defin-
ing form is not an alien agent imposing itself on a resistant material: it is
the very indwelling impulse (the hormē) of the thing itself—what Aristotle
calls “the first cause of motion in a thing”—to change into itself.13 When we
say, “That is a dog,” we recognize the metaphysical legitimacy of the form:
86 john russon
we recognize that the struggle to realize the form is the very essence of the
matter.14
In place, then, of separate, well-defined realities, what we find in nature are
processes of environmental interaction and struggle that are strivings to real-
ize immanent norms. What we commonly call a ‘thing’ is really (1) a ‘physical’
struggle to maintain itself through mastering the context of dynamic involve-
ment with a natural environment comprised of others enacting parallel
struggles for mastery, and (2) a ‘metaphysical’ struggle within itself between
the current form of its finite specificity and its indwelling identity. A thing is
a reality realized only as a struggle that, as Heraclitus writes, “differing with
itself, agrees with itself,” and “all things come together through strife and
necessity.”15 Through Aristotle and Heraclitus, then, we see a development
of the Hesiodic vision—a recognition, that is, that a metaphysics of strife
as contest and as striving is the key to a dynamic understanding of reality.
What, though, is human nature, and what is our place in nature?
III. Plato and Human Nature

Plato’s Symposium portrays a conversation about erōs. The participants in the
conversation praise erōs, and in the process they reveal that erōs, which we typ-
ically assume to be the base personal lust one feels for touching the attractive
body of another, is in fact the motive force behind our highest and most defin-
itively human pursuits. The centerpiece is the contribution by Socrates, itself
largely the report of a conversation he had with a woman named Diotima,
from whom, Socrates claims, he learned “erotics [ta erōtika].”16 According to
Diotima, erōs is itself a force in human experience that grows and develops,
so there is not a single practice or a single feeling that realizes erōs; instead,
erōs takes various forms that, taken separately, can seem very opposed to each
other, and these different forms are better or worse at realizing the definitive
character of erōs. Before addressing Diotima’s account, it is illuminating to
review the facets of erotic life emphasized by the other speakers.
Phaedrus notes that lovers feel an emotional and existential tie of com-
mitment to each other that would lead them to die for each other: the erotic
urge, that is, fixes itself on another person, it leads one to ascribe ultimate
value to that erotic object, and that valuing is experienced as an affective tie,
a lived sense of a compelling bond.17 Pausanias observes that this seemingly
most intimate, personal bond is mediated by social conventions, that is, soci-
eties have established ways for recognizing what are the right and wrong ways
for carrying out our sexual pairings and thus our intimate behavior is itself a
way of endorsing or challenging a cultural sense of propriety.18 Eryximachus
erō s and eri s 87
emphasizes that our sexual passions are rooted in bodily processes that have
their own physiological norms and equilibrium, quite independently of the
interpersonal dimensions that so move us emotionally.19 Aristophanes pro-
poses that our erotic longings are not simply empirical matters, but reflect a
“metaphysical” need we have for another.20 Agathon highlights the transfor-
mative character of the experience of erōs: he describes the first blush of new
love in which the world seems enchanted and we experience erōs as a “new
god” whom we follow in opposition to all the rules and cold necessities of
the established order.21 Socrates suggests that our desires put us in the thrall
of the beautiful object, unwarrantedly imputing to it a goodness that it need
not possess.22 Alcibiades reveals how the experience of being loved, in which
one feels oneself to have power over the lover, can grow into the experience
of loving, such that one feels oneself answerable to the very perspective one
formerly presumed to dominate.23 The speeches reveal that our erotic life is
more than simply a matter of bodily mechanics and pleasurable sensations:
erōs is the urge that drives one, as a body charged with spirit, to join with
another body charged with spirit, and in that urge are nested the seeds of the
complex personal and interpersonal issues that define our human struggles
and aspirations. This is the point made by Diotima.24
Diotima describes our erotic urge—that force we feel stirring and prod-
ding us when we are in the presence of beautiful bodies—as a fundamental
force of growth in our lives, the fundamental striving or “first cause of motion”
that impels us to cultivate the highest aspects of our nature. Diotima’s claim
is that our erotic impulse has a path of development, beginning in the erōs
for one other beautiful body, but growing into a desire for all other beautiful
bodies, and thence to an erōs for a beautiful soul and from there to an erōs
for virtue, knowledge, and legislation, culminating ultimately in a love for
the beauty that is the cause of all these “beauties.”25 In order to understand
Diotima’s claim, let us consider what it is like to experience erōs.
Sappho famously describes the experience of being passionately fixated on
a beautiful body, experiencing a compelling desire that overrides our interest
in other affairs, no matter how important:
Now again erōs the limb-loosener,

sweet-bitter, unmanageable, creeping,
whirls me.26
This—finding oneself gripped bodily by a domineering force, simultaneously

and ambiguously pleasant and painful—is the immediate experience of erōs.
But what, Diotima asks, is this a desire for?27 Though popular advertising
88 john russon
insists that our desire is for the pleasurable sensation of orgasm through
genital stimulation, honest reflection on our experience makes clear that the
answer is not so simple.
Though our erotic desire is incited by the bodily presence of another, we
do not automatically know what it is that we want. Experiences of sexual
interest can be very puzzling, and it is not uncommon for people to remark,
“I don’t know what I’m feeling.” The culture of popular advertising culture
encourages us to interpret our experiences of sexual desire even before we
have such experiences, with the result that we have a readymade answer to
what they are. Yet when we employ this pre-scripted interpretation to our
interpersonal situations, we can find that there is a poor fit. Discharging our
feelings in genital touching and related activities can easily “not feel right,”
or it can leave us feeling dissatisfied or disappointed. Diotima’s insight is
that such reactions are appropriate: the familiar interpretation of sexuality is
not right.
Though the beauty of the body may initially entice us, what we are fun-
damentally responding to in erotic desire is the presence (or, more exactly, as
we will see in a moment, the absence), of another person. In other words, it
is not the body as a mass of flesh that attracts us, but the body as the avatar
of another soul like our own: the body as the site of another desire. We take
pleasure in the caress of another, but the pleasure of the caress is not simply
the experience of bodily sensations: it is the pleasure of bodily sensations
produced by another, the pleasure of approval, the pleasure of being desired.
This is the implicit point of Diotima’s observation that erōs is a desire for a
soul: sexual exchanges are not just matters of bodily stimulation, but are ges-
tures of mutual desire.28
Once we recognize that erotic life is the domain of mutual desire—the
domain of bodily life in which souls engage with souls—we can understand
many of the familiar experiences of sexuality. We can understand both why
consent is an important issue in sexual life and why sexuality can be a threat-
ening domain, for the only thing that can satisfy our desire to be desired is
the other’s desire: it is up to the other person to choose us, to find us desir-
able, and that is something we cannot control on our own. Erotic life is the
domain in which we find ourselves exposed to the other, and exposed, fur-
thermore, in a way that touches us at the most intimate levels. In sexuality,
we are thus vulnerable.
Fear of this vulnerability can lead us to adopt defensive strategies to avoid
facing this risk. I may seek to debase or degrade my partner in a gesture
of resistance against her or his power over me or I may debase or degrade
myself in the hope of making myself more desirable. Or, since self-esteem
erō s and eri s 89
in the eyes of others is what is at stake, I may undertake a ‘sexual’ relation

with one person for the sake of how I will thereby appear in the eyes of some
other whom I desire. Indeed, what looks like ‘sex’ from the outside may be a
vehicle for winning esteem in my peer group, for ‘getting even’ with another
lover whose desire threatens me, or, more broadly, for acquiring the cultural
credentials to measure up to the social standards that shape the perceptions
of others. In what we typically take to be our sexual actions, then, we can see
that it can easily be matters of interpersonal competition or of answering
to social norms that animate us, rather than a desire for pleasurable genital
sensations.29
Of course, we do not always flee the vulnerability of sexual life. We can
live our sexuality as a site for interpersonal growth, finding in the passion the
other directs at us a boost to confidence, a motivation to accomplishment, or
an inspiration to creativity. In these cases, we discharge the erotic urge not
simply through genital stimulation, but through acting in the world, through
learning, through artistic striving. Indeed, we can find that being embraced
by another soul can have the effect of “giving us back to ourselves,” so to
speak, but giving us back as someone we could not be on our own.30 We can
thus experience the other as our own “better self,” calling us to change our
ways, the experience explicitly attested to by Alcibiades and Apollodorus in
their descriptions of their experience of Socrates in the Symposium.31 Erotic
life can thus blossom into the whole range of human aspiration and accom-
plishment, in experiences of personal growth and transformation and in
experiences of worldly practice. Thus, as Diotima claims, our desire naturally
grows into a desire for virtue, for knowledge, for politics, and so on.
So, what is erotic desire a desire for? We can see that there is no single
‘correct’ answer. Genital touching, learning, and taking political responsibility
are all ways of taking up the fundamental ‘question’ posed to us by our erotic
longing without any one of them exhausting its meaning. The erotic urge
may arise in the presence of beauty, but it does not prescribe a single course;
indeed, taking up this urge will always be a matter of interpretation—it will
always call on us to be creative, to take responsibility for determining for
ourselves what it is that is being called up. This is why Diotima defines erōs
as the desire to “give birth in beauty.”32 The desire to “give birth” (in a meta-
phorical sense) is the desire to create, the desire to have something good,
something worthwhile, emerge through oneself, and this is the nature of the
erotic impulse.33 In the presence of the beautiful, we have inspired in us the
desire that something of value, something important, come from us. What
that something is is not clear, and our own creativity is thus summoned up,
inasmuch as it is “up to us” to figure out what to do with the impulse.
90 john russon
In Plato’s Symposium, then, we have a profound articulation of the Hes-

iodic vision: our erōs presents itself to us as a question, a striving without a
predefined goal, and to experience that question is precisely to find ourselves
defined as the gap between imperative and answer. In erōs, we are held by the
question but without a secure answer.34 Inasmuch as we are defined by this
erōs, there is thus a strife in us that will never be overcome. Living up to our
erōs requires that we reject pat answers and hold onto the question of our
animating desire as an imperative to creativity.
Like dependence on the desire of the other, the need to be creative can
be threatening: we may well feel unequal to the task, unable to perform. For
that reason, we often fall back on pre-scripted answers to the question “What
do I want?” or “What should I do?” In the face of the anxiety of freedom
that this erotic impulse opens up for us, we can find it comfortable to rest
in a ‘guaranteed’ solution. In any situation of creativity—painting, philoso-
phizing, serious conversation—it is a challenge to ‘come up’ with something,
and, when one does, there is no obvious way to find a standard by which to
evaluate the worth of what one has produced. Consequently, creativity does
not typically take the form of utterly unprecedented originality; instead, we
tend to work through established models, and the works of those involved
in creation thus run along a continuum from banal repetition of established
forms to shocking invention without obvious precedent, with most results
sitting somewhere between these extremes. So too in erotic life it will be only
the most creative and daring who will expose ourselves to the full openness of
the erotic question and only the most psychologically and interpersonally dull
who will truly embrace the empty interpretation of sexuality offered by adver-
tising, with most of us finding ourselves somewhere between these extremes.
Wherever we find ourselves, we typically do not have a clear understanding
of what we are doing. Socrates claims to be learned in “the mysteries of erōs,”
but most of us cannot say the same, and though we feel the pull of the soul in
erotic life, we do not adequately cultivate the full flourishing of our erotic life.
Diotima shows us that our reality as souls striving together to realize our
humanity is what is at stake in our charged, intimate dealings with others.
Now, what is unique about the human—what Plato and Aristotle discuss
under the name nous or ‘mind’—is that, though we are inherently finite, mor-
tal individuals, we feel the call of the universal, the eternal, the infinite: we
experience the voice of ‘the divine,’ the truths that transcend the ongoing
process of the coming-to-be and passing-away of individual things. With
Aristotle and Heraclitus, we saw that any natural thing is characterized by
a striving after its own proper form; Plato shows that the distinctive char-
acter of the human is striving after the “divine.”35 We are the beings who
erō s and eri s 91
are capable of recognizing truth, goodness, and beauty, and we strive to be

defined by these realities rather than by the passing reality of our mortal
finitude. It is this that is at stake in our erōs. Though the immediate experi-
ence of erōs is a passionate attraction to a body, we are able through that body
to encounter a soul, and through that encounter with another soul we are
opened onto the broader aspirations of humanity as such. Ultimately, then,
our erōs is a seeking for kindred spirits with whom we can be together in our
pursuit of the true, the good, and the beautiful.
Socrates’s practice of philosophizing is thus a profound realization of
erotic life. Socrates’s desire was to “converse about virtue everyday,” to join
with others in examining life and making being-together a site for realizing
the good.36 Socrates thus devoted his life to talking with others intimately,
calling them to “turn around” and devote themselves to caring for their own
souls by caring for higher pursuits.37 But this fulfillment of his erotic passion
was not an easy or comfortable affair; it was a matter of great strife. Socrates’s
erotic attraction to others—his care for others—led him to challenge them,
making himself a figure of strife. Not surprisingly, his ‘passes’ were not always
welcomed, and his ‘conversing about virtue’ could be a matter of conflict.
Plato’s Apology of Socrates, in presenting Socrates’s defense speech at his trial
for impiety, shows that that strife between souls can take a very bodily form:
Socrates was condemned to death and executed.
In the Symposium, then, and in the character of Socrates in general, we
have a vision of the essentially erotic character of human life, and the essen-
tially human character of erotic life. Erōs is our fundamental experience of
the striving that is constitutive of our human nature, a striving that, because
it is enacted in the domain of interpersonal life—the domain of conflicting
wills—is a matter of essential strife.
IV. Erōs and Political Strife.

In Homer’s Iliad (XVIII.478–607), Thetis asks Hephaistos to make for
Achilles spectacular armor to wear into battle. Along with a corselet and
helmet, Hephaistos makes a shield, which, as well as being a military instru-
ment, is a work of art on which are depicted the parameters of the human
world. Central to the shield is the portrayal of two cities—a city at peace and
a city at war. The city at peace is a site of marriage festivals, ritual feasts, the
proper apportioning of goods, and a lot of song and dance; the city at war is
a site of hate, confusion, doom (Ker), and a lot of blood (XVIII.535). What
is striking about these images is that the role of strife (neikos) is definitive for
differentiating these two. Central to the city at peace are two men at strife
92 john russon
with each other over the proper response to the death of a third, one offering
restitution for the killing, the other refusing. These men have brought their
case to the judges rather than resorting to vendetta-style violence. The city at
peace is not a city from which strife has been expelled (as Peleus and Thetis
tried to expel discord from their marriage), but one in which strife is recog-
nized as the proper material for communal negotiation and navigation.38
This perspective on politics is not unique to Greek myth. Aristotle writes
about Solon that
Solon realised that the city was often split by factional disputes but
some citizens were content because of idleness to accept whatever
the outcome might be; he therefore produced a specific law against
them, laying down that anyone who did not choose one side or the
other in such a dispute should lose his citizen rights.39
Aristotle (Pol. I.1–2), similarly, defines the political realm not as the space
of uniform perspective, but as the site where people come together with
conflicting visions of the good. In our discussion of erōs, we recognized at
the interpersonal level that it is in the coming together of souls—the com-
ing together of inherently differing perspectives—that human fulfillment is
enacted, and the institution of the polis recognizes this at the impersonal
level of social life.
The polis is “made out of ” the “strife” of conflicting wills, but the polis is
the reality in which it is recognized that the proper response to this conflict
is to engage in collective deliberation about these matters in the context of
a decision-making body empowered to adjudicate these matters in light of
the good of the city rather than in light of self-interest. In this context, it is
interesting to note that it is precisely erōs that is summoned up in Athens as
the key to political health. Describing this situation in Athens in the fifth
century b.c.e., Mark Munn writes,
An elemental power, Erōs was both a primordial force of nature,

according to Hesiodic and Orphic theogonies, and the spirit of
passionate affection that bound all men and women, citizen and
foreign, to the service of Athens, according to Periclean rhetoric.40
Indeed, Pericles, the Athenian statesman, had called on Athenians to
fix your eyes every day on the greatness of Athens as she really
is, and fall in love with her. When you realize her greatness, then
erō s and eri s 93
reflect that what made her great was men with a spirit of adventure,
men who knew their duty, men who were ashamed to fall below a
certain standard.41
Such a passion for the polis can offer the possibility simultaneously to appre-
ciate the inherent worth of differing perspectives and to strive for their
reconciliation. An erōs for politics, however, is a complex matter.
An erōs for politics opens up a range of possibilities analogous to the range
of erotic approaches to interpersonal life. A political passion has its virtuous
enactment perhaps in a person like Socrates, who is prepared to die for his
pursuit of justice within the polis. Such a political erōs also has various vicious
forms, however, such as the lust for power witnessed in violent demagogues
or in xenophobic patriotism. But, as in all the domains of erōs, where the
danger lies is also where lies the possibility of “salvation,” so to speak; indeed,
as the Athenians remark in the “Melian Dialogue,” “if one follows one’s self-
interest, one wants to be safe, whereas the path of justice and honour involves
one in danger.”42 In politics, as in interpersonal relations, the Greek vision
calls us to engage, rather than evade, the essential strife in human affairs.
Notes
1. Ovid, Heroides, 16.71–90, 149–152, 5.35–36. See also Pausanias, Description of Greece,
LXV.9.5, Apollodorus, Epitome, E.3.2, and Iliad XXIV.25–30.
2. Compare Euripides’s Medea, Second Stasimon, ll. 636–638: “Dreaded Kypris, Never
hit me with quarrelsome angers and insatiable strife, after stinging my heart for another
bed” (Euripides, Medea, trans. Cecelia A. Eaton Luschnig, http://www.stoa.org/diotima/
anthology/medea.trans.print.shtml, accessed March 30, 2018).
3. Theogony, ll. 121–122, trans. Apostolos N. Athanassakis, in Hesiod: Theogony, Works
and Days, Shield, 2nd ed. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004). Compare
Sappho, fragment 130, cited below (note 34).
4. Fragment 51 (Diels-Kranz numbering). Translations of Heraclitus are my own.
5. Quoted in David Sylvester, “The Ugly Duckling,” in Abstract Expressionism: The Criti-
cal Developments (exhibition catalogue), ed. Michael Auping (New York: Abrams, 1987),
140.
6. Plato, Lysis, 214a1.
7. See Plato, Apology, 22b–c.
8. See Aristotle, Physics II.1 (192b14–16 and passim).
9. Compare Aristotle, Physics II.1, 193a2–9.
10. Respectively, “to ti esti” and “to eidos”; Physics II.3.194b27–29.
11. Respectively, “to telos” and “to hou heneka”; Physics II.3.194b33–35.
12. De an. II.1.412a22–b9; Physics II.3.194b24–26.
13. Physics II.3.194b b29–30: hē archē tēs metabolēs hē prōtē. For hormē, see Physics
II.1.192b18.
14. Physics II.3.194b24–26: matter is the ‘that out of which’ (to ex hou).
15. Heraclitus, Diels-Kranz fragments 51 and 80.
94 john russon
16. Smp. 201d; see also 198d, 210a, and 212b.

17. Smp. 178a–180b.
18. Smp. 180c–185c. Pausanias and Phaedrus are oriented by the distinction between
lover and beloved that defines the Athenian institution of pederasty.
19. Smp. 185e–188e.
20. Smp. 189d–193d.
21. Smp. 194e–197e; see Smp. 201e, 204c.
22. Smp. 198a–199b.
23. Smp. 215a–222c.
24. Smp. 201e–212b.
25. Smp. 208e–209e, 210a–212b.
26. Fragment 130, trans. Patricia Fagan (original text in Greek Lyric, vol. 1 [Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982]).
27. Smp. 204d: “The lover of beautiful things desires; what does he desire?”
28. Smp. 209b–c, 210b–c.
29. Compare Smp. 208c.
30. See Smp. 209c: the relationship with the other releases what one “has been carrying
inside [oneself ] for ages.” Compare Lysis 207a–b.
31. Smp. 216b–c and 172c–173a, 173d, respectively.
32. Smp. 206b–207a, 206e.
33. See Smp. 208e.
34. See Smp. 202e–203a and 204a–b.
35. Compare Smp. 206a, 206c, 207a, 207d, 208b, 208e.
36. Ap. 38a.
37. See Republic VII.518c–d.
38. Compare Plato, Laws I.628a.
39. Aristotle, Constitution of Athens, V.8.
40. Mark Munn, The School of History: Athens in the Age of Socrates (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 2000), 111.
41. Thucydides, History, II.43.
42. Thucydides, History, V.107 (trans. Rex Warner).
Key Readings
Carson, Anne. Erōs the Bittersweet: An Essay. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,
1992.
Fagan, Patricia. Plato and Tradition: The Poetic and Cultural Context of Philosophy. Evan-
ston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2013.
Halperin, David. “Platonic Erōs and What Men Call Love.” Ancient Philosophy 5 (1985):
161–204.
Kosman, L. Aryeh. “Platonic Love.” In Facets of Plato’s Philosophy, edited by W. H. Werk-
meister, 53–69. Assen, Netherlands: Van Gorcum, 1976.
Nagler, Michael N. “Discourse and Conflict in Hesiod: Eris and the Erides.” Ramus 21
(1992): 79–96.
———. “Towards a Semantics of Ancient Conflict: Eris in the Iliad.” Classical World 82
(1988): 81–90.
Nagy, Gregory. The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry. Rev. ed.
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998.
erō s and eri s 95
Nussbaum, Martha. The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philoso-
phy. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
Osborne, Catharine. Erōs Unveiled: Plato and the God of Love. Oxford: Clarendon, 1996.
Russon, John. “Erōs and Education: Plato’s Transformative Epistemology.” Laval
théologique et philosophique 56 (2000): 113–125.
Wohl, Victoria. “The Erōs of Alcibiades.” Classical Antiquity 18 (1999): 349–385.
Plato and Aristotle: More Than a Question of
‘Separate Forms’
Francisco J. Gonzalez
According to the standard textbook account, an account that also exerts its
influence on even some of the most specialized works of scholarship, Plato
and Aristotle both identified being with ‘form’ (eidos) but diverged in that,
while Plato separated the ‘forms’ from sensible objects and placed them in
some ‘place beyond the heavens,’ Aristotle brought them back down to earth
by making them inseparable from the sensible substances of which they are
the forms. This is doubtless a nice story and one easy to recount to beginning
students of ancient Greek philosophy. It is, however, simplistic to the point of
misrepresentation. For one thing, it exaggerates the importance of the notion
of ‘form’ in the debate between Plato and Aristotle, a debate that has much
more to do with their divergent understandings of being itself. Second, in
making the issue one of whether or not the ‘forms’ are ‘separate,’ it defines the
dispute from an entirely Aristotelian perspective and thereby from the very
outset sides with Aristotle. If we agree with Aristotle that Plato ‘separated’
horseness from actual horses and thereby treated it as a kind of Super Horse,
of course we will find Plato’s position ridiculous. What I seek to do in what
follows, therefore, is to indicate the ways in which the philosophical dispute
between Plato and Aristotle is much more complicated and interesting than
the textbook account would lead us to believe.1
The crucial divergence between Plato and Aristotle can be said to concern
their interpretation of what it means for something to be “itself by itself.”
They agree that what truly is is itself by itself, but Aristotle interprets this in
such a way that the particular individual thing, rather than the common char-
acteristic that defines it, fits this criterion. For Plato a thing’s being is what it
is, so that beauty is the ousia of beautiful things.2 This ousia is common to the
things that have it and also irreducible to any or all of them, so that it must
be one thing, itself by itself. The particular beautiful things are dependent
on beauty as their ousia. For Aristotle, the ousia of a beautiful thing is its
97
98 francisco j. gonzalez
separate existence as an individual, so that its beauty becomes a mere prop-

erty ontologically dependent on it. Speaking grammatically (though doing
so already favors Aristotle), for Plato beauty is the subject and the individuals
are the accidental predicates, while for Aristotle the individual is the subject
and beauty is the predicate. As we can see, this fundamental disagreement
regarding the nature of ousia can be expressed without reference to ‘forms’
and indeed has only been hidden by the constant talk of ‘forms.’
This is not to say, of course, that this disagreement does not have impor-
tant consequences for how Plato and Aristotle use the terms eidos and idea.
First, the term eidos becomes indispensable for Aristotle’s characterization
of what is since the individual thing comes to be characterized as a com-
pound of form and matter. To see the significance of this we must first note
what is often not noted: that the term eidos is dispensable for Plato. In the
Symposium and the Phaedrus things like justice itself, beauty itself, and so on
are talked of without the language of form.3 Though these two dialogues must
be counted among the most important expositions of what has come to be
called Plato’s Theory of Forms, there is only one passage in each in which the
term eidos could be argued to refer to a ‘Form,’ and it is convincingly argued
in an important and exhaustive study of the terms eidos/idea in ancient Greek
philosophy (hereafter “the Liège study”)4 that neither is best read in that
way.5 The passage from the Symposium is that in which the lover is described
as coming to realize that the beauty in one body is akin to that in another
body and that if it is necessary to pursue the beauty ep’eidei [εί δεῖ διώκειν τὸ
ἐπ´εἴδει καλόν]” (Smp. 210b), it would be foolish not to take to be one and
identical the beauty in all bodies. It is at the very least overtranslation to take
the phrase in question to mean “if it is necessary to pursue the beauty that
exists in the Form.” Given that we are speaking here of the beauty common
to bodies, the word eidos need refer to no more than the visible aspect of
these bodies; the confirmation of their beauty being one and the same is to
be found in their common visible form, not in some ‘Form’ that transcends
the visible. We cannot even say that Diotima inserts the word eidos here to
anticipate the later reference to beauty itself, since she does not use the lan-
guage of eidos at all when she comes to talk of beauty itself as something
invisible and existing itself by itself. In the case of the Phaedrus, the passage
in question is that in which the act of understanding, in proceeding from
a plurality of sensations toward a unity that comprehends them with the
help of reasoning, is described as understanding “what is said according to
the eidos [κατ᾽εἴδος λεγόμενον]” (Phdr. 249b7). Here again there is no need
to translate eidos by ‘Form’ in some metaphysical sense and no reason to do
so given that in the broader context this term is not used to designate the
plato and aristotle 99
entities ‘beyond the heavens’ such as beauty itself, justice itself, knowledge
itself, and so on, when they are explicitly under discussion. Furthermore, the
emphasis on “what is said [λεγὀμενον]” suggests that what is at issue here is
the general character according to which a thing is addressed in speech (as,
for example, in saying, “This thing and that thing are beautiful”).
Even in the Phaedo the beings in question are first introduced without
the language of form:6 Socrates first speaks of the just itself and the good
itself and then, to bring all such things under one logos, uses the expression
“the being which each thing happens to be [τῆς οὐσίας ὃ τυγχάνει ἕκαστον
ὄν]” (Phd. 65d13–e1). It is not until later that the term eidos is used to refer
to those things qualified by the term ‘itself ’ when Phaedo reports that those
present were in agreement with Socrates in recognizing einai ti hekaston tōn
eidōn. We must take this statement as casually as Phaedo makes it (Phd.
102b1). We do not have here the sudden and unanticipated introduction
of some technical sense of eidos as ‘Form’ with a capital. Socrates has for
some time been speaking of the equal itself, the beautiful itself, and so on,
and now uses the word eidos as a convenient though unnecessary shorthand
for referring to all of those natures or types. Unfortunately, popular transla-
tions of this passage of the Phaedo are very misleading. Grube (and Gallop,
though without the capitalization) translates: “It was agreed that each of the
Forms existed.”7 This translation is misleading, first, because the capitaliza-
tion suggests the sudden introduction of a technical sense where there is
none and, second, because it leaves the ti untranslated: what is agreed to is
not the existence of some special class of entities called ‘Forms,’ but rather
that each of the beings already referred to—justice, equality, beauty, and so
on—is something. What is agreed to at 102b is therefore nothing more than
a general positive answer to the questions asked earlier in the dialogue: “Do
we say the equal is something?” (Phd. 74a9–10) and “Do we say the just itself
is something or nothing?” (Phd. 65d4–5). The term eidos, then, when it finally
appears in a philosophically important context, adds absolutely nothing to
what has already been said and agreed to. It is simply a convenient way of
avoiding the awkwardness of having to refer constantly to “those beings fol-
lowed by the term ‘itself ’ ” or “that being which each thing happens to be.”
The Liège study rightly concludes: “We have been able to determine that
Plato could very well talk about the Ideas without having recourse to this
particular vocabulary . . . Conversely, the fact that this [thesis of the Ideas] is
clearly stated in a work does not imply that all uses of the words εἶδος and
ἰδέα refer to the Ideas.”8 It is highly ironic, however, that in presenting this
conclusion the authors A. Lefka and A. Motte cannot themselves dispense
with the language of ‘Ideas’ even in telling us that Plato could! This should
make us ask ourselves where this need to speak of ‘Ideas’ or ‘Forms’ is coming
from if not from Plato himself.
Furthermore, as is also shown in the Liège study, the use of the terms
eidos and idea in the ordinary sense of ‘sensible form’ or ‘aspect’ as well as in
the more specialized sense of ‘type’ or ‘species’ predominates throughout the
dialogues, including those that use these terms also in a supposedly meta-
physical sense. In the so-called affinity argument of the Phaedo, for example,
the word eidos is used not to designate that which is invisible and immutable,
but rather to speak of “two types of beings [δύο εἴδη τῶν ὄντων],” the visible
and the invisible (Phd. 79a6). But this usage is especially well confirmed by
the study of the vocabulary of the Republic in the Liège study. In this dia-
logue the sense of ‘class,’ ‘species,’ or ‘kind’ is by far the predominant sense
of eidos, amounting to more than two-thirds of the total occurrences of the
term.9 Also, many occurrences that have been interpreted in a metaphysical
sense need have no more than a logical sense (tied to the method of dialec-
tic).10 Indeed, J. Follon, who examines the Republic for the Liège study, lists
only five passages in the entire dialogue in which eidos or idea have indisput-
ably the metaphysical sense.11
In short, Plato often refers to what he takes to be truly being—beauty
itself, the good itself, justice itself, and so on—without using the term eidos
and often, indeed most often, uses the term eidos without referring to these
realities. For Aristotle, in contrast, eidos becomes a constituent principle of
ousia along with matter and thereby a technical term indispensable to his
characterization of ousia. The Liège study has noted “the even more impor-
tant presence of the vocabulary of form in Aristotle.”12 The occurrence of
the terms eidos and idea along with morphē in the Metaphysics alone indeed
surpasses that in all of Plato’s dialogues combined.
The second point to be made is that Aristotle must sharply distinguish
between eidos in the sense of what forms matter in the individual, eidos in
the sense of the universal (as species predicated of many individuals),13 and,
finally, eidos in the Platonic sense. Plato in contrast does not distinguish in
the dialogues between different senses of eidos, though we, like Aristotle,
assume he should. In the Liège study, Follon finds it “completely remarkable”
that within the few lines at Republic 510b–c “Plato uses the same word eidos
first in the technical sense of the theory of Forms and then in the banal sense
of species or variety; this requires translators themselves to employ different
words to translate one word that is nevertheless identical at b8 and c5.”14
At b8 we read of dialectic conducting its research only through eidē taken
in themselves, while at c5 we read of the three eidē of angles. But that is not
all: just a little later mathematicians are described as making use of visible
eidē, and the part of the Divided Line under discussion is referred to as the
“intelligible eidos” (R. VII.511a4). Follon’s surprise does not end even there:
in turning to Book X he encounters what is in his view another inexplicable
slippage: at 597a Socrates reminds Glaucon that the artisan does not make
the eidos (identified here explicitly with “what is a bed”), while at 597b he
refers to three eidē of bed made by painter, artisan, and god. Follon again
remarks: “Thus, in the space of a few lines, Plato employs eidos first in the
specialized metaphysical sense of ideal Form and then in the banal sense of
variety or species.”15 Plato indeed appears completely unconcerned here with
distinguishing between different meanings of the term.
It therefore becomes relatively easy for Aristotle to characterize the Pla-
tonic sense of eidos as a confusion between two senses: that of individual
form of the individual substance and that of form as universal. The key here
is to see that Aristotle’s critique of Plato is based on a distinction between
different senses of eidos not found in Plato, which is in turn based on a dif-
ferent interpretation of ontological independence or of what it means for
something to exist in itself and by itself. It is Aristotle who turns eidos into
a technical term and thus an indispensable one in ontology. If we elimi-
nated the term eidos from the Metaphysics, the result would be a completely
incoherent text; if we eliminated the same term from the Republic, the philo-
sophical content would be unaffected, even if some of the visual imagery
might perhaps be less compelling. In this sense it is Aristotle who first comes
up with a ‘theory of forms’ and then looks in Plato for a contrasting theory
to oppose.
Talk of the ‘separation’ of ‘Forms’ indeed becomes meaningful only from
the Aristotelian perspective: since being an ousia for Aristotle means exist-
ing separately from and independently of other ousiai,16 Plato in identifying
ousia not with the individual thing but rather with its ‘form’ is from Aristo-
tle’s perspective ‘separating’ the form, turning it into a thing existing on its
own. Plato is thereby also treating a universal common to many individuals as
if it were itself an individual thing. If we adopt the Aristotelian perspective,
Plato’s positing of justice itself—the good itself, beauty itself, and so on—as
the true being of the things that are good, beautiful, and just, or, in other
words, Plato’s view that the true being of something is the one and self-same
what it is, is not only wrong, but complete nonsense. It is therefore remarkable
that so many scholars adopt the Aristotelian perspective, thereby attributing
to Plato a view so utterly silly as not to be worthy of even the most medio-
cre philosopher: that there are these ‘universal things’ called ‘Forms’ despite
having no matter and existing in a world of their own separate from our
world yet somehow constituting the being of the things in our world from
which they are thus absolutely separate. There can be no doubt that the good
itself is ‘transcendent’ with respect to sensible good things, but all depends on
how one interprets this transcendence. Everything suggests that the Aristo-
telian ‘separation’ is a misinterpretation and perhaps a willfully abusive one.17
There can be no doubt that Plato occasionally uses the word eidos, with the
proper qualifications, to refer to that ‘what-it-is’ which he identifies with the
true being of things; but to latch onto this term, make it Plato’s exclusive
characterization of true being, and then accuse him of ‘separating’ universal
‘kinds’ or ‘species’ is again willful distortion. Aristotle is allowed such distor-
tion because what makes him a great philosopher is precisely his adoption of
a radically new ontological perspective vis-à-vis his teacher, so radically new
indeed that his teacher’s supposed view ceases to make any sense. But we
have no such excuse.
That Aristotle is imposing on Plato a certain technical vocabulary foreign
to him is evident in his tendency to reserve the term idea for Plato’s sup-
posedly ‘separate forms’ when this does not at all correspond to Plato’s own
practice in the dialogues. Aristotle even goes so far as to claim that ideas is
what Plato called the type of beings that do not change (Met. I.987b78). Idea
does sometimes have a special emphasis in Plato, since its semantic scope
is not as wide as that of eidos and Plato in the Republic does speak of the
idea of the good rather than the eidos of the good. Yet what is referred to in
either case is nothing other than the good itself or what the good is.18 If Plato,
even when he chooses one term over the other, makes no explicit distinc-
tion between the two and finds it unnecessary to turn either into a technical
term, that may be because what matters is not the term but the thing itself
being referred to. Furthermore, eidos is still used by Plato much more often
than idea to refer to the beings that do not change. More importantly, as we
have seen, Plato often uses neither term to refer to such beings, using instead
completely different terms and phrases. So we must choose to believe either
Aristotle’s testimony or Plato’s own texts. Indeed, Aristotle’s testimony is not
even consistent with his own practice: in the Metaphysics he himself uses the
term eidos more often than idea to refer to the ‘Platonic Forms’ (124 times
versus 109). Nevertheless, Aristotle in ontological contexts uses the term idea
only to refer to the ‘Platonic Form,’ while using the term morphē only to refer
to form in the sense of the determination of some underlying matter; eidos
in contrast covers both senses and in addition that of ‘species.’19 Therefore
even in Aristotle the term eidos retains a certain ambiguity that requires the
use of other terms to make technical distinctions, even if the different senses
of eidos are always in any case clearly demarcated. The explanation for his
misrepresentation of Plato’s usage is therefore not hard to find: Aristotle has
to introduce a technical terminology not present in Plato in order to keep

distinct what Plato was talking about from what he wishes to talk about.
Against Plato’s ideas, Aristotle is speaking of eidos in the sense of morphē. It
is indeed highly significant that the one term that is ‘technical’ in Aristotle
in referring exclusively to what he takes to be an essential principle of ousia is
neither idea nor eidos but morphē, since it is this word that expresses ‘form’ in
the sense of what forms or shapes an underlying matter. To the extent that
‘form’ is arguably a better translation of morphē than it is of eidos or idea, one
could conclude that the notion of ‘form’ first becomes philosophically signifi-
cant in Aristotle.
This identification of eidos with morphē and thus its reference to an under-
lying matter is also significant in showing the limitations of the term eidos
even within Aristotle’s ontology. Given this conception of eidos, it would
seem that Aristotle would need to dispense with the term when it comes
to thinking of the highest substance which is pure energeia without dunamis
and thus without matter; and indeed, as is sometimes noted but not often
enough, Aristotle does avoid the term in characterizing the being of the
unmoved mover.20 After all, having criticized Plato for separating eidē he
can hardly turn around at the very pinnacle of his metaphysics and speak
of a ‘separate form’: if there must be a being without matter, it cannot be a
form. One must therefore wonder if it is not in the end terribly misleading to
speak of a ‘philosophy of form’ in the case of either Plato or Aristotle. This is
not to deny that the concepts of eidos and idea play an important role in the
ontologies of both (though much more important in Aristotle than in Plato),
but rather to counter the tendency to make these concepts the primary and
defining ones in their ontologies. I suggest that we can better understand
the role played by the terms eidos and idea in each philosopher by not exag-
gerating this role if we think of Aristotle’s philosophy as a ‘philosophy of act’
(energeia) and Plato’s philosophy as a ‘philosophy of what-it-is-in-itself,’ or
to make the contrast with Aristotle even sharper, a ‘philosophy of potency’
(dunamis).
Here we need to recall both the definition of being as dunamis in the
Sophist and Aristotle’s critique of Plato’s forms at the end of Metaphysics
Theta, not for being ‘separated,’ but for being only ‘potencies’ that therefore
cannot have the priority in substance that Aristotle assigns to energeia. In
the Sophist the visitor from Elea offers the following defining mark (horos)
for what counts as being: “What I claim to be really [ontōs einai] is every-
thing, of whatever sort, that is in a state of possessing a power [dunamis] for
by nature either acting upon anything else or being acted upon even in the
smallest way by the most insignificant thing, and even if only once altogether.
For I posit that the defining mark is to be delimited [horos horizein] thus:
that beings are nothing other than power” (Sph. 247d8–e4). The seriousness
and importance of this definition are shown by the two purposes it is made
to serve in the discussion. First, the definition is introduced to explain to
the ‘Giants,’ who recognize as existing only what they can grasp with their
hands, how incorporeal things such as ‘justice’ can also exist: justice may not
be tangible, but it nevertheless exists by virtue of having the power to pro-
duce certain results in our own actions and in the actions of a city. Second,
and even more significantly, it is also used against the so-called friends of
the forms who identify what is real with certain incorporeal forms. Because
these friends of the forms insist on a sharp separation between being and
becoming, they strongly resist any definition of being in terms of the power
to act or be acted on. The Visitor, however, argues against them that their
forms could not be known or have any effect on anything unless they too are
defined as powers; indeed, to deny the proposed definition of being in favor
of an absolute separation between being and becoming would be tantamount
to banishing all knowledge and life from the realm of what is truly real. The
suggestion of the entire passage, then, is that, against both the proponents of
tangible becoming and the proponents of intangible being, justice, goodness,
and the other forms must be understood to exist as powers.21
This conception of ‘forms’ as powers then forms the basis of Aristotle’s cri-
tique in Metaphysics Theta. In this chapter Aristotle is defending the priority
of energeia to dunamis, arguing that it is prior in logos, in time, and in sub-
stance. For this last priority he offers two arguments: first, energeia is prior in
substance as that for the sake of which a substance has a dunamis, where this
end (telos) is the form that makes it what it is (Met. IX.1050a4–b3); second—
and this Aristotle signals as the most important argument (kuriōteros, Met.
IX.1050b6)—substances that are corruptible and as such possess dunamis
are dependent on, and therefore secondary to, substances that are purely
active and therefore eternal (Met. IX.1050b6–30). In other words, not only
is energeia prior to dunamis in a substance that is characterized by both, but
substances characterized only by energeia are also prior to substances pos-
sessing dunamis. It is in this context that Aristotle introduces a critique of
those who postulate the ‘Ideas,’ the reason clearly being that he sees in their
position a reversal of the priority of energeia to dunamis which he has been
defending. We read: “If there are such natures or such substances as the
Ideas spoken of by those who concern themselves with logoi, there would
be something much more knowing than knowledge itself and much more
in motion than motion. These are more activities [energeia] whereas those
are the powers [dunameis] for these” [Met. IX.1050b34–1051a3). Though
perhaps obscurely expressed, the point is nevertheless clear in context: the

Platonic form of knowledge itself is not the activity of knowing, but only the
power or potency for such an activity, where ‘knowledge’ refers primarily to
the activity. Knowledge itself is knowledge to a lesser, not a greater degree,
than the activity of knowing exercised by a particular person. But in this
case the forms cannot have the priority in substance the Platonists grant
them but are dependent on the corresponding activities and exist only for
them. As Pseudo-Alexander comments, the critique is that “knowledge and
motion are only powers of what is actually knowing or actually moving, so
that they cannot exist by themselves [ἡ ἐπιστήμη καὶ ἡ κίνησις δυνάμεις εἰσὶ
τοῦ τ᾽ἐπιστήμονος καὶ τοῦ κινουμένου, μὴ δυνάμεναι καθ᾽αὐτὰς εἶναι].”22
As this comment indicates, the inseparability of the Platonic forms is tied to
their being only powers or potencies. The clear contrast here is with Aristot-
le’s ontologically prior substances that are said to be always active (aei energei,
Met. IX.1050b29) and therefore separable.
What is at issue between Plato and Aristotle is therefore not whether
‘forms’ exist ‘separately’ as ‘substantivized universals’ (an a priori nonsensical
thesis because already couched in the Aristotelian terms intended to make it
nonsensical!) or are to be dragged down from the place beyond the heavens
and made to exist only in matter. Instead at issue is whether ousia is to be
understood as what-x-is and thus as a power distinct from and independent of
its realization or effectuation in specific individual things or whether ousia is
the individual thing that-actively-is as the underlying subject of the ‘predicates’
it has in common (koinon) with other things. Put in the terms of Metaphysics
Theta, the issue is whether knowledge itself or the individual actively exercis-
ing knowledge has priority in ousia. This formulation of the debate has two
advantages: it avoids making Plato look a priori like a fool and shows the
debate to be philosophically problematic and in principle undecided to this
day (even if the Aristotelian position can be said to have many more contem-
porary supporters). To abstract the words eidos and idea from their occasional,
purely convenient and nontechnical use in this debate and to turn them into
technical terms for Plato’s or Aristotle’s or, even worse, for the ‘Greek’ inter-
pretation of being, is a distortion that only blocks access to what remains to be
thought in the philosophies of these unsurpassed and unsurpassable thinkers.
Notes
1. If Martin Heidegger gives too much importance to the term eidos and its etymology
in the interpretation of Plato’s ontology, he has the merit of seeing that the difference
between Plato and Aristotle concerns the interpretation of ousia and of rejecting the tra-
ditional and silly account of the difference according to which Aristotle pulled down the
‘Ideas’ from their place beyond the heavens and planted them in concrete things. For a
particularly clear statement of Heidegger’s view on this point, see Nietzsche II (Pfullingen:
Günther Neske, 1961), 407–408.
2. A. E. Taylor repeatedly shows how the term eidos can be a virtual synonym of ousia
and physis both in Plato and in scientific writings prior to Plato: see Varia Socratica (Ox-
ford: James Parker and Co., 1911), 226–231.
3. Noting this (28–29), J.-F. Pradeau rightly concludes: “Platon peut se prononcer sur
ce qui est intelligible sans en mentionner la ‘forme.’ ” Platon: Les formes intelligibles. Sur la
forme intelligible et la participation dans les dialogues platoniciens (Paris: Presses Universita-
ires de France, 2001), 29.
4. A. Motte, C. Rutten, and P. Somville, Philosophie de la forme: Eidos, Idea, Morphē dans
la philosophie grecque des origines à Aristote: Actes du colloque interuniversitaire de Liège, 29 et
30 mars 2001. Travaux du Centre d’études aristotéliciennes de l’Université de Liège (Louvain-
la-Neuve: Peeters, 2003), hereafter cited as “Liège study.” Translations of the Liège study’s
original French are my own.
5. Liège study, 113, 135, 282, 286–287.
6. M. Dixsaut, Platon et la question de la pensée (Paris: J. Vrin, 2000), makes much of this
fact. She notes first that “Le sens ‘platonicien,’ l’eidos comme Forme ou Idée, n’est donc
ni exclusif des autres usages, ni juxtaposé aux significations ‘courantes’ du terme” (78).
She also insists on the significance of the fact that the terms eidos and idea are not used
at Phaedo 76d, but rather the language of ousia, even if one could claim that they all have
the same referent (83). Ousia is for Dixsaut the proper object of questioning, the object
that stimulates the desire to know, the object of the give and take of logoi in dialectic,
while eidos is the object of knowledge, the term by which the questionworthiness of ousia
is evaded. So she can conclude that the hypothesis of Forms “n’est pas la condition de la
pensée qui se désire elle-même en désirant ce qui est en vérité: elle n’est pas la condition
du logos qui interroge et qui répond, la condition du discours de la philosophie. L’affaire du
philosophe et de la philosophie n’est pas, dans le Phédon, une affaire d’eidos ou d’idea, de
possibilité de la connaissance, mais une affaire d’ousia. Dans le Phédon, ousia, eidos et idea
ne sont trois noms pour une même chose que si l’on croit que les noms renvoient à ce qu’ils
désignent et ne prennent sens que de ce qu’ils désignent” (90). Though she is right to note
the greater importance of the language of ousia in the dialogue, in so sharply opposing to
it the language of eidos and idea Dixsaut appears to be exaggerating both the philosophical
implications as well as the importance of the etymology of these terms.
7. M. Dixsaut (Platon: Phédon [Paris: Flammarion, 1991]) is better, though giving in a
sense two translations: “après s’être mis d’accord avec Socrate, et après avoir reconnu que
chacune de ces Formes existe et est une chose déterminée.” Hackforth is in some sense better:
“and it was agreed that every Form was a real existent.”
8. Liège study, 279; see also 98.
9. Liège study, 288.
10. Liège study, 291, 293.
11. Liège study, 169. In another essay, “The Banality of Eidos in Plato” (forthcoming),
I argue for a more radical thesis: that the term eidos in Plato never has a technical sense
but must always be qualified in a certain way in order to be able to refer to things like the
beautiful itself and the good itself.
13. A text that shows well the distinction between these first two senses is Met. Λ 5
1071a27–29, where Aristotle claims that even in the case of things that belong to the
same species (ἐν ταὐτῷ εἴδει), each has its own particular causes, including its own par-
ticular form (εἶδος).
15. Liège study, 163–164. Ritter also notes this ‘Bedeutungswechsel’ but explains it
through his view that the class or type has a basis in objective reality. Ritter, Neue Unter-
suchungen über Platon (Munich: Oskar Beck, 1910; reprint, New York: Arno, 1976), 294.
16. τὸ χωριστὸν καὶ τὸ τόδε τι ὑπάρχειν δοκεῖ μάλιστα τῇ οὐσίᾳ, Met. 1029a28.
17. The only Platonic dialogue in which the forms are said to exist ‘separately’ (chōris)
is the Parmenides, and even there the term is introduced in association with the verb ‘to
divide’ when Socrates speaks of someone who “divides the eidē separately themselves by
themselves (διαιρῆται χωρὶς αὐτὰ καθ᾽αὑτὰ τὰ εἴδη)” (Prm. 129d7–8; see also 130b2).
The sense here is therefore the rather ordinary one of being ‘separate’ in the sense of
‘distinguished’ or ‘divided from.’ Nothing warrants reading into the word some absolute
ontological transcendence. Indeed, that the word not be loaded in this way is essential
to making sense of the discussion that follows, in which at issue is precisely the nature
of the relation between likeness itself and the like things that participate in it and where
interpretations of the ‘separation’ range from complete immanence (likeness itself parceled
out among the like things) to existence in the mind as thoughts to existence in an entirely
other world.
18. Robin Waterfield (Plato’s Republic [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994]) does
not hesitate to translate idea tou agathou simply as ‘the character of the good,’ and his
translation makes clear how Socrates most often is speaking about ‘goodness.’
19. “Quant au terme ἰδέα, il est en général réservé à la forme séparée platonicienne,
sauf dans les traités biologiques où il est fréquemment utilisé lors des descriptions mor-
phologiques, avec le sens d’ ‘apparence’ ou d’ ‘aspect.’ Si εἶδος peut également référer à la
forme platonicienne, ce n’est jamais le cas de morphē” (Liège study, 581).
20. Among those who have noted that Aristotle does not apply the term eidos to the
unmoved mover is M. Baltes, “Idea (dottrina delle idee),” in Eidos—Idea: Platone, Aristo-
tele e la tradizione platónica, ed. Francesco Fronterotta and Walter Leszl (Sankt Augustin:
Akademia, 2005), 9. G. Aubry (Dieu sans la Puissance: Dunamis et Energeia chez Aristote
et chez Plotin [Paris: J. Vrin, 2006]) shows particularly well that in Aristotle the dunamis/
energeia pair has priority over the form/matter pair (10) and that the unmoved mover is
pure act rather than pure form (64–65), the latter notion being nonsensical for Aristotle.
21. For a more detailed account of the definition of being in the Sophist and a defense
of its importance, see my “Being as Power in Plato’s Sophist and Beyond,” in Plato’s Soph-
ist: Proceedings of the Seventh Symposium Platonicum Pragense, ed. Ales Havlícek and Filip
Karfík (Prague: Oikoymenh, 2011), 63–95.
22. Pseudo-Alexander, 593.30–32. In commenting on 1051a21ff. Pseudo-Alexander
takes Aristotle’s point to be that the objects of mathematics cannot be substances because
they are potentialities and what exists only potentially cannot be a substance (595.24–26).
Key Readings
Dixsaut, Monique. Platon: Phédon. Paris: Flammarion, 1991.
———. Platon et la question de la pensée. Paris: J. Vrin, 2000.
Fine, Gail. On Ideas: Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Theory of Forms. Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1995.
Friedländer, Paul. Plato. Vol. 1. Bollingen Library. New York: Pantheon, 1958.
Fronterotta, F., and W. Leszl, eds. Eidos—Idea: Platone, Aristotele e la tradizione platonica.
Sankt Augustin, Germany: Akademia, 2005.
Gonzalez, Francisco J. “Plato’s Dialectic of Forms.” In Plato’s Forms: Varieties of Interpreta-
tion, ed. William A. Welton, 31–83. Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, 2002.
Gordon, Jill. “In Plato’s Image.” In Philosophy in Dialogue: Plato’s Many Devices, ed. Gary
Alan Scott, 212–38. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2007.
Havelock, Eric A. Preface to Plato. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard Univer-
sity Press, 1963.
Motte, André, Christian Rutten, and Pierre Somville. Philosophie de la forme: Eidos, Idea,
Morphê dans la philosophie grecque des origines à Aristote; Actes du colloque interuni-
versitaire de Liège, 29 et 30 mars 2001; Travaux du Centre d’études aristotéliciennes de
l’Université de Liège. Louvain-la-Neuve: Peeters, 2003.
Nightingale, Andrea Wilson. Spectacles of Truth in Classical Greek Philosophy. Cambridge:
Pesic, P. “Seeing the Forms.” Plato: The Internet Journal of the International Plato Society 7
(2007): n.p.
Pradeau, J.-F., ed. Platon: Les formes intelligibles; Sur la forme intelligible et la participation
dans les dialogues platoniciens. Paris: PUF, 2001.
Ritter, Constantin. Neue Untersuchungen über Platon. Munich: Oskar Beck, 1910; rpt. New
York: Arno Press, 1976.
Ross. David. Plato’s Theory of Ideas. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1951.
Taylor, A. E. Varia Socratica. Oxford: James Parker and Co., 1911.
Wedberg, A. “The Theory of Ideas.” In Plato: Metaphysics and Epistemology, ed. Gregory
Vlastos, 28–52. New York, Anchor, 1971.
Measure, Excess, and the All: To Agathon in Plato
Claudia Baracchi
Now let us say through what cause the composer composed

becoming and the all. He was good, and in one who is good
there never arises about anything whatsoever any grudge.
—Plato, Timaeus
Apollo, what a daimonic excess!

—Plato, Republic
I. Remarks on Republic and Timaeus

The Platonic Socrates addresses the question of the good in the central books
of the Republic (VI–VII). He names the good without claiming to possess the
knowledge thereof. He names it in a sequence of affirmations without eidetic
perspicuity—without defining the good in its whatness. At the insistence of his
desirous interlocutor, Socrates ventures to speak logoi admittedly falling short
of beauty, for, he says, discourses not illuminated by truth are ugly (R. 506c).
Not knowing the truth regarding the good, he will at most (and reluctantly)
offer an account of the “offspring” and “interest” of the good—an outline of its
semblance and phenomenal precipitate (R. 506d–507a). Thus, the discourse of
the Republic develops in this tension between the philosopher kings (whose
prerogatives include the proper grasp of the good and all that flows from it)
and the philosopher Socrates (who consistently fails to provide an appropriate
account of the first and ultimate cause that the good designates). It remains
to be seen whether Socrates’s posture here simply reveals a constitutive inade-
quacy or whether, precisely in pointing beyond the order of eidetic knowledge,
it may end up indicating the utmost philosophical accomplishment.
First of all, then, the good appears as a generative principle: as the father
of the sun (and hence of the domain of visibility) and, at the same time,
109
110 claudia baracchi
as the source of intelligibility (of intelligence and what it intellects) (R.

508e–509b). And it is only in virtue of the analogy with the sun that the
good may be seized in its infinite resourcefulness, generosity, and overflowing
(R. 508b). Just as the sun discloses the visible as such by inundating it with
light, so the good discloses the intelligible as such by pervading it with the
invisible glow of being and truth. In its superabundance, the good gives rise
to the whole range of manifestation visible and invisible:1 it opens up the
region of intellect and the intellected and, as the father of the sun and distant
progenitor of phenomenal becoming, it underlies all manners of sensibility,
the region of seeing and being seen. The regions of sensibility and of intel-
ligibility emerge in their originary continuity, as the continuum of increasing
or decreasing manifestness. One can discern here already the emanative
movement variously elaborated in the neo-Platonic lineages and assimilated
into the Judeo-Persian-Arabic traditions—the procession out of the one into
the many successive layers of cosmic becoming. The good infuses light and
subtle radiance into life as a whole (R. 518c).
Thus, the good appears as a strange idea, if indeed an idea at all—let alone
an idea among ideas. For it originates the articulation of being that takes
place in and as the eidetic manifold, and hence can hardly itself be captured
in terms of ideality or eidetic determination. It carries the excessive trait
of origin vis-à-vis that which is originated—a peculiar inaccessibility and
impervious anteriority. Thus, this discourse lacking the halo of beauty, and
repeatedly addressing the good as an idea (R. 505a, 508e), ends up making
explicit the discontinuity of the good with respects to all that it engenders:
the good is characterized as epekeina tes ousias, beyond being (R. 509b).2 This,
stricto sensu, means ‘unspeakable,’ or speakable in modes of logos irreducible
to predication, determination, and definition. Among other things, the good
unveils the richness and nonsimplicity of logos.
The good: a strange idea, then, and one displaying an even stranger ana-
logical relation to the sun. For the likeness of intelligible and sensible, in and
of itself, already presents conspicuous problems: how can the resemblance of
the visible to the invisible be understood? In virtue of what liminal law of
sense can visible and invisible be yoked together, such that their relationship
may meaningfully be assessed in terms of adequacy and agreement? In what
way may the consideration of the visible provide access into the invisible?
Such questions become even more troubling when at stake is the propor-
tionality or similarity between the sun and the good, son and ultimate father
(R. 508b–c). This is why the imaginal, mythical strand of the discussion in
the Republic can hardly be taken to be a didactic tale, purely and safely alle-
gorical, anchored to a doctrinal content that, however figuratively rendered,
measure, excess, and the all 111
remains available and clear. Myth in this context always signals an abiding,
undiminished mystery: the good lends itself to no representational strategy,
whether conceptual or mythical. Mythical elocution is here no representation
in disguise; it does not make present, as if prolonging and reinforcing the
power of representation, endowing it with further resources. Rather, myth
gestures toward that which hovers throughout and beyond conceptual delin-
eation as well as its ancillary figurations—that which, in fact, even threatens
such a dualism and draws back from its language. Neither conceptually nor
beautifully exposed, invisible beyond eidetic invisibility and figured beyond
the figures of allegorical codification, at the heart of the Republic the good
emerges as the sublime first and last principle: generating and regenerating,
overflowing itself in infinite vitality and generosity.
Plato’s Timaeus harbors a similar suggestion of the good in terms of
creativity. The two dialogues analogously revolve around the mysterious
paternity whose narrative is surrounded by cautionary remarks and disclaim-
ers. Allusively evoked in the Republic by reference to the sun (which, in its
shining and warmth, engenders all that is and sustains its development), the
good is again indicated by Timaeus figuratively, as the poet and maker (the
poietes), the artisan and father of the cosmos and of all there is (Ti. 28a,
28c, 29e). This is said in an eikos logos, a discourse imaginal, likely, or prob-
able (thus rooted in appearing, resembling, opining), which is at once eikos
muthos—in fact, quite interchangeably, a myth (Ti. 29d, 30b).
The good emerges as a cipher of perfection in the sense of completion
and completeness—as the articulate wholeness where all that is, is at once
preserved in its difference and joined together, composed with others so that
they may lie alongside each other. In the whole, the many differences are
conjoined (such is the etymological resonance of harmony, from harmottein,
articulating by fitting together, uniting through joints). Thus, the good should
be perceived in its contiguity with the theme of order—mathematical order,
but also the order not fully mathematizable inherent in beauty, in music, in
the harmonious composition of the all, of every organism, of everything alive
(Ti. 30a, 31a, 47d).
The question of completeness becomes equally central to the thinking of
the human good. Indeed, the ability to envision the whole (both the whole
within which one is situated and the whole that each one, in his or her com-
positeness, is) and direct one’s life accordingly, is set into relief as the crucial
parameter by which human comportment may be assessed. This is abundantly
clear in the Republic, where logismos is emphasized among the other compo-
nents of the threefold psychosomatic complex (the human being). Logismos
names the capacity for reckoning, evaluating, and drawing together. This is
precisely what calculation does: it establishes connections that yield deeper

and more precise insight. If this ‘part’ or dimension of human psychism is
so privileged and called to rule over the others (the ardent or spirited and
the desiring), this is not (or not simply) because of some axiological dogma-
tism prioritizing reason (with disembodiment and dualism as its corollaries).
Rather, logismos plays such a governing role because of its ability to perceive
beyond itself and, precisely in virtue of such a movement of transcendence
(even of self-overcoming), to perceive the whole. Logismos sees vastly, sees
through, and because of this it can safeguard (R. 475b–c): it contemplates
that which is different and thus gathers and assists in the realization of the
whole as such. The appetitive dimension of the psyche cannot contemplate
this amply: it is driven to the satisfaction of its own impulses and blindly
seeks to be sated. Even the spirited, courageous element of the soul, which
to some extent displays an ability to look beyond itself, does not fully enjoy
the lucidity characteristic of logismos in recognizing other dimensions and,
therefore, the composite whole of which it is part.
Thus, the ruling function of logismos, determining the excellence in one’s
comportment through life, is less a matter (in fact, not at all a matter) of a
rationalistic ethics—unless, by rational and rationalistic, we mean the ratio
that joins, orders, structures, and informs well beyond human intellectual-
ism and its constructs. What is at stake, instead, is the unique disposition of
logismos to keep an eye on the whole, to guard, with a focus not only on itself
and its own. As itself, and yet not simply for itself, logismos enacts itself in
the whole, with an awareness of the whole. In other words, what is at stake is
not so much (or not at all) the control over others, but rather the recognition,
protection, and preservation thereof—the capacity for recognizing differing
components and granting them the condition for being what they are, as
they are, and enact themselves according to what belongs to them, no more
and no less. It is in and of itself noteworthy that, in the course of a certain
history (of Platonic interpretation, of the West as such), this posture should
come to be viewed, at best, as a kind of condescension or paternalism, and, at
worst, as the paradigm of all violence and violation.
In this sense, then, in the outline of the good we observe the concomitance
of excess and measure. The figure of exceeding indefiniteness, of fullness and
completeness, of the exorbitant superabundance that remains closed off vis-
à-vis proper predication, coincides, in the experience of finite beings such as
ourselves, with the pursuit of measure—however mutable and constantly to
be reevaluated. It is such a pursuit that distinguishes the mortal condition,
as acknowledged by the poets and philosophers alike3—the search for the
measure that is not given, not automatically established by nature, but rather
the measure that remains as a task for humans to carry out, for each one to
negotiate, each time anew and again. For, in the perspective of a finite being,
excellence (fullest self-accomplishment and realization of what is one’s own)
precisely coincides with the recognition of one’s partiality and finiteness,
and hence with the capacity for being with others, inhabiting one’s place
and time with a sense of such a company. Interestingly enough, in becoming
oneself while never alone, in this accompaniment that limits and delimits,
lies one’s highest accomplishment. It is here that one comes into focus most
sharply: at once in one’s singularity and in shared openness.4
This much, then, is at stake in the narratives surrounding the good in the
two Platonic dialogues most centrally concerned with such a theme—if it
is a theme. From the images of paternity in both texts emerges a sense of
the good lying in the care for what is and, at the limit, in a mode of care for
oneself which is at once a caring for others, letting them be. It should be
noted, however, that these tales of paternal creativity are essentially compli-
cated by the remembrance of an irreducibility. In both texts, the figures of
the monoparental generation of and by the good irresistibly tend to dissi-
pate themselves. They verge on an alterity either imageless or nearly ineffable.
Such is the indication of the drift toward necessity which, in the Republic,
shifts the emphasis from the sublime paternity of the central books to the
enigmatic maternity in Book X (silent Ananke and her daughters at the cen-
ter of the cosmos) (R. 616c–617c), and, in the Timaeus, leads to the most
critical moment of the dialogue, where the question of chora is addressed—
and never overcome (Ti. 48a–53b). However, regarding the union of the
good and necessity (a union whose necessary and archaic character would
deserve careful consideration) let this reminder suffice here.5
II. The Absolute Flight of the Good: Plato’s Philebus

Everything said around the good in Plato harbors the provisional, tentative
character emphasized thus far: both the luminescent imagery in the Republic,
with its thrust beyond being, and the figurative logos in the Timaeus signal
the intractability of the good and call for a cautious sobriety in the exercise of
discourse. Here, however, it may be important to consider a further Platonic
text, the Philebus, in which the traits of the good summarily examined above
are reflected and incisively articulated.6
The Philebus exposes Plato’s meditation on the archai (principles or
origins), positing the four kinds of principles: (1) the unlimited (infinite mul-
titude), (2) limit (measure, number), (3) the mixture of these (that which is
limited or delimited, i.e., becoming), and (4) the cause of the mixture—that
which limits, the limiting principle bringing limit to bear on the unlimited.
In Socrates’s words: there are “an extensive unlimited in the whole and a
satisfactory limit, and no inferior and shallow cause [αἰτία] is presiding over
them, arranging and ordering [κοσμοῦσά τε καὶ συντάττουσα] years, seasons,
and months” (Phlb. 30c).7 Here the problem of the good, that is, of the ulti-
mate cause of measure and order, is developed in consonance with Timaeus’s
discourse, suggesting the intimate connection between ethical and cosmo-
logical questions, the life of mortals and the unending life of the all, life as
such and mathematics. Indeed, the domain of becoming (the ‘third kind,’ the
locus of ‘mixing’) is neither simply the matter of cosmological investigation
nor merely the theater of human life and the human condition. The ‘mixture’
is said to come to be from the blending of unlimited and limit. It indicates
what is enclosed between the terms of the unlimited and the limiting. That
which is in between, the intermediate blend, is all that is: the beings that
come to be and pass away as well as (to the extent of their implication in
materiality) the beings of mathematics or the eidetic, the limit.8 The mixed
indicates “genesis (in)to being [γένεσιν εἰς οὐσίαν]” (Phlb. 26d8: coming into
being, genesis brought to being) or “being that has come to be [γεγενημένην
οὐσίαν]” (Phlb. 27b8–9: engendered being). What emerges here in its conspi-
cuity is the inherence of being in becoming, becoming having the character
of being, unfolding in the manner of being.
With such gestures, this text points to the inherence of the eidetic, of
the mathematical, of the good itself, in the cosmos. To be sure, the ‘mixed’ is
essentially addressed by reference to human life, that particular interpretation
of zoe, that domain in which the unlimited is ceaselessly engaged, brought
into a limit, and measured, that is, wrested out of itself. The question the
dialogue broaches is not simply that of the human good, however, but that
of the good both (1) “as the cosmos of being and becoming” (the cosmos,
the dwelling of the third genus)9 and (2) as that which dwells in the third
genus, that whose proper refuge and abode is the mixed life (the good “in the
human being and in to pan” [Phlb. 64a]). Human life belongs in the “mixed,”
yet neither exhausts it nor is coextensive with it (see also Phlb. 27d).
Thus, the scope of the inquiry is not defined, let alone narrowed, by the
prominence accorded to the human in the Philebus. On the contrary, we
should also emphasize a certain instability of the distinction between human
life and other manners of aliveness (Phlb. 15d–16a, 22b). Socrates discusses
the “nature of the good [Τὴν τἀγαθοῦ . . . φύσιν]” (Phlb. 60b10) in terms
irreducible to the human, and proposes that “to whatever zōōn it should
always be present in every way completely and without exception, it no lon-
ger stands in need of any other thing, and it has the adequate most perfectly”
(Phlb. 60c). What ultimately emerges is a cosmic vision in which the whole
is understood as itself animated and living, and nous (intelligence itself ) as
unthinkable aside from soul, that is, apart from animality, from being-alive
(Phlb. 30c).10
The good is the cosmos of the living and living cosmos. It pertains to
that which lives. Far from reducing the thematic focus of the dialogue, the
figure of the human is transfigured through the exorbitant character of such
a theme. Paradigmatically sighted “by the rock, under a certain tree” (Phlb.
38d), the human appears as a synecdoche of the good, as a sumbolon into
which is fitted all that is: the fleeting image of the human being gathers the
inwardness of earth, its self-seclusion, and the sky summoning the earth out
of itself, calling forth that which grows from out of the earth. The openness
of the human to its beyond, an openness into which that which is not human
fits, is constitutive of the human. The human is revealed as constitutively
finite and yet not self-contained—in fact, hospitable, disseminated, open into
the all, an appearance as elusive and evanescent as the good in its invisibility.
In this context, therefore, the good names the unity of life and, under
such a rubric, the various tactics of cohesiveness, ranging from gravitational
attraction, to sexual attraction, to the attraction drawing the predator to the
prey. Indeed, the “third,” the cosmos of the mixed, does not hold together
solely in the modes of “health” and “harmony” (Phlb. 31c). It, too, involves
the oscillation between solve et coagula. It is “no less” a matter of “the dis-
solution [λύσιν] of nature, when the harmony in us animals is dissolving
[λυομένης],” indicating the “genesis of pains,” than of “that harmony being
brought together again,” thus “returning to its own nature,” indicating the
“coming to be of pleasure” (Phlb. 31d4–10). Shortly thereafter, Socrates men-
tions again the alternation between corrupting and restoring characteristic of
the “mixed”: beings are depleted by “disjunctions and conjunctions, fillings
and emptyings, and certain increases and decreases,” which cause suffering,
but “whenever there is a restoring to their own nature,” this is acknowledged
as relief and pleasure.
These remarks are decidedly Pre-Socratic in tenor. As in Empedocles,
we find signaled here both the friction and the closeness of iatro-ethical
preoccupations and cosmological vision—the concerns at once of the physi-
cian, the physicist, and the philosopher. For we discern a tension between
the good of that which lives and undergoes (animals, human beings, all
finite beings) and that which lives without undergoing anything other than
itself (cosmos as a whole), or that whose undergoing may not be understood
in terms of suffering as we experience it (celestial bodies). Discrete living
beings, such as ourselves and those around us, painfully undergo that which,
at the cosmic level, may be construed as a harmony. They undergo each other,
the encroachment of each on others. The very coming into being and passing
away involve suffering at the level of the singular being. At the same time,
they reveal a more comprehensive order transcending every singularity. Here
we glimpse the genuinely therapeutic vocation of the philosophical reflec-
tion in its essential, if impervious, intersection with the equally philosophical
desire for a comprehensive contemplation.
This much is implied in the elucidation of the good as belonging in the
“third,” that is, as rooted in “becoming into being” or “engendered being.” The
good inhabits the mixture of limit and unlimited just as nous properly inheres
in the psychē. Dwelling in the “mixed,” the good informs that which shines,
while as such withdrawing from view. As Socrates observes, recalling the
early stages of the dialogue, “Now, too, some argument revealed to us, just as
in the beginning, not to seek the good in the unmixed life, but in the mixed”
(Phlb. 61b4–6). Even more pointedly, as “that which is being sought,” the
good “will be more evident in whatever is beautifully mixed than in whatever
is not” (Phlb. 61b8–9). Here is clearly announced the connection between
the good and the beautiful. Concomitantly, the inquiry must now focus on
the beautiful, as the dwelling of the good—for in general (and a fortiori if at
stake is the good) inquiring about a dwelling place may reveal a great deal
about the one dwelling and taking refuge there.
At this juncture, and in concomitance with the need to elaborate on the
meaning of “mixing beautifully,” Dionysus and Hephaestus are evoked, as
the deities who have “this office of blending” as their lot (Phlb. 61c1–2). The
former intervenes in body chemistry and, hence, in the quality of conscious-
ness, by drawing “spirit” out of a fruit. Like “wine pourers,” says Socrates,
we have to mix “as beautifully as possible” into the wine of life the honey of
pleasure and the “dry and healthful water” of thought (Phlb. 61c). The latter
god, Hephaestus, intervenes in the chemistry of the body of the earth (and
in the broader organism in which the body of the earth is inscribed) by prac-
ticing metallurgical fusion and forging. Although this is not made explicit,
such “alchemical” operations demand an understanding of the differentiated
materials belonging in physis, a grasp of their qualities, properties, reactivity
to other substances, ability to blend with them, and potentiality for transmu-
tation (fermentation, melting, taking on shapes, etc.). Not surprisingly, then,
considerations regarding number, measure, proportion, and commensurabil-
ity inform the discussion of the beautiful.
In fact, the relation between measure and beauty is crucial and its impli-
cations far- reaching. Measure is decisive both in the work of blending
(measuring the “ingredients”) and in the determination of the pleasures to be
admitted along with thought (i.e., the measured pleasures). The following are
the Socratic directions concerning the pleasures that should be mixed with
nous for the sake of obtaining a beautiful mixture:
The pleasures you spoke of as true and pure, regard them as pretty
nearly our own and at home with us, and besides them the plea-
sures that come with health and moderation, and, in general, mix in
all those pleasures that prove to be, as though she were a goddess,
the attendants of virtue entire and follow along with her every-
where. (Phlb. 63e)
Such a manner of proceeding would lead to “that mixture in which one sees
a mixing and blending [μεῖξιν καὶ κρᾶσιν] as beautiful as possible and least
subject to internal strife,” that is, stable, stabilized, no longer volatile (Phlb.
63e9–64a1). At stake is trying “to learn,” in such a mixture, “what is by nature
good in the human being and in the whole, and what look [ἰδέαν] one has to
divine it is” (Phlb. 64a1–3). Of course, truth must likewise be an ingredient
of this mixture, if the latter is to be at all and see the light (Phlb. 64b). The
‘idea’ of the good (a question both central to and excessive to human living,
indeed, embracing all that is) may be discerned to the highest degree in the
good blend, in the dwelling that the appropriately mixed life is. Thus, with
the examination of the question of measure, we are drawing closer to the
good. As Socrates signals, “We are standing at the portico of the dwelling of
the good” (Phlb. 64c1–2).
Measure is generative, indeed, the cipher of infinite fecundity. The infinite
bound by and to measure is genesis: being born, coming into the light (beauty)
and becoming manifest (truth), means being brought into an outline, a limit
or shape. “Beauty, commensuration, and truth” are “causes” of becoming, and
reveal the good (Phlb. 65a3). The how of the blend can, thus, be understood
in terms of measure and of the being and manifestation granted through it.
Such is what makes the mixture good, or even what makes it as such. Metron,
summetron, alethes indicate beauty as order, order as beautiful: kosmos (but
even the Latin mundus harbors that meaning) as a polished jewel, a beautiful
ornament shining forth.
Measure and symmetry preserve the components of the blend, while
holding them together and bringing them into one. They allow for the
manifestness of the differing as such. The elements blended are neither over-
whelmed nor obliterated, but rather exalted in the combination. They can
appear as such, in their being and vividness: “Every way of blending whatso-
ever and of whatever kind, if it does not get measure and the commensurate
nature, destroys of necessity the things being blended and first itself, for any-
thing of the kind is not even a blending but truly an unblended mishmash,
and on each and every occasion proves to be really for those in possession
of it a smashup” (Phlb. 64d9–e3). The good can be glimpsed, if at all, in this
granting and guarding the determinacy of each. It is such a tutelage that
makes the difference between a manifold configuration and the indetermi-
nacy (the fusion and confusion) of the unlimited.
But, in the final analysis, Socrates aims to move beyond the threshold (the
portico) of the dwelling of the good, to the good “itself.” As he undertakes
to do so, this image, which still preserves beauty (the house) and the good
(the indwelling) in their distinctness, dissipates. This leaves Socrates again
“perplexed and pathless.” For the good seems to revert into the beautiful, as it
were: “Now the power of the good has fled for us into the nature of the beau-
tiful, for measuredness [μετριότης] and commensuration [συμμετρία] surely
turn out to be everywhere beauty and virtue” (Phlb. 64e5–7). The flight of the
good into the beautiful signals an obscuration concomitant with the glow-
ing of the beautiful, of what shines forth and, thereby, is. What is allows for
an insight into the good as such. Simultaneously, however, precisely through
the phenomenon of appearing, the good is announced as unapproachable,
inaccessible: it withdraws from the all-absorbing glow of appearances. The
good is at once preserved and betrayed in and by the beautiful. It hides there,
in beautiful shining, while itself being a matter neither of place nor of shin-
ing. It abides there, but as a fugitive, whose only trace may lie in the peculiar
intensity of beautiful appearance. Such a flight and hiding signal the good
disappearing in and as the appearing of the good. It is a matter of trans-
figuration or, more precisely, of the transcendence of figuration, an infinite
transcendence.
In viewing “beauty, commensuration, and truth” as “responsible” for the
“things in the mixture,” Socrates is renouncing the possibility of disclosing
the good in terms of “one single idea.” Rather (this is his suggestion here), we
may gain some insight into the good thanks to these “three things” (beauty,
commensuration, and truth), “as if they were one”—while the one idea of the
good, in its simplicity and eidetic perspicuity, will remain elusive (Phlb. 65a).
Ultimately we come to divine the good as the mathematics of the whole and
of each one, as the mathematics through which the mere collection of what
somehow is turns into the kosmos, the beautiful order shining like a jewel and
alive. To be sure, here we undergo again the paradox of having to gain an
insight into the inapparent through the apparent, of the one through “three.”
But this seems to be the only, however qualified, access to the good. The order
and proportion of the mixture (the good in and of the mixture) is revealed
through beauty—or even through the logoi, and most notably through the
engagement in dialectic, if we are to attribute any significance to the fact
that, in the Philebus, speeches are consistently characterized as “beautiful.”
Such, then, would be the union of goodness and beauty: the good inhabits
phenomenality, lives there, indeed, enlivens by abiding, making the abode
vibrant, intensifying the life there, fulfilling and saturating its becoming. As
in the Phaedrus, the beautiful designates that which is resplendent, which
most shines. In turn, the good emerges as submerged in the beautiful, as that
which remains unseen in and as the glow (the being seen) of the beautiful.
Yet, pace Gadamer, it might be unduly precipitous to establish the identity
of the good and beauty. For, fled into beauty and harbored there, the good
dwells, its dunamis unfathomed (“if we are not able to track down the good
with a single idea” [Phlb. 65a1]). The fading of the image of the house with its
inhabitant and the flight of the good into the beautiful do not bespeak their
con-fusion, let alone identity. Rather, they point to a distinction as necessary
as it is elusive and indeterminate. The convergence of the beautiful and the
good or, rather, the inherence of the good in the beautiful intimates transcen-
dence, most notably absolute transcendence, as nothing transcendental, but
rather phenomenal, altogether at the heart of phenomena. In other words,
it intimates transcendence as an inscrutability at the heart of the visible, the
cryptic character of the manifest as such.
As the work of proportion and symmetry, beauty gathers together while
allowing the shining of what is, in its look, outline, brilliance, and singularity.
As an analogy to the abode of the good in the beautiful, think of the abiding
of light, unseen, in the thick opacity of a moonless night shrouding all phe-
nomena. Only just before dawn, before anything (any thing) is illuminated,
can one perhaps almost divine the light itself in the East: when no thing is
appearing yet, but only a trace, a presentiment of the light itself, the veil of
night becoming thinner, translucent. But, as soon as the light begins to pierce
the dark, it is immediately concealed by the nascent appearing and glowing
of things: it dissipates in and as the emergence of what is. We do not see
the light shining, but the things that begin to dawn and unfold thanks to it,
dimly at first, barely perceivable in their outline, and then progressively more
saturated. The sun rising, its light shining, allow things to show themselves,
each one, one by one, yet all together gathered into one. We do not see the
light but what it reveals. Always already a matter of expanse and expansive-
ness (always already together with chora), it is the in which of disclosure and
dwells in disclosure. Between the mystery of matter as such (the unbound
and indeterminate) and the mystery of light (the cause of determinacy), born
of such a twofold mystery, becoming unfolds.
The good, then, is disclosed in its crucial connection with generation—

with the power to generate, fecundity, a movement of generosity and
brimming. It is aition or ‘responsible’ for the mixed, as an impulse prompting
things to grow and evolve—to develop, quite literally to turn (volvere) out of
themselves, to unfold out of their enfoldment and become explicit. For “that
for the sake of which whatever is becoming for the sake of something would
always be becoming, is in the lot and portion [μοίρᾳ] of the good” (Phlb.
54c9–10).11 Thus, the good names that which calls for and sustains such a
development and fulfillment: the inapparent “in which” things come to be,
are engendered (just as the beautiful at Smp. 206e). In this perspective, we
are also compelled to connect it with the question of justice in Republic IV,
which at once engenders (the three other virtues) and promotes the continu-
ing being of the engendered. The good is similarly creative and protective
of wholeness (and similarly elusive). In virtue of this, the good elicits love,
moving in the manner in which a beloved moves the lover. As the Symposium
teaches, love is of the good (Smp. 205e–206a).
Understanding the good as the cause and origin of all, and, as such, as the
beloved, means thinking value most fundamentally, in fact, even beyond the
order of intelligible foundation and intelligibility as foundation. It means
to intuit, contra the choral pronouncement asserting the wisdom of not
being born (OC 1224–1238), a trace of the good in being, that is to say,
in being alive, in the bare fact of aliveness. As Aristotle will have said in
the Nicomachean Ethics, “[Sensing] that we are sensing or [thinking] that
we are thinking [is to be aware] that we are (for to be was stated to be sens-
ing or thinking); and sensing that one lives [αἰσθάνεσθαι ὅτι ζῇ] is in itself
one of the things that are pleasant, for life is by nature good, and sensing
[αἰσθάνεσθαι] that the good belongs in oneself [ὑπάρχον ἐν ἑαυτῷ] is pleas-
ant” (EN 1170a33–b4).12 It is good to be always means: it is good to be here,
in this singular spatiotemporal configuration, in the envelopment of these
circumstances—“by the rock, under a certain tree.”
Notes
1. It is the principle, archē, “of all [τοῦ παντός]” (R. 511b7).
2. It is at this juncture that Glaucon bursts out in wonder: “Apollo, what a daimonic
excess!” (509c). In the corpus, this is the only occurrence of the name of Apollo in an ex-
clamatory mode. Plato is probably evoking the Pythagorean exploitation of the etymology
of Apollon (= non-many), thereby gesturing toward the good as one.
3. Consider, paradigmatically, Sophocles’s Antigone 332–360: the human being, “un-
canny [δεινός]” in being “all-resourceful [παντοπόρος],” calls for the work of measurement
and delineation.
4. In Plato’s Timaeus the quest for measure and attunement is at one with the experi-
ence of the utmost dilation in and identification with the cosmos (Ti. 47a–e).
5. Again, the irreducible duplicity (compositeness, nonsimplicity) of the ultimate

principle(s) carries repercussions concerning ethical matters no less than cosmogonic or
cosmological ones. Consider, for instance, how Timaeus addresses the question of the
motility and health of the human psychosomatic complex by reference to the vibratory
field of chora no less than to the sky (88d–90d).
6. I present a more extensive analysis of Plato’s Philebus in “One Good: The Mathemat-
ics of Ethics,” Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal 25, no. 2 (2004): 1–31.
7. Here and throughout I refer to Seth Benardete’s translation of the Philebus, in The
Tragedy and Comedy of Life: Plato’s Philebus (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993),
although with occasional variations.
8. Socrates repeatedly avoids elaborating on the limit as such, as though it were not
possible to discuss the limit according to itself, aside from becoming, that is, from what
comes to undergo the limit and, thus, to be limited, measured, numbered. Socrates speaks
of “that with limit” and “that which has limit” (24a). Even more remarkably, he relates
the mixing together of “the unlimited [things] and those that have limit” (26b). In turn,
Protarchus speaks of “the limit in the things that are” (26c). See Hans-Georg Gadamer,
Platos Dialektische Ethik (1931; reprint, Hamburg: Meiner, 1983), 108–109.
9. In The Tragedy and Comedy of Life, Benardete speaks of “the good as the cosmos of being
and becoming” (Tragedy and Comedy, 214). This laconic formulation implies the belonging
together of being and becoming, their being (at) one. It furthermore intimates that, qua kos-
mos, i.e., structured unity, “of being and becoming,” the good would designate that in which,
according to which, and thanks to which what is comes to be. To put it even more sharply: “If,
however, the good straddles the opposition between being and becoming, it must be in the
kind of mixture the unlimited can inform. Without the cooperation of the more and the less,
the good could never take root in becoming; it would always be after the end of becoming
and not copresent with becoming. The reality in becoming is the good” (215). The good, then
emerges as gignesthai ontos: becoming “really,” or, more precisely, “beingly,” in the manner of
being; becoming endowed with being. In this way, the good comes to designate the in which
(kosmos) of becoming, yet also that which dwells in becoming, “taking root” there and confer-
ring being to it. The good, then, indicates the cosmos of being and becoming, but not simply
as the place-time of becoming, let alone its container and external circumstance. Rather,
it indicates that which inheres in it, informs its splendor and unraveling, hides there. We
will return to this when considering Socrates’s later remarks on being “at the portico of the
dwelling of the good” and on the “power of the good” having “fled for us into the beautiful.”
10. See also Sophist (249a) and Timaeus (30b).
11. See the inceptive statements in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 1094a1–5 and 19–25.
12. The translation is mine.
Key Readings
Ackrill, J. L. “Aristotle on Eudaimonia.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, edited by A. Oksen-
berg Rorty, 15–34. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980.
Baracchi, C. Aristotle’s Ethics as First Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2008.
Cooper, J. M. Pursuits of Wisdom: Six Ways of Life in Ancient Philosophy from Socrates to
Plotinus. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2012.
———. Reason and Emotion: Essays on Ancient Moral Psychology and Ethical Theory. Princ-
eton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1999.
———. Reason and Human Good in Aristotle. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1986.

Gadamer, H. G. The Idea of the Good in Platonic-Aristotelian Philosophy. Translated by P.
Christopher Smith. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986.
———. Platos Dialektische Ethik. 1931; reprint, Hamburg: Meiner, 1983.
Hadot, P. What Is Ancient Philosophy? Translated by M. Chase. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap
Press of Harvard University Press, 2002.
Irwin, T. “The Metaphysical and Psychological Basis of Aristotle’s Ethics.” In Essays on
Aristotle’s Ethics, edited by A. Oksenberg Rorty, 35–54. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1980.
Nussbaum, M. The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.
Sallis, J. Being and Logos. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996.
Santas, G. X. Goodness and Justice: Plato, Aristotle, and the Moderns. Oxford: Blackwell,
2001.
White, S. A. Sovereign Virtue: Aristotle on the Relation between Happiness and Prosperity.
Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1992.
In the Wake of Socrates: Impossible Memory
Walter Brogan
The Phaedo1 is certainly one of the richest of Plato’s dialogues, filled with
complex images, metaphors, and arguments and layered in a dauntingly
complicated structure that one fails to attend to at one’s own peril. The aim
of this essay is to look at certain aspects of the dialogue that center on the
theme of remembrance in a specific way, namely inasmuch as it has to do
with Plato’s attempt to remember Socrates, to offer a fitting memorial to
the spirit of Socrates after and in the wake of his death. Plato’s dialogues,
and perhaps most of all the Phaedo, are replete with references to distance,
separateness, and being-apart, and allusions to opposites that cannot be
brought together into a unity despite their tendency to exist in a nonidenti-
cal relationship where the one cannot be found without the other, a kind of
impossible being-together. But no distance or gap for Plato is more cogent
and worthy of philosophical reflection than the distance caused by the death
and departure of Socrates. The problem of remembrance and the possibil-
ity and impossibility of recovering from the loss of Socrates haunts this
dialogue, made even more poignant by the reminder that Socrates saw his
philosophical vocation as antithetical to writing and to the false attempt to
reify and preserve in writing what otherwise is vulnerable to the forgetting
and recovery from lethe that belongs to time.
As we will see, the Phaedo is all about this play between forgetting and
recovery, and for reasons that I believe are central to Plato’s philosophy, truth
is only ever possible as a recovery from lethe. In the Phaedrus, this falsely
guided attempt to record philosophy and thus to hold on to and preserve the
truth of being is condemned. But this is no less true in the Phaedo. Philoso-
phy cannot succumb to replacing itself with record keeping in an attempt to
escape from or deny the irretrievable absence that is part and parcel of the
mortal realm. Socrates’s departure and his relentless insistence on the neces-
sity of this withdrawal for philosophy to begin again is a witness to this. The
task of philosophy to open the human soul to knowledge of what is itself by
itself (auto kath’ hauto) cannot be achieved by reifying the presence of being.
123
124 walter brogan
Beauty, goodness, and true being cannot be captured or possessed. But the
question then becomes for Socrates at the end of his life and for Plato after
the death of Socrates: granted the loss of an immediate and full access to
what is itself by itself, in the face of this loss of the origin, can we philoso-
phize successfully, and, if so, how? Platonic philosophy occurs in the space
of the play of presence and absence that belongs to the ambiguous space
of memory. Platonic philosophy as a philosophy of memory is also always
or almost always the philosophy of an impossible memory, the memory of
an event that has not taken place; a mythological memory that can only be
recovered indirectly as through the images of the good that Socrates offers in
the middle of the Republic or in the myth of Er at the end of this dialogue,
which is also, as in the myth of the earth at the end of the Phaedo and the
chora passages in the Timaeus, the story of a memory beyond time. Philoso-
phy is an activity that is done in exile and the return home is fraught with
peril along labyrinthine paths that must be traversed without guarantee. In
this regard, it is perhaps dramatically significant that Socrates calls into ques-
tion at the beginning of this dialogue the banning of poetry and writing, its
exile from philosophy. Perhaps, in the face of the death of Socrates, philoso-
phy must reinscribe its connection to poetry and myth, as Socrates does in
regard to Aesop’s Fables. Socrates reinterprets a persistent dream he has had
and suddenly declares that he should have sung. Though declaring himself
a musician of logos, the greatest of all musicians, and initially believing the
dream commanded him to continue on this path, he now, facing death, wor-
ries that he should have listened to the Muses and pursued muthos. So the
dialogue from the very beginning establishes the problem of the relationship
of philosophical logos and muthos, as well as the connection of philosophy to
poetry and music.
Socrates then frames the whole dialogue around what he calls his mut-
holegein about his imminent departure, his going away and his return home,
about his departure to Hades; and he asks what we are to think of it (Phd.
61e). This first declaration is that the practice of philosophy consists in the
care of dying, in the anticipation and waiting for death, and occurs in the
period between now and sunset. But it becomes immediately clear that
philosophizing in this way, while we are in the middle of things, requires
a thinking about being-apart and the radical condition of being-away that
because of death cannot be circumvented. This theme of waiting for death
and the search for an understanding of a being that is away and separate
becomes the most essential task of a philosophy committed to the think-
ing of mortality. It is dramatically signaled in the explanation for the delay
in Socrates’s execution at the beginning of the dialogue, which was caused
in the wake of socrates 125
by the annual sending of the ship to Delos to honor Theseus’s slaying of the
Minotaur and the saving of Athens, a feast dedicated to Apollo, the god of
light and purification. In a sense I would argue that Socrates’s most authentic
philosophizing occurs in the space of this delay. In the face of death, both
the beauty of the logos that dwells on what is always to come and the limits
of this logos are discovered. This limit of logos, I will suggest, is dramatically
announced at the end of the dialogue when Socrates tells the myth of the
earth and declares that it is best to die in silence.
The theme of katharsis, of the opposition of contamination and purity,
gives the dialogue a tragic framework, although Socrates insists that the
logos of philosophy and the love of phronēsis is the key to overcoming the
tragic condition of the human being. This connection to tragedy, and the
dramatic portrayal of Socrates’s reaction to those who are already in mourn-
ing over his end, is evident from the very beginning of the dialogue in the
discussion of pity (eleos) and fear (phobos). Phaedo declares that he and the
others were filled with a wondrous affect on the last day of Socrates. Since
Socrates was so happy, he did not feel pity as would be appropriate at a scene
of mourning. Instead he felt a wondrous mixture of pleasure and pain, some-
times induced to laugh and at other times to weep. The pain of death was
brought together with the pleasure of philosophy. This initial description
of the coming together of these two opposite affects becomes a recurrent
theme throughout the Dialogue. Each of the arguments for the immortality
of the soul deals in one way or another with the problem of opposition and
contradiction. Socrates himself makes this theme explicit in reference to the
removal of the chains from his legs, and speaks of the wondrous fact that
pleasure, in this case the pleasurable sensation of the blood returning to his
legs, is related to its opposite pain. He notes that they will not come together
at the same time, yet one is never there without the other that follows after
it—as if, he says, they were joined together in one head. Opposites are at war
with one another, we are told, but “the god wished to reconcile them, and
when he could not do that, he fastened their heads together” (Phd. 60c). It
is this war of opposites, the separateness of each that nevertheless achieve in
life an impossible coming together that I think is the main theme of the dia-
logue. Certainly the opposition of life and death, their utter apartness and yet
their inseparability is the primary discussion, but the theme is pervasive and
shows up in the discussion of the coming together in the dialogue of logos
and muthos, of soul and body, of the sensible and intelligible and of likeness
and unlikeness, to name a few examples. It is dramatically signaled when
Socrates is said to get up after being released from his chains and put his feet
on the ground, where they remain for the rest of the discussion, a discussion
126 walter brogan
centered on the question of the soul’s departing from the earth and the vis-
ible realm of the body (Phd. 61c).
Socrates insists that grief, as if death were a tragic event, is inappropri-
ate for one who has pursued the good and avoided evil. Philosophy is the
condition of freedom and what makes possible the seeing by itself of what is,
and thus philosophy heals to the extent possible the tragic condition of the
loss of this capacity. Thus Socrates is convinced that this withdrawal from
the compulsory attachment to the body is a godly activity. And the logos of
philosophy is the human way to pursue this freedom. At precisely this point
in the dialogue (Phd. 63d) Socrates is warned that dialegesthai, engaging in
dialogue, will cause the pharmakon, the poison he is about to take, to lose its
effectiveness. Philosophical logos defers the tragic effect of the pharmakon.
Philosophy is the space of this deferral of dying, the space in that sense of
living in the face of death. From the point of view of the multitude, this
activity of philosophy, the neglect of bodily desires and the practice of dying,
as Socrates declares it to be over and over again in the dialogue, is a comic
condition, and those who practice it deserve to die (Phd. 64b). Simmias says
he cannot help laughing at this ironic point. Philosophy as the desire for
death and the openness to what is to come is the pharmakon, the antidote
and remedy, for the tragic loss that is experienced by all those who are going
to die. It embraces head-on the cause of tragic fear and declares itself to be
the only true catharsis for human being. Thus philosophy is a response to the
tragic condition, one that does not shy away from its relationship to comedy,
and its comic relationship to the body. In a sense, philosophy is the place
where the irreconcilable opposition of comedy and tragedy is held together
and joined at the head.
Only a free relationship to the body can open the soul to behold true
being. The story of the Phaedo, I believe, is not about the battle of the soul
with the body, but about the contamination and dissipation caused by bodily
desire disconnected from the connection to truth uncovered through the
soul. It is a story about the consequent need for katharsis, the need for purifi-
cation and purging that belongs to the embodied condition of human being
mired in the fleeting reality of the senses.
Philosophy holds apart the opposing realms of contamination and purity,
yet katharsis is the overcoming of the fear that drives our overattachment to
the everyday, thus it has this mundane reality as its starting point. What is
striking about these passages that announce the philosophical task of sepa-
rating the desires of the soul from those of the body is that they are couched
in the need for a recovery. Socrates says: “Does not the catharsis consist in
separating, so far as possible, the soul from the body and teaching the soul
the habit of collecting and bringing itself together from all parts of the body,
and living, so far as it can, both now and hereafter, alone by itself, freed from
the body as from fetters” (Phd. 67c5–d2). So the soul holding itself apart
from the body enacts a kind of recollection, a recovery of its unity by gath-
ering itself back into itself and thus healing the dispersion and dissipation
caused by the body’s co-optation of what the soul seeks. And this philo-
sophical recovery from the illness of greed and dissipation is only possible,
as we will see, through an originary opening to an almost forgotten memory
of freedom and health. The provocation for philosophy is the awakening of
the awareness of one’s dispersion and entanglement, but the insistence of
philosophy is that the forgotten condition of wholeness comes before and is
not dependent on this recollection.
The risk of this philosophical turn is made very clear in the next passage,
when Socrates points out: “This is what we call death, is it not, a release and
separation from the body” (Phd. 67d4–5). We can appreciate once again the
comedic element of this pronouncement: the quest for freedom and a life
that is not compulsive and violent but genuinely fulfilling and connected to
true being is a desire for death. And Socrates by no means shies away from
this conclusion, saying that only the care for dying and death, the proper
relationship to death, overcomes the terror and grief of those who flee in the
face of their mortality. The philosopher who holds herself in a proper rela-
tion to death is the one who achieves the katharsis that allows for phronēsis,
true wisdom. But, Socrates declares, this wisdom can only be recovered in
another realm beyond the confused mixture of body and soul, a realm where
the separation of the soul from the body occurs, in Hades. There the soul can
discover being itself that is inaccessible through the eyes and is thus invisible.
Plato plays throughout the Dialogue on the similarity in the names Hades
(haides) and the name for the invisible, namely aeides. Homer’s underworld
becomes the place beyond, where intelligible being and true wisdom can be
found. Phronēsis is found in Hades. If Hades is the site of invisible being,
then it is not to be feared. The courage of the philosopher in the face of death
is thus distinguished from ordinary courage in that ordinary courage is a way
of being in relationship to fear. But the philosopher has overcome fear and
experiences courage in itself and the other virtues, separate from and puri-
fied from the oppositional mixture of courage and fear, and the like. What is
enacted in the course of the dialogue is the education of Cebes and Simmias,
that is to say, the curing through the logos of what is called their childish
fear of death, their childish fear of the imminent departure of their father
Socrates. “Where,” Cebes asks, “shall we find a good singer of such charms,
since you are leaving us?” (Phd. 78a1–2). Socrates constantly thematizes the
128 walter brogan
intractable resistance of Cebes and Simmias to the various attempts to dem-

onstrate the path through which this monster Fear that imprisons them can
be slain.
But is this mutholegein (Phd. 70b), this mythology as Socrates calls it, that
the soul exists apart from the body in Hades, a likely (eikos) story, Socrates
asks? And here begins the various attempts to offer logoi that demonstrate
the likelihood that the soul is immortal. As it turns out, these stories all rest
on the claim that the soul exists prior to birth rather than that it exists after
death. That is, they are stories about a mythical past, a past prior to our com-
ing to be and prior to what has been for us up to now; another and more
distant past than the past we have experienced since birth. And in each case
these are stories about remembrance and recollection, about birth and what
occurs prior to birth that makes birth possible. What gets left out of account
until Socrates’s second sailing is the story that establishes what occurs with
death and after death, that is, stories about what will come to be, stories
about the impending future that can only be told in relationship to death and
dying as that toward which we are heading in the end, stories that tell of the
future place of logos after the death of Socrates.
The first argument for the immortality of the soul is that all things are
generated from their opposites so that birth is only possible as a reincarna-
tion, following in the wake of death. Life and death, greater and smaller, hot
and cold, sleeping and waking all belong together in the endless circula-
tion of opposites, where separation generates togetherness and vice versa.
Without this contrariness, Socrates argues, all things would come to an end
and cease to be, all things would become one or end in chaos. If the move-
ment from life to death were linear, rather than a movement of return, all
things would be swallowed up in death. Now, this argument, it would seem,
is proven spurious later on when Socrates shows that philosophy opens up
a realm of separateness that is alone with itself and apart from this opposi-
tional relationality. But I do not think the argument is defeated so much as
shown to belong to a different order. Relational opposites and the movement
between them of generation and destruction are indeed what governs the
realm of coming to be; but there is a prior, more radical separateness that is
not addressed by this argument, perhaps even a more radical opposition of
apartness than this relationship of contraries can account for. To begin to
uncover this more distant otherness and difference, Plato turns to the logos
about anamnesis, about remembrance.
Socrates reminds his listeners of what they have often maintained, that all
learning is remembrance. The discussion of anamnesis and the parallel dis-
cussion of lethe, forgetting, brings to the fore the peculiar play of presence
and absence that characterizes the temporal realm. In the Phaedo, forget-
ting is defined as the loss of knowledge. In the case of recollection, this loss
is deeper and more intractable than ordinary forgetting. It is in a sense an
irrecuperable loss, an absence that cannot be brought to presence, at least not
in time. Recollection opens the space (the stretch of the soul) for one’s rela-
tionship to this more radical alterity. All learning, Socrates says, is recovery of
one’s own lost knowledge, the recovery of what once belonged to the knower
and thus the recovery of one’s originary self. It is in this sense that Plato says
elsewhere that all knowledge is self-knowledge and that only a recovery of
self-knowledge in its separateness from beings can rescue us from an inca-
pacity to see beings apart from our own lenses. But it is only a recovery and
this can only be successful in relationship to loss, the loss that is intrinsic to
birth and being in time. This movement from loss to recovery is anamnesis.
Recollection is about a memory that is in exile from the origin it seeks to
recover. All acts of recollection occur in the context of this irrecuperable dis-
tance from the origin, an origin that can only be approached by means of a
repetition of a knowledge that has never occurred and is always more prior
than any beginning or coming to be. It is a memory, perhaps an impossible
memory, of an irreducible otherness that can only become present indirectly
by being reiterated. Philosophy is the activity of this iteration of the origin,
this originary iteration. This is perhaps why the whole story Socrates tells of
this originary memory is a story of mimesis.
Socrates’s first example of recollection is the case where an aisthesis of one
thing calls to mind some other thing we associate with it but which is not
itself present to aisthesis. Recollection in this sense requires the provocation
of sense perception but involves moving through and beyond aisthesis to the
recovery of the eidos, the image or form of something, not available or no
longer available to the senses. Plato’s theory of forms, at least in this dialogue
is tied to recollection and thus to iteration and dianoetic doubling of what it
takes from bodily sensation. Thus remembrance is the moving from aisthesis
to a kind of dianoetic imaging that is provoked by and, in that sense, depen-
dent on perception. The second example of recollection is even more peculiar.
A picture or image of Simmias calls to mind the actual, noetic image of Sim-
mias himself. The thing, the picture, becomes an image that reminds us of
the thing itself, available only as an image in the mind. With this recollection
that is a kind of doubling of the image, the sense object, the picture taken
as a copy, again provokes us to move beyond it toward something we have
forgotten but have previously known, something in fact more original than
the thing that represents it. In the third example, the example of equal things
that call to mind equality itself, the issue of resemblance and the relationship
130 walter brogan
of likenesses and what is unlike, that is, the whole problem of relationality
comes to the fore as what is at the heart of anamnesis.
In seeing through the senses things that are equal or unequal, and in fact
more or less equal, Socrates asks, must we not already implicitly know equality
itself which, though aeides, invisible, and not apparent to the senses, neverthe-
less is what must first of all be implicitly remembered and originally known
before any perception is possible. But where, Socrates asks, does this knowl-
edge of the invisible come from which all perception strives after but falls
short of (Phd. 74d)? It must, Socrates argues, be a knowledge other than and
separate from the sensible precisely because the knowledge we attain from
the sensible is intrinsically inferior inasmuch as a likeness can never capture
the being in its fullness. Socrates goes on to argue that the more or less of sen-
sible equality and resemblance requires that we have access to the being alone
by itself by virtue of which we can see things that are related to one another.
Previously we spoke of the sense of loss that belongs to mortal being and
the possibility of a recovery through the philosophical pursuit of what can-
not be discovered through the sensible. Here we are speaking in terms of
falling short and being inferior as primary characteristics of our embodied
being. It is as if the wound of birth causes the scattering of what is into a
multiplicity of examples of what is that share (koinōnia) in some way with
the original being, which nevertheless is apart from it (Phd. 100d6). This is
one of the places where Plato is said to hold his participation theory, which
became such a crucial problem in some of his later dialogues. It is an attempt
once again to address the question of community and of relationality, but a
relationality of another sort from the oscillating relationship of opposites
that we discussed earlier. Here Plato is attempting to think of a relationality
that allows for alterity. Recollection is the recovery, inasmuch as it is possible,
of the source of these beings and their koinōnia, their being related and able
to be seen in common. Socrates asks whether this means that, for example,
beauty itself is present in the beautiful things that it holds in common or
whether it somehow establishes this community while remaining utterly
other. He says to this question: “About the way in which it happens I have no
positive statement” (Phd. 100d9–e1). The preponderance of evidence seems
to me to favor the latter alternative, though especially in matters of beauty
this is a difficult question to resolve. My own hunch is that it is necessary
for philosophy that the intelligible and the sensible be held apart, but that,
granting this, there is nevertheless a way in which they come together. This is
especially evident in the case of the soul in its relationship to the body.
Despite their original separateness, there is a way in which the intelligible
and the sensible can touch each other. The soul is affected by its embodiment.
It carries forth even into Hades the ēthos, the disposition and character it has
taken on as a result of its earthly direction. Despite Socrates insistence on sep-
arateness, it is clear that the individuation of immortal souls is a result of their
sensory existence. How one cares for the body affects the care for the soul.
The soul becomes more or less capable of dwelling with what is excellent as a
result of its orientation toward the body. The human soul is thus responsible
for the habits and disposition it takes on in the way it conducts itself on the
earth. Socrates says: “But now, since the soul is seen to be immortal, it cannot
escape from evil or be saved in any other way than becoming as good and
wise as possible. For the soul takes with it to Hades nothing but its education
and nurture, and these are said to benefit or injure the departed greatly” (Phd.
107c8–d5). Here I only want to point out that Socrates is speaking about a
kind of embodied memory that belongs to the living being and thus to the
life force of the soul, which it takes with it, for better or worse, into Hades.
But the reverse is also true inasmuch as the soul’s ēthos can lead the body away
from its hopeless entanglement in the tyrannizing fluctuation of the senses
and bring to sensory experience a stability and guidance, as Socrates argues
when he asks: “Of all the parts of a human being, do you think any is a ruler
except the soul, especially if it be a wise one?” (Phd. 94b4–5).
At 76b, Socrates concludes the discussion of recollection by addressing
explicitly the role of logos in the return movement from the knowledge of
the intelligible to its connection with the sensible. To know is to be able to
have a logos, an account, of what is known. But not everyone has the logos.
In fact, Simmias worries after the death of Socrates: “There will no longer
be any man living who is able to do so properly” (Phd. 76b). In response,
Socrates points out again that this childish fear is a fear of dispersion, a fear
that the soul will wander around as if “dragged by the body to things which
never remain the same, and it wanders about and is confused and dizzy like
a drunken person because he lays hold of such things” (Phd. 79c6–8). The
logos brings the prior knowledge of the intelligible to the sensible. If this
logos has any force, it is because the recollection we have of what is in itself
is a remembrance of what exists before we are born, and if that is true, then
our souls too must have previously been like the divine in having knowledge
of what is alone by itself. The soul resembles (eoiken) the divine (Phd. 80a7),
that is, the soul itself is, apart from the body, an eikon of the divine. Death is
the soul’s return to its divine being (Socrates’s swan song). Thus it must have
existed prior to birth.
Socrates declares that true logos can only operate on the basis of its trust
(its pisteuein, pistis, Phd. 83a8) of this postulate. Suddenly, and for the rest of
the Dialogue, philosophy becomes a matter of trust and the way this trust
132 walter brogan
nurtures and heals the soul (Phd. 84b). Simmias says, the philosopher must
“take whatever human logos is best and hardest to disprove, and embarking
upon it as upon a raft, sail upon it through life in the midst of dangers” (Phd.
85c8–d2). And Socrates, after acknowledging his concern about misology
that might result from the realization that philosophy is a matter of ques-
tioning, and after insisting that this logos that holds open the question as
the proper path to an understanding of the truth of what is to come, says:
“If what I say is true, I am the gainer by believing it; and if there is nothing
for me after death, at any rate I shall not be burdensome to my friends by
my lamentations in these last moments” (Phd. 91b2–5). One might won-
der why this logos concerning the impending future and the imminent death
of Socrates must be open-ended in its commitment to truth, and one can
note also that Socrates must at this point trust that Simmias and Cebes have
learned in the course of their conversation to overcome the childish fear that
previously led them to demand certainty from the logos or give way to misol-
ogy. Socrates realizes perhaps that the future of one who is committed to the
practice of dying can let go of the dependency on the present that dominates
aisthesis and can open the site for a future whose end is not so much a closure
as it is the space of infinite possibility.
The Phaedo ends with a myth. In the beginning of the dialogue, Socrates
says he has come to realize that he cannot do philosophy, the greatest of all
music, he cannot pursue the logos apart from myth, though presumably these
activities too are bound together in their opposition to each other. And at the
end of the Phaedo, Socrates makes good on this promise. He tells the myth
of the earth. We saw that at the beginning of the Phaedo Socrates planted
his feet on the ground as he recounted the story of the soul apart from the
body. The conversation comes full circle now as Socrates retells what he has
heard on someone’s authority about the regions of the earth. This myth of the
earth is a story of subterranean passages of endless depth far removed from
this surface reality of ours. Here water flows uninhibited from one passage
of the chasma, the hollow openings, to the other. These chasms of the earth
are beyond the opposition of the intelligible and the sensible where things
are held apart; they are filled with rivers of fire and mud and other elemen-
tary being. And the earth oscillates, causing an enormous movement where
things flow in and out of each other in oscillating waves, and the other ele-
ments, the air and the wind do the same, eventually forming of themselves
into seas and rivers, marshes and springs. And returning again and again to
the flow from which they came.
As Socrates goes off to the bath, Crito becomes full of grief at the impend-
ing loss of the father, fearing, he says, “that we shall pass the rest of our lives
as orphans” (Phd. 116a7). Socrates is gentle with Crito, who appears not to
have learned the joy of the swan song. But this is not because he is wrong
in his conclusion that they are to be left as orphans. The whole point of the
Phaedo is after all about how to be as human beings, as orphans who live in
the face of death and who celebrate the life that has opened up for us because
of the almost-forgotten memory of what has come before—in the end, an
impossible memory.
Note
1. Plato, Phaedo, in Plato: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus, trans. Harold
North Fowler, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1995), with minor changes.
Key Readings
Burger, R. The “Phaedo”: A Platonic Labyrinth. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press,
1984.
Brann, E. The Music of the Republic: Essays on Socrates’ Conversations and Plato’s Writings.
Philadelphia: Paul Dry Books, 2004.
Brill, S. “The Geography of Finitude: Myth and Earth in Plato’s Phaedo.” International
Philosophical Quarterly 49, no. 1 (2009): 5–23.
Gilead, A. The Platonic Odyssey: A Philosophical-Literary Inquiry into the “Phaedo.” Amster-
dam: Rodopi, 1994.
González, F. Dialectic and Dialogue: Plato’s Practice of Philosophical Inquiry. Evanston, Ill.:
Northwestern University Press, 1998.
Gordon, J. Plato’s Erotic World: From Cosmic Origins to Human Death. Cambridge: Cam-
Nehamas, A. “Plato on Imitation and Poetry in Republic 10.” In Plato on Beauty, Wisdom,
and the Arts, edited by J. M. E. Moravcsik and Philip Temko, 47–78. Lanham, Md.:
Rowman and Littlefield, 1982.
Plato. Phaedo. Translated by H. N. Fowler. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1995.
———. Phaedo. Translated by E. Brann, P. Kalkavage, and E. Salem. Newburyport, Mass.:
Focus / R. Pullins, 1998.
Rowe, C. J. Plato: Phaedo. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.
Russon, J. “We Sense That They Strive: How to Read (The Theory of the Forms).” In
Retracing the Platonic Text, edited by J. Russon and J. Sallis, 70–84. Evanston, Ill.:
Northwestern University Press, 2000.
Sallis, J. Being and Logos: Reading the Platonic Dialogues. 3rd ed. Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1996.
———. The Figure of Nature: On Greek Origins. Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
2016.
Sedley, D. “The Dramatis Personae of Plato’s Phaedo.” In Philosophical Dialogues: Plato,
Hume and Wittgenstein, edited by T. J. Smiley, 1–26. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1995.
The Origins of Political Life in Plato’s
Republic and Laws
George Harvey
I would like to begin an examination of what we find in Plato’s dialogues

about the origins of political life by focusing on two instances where the
topic is given thematic treatment: first, in Socrates’s construction of the first
city in Book II of the Republic, and second, in the Athenian’s discussion
of the origins of political systems (politeias) in Book III of the Laws. The
two passages present us with very different portrayals of how political life
originates, differences that are fundamental to the question of how we view
human nature and the status of political life in relation to it. Our exami-
nation of these two accounts will show that many of their differences can
be explained by the fact that they are each different kinds of account. The
account in the Republic considers the founding of cities as more of a theoreti-
cal question, where the dialectical context places specific constraints on the
kind of account that Socrates can offer. By contrast, the Athenian’s account
in the Laws appeals to history to trace the origins of political life, and unlike
Socrates in the Republic, his interlocutors appear willing to accept whatever
account represents his actual views. As we will see, these differences need to
be taken into consideration when we try determine what these dialogues tell
us about Plato’s position on this topic.
Socrates’s First City in Republic II

The account we find in Republic II marks the beginning of Socrates’s defense
of justice as something that is both good in itself and for its consequences.
The construction of the city begins with Socrates’s observation that none of
us is self-sufficient, and his further suggestion that this is the sole “principle
[ἁρχὴν]” on which all cities are founded (R. II.369b6–7). From this, Socrates
proposes to construct a city “in theory [τῷ λόγῳ],” guided by what he and
his interlocutors recognize as needs within themselves (R. II.369c9–10). The
135
136 george harvey
most basic of needs are for food, shelter, and clothing, so the city at a mini-
mum includes a farmer, a builder, a weaver, a shoe-maker, and a physician.
Each of the five members of the city provides one type of good in a quantity
sufficient for meeting the needs of all the participants. This is based on the
idea that it is easier for an individual such as a farmer to devote all of his time
to producing one type of good than it is to mind his own business, dividing
his time between farming, weaving, building, and shoe-making without asso-
ciating with others (R. II.369c7–370a4).1 A city (polis) (R. II.369b7) is thus
broadly defined as any arrangement where many people gather to exchange
goods that satisfy the needs of individuals.
Because individual human beings differ “in nature [τὴν φύσιν]” from one
another, (R. II.370a7–b2) and arts place demands on the time of those who
wish to practice them correctly, goods are best produced in a cooperative
arrangement wherein each individual practices just one art, free from the
demands of any other occupation (R. II.370c3–5). This results in a much
larger city, one where citizens possess skills in more specialized fields of art
(R. II.370c7–e3). Socrates recognizes the need to import at least some of
the goods from other cities. Craftsmen therefore must produce more goods
than is required to meet their own demands in order to have a surplus to
offer in trade, and to cover the needs of merchants, sailors, retailers, and wage
laborers (R. II.371a4–5). In addition, a currency becomes necessary for the
purposes of trade in the marketplace (R. II.371b8–9). Even with these addi-
tions, life in this city is rather modest. The inhabitants live on a simple diet,
even with the addition of such delicacies as olives, cheese, and various des-
serts (R. II.372c4–d1). They produce clothing and shoes exclusively with a
view to protecting wearers from the elements, as they are not to be worn dur-
ing the summer (R. II.372a5–b1). The inhabitants sing hymns to the gods,
enjoy sex, but bear only as many children as the city can accommodate with-
out falling into poverty or war (R. II.372b8–c1), and they will live to a ripe
old age, bequeathing the same life to their children (R. II.372d1–3).
Glaucon responds to Socrates’s description by calling it a city suitable for
pigs (R. II.372d4–5). His interest is to eliminate the hardships found in such
a life by introducing luxury items, including furniture, delicacies, oils and
perfumes, and prostitutes, as well as painting, embroidery, gold, and ivory (R.
II.373a1–8). Inclusion of these items results in a greater expansion of the city
both in size and in the range of arts practiced. With this expansion comes the
recognition that it can only sustain itself through conflict with other cities.
This leads to the introduction of an army with which to wage war, giving rise
to a class of citizens distinct from the goods-producing craftsmen. Socrates
allows the city to be expanded in these ways, but only by first declaring that
the origins of political life in plato’s rep u b l i c and l aws 137
his city is the “true [ἀληθινὴ]” one, comparing to Glaucon’s luxurious city as
a healthy city to one with a fever (R. II.372e6–8).
From the outset, we are aware that this first city is a city in theory, one that
is not intended to represent a city that ever actually existed.2 However, the
principle on which the city is created, that human beings lack self-sufficiency,
explains the coming into being of all cities, theoretical or actual. The purpose
of the city is to provide each of its citizens with necessary goods, and all of
the city’s developments are aimed at achieving this end. A good city is one
that possesses an arrangement that achieves this in the best possible way.
In this case, the best arrangement is one that distributes work in a way that
makes the best use of its population and maximizes the production of nec-
essary goods. Once the degree of specialization reaches this optimal limit,
there is no further stage of development that will make the city better. That
Socrates believes that such a limit is attained in the first city is implied by
the fact that once established, the city goes from one generation to the next
without significant changes in size or in the kinds of arrangements involved
in the production of necessary goods.
It is only later, in Book V, that Socrates observes the disparity between
what is grasped in theory and what is achievable in practice (R. V.472e–
473a), but his awareness of this difference tells us that the construction of a
city in theory will omit much having to do with the way in which cities are
actually instituted in practice. It does not take into account, for example, the
amount of time required for these developments to take place. It gives little
attention to factors such as geography, climate, or the occurrence of events
like war, disease, or natural disasters that are not part of the city’s internal
structure but could alter or disrupt this process of development. Another
limitation is reflected in Socrates’s identification of a lack of self-sufficiency
as the founding principle. Socrates identifies what he finds in himself and his
interlocutors as a feature of human nature (R. II.369b6–7). This raises the
question of whether one can look to the characters of human beings raised in
a city-state to determine the needs and desires that motivate the transition
from prepolitical to political life.
In considering the question of whether Socrates’s account provides us
with a straightforward explanation of why human beings live under political
arrangements at all, much depends on how we interpret his endorsement of
his account as one that follows the implications of its founding principle—
that is, that human beings lack self-sufficiency. If it is taken to imply that
on Socrates’s view, individuals are incapable of obtaining the goods neces-
sary for survival, then political life would be a necessary consequence of
our natural limitations. However, by considering the context in which he
138 george harvey
introduces his account, one can arrive at a different interpretation of this

denial of self-sufficiency, one that holds that political life, while preferable to
the prepolitical, is not necessary for human survival.
In the Republic, Socrates is given the task of defending justice as something
that is both good in itself and for its consequences against the popular view
that justice is only good for its consequences (R. II.357e–358a). The popular
view holds that when considered in its own right, justice is not a good at all.
This is made clear in Glaucon’s account of how justice comes into being (R.
II.358e–359b). On this view, human nature is such that doing injustice is
good. Justice is an agreement whereby individuals avoid the harms brought
upon them by the injustice done by others. The account thereby establishes
that justice is not an inherent good, but is instead a compromise: each indi-
vidual enjoys the benefits of the agreement only by giving up what is good to
human beings by nature.
The position from which Glaucon challenges Socrates thus places certain
constraints on how Socrates can proceed. Because the conception of human
nature as naturally benefited by injustice is central to the popular view, its
advocates3 would be on their guard against any defense of justice that oper-
ates on a fundamentally different conception of human nature. For this
reason, Socrates could not explain the origins of political life by, for example,
an innate altruistic impulse.
What about Socrates’s denial of self-sufficiency, presented as the found-
ing principle for all such associations? At first glance, the notion that human
beings depend on others to obtain the basic necessities of food, clothing, and
shelter also seems to contradict the popular view that the primary motivation
for entering into political arrangements is advantageous but not something
necessitated by our natural limitations. The willingness of his interlocutors
to proceed on this basis implies that they find nothing in Socrates’s principle
that is at odds with the popular conception of human nature. This is pos-
sible only if the principle is interpreted in a way that is consistent with the
assumptions underlying the popular view. The popular view fully recognizes
that the prepolitical phase of human life is not desirable for most individuals
and can allow that human beings do have basic needs that are obtained more
easily through cooperation, but it does rule out the notion that they cannot
survive apart from such arrangements. On the contrary, Glaucon identifies
the “true man [ἀληθῶς ἄνδρα]” as one who possesses such abilities that he
does not need to enter into any contractual arrangement in which he agrees
not to do injustice (R. II.359b1–4).
If we take Socrates to be aware of this, then we should interpret his claim
about our lack of self-sufficiency as consistent with the popular view. Such an
interpretation would hold that our lack of self-sufficiency means that human
beings mutually benefit from cooperative arrangements in the production of
necessary goods, but not that these arrangements are necessary for survival.
On this interpretation, Socrates’s founding principle reflects the fact that
human beings are not perfectly adapted to their surroundings and must rely
on the crafts in order to obtain necessary goods.4 Since the crafts must be
practiced in a certain way in order to maximally benefit from them, political
life is preferable to life in solitude.5
From this angle, we begin to appreciate the degree to which Socrates’s
first city stays within the limits set by the popular view. It shares with Glau-
con’s account the view that political life is preferable but not necessary. Both
positions depict human beings as motivated by self-interest in participating
in political society. Disagreement emerges only when Socrates completes his
account of the first city, implying that human desires have a natural limit in
the acquisition of necessary goods such that political development reaches its
end when this is achieved with maximum efficiency. In objecting that this is
a city suitable for pigs, Glaucon is not merely registering his distaste for such
a life, but is also reasserting the popular conception of human nature as pos-
sessing desires that are not limited to necessary goods.
Socrates’s endorsement of the first city should be seen in this same light.
His calling it the “true” city in the face of Glaucon’s objection can be taken
to mean that he regards his city as the one that is directly implied by the
founding principle, at least as he interprets it. It is a rejection of the idea
that the principle accounts for desires for goods beyond what is necessary,
as the advocates of the popular view would have it. But in disagreeing with
Glaucon about what is implied by the founding principle, Socrates need not
be seen as giving an unqualified endorsement of the view that the principle
is the sole or even the primary explanatory factor in the origins of political
life.6
The Origins of Constitutions in Laws III

The Athenian’s account of the origin of political systems (politeiai) in Book
III of the Laws differs from Socrates’s account in the Republic in that it
draws from accepted tradition. This difference in approach results in an
account that differs in content from the Socratic account on many important
points. Of equal importance is the fact that the Athenian’s stated purpose in
describing the origins of political systems is to come to some understanding
of their nature, and in doing so, he is free of the kinds of constraints placed
on Socrates by his interlocutors. In passages in Book II that clearly recall
140 george harvey
Socrates’s defense of justice in the Republic, the Athenian argues that the life
of the just is more pleasant and more profitable than the life of the unjust
(Lg. II.660e–664c), even when the unjust are given wealth, health, power,
strength, courage, and immortality (Lg. II.661d–e). When Book III of the
Laws begins, the Athenian’s interlocutors, Clinias and Megillus, are in agree-
ment with him about the nature of justice and the role of political life in the
achievement of happiness.
The Athenian proposes that the best way to examine political systems
(politeiai) (Lg. III.676a1) is to consider first how they came into existence.
By adopting a perspective that encompasses an infinitely vast period of time,
the Athenian claims that one is able to observe every conceivable change in
political systems, and that one can also determine the extent to which human
beings have lived under some sort of political organization (Lg. III.676b3–5).
These periods of political activity are bounded in time by the occurrence of
cataclysmic events such as floods, plagues, and many other causes that result
in the almost total annihilation of the human race. The interlocutors agree
that these events represent the truth in tradition (Lg. III.677a1–2), and the
Athenian adds the further claim that these conditions engendered all the
features of present-day life, including cities, political systems, arts, laws, and
both great vice and great virtue (Lg. III.678a7–9).
In what follows, we are asked by the Athenian to picture what the effects
of such a cataclysm would be on the human race (Lg. III.677a8–9).7 While
the human race is threatened by a variety of events, the Athenian consid-
ers the case of a cataclysmic flood. Since cities are located on plains or near
coastlines and rivers, they would be annihilated along with the vast majority
of the human population (Lg. III.677c1–2). The only survivors would be a
small and scattered population of shepherds who live at or near the tops of
mountains and avoid the effects of the rising levels of water. Another major
consequence of the flood is the loss of almost all the arts, including the art of
politics (Lg. III.677c4–7, 678a3–5).
Between cataclysmic events human beings live under primitive conditions
for “countless millennia [μυριάκις μὐρια ἔτη]” (Lg. III.677d1) without the
benefit of the lost arts. In the present age, and presumably in all such cycles,
the rediscovery of the arts is a relatively late development, taking place in
the last “one to two thousand years [χίλιαἢ δὶς]” (Lg. III.677d2). Life in the
postcataclysmic era is not entirely free of arts, however. Shepherds maintain
their flocks, which provide a steady supply of meat and milk (Lg. III.678e10–
679a4), and the survivors also possess knowledge of the arts of pottery
and weaving—arts that provide clothing, shelter, bedding, and other basic
goods. These arts are not human innovations; rather, they are divine gifts to
man, reflecting the god’s intention to allow the human race to survive and
develop even in the harsh conditions produced by cataclysmic events (Lg.
III.679a4–b3).
Life for the widely dispersed survivors is one where scarcity is not an
issue. Instead, the very abundance of basic goods and the divinely endowed
skills makes life in isolation sustainable. This isolation gives rise to an affec-
tion toward others (Lg. III.678c5–6, e9–10). The material conditions are
such that one’s needs are met with relative ease, and there is no desire, let
alone the opportunity, to obtain goods beyond what is necessary for survival.
Without gold and silver, no one is either rich or poor, and conflicts between
individuals do not arise (Lg. III.679a1–c6). Under these conditions, there is
no violence or crime and there are no feelings of jealousy or envy between
men. No one in this age possesses complete virtue (Lg. III.678b1–4), but
as a result of these living conditions, the Athenian holds that people in this
period possess characters that are superior to what is prevalent in civilized
times (Lg. III.679e1–3).
Without the art of politics, individuals in this age live by the guidance
of “ancestral law [πατρίοις νόμοις]” (Lg. III.680a6–7). The Athenian claims
that this arrangement constitutes something of a political system, a system of
“lordship [δυναστείαν]” (Lg. III.680b2) that compares the rule of the Cyclo-
pes, where each man lays down the laws for his wife and children with no
regard for the conduct of his neighbor (Lg. III.681b1–e4).8 The next stage in
the development of political systems occurs when several family clans merge
to form a larger community. It is only at this stage that agriculture is intro-
duced, and the construction of stone walls as protection against wild animals
marks the first stage at which communities are bound to geographical ter-
ritories. Laws come into existence at this stage because the rules governing
each household varies. When merged into a larger community, it becomes
necessary for representatives of each family to review the rules governing
each household and select ones suited for common use (Lg. III.681c7–d5).
These representatives are the first lawgivers, who are responsible for the cre-
ation of “a sort of aristocracy [ἁριστοκρατίαν τινὰ]” or “kingship [βασιλείαν]”
(Lg. III.681d3–4).
The Athenian’s account of the origins of political life differs from
Socrates’s in many ways. The Athenian’s use of tradition offers a perspective
on political developments over time, and does so with an awareness of how
these developments are affected by external factors. From this perspective, we
see that the form human life takes is largely determined by causes beyond
human control. This perspective also allows us to consider the possibility that
political life represents only a small portion of the time human beings live in.
142 george harvey
By contrast, Socrates’s account in the Republic gives very little consideration

to the possibility of prepolitical life, and it traces the development from the
most primitive arrangement to what Socrates calls the true city by consider-
ing only technical innovations that are the results of human endeavor.
The Athenian’s choice in approaching the topic by considering vast
periods of time appears to be with a view to making a larger point, as it
highlights the degree to which human existence is subject to the whims of
chance events and reminds us of the insignificance of all human endeavors in
the face of the forces of nature. The Athenian’s approach anticipates remarks
in Book IV, where he identifies the primary factors that determine the course
of human affairs (Lg. IV.709a1–d9). To explain his provocative assertion
that “no man ever legislates [οὐδείς ποτε ἀνθρώπων οὐδὲν νομοθετεῖ]” (Lg.
IV.709a1–2), the Athenian says that human affairs are determined first by
god, and secondarily by the influences of chance (tychē) and opportunity (kai-
ros) (Lg. IV.709b7). Human expertise (technē) (Lg. IV.709c1) is third, having
the capacity to achieve a desired end only when the other factors permit it.
He applies this directly to the case of politics, stating that for a state to live
in happiness, certain environmental conditions must first be met, and only
then is it possible for “a legislator in possession of the truth [τὸν νομοθέτην
ἀληθείας ἐχόμενον]” (Lg. IV.709c8) to bring about such an end. In this way,
the Athenian’s account delivers on its promise to provide an account of the
causes behind changes in political systems (Lg. III.676c6–8).
Another way the Athenian’s account differs from Socrates’s is in its
positive portrayal of prepolitical life. Clearly, the good character born of
innocence in this stage invites comparison with the extremes of vice and
virtue possible in civil society. Doing so raises the question of which mode
of life the Athenian regards as better for human beings. Everything would
seem to depend on how we understand the difference between what each life
has to offer in terms of the best ethical character one can achieve. Political
life includes many corrupting influences, but also the possibility of virtue.
Prepolitical life, by contrast, is one in which a naive goodness is ensured by
the absence of anything that would corrupt the soul. He describes this good
character as resulting from two distinct causes: the absence of wealth and
poverty that give rise to violence and crime, and an unsophisticated attitude
toward what is believed about gods and men and what is said to be good and
bad (Lg. III.679b7–c8). These factors indicate that the resulting good charac-
ter is something all individuals come to possess because of the environment
in which they live, and unlike the state of virtue attainable in city life, this
character does not represent an achievement born from a deliberate attempt
to cultivate the soul.
Examination of the origins of political life in the Republic and Laws reveals
a number of points on which they differ. Many of these, as we saw, can be
explained by the differences both in the respective approaches they take to
the topic and in the specific purposes these accounts are meant to serve in
the context of the dialogues in which they appear. For example, we can now
appreciate more fully the constraints placed on Socrates in presenting the
first city once we see the Athenian’s alternative account: the latter is precisely
the kind of account that Socrates could not offer even if it represented his
considered view of the topic, because it operates on a conception of human
nature that directly contradicts the position advocated by Socrates’s inter-
locutors. When context and perspective are taken into account, we shouldn’t
be surprised by the extent to which these two accounts diverge.
These differences may give us grounds for considering one of the two
accounts as a more accurate reflection of Plato’s position. Specifically, the
features that are distinctive of the Athenian’s account in the Laws might
suggest that it is to be favored over the Socratic account in the Republic. For
one thing, it takes a much broader perspective on the topic of political life,
considering not only the inherent capacities and desires of human beings, as
does the Socratic account, but also the role of factors beyond human con-
trol, such as the impact of natural forces and divine influences. In a similar
vein, the Athenian clearly attempts to ground his account in what he and
his interlocutors take to be accepted facts that describe the actual condi-
tions in which political life emerges, whereas Socrates offers no factual basis
for his identification of the founding principle of all cities. Where Socrates
also assumes that human capacities and desires are relatively fixed, such that
the motivations for participating in a political arrangement by prepoliti-
cal human beings can be discovered by mere introspection, the Athenian’s
account is open to the possibility that prepolitical human beings are at some
basic level very different from ourselves, not only in their ability to obtain all
the goods necessary for survival without relying on cooperation from others,
but also in their ethical character and outlook.
While this breadth of perspective and openness to these possibilities may
lead us to conclude that the Athenian’s account is authoritative and one that
more accurately reflects the views of its author, there are two qualifications
to consider. First, the Athenian’s account offers few details to explain why
human beings develop the arts and eventually form political communities.
His account suggests that the flourishing of family clans leads to an increase
in population, which in turn gives rise to the first collective settlements.
Perhaps an important but unmentioned factor has to do with the benefits
of specialization and mutual cooperation that figure more prominently in
144 george harvey
the Socratic account. It may therefore be the case that the developments in
political life result from a combination of these factors. If so, there remains
the question of determining their relative importance.
The second point has to do with the Athenian’s remarks about the qual-
ity of life in the prepolitical age. We may come to accept that in prepolitical
times humans have all of their basic desires met, enjoy good mutual relations,
and exhibit comparatively good ethical characters (albeit short of complete
virtue). But in doing so, what do we mean by saying that such people are
happiest? Something very much like this question is given consideration in
another dialogue. In the Statesman, the Myth of the Reversed Cosmos (Pol.
268d–274e) presents us with two distinct cosmic ages. In one, human beings
receive direct care from the gods; in the other they are left to govern their
own affairs. There are many important differences between the age of divine
governance in the Statesman (also referred to as the Age of Cronus) and the
Athenian’s description of the prepolitical ages, but they both provide us with
a set of circumstances in which all human desires are easily satisfied (Pol.
271d–272b). The Visitor juxtaposes the age of Cronus with the age of Zeus
(the cosmic age in which humans rely on the arts to obtain everything they
need or want) and asks whether human beings are happier in the former or
the latter (Pol. 272b). We find the answer by first determining how human
beings in the age of Cronus use their considerable leisure time: if they spend
it in pursuit of philosophy, then it is the superior age; if instead they spend
it enjoying stories and amusements, then the superior life is to be found in
the age of Zeus (Pol. 272b–d). While we do not receive a final answer to this
question in the Statesman, the Visitor’s posing of it implies that our assess-
ment of the quality of life cannot be exclusively in terms of how our desires
are satisfied. Thanks to our divine herdsmen, desire- satisfaction among
human beings in the age of Cronus is optimal, but for the Eleatic Visitor this
alone does not decide the question of the relative happiness of human beings
living in that era.
The Eleatic Visitor’s ability to see that the question of human happiness is
not determined by the satisfaction of basic desires provides us with an impor-
tant perspective from which we can reconsider the Athenian’s claims about
prepolitical life. It also allows us to take a similar stance toward Socrates’s
endorsement of the first city as both true and healthy, in that it appears based
entirely on the fact that citizens in the first city have limited desires that are
easily met through cooperative arrangements in the production of goods. To
follow the Visitor’s lead, we will have to consider human happiness in much
broader terms than either Socrates or the Athenian does in their respective
accounts.
Notes
1. This is the only place where Socrates hints at the possibility at life outside a politi-
cal arrangement. It will be helpful to keep it in mind when considering the Athenian’s
description of life that precedes the establishment of political arrangements in the Laws.
2. While the possibility that a city very much like the kallipolis may have existed in the
distant past is raised in the Timaeus (see especially Ti. 26c–e), no such suggestion is to be
found in the Republic about either the kallipolis or this first city. To the contrary, Socrates
later insists that the construction of a city in theory is worthwhile even if it cannot be
realized in practice (R.  V.472e–473a).
3. While Glaucon and Adeimantus are sympathetic to Socrates’s position even as they
defend the popular view, the same cannot be said of Thrasymachus. While there are sig-
nificant differences between the popular view and the positions taken by Thrasymachus in
Book I, both endorse the idea that injustice is good for human beings (R.  I.348b–e). For
Thrasymachus, this would imply an endorsement of the account of human nature Glaucon
offers on behalf of the popular view.
4. The reliance on the crafts as a means for obtaining necessary goods figures promi-
nently in both the Athenian’s account in the Laws, but also in myth of the reversed cosmos
in the Statesman (Pol. 268d–274e), where the Eleatic Visitor sets our dependence of the
arts in the present cosmic period against the age of Cronus, in which human beings are
perfectly acclimated to their surroundings as a result of direct divine involvement.
5. This also explains why Socrates is does not stop with the minimal arrangement con-
sisting of five or six citizens, which represents an improvement over solitary life but is
clearly inferior to arrangements where there is greater specialization.
6. Socrates’s calling the first city ‘healthy’ seems to anticipate his later analogy in Book
IV between health and justice. His use of the term suggests that the first city is the right
kind of good (i.e., good in itself and for its consequences), but since health is a property of
the body and not the soul, it is possibly Plato’s signal to the reader that Socrates has not
properly identified what it is that makes a city truly good.
7. In this respect, the Athenian’s account is just as speculative as Socrates’s, but the
difference remains in that the Athenian takes his account to be a reasonably accurate
description of a series of events that actually took place at some point in the distant past.
8. Unlike the Cyclopes, the characters possessed by the heads of these households en-
sures that the established laws, while varied according to the natural differences in psychic
dispositions of individuals (see Lg. III.681a7–b7), are basically good.
Key Readings
Annas, J. An Introduction to Plato’s Republic. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981.
Barney, R. “Platonism, Moral Nostalgia, and the ‘City of Pigs.’ ” Proceedings of the Boston
Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 17 (2001): 207–227.
Bobonich, C. Plato’s Utopia Recast: His Later Ethics and Politics. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2002.
Depew, D. J. “Humans and Other Political Animals in Aristotle’s History of Animals.”
Phronesis 40 (1995): 156–181.
Devereaux, D. “Socrates’ First City in the Republic.” Apeiron 13 (1979): 36–40.
Everson, S. “Aristotle on the Foundations of the State.” Political Studies 36 (1988): 89–101.
Ferrari, G. R. F., ed. The Cambridge Companion to Plato’s Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge
146 george harvey
Irwin, T. Plato’s Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.

Keyt, D., and F. D. Miller, eds. A Companion to Aristotle’s Politics. Oxford: Blackwell, 1991.
McKeen, C. “Swillsburg City Limits (The ‘City of Pigs’: Republic 370c–372d).” Polis 21
(2004): 70–92.
Miller, M. The Philosopher in Plato’s Statesman. Las Vegas: Parmenides, 2004.
Morrison, D. R. “The Utopian Character of Plato’s Ideal City.” In The Cambridge Compan-
ion to Plato’s Republic, edited by G. R. F. Ferrari, 232–255. Cambridge: Cambridge
Morrow, G. R. Plato’s Cretan City. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1993.
Mulgan, R. G. “Aristotle’s Doctrine That Man is a Political Animal.” Hermes 102 (1974):
438–445.
Nightingale, A. “Historiography and Cosmology in Plato’s Laws.” Ancient Philosophy 19
(1999): 299–326.
Reeve, C. D. C. Philosopher-Kings: The Argument of Plato’s Republic. Princeton, N.J.:
Princeton University Press, 1988.
Stalley, R. F. An Introduction to Plato’s Laws. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1983.
Being in Late Plato
Eric Sanday
This chapter examines the shift in Plato’s account of the eidē or ‘forms’ from
the Republic to the Parmenides. Forms in the Republic are characterized in
terms of perfection, purity, and changelessness, with the form being an ulti-
mate explanatory principle for being-X. Participants, while being-X, are also
capable of not-being-X, either through qualitative change and coming-to-be,
or through external changes in perspective or opinion, by which they “appear
[φανήσεται]” not-X (R. V.479a7). The form is treated as prior to participant
and as prior to mixture with what would deny what it is. It is intrinsically
changeless and not subject to changes in appearance.
In the Parmenides, the account of form shifts to accommodate the types of
admixture demanded for combination with and division from other forms.
In the Fifth Hypothesis, forms are subject to determinate “bonds of being
and not-being,” which permits the form to present itself as an object of
discursive knowing, being-X, -Y, and -Z, and not-being not-X, not-Y, and
not-Z. Forms are still treated as pure and perfect, but now with the power
of gathering together intelligible bonds of being and not-being. Thus, in the
Parmenides, forms are the gathering source and the gathered terms subject
to the admixture; they are that by which true speech is explained. In this
chapter, I argue that the “turning of the soul from becoming to truth and
being” (R. VII.525c) announced in the Republic is partially fulfilled through
the account of veridical speech in the Parmenides.
Forms and Participants

At the end of Republic V, elaborating on his claim that there will be no
respite from faction and hardship in cities until philosophers rule as
kings (R. V.473c–480a), Socrates distinguishes the philosopher from the
nonphilosopher in virtue of their respective orientation toward forms and
participants. The so-called lovers of sights, like philosophers, love the intel-
ligible character of things— their beauty— but the nonphilosophers love
147
148 eric sanday
intelligibility improperly, loving the instances of intelligibility and disregard-

ing the sources of that intelligibility. Whereas the philosopher loves what is
purely and perfectly beautiful, such as the form of “the beautiful itself [αὐτὸ
τὸ καλόν]” (R. V.476b), the lovers of sights love the beautiful in koinōnia or
‘community’ with such things as actions, bodies, and other forms in which
the beautiful presences itself. The lovers of sights love “the many and merely
apparent [φανταζόμενα πολλά]” (R. V.476a) instances of beauty, and, by fail-
ing to see the beauty of what has intelligibility on its own terms, they suffer
from a disordered relation to being.1
The key distinction is between the autonomy of the beautiful itself and the
dependent meanings, which are subject to “becoming.”2 For example, an act is
subject to becoming insofar as the same act manifests beauty in one relation
and vice or ugliness in another. The act of contributing one’s property to the
common use of others can manifest beauty, but the same act in another rela-
tion, perhaps in the context of a criminal enterprise, is vicious and dissolute.
The being of the act depends on the relation in which it is nested, and it is
thereby subject to what Socrates calls koinōnia and becoming. Being beauti-
ful in this way cannot fail to imply not being beautiful, and it is therefore
subject to becoming. Thus, though the philosopher and nonphilosopher may
love the same thing, such as beauty, the nonphilosopher loves beauty in the
wrong way, assigning primacy not to beauty but to the things and acts (and
so on) that instantiate beauty, refusing to believe that there is a beautiful itself
distinct from these things, actions, and contextual relations. The philosopher
distinguishes between beautiful things, actions, or people, and the beautiful
itself. What is needed for a waking, philosophical life is an understanding of
the difference between being itself and the thing subject to becoming.
Socrates further divides form and participant into ontologically distinct
“ones” on the basis of a division between powers of “thought [διάνοια]”
(R. V.476d–478e). He defines a “power [δύναμις]” by the things “on which
[ἐπί]” it depends and what it “accomplishes [ἀπεργάζεται]” (R. V.477d); pow-
ers that accomplish different things depend on different things. Knowledge,
ignorance, and opinion accomplish different things: “knowledge [γνώμη]”
accomplishes something “unerring [ἀναμάρτητος]” (R. V.477e); “opinion
[δόξα]” accomplishes something fallible, and “ignorance [ἀγνωσία]” effec-
tively accomplishes nothing. These are therefore three distinct powers that
depend on three different (i.e., ontologically distinct) sorts of ones. “Knowl-
edge [γνῶσις] is dependent on what is [ἐπὶ μὲν τῷ ὄντι γνῶσις ἦν],” which is
“complete” and “unmixed” and “always remains the same in the same respect
[ἀεὶ μὲν κατὰ ταὐτὰ ὡσαύτως ἔχουσαν]” (R. V.479a). Ignorance depends
“on what is not [ἐπὶ μὴ ὄντι]”3 and what “could not correctly be addressed
being in late plato 149
as some one [thing] [ἕν τι] but rather [must be addressed as] nothing
[μηδέν]” (R. V.478a–c). Opinion is situated between knowledge and igno-
rance; it is intermediate between complete being and complete nonbeing
(R. V.477a). The objects of opinion, therefore, “are double [ἐπαμφοτερίζειν]”
(R. V.479b–c): “for these [objects] are ambiguous, and it is not possible to
think [νοῆσαι] solidly that they are or are not, or both or neither” (R. V.479c).4
Consider the way ‘being’ is used in these passages. The objects of opin-
ion, participants, are between being and nothingness in the sense that their
determinacy is equivocal. The object of opinion, for example the beautiful
participant, ‘is’ in the sense that it is beautiful. The participant’s being beauti-
ful does not fall short of being, any more than two apples fall short of being
two. But the object of opinion also ‘is not,’ which is to say that in some other
respect the participant is (and must be) not-beautiful. The object of opin-
ion is, therefore, between being and nothingness not in the sense that it is
present and absent or generated and destroyed but in the sense that its intel-
ligibility and determinacy are mixed. Despite being mixed, however, opinion
is oriented toward the same object as knowledge: that is, toward beauty.5
The key is that the object of opinion also ‘is not’: that is, it is also subject to
not-being-X.
Insofar as the being of forms and participants is the same, we can see
that Socrates remains within what in Republic VII he calls the “cave.” Just
as a participant ‘is’ in the sense of being of a certain sort, so too a form ‘is’
in the sense of being that sort. An action or body ‘is’ beautiful, and the form
of beauty ‘is’ beautiful; both ‘are’ the intelligibly determinate character of
beauty. The being of the participant differs from the being of the form in the
sense that the participant implies being subject to not-being-X in addition to
being-X.
The discussion in Republic V remains “in the cave” in the sense that the
hypothesis of being remains inadequate and unexplored. Socrates is satisfied
to leave the ‘is’ of the form and the ‘is’ of the participant essentially unclari-
fied. Socrates does call the being of the form “unmixed, or pure [εἰλικρινῶς]”
(R. V.479d), perfect, and “always remaining the same [ἀεὶ . . . κατὰ ταὐτα
ὡσαύτως ἕχουσαν]” (R. V.479a2–3). He calls participants a concatenation of
distinct ways of being: being-X as well as not-being-X, or beautiful as well as
not-beautiful. But it tells us nothing about being-X to say that the being of
the form differs from the being of the participants by virtue of the addition
of not-being-X. The distinction between form and participants hinges on the
distinction between the unmixed being of the form and the double being of
participants, and it does not resolve Socrates’s equivocation to discuss the
form’s being “one” and the participants’ being “many.”
150 eric sanday
The being of the forms is unified: “concerning all the forms [πάντων τῶν
εἰδῶν πέρι],” “each is itself one [αὐτὸ μὲν ἓν ἕκαστον εἶναι]” (R. V.476a);
forms are one in the sense of partless, not complex, and unique, not one-
of-many. By contrast, participants are manifold in the sense that they are,
at heart, “double [ἐπαμφοτερίζειν]” (R. V.479b, 479c) in the sense that there
are many of them. Thus, when Socrates describes the form as “itself ” and
“itself one [αὐτὸ μὲν ἓν . . . εἶναι]” (R. V. 476a) and says that it is “completely
[παντελῶς]” and “whole [ὅλως]” (R. V.475b) or “all [πάν]” (R. V.475b), his
characterizations point to being one in contrast to the participants, which are
one and also many. This resolves nothing because the meaning of being-one
is not specified by the addition of being-many. With respect to being and
being-one, the distinction between the forms and participants is not thought
through; it is only indicated as work for the future.
In Republic VII, Socrates returns to the distinction between the double
character of participants and the complete or stable oneness of forms in the
“study of the one,” which is the first step in the “turning the soul itself around
from becoming to truth and being [αὐτῆς τῆς ψυχῆς . . . μεταστροφῆς ἀπὸ
γενέσεως ἐπ’ ἀλήθειάν τε καὶ οὐσίαν]” (R. VII.525c).6 Through philosoph-
ical reflection, the objects of perceptual opinion are held fast and pressed
into service as what Socrates calls “thought- summoners [νοήσεως . . .
παρακλητικόν]” (R. VII.523d8–e1).
Thought-Summoners
The prisoner emerging from the cave in Republic VII first glimpses the forms
“through reflections” in water, slowly growing accustomed to the excessive
light. The process of growing accustomed to the light takes time and effort,
which Socrates suggests can take the form of the five mathematical studies
of Book VII, which are ways of habituating oneself to see not things but
their intelligible structure. The first of those mathematical studies is referred
to as a “study of the one,” in which one focuses on the manifold character of
participants. Socrates asks us to see that the objects of sensation appear “suf-
ficiently judged [ἱκανῶς . . . κρινόμενα]” insofar as each object presents itself
as unproblematically one; the example he offers is a finger, which presents
itself as one of many, that is, “each similarly [ὁμοίως ἕκαστος]” (R. VII.523c).
But these self-evident ones can be subjected to comparison in terms of vari-
ous shared qualities, such as size, color, shape, such that when compared in
terms of, for instance, of size, one and the same thing presents a mixture of
opposites. The finger “is large” and also “is small,” and the mixture of large
and small causes the soul to be aporein or “at a loss.” Being hard cannot be the
same as being soft, or big the same as small, or heavy the same as light. If any
of these (hard, heavy, large) is to be anything at all, it must be other than its
own opposite; otherwise it would not ‘be’ anything at all.
The impossible testimony of sensation propels the soul by demanding
explanation. The soul is led to a clarifying reinterpretation of, as Socrates
says, “what is itself one [τί ποτέ ἐστιν αὐτὸ τὸ ἕν]” (R. VII.524e). The soul,
“calling on calculation and intellect, examines whether each of the things
reported [i.e., being large and being small] is one or two” (R. VII.524b).
Once the soul singles out largeness and smallness as kechōrismena or ‘separate’
and asks what sort of thing they are, it arrives at the intelligible ones, that
is, the large, small, and equal. Therefore, the larges and smalls that sensation
judges to be “commingled [συγκεχυμένον]” (R. VII.524b–c), intellect sepa-
rates out and considers on their own terms, and in so doing the “study of the
one turns the soul toward the contemplation of being [μεταστρεπτικῶν ἐπὶ
τὴν τοῦ ὄντος θέαν ἡ περὶ τὸ ἓν μάθησις]” (R. VII.525a). The soul discov-
ers, in the distinction between the double character of objects of sensation
and the uniform character of the objects of intellect, that the object of
knowledge, large itself or small itself, is not confined to the object of sensa-
tion but separate from it, exceeding and being irreducible to its perceptual
instances.
The study of the one has shown us that forms are different in kind than
things and people, which are subject to space and time, and it has shown
that forms are intelligible on their own terms, with reference to nothing else,
whereas spatiotemporal individuals are manifestly only intelligible with ref-
erence to the forms. What it means to be large, the form of largeness, is
separate from what it means to be small, the form of smallness. The forms
set the terms for comparison and determinate being; the forms are not, like
the ‘finger’ we initially imagined, subject to the categories of comparison and
intelligible determinacy, such as being larger and smaller. These points echo
the Book V distinction between form and participant.
The Book V discussion does not provide a full account of the truth and
being toward which it turns the soul, and the study of the one in Book
VII only establishes the explanatory inadequacy of participant things. The
necessary, categorial structure of spatiotemporal particulars has not been
established, nor has there been an account of the determinate structures to
which forms must be subject if they are to be capable of combination and
division. We have only progressed to the point of showing that form is a spe-
cial kind of ‘one,’ and participants, despite being subject to becoming, have
certain necessary structures related to their individuality and complexity. It is
not possible to go into a full account of elaboration of the world “outside the
152 eric sanday
cave” made in the Parmenides, and I will focus exclusively on the transformed
sense of ‘is’ offered in the Fifth Hypothesis.
Veridical Legein—Parmenides
The Eight Hypotheses of the Parmenides study the senses of ‘one’ that sepa-
rate form from participant.7 Although commentary on these Hypotheses is
widely divergent and the material itself is excruciatingly detailed, I will pro-
ceed directly to the Fifth Hypothesis. My reading focuses on the relationship
between the First Hypothesis (the one, if it is) and the Fifth Hypotheses (the
one, if it is not). I will leave aside the important relationship between the Sec-
ond and Third Hypotheses, as well as the addendum to the Second Hypothesis.
The goal in this section is only to show that the First and Fifth Hypotheses
articulate the sense in which any form can be taken up in its character of
being simple and unique, that is, as (a) prior to spatiotemporal individuals, and
nonetheless (b) subject to the bonds of being and nonbeing by which a form
becomes accessible to discursive knowing. The concluding note struck in this
section is that in the Parmenides the distinction is drawn between the form as
a simple one and the form as subject to the gathering of logos. The turning of
the soul from becoming to truth and being, while not completed, is developed
in relation to knowledge by the account of veridical legein.
The Hypotheses of the Parmenides respond to the puzzles Parmenides
poses to Socrates’s account of participation. The key to those objections is to
reflect on the determinate intelligibility to which forms must be subject and,
by contrast, the eidetic structure by which participants must be composed.
Specifically, our attention should be directed at part/whole complexity, as
opposed to simplicity, and individuality, as opposed to uniqueness, as a basis
on which to disambiguate participants from the forms to which they are
subject. The Hypotheses help answer these puzzles by displaying the form as
‘one’ in the sense of being partless and unique, and the participant as a one
among many that is a complex whole of parts subject to place, time, disposi-
tion, relation, and a list of other characteristics tied directly to instantiation
in space and time. Insofar as the hypotheses address essential structures of
what it means to be a form and a participant, and how these two relate, the
Parmenides challenges the assumptions on which the Republic tacitly relied.
In the Republic, ‘being’ was conceived in terms of being intelligibly of such
a sort. In the hypotheses, the account of being is transformed by the intro-
duction of ‘is’ that is explicitly not temporal (and not spatial), for example the
‘is large’ of the timeless meaning of ‘exceeding in size’ ‘is not’ subject to space
and time. Furthermore, the explicitly timeless ‘is’ is determinate insofar as it
‘is not,’ for example large ‘is not’ small, ‘is not’ equal, and so on, and to this
degree is subject to determinacy. The timeless ‘is’ is intimated in the First
Hypothesis and then developed in the Fifth Hypothesis in terms of what is
there called “the bonds of being and not-being.”
In the First Hypothesis, Aristoteles uses the timeless ‘is’ in his response to
Parmenides’s question “Is there any way of being other than being past, pres-
ent, or future?” Aristoteles says, “There is not [ouk estin]” (141e). Aristoteles
thus identifies the being of structural ways of being, categorial ways of being,
as opposed to the contingent being this-or-that of spatiotemporal things.
Aristoteles is so deeply unaware of the distinction between the two types of
‘is’ that he draws on the necessary and universal sense of being in order to
rule out its possibility.
In the Fifth Hypothesis, the timeless ‘is’ is taken up again as the being of
the one that is not (in-time-and-space). Parmenides says that the “one that
is not” must partake in being if we are to “say true things [ἀληθῆ λέγειν]”
when we say that “the one is not [τὸ ἓν μὴ εἶναι]” (Prm. 161e). When we say
this, we speak truly, and thereby we “say things that are [ὄντα λέγειν]” (Prm.
161e). The ‘is’ that says true things I am calling ‘veridical speech’ and defining
as speech that ‘says things that are,’ that is, forms. For veridical to speech be
able to say true things of a form, it must pick out other forms with which it
is joined and divided.8
We see this reading borne out in the difficult passage from the Fifth
Hypothesis (Prm. 162a–b) in which Parmenides describes the bonds of being
and not-being. When we say what a form is, we are gathering together those
specific forms by which the form, as definiendum, is truly articulated.9 The
veridical ‘is’—the ‘is’ that says “true things”—binds a form to the other forms
as which it is the same, and the ‘is not’ is a bond by which the form is bound
away from those forms from which it is different. I propose that we hear in
this passage the distinction between two senses of ‘is’: (1) ‘is’ refers to the
bond that ties a form to other forms as which it is (definitionally) the same,
and (2) ‘is’ indicates the form in its priority to the definitional relations to
which it is subject as an object of discursive knowing. If, as Parmenides says,
a form is “most of all to be,” it must satisfy two simultaneous senses of being.
On the one hand, the form must be prior to and directive of the gathering of
other forms into the articulation of true speech, and it must be (the same as)
the forms in which it is intelligibly determined and not-be (the same as) the
forms against which it is determinately articulated:
For thus would a being [i.e., a form subject to determinacy] most

of all be and a not-being [i.e., a form that is prior to its determinate
154 eric sanday
intelligibility] would not-be, [i.e.] by a being [τὸ . . . ὂν] partaking

the being of being a being [οὐσίας τοῦ εἶναι ὄν], and [by a being
partaking] the not-being of not being a not-being [μὴ οὐσίας δὲ
τοῦ μὴ εἶναι μὴ ὄν], if it is completely to be [i.e., to be intelligibly
determinate]; but a not-being [i.e., the form prior to its participa-
tion in definitional being and not-being] [partakes the] not-being of
not-being a not-being [i.e., the form prior to definitional being and
not-being “is not” thereby “nothing”], and [partakes the] being of
being a being [i.e., it is in some sense “something”], if the not-being
[i.e., the prior form] will also completely not be [i.e., remain prior to
definitional being and not-being] [οὕτως γὰρ ἂν τό τε ὂν μάλιστ᾽ ἂν
εἴη καὶ τὸ μὴ ὂν οὐκ ἂν εἴη, μετέχοντα τὸ μὲν ὂν οὐσίας τοῦ εἶναι
ὄν, μὴ οὐσίας δὲ τοῦ μὴ εἶναι μὴ ὄν, εἰ μέλλει τελέως εἶναι, τὸ δὲ μὴ
ὂν μὴ οὐσίας μὲν τοῦ <μὴ> εἶναι μὴ ὄν, οὐσίας δὲ τοῦ εἶναι [μὴ]10
ὄν, εἰ καὶ τὸ μὴ ὂν αὖ τελέως μὴ ἔσται]. (Prm. 162a–b)
In order that the form be determinately intelligible and accessible to dis-

cursive knowing, a being (i.e., a form) must be bound to certain other forms
(i.e., it must partake of being with respect to being specifically what it is) and
bound apart from other forms (i.e., it must partake of not being with respect
to not-being specifically what it is not). The form prior to its participation in
definitional being and not-being is ambiguously characterized, for it is X, Y,
and Z, yet it is prior to its own definitional subjection to other forms. Thus,
the account of the one-that-is-not details the conditions to which any form,
as a one, must be subject if it is to be known as an object of discursive noein,
and in this sense the ‘is’ expresses a discrete set of forms that the form is the
same as and other than. At the same time, the form is prior to and directive
of the participatory relations in which it stands, and as such it ‘is’ something
and ‘is not’ nothing.
Having established the participatory relations by which a form is subject
to discursive knowing, Parmenides permits Aristoteles to revisit the earlier
view that ‘being’ entails being subject to space and time, which Aristoteles
had claimed in the First Hypothesis. According to that view, ‘being’ and ‘is’ are
necessarily subject to space and time, and whatever is not in space and time,
either past, present, or future, cannot be. Such a stance, of course, is unable to
recognize the eidetic movement in which true speech reveals a form by pass-
ing through the other forms the definiendum ‘is’ and ‘is not.’ With the notion of
eidetic movement that has just been suggested in the “bonds of being” analysis
in mind, Parmenides asks whether it is possible for something in one condi-
tion to be otherwise without “changing [μεταβάλλον]” out of that condition
(Prm. 162b), and he asks whether its echein or, so to speak, its ‘is’ so and not-so
indicates a change from one condition into another. In short, if statesmanship
is theoretical and is not practical, if it is directive and not critical, if it directs
by directives it conceives itself and not directives conceived by others, and so
on, then must not statesmanship be in kinēsis or ‘motion’? How so?
If being is restricted to spatiotemporal existence, this claim would make
no sense. However, unrestricted to space and time, the meaning is clear. If the
“one that is not,” he says, “is nowhere among beings [μηδαμοῦ γέ ἐστι τῶν
ὄντων]” (Prm. 162c), then it cannot move from place to place, rotate, or alter
from itself. The one that is not in spatiotemporal motion must be ‘at rest,’
Aristoteles concludes, revealing himself to be still gripped by the supposition
that the absence of spatiotemporal motion necessarily implies spatiotem-
poral rest. The provocation to which Parmenides subjects the reader, if not
Aristoteles, is to conceive a non-spatiotemporal movement of veridical legein,
through which knowledge moves, as it were, from moment to moment of
what the definiendum ‘is’ and ‘is not,’ moving back and forth between the
paired predicates that veridically articulate (positively and negatively) what
it is. If nothing else, we can see that the discussion at this point enjoins us to
think necessary and universally exhaustive categories to which spatiotempo-
ral individuals are subject: that is, if not in motion, then necessarily at rest.
The necessity to which spatiotemporal individuals are subject, such as the
exclusive relation of motion and rest, demonstrates that the intelligibility of
individuals is articulated in terms of eidetic moments which, in the case of
individual forms, sit in an ordered relationship of priority and posteriority.
The moments in which statesmanship is articulated have an order, through
which discursive knowing moves when it articulates knowledge. Per accidens
this movement might refer to the temporal movement of predicative think-
ing on the part of the knower, who thinks or speaks a definition one part at
a time in a temporal sequence. Thinking and speaking take time to articu-
late. However, any thinking and speaking that have hit on the truth will be
guided by a simple eidetic insight, and the articulation of the form traces
out the structure that is timelessly given to knowledge. Per se, therefore, the
one-that-is-not is simply and timelessly what it is, and it (at rest) is one by
one articulated into those specific forms to which it is joined and from which
it is separated (in motion) as required for its instantiation as an object of
knowledge. The form is twofold. On the one hand, it is prior to definitional
‘is’ and ‘is not,’ the bonds by which the form is determinately articulated. On
the other hand, the form is joined, one moment after another, and separate
from, one moment after another, those other forms in terms of which it is
articulated. This is eidetic (not temporal) motion and rest.
156 eric sanday
The Parmenides thus provides an account of being as what articulates a sim-

ple form into the complex of forms that it is the same as and other than—the
‘is’ of veridical legein. The Parmenides also points to the eidetic motion and rest
implied by veridical being. The account of veridical legein implies the motion
and rest to which the simple form subjects its articulation while yet remain-
ing prior, as the source, of its own articulation. The movement of scientific
revelation, therefore, requires the distinction between the simple, autonomous,
“what” of the form (First Hypothesis) and the series of moments (i.e., forms)
in which it is truly articulated (Fifth Hypothesis) in order to explain the possi-
bility of “saying true things [ἀληθῆ λέγειν]” of which knowledge consists. But
here the Parmenides stops. The dialogue does not explain the dynamic in which
inquiry gathers itself to the simple source of alētheia or ‘truth’ beyond this
quasi-propositional content. The Parmenides points to but offers no account
of the movement of dialectical inquiry. The necessary account of the nature of
inquiry, and inquiry into natures, is still to come later dialogues.11
Conclusion
The meaning of being is not raised as a question in the Republic, though in
that dialogue the stage is set for an analysis of being by virtue of the dis-
tinction between becoming and being, and by virtue of the reference to the
turning of the soul from becoming to truth and being. In the Parmenides,
the crucial distinction is drawn between the timeless structure of partici-
pants subject to the determinacy of space and time and the timeless structure
of the definitional articulation of the forms as objects of discursive knowl-
edge. In both cases, whether the eidetic structure of things subject to space
and time or the eidetic structure of the objects of knowledge proper, we are
talking about an ‘is’ and ‘is not’ of categorial determinacy, which is set apart
from the ‘is’ and ‘is not’ of things subject to becoming. The Fifth Hypothesis
of the Parmenides offers an account of a “one that is not,” insofar as it is
prior to relations of being and not-being, which is nonetheless also subject
to those relations as an object of discursive knowing. The bonds of being and
not-being reveal discursivity and propositional content to be posterior to the
form, which is the normative source ordering the other forms in and through
which a partless one is truly articulated. There is more work to be done on
the meaning of being even after the Parmenides; the eidetic combinations
and divisions are not treated as a complex whole of parts in their own right
until the Sophist, but an important step has been taken. The Parmenides has
provided the account the bonds of being and not-being, and of the ‘being’
and ‘not being’ of the form is prior to and guiding of those relations.
Notes
1. I set aside the question of whether the form itself, which is not subject to being what
it is not, is immanent within the participant, which is subject to not being what it is.
2. I acknowledge that the beautiful itself and other forms are dependent on the Good,
but constraints on length do not allow me to sort out that dependency here.
3. In these passages, Socrates uses the Greek terms epistēmē and gnōsis interchangeably.
4. We should note, returning to the beginning of the discussion of the philosopher in
this section, that the lovers of sights and the lovers of the sight of truth are both construed
as ‘seeing’ the object of their love, and that in both cases the object is construed as an indi-
vidual thing present to a seeing. The distinction between the two objects is drawn neither
at the level of the object nor in the seeing, although we are promised that the ‘one’ present
to theoretical seeing is different than the ‘one’ present to physical seeing, and that the
being beautiful of the form is different than the being beautiful of the participant. These
promises are imagistically given. There is no distinction between the two given at the level
of discursive understanding.
5. This reference to the nature of intelligibility is also intended to forestall a potential
misunderstanding about the meaning of being. The important point is that ‘being’ refers
to the way in which the complex of aspects of which a ‘one’ (i.e., form) consists are bound
together. For example, the ‘is’ of the essential relations intended by veridical speech that
gathers aspects of a form is a type of being subject to necessity and universality. The
contingent relations in which we read off the complex of parts of which a spatiotemporal
thing is composed, or the relations in which such a one stands, are contingent (nonveridi-
cal) aspects of the intelligibility of the object.
6. I will not here treat the sun analogy of Book VI because, despite being the next step
on the path, it does not resolve any of the problems raised here about the meaning of be-
ing and being-one. It does raise questions about using the posterior, dependent images to
discuss prior principles. For further reflections on the sun analogy and on the relation-
ship between the Republic and Parmenides, see Mitchell Miller, Plato’s “Parmenides”: The
Conversion of the Soul (State College: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1986), 273n4.
7. In order to focus on the account of the combination and division of form that serves
as the basis of ‘true speech’ in the limited space available here, several important interpre-
tive moves must be set aside: how Parmenides’s prescription for philosophical exercise
leads to eight hypotheses, why we should be interpreting the subject of the first hypothesis
to be form in its character of simplicity and uniqueness, the subject of second hypothesis
to be the categorial structure to which spatiotemporal participants are subject, and, with
respect to the third through eighth hypotheses, the transformed account of participation
in the third hypothesis and the eidetic structure of appearing in the seventh hypothesis.
See Sanday, A Study of Dialectic in Plato’s Parmenides (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern Uni-
versity Press, 2015).
8. Lesley Brown helpfully offers the distinction between complete/incomplete pred-
icative senses of ‘is,’ according to which the incomplete use of ‘is,’ in which we say that
something ‘is,’ is derivative of the normative and complete use, in which we say that some-
thing ‘is’ of this or that sort, or is in this or that way. The subsumption of the complete
under the incomplete ‘is’ helpfully brackets the, to the Greeks, alien distinction between
predicative and existential senses of ‘being.’ In place of the distinction between predica-
tive and existential senses of ‘is,’ Brown, building on work done by Alexander Mourelatos
and Charles Kahn, takes the ‘is’ of complete predicative statements to be the prior and
158 eric sanday
normative basis for the ‘is’ of simple existence statements. Lesley Brown, “Being in the
Sophist,” in Plato I: Metaphysics and Epistemology, ed. G. Fine (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1999), 455–478.
9. The reference to “true things” and “[characters] that are” picks up from the philo-
sophical breakthrough of the historical Parmenides but extends that insight in a new,
Platonic, direction. The historical Parmenides makes a distinction between beings that are
in the realm of night and day, on the one hand, and night and day themselves, on the other.
In so doing the historical Parmenides marks out the distinction between familiar things
of experience and the being of the forms that are given to, and constitutive for the object
of, noein. Plato in Fifth Hypothesis of the Parmenides has Parmenides single out the be-
ing of “night” and “day,” i.e., the ones-that-are-not, in order to go on to describe the other
characters to which they must be subject (is, is not, motion, rest, same, other) if they are
to be truly spoken as the object of discursive knowing in veridical speech. The historical
background is still present in the distinction between the bond of “is” (day) and “is not”
(night) through which the object of noein establishes determinate identity, but now we
are discussing the determinacy as an object of noein of the being of spatiotemporal things.
10. Mary Louise Gill inserts this negative and deletes the negative at 162a8, following
the Budé edition by Diès 1923. I am following Paul Shorey and the Oxford edition; the
sense seems clear. Plato, Parmenides, trans. M. L. Gill and P. Ryan (Bloomington, Ind.:
Hackett, 1996), 170n29; Paul Shorey, “On Parmenides 162 A. B.,” American Journal of
Philology 12, no. 3 (1891): 349–353; Auguste Diès, ed. and trans., Platon: Parménide, vol.
VIII.1 of Platon: Œuvres completes (Paris: Association Guillaume Budé).
11. The relationship between the simple form and the part-whole complex in which it
is articulated all at once, dovetails with the elements knowledge requires of its object in
the Theaetetus. Even if forms are not mentioned explicitly in the Theaetetus, the require-
ments that knowledge stipulates for its object will be fulfilled by forms. The problem
of falsehood, which arises in the Theaetetus and is put aside to be taken up again in the
Sophist, follows from the way the object of knowledge is both (a) grasped noetically and
(b) articulated into parts. The possibility that what we take to be the governing source
of knowledge, the ousia noetically grasped, will turn out to be a self-deception is a pos-
sibility cannot be excised from the human relationship to truth. A more complete ac-
count of being in late Plato would have to treat those passages thoroughly. See Mitchell
Miller, “Unity and Logos—A Reading of Theaetetus 201c–210a,” Ancient Philosophy 12, no.
1 (spring 1992): 87–111.
Key Readings
Allen, R. E. “Participation and Predication in Plato’s Middle Dialogues.” In Studies in
Plato’s Metaphysics, edited by R. E. Allen, 43–60. New York: Humanities Press.
Brown, Lesley. “Being in the Sophist.” In Plato I: Metaphysics and Epistemology, edited by
G. Fine, 455–478. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999.
Gonzalez, Francisco. Dialectic and Dialogue: Plato’s Practice of Philosophical Inquiry. Evan-
ston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1998.
Harte, Verity. Plato on Parts and Wholes: The Metaphysics of Structure. Oxford: Clarendon
Press of Oxford University Press, 2002.
Hyland, Drew. Finitude and Transcendence in the Platonic Dialogues. Albany: State Univer-
sity of New York Press, 1995.
Lee, Edward. “Plato on Negation and Not-Being in the Sophist.” Philosophical Review 81,
no. 3 ( July 1972): 267–304.
McCabe, Mary Margaret. Plato’s Individuals. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,
1994.
Miller, Mitchell. “Beginning the ‘Longer Way.’ ” In The Cambridge Companion to Plato’s
“Republic,” edited by G. R. F. Ferrari, 310–344. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2007.
———. “Figure, Ratio, Form: Plato’s Five Mathematical Studies.” In “Recognition, Re-
membrance and Reality: New Essays on Plato’s Epistemology and Metaphysics,”
edited by Mark McPherran, special issue, Apeiron 32, no. 4 (December 1999): 73–
88.
———. Plato’s “Parmenides”: The Conversion of the Soul. State College: Pennsylvania State
———. “Unity and Logos: A Reading of Theaetetus 201c–210a.” Ancient Philosophy 12, no.
1 (spring 1992): 87–111.
Nehamas, Alexander. “Self-Predication and Plato’s Theory of Forms.” American Philosoph-
ical Quarterly 16 (1979): 93–103.
Aristotle on Physis: Analyzing the Inner Ambiguities
and Transgression of Nature
Marjolein Oele
A cup falls, a cherry tree blooms, a cat meows, a ballet dancer rests after
an exhausting performance. A seemingly haphazard collection of events
can, according to Aristotle, all be attributed to one principle: nature (phy-
sis). For Aristotle, physis is the cause of order (Phys. VIII.252a12, 17), does
nothing pointlessly, and precludes chance. Simultaneously, physis is anything
but enigmatic, abstract, and impersonal—as this driving force works not by
imposing order and shape externally, but by instilling desire from the inside
of a natural being: a being that is by nature “has in in itself a source of motion
and rest” (Phys. II.192b17) and “stretches out” toward its own nature (Phys.
I.192a20) so as to become itself. Thus, Aristotle’s notion of physis enables
an understanding of nature as simultaneously all-encompassing, normative,
personal, and intimate.1
Aristotle’s normative yet personal conception of physis stands in strong
contrast with our own, modern notion of nature. For us, nature is understood
by way of nonnormative, abstract laws such as gravity, which moves things
externally—for example, as formulated according to quantitative Newtonian
physics.2 Although Aristotle, like Newton, takes as his starting point concrete
physical observations, like falling rocks or flames reaching skyward, Aristo-
tle’s concept of physis does not fit within a shallow empirical “philosophy of
natural science” but, instead, is part of a true “ontology of nature”3 or a “proto-
physics”:4 an examination into the origins or sources (archai) of nature (Phys.
I.184a16).5 In providing this ontology of nature (protophysics), Aristotle’s
ideas on physis and metaphysics intersect; accordingly, Aristotle’s concept of
physis cannot be easily delimited. Provocatively, Heidegger, in his analysis of
Aristotelian physis, argues that since the word ‘nature’ always entails an inter-
pretation of beings as a whole, and since metaphysics articulates the truth
about beings as a whole, metaphysics is “physics.”6 Nonetheless, Aristotle
repeatedly makes a distinction between philosophy or theology and physics,
161
162 marjolein oele
lending proof to the idea that the boundary between metaphysics and phys-
ics, aside from small transgressions, needs to be carefully considered (e.g.,
Met. VI.1025b19–1026a32).
This essay aims to specify what Aristotle’s ontology of nature entails. In
uncovering the meaning of physis, I turn to the more general and well-known
definitions of physis as provided in Aristotle’s Physics Books II and III.7 But
I also explore nature’s specific workings, analyzing how, in De anima, Aris-
totle describes the interaction between body and soul in the phenomenon of
the pathē or ‘affections,’ discussing how nature ultimately seems to demand
self-realization, but also transgression. I propose that Aristotle’s ontology of
nature is founded on fundamentally ambiguous relationships, such as that
between form and matter, soul and body, and fulfillment and movement. The
tension found in those relationships manifests two orientations: on the one
hand, Aristotle’s vision of nature is dedicated to natural beings and their
composite groundedness in both matter and form as shown in many natural
movements including growth and alteration; on the other hand, Aristotle
commits himself to the importance of form and its activity—active comple-
tion and self-realization—that ultimately lead to nature’s self-suspension
and transgression into the divine.
I. Physis as a Principle and Cause of Motion and Rest

That nature is, it would be ridiculous to try to show, for it is clear that
among the things that are, such things are many. (Phys. II.193a3)8
Aristotle’s ontology of nature begins with the assumption that nature mani-
fests itself through utter diversity of beings—in the physei onta, the things
that are by nature. As examples of such natural diversity, Aristotle cites in
the Metaphysics “nose, eye, face, flesh, bone, and in general, animal; leaf, root,
bark, and, in general plant” (Met. VI.1026a1). In other works, he includes
simple bodies such as earth and fire, and heaven as a whole and its parts (De
cael. III.298a29–32). By locating nature in all these natural beings, Aristotle
articulates the idea that nature is always the nature of something. In contrast
to Plato’s Timaeus, for Aristotle, nature is not an abstract, impersonal, “all-
pervading demiurgic force.”9 Instead, nature is that inner driving force we
reference when saying of a natural being: “That is its nature.”10 It is for these
reasons that “the nature of a thing is a this and a disposition [ἕξις] into which
it comes” (Met. XII.1070a12).
In describing nature as an internal source, Aristotle clearly demarcates
natural beings that are “by nature” from other things. In this, Aristotle is part
aristotle on ph y s i s 163
of a long tradition where understanding nature means to distinguish it from

its opposite:11
Of the things that are, some are by nature [φύσει], others through
other causes: by nature are animals and their parts, plants, and the
simple bodies, such as earth, fire, air, and water . . . and all of them
obviously differ from the things not put together by nature. (Phys.
II.192b8–13)
Aristotle argues that things produced artificially, like a cloak or bed, do not
have an “innate impulse [ὁρμὴν] of change” (Phys. II.192b18–19). Instead,
they are moved externally; moreover, if they are moved by themselves, then
they are moved incidentally (Phys. II.192b32). Distinguishing natural beings
from artificial ones, Aristotle emphasizes physis’s internal role. Simultane-
ously, to the extent that artificial things are composed of natural elements, he
submits that artificial beings share in natural impulses (Phys. II.192b20–21).12
In addressing what this inner nature is, Aristotle turns to the concepts
of kinēsis or ‘motion’ and stasis or ‘rest.’ In his first definition of nature in
the Physics, Aristotle writes, “Nature is a certain source [ἀρχῆς] and cause
[αἰτίας] of being moved [κινεῖσθαι] and of coming to rest [ἠρεμεῖν]” (Phys.
II.192b21–22). Aristotle stipulates that physis is a principle of motion and
rest in that in which it is present essentially (kath’hauten) not incidentally
(Phys. II.192b22). Nature is internal to a natural thing as truly belonging
to it: nature does not cause change due to an incidental characteristic, such
as the case of a doctor healing himself. It just incidentally happens to be
that the cured patient is a medical doctor (Phys. II.192b28). The medical art
does not essentially belong to the patient qua patient, but is incidentally con-
nected to his or her move toward health. By contrast, the way nature allows
a being to move and rest is kath’ hautos or according to its own, embodied
being.
In his definition of nature, Aristotle grants that nature not only sets things
in motion, but also allows rest. Here, rest is not something that any thing
can do. As Heidegger formulates eloquently: “Rest is a kind of movement;
only that which is able to move can rest.”13 Rest occurs either when a body is
externally constrained through a particular obstacle (De cael. III.300a20–30,
300b5–6) or when, due to its nature, it is able to “reach some end and form.”14
As Lang observes, “Being at rest” “is unequivocally an active infinitive” and
thus “not a passive state such as an absence of motion.”15 In other words,
“being at rest is for Aristotle the activity associated with being immovable in
that which may be moved.”16
164 marjolein oele
Notably, using the above definition of physis as movement and rest, the
passive voice17 of the term kineisthai should alert us that Aristotle does not
conceive of things that are by nature as self-movers, as proposed by Pla-
to’s Socrates in the Phaedrus, arguing the soul to be a self-mover (Phdr.
245c–246a). Rather, as Lang emphasizes: “Plants and animals and their parts
and the elements are always moved by another.”18 The implication here is not
an external other, but another natural dimension within: the “inner” mover.
Since natural beings have both a part that is moved and a part that is
moving, natural things are not unambiguously themselves, but are composed
of opposing forces. The discussion of matter and form in the next section will
further explicate this inner split.
II. Physis as Hylē (Matter) and Eidos (Form)

But since nature is twofold, and is both form and material, we must
consider it as though we were inquiring about what snubness is.
(Phys. II.194a12)
To explain this internal structural division in natural beings further, Aristotle

introduces in the Physics the concepts of hylē or ‘matter’19 and eidos or ‘form,’
and their bearing on what a natural thing essentially is (Phys. II.193a29–31).
In other words: what is the true nature of something? This holds conse-
quences for understanding nature as movement: is nature defined by being
moved—thus indicating matter to be “source and cause of being moved and
of coming to rest” (Phys. II.192b21–22)? Or is that internal principle more
like form, with physis being an internal source of movement and rest (e.g.,
Phys. II.192b14, III.200b12)?
Defending matter as this internal cause, Aristotle includes the position of
the Sophist Antiphon, who argues that the four material elements determine
physis. For example, a bed, when given the opportunity to sprout, gives rise
to wood, not another bed (Phys. II.193a12–18). This seems to indicate that
the bed’s wooden—that is, material—character determines its nature, not its
arrangement according to convention and art.
Interestingly enough, Aristotle does not simply refute Antiphon’s posi-
tion,20 but argues that Antiphon overlooks something crucial: the eidos or
‘form’ that is part of one’s physis. In support of form as internal principle,
Aristotle argues we mostly use the term ‘nature’ when referring to some-
thing that has actually assumed a particular form, whereas something that
is potentially such (e.g., flesh or bone) is not called so (e.g., a human being).
Furthermore, he argues that a human being originates from another human
being, and thus this natural process is not determined solely by matter, but by
the transmitted form. Finally, by alluding to the meaning of the root verb for
physis, ‘to be born’ or ‘to grow’ and explicating that growth is always defined
by its endpoint (the “to which”) instead of its beginning point (the “from
which”),21 Aristotle argues that physis is mostly defined by the ultimate form
that something receives rather than its initial matter.
Despite his insistence that “form is more physis than matter” (Phys.
II.193b8), we have to underline that for Aristotle physis is ultimately split—is
twofold. While matter may be unsatisfactory to explain a natural being’s
existence, the same can be said about form: without recipient matter, form
has no way of ‘imposing’ shape. Form and matter thus refer and depend on
each other: without this codependent ontological relationship the meaning
of nature remains vacuous. Thus, we can speak of this relationship as being
part of what Wieland calls a “pluralism of principle-systems that exist next
to each other.”22
The one who studies nature—the physikos—therefore needs to study mat-
ter and form. To study form exclusively would be to fall into the Platonic
trap, taking a similar attitude toward natural as to mathematical things (Phys.
II.193b33ff.) ignoring the underlying matter. Instead, a physikos must offer
explanations of natural beings similar to the one provided by the definition
of ‘snubness,’ namely a definition of concavity that is only applicable to a
certain kind of matter, namely the nose (Phys. II.1934a7). Just as snubness
includes a reference to form and matter, a physikos needs to give a definition
of form in relationship to matter. This means that the natural philosopher’s
definition of, for example, a human being needs to include the form of a
human being (i.e., its rational soul) in relationship to its particular matter (its
bodily flesh and bones, etc.).
While this codependent ontological relationship between form and mat-
ter is part of the physikos’s study, it is not yet self-evident what this would
entail in practice: in what way would matter specifically function in rela-
tionship to form, and how does form exactly need matter? To illustrate the
twofold nature of physis and to clarify the ontological relationship between
the body (a living being’s matter) and soul (a living being’s form), I turn next
to De anima and its discussion of the pathē or ‘affections.’
III. Nature at Work: Analyzing the Pathē or ‘Affections’ and the

Interaction between Body and Soul
Immediately in Book I of De anima, Aristotle clarifies that a discussion of the
“pathē of the soul” is incomplete without having recourse to both matter and
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form as joint causes (De an. I.403b4–8). However, it also becomes quickly
apparent that the relationship between these two key aspects of physis is
anything but uncomplicated. Although soul is defined as the active “cause
and source of the living body” (De an. II.415b9–10), we cannot overlook the
fact that the body has its own particular role and activity transcending mere
dependence on soul.
To illustrate this complicated relationship, Aristotle discusses the “pathē
of the soul,” asserting “with most of its pathē, the soul neither does anything
[ποιεῖν] nor has anything done to it [πάσχειν] without the body, as with being
angry, being confident, desiring, and every sort of sensing [αἰσθάνεσθαι],
though thinking [νοεῖν] seems most of all to belong to the soul by itself ”
(De an. I.403a6–8).23 While this initial definition of the pathē is remarkably
broad and inclusive of many functions, Aristotle continues by focusing solely
on those pathē we call emotions or passions, elucidating the crucial interde-
pendence of body and soul:
But all the pathē of the soul seem also to be with [μετὰ] the body—
spiritedness, gentleness, fear, pity, boldness and joy, as well as loving
and hating—for together with these the body undergoes something
[πάσχει τι τὸ σῶμα]. (De an. I.403a17–19)
By connecting the body’s affectivity (paschein) to the pathē (affections) of the

soul, Aristotle brings together body and soul. Moreover, the preposition meta
arguably does not simply express mere “concurrence” of body and soul, so
that the body accompanies the soul, but remains itself external to it. Whereas
meta may signify a loose association between two items,24 it can also express
a stronger connection, including a causal connection.25 In the above passage,
the preposition meta likely expresses the coconstitutive26 character of the
body in the pathē of the soul. Notably, this thicker reading does not mean
that the body is the only cause of the soul’s pathē, as this would explicitly
go against Aristotle’s general emphasis on the pluralism of principles and
causes. However, this stronger reading of meta alerts us that the body’s role
in pathos is not just a concurrent external side effect. Rather, the body itself
is integrally effecting and coconstituting the affective change that we call
pathos. Body and soul are not two distinct identities that somehow ‘com-
bine’ through formation of pathos; they are two different principles of one
phenomenon.27
Evidence for this stronger reading of the body’s coconstitution in pathos
can be retrieved from another passage in Aristotle’s text, when he argues the
togetherness of body and soul in the pathē
is revealed when strong and obvious experiences [παθημάτων] do

not lead to the soul’s being provoked [παροξύνεσθαι] or frightened
[φοβεῖσθαι], while sometimes it is moved [κινεῖσθαι] by small and
obscure ones, when the body is in an angry state [ὀργᾷ] and bears
itself in the way it does when it is angry. And this makes it still
more clear: for when nothing frightening is happening there arise
among the feelings [πάθη] of the soul those of one who is fright-
ened. (De an. I.403a19–25)
Aristotle first argues that someone—due to a calm bodily disposition—may

not feel provoked or feel the pathos of fear, despite being beset by strong
afflictions. Conversely, when one’s bodily disposition makes one frightened
or more “angry,” one may be provoked by obscure causes to feel fear or anger.
Some commentators hesitate to attribute to Aristotle the idea that our
bodily disposition may coconstitute a pathos such as fear and anger, there-
fore arguing that Aristotle speaks about the affected person behaving as
if one were angry or fearful. On the basis of my earlier interpretation that
Aristotle is committed to show that the body is coconstitutive in forming
the pathē, it follows that Aristotle would argue that the body’s disposition
allows for a particular pathos, whereas in other cases it would resist such
change. Aristotle argues in other works for such a causal connection,28 for
instance, arguing that older people, due to “coldness,” are more anxious (Rhet.
II.1389b30–32),29 whereas younger people, due to their warmer blood, are
more prone to anger (Rhet. II.1389a9–10, II.1389b32). By articulating the
pathē ultimately as logoi enuloi (De an. I.403a25), as “enmattered principles,”30
Aristotle underlines precisely the crucial interdependence of body and soul.
This excursion into De anima has shown that the relationship between
the two key aspects of physis—matter and form—is anything but straight-
forward. While it may be true that form is often defined as the “active”
factor determining a being’s physis, we cannot deny that matter’s resistance
or receptivity has a particular activity as well. This active dimension of mat-
ter comes forward in Physics I.9, where Aristotle claims that matter “longs
for [ephiesthai]” form (Phys. I.192a22–25). The striving expressed in this pas-
sage underscores the dynamic, active nature of matter, making us wonder
about the often-emphasized ‘active autonomy’ of form: if form, in natural
beings, always needs matter to “inform” something, how independent can
it be? Simultaneously, although matter remains dependent on form, Aristo-
tle ascertains that matter is “almost, and in a certain respect is, a substance
[οὐσία]” (Phys. I.192a5–9), emphasizing a more independent status of matter
than is often noted.
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IV. The Duality of Motion

The ambiguous, complex relationship between the two components of nature
appears differently in Aristotle’s analysis of the two essential components of
motion in Physics Book III:
Since nature is a source [ἀρχὴ] of motion and of change, and our

pursuit is for nature, we must not let what motion is remain hidden.
For it is necessary, being ignorant of it, to be ignorant also of nature.
(Phys. III.200b12–14)
While Aristotle speaks in this book less about matter and form and more
about the relationship between dunamis (potency), energeia (activity), and
entelecheia (fulfillment or being-at-work-staying-itself )31 as components of
motion, his discussion bears similarities in that he assumes motion begins
with an initial lack of a property—that is, lacking a particular form—and
ends with the acquisition of particular form (Phys. I.7).32 Moreover, Aristotle
provides acknowledgment (similar to the one he made in reconciling matter
and form) that two factors, mover and moved (Phys. III.200b32), are equi-
primordial for catalyzing and sustaining motions so characteristic to natural
beings.
In Physics III.1, Aristotle negotiates the task of resolving motion’s unfin-
ished, indefinite character with the sense of motion being necessary to the
completion of a particular telos or ‘goal’ set in motion by the mover “which
always bears a form” (Phys. III.202a10). For instance, while still continuing
on its flight and retaining potency, an airplane flying through the air actually
passes through various places. The full achievement of the goal of this air-
plane’s movement—for instance, its arrival in San Francisco—would mean
termination of this motion,33 thus Aristotle must be careful to incorporate
this element of completion in his definition without abandoning the idea of
something being in the process of being completed.
Aristotle’s definition of motion hinges on the tension and interaction
between what is fully active and complete and what is only potentially:
The being-at-work-staying-itself [ἐντελέχεια] of whatever is poten-

tially [δυνάμει], just as such, is motion. (Phys. III.201a11)34
Interestingly, Aristotle uses an example based on technē or ‘art’—building a

house (Phys. III.201a18ff., III.201b7ff.)—and not nature to explain motion,
possibly because the metabolē or the ‘alteration’ of something into something
else (as illustrated by building) demonstrates the remarkable, dynamic trans-

formation a being undergoes while in motion.
The motion of building incorporates sustainment of potential—in this
case the buildable (matter in the form of stones)—while simultaneously
allowing for the buildable to express itself as buildable by manifesting its
entelecheia—its full completion or fulfillment (or, in Sachs’s translation,
“being-at-work-staying-itself ”). “Whatever is potentially” is not just any
potential for a motion—for example, bricks and mortar as mere building-
materials waiting to be used. Rather, “the entelecheia of whatever is potentially,
just as such” means in the particular case of building that the bricks and
mortar are actually creating something built. Building is a motion because
the buildable remains a potency, is not used up, while, simultaneously, the
buildable is completely at work. Thus, motion includes completion, but only
of what is potentially qua potency. As Kosman phrases it: “Motion . . . is not
the actuality of a potentiality in the sense of an actuality which results from
a potentiality, but rather in the sense of an actuality which is a potentiality
in its full manifestation.”35 Aristotle thus carefully situates motion “between
a prior potentiality and a further actuality.”36 It is an ateles or ‘incomplete’
being-at-work (Phys. III.201b32–33): while potency qua potency is com-
plete in motion, motion itself has to remain an incomplete actuality for it to
remain motion.
V. Physis, Motion, and Fulfillment

This explication of motion allows us to delve deeper into the meaning of
nature. Nature is the source of all those kinetic processes that have their
ends outside themselves—like plants growing toward light, animals seeking
food, human beings learning how to speak. All these motions are aimed at
the active completion of the natural being in which they originate, but they
themselves, as Sachs also emphasizes, are “not fused into the states of active
completion toward which they are potencies.”37 This state of active com-
pletion, of pure fulfillment realizing itself, properly belongs to nature, and
Aristotle writes in De anima that we must distinguish processes of change in
which deprivation and loss play a central role (e.g., moving from ignorance
to knowledge through learning) from processes that “preserve [σωτερία] that
which is potential by something actual which is like it” (De an. II.417b4–5).
Aristotle speaks of the latter processes as ones that “pertain to dispositions
[ἕξεις] and nature [φύσις]” (De an. II.417b15–17), thereby lending further
proof to the idea that nature itself, for Aristotle, is ultimately to be defined
by the process of realizing oneself continuously, actively, and finding one’s
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end within oneself instead of diverting oneself in end-less, ultimately self-

destructive, motions.
Nonetheless, we may wonder whether such a strict opposition between
kinetic processes and “completely active” processes can ultimately be main-
tained when it comes to natural beings. Aren’t all the kinetic processes that
living beings pursue (seeking food, growing toward sunlight, adapting one’s
color to the environment, etc.) illustrative of what it means to be fully natural
and being fulfilled? Conceptually, it makes sense to distinguish a movement
or change from an activity such as seeing that is complete at every moment
and has its own internal end (e.g., Met. IX.1048b23). Still, it would be odd,
in the case of natural beings, to argue that the movement of seeking food is
“less natural” and must be separated from the “completely natural” processes
of seeing and assimilating food (strictly speaking entelecheia), especially since
the latter depend so much on the first.
Moreover, if natural beings are composed of matter and form, and if
studying nature implies investigating “that kind of substance [ousia] which
in respect of its formula [logon] is for the most part not separable [from the
matter]” (Met. VI.1025b26–28), then we have to call into question Aristo-
tle’s emphasis on the natural self-fulfillment of form that seems to exclude
reference to the composite individual struggling to become itself by nego-
tiating matter and form’s fundamentally complex, and conceptually messy,
interrelationship.38 Another way of showing Aristotle’s apparent privileging
of form over individual composites is to explore his notions of reproduction
and thinking, to which I turn next.
VI. Eternality and Individuality: Analyzing Nature’s Transgression

By seeing physis as the source of self-fulfillment, this essay has arrived at the
center of Aristotle’s argument regarding nature: a natural being’s goal is to
become itself. For instance, it is in a kitten’s nature to grow into a mature,
healthy cat through mastering natural functions: accurately perceiving its
environment, chasing mice, sleeping on laps, feeding and grooming itself,
and so on. It is this internal process of self-development and constancy
throughout change that allows us to speak about the cat as “its own inde-
pendent being,” or—speaking in Aristotelian terms—an ousia or ‘substance’
(Phys. II.192b33). This provides the conceptual tools to distinguish it from
its environment. In De anima we are given more precise examples of what it
means for living beings to self-actualize, including detailed accounts of pro-
cesses such as nutrition, sense perception, imagination, and thinking that are
part of the self-actualization of natural beings.
However, when we push this issue of self-fulfillment a bit further, an inter-

esting problem emerges. Although it is the task of each natural being to fully
develop and actualize itself, Aristotle argues in De anima that “it is the most
natural [φυσικώτατον] function in all living beings . . . to reproduce their
species” (De an. II.415a27). Through reproduction—the epitome of natural
functions—Aristotle reasons, each natural being shares in the order of the aei
or ‘eternal’ and the theiou or ‘divine,’ and “all things yearn [ὀρέγεται] for that,
and for the sake of it do everything that they do by nature [κατὰ φύσιν]” (De
an. II.415a30–b3). In reproduction, one transcends the numerical, existential
self so as to continue nature as such (cf. De an. II.415b7–8). In the Politics,
Aristotle specifies that human beings share “the natural impulse [φυσικὸν
τὸ ἐφίεσθαι] with other animals and with plants to leave behind another of
the same kind as oneself ” (Pol. I.2, 1252a29–31). Aristotle thereby makes the
drive behind reproduction a natural one, not prohairesis or ‘choice.’
Paradoxically, nature seems to demand not only self- actualization as a
means to actively maintain itself, but self-transcendence: one needs to over-
come one’s own contingent and material natural being—which is ultimately
finite and destructible—in order to fully be oneself. This ‘other’ natural self is no
longer an empirical self, but a continuation of oneself in and through another.
The paradox of this “most natural” movement is not only that it pushes
self-actualization to the level of self-transcendence, but also that it connects
nature or physis—as the source of movement and rest—directly to the divine,
which always is. Thus, we are no longer speaking of nature in all its dynamic
diversity and its generation and corruption, but nature unfolds itself most
purely in that which transgresses yet penetrates the generation and corrup-
tion of the natural beings living here and now.
Another way this conceptual connection between nature and the divine
can be established is in Aristotle’s discussion of human intellect in De
anima Book III. Aristotle argues that “in all nature” we can distinguish two
dimensions: matter and the “causal and productive thing” underlying it (De
an. III.430a13). The same applies to the (human) soul: its nous or ‘intellect’
has both a material, passive aspect, and a formative, active aspect. It is pre-
cisely this formative, active aspect of the intellect which is called “deathless
[ἀθάνατον] and everlasting [ἀίδιον], and without this nothing thinks” (De
an. III.430a26). Although I do not wish to call to mind the long commen-
taries that have appeared regarding the difference between nous pathētikon
or ‘passive intellect’ and nous poiētikon or ‘active intellect,’ it is important to
note that the human soul (in its activity of pure understanding) embodies the
divine, participating in that activity characteristic of the first unmoved mover:
living and thinking (cf. Met. XII.1072b 25–27). Again, we have a description
172 marjolein oele
of a ‘natural’ process—insofar as thinking is part of a human being’s nature—

which ultimately finds its completion in the divine. The divine aspect of our
human soul is ‘separable’ from our body and thus, similarly to reproduction,
overcomes the empirical, destructible embodied self. While transcending
physis in the form of this ‘self ’ here and now, the divine gives meaning and
completion to physis—and thereby becomes, as it were, the ‘ultimate’ physis.
Conclusion
This essay has tried to show the necessary twofold relationship at the heart
of Aristotle’s conception of physis: between matter and form, between what
is moved and what moves it, between being-in-motion and being-fulfilled,
and so on. The relationship between physis’s two components is not with-
out tension and ambiguity—as the conceptual distinction shows between
(incomplete) motions that natural beings engage with, and the (complete)
fulfillments that seem to be most ‘appropriate’ to what nature is.
In addition, the accounts of the processes of reproduction and thinking
further complicate any simple conception of physis. Physis cannot unambigu-
ously be equated with the preservation and completion of a natural being, but
also has to include participation in the divine superseding each destructible
natural being. Of course, reproduction and thinking are only a few examples
where this tension between divine self-fulfillment and self-transcendence, as
implied in the interaction between physis and the divine, emerges; Aristotle’s
analysis of the first mover in Book VIII of the Physics or the analysis of the
contemplative life in Book X of the Nicomachean Ethics could have provided
additional evidence.
The way the divine interacts with physis can be assessed in two ways—as
an intervention that disrupts nature, or as something that allows nature to
truly function, so that the divine becomes the ultimate nature. True to Aris-
totle’s ontology of nature, this fascinating paradox cannot, and should not,
be easily resolved. If one thing emerges most prominently from this essay,
it should be that Aristotle’s vision of nature is fundamentally ambiguous,
and finds itself caught in productive tensions between concepts that propel
each other forward in an endless spiraling circle imitative of nature’s eternal
movement and fecundity.
Notes
A first draft of this essay was presented at the first annual meeting of the Pacific Associa-
tion for the Continental Tradition (PACT) at Seattle University in October 2009; I would
like to thank the organizers (Gerard Kuperus and Jason Wirth) and the audience for their
comments. In addition, I thank Kristin Drake, Heather Fox, and Stan O’Neill for their
editorial comments. Finally, I am grateful to the editors of this volume, Sean Kirkland and
Eric Sanday, for their original, creative vision and persistent dedication to this volume.
1. Whereas in the eighth century b.c.e. physis meant the result of growth, Hadot writes
that it later meant a “personified idea” and that “in Plato and Aristotle, physis with the
genitive eventually came to mean what we call a thing’s ‘nature’ or its essence.” Physis also
acquired a more general and abstract meaning. Pierre Hadot, The Veil of Isis: An Essay on
the History of the Idea of Nature, trans. M. Chase (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 2006), 17, 19.
2. Cf. Giovanni Reale, A History of Ancient Philosophy, vol. 2: Plato and Aristotle (Albany:
State University of New York Press), 1990, 293; Martin Heidegger, “Modern Science,
Metaphysics, and Mathematics,” in Basic Writings, ed. D. F. Krell (London: Harper Peren-
nial, 2008), 288.
3. Reale, History, 293.
4. This is Otfried Höffe’s term. See Otfried Höffe, Aristotle, trans. C. Salazar (Albany:
State University of New York Press, 2003), 71.
5. In Wieland’s view, such an inquiry into principles is practiced more than theorized
about. See Wolfgang Wieland, Die aristotelische Physik (Göttingen: vandenHoeck & Ru-
precht, 1970), 53.
6. Martin Heidegger, “On the Essence and Concept of Physis in Aristotle’s Physics B.1,”
in Pathmarks, ed. W. McNeill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 185.
7. I have omitted discussion of Aristotle’s Met. V.4, to allow for focus on the Physics. Cf.
Thomas Buchheim, “The Functions of the Concept of Physis in Aristotle’s Metaphysics,”
Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 20 (summer 2001): 201–234.
8. For the translation of Aristotle’s Phys., I mostly rely on Joe Sachs’s translation. See
Aristotle, Physics, trans. Joe Sachs (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1995).
9. W. Charlton, “Commentary,” in Aristotle, Physics II and III, trans. with commentary
by W. Charlton (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 88.
10. Ibid.
11. Cf. Wieland, Die aristotelische Physik, 231, and Heidegger’s list of dichotomies. Hei-
degger, “On the Essence and Concept,” 183.
12. More ambiguities could be raised with regard to the relationship between physis
and technē. Cf. Walter Brogan, “The Intractable Relationship of Physis and Technē,” in
Heidegger and the Greeks: Interpretive Essays, ed. D. Hyland and J. P. Manoussakis (Bloom-
ington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 47.
13. Heidegger, “On the Essence and Concept,” 189.
14. Philoponus, On Aristotle on the Soul, trans. P. J. van der Eijk (London: Bloomsbury,
2014), 19b, 23.
15. Helen Lang, The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1998), 48.
16. Lang’s emphasis; ibid., 49 (citing Phys. III.203a3–4).
17. Ibid., 41–44.
18. Ibid., 44.
19. Heidegger in his notes on physis in Aristotle emphasizes that “matter” does not
mean “raw material,” but the “capacity” or the “appropriateness for” something (Heidegger,
“On the Essence and Concept,” 214). Cf. also Sachs, “Glossary,” in Aristotle, Physics, 249.
20. Cf. Christopher Long, The Ethics of Ontology: Rethinking an Aristotelian Legacy (Al-
bany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 29.
174 marjolein oele
21. See also PA 641b33–36: “Seeds are seeds of what they grow into.”
22. Wieland, Die aristotelische Physik, 57.
23. Unless otherwise indicated, I will mostly rely on Sachs’s translation of De an. with
some emendations.
24. E.g., Hett translates: “Probably all the pathē of the soul are associated with the
body.” Aristotle, On the Soul, with an English translation by W. S. Hett (1936; reprint,
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995).
25. Liddell and Scott include meta with the genitive in the meaning of ‘by aid of ’ (H. G.
Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon [1843; reprint, Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1996], 1108). Fortenbaugh references meta in this sense of causation. W. Forten-
baugh, Aristotle on Emotion (London: Duckworth, 1975), 11.
26. Cf. Heidegger, who writes that “in the phenomenon of pathos, the soma is co-
constitutive, namely as that, which carries in itself the possibility of being-in-a-world.”
M. Heidegger, Grundbegriffe der aristotelischen Philosophie, GA 18 (Frankfurt am Main:
Vittorio Klostermann, 2002), 204.
27. For other factors involved in the causation of pathos, see Aristotle’s Rhet. II.2–11.
28. Cf. Aristotle’s discussion in PA IV 677a17–19, where the phenomenon of bile
is explained through the necessity of matter rather than through final causality. Furley
addresses the distinction and equation of material and efficient causality, and cites GA
778a29–b1 as evidence for subsuming both matter and form in the efficient cause. D. J.
Furley, “What Kind of Cause Is Aristotle’s Final Cause?,” in Rationality in Greek Thought,
ed. M. Friede and G. Striker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 72.
29. Cf. PA II.4, 650b27.
30. Aquinas translates logoi enuloi as material principles (Aquinas, Commentary on Aris-
totle’s De anima, Lecture II, 22, 10). This means that the pathē are ultimately grounded in
matter, and do not just merely ‘refer’ to matter, as translators such as Ross and Hicks have
it. Cf. Aristotle, De anima, trans. with notes by W. D. Ross (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1999); Aristotle, De anima, trans. R. D. Hicks (Buffalo, N.Y.: Prometheus Books,
1991).
31. Sachs warns against translating entelecheia as ‘actuality,’ as is commonly done, since
that term “refers to anything, however trivial, incidental, transient, or static, that happens
to be the case.” Sachs’s translation shows how Aristotle fuses in this neologism the idea
of completeness (enteles) with that of echein (continuity or persistence). Sachs, “Glossary,”
245. Kosman suggests we should carefully distinguish energeia (and translate it as ‘activ-
ity’) from entelecheia (and translate it as ‘fulfillment’). Cf. Aryeh Kosman, The Activity of
Being (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), vii–x.
32. Arguably, this statement cannot do justice to the complexity Aristotle provides in
Physics I.7. For clarification, see Long, Ethics of Ontology, 24–29.
33. Kosman calls this the self-destructive character of motion: “For motion is the actu-
ality of a potentiality which is aimed ultimately at an actuality other than the motion and
fatal to it . . . Its [motion’s] being is auto-subversive, for its whole purpose and project is
one of self-annihilation.” Aryeh Kosman, “Aristotle’s Definition of Motion,” Phronesis 14
(1969): 57.
34. Cf. also Phys. III.201a29, 201b5, 202a7; Phys. VIII.251a9.
35. Kosman, “Definition of Motion,” 50.
36. Ibid., 53.
37. Sachs, “Commentary,” in Aristotle, Physics, 79.
38. Long speaks about two different tendencies in Aristotle: one is to “affirm the ulti-
mate hegemony of form over matter,” and the other “to affirm the individual by recogniz-
ing the impossibility of doing away with matter altogether” (Long, Ethics of Ontology, 37).
Key Readings
Bremer, D. “Von der Physis zur Natur: Eine griechische Konzeption und ihr Schicksal.”
Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 43 (1989): 241–264.
Buchheim, T. “The Functions of the Concept of Physis in Aristotle’s Metaphysics.” Oxford
Studies in Ancient Philosophy 20 (summer 2001): 201–234.
Cohen, S. Aristotle on Nature and Incomplete Substance. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2003.
Craemer-Ruegenberg, Ingrid. Die Naturphilosophie des Aristoteles. Freiburg: Alber, 1980.
Fritsche, Johannes. Methode und Beweisziel im ersten Buch der “Physikvolesung” des Aristo-
teles. Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Anton Hain Meisenheim, 1986.
Hadot, P. The Veil of Isis: An Essay on the History of the Idea of Nature. Translated by M.
Chase. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006.
Heidegger, M. “On the Essence and Concept of Physis in Aristotle’s Physics B.1.” In Path-
marks, edited by W. McNeill, 183–238. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998.
———. “Modern Science, Metaphysics, and Mathematics.” Translated by W. B. Barton
and V. Deutsch. In Basic Writings, edited by D. F. Krell, 271–305. 1977; reprint,
London: Harper Perennial, 2008.
———. “The Question Concerning Technology.” Translated by W. Lovitt. In Basic Writ-
ings, edited by D. F. Krell, 307–342. New York: Harper & Row, 1977.
Kosman, Aryeh. The Activity of Being. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2013.
———. “Aristotle’s Definition of Motion.” Phronesis 14 (1969): 40–62.
Lang, Helen. The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics. Cambridge: Oxford University
Press, 1998.
Lear, Jonathan. Aristotle: The Desire to Understand. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1988.
Lennox, J. G. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Biology: Studies in the Origins of Life Science. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
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University of New York Press, 1990.
Regnéll, H. Ancient Views on the Nature of Life: Three Studies in the Philosophy of the Atom-
ists, Plato and Aristotle. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1967.
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losophy Research Archives 4, no. 1253 (1978): 1–33.
Thayer, H. S. “Aristotle on Nature: A Study in the Relativity of Concepts and Procedures
of Analysis.” Review of Metaphysics 28 (1975): 725–744.
Waterlow, S. Nature, Change, and Agency in Aristotle’s Physics: A Philosophical Study. Ox-
ford: Oxford University Press, 1982.
Wieland, Wolfgang. Die aristotelische Physik. Göttingen: van den Hoeck & Ruprecht,
1970.
Human Logos in Aristotle
Ömer Aygün
What, if anything, is it about human language that distinguishes it from

nonhuman communication? The Theory of Displacement claims that human
language is distinguished by the ability to imagine or describe what is beyond
the here-and-now, beyond spatiotemporal immediacy.1 Yet the spatiotempo-
ral mediacy of the content of a message seems neither necessary nor sufficient
for qualifying as an example of human language: It is not necessary because
human language is uniquely able to express modal features that are not char-
acterized by any spatiotemporal property; it is not sufficient either since many
other animals issue signals that can be hardly considered as expressions of
immediate pleasure and pain.
Below I outline an Aristotelian alternative to the Theory of Displace-
ment that I refer to as the Theory of Relay.2 The Theory of Relay states that
human language is the unique ability to both understand and relay nonfirst-
hand experiences along with firsthand experiences. This theory relies largely
on a number of central Aristotelian ideas besides the idea that language is
unique to, and definitive of, human beings: While all animals have a share of
firsthand experience, some are further capable of understanding nonfirsthand
experience on perceiving the expression of another animal; strikingly these
animals do not or cannot relay this nonfirsthand experience to still others;
conversely, some animals, for instance imitative animals, are capable of relay-
ing nonfirsthand experiences, but without understanding them. According to
the Theory of Relay, the remaining slot is where human language lies: the
capacity for both understanding and relaying nonfirsthand experiences as
well as firsthand ones.
The first part of this essay describes three essential features of human lan-
guage according to Aristotle. The second part uses these features to flesh out
the Theory of Relay and draw its implications with regard to truth, the rate
of information propagation, and major human institutions. Finally, the third
part tries to show how, according to Aristotle, human claims to define, explain,
and legislate rely on human language as defined by the Theory of Relay.
177
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I. Features of Human Language

We begin with a very quick review of nonhuman communication according
to Aristotle. Voice is a meaningful sound uttered by an animal, but not by
any part of it and not for any reason. Voice is produced by a specific bodily
substrate, namely the “pharynx,” and for the sake of communicating with
another animal. Just as uttering voice is essentially different from uttering
mere sound, hearing voice as such is fundamentally different from mere
acoustic stimulation. For the cooperation implied in voice is injunctive and
imperial in character. Hence verbs for hearing are often verbs for obeying.
Whereas an animal may hear a sound perfectly and even relay it without
understanding it, as some imitating bird species do, an animal hearing voice
as voice is compelled, not to relay it, but to understand it—that is, to obey
it. Furthermore, voice is typically a veiled threat or promise made toward
another animal. Hence, the voice producing animal must take into account
its interlocutor: it must grasp and address the other animal in its own terms—
its own fears and desires—in order to make an offer threatening or enticing
enough that the other animal cannot refuse. Thus, we may say that, insofar as
it involves voice, nonhuman communication assumes imperative (prostaktikē)
and the subjunctive (hypotaktikē) moods.
How is human language any different from voice? Aristotle’s scattered
remarks about human language may be summarized by three crucial features:
mediation, articulation, and ambiguity.
a. Mediation
Human language is mediated. First, logos is composite,3 not simple. It has parts
and its material is “voice” (GA V.786b22).4 Second, logos is conventional,5 not
natural. It is irreducible to its parts or to a mere series of natural voices.6 And
third, most importantly, logos is symbolic.7 The parts of logos are meaning-
less. In the formation of human speech, voices are not only selected, but also
fundamentally modified and evacuated of their inherent and natural meaning.
The material of logos, strictly speaking, these nonnatural, meaningless, special
voices are grammata, ‘letters.’8 So “logos is composed of letters through voice”
(PA II.660a3–4). Even further, letters are distinguished among themselves:
“The voice and the larynx send forth the vowels, and the tongue and the lips
the consonants, of which language is constituted” (HA IV.535a29–b1; my
emphasis). Letters are meaningless in and of themselves; a name or a word
is a meaningful unit composed out of meaningless parts (De int. 16a19–21).9
Aristotle has a four-layered way of differentiating a letter. He distin-
guishes a letter from sounds, from voices, from vowels if it is a consonant
human lo g o s in aristotle 179
(or from consonants if it is a vowel), and finally from other vowels if it is a

vowel (and from other consonants if it is a consonant). For instance, the let-
ter t heard or produced as a letter is determined in a fourfold way: t is not a
rattling (not a sound); it is not a cry (not a voice); it is neither a nor e nor i,
and so on (not a vowel); it is neither d nor s nor l, and so on (not any con-
sonant). It is this tight determination that makes a letter irreducible to any
stoikheion, ‘uniform voice.’ Learning a new language thus involves not only
a new quantitative range of our phonatory equipment, but also a qualitative
recalibration: uttering new letters requires a new cooperation between the
larynx, the lungs, or the lips and tongue. Even at the apparently rudimentary
level of sound production, the acquisition of a new language demands an
extensive rehabituation of the body.
Letters involve a fundamental semantic, as much as physiological, modi-
fication of voice, a shift in one’s relation to desire, to meaning and to others.
To learn to speak is not to add cries and shouts in ever more subtle combina-
tions, it is to recharge voice at its natural roots. Even to supply the material
which logos will further articulate, one must not only learn to reorchestrate
one’s respiration, larynx, tongue and lips, but, most importantly, one must be
able to ‘redefine’ one’s relation to the most elemental pleasures and pains. Just
as animal voice is possible by neither inhaling nor exhaling, by neither fleeing
nor pursuing, here the basic material of logos requires that one not emit voice,
that one neither invoke nor threaten others. To learn letters is to fundamen-
tally modify one’s behavior in order to learn to commit the voice and silence
of one’s body to others. This is why language is ethical and political all the
way down to its material.
One cannot emphasize enough the significance of Aristotle’s recogni-
tion that letters are meaningless (De int. 16a19–21). Voice is meaningful
through and through. Voice is a natural outer ‘organ’ intended to ‘organize’
others. Letters, however, precisely evacuate meaning from voice, revert the
natural reorganization of voice, and stop invoking others for the sake of the
animal’s own desire. It is on the foundation of such negation that logos can
be mediated in a strong sense by means of letters and that a letter can have
a function without having a meaning. In order to see this function, we must
move beyond the level of the material of logos and step into the process of its
articulation.
b. Articulation
To stress the importance of the level of ‘letters’ for understanding human
language is not to impose the twentieth-century linguistic concept of ‘dual
patterning’ or of ‘double articulation’ onto Aristotle’s work. For, literacy,
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grammatikē, is a paradigmatic kind of knowledge in Aristotle himself. In the

Nicomachean Ethics, literacy is given as an example of a disposition or posi-
tive state (hexis): it is by performing literacy that one becomes literate (EN
II.1105a20). Literacy then is not merely a matter of reproduction and imita-
tion as when a nightingale learns a song:
One may in fact write letters by chance or with the support of

another. One will then become literate only when, while writing
letters, one does so in a literate way, that is, according to the literacy
in oneself. (EN II.1105a22–26)
While voice hearing and uttering was simply natural, literacy is certainly
not simply natural; while sound hearing and relaying was fundamentally
mimetic, literacy is here distinguished from all kinds of repetition.
Sure enough, Aristotle has a well-defined technical term for articulation:
diarthrōsis.
Voice and sound are different, and language [διάλεκτος] is a third.

No part ever emits voice apart from the pharynx; thus, those that
have no lungs, never utter; but language is the diarthrōsis of voice by
means of the tongue. (HA IV.535a27–b1; see also 536a32–b4)
Diarthrōsis is a term used in Aristotelian biology for the process of differen-

tiation in the embryo (GA II.744b11).10 So could there be a parallel between
the articulation of logos and the formation of the embryo? On a lower level,
voice is comparable to an element, since both lack logos: the voice of a crying
baby is already too meaningful to be integrated into a meaningful whole, just
as fire is ever too complete to be proportioned into the growth of an organ-
ism. On the higher level, logos is comparable to the organic body: just as
the organic body is irreducible to an agglomerate of elements (stoikheia) and
instead needs an intermediate level of articulation into nonuniform parts,
similarly logos is irreducible to a series of natural ‘uniform voices’ (stoikheia)
and requires the intermediate level of articulation into highly determined,
‘modified,’ and meaningless units, namely letters. So, just as elements can-
not account for organic articulation, voice cannot account for the linguistic
articulation. In both cases, articulation goes beyond mere uniform units.
c. Ambiguity
The necessarily ambiguous character of human language shows up regu-
larly in Aristotle’s work. The very opening lines of the corpus distinguish
between homonyms and synonyms. Homonyms are mere namesakes, beings

who share a name only; so, a man and a portrait may be both called ‘a living
being’; yet this usage would be equivocal, for a man and a portrait are not ‘a
living being’ in the same sense. Synonyms, however, share both a name and
what is means to be that being; for instance, a man and an ox are both called
‘a living being’ in a univocal way, for in both cases what it is for an ox and a
man to be a ‘living being’ is the same.
This is the crucial point: since it is mediated through meaningless parts,
human language makes homonymy possible and even unavoidable. The very
possibility of a mismatch between synonyms and homonyms stems from
the mediated, articulated, and essentially ambiguous character of logos. Logos
situates us in an unavoidable gap between names and beings: since logos is
conventional, we can always address beings homonymously, with respect to
their name only. Logos is essentially ambiguous, even when all of its parts are
properly understood. One cannot fail to ‘understand’ the sound of the wind if
one ‘understands’ all its parts, just as one cannot fail to ‘understand’ the bark
of a dog as long as one grasps what each of its slight nuances ‘signifies’; yet,
as many Aristotle readers know all too well, one can fail to understand a logos
while perfectly understanding all of its parts.
Just as ambiguity and disambiguation mean something different in the
context of logos than in sound and voice, understanding and misunderstand-
ing mean something different here. Since humans understand logos by taking
it in a certain sense, necessarily it is possible both to interpret the same letters
in different meanings, and to rephrase one same meaning in different letters.
To hear a voice is to be moved by its meaning, while the semantics of logos
is fundamentally exposed to paraphrase, interpretation, and translation by a
mediator—a Hermes or a hermēneus. The mediation of logos through mean-
ingless parts frees or detaches meanings from sounds, makes homonymy
possible, and thus makes adequate understanding, univocal communication,
and functional community not a given, but a continual task.
II. The Theory of Relay and Its Implications

Being mediated, articulated, and ambiguous, language enables and destines
us to understand and relay experiences neither the sender nor the receivers
have had or may ever have. This is why language is received as language nei-
ther by a memorization and repetition of its form as in hearing sound, nor
by obedience to its content as in hearing voice. As an expression of pain and
pleasure, voice always signifies a firsthand experience, and it is fundamen-
tally oriented toward moving its hearer, even if the hearer ends up remaining
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unmoved; human language, however, is specifically oriented not to move its

hearer, but to indicate, to propose, to make her ‘believe,’ ‘agree,’ or ‘under-
stand.’ Not being confined to the imperative and subjunctive (prostaktikē and
hypotaktikē) moods, language can thus be indicative (horistikē. This sure does
not mean that human language is necessarily indicative of the truth or of the
true essence of things. Far from that. Indeed, language destines humans not
to truth, but to truth claims. As it is mediated through meaningless units,
as it is conventional and thus necessarily ambiguous, language removes us
humans from any felicitous match between voice and meaning, homonymy
and synonymy, belief and truth, speaker and interlocutor. Human language is
such that it is always supposed to be communal, while never overcoming the
danger of devolving into private language.
This is then the wonder of logos in the sense of human language: that we
can even claim to understand things that we have never experienced firsthand,
about, say, the ‘essence’ of an ox, about ‘what it is to be for an ox’; and further,
‘even worse,’ that we can relay our claims to still others. Because language is
mediated by convention (i.e., it is detached from the immediate meaningful-
ness of pleasure and pain), and because language is articulated through letters
(i.e., it is detached from the natural vocal expression of pleasure and pain),
on hearing language we can understand nonfirsthand experiences without
having to experience them ourselves, and we can relay a meaning without
having to reproduce the exact words through which it was conveyed to us.
In comparison to sound and voice, human language is the ability that makes
us understand nonfirsthand experiences (like a voice-hearing animal, but
unlike a sound-hearing animal) and relay them along with firsthand expe-
riences (like a sound-hearing imitating animal, but unlike a voice-hearing
animal).
This Theory of Relay has three implications. The first is that, once the
communicating parties possess this ability, the rate of information relay
should increase exponentially. Since there is no relay among bees, the scout
bee who has found a resource must inform other bees directly one by one,
hence the propagation of information follows a linear growth. Both bees
and the imitating bird species are thus sealed off from the wild prolifera-
tion of nonfirsthand experiences: bees do not relay them, while the birds
do not understand their content when they imitate them. Among humans,
however, the ‘go-between’ both understands and relays. So the capacity for
understanding and relaying nonfirsthand experiences unavoidably boosts the
speed with which the information is propagated. Since the receiver can also
relay the message without having to undergo the experience firsthand, the
propagation of information increases exponentially.
The second implication is that, once the communicating parties possess

this specifically human ability, there is no control over the truthfulness of
the messages. Having this capacity, a human being is indeed able to express
nontruths, willingly or unwillingly, with or without care; but more interest-
ingly, having this capacity, a human being views her human interlocutors as
possibly conveying something they have not experienced either. Hence, as
Aristotle quotes from Euripides, “if there are persuasive false designations
among mortals, you should also admit the contrary, that disbelieving the true
befalls mortals.”11 One is exercising her ability to understand and relay non-
firsthand experiences not only when she says “Socrates was executed in 399,”
but also when she says “Socrates was not executed in 399.” Similarly, one is
necessarily drawing on one’s capacity to understand and relay nonfirsthand
experiences when one says that Socrates’s execution was the right thing to
do, that it was not the right thing to do, that the world was created in six
days, that it will come to an end, that there are igneous rocks on the surface
of the moon, or that all lines contain an infinite number of points. In a way,
we are all ‘go-betweens.’
The third implication of the theory is that this ability has indeed the
potential to bring unlimited numbers of individuals together around real or
imagined communities through a potentially infinite variety of discourses.
Not being confined to firsthand experience, human language is indicative
(horistikē) of a level of generality and universality irreducible to any tacti-
cal cooperation whether it be imperative or subjunctive (hypotaktikē or
prostaktikē) and thus able to foster all sorts of human expressions of non-
firsthand experience: narratives of creation, of afterlife, of apocalypse, but
also historiography, oracles, utopias, genealogies, claims to nobility, sophistry,
philosophy, and the necessary accumulation of information in science.
Yet logos, even in the sense of ‘sentence,’ is not necessarily declarative (apo-
phantikos) according to Aristotle: “Not all logos is declarative, but the logoi
to which truth or falsity belong. For instance, a wish [εὐχὴ] is a logos, but
it is neither true nor false” (De int. 16b33–17a4). So, besides the imperative
and the subjunctive moods that characterize voice, and besides the indica-
tive mood of logos, this function corresponds to the fourth classical mood
in ancient Greek: the optative (euktikē).12 In this function human language
assumes the mood of a wish or a prayer whose object is by definition some-
thing never experienced or even never to be experienced firsthand. Unlike
voice, this is the mood of a genuine desire disengaged from moving, as odd as
this may seem from the viewpoint of nonhuman animals. This is the specifi-
cally human mood of wishful thinking, of hoping, of goodwill, of saluting, of
cursing, of greeting and remorse.13
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III. Embodiments of Human Language

Now let us see whether our interpretation of human language according to
the Theory of Relay lines up with three crucial occurrences of specifically
human logos in Aristotle’s corpus.
a. Human Predication (Categories 1)

We have already seen how ambiguity is not accidental to human language,
but an essential component of it. Consequently, we have suggested that dis-
ambiguation, interpretation, ‘hermetic’ activity, and hermeneutical activity
remain a continual task in human language. Thus, humans are able to disen-
gage from their firsthand perspectives in order to claim to access the ‘essence’
or ‘form’ of beings other than themselves. This is how humans can claim to
understand and to formulate not only the pleasant or painful aspects of, say,
an ox, but what it is to be an ox, the ‘logos of being’ of an ox—an idea that by
definition no human can gather from firsthand experience.
This seems confirmed in the opening of the Categories:
Those whose names only are common, but whose logos of being
[λόγος τῆς οὐσίας] according to this name is different, are called
homonyms, such as ‘animal’ for both the human being and the
representation; for if one supplies what is it for each of them to
be animal [τί ἐστιν αὐτῶν ἑκατέρῳ τὸ ζῴῳ εἶναι], one will supply
a particular logos [ἴδιον λόγον] for each. Those whose names are
common and whose logos of being according to this name are also
common are called synonyms, such as ‘animal’ for both the human
being and the ox; for each of these are addressed [προσαγορεύεται]
with the common name ‘animal’ and their logos of being is the same.
For if one supplies the logos of what it is for each to be animal, one
will supply the same logos. (Cat. 1a1–13)
Having logos, we are able to claim to address other beings not only from
our own perspective as determined perceptually or practically (“This is black
[to me],” “This is dangerous [to me],” etc.), but from their own perspective:
“This as such is a living being.” In other words, if we had no logos and thus
no claim to access the essence of beings from a third-person perspective, in
Protagorean fashion all our predications would be expressions of subjective,
accidental, momentary aspects, all our addresses would be homonymous, and
there would be neither any sense of ousia nor any appeal to the principle of
noncontradiction.14
b. Human Experience (Met. I.1)

That human language gives us access beyond firsthand experience is also cor-
roborated by human claims to give causal accounts. To paraphrase a famous
passage from the Metaphysics:
Animals are by nature born having sensation [and “that which has
sensation also has pleasure and pain”]15 . . . Thus the others live by
impressions and memories [firsthand experience], and have but a
small share of experience. But the human kind [lives] also by art
and reasoning [καὶ τέχνῃ καὶ λογισμοῖς] . . . Indeed we see people
of experience succeeding more than those having logos without
experience; the reason is that experience is familiarity with the
particulars, but art of universals . . . Nevertheless we consider that
knowing and acquaintance belong to art rather than to experience
and take the artisans to be wiser than people of experience in that
wisdom rather follows knowing in all cases. For the former know
the cause while the latter do not. (Met. I.980a27–981a28)
Note here the specifically human kinds of errancy: the many ways in which
humans fail while possessing a causal account, and the myriads of ways in
which humans may be incorrect in their account. The rest of the passage
highlights that human language entails not only the ability to understand,
but also and necessarily the capacity to relay:
Thus [master craftsmen] are wiser not because they are practi-
cal, but because they have a logos and know the causes. As a
whole, a sign of knowing and not knowing is the ability to teach
[διδάσκειν], and hence we think that art rather than experience is
scientific knowledge; for [artists] can teach while the others cannot.
Further, we do not consider any of the senses to be wisdom. They
are indeed our chief sources of acquaintance with particulars, but
they do not tell the reason [τὸ διὰ τί] for anything, as for instance
why fire is hot, but only that it is hot. (Met. I.981b5–13)
Granting access beyond sensation, thus beyond pleasure and pain, and
beyond the particular practical necessities of life, logos connects us with disin-
terested wonder and innovation, and the leisurely satisfaction of our natural
desire for knowledge, which is to say the satisfaction of our philosophia.
Then, just as the Categories passage, this opening chapter of the Metaphys-
ics seems to corroborate the Theory of Relay: for better or for worse, logos
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as human language enables us to understand and relay even that which is

beyond actual or even possible of firsthand experience—whether it be essen-
tial predication or causal accounts.16
c. Human Community (Pol. I.1)

Finally we may read the following most famous passage from the Politics in
light of the Theory of Relay:
It is clear why the human being is a political animal in a greater

degree [μᾶλλον] than any bee or any gregarious animal. For nature,
as we say, does nothing in vain, and among animals the human
being alone has logos. Voice is indeed a sign [σημεῖον] of the pain-
ful and of the pleasurable, and so is possessed by other animals as
well (for their nature has developed so far as to have sensation of
the painful and pleasant, and to signify [σημαίνειν] these to others),
yet logos is for showing [δηλοῦν] the advantageous and the harm-
ful, and thus the just and the unjust; for it is peculiar to humans in
distinction from the other animals to have the perception of the
just, the unjust and other qualities, and it is community [κοινωνία]
in these that makes a household and a city. (Pol. I.1253a10–18,
VII.1332b5–6)
Here human language is the ability to understand and relay advantages and
harms never experienced firsthand, to even indicate justice and injustice. Thus
in practical matters, human language does not simply demand obedience
under a direct order (a ‘prostactic,’ i.e., an imperative), or under a hypotheti-
cal or ‘hypotactic’ (subjunctive) threat; human language is capable of being
‘horistic’ (indicative), of delimiting and defining an ethical-political realm.
This realm is indeed the polis. Although there are many nonhuman political
animals according to Aristotle, only humans have a polis. Although all politi-
cal animals, including wasps, ants, and bees, are characterized by common
work (HA I.488a7–10), a polis proper seems to be fundamentally irreducible
to a ‘workshop,’ a ‘household,’ an ‘alliance,’ a ‘corporation,’ or a ‘body politic’:
Yet it is clear that if one goes further in unifying the city, it is

will not be a city at all. For in its nature, the city is a multiplicity
[πλῆθος]; if further unified it will become a household, and further
it will become a single human being . . . And a city consists not
only of many people, but also of people differing in kind. Because
a city does not come to be from similar people; for a city and an
alliance [συμμαχία] are different things. An alliance is of value by

its quantity—since the alliance is naturally for the sake of military
strength—just as a weight would be worth more if it weighed more,
whereas the parts which are to make up a unity must differ in kind.
(Pol. II.1261a18–25)
Conclusion
In this essay, I gathered Aristotle’s scattered remarks on human language in
order to sketch a theory about what is specific to human language as an alter-
native to the current Theory of Displacement. I formulated this as a Theory
of Relay stating that human language is the capacity to understand and relay
nonfirsthand experiences as well as firsthand experiences. I questioned the
explanatory power of the theory first by drawing its implications and then
by discussing how well it is corroborated by Aristotle’s major passages on
human logos.
This outline of the Theory of Relay is, to be sure, in need of a survey of
Aristotle’s concept of ‘experience’ (empeiria). Otherwise, concepts of ‘first-
hand’ and ‘nonfirsthand’ remain as vague as the concepts of ‘here’ and ‘now’
used in the Theory of Displacement. Furthermore, of course, our theory is in
need of experiments to be designed and conducted. This suggestion reflects
what might be seen as a virtue of our theory, namely that it is falsifiable: if
a nonhuman animal species is found to understand and relay content it has
not experienced firsthand, then our theory fails. And in that case, one may
suspect this animal species of suffering from, and enjoying, all the challenges
and vicissitudes of human life and history.
Nonetheless, one can see how Aristotle’s works themselves are products of
his ability to understand and relay both firsthand experiences and contents
beyond any actual or even possible firsthand experience. For the Aristotelian
corpus contains the amazing wealth of observation and data collectorship
found in Aristotle’s philosophy of nature or ‘second philosophy,’ even as his
‘first philosophy’ attempts to make claims, such as the principle of noncon-
tradiction, which are so universal that they cannot be based on, or exhausted
by, any firsthand experience whatsoever.
Notes
1. Hans-Georg Gadamer seems to agree with the Theory of Displacement. See Ga-
damer, “Man and Language,” in Philosophical Hermeneutics, trans. David E. Linge (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1976), 59–68. For a presentation of the Theory of
Displacement see, for instance, Hockett, “The Origin of Speech,” Scientific American 203
(1960): 89–96; D. Bickerton, Adam’s Tongue (New York: Hill and Wang / Farrar, Straus
188 ömer aygün
and Giroux), 2009; D. Bickerton, “On Two Incompatible Theories of Language Evolu-
tion,” in The Evolution of Human Language: Biolinguistic Perspectives, ed. B. Larson, V.
Déprez, and H. Yamakido (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 199–210;
Robbins Burling, The Talking Ape (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 37; Kath-
leen R. Gibson, “Talking about Apes, Birds, Bees, and Other Living Creatures,” in The
Evolutionary Emergence of Language: Evidence and Inference, ed. R. Botha and M. Ever-
aert (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 217–218; Tetsuro Matsuzawa, “What Is
Uniquely Human? A View from Comparative Cognitive Development in Humans and
Chimpanzees,” in The Primate Mind, ed. F. B. M. de Waals and P. F. Ferrari (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2012), 304–305.
2. This essay is a synthesis and follow-up of my previous work on Aristotle’s account of
human language in The Middle Included—Logos in Aristotle (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern
University Press, 2017), especially 178n106. The inability of honeybees to relay messages
is suggested by Karl von Frisch in The Dance Language and Orientation of Bees, trans. Leigh
Chadwick (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), 43, 55–56; see also Émile
Benveniste, Problems in General Linguistics, trans. Mary Elizabeth Meek (Miami: Univer-
sity of Miami Press, 1971), 53; Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus,
trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 77.
3. Cf. Poet. 1456b35, 1457a2, 11, 14, 23.
4. Prob. XI.898b31. See also Cat. 4b34–35.
5. Cf. especially De int.16a26– 29; see also De int. 20– 21; 4, 16b33–17a2; Rhet.,
I.1376b1ff.; An pr. I.50a19; Rhet. I.1376a33; Pol. III.1280b11, NE V.1133a30, and
V.1134b33.
6. Cf. Plato’s Tht. 206e–208e.
7. Cf. De int. 16a28 and 16a3–4; even PA II.660a7; GA I.722b12; Meteor. II.360a26;
Pol. IV.1294a35.
8. See also Poet. 1457a10–12; Prob. 895a4–14. Most significantly, the sounds of “beasts”
are characterized as agrammatoi in De int. 16a27.
9. See also Poet. 1457a10–12; Prob. 895a4–14.
10. See also HA VII.583b23. For adiarthōtos, see also HA VI.579a24.
11. Euripides, Thy. (Fr. 396, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta), quoted in Rhet. II,
23, 1397a.
12. For a fuller discussion of wish, prayer, and the optative mood in Aristotle’s philoso-
phy, see Ömer Aygün, “Wishful Thinking: Prayer, Wish and Chance in Aristotle” (forth-
coming); see also Ömer Aygün, “L’être humain, animal précaire,” in Aristote, L’Animal
politique (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2017), 121–137.
13. Contemporary accounts of the ‘Theory of Mind’ seem to corroborate the Theory of
Relay. The ‘Theory of Mind’ is indeed a crucial, although not exhaustive, example of the
capacity for understanding and relaying nonfirsthand experience, since my ability to think
that you have a mind and are thinking of x requires my preliminary access to something
that by definition is not and cannot be my firsthand experience.
14. See Met. IV.1007a20–23.
15. The passage quoted here is De an. II.414b4–7. See also De an. II.413b24–25 and
III.432b29–30.
16. Note that the Theory of Relay makes possible Aristotle’s typical methodological
procedure from what is clear and known to us toward what is clear and known “simply or
by nature” (An post. I.71a1–11).
Key Readings
Aubenque, Pierre. Le problème de l’être chez Aristote. Paris: PUF, 2002.
Baracchi, Claudia. Aristotle’s Ethics as First Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2007.
Brague, Rémi. Aristote et la question du monde. Paris: PUF, 1988.
———. Introduction au monde grec. Chatou: Transparence, 2005.
Cassin, Barbara. Aristote et le logos: Contes de phénoménologie ordinaire. Paris: PUF, 1997.
Frede, Michael. “Aristotle’s Rationalism.” In Rationality in Greek Thought, edited by M.
Frede and G. Striker, 157–173. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996.
Gadamer, Hans-Georg. “Man and Language.” In Philosophical Hermeneutics, translated by
David E. Linge, 59–68. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976.
Heath, John. The Talking Greeks. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005.
Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Translated by Joan Stambaugh. Albany: State Univer-
sity of New York Press, 1996.
Labarrière, Jean-Louis. Langage, vie politique et mouvement des animaux. Paris: VRIN,
2004.
Lear, Jonathan. Aristotle—The Desire to Understand. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1988.
Roochnik, David. Retrieving Aristotle in an Age of Crisis. Albany: State University of New
York Press, 2013.
Sorabji, Richard. “Rationality.” In Rationality in Greek Thought, edited by M. Frede and G.
Striker, 311–334. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996.
Zirin, Ronald A. “Aristotle’s Biology of Language.” Transactions of the American Philologi-
cal Association 110 (1980): 325–347.
Developing Emotions: Aristotle’s Rhetoric II.2–11
Greg Recco
In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle famously rejects the notion that the
emotions are phenomena that belong to an immature stage of life and are
jettisoned in adulthood (EN III.1104b24–26); rather, most of the virtues of
character remain integrally connected to emotions. Courage, for example, is
not the annihilation of fear, but some sort of good condition with respect to
it. Becoming an adult does not involve the annihilation of the being that was
subject to emotions, as becoming a butterfly coincides with the disappear-
ance of a caterpillar. To be in a good condition with respect to an emotion
is not to disregard or suppress it. What Aristotle calls enkrateia, the ability
to hold down one’s emotions and appetites by force, simply is not virtue
(EN VII), though it may lead to action that outwardly resembles virtuous
action.
Given that the emotions remain present even as the form of life in which
they are dominant fades and the one in which reason can take on a lead-
ing role emerges, we may ask what role they play in adult life, not just by
being present and less heeded than they once were, but by being essential
components of the functioning and flourishing of that life. We are led to ask
just what the emotions are for, why we have just the ones we do, and what
relations obtain among them. Aristotle can help here, though only indirectly
and, perhaps surprisingly, more in his treatise on rhetoric than in the Ethics
or Politics, where the proper course of individual and societal development
are nonetheless the main themes.
A few features of his catalogue of emotions in the Rhetoric suggest that he
has this kind of question in mind. He notes that emotions are in some way
ranked or ordered: anger is more characteristic of the young than of those in
the prime of life; pity and indignation belong especially to those of decent
character; envy is base, but admiration is noble. Thus, in general, Aristotle
presents emotions as standing to one another in relations of mutual depen-
dence and conditioning; some seem in themselves to belong to or envisage a
more thoroughly adult picture of the human world, some seem to fall short
191
192 greg recco
of that goal, and some, as I will propose, can be understood as necessary for
us to develop such a picture.
With this somewhat loose collection of thoughts and concerns in mind,
let me turn to Aristotle’s text and consider individual emotions in turn: first,
anger as the feeling of becoming one recognized as capable of action; sec-
ond, fear and pity as the feelings of learning about the sorts of ills we are
heir to, and thus of recognizing our shared vulnerabilities and dependence;
third, the transition from pity to indignation as a sharpening of the sense
of justice already incipient in the former; finally, admiration or emulousness
as the feeling of responsibility for the development of one’s own character,
whatever one’s fortunes may be.
Aristotle begins his discussion of emotions with anger and gives it the
longest treatment. At the very start of the chapter, he offers a definition of
it that sets the tone for future definitions: anger is “a desire [ὄρεξις], accom-
panied by pain, for apparent [φαινομένης] revenge because of an apparent
[φαινομένη] slight directed against oneself or one’s own, when the slighting
is not fitting” (Rhet. II.1378a30–32). There is a lot packed into this defini-
tion, and I will return to various elements it of along the way, but to begin, I
want to single out the striking doubling of the word ‘apparent.’ To translate
these forms of the verb phainesthai as ‘appearing’ is already to embroil oneself
in scholarly controversy (very usefully summarized by Nieuwenberg). A fair
number of commentators, though by no means a majority, hold that Aristo-
tle is speaking here of the public character of what is aimed at in anger; the
one who is angry, they argue, is one who has been publicly slighted and so
can only right this wrong in a similar way, that is, by public revenge. Indeed,
Aristotle himself will point out, people are prone to become angry when
they are slighted in front of those whose opinion of them matters to them,
and they consider revenge more complete when its author is known (Rhet.
II.1380b24–25).
But these are not the only phenomena of anger, and the broader story
Aristotle tells encompasses both of them. What I think is most telling is
what Aristotle himself chooses to focus on next. After noting briefly that
anger always has a specific person as its object, he introduces a series of con-
siderations that have as their primary focus the imagination of the one who is
angered, rather than the public character of slighting or of revenge. He first
notes that anger directed at a person is “because he has done or was about to
do something to one or one’s own” (Rhet. II.1378a31). Anger moves quickly
and is able to insert itself between the appearance that a slight was impend-
ing and the act itself, one that cannot yet have made itself public.
Next, he tells us that
developing emotions 193
to every anger there adheres a pleasure, that of expecting to get

one’s revenge, for it is pleasant to think one shall hit what one aims
at . . . This is why it has been well said of anger that “far sweeter
than dripping honey down the throat it spreads in men’s hearts,” for
a pleasure goes along with it, both for that reason and also because
they dwell on getting their revenge in thought, and the appearance
that arises at that time produces pleasure in them, as do those in
dreams. (Rhet. II.1378b2–10)
This is an astonishing and peculiar fact, and it is a very interesting choice on

Aristotle’s part to give the observation and the identification of its causes
such a prominent place in his analysis.
We are already quite far from the notion that anger is a kind of simple
tit-for-tat response to a social failure. In the first place, we now see why it is
not defined as a pain, but simply as a ‘desire accompanied by pain’: namely,
because it is always also a kind of pleasure, if a peculiar one. Just as the pain
of anger can involve an apprehension of an imagined situation not yet actual,
the pleasure of anger, too, is directed toward an imagined future. We must
turn to the precise shape of the future that the angry person imagines in
order to find the explanation for anger’s soul-nourishing power and ability to
transfix the sufferer in dreamlike meditation on the fantasy of revenge.
In particular, the future that is imagined can reveal what is felt to be wrong
about the present situation. It reveals this by projecting a situation that is the
precise converse: the one who is angered imagines being efficacious, and this
in a way that makes it evident to the other. Furthermore, the kind of making-
evident he imagines is the very one to which he himself is subjected by the
other’s action, namely, the pain of being thwarted. So, through the character
of his imagined revenge, we can see that the one who is angry takes the effi-
cacy of the other to be evident, in the mode of the pain that he feels at having
his own activity thwarted. This is why the thought of revenge is doubly pleas-
ant: in general, it is pleasant to imagine that one will be successful in hitting
what one aims at, and in particular, it is pleasant to imagine being successful
in this way when one’s whole power of action seems to be called into ques-
tion. One imagines succeeding not only in one’s action, but in acting at all.
That one’s whole power of action is in fact what is called into question in
anger, and why it is in question, can be seen from what Aristotle notices in
one of the three types of slighting, as well as from his summary of the dis-
position of those who are prone to anger. As for the first, let us consider the
kind of slighting that spite is: “Spite is putting obstacles in the way of the
wishes of another, not so that something may come to oneself, but so that
194 greg recco
something may not come to the other” (Rhet. II.1378b18–20). The other two
species have very similar characteristics, and in general, all fall under the defi-
nition of slighting that Aristotle gives: “Slighting is an enactment [ἐνέργεια]
of an opinion with regard to what appears worthless” (Rhet. II.1378b10–11).
In other words, it appears to the angry person that he or his affairs do not
appear to be worth anything to the one who appears to be slighting him.
In other words (and in the first person), the action that the object of my
anger has taken or was about to take appeared to me who am now angry
as the putting-to-work of an opinion that I, through the mediation of my
wishes directed at actions not successfully carried out, am worthless, as are
they. In order to show what makes this tortuously complex account of anger
plausible, let me say a little bit about Aristotle’s general remarks about the
disposition to anger.
I quote:
People are prone to anger when they are in pain, for whoever is
pained aims at something; so, if anyone directly hinders him in
anything . . . or not directly . . . or if anyone acts against him or
does not act with him or troubles him in any way when he is in
this state, he gets angry with such people. This is why the sick, the
needy, those making war, those in love, the thirsty, and in general,
anyone who has an appetite for something and is not succeeding is
prone to anger and easily excitable. (Rhet. II.1379a11–18)
This description is, I think, quite compelling. And its special connection to
action, especially of the sort that is not presently meeting with success is
quite interesting.
To return to the initial hypothesis about the pleasure taken in imagining
revenge, it is clear that part of the reason it is pleasant is that such imagining
rectifies precisely what the angry person takes to be wrong with the situation:
“The other will not acknowledge that I am capable of carrying out an action?
My hurting him will make him acknowledge it. The other does not find me
worthy of carrying out my proposed actions? My success in causing him pain
will make it clear to both of us that I am.” Denied success and recognition
in deed, the angry person imagines a world in which he is successful and is
recognized as such, and dwells in this world in thought.
To return, then, to the opening question about the variety and function
of emotions: the fact that we are capable of anger looks so far like a kind
of susceptibility rather than a useful power. At best, we might surmise that
the pleasure of anger is useful as a kind of psychic palliative, the spoonful of
honey that makes life’s bitter defeats go down more easily. But if we behave
toward anger as Aristotle says we ought to behave in the study of lower ani-
mals, and do not “recoil in childish aversion from the examination of the
humbler” (PA I.645a15–17), we might yet see what is natural and beautiful in
it. Let me try to say how.
In particular, the one who is angry is exercising his power to imaginatively
enter a world in which he does not yet reside. This can, of course, be a kind of
desperate flight from a painful reality, but it can also be a useful exercise and
development of a power necessary for effective action, namely, the power to
imaginatively connect what is present and evident with the hidden springs
of others’ actions, that is, with how the world appears to them. In fact, this is
what is already being exercised in the discernment of present, past, or future
slighting; one must already be looking beyond what is given; this is not
always erroneous, and is often necessary in order to enter substantially into
various other important kinds of interaction. I will try to demonstrate that
this is what Aristotle is thinking and will then point out a few related ideas.
Before going on, let me point out the definitions of the emotions
that remain to be considered. Fear is “a pain or disturbance arising from
the appearance of an impending ill that is destructive or painful” (Rhet.
II.1382a21–22). Pity is “a pain about a destructive or painful ill appearing
to strike someone who does not deserve it, and which one might expect to
befall oneself or one of one’s own” (Rhet. II.1385b11–15). Indignation is
“being pained at apparent undeserved (or ‘apparently undeserved’) welfare”
(Rhet. II.1386b10–11). Envy is “indeed a disturbing pain directed against
welfare, but not that of one who does not deserve it, but of one who is our
equal and like” (Rhet. II.1386b16–20). Emulousness “is a pain at the appar-
ent presence of highly valuable good characteristics that it is possible for
one to obtain in those who are like one in nature, pain not because the other
has them, but because one does not oneself ” (Rhet. II.1388a31–35). Beyond
their connection to appearance and the power of imagination that underlies
it, it is clear that all these emotions concern in some way how goods and ills
are portioned out among people, though their respective visions of the good
probably vary in significant ways.
In what follows, I trace a path through these in a much more schematic
way than in the case of anger, but with the idea that what we are watching
is the progressive development of the power to be moved by (at least, then,
to perceive, if not also to understand) the distinctive features of the human
world; the experience of the emotions seems to constitute a kind of educa-
tion by means of which we enter into communication and conversation, so to
speak, with the perspectives of others and learn from them.
196 greg recco
In the case of fear and pity, this fusion of horizons is the most evident. We
might call them ‘vicariously dual’ because of the very strong link by which
Aristotle has connected them. In particular, the objects over which each of
these emotions ranges are defined in terms of the objects of the other; people
fear the very things that would give rise to pity were they to happen to oth-
ers, and similarly, people pity others for suffering the very things they fear
might happen to them.
This connection runs deeper than is immediately visible. This can be seen
by contrasting in some detail the world projected by these emotions with
the one that is characteristic of anger. One difference is the introduction of
the notion of ‘destruction’ alongside pain in the definitions of both, which
already indicates a broader perspective than is envisaged by anger. A strong
indication is the fact that not only are pity and fear felt in implicit commu-
nion with others, but they are felt in this way rather than within the horizon
of rivalry and its distinction of superior and inferior.
Now, aspects of that worldview characteristic of anger are certainly not
entirely absent from fear and pity, as can be seen from this remark about
confidence or daring: Aristotle notices that we are confident and do not feel
fear “when something does not frighten our equals, inferiors, or those to
whom we think ourselves superior” (Rhet. II.1383a31–33). So rank seems
to count for something. But here, by contrast with anger, one’s concern is
not so much with what is fitting for another of apparently lower status, but
with one’s own remaining in a state appropriate to one’s station. One is able
to do this because one takes one’s cues for how to feel about one’s situation
from those with whom one identifies; that is, one’s primary concern is not to
distinguish oneself from others. Now, none of this need happen on the level
of deliberation or consciousness of duty. Rather, this confidence is a direct
feeling of the whole that we catch from others; it is something we feel in
implicit communion with them, or, rather, with whoever we imagine to be in
that class and however we imagine them to feel.
Furthermore, as Aristotle’s definitions indicate, the world in which pity
and fear are possible contains an implicit reference to a kind of evaluation
largely absent from anger: namely, that of desert or worth. If I say ‘largely’
and not simply absent, it is because of the last word of the definition of anger,
which I have not yet discussed; recall that anger concerns a slight, when the
slight is not ‘fitting’ or ‘appropriate.’ Again, just as confidence in the face of
what does not frighten those we consider our equals shares some character-
istics with the context of rivalry found in anger, but also differs from it, the
notions of desert and of what is fitting are very close but not identical. What
is primarily at issue in our getting angry in considering a slight inappropriate
is the status of the one doing the slighting, rather than our own not deserv-
ing such treatment. In fact, Aristotle notices something like this when he
points out that being uncertain about having a certain characteristic makes
one more prone to anger with respect to being mocked about it. He writes
that people are angry
if someone speaks contemptuously of philosophy or of personal

beauty in the presence of those who pride themselves on them . . .
But they are far more angry if they suspect that they do not possess
these qualities, either not at all, or not to any great extent, or when
others do not think they possess them. For when they really think
that they do possess these qualities which are the subject of mock-
ery, they pay no heed to it.
If the judgment that a slight is not fitting concerned whether we ourselves

are fit to be slighted, we would be less angry, rather than, as Aristotle says,
“far more angry.” Somehow, it is as if we are trying to will ourselves into
a world in which we really take seriously the things we are presently only
defending angrily.
But even if Aristotle’s substitution of the word ‘undeserved’ in the defini-
tions of pity and fear for the word ‘inappropriate’ in the definition of anger is
meant to signal this distinction, the discussions of pity and fear themselves
contain almost no mention of desert as a criterion, which leads one to ques-
tion just how important a role it plays in these feelings. Perhaps we always
think of ourselves as not deserving the ills we suffer, such that the attribute
‘undeserved’ would be ampliative, rather than limiting. Even if that should
happen to be true, there is one particular and, I think, very important context
in which the question of worthiness is genuinely posed and indeed comes to
the fore. At the very end of the chapter on pity, Aristotle makes some pecu-
liar remarks, which I think can only be understood if we supply the missing
context ourselves:
Pity is also aroused by signs, such as the dress of those who have
suffered and all such objects, and by the actions and the words and
everything else that belongs to those who are actually suffering,
such as their already having begun to die. And most of all, being
serious in such moments excites pity. For all these things produce
pity all the more because of appearing close, both as undeserved
and because the suffering appears before our very eyes. (Rhet.
II.1386b1–7)
198 greg recco
With the mention of costumes, and gestures, and perhaps even props, and
above all the seriousness, earnestness, or good character of the one suffering,
especially while giving one’s death speech, what can Aristotle have in mind
here if not tragedy?
In this light, the inclusion of ‘desert’ in the definitions of both pity and fear
makes some more sense. I say both, because both of these feelings are aroused
by the performance of a tragedy; we as spectators are in a kind of strange mid-
dle realm between taking those suffering on the stage to be others (and thus
meriting pity) and taking them to be imitations of ourselves (such that the ills
that befall them produce fear in us, who are not actually in danger of suffering
them, in our capacity as spectators). ‘Unworthiness’ to suffer is included in both
definitions, then, because it is most prominent in the activity of viewing a trag-
edy, where our feelings are made all the more intense to the degree that those
suffering are taken to be, and show themselves to be, serious.
That the intensification and perhaps even perfection of pity in tragedy is
mentioned at the very end of the chapter is fitting, inasmuch as the discus-
sion of indignation that follows indicates a path along which a developed
sense of pity ought to lead us. The experience of pity, Aristotle holds, ought
to teach us indignation. He writes: “Both [pity and indignation] belong to a
decent character, for if we sympathize with and pity those who suffer unde-
servedly, we ought to be indignant with those who prosper undeservedly”
(Rhet. II.1386b12–13). The word ‘ought’ here (and in several other similar
places in the chapter) is striking, as is the association of emotions with good
character; at least, it is striking in comparison with the claim Aristotle makes
in the Nicomachean Ethics, that no one is praised or blamed for simply having
an emotion, since emotions are natural, but for having it in a certain way. The
picture in the Rhetoric also seems to differ in that people can be mistaken
about just what emotions there are; let me consider that before returning the
question about the naturalness or goodness of the emotions.
Aristotle writes: “It might seem that envy, too, is similarly opposed to
pity, and very close or even identical to indignation.” But he categorically
rejects this identification: “Envy is indeed a disturbing pain directed against
welfare, but not that of one who does not deserve it, but of one who is our
equal and like” (Rhet. II.1386b16–20). Despite the strength of the distinc-
tion, he explains why envy and indignation might be confused, namely, that
they are both are relieved by the same thing, our neighbor’s being deprived
of the goods that we felt pain at his having possessed. The envious and the
indignant alike rejoice at this.
To the contrary of indignation, however, envy is said to belong to some-
one of low character. It is not obvious how to reconcile these judgments, or
the possibility of being confused about how many emotions there are, with
the programmatic statement in the Ethics about the emotions’ being morally
neutral and unproblematically natural. We might take to heart what he says
near the beginning of the Metaphysics about this kind of problem. He says:
“A tangle in our thinking reveals a knot in the thing [ἡ τῆς διανοίας ἀπορία
δηλοῖ τοῦτο περὶ τοῦ πράγματος]” (Met. III.995a30–31). To state the matter
too bluntly—and I will return to this in greater detail in a few moments—
the emotions are both natural and learned; anyone can feel any of them,
but we learn about them and about the world by feeling them. As Martha
Nussbaum put it in the case of pity and fear: “Tragedy contributes to human
self-understanding precisely through its exploration of the pitiable and the
fearful. The way it carries out this exploratory task is by moving us to respond
with these very emotions.”1 This explains the apparent paradox: envy and
indignation are not the same thing, and we are naturally capable of feeling
both; but to one who is experienced in the former and relatively untried in
the latter, they can seem the same. The converse, however, is not true: to feel
indignation is to have one’s focus trained not on the direct comparison of
the other who possesses some goods to ourselves, but on the comparison
between the goods and what it would take to be worthy of them, with the
result that someone who knows indignation does not mistake it for envy. I
think this coheres with how we usually think when we are (or think our-
selves) capable of distinguishing between another’s envy and his indignation.
That it is more difficult to do so with regard to our own reactions is not
surprising. I think the difficulty is one that Aristotle obliquely acknowledges
by peppering his statements about the similarity in worldview between pity
and indignation with claims that the latter is something we should feel if we
do feel the latter. ‘Should’ and ‘ought’ indicate something that can be, and
perhaps often is, otherwise.
Concerning envy and indignation, let us note in conclusion that the dif-
ference between them corresponds to something that is not particularly well
differentiated in pity (much less in fear). We pity both those who appear
to suffer undeservedly and those who merely resemble us; the pity may
be intensified in the former case—as we might come to know in viewing
performances of tragedies, where the nobility of the sufferer is presented
emphatically—but the feeling is substantially the same one; and the same-
ness of feeling is no accident, in that we are already disposed as spectators
to identify ourselves with the protagonists. Indignation, then, would be a
kind of natural outgrowth of pity where one term of this pair comes to pre-
dominate. Somehow, it seems, the experience of pity itself would have to
show us clearly what it, in its initial form, obscures, such that we could come
200 greg recco
to recognize that if we feel pity, we ought to feel indignation. If it cannot

do this by itself, perhaps the information could come from somewhere else,
from something that is neither pity, nor envy, nor indignation.
While there is nothing particularly wrong with indignation, as there
apparently is with envy (or at least with an exclusive focus on it), both
emotions differ from the last emotion Aristotle discusses, emulousness or
admiration, in something like the same way that anger differs from fear and
pity. We noted earlier that anger finds fault with the wrongness of the one
doing the slighting, while fear and pity react to the undeserving character of
the one suffering ills. In introducing this final emotion, Aristotle puts the
difference in similar terms. To repeat: “Emulousness is a pain at the apparent
presence of highly valuable good characteristics that it is possible for one to
obtain in those who are like one in nature, a pain not because the other has
them, but because one does not oneself.”
Aristotle does not have much to add to this initial characterization, and I
will not add much myself, except to note that it does not answer the questions
I posed at the beginning of this essay. On the one hand, this kind of admira-
tion seems to require a particularly mature stance toward the world, where
we view the question of how good things are distributed among people as a
matter primarily for our own action with regard to ourselves (“minding our
own business,” as Socrates has it in the Republic). On this account, Aristotle
would have placed anger first and admiration last as a sign of their respec-
tive places within the development of the person. On the other hand, the
spontaneous imitation of what appears beautiful, the way we make our own
what appears, so to speak, only at the far horizon of what we are able to see of
the world, is a feature of every stage of life, from the most serious and adult
attempt to reform our character in the face of an overwhelmingly compelling
person, through the pleasure we take in stories, back even to the simplest
childhood games, where we show already that we do not live entirely in the
present, but freely and joyfully let things show us the possibility of another
world. In this latter sense, the emotions would not be the painful path of pil-
grimage that unfortunately embodied creatures like ourselves must tread in
order to become who we were meant to be, but the free, cooperative creation
of the whole realm of human significance, born in the boiling of the blood
and perfected in speech and sweet persuasion.
Note
1. Martha Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and
Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 390.
Key Readings
Belfiore, Elizabeth. “Pleasure, Tragedy, and Aristotelian Psychology.” Classical Quarterly
35, no. 2 (1985): 349–361.
Cope, Edward Meredith. An Introduction to Aristotle’s Rhetoric. London: Macmillan and
Co., 1867.
Fortenbaugh, William. Aristotle’s Practical Side: On His Psychology, Ethics, Politics, and
Rhetoric. Leiden: Brill, 2006.
Furley, David J., and Alexander Nehamas, eds. Aristotle’s Rhetoric: Philosophical Essays.
Garver, Eugene. Aristotle’s Rhetoric: An Art of Character. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1994.
Grimaldi, William M. A., S.J. Aristotle Rhetoric I: A Commentary. New York: Fordham
Kosman, L. A. “Being Properly Affected: Virtues and Feelings in Aristotle’s Dialectic and
Rhetoric.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, edited by A. O. Rorty. Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1980.
Lear, Jonathan. Aristotle: The Desire to Understand. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1988.
Mayhew, Robert. Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Lit-
tlefield, 1997.
Nieuwenberg, Paul. “Emotion and Perception in Aristotle’s Rhetoric.” Australasian Journal
of Philosophy 80, no. 1 (2002): 86–100.
Nussbaum, Martha. The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philoso-
phy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.
Rorty, Amélie Oksenberg, ed. Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric. Berkeley: University of Cali-
fornia Press, 1996.
Solmsen, Friedrich. “Aristotle and Cicero on the Orator’s Playing on the Feelings.” Clas-
sical Philology 33, no. 4 (1938): 390–404.
Hontina tropon gignetai philos: Genesis versus
Alteration in the Forming of Friendships
John McCumber
At On Coming-to-Be and Passing Away I.4, Aristotle contrasts two sorts of

change, alteration and genesis:
There is ‘alteration’ when the substratum is perceptible [αἰσθητοῦ

ὄντος] and persists, but changes in its own properties . . . But when
nothing perceptible persists in its identity as a substratum and
the thing changes as a whole . . . such an occurrence is no longer
‘alteration.’ It is a coming-to be [γένεσις] of one substance, and a
passing-away of another. (GC I.319b9–11)
My question here will be: which of these models of change applies to the
forming of a friendship? The question is important, for unless we can answer
it, we remain where Socrates found himself in the Lysis: “I do not even know
how one man becomes the friend of another [ὅντινα τρόπον γίγνεται φιλος
ἕτερος ἑτέρου]” (Ly. 212a).
Mediating Aristotle’s views on friendship through Cicero, Diogenes,
Montaigne, Nietzsche, and Carl Schmitt in The Politics of Friendship,1 Jacques
Derrida formulates what he at one point calls “minimal friendship,” the friend-
ship invoked in the formula ō philoi oudeis philos.2 These words, attributed to
Aristotle by his ancient biographer Diogenes Laertius (Lives V.21), occur sur-
prisingly often in the canonical discourses on friendship that Derrida considers
in this book. They are usually rendered as “O my friends, there is no friend.”
But that is paradoxical: if there are no friends, to whom does Aristotle
address his words? The general view, suggests Derrida, is that he must be
saying that there are no true friends; its addressees are indeed friends, but
not ‘truly.’ So there are different kinds of friendship, and only one of them is
‘true.’ This is what Cicero called the “sovereign and master-f riendship.”3 In
his own account of friendship at Nicomachean Ethics VIII and IX, Aristotle
203
204 john mccumber
calls it “friendship of the good” (EN VIII.1156b7). For him, this kind of
friendship gives the philosophical master-concept of friendship because it is
the most complete form of friendship. Other kinds, including friendships of
use and pleasure, can be only understood by being compared to it.
So the friends to whom the call is addressed are friends of a sort, but not
true friends. But friends of what sort? And why say this to them at all? Both
questions can be answered, Derrida also suggests, by seeing Aristotle’s state-
ment as a call to friendship: the friends addressed are friendly to be sure; but
they are not yet related by true friendship, or “friendship of the good,” and
the point of the statement is to call them to that specific kind of friendship.
Thus, “O my friends,” Derrida writes,
turns toward the past. It recalls, it points to that which must indeed
be supposed in order to be heard, if only in the non-apophantic
form of prayer: you [the addressee] have already marked this mini-
mal friendship, this preliminary consent without which you would
not hear me.4
This, then, is what Derrida calls “minimal friendship.” Past-oriented, it is

presupposed by other forms of friendship, which build on it in various ways.
Minimal friends are
friends of an entirely different kind, inaccessible friends, friends

who are alone because they are incomparable and without com-
mon measure, reciprocity, or equality. Therefore without a horizon
of recognition. Without familial bonds, without proximity, without
oikeiotēs [hominess].5
The formation of such a friendship thus includes the stripping-away of

all components of one’s identity—all “common measure” with others. As
Aristotle might put it, in such friendship “nothing perceptible persists in its
identity as a substratum”: minimal friendship comes about through genesis,
not alteration.
In its lack of proximity and of sharing, and in that other forms of friend-
ship presuppose it, Derrida’s conception of minimal friendship recalls another
conception of friendship, one he never mentions: Aristotle’s brief and cryptic
discussion at Nicomachean Ethics IX.5, of eunoia, or (as it is usually trans-
lated) ‘goodwill.’ This, too, is a minimal sort of friendship, because it is merely
the feeling of wishing good things for another person (EN VIII.1155b32–
1156a5). It may be directed, as in the case of competitors in an athletic
h o n t i n a t ro p o n g i g n eta i ph i lo s 205
contest, toward a person whom one does not even know, to whom one has
never spoken and may never speak. It arises when that person appears to be
beautiful, or courageous, or some such thing. This perception of virtue or
worth in another, which as an appearance may of course be mistaken, gives
rise to goodwill toward the other much as ‘the pleasure of the eye’ gives rise
to erotic desire. Goodwill, Aristotle concludes, is the archē of true or fraternal
friendship, which does not come to be without passing through it.
Aristotle’s account of goodwill differs from Derrida’s account of minimal
friendship in that (a) it begins with a feeling and (b) this feeling is awakened
through the perception of some sort of excellence in the other. This latter
point brings Aristotle’s account of goodwill into accord with his account of
true friendship, for the observation of virtuous actions is naturally pleasant to
the virtuous (EN IX.1169b34–1170a2). In order to be impressed by the excel-
lence of another, then, I must be excellent myself; since we are both good
people, once we recognize our mutual goodwill it naturally develops into
master friendship, the friendship of the good (EN VII.1155b34–1156a5)—a
friendship founded on likeness, which Derrida calls “fraternity.”
The matter is more complicated, however, for Aristotle is not talking about
virtue here; he is talking about the appearance of virtue. What I perceive as
excellent about another human being, and what incites my goodwill toward
her, may have little to do with what Aristotle calls aretē, virtue or excellence.
Good looks, for example, may incite goodwill; but they have nothing to
do with human virtue, which resides not in the body but in the soul (EN
I.1102a15–16). It is subsequent experience that decides. If my initial good
impressions of someone are borne out in my later experience of her, then my
goodwill was accurate; if not, it was mistaken. And if we are to take seriously
the noia in eunoia, we have to say that accurate eunoia is what eunoia should
be, for only accurate eunoia is truly nous.
Eunoia is thus to be defined as the accurate perception of excellence in
another; a deluded perception is a defective case of eunoia. The criterion of
accuracy, however, is whether eunoia subsequently develops into fraternal
friendship. Thus, when Aristotle says that minimal friendship is the archē of
true friendship, he is saying more than that the former is a necessary con-
dition for the latter. He is saying that we only know what eunoia is when
we know what true friendship is, just as we only know what an acorn is
when we know what an oak is. Philia is then the telos of eunoia; it helps us
understand eunoia because it is what eunoia will become if nothing untoward
interferes—such as a defective perception at the outset.
Underlying this development of goodwill into true or fraternal friendship,
in turn, must be what we can call my aspiration to excellence. In order to want
206 john mccumber
good things for another, I must value genuine excellence and so must want to
see her apparent excellence turn out to be genuine. Guided by my ongoing
aspiration to excellence, the making of a true friend is an alteration in me: I, in
my aspiration to excellence, am the persisting substrate of the change. I thus do
not come to be through my friends. Indeed, as Nicomachean Ethics IX.4 argues,
I must not only exist but also love myself in order to love them; and true self-
love, for Aristotle, is what I call “aspiration to excellence” (EN IX.1166a14–20).
Making a friend, for Aristotle, is therefore a case of alteration.
For both Derrida and Aristotle, friendship begins in a relationship that
exists prior to sharing and, indeed, prior to speech. But for Derridean minimal
friendship, there are no criteria by which we can identify toward whom we
feel such friendship; the other is entirely ‘incomparable,’ so there is no way to
specify what properties she must have. For Aristotle, from the start, I know
whether someone offers at least the appearance of excellence; the question,
to be decided by further acquaintance, is whether this appearance is genuine
or not. For Aristotle, then, eunoia cannot be understood except as leading, or
not leading, to true friendship. For Derrida, by contrast, minimal friendship
is what it is without regard to whether it develops into some other form of
friendship. Both these distinctions are grounded on a more basic one: for Aris-
totle, forming a friendship presupposes a ‘perceptible substrate’ in the form of
the individual’s aspiration to excellence, and is therefore a case of alteration;
for Derrida it presupposes nothing and is, or can be, a case of genesis.
This brings us to Plato’s Phaedrus, for here we find the forming of a friend-
ship treated as genesis rather than alteration. This happens in the dialogue’s
third speech, the Palinode, which I must discuss in some detail. It has, for our
purposes, three main parts:6 a discussion of soul as auto kinoun or ‘moving
itself ’ (Phdr. 245c–e), a great myth of the soul’s fall from heaven and resur-
rection to the Forms (Phdr. 246a–250d), and finally an account of an earthly
love affair (Phdr. 250e–256e).
The nature of soul in general is to move itself (Phdr. 245e). There, is to
be sure, scholarly doubt about just what this means.7 In his most detailed
(though still quite short) discussion of kinēsis in the Theaetetus (Tht. 181b–c),
Socrates mentions alloiōsis or ‘alteration’ as one form of it—so to say that
soul is to auto kinoun could be to say that its nature is to alter itself. In the
Laws, to ‘move’ something is to disturb it, and applies to musical, religious,
and legal traditions (Lg. III.684);8 so for soul to be a self-mover would mean
for it to be a self-disturber. Such ‘movement as disturbance’ may be directed
against even the most basic conventions of society, including the established
constitution (katatasis) itself; and it may not merely disturb them, but over-
turn them. In that case, ‘motion’ means revolution, and self-motion means
self-overthrow—a notion the Phaedrus evokes in stating that as soul moves

around the universe, it “changes from one form to another [ἄλλοτ’ ἐν ἄλλοις
εἴδεσι γιγνομενή]” (Phdr. 246b) and thus changes in its basic properties—a
view of self-motion which Aristotle attributed to Plato.9 True to the analogy
between individual and state that motivates the Republic (R. II.368d–369a),
this dimension is preserved when Plato discusses individual souls: for an
individual to be ‘moved’ means for her to fall victim to prophetic or erotic
madness (Ion 533d; Phdr. 245b).
The forming of a friendship is portrayed in the Palinode via a myth whose
beginning shows the individual soul as having not one principle of motion
but three, presented as a wing and two horses. The wing enables the soul to
rise toward the Forms, but has shriveled to a mere stump, causing the soul to
fall to the ground. The two horses, which can be broadly viewed as desires,
now take over and pull the soul like a chariot across the surface of the earth.
Its motion is erratic, because while one horse is good and cooperative with
the driver of the chariot, the other is mean and headstrong (Phdr. 246b). The
two horses are thus enemies. We now have in effect three souls: three prin-
ciples of self-motion within a single living thing. The result is that the soul
can be pulled in different directions at once, or can be suspended between
alternatives—as Phaedrus himself is suspended between Socrates and Lysias,
and as the smitten soul later in the Palinode will be said to be (cf. Phdr. 236b,
252b, 257b).
When such a soul sees a beautiful person, it may simply take after that
beauty “like a four-footed beast,” at the behest of the evil horse (Phdr. 250e).
But a soul of higher quality restrains itself and experiences a very different
sort of motion: it catches and holds, says the myth, a stream of particles ema-
nating from the beauty it beholds. These particles nourish the stump of its
wing, causing it to regrow (Phdr. 251e).
At this point, we have a story of motion from without—the stream of
particles emanating from the loved one—being caught and held by the soul,
thus becoming motion within—the regeneration of the “most divine” part
of the soul, its wing (cf. Phdr. 246). The soul itself is, like a living organism,
dynamic enough to capture and retain motion from outside; to appropriate
that motion; and derive nourishment from it.
In this, the soul is upended:
All the rules of conduct, all the graces of life of which [the lover
was previously proud, he now disdains; and is ready to enslave
himself and to lie down wherever it is allowed near the loved.
(Phdr. 252a)
208 john mccumber
This self-enslavement does not last, however. The particles which the soul
is not strong enough to retain within itself do not escape into the environ-
ment at large, but are reflected back to the beautiful person, by now the
soul’s “beloved” (Phdr. 255b–c). His soul, catching and holding them in turn,
is affected in a way similar to, but less intense than, that of the soul itself.
Lover and beloved in this way come to constitute a couple, a closed system
of mutual mirroring.
This systemic closure of the loving couple means that the motion in their
souls is no longer a linear, ‘wandering’ pursuit of sensory objects of desire,
but circular interchange. As the Timaeus and the Laws will tell us, circular
motion is less mobile than other kinds, for it involves no change in place, and
so is more noble (Tim. 34a; Lg. X.893c). Their relatively settled motion at
last brings the lovers to the quiet of the couch, where they do not succumb
to their sexual attraction, but transmute it into the “ordered rule of the philo-
sophical life.” In this they have been liberated: the “power of evil in the soul
has been subjected, and the power of goodness set free [ἐλευθερώσαντες]”
(Phdr. 256b3).
This motion, as proper to the soul, is “self-motion” (Phdr. 245e). But there
are several senses in which the individual soul in the Palinode is portrayed as
not self-moving. Its original fall from the heavens is caused, somehow, from
without. Its early, confused wanderings across the earth are also motivated
externally, as its ‘horses’ drag it after desired objects. Even when seized by the
vision of the beloved, the soul is not portrayed as a self-mover: it is a sort of
mirror which catches and appropriates the motion of visual particles.
Self-motion does, I suggest, apply more clearly to the conjoined souls of
the loving couple. That couple constitutes what I have called a closed system,
in which each part—each individual—derives its motion from the other.
Each individual is moved from without, by the desire for (or particles from)
the other. It is the couple as a whole that is moved from within: the linear
pursuit of desired objects becomes a circular transfer of particles.
The final step is the ‘victory’ on the couch, where the lovers check their
physical desire and lie side by side. Here their souls finally achieve “self-
mastery and good order [ἐγκρατεῖς αὑτῶν καὶ κόσμιοι ὄντες]” (Phdr. 256b).
“Self-mastery,” in the Republic, is sobriety—the rule, within the individual
soul, of its inferior parts by reason (R. IV.430e–431a). As immanent to the
individual soul, self-mastery here must refer to the final completion of the
process, in which the lovers become self-moving as individuals outside their
relationship; when one of them dies, the other is able to carry on (for the
claim at Phdr. 256b, which says that their victory will last for their lifetimes,
can hardly be promising that they will both die at the same time).
Self-mastery in the Palinode thus has a paradoxical status: all soul is inher-
ently self-moving, but the individual in the Palinode is self-moving only at
the end of the process described. The paradox can be resolved by seeing that
the Palinode presents us with an account of the genesis of a soul. At the
beginning we do not have a unified being of any sort, much less a soul, but
merely a site of contestation among three different principles of motion; at
the end we have a unified, well-ordered being that has achieved self-mastery.
The transformations of the soul in this account go to its very core; not only
does it become unified and so a soul, it is also enslaved and then liberated
along the way. As it becomes a soul, it becomes a self-mover; where at the
beginning it is at the mercy of particles from without, in the penultimate
stage it achieves what we might call ‘indirect self-motion,’ in that the impe-
tus it receives from the beloved is really its own impetus being reflected back
to it, and vice versa. In the final stage, it becomes directly self-moving in that
it achieves self-mastery and is able to direct itself outside the relationship.
The account shows the genesis of self-motion within the individual, then:
that is, it shows an individual gaining a soul.
Making a friend is thus, for the Phaedrus, the instilling of wholeness in
the soul. Instead of being pulled in different directions by its different parts,
the soul becomes a smoothly functioning whole of heterogeneous parts. This
comes about via an interactive process with another human being: the lov-
ing couple constitutes a human environment for the individual soul. Only
through belonging to this environment does the individual soul achieve unity
with itself. In that sense the erotic experience recounted in the Palinode is
constitutive for the individual human soul: without it, such a soul will be just
a collection of diverse motions, not ‘a’ soul at all.
This entire process of liberation is, however, grounded in the Platonic
metaphysics of to kalon or ‘beauty.’ Beauty, of all the Forms, is the “most
apparent [ἐκφανέστατον] and most lovely [ἐρασμιώτατον]” (Phdr. 250d) in
the sensible world. The beholder of beauty in the body of another is thus
presented with an alternative: either to regard it as a purely sensory phe-
nomenon, and operate as a beast; or to perceive its true nature as an image of
Beauty itself, which leads to the kind of love affair the Palinode depicts. It is
on the metaphysical level that the Phaedrus’s account of making a friend as
the genesis of a soul seems to be captured by what Derrida calls “fraternity”:
the kind of friendship that is restricted to people of a specifiable type. For
though just one “god” draws the lovers upward to the Forms, polytheism has
an important role here. In the Palinode’s first depiction of the soul’s rise to
and beyond heaven (Phdr. 246e–247a), no fewer than twelve gods and god-
desses approach the Forms, each with a retinue of human followers. When
210 john mccumber
those followers return to earth, they retain the way of life of the “god” they
followed previously (Phdr. 252a). The beloved whom they come to find is
a follower, we read, of the same god (Phdr. 252e–253b). What this means,
then, is that there is a definite number of types of soul (Phdr. 271d), and the
loving relationship portrayed in the Palinode can only be found by someone
who shares one’s soul-type. The attraction that begins the relationship then
is already a case of likeness of soul, or fraternity; but only the “god” at work
in it knows this.
A beautiful body is such because of its relation to the supersensible or
intelligible world of the Forms, and in particular to its most apparent deni-
zen, Beauty itself. But human beauty, for Plato, is not only or even mainly
a matter of bodies. Socrates, after all, hardly has a beautiful body; yet as
Alcibiades makes clear in the Symposium, young men found him profoundly
attractive. What attracted them, of course, were his words.
Despite its hostile treatment of rhetoric, which Derrida has followed out
in famous detail,10 the Phaedrus does not simply dismiss beauty of speech,
and resultant persuasion, out of hand. It claims merely that anyone who
wants to speak “well and beautifully” must first know the truth of the subject
matter (Phdr. 259e; cf. Phdr. 273b). The philosophical speech depicted in the
Palinode is hardly restricted to the dialectical examination of word mean-
ings portrayed, we will see, at its end. There is nothing to exclude from it
the kind of rhetorical seduction that Socrates, through the Palinode itself,
uses on Phaedrus to turn him toward philosophy. Even Diotima, who thinks
Socrates gives far too high a place to logos, allows “beautiful words [kaloi
logoi]” to have a role in philosophy (Smp. 210a).11
The soul in the Palinode, on first seeing a beautiful body, does not know
that its beauty manifests its relationship to an intelligible world. This means,
we noted, that the soul on first apprehension of a beautiful body can go in one
of two directions: either straight after that body in beastly fashion or, after
hesitation, upward toward the Forms. A similar, but more complex, choice is
present in the case of certain words: those whose meanings are disputable.
When confronted with such words, we “wander [πλανώμεθα]” intellectu-
ally. Different people “are carried [φέρεται]” by them in different directions
(Phdr. 263a). They thus behave like the miserable chariot at the beginning
of the love affair (Phdr. 236b, 252b, 257b); and just as the right procedure
with physical beauty is not to go straight for it but to allow oneself to see
it as the image of an intelligible entity, so the right procedure with such a
word is not simply to use it for its seductive and intriguing sound but to
look to its meaning. For both, oxytēs or ‘acuteness’ is required (see Phdr. 250e
and 263c).
If one is to use a word correctly, Plato continues, it is necessary to perform

both “collection” and “division” with respect to it: one must allow one’s mind
to be carried to its single root meaning, and then in a disciplined way see
all the various specific meanings that it has, irrespective of how one actually
intends to argue with it (Phdr. 265a–266b). When this happens, the resulting
discourse is beautiful not merely by ornament but also in their clarity and
coherence, virtues that Socrates claims for his own final definition of “mad-
ness” (Phdr. 265d).
Thus, proper procedure with words corresponds to proper procedure with
loved ones. Indeed, the two coincide. For the attainment of self-mastery by
the philosophical lovers can be seen as the victory of logos, or speech, over
sōma, or ‘body’: the lovers on the couch decide not to consummate their rela-
tionship physically, but to love one another in words alone. At that point,
they at last become true philosophers (Phdr. 256a).
The souls of the philosophical lovers thus come to concern themselves
not with actions, but with logoi. Moreover, the lovers do not use these logoi
to pursue earthly purposes but examine them on their own account, allow-
ing themselves to be carried upward to the true meanings of those logoi: the
Forms (cf. Phdr. 256aff.). Aware now of their ‘true’ motion as the metaphysi-
cal motion toward the Forms, they enter into that motion as their own. Their
love turns into dialectic, the disciplined investigation of language; and it is no
wonder that Socrates should refer to himself as a “lover” of dialectic (Phdr.
265c–266b).
The genesis of the soul depicted in the Palinode is thus to be understood
not merely in psychological, physical, or metaphysical terms, but as a type of
discourse as well. This discourse comprises both the words and arguments
of dialectic and the kind of persuasion brought about by rhetoric. The main
distinction between the two, emphasized by Derrida, is that dialectic requires
and aims at truth. More relevant here is a corollary of this: that persuasive
arguments are valid only for those possessing souls of a certain type; dia-
lectical logoi, being ultimately truths about the Forms, are valid universally
(Phdr. 249b, 271b). Any human being has a soul of a certain type, and finds
certain sorts of logoi persuasive. A person who has not studied the soul dia-
lectically (for which see Phdr. 271d) will not know why this is, and so will
not know what sorts of argument would persuade people with soul-types
differing from her own. Such a person will be able to speak only with others
who share her soul-type, which is precisely the case with the lovers who are
“following the gods” up to the Forms in the Palinode (cf. Phdr. 252c–253c).
Someone who has studied dialectic, however, is in possession of what is true,
and so valid for all. True language for Plato, then, is language that can be
212 john mccumber
used to talk with anyone whatsoever. For such a person, all human being are
potential friends, for all have seen the Forms; that is why they are able to
speak (Phdr. 249b–250a).
This is where Platonic friendship escapes fraternity. The reason why speech
is not confined to those with similar soul-types is that all humans have seen
the Forms. Since words gain meaning (and become real words) through their
relation to the Forms, and in the first instance the ‘most apparent’ of these,
Beauty, all humans are able to find beauty in the words of another. A soul
may be attracted only by the bodies of certain people then; but it is capable
of being attracted by the words of anyone whatsoever. The only ‘similarity’ in
play in the latter case is only that, as human beings, both are able to speak.
But in distinguishing between being attracted by the words of another
and being attracted by the body of another, we seem to have strayed rather
far from the overt concern of the Phaedrus, which is with love affairs as
opposed to friendships. This distinction, however may be overrated; for Aris-
totle, erōs is an excess of friendship, but the two do not differ in kind (EN
VIII.1158a122–13). In Platonic terms, a contrast between the two could be
formulated as follows: erōs begins in the pleasure of the eye, when one finds
the body of another attractive. It cannot begin any other way, for our first
acquaintance with other people is always sensory. Friendship, however, begins
with the pleasure of the ear, when one finds the speech of another attractive.
This does not make either less intense or profound than the other; each can
bring about the ‘genesis’ of a soul. But it does make them different. We would
thus have a distinction between philia sōmatikē, or ‘bodily friendship,’ and
philia logikē, or ‘discursive or rational friendship,’ insofar as the former would
be called, in English, ‘erotic,’ while the latter would be ‘friendly.’
Forming a friendship (in the sense of a philia logikē), as the genesis of a
soul, is not founded on similarity beyond the shared capacity to speak some
language; it is not a kind of fraternity, but begins in something akin to Der-
ridean “minimal friendship.” Indeed, we may say that this kind of ‘genetic
friendship’ is the reverse of deconstruction. Where deconstruction is, as Der-
rida puts it in Speech and Phenomena, a “feeling [our] way across the towards
the unnameable,”12 dialectic—and true friendship—would be feeling the
way toward words.
Notes
1. Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship, trans. G. Collins (London: Verso,
1994/1999).
2. Derrida, Politics of Friendship, 236.
3. Ibid., 2.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., 35.
6. I skip the Palinode’s first part, the positive definition of love in terms of madness
(Phdr. 244a–245c).
7. Cf. GC I.320a18 and I.322b9.
8. See also Lg. V.738c and d, VI.77c and 816c, and VII.797b.
9. Cf. De an. I.406b11–15.
10. Derrida, “La pharmacie de Platon,” in La dissémination (Paris: Editions du Seuil,
1972), 69–197.
11. For the role of beautiful discourse in the Symposium, and Diotima’s denigration of
it, see Drew A. Hyland, Plato and the Question of Beauty (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 2008), 56–58.
12. Derrida, Speech and Phenomena, trans. D. B. Allison (1967; reprint, Evanston, Ill.:
Northwestern University Press, 1973), 77.
Key Readings
Cooper, John. Reason and Human Good in Aristotle. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1975.
Derrida, Jacques. The Politics of Friendship. Translated by G. Collins. London: Verso, 1999.
Dover, K. J. Greek Homosexuality. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1978.
Fortenbaugh, W. W. “Aristotle’s Analysis of Friendship.” Phronesis 20 (1975): 51–62.
Gould, Thomas. Platonic Love. New York: Free Press of Glencoe, 1963
Griswold, Charles L. Self-Knowledge in Plato’s Phaedrus. New Haven, Conn.: Yale Uni-
Homiak, Marcia. “Virtue and Self-Love in Aristotle’s Ethics.” Canadian Journal of Phi-
losophy 11 (1981): 633–652.
Nichols, Mary P. Socrates on Friendship and Community: Reflections on Plato’s Symposium,
Phaedrus, and Lysis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
Pakaluk, Michael. “Commentary.” In Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics Books VIII and IX. Ox-
ford: Clarendon, 1998.
Price, A. Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle. Oxford: Clarendon, 1989
Robin, Léon. Théorie platonicienne de l’amour. Paris: Alcan, 1908.
Sinaiko, Herman L. Love, Knowledge and Discourse in Plato. Chicago: University of Chi-
cago Press, 1965.
Stern-Gillet, Suzanne. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Friendship. Albany: State University of New
York Press, 1995.
Vlastos, Gregory. “The Individual as Object of Love in Plato.” In Platonic Studies, 3–42.
The Political Context for Virtue: Aristotle’s Politics
Eve Rabinoff
It is common, when meeting a person for the first time, to introduce oneself
by referring to one’s profession, one’s role in a family, one’s interests, and so
on. We draw on these categories as an immediate and basic answer to the
question “Who are you?” We are fathers and mothers, politicians and hair-
dressers, rock climbers and readers. This reflects a basic facet of a person’s
identity: our self-definition implicitly refers to others, the communities we
engage with in our various pursuits. Who we are emerges from and draws on
a social, interpersonal, and political context. In a very real way, who we are
depends on such a context.
I begin a discussion of Aristotle’s Politics with this reflection because Aris-
totle holds that in a very real way, our being depends on our political context.
Aristotle famously claims that the human being is by nature a political ani-
mal. Nearly as famously, Aristotle emphasizes how essential membership
in political community is to being a human being by twice designating a
person who lives outside political community as inhuman, either lesser or
greater than a human being (Pol. I.1253a3–4), either a beast or a god (Pol.
I.1253a26–29). Interestingly, the inhumanity of such an extrapolitical indi-
vidual lies in its self-sufficiency: insofar as an individual is self-sufficient, that
individual is insufficiently human. The implication is that, to Aristotle’s mind,
lacking individual self-sufficiency is constitutive of being human and living
a human life. To say it otherwise, human beings are essentially dependent
creatures, dependent in their very being on political community. Absent this
dependency, an individual is either a beast or a god. This raises a basic set of
questions: why and in what sense is the individual lacking in self-sufficiency?
Why and in what sense does a person need to live in political community in
order fully to be a person?
A preliminary answer is that the human being lacks self-sufficiency in
the sense that she depends on the cooperation of others to provide for her
basic material needs and for the continuation of life. Seeking the parts of the
political community by looking to its beginnings, Aristotle identifies first
215
216 eve rabinoff
“a pairing together of those who do not have the power to be without each
other, such as a female and a male for the sake of generation . . . and some-
thing naturally ruling and ruled for preservation” (Pol. I.1252a26–31).1 These
two pairs together form the household, “the kind of community organized in
accord with nature for everyday life” (Pol. I.1252b12–14).2
This sort of lack of self-sufficiency, however, does not capture the uniquely
human nature of the political animal’s dependency, nor is this a need that
requires political community to be fulfilled. There are other gregarious animals,
such as bees, that work together to provide for their basic necessities, but they
are not thereby political animals, according to Aristotle (Pol. I.1253a7–9). It
is not, in other words, in virtue of our humanity that we are dependent on
others for our sustenance; other animals are similarly dependent. And so it is
not surprising that the family and the village are superseded by the city (polis)
(Pol. I.1252b27–30), and that it is in this context that Aristotle introduces the
notion of the human being’s essential dependency (Pol. I.1253a1–4).
If it is not for the fulfillment of material needs that the human being is
essentially dependent on the political community, in what sense is she depen-
dent on it? In the course of discussing the different forms of government,
Aristotle both confirms that it is not our material neediness that makes us
political animals, and makes it clear that, instead, we are political for the sake
of living well (Pol. I.1278b16–23). The city, after all, comes into being for the
sake of life, but it is for the sake of living well (Pol. I.1252b29–30).3 The estab-
lishment of the city elevates life from the merely natural pursuit of survival
to the pursuit of the good, and it is thereby a condition for specifically human
life. But this only offers a refinement to our original set of questions: why and
in what sense is the individual lacking in self-sufficiency with respect to the
good life? Why and in what sense does a person need to live in political com-
munity in order fully to be a person, that is, to live a good human life?
A third answer is that we essentially depend on political community
because political community is a necessary condition for virtue. Aristotle
identifies the human good as “an activity of soul in accordance with virtue”
(EN I.1098a16–17),4 and he considers politikē to be the architectonic art
of the human good (EN I.1094b26–28). Furthermore, it may be that one
particular virtue, justice, is inherently political in the sense that it can only
be developed and exercised in the context of political life. This answer is rec-
ommended by Aristotle’s explanation of what makes the political animal
political as opposed to merely gregarious:
Why a human being is a political animal, more than every sort of

bee and every sort of herd animal, is clear. For nature, as we claim,
the political context for virtue 217
does nothing uselessly, and a human being, alone among the ani-
mals, has speech . . . speech is for disclosing what is advantageous
and what is harmful, and so too what is just and what is unjust . . .
and it is an association involving these things that makes a house-
hold and a city. (Pol. I.1253a8–18)
It is in virtue of our natural ability to communicate the just and the unjust
that our mode of community is political, not merely social. This suggests that
justice is an indelibly political virtue.
In what follows, I aim to develop and defend the proposal that the human
being is an essentially political animal because the city provides the necessary
context for virtue. It does so in three respects: first, in a mundane sense, the
city is the necessary context for virtue because it releases (some) people from
the menial pursuit of supplying the material necessities of life, enabling them
to take on the pursuit of the good life. Second, in a substantive sense, the city
enables the pursuit of virtue by initiating its citizens into the project of living
well by educating them in virtue. Third, the city enables the exercise of virtue
by providing the context within which there are others who are the appro-
priate recipients of virtue. This last respect brings in the notion that the city
is a necessary context for justice in particular, for Aristotle determines that
justice is, in one sense, the exercise of complete virtue with respect to others
(EN V.1129b25–33). Ultimately, it seems to me that the city is the necessary
context for virtue because the city establishes a reality in which the project of
developing virtue is both given definition and also is sustained by others who
join together to share such a project.
I
Let me begin by offering an orienting comment on the nature of the human
good at which we aim in our pursuit of the good life. As is indicated by Aris-
totle’s designation of the extrapolitical individual as either a beast or a god,
human life in general is situated between the natural and the divine.5 Aris-
totle reiterates this sentiment in the Nicomachean Ethics, situating human
virtue and vice between godliness and beastliness (EN VII.1145a15–27; see
also Pol. VII.1145a25–27). One thing that marks off human life from animal
and divine life is that living a good human life requires the explicit identi-
fication and pursuit of the human telos, fulfillment, or aim. A tree naturally
and automatically aims at and achieves its own fruition, and the divine is
complete in every moment and in every activity. But we human beings must
identify for ourselves the aim or telos of our lives in order to aim at it.
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This is evident in the many meanings people attribute to what they all agree
is the highest human good, happiness: pleasure, wealth, honor, virtue (EN
I.1095a20–23). Exactly how a person interprets happiness will significantly
determine what she aims at achieving and how she goes about living her life.
Furthermore, Aristotle says in the Nicomachean Ethics that we ought to come
to know what the good of our actions and our lives is in order best to achieve it
(EN I.1094a17–26). Unlike other creatures, we will not attain our species’ good
without (correctly) identifying and explicitly aiming at it. Similarly, human vir-
tue or flourishing, Aristotle tells us, is neither by nature nor contrary to nature
but instead arises by means of developing habits (EN II.1103a23–26): unlike
other creatures, we do not flourish in the absence of self-cultivation. If iden-
tifying and explicitly aiming at our telos is a distinctive mark of human life,
perhaps it is this for which the human being depends on the city.
Indeed, the opening line of the Politics claims that all communities aim
at some good, and the city is the most sovereign community, encompass-
ing the family and the village, and it therefore aims at the most sovereign
of goods (Pol. I.1252a1–7). Unlike the family, however, which aims at the
natural good of providing for the necessities and the reproduction of life, the
aim of the city is not simply put in place by nature. More precisely, the gen-
eral aim of political life is given—the city is for the sake of living well—but
the specification of that aim is not given; instead it requires interpretation.
Aristotle makes this clear throughout the discussion of the various political
regimes, but perhaps the most succinct expression of this thought occurs in
the discussion of the best regime in Book VII, where Aristotle contends that
happiness is the same in the case of an individual and in the case of a city:
For those who regard living well as consisting in wealth in the

case of one person also count a whole city as blessedly happy if it
is wealthy; those who hold a tyrannical way of life in the highest
honor would also claim that a city that rules the greatest number of
other cities is the happiest; and if one accepts that a single person is
happy by means of virtue, he will also claim that a city more excel-
lent in virtue is happier. (Pol. VII.1324a5–13)
Some of these interpretations of the good life are in fact misinterpretations—

living well requires virtue above all else, for both individuals and cities (Pol.
VII.1)—nevertheless, the good that the city aims at is arrived at by means of
a decision about what the good life consists in, in the same way that a person
decides about how to live her life. In the case of the city, however, the inter-
pretation of the good life is set up as a common aim.
The point I wish to draw from this is that, although happiness or the
human good is the flourishing of human nature, it is also, in a qualified sense,
a creation of human beings. This is not to say that happiness or the good life
is a human construct, but that the realization of this good for any particular
person or any particular community is a result of human intervention and
initiative. Aristotle expresses this notion at the conclusion of the argument,
in Politics I.2, that the city is by nature and that the human being is by nature
a political animal: “So the impulse toward this sort of community [the city]
is in all people by nature, but the first person to have organized one was
responsible [aitios] for the greatest of goods” (Pol. I.1253a29–31). What I
hope to show in this essay is that the establishment of political community
is a condition both for the individual’s pursuit of virtue and the good life,
insofar as it provides a context that sets the terms for what the good life
consists in, and also that it is the condition for the fruition of virtue, insofar
as it provides the context within which virtue can most properly be exercised.
II
There are two respects in which the city provides the necessary context for
the pursuit of virtue. In one sense, the city is materially necessary for the pur-
suit of virtue: it is in the context of the city that (some) people are released
from the necessary pursuit of the continuation of life to the leisured pursuit
of the good life. The fact of the matter is that if one must see to the work of
surviving—hunting, building and maintaining shelter, and so on—one will
not have the time or occasion to undertake the sorts of activities that lead to
the development of virtue—fighting in battle and developing courage, help-
ing friends, developing generosity and gentleness, and so on. For one thing,
acting virtuously requires the freedom to respond to circumstances as they
emerge (EN II.1104a8–9), and such flexibility is prevented if one must tend
to the needs of the crops (for example), which operate on their own schedule.
Thus, in the Politics Aristotle urges that those who are engaged in menial
labor, and even artisans, ought to be excluded from the class of citizens in
the best city (Pol. III.1277b33–1278a13), for they are unable to pursue vir-
tue (Pol. III.1278a20–21). More significantly, the virtuous act, and the life
defined by such acts, is one undertaken for the sake of the beautiful (kalon)
(EN III.1115b12–13), whereas menial labor, and the life defined by such
labor, is undertaken due to necessity and for the sake of maintaining life,
precluding the opportunity to act for the sake of the beautiful.6
The city is thus the materially necessary context for the pursuit of vir-
tue because within it the community is organized in such a way that those
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suited to menial labor—whom Aristotle deems slaves (Pol. III.1278a11–13,

VII.1329a17–26)—take care of the necessities of life for the city, and those
suited to virtue are thereby free to pursue it. This implies that, whenever we
talk about the pursuit of virtue, we are presupposing the city; the pursuer of
virtue is necessarily a citizen.7 In this light, it is not surprising that Aristo-
tle both begins and concludes the Nicomachean Ethics with discussions of
politics, arguing, in I.2, that the inquiry into the human good is “a sort of
political inquiry” (EN I.1094b10–11), and concluding, in X.9, that “the leg-
islators ought to encourage people in the direction of virtue and exhort them
to act for the sake of the beautiful” (EN I.1180a5–7).
The city is the materially necessary context for the pursuit of virtue, but
there is a second, more substantive way that the city is a necessary condi-
tion for the pursuit of virtue: the city’s laws educate its citizens and initiate
them into the project of developing virtue. Several times in the Nicomachean
Ethics, Aristotle remarks on the importance for the development of virtue
of being well raised with good habits (EN II.1103b23–25, II.1104b11–13,
X.1179b23–32). Perhaps surprisingly to the modern ear, he considers this
moral rearing to be an importantly political task (EN X.1179b20–1180b28,
Pol. VIII.1). In Politics VIII.1, Aristotle offers what appears to be a rather
cynical reason for this: the lawgiver is concerned with the moral upbringing
of the citizens as a safeguard for the constitution, be it just or unjust, rather
than for the sake of promoting the good life (Pol. I.1337a11–18). But this is
needn’t be a cynical reason, for the form of government established is itself
based on an interpretation of the good life. I suggested above that the pursuit
of the good life requires interpretation, and that this is true both for individ-
uals and for the city. In the case of the city, this interpretation about what the
good life consists in serves as the basis for the city’s form of government—an
oligarchy is the form of government based on the pursuit of wealth on the
assumption that the life of wealth is the good life, democracy is the form of
government based on the pursuit of freedom, and so on. Thus the lawgiver
provides an education that not only is a measure of security for the consti-
tution, but also promotes the sort of character that the lawgiver takes to be
a good, happy one (cf. Pol. VII.1324a5–13). The establishment of the city
clears the way for its citizens to pursue the good life, and the kind of city that
is established offers an established interpretation about what the good life is.
The interpretation of the good life that the city is founded on is not
merely one interpretation on offer. Rather, being raised within and by the
city, the citizens become habituated in ways consonant with the city’s laws
and thereby the values implicit in the city’s interpretation of the good life.
This sentiment is expressed in II.8, where Aristotle notes that “the law has
no strength to be obeyed apart from habit, and this does not come easily
but through length of time” (Pol. II.1269a20–22).8 The laws of the city that
educates its citizens are not simply external guides to action, edicts that one
obeys when one is informed of them, but habituated and habitual ways of
behaving—obedience to the law results in an internalization of the norms
the laws express. Aristotle makes it clear that the laws are internalized in the
final chapter of the Nicomachean Ethics, when he remarks:
To obtain from childhood a correct upbringing with a view to vir-

tue is difficult for someone not reared under laws of the requisite
sort. For living in a moderate and controlled way is painful to the
many, especially the young. Hence by means of laws, the rearing
and the regular practices involved must have already been put into
the proper order, for once these become habitual they will not be
painful. (EN X.1179b31–1180a1)
Becoming habituated to the law reconfigures the young person’s feelings of

pleasure and pain, until she no longer feels pain at acting moderately (for
example). Similarly, in an oligarchic society, working for the sake of a pay-
check will no longer be painful, for its citizens will have been habituated to
such behavior and to the norm of wealth on which it is based.
Virtue is developed through a process of habituation, but, as Aristotle’s
emphasis on the importance of early childhood upbringing indicates, the per-
son pursuing virtue does not come to the project with a clean slate. Instead, a
person takes on the pursuit of virtue having already been habituated in certain
ways. In this respect, the development of virtue is an interpersonal project:
the family bears the responsibility of raising children well so that they are in
a position to develop virtuous characters. Although one is responsible for the
character one develops (EN III.5), one does not develop one’s character ex
nihilo, for the circumstances within which one develops character are given in
advance—and these circumstances have a direct bearing on how well equipped
one will be to develop a virtuous character. Furthermore, these circumstances
are, in an important respect, supplied by the city, for at a basic level, political
society shapes the character of its citizens by informing its citizens through its
laws about what the good life consists in. This lawful education sets the initial
parameters (even if they come to be rejected) from within which any individual
pursues virtue. Thus, in the opening of his discussion of justice, Aristotle says:
The laws pronounce on all things, in their aiming at the common

advantage . . . As a result, we say that those things apt to preserve
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happiness and its parts for the political community are just. The
law orders us to do the deeds of a courageous person . . . and those
of the moderate person . . . and those of a gentle person . . . and
similarly also in the case of the other virtues and corruptions; the
commands the ones and forbids the others—correctly in the case
of the law laid down correctly, and in a worse way in the case of the
law laid down haphazardly. (EN V.1129b14–25)
The individual does not arrive at the project of developing virtue by herself;
instead she finds herself already engaged in such a project, having been initi-
ated into it by the moral education provided by the laws of the city.
III
The city is the condition for the development of virtue, both by providing the
material conditions within which virtue can be pursued and by informing its
citizens about the good life. It is also the condition for the exercise of virtue,
as I will try to show in this section. In Nicomachean Ethics V, Aristotle identi-
fies two basic kinds of justice: justice that is the whole of virtue exercised with
respect to others (EN V.1129b25–27), and justice that is a part of virtue and
concerns (primarily) fairness in relationships of exchange (EN V.1130a14–32).
I am concerned with the former sort of justice, and I will show that it is only in
the context of the city that the appropriate others are to be found.
That justice is virtue with respect to others already situates it within a
social context: in order to be just, there must be others toward whom one
can act justly. However, it is not just anyone toward whom the exercise of
virtue is justice. In the first place, the exercise of virtue toward one’s famil-
ial others, the members of one’s household is not just (in the proper sense).
This is implied by Aristotle’s remark that justice “is complete because he who
possesses it is able to use virtue also in relation to another, and not only as
regards himself. For many people are able to use virtue in dealing with the
members of their household, but in their affairs regarding another, they are
unable to do so” (EN V.1129b31–1130a1).9 Being virtuous toward members
of one’s household does not reach the level of justice, for one may use virtue
in interactions within the household, but nonetheless lack justice. What is
deficient about the household as a context for justice?
In one respect, the reason for the lack of justice within the household is
simple. Justice and injustice revolve around the distribution and exchange
of goods, paradigmatically honor and money (EN V.1130b1–2, 30–32), and
such distribution and exchange is predicated on owning property or on being
the bearer of public honors. Within the household, however, there is no

exchange of goods because property belongs to the household and not to the
members individually (Pol. I.1257a19–24); neither are public honors distrib-
uted among members of the (private) household. This can only be half the
story, however, for it is not clear how this absence of exchange relationships
within the household explains the diminishment of the whole of justice, jus-
tice in the sense of the use of complete virtue toward others. It seems quite
plausible that members of a household can be, for example, gentle toward
one another, or engage in cowardly activities that harm one another, even in
the absence of exchange relationships.
We can fill out the second half of the story by looking to Aristotle’s criti-
cism of Plato’s Republic in the second book of the Politics. Here Aristotle
criticizes Plato’s argument concerning the arrangement of the community of
the guardians. Plato argues that the guardians ought not to have any private
possessions and ought to have all things in common for the sake of establish-
ing the strongest possible unity within the city (R. V.462a–e), and Aristotle
rejects the hypothesis on which this argument is based. The hypothesis, as
Aristotle articulates it, is “that it is best for the city to be entirely one to the
greatest possible degree.” Rather, Aristotle counters, “it is evident that by
advancing and becoming more of a one it will not be a city. For a city is by
nature a certain kind of multiplicity; by becoming more of a one it would
turn from a city into a household and from a household into a human being”
(Pol. II.1261a15–20). The implication is that the members of a household
are too strongly unified, are not sufficiently differentiated from one another,
so as to count as a multiplicity. They are, instead, rather like the parts of the
body that together constitute a unified, single organism. Just as both a hand
and a foot, although distinct, are both my hand and foot, so too the indi-
vidual members of the household, although distinct, belong to a single entity,
the household.10
The more unified something is, the less justice can be found within it.
Aristotle argues that one cannot commit injustice against oneself, for one
who harms himself “suffers voluntarily, and no one suffers injustice volun-
tarily” (EN V.1138a12). One can harm oneself, Aristotle argues, but harm is
not unjust unless is it suffered unwillingly, and in order to be suffered unwill-
ingly the sufferer cannot also be the perpetrator. Thus, in the same way that
it is not unjust for me to hit my own arm, even though it is painful, neither
is it unjust (in the proper sense) for one family member to hit another, even
though it is harmful. If this is true, and if justice is an other-regarding virtue
in general, the reason justice is diminished in the household is that house-
hold others are not ‘other’ in the respect that would make justice a relevant
224 eve rabinoff
virtue. They are not really other at all, so to be virtuous with respect to mem-
bers of one’s household is rather like being virtuous with respect to oneself.
Aristotle confirms this in Nicomachean Ethics V.6, saying, “There is no injus-
tice in an unqualified sense toward one’s own things, but one’s property or
offspring . . . is like a part of oneself, and nobody chooses to harm himself ”
(EN V.1134b9–12).
The household does not supply the context for justice because the mem-
bers of the household are insufficiently differentiated to be recipients of the
other-regarding virtue. However, it is not just any nonhousehold other who
is the full recipient of justice. In Politics III.9 Aristotle points out that all that
is necessary for a successful treaty or trade agreement between foreigners is
that those covered by the agreement do no injustice, and whether or not they
are just or unjust is irrelevant (Pol. III.1280a40–b5). There is justice between
foreigners, but only of a superficial sort, concerning action alone and not
character, and concerning the justice of trade alone, not the whole of virtue.
In contrast to familial others, these foreign others, we might say, are too other,
too differentiated to be the proper recipients of justice.
What this suggests is that justice is a political virtue, rather than a social
virtue, because the city provides the context within which there are others of
the appropriate sort toward whom justice in the full sense may be exercised.
In his refutation of Plato’s hypothesis, Aristotle draws an analogy that illus-
trates the nature of the unified multiplicity that characterizes the city: the city
is united in the way different notes form a harmony, not a single note (Pol.
II.1263b31–35). The city brings people together in a way that is neither too
intimate nor too distant, producing others that are neither familial nor foreign.
What produces this harmony is, I submit, that the citizens share a sense
of what is valuable and contribute to a shared project of living well. This
serves as a shared standard against which actions may be judged to be just or
unjust. Aristotle argues that living well is the same for a community as it is
for an individual (Pol. VII.1323b29–1324a4). If living well consists in being
virtuous both for a person and for a city, exercising virtue within a political
community contributes to the shared project, while exercising vice detracts
from it. Furthermore, exercising virtue justifies one’s membership in a com-
munity aimed at living well—if one acts viciously, one is undermining the
very reason for joining together in the first place. Aristotle criticizes oligar-
chies for making wealth the basis for political rule, for
they do not state the thing that is most authoritative. If people

came together and entered into community for the sake of pos-
sessions, they would have a share in the city exactly as much as
they had a share of property, and the argument of the oligarchs

would consequently seem to be strong . . . But they do so not just
for the sake of living but instead for the sake of living well. (Pol.
III.1280a 25–32)
This suggests that contributing to living well justifies one’s participation in

political community. By contrast, if one behaves viciously toward members
of one’s household, one is not undermining the reason the household exists
(the perpetuation of life), and therefore, although harmful, it is not unjust to
behave thus.
Behaving viciously toward fellow citizens is unjust (rather than merely
harmful) because it is a behavior that violates the very principle on which
the community is based. And because this principle is not fixed for the com-
munity by nature, to violate the principle is to undermine its nature as a
principle of the community—to act viciously is to propose a different stan-
dard of what is good. To say it otherwise, in order for the community to
continue, its principle must be actively sustained by its members. To act in a
way that violates the principle both harms the recipient and is unjust because
it undermines the community based on that principle.
IV
I began with the question, Why and in what sense does a person need to live
in political community in order fully to be a person, that is, to live a good
human life? The answer is that virtue—the excellent fruition of a human
being—requires a context, both for its development and for its exercise, and
no individual is able to establish that context by herself, for two reasons:
on the one hand, every individual arrives at the project of developing virtue
when it is already under way—one is already habituated by one’s early educa-
tion and rearing; and, on the other hand, the context of virtue is sustained
only the continued participation of the members of the community.
Notes
1. Translations of passages from the Politics are taken, with some modifications, from
Aristotle, Politics, trans. J. Sachs (Newburyport, Mass.: Focus, 2012).
2. Several households together form a village, which supplies needs “not of a daily sort,”
but presumably of the same kind as the household is formed to supply.
3. Cf. Pol. III.9, 1280b33–35, 1281a1–4.
4. Translations of passages from the Nicomachean Ethics are taken from Aristotle,
Nicomachean Ethics, trans. R. C. Bartlett and S. D. Collins (Chicago: University of Chi-
cago Press, 2011).
226 eve rabinoff
5. At least practical life is thus situated. The philosophical life is something akin to the
divine.
6. However, Aristotle acknowledges that “there is perhaps some portion of the beautiful
present in and resulting from the mere and sole activity of living, as long as the hardships
that come along with life are not too great a burden. It is obvious that most human beings
will endure great suffering while clinging to life, as if there is in it a certain joyfulness and
natural sweetness” (Pol. III.1278b25–30).
7. A qualification is necessary here. Aristotle acknowledges that slaves too, if they
are to be good at their work, require a sort of virtue. But their virtue is deficient to the
same degree as they lack the rational capacity that is ultimately the source of virtue (Pol.
I.1259b21–1260a24). Their development of virtue, I think it is safe to say, is the result of
training, rather than the result of their own pursuit.
8. This is, Aristotle says, the most important measure a city can take to ensure its preser-
vation (Pol. V.1310a14–18). Similarly, Aristotle holds that a government is best preserved
if it is preserved internally, through the agreement of the citizens about the form of rule
(Pol. IV.1294b36–40), and, at least implicitly, about the values that underlie and justify
that sort of rule. Conversely, the most general cause of faction in a city is a disagreement
about the basis of rule (Pol. V.1302a24–28).
9. It should be noted at the outset that Aristotle identifies a derivative sort of jus-
tice, ti dikaion or “some justice” (EN V.1134a29–30) holding within the household (EN
V.1134b8–18), although, as it seems here, this is not justice in the fullest sense. Cf. Marco
Zingano, “Natural, Ethical, and Political Justice,” in Cambridge Companion to Aristotle’s
Politics, ed. M. Deslauriers and P. Destrée (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2013), 199–222.
10. Aristotle also considers citizens parts of the city (Pol. III.1274b38–41), but if the
distinction between the unity of the household and the unity of the city is to be upheld,
citizens must belong to the city in a manner distinct from the way members of the house-
hold belong to the household. And indeed, Aristotle identifies as parts of a household not
individual members, but relationships: master and slave, husband and wife, and father and
children (Pol. III.1253b5–7). The reason that the parts of the household are pairs, rather
then individuals, may be that the wife, slave, and child are fundamentally incomplete on
their own, such that only within the context of the relationship with the husband/master/
father can they flourish (Pol. I.1260a9–14).
Key Readings
Annas, Julia. “Aristotle on Human Nature and Political Virtue.” Review of Metaphysics 49
(1996): 731–754.
Bertman, Martin A. “The Greek Polis and Justice.” Apeiron: A Journal for Ancient Philoso-
phy and Science 14, no. 2 (1980): 134–138.
Garver, Eugene. Aristotle’s Politics: Living Well and Living Together. Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 2012.
Gerson, Lloyd P. “Aristotle’s Polis: A Community of the Virtuous.” Proceedings of the Bos-
ton Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 3 (1987): 203–225.
Kraut, Richard. Aristotle: Political Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002.
Miller, Fred D. Nature, Justice, and Rights in Aristotle’s Politics. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1997.
Roochnik, David. “Substantial City: Reflections on Aristotle’s Politics.” Polis 27, no. 2
(2010): 274–291.
Schütrumpf, Eckart. Die Analyse der polis durch Aristoteles, in Studien zur antiken Philoso-
phie (Heft 10, XV). Amsterdam: Grüner Verlag, 1980.
———. Aristoteles Politik. 4 vols. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999–2005.
Trott, Adriel. Aristotle on the Nature of Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2013.
Wolff, Francis. Aristote et la politique. Paris: PUF, 1991.
Zingano, Marco. “Natural, Ethical, and Political Justice.” In Cambridge Companion to Aris-
totle’s Politics, edited by M. Deslauriers and P. Destrée, 199–222. Cambridge: Cam-
Mimēsis: Plato and Aristotle on the Political Power
of Tragedy
Patricia Fagan
One of the more (in)famous dimensions of ancient Greek philosophy is the

discussion of artistic “censorship” in Books III and X of Plato’s magnum
opus, the Republic. In these passages, Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus
discuss the formation of a just city particularly with respect to the role of
poetry in forming the perspectives of the citizens. Though it is commonly
supposed that Plato promotes a repressive political policy that is fundamen-
tally unappreciative of the unique and definitive characteristics of artistic
expression and that this Platonic vision is at odds with the more sympathetic
and insightful view of Aristotle in his Poetics, I will argue on the contrary
(a) that the central discussions of mimēsis—‘imitation’—in Books III and
X of the Republic demonstrate quite a subtle and thoughtful grasp of the
distinctive characteristics of poetic expression and (b) that the perspective
developed in these discussions is strongly of a piece with Aristotle’s analysis
of tragedy in the Poetics.1 In what follows, I will discuss in turn Book III of
the Republic, Book X of the Republic, and the Poetics, in order to discern, first,
what is the distinctive character of ‘mimetic’ poetry in general and, second,
how this character is relevant to grasping the ambivalent political signifi-
cance of Athenian tragedy in particular.
I. Mimēsis in Republic III

The discussion of mimēsis in Book III of the Republic follows from the dis-
cussion of the education of the guardians in Book II. This education should
aim, Socrates and Glaucon agree (R. II.376e), to make good guardians by
teaching potential guardians to be “philosophical, spirited, swift and strong
in nature.”2 The guardians’ education will resemble traditional Greek educa-
tion for boys, with two major components, gumnastikē (physical training)
for their bodies and mousikē (training in music and poetry) for their souls
229
230 patricia fagan
(R. II.376e). Mousikē will be applied when the guardians are children, espe-
cially as stories whose content will have to be controlled so as not to foster
in the children opinions opposed to those the adult guardians should hold
(R. II.376e–377c). Consequently, these children will not hear stories that
are false, such as stories of strife among the gods, lest the opinions encour-
aged by a child’s inability to discern the deep meaning of a story take hold
in the children and be impossible to change (R. II.377e–378e). Instead, the
stories need to portray the gods as they really are, as incapable of harm (R.
II.380a–b), as truthful (R. II.382a–383a). These true stories of the gods will
instill in the children a gentle character (R. II.376c), allowing the guardians
properly to perform their functions as protectors and regulators of the new
polis, not exercising their capacity for violence and their bravery against their
own (R. II.375a–d).3
This discussion draws our attention to the fact that, within education,
there are two parties, the educators (the tellers of stories) and the educated
(the children who will be guardians). Further, education does not aim at
teaching skills (such as reading or mathematics) or at providing data (such as
the history of Greece); it aims instead to form the opinions and characters of
the children. The education of the guardians aims to establish the ideals and
inclinations through which the children, when adults, will function as guard-
ians. These values will be put before the children, not as discursive accounts
of the ethics appropriate to people who are responsible for the well-being
of a city, but as stories that will portray these values in action. The children
will be witnesses of the kinds of people doing the kinds of things that they
themselves will be called on to do as adults, and of people doing these things
in the way and for the reasons that these future guardians will perform their
activities.
This conversation about poetry in the education of the guardians presup-
poses something significant about poetry and about the domain of mousikē in
general: art holds a powerful place in human life. The experience of children
in their openness to poetry that tells stories is one example of this human
experience. Art affects us; it makes us feel things and think things. It can,
moreover, reveal to us things that become part of us; it can be transforma-
tive. Art also affects us, often, without our recognizing how it affects us; in
Socrates’s example, the child takes up values without knowing she does so.
Art’s ability to affect us without our noticing it brings to light another aspect
of art: it is interpretively challenging. Art means what it does not say. The child,
Socrates notes, does not discern the deeper meaning of a poem, the meaning
that is not explicitly uttered. Art also means more than one thing. There can
be more than one deeper and unspoken meaning alongside the meaning that
m i m ēs i s 231
does get spoken, something that comes powerfully to light when Socrates
begins to interpret particular passages from the Homeric poems.
The discussion of mimēsis in Book III thus takes place within a context
that acknowledges art as a powerful element in human life and experience;
the role of mousikē in the education of the guardians is a function of the
recognition of that power. Because art is so powerful, Socrates, Glaucon, and
Adeimantus must be careful about how they propose to use it in the edu-
cation of the guardians; the future of the city rests on getting the use of
poetry right.
Having established what kinds of stories will not be told, Socrates exam-
ines what kinds of poetry will be used in educating the guardians. Here he
brings up the question of mimēsis (R. III.392d). Stories are purveyed, Socrates
says, through simple narration (diēgēsis), through mimēsis, or through a com-
bination of mimēsis and narrative. Socrates’s first example of mimēsis is the
first scene of the Iliad, itself an example of the combined kind of poetry (R.
III.392e–393b). The Iliad begins, Socrates says, with the poet himself speak-
ing and making no effort to have his audience believe that anyone other than
the poet is speaking. Then the poet speaks as though he himself were the old
man Chryses; he tries to make it seem that Chryses, and not the poet, is the
speaker, “likening his speech as much as possible to that of each person he
announces is speaking.” To make oneself like another in voice and gesture
is, Socrates says, to imitate (mimeisthai) that person. As part of this mimēsis,
Socrates notes, the poet hides himself (R. III.393b–d).
In this initial account of mimēsis we see that the poet makes himself like
a character in his poem and, in this likeness, hides himself, disappears from
the audience’s sight. The poet in mimēsis invites the audience to believe that
the poet is not the poet, but the character he enacts.4 For this mimēsis to be
successful, the audience must agree to mistake the appearance of things (the
mimēsis) for the truth of the situation. The poet tells the story and does the
mimēsis, but the audience must accept that the character represented is the
reality, the real grounds of the situation. Moreover, in mimēsis, the poet, in
making the character real and present to us, in showing, for example, Chryses
making his plea to the Achaians for the return of his daughter, makes the
whole situation of Chryses at the moment of his speaking present to his
audience. Mimēsis is not just of a character, but of a situation in a place at a
time and, in the case of Chryses in Iliad I, with other characters.
So mimēsis invites us not merely to take the character enacted as the real-
ity before us, but to take the world and the situation of that character as the
reality before us. We forget ourselves in our place and situation in witness-
ing this mimēsis. Mimēsis has the power to affect our perception of ourselves
232 patricia fagan
in the world. Or, rather, as witnesses of mimēsis, we are doing some mimēsis
ourselves. We agree to be drawn into the situation the poet presents; we
participate in it. The presentation of a whole situation is especially apparent
in drama, the form of poetry that is, in Socrates’s account, simply mimēsis.
Drama, “taking out the things between the poet’s speeches, leaves behind
the exchanges” (R. III.394b). In tragedy and comedy there is only the poet’s
self-concealing likening of himself to the represented characters and their
situations.
In sum, according to the conversation of Republic III, mimēsis is what
poetry does when the poet conceals himself, making himself like the charac-
ter he presents to such an extent that we in the audience are ourselves carried
into this represented situation. We believe that the mimēsis is what is real and
present, forgetting that we are, for example, sitting in a theater surrounded by
friends, family, fellow citizens. The audience of mimēsis takes itself as involved
in the situation enacted before it, involved with the characters enacted before
it. Mimēsis creates an environment in which we audience members are taken
out of our everyday selves and situations and into the pressing reality of the
actions and the characters onstage.
II. Mimēsis in Republic X

This conversation about mimēsis makes one very significant argument about
poetry: that poetry is politically forceful and, consequently, potentially politi-
cally dangerous. This theme is reiterated in Book X when Socrates says to
Glaucon that he thinks that they have founded their city especially well with
respect to poetry in that (in Book III) they agreed not to admit into the city
any part of poetry that is mimetic (R. X.595a). In particular, Socrates says,
they will keep out the tragic poets and their first leader and teacher, Homer
(R. X.595b). The distinctive, dangerous potential of poetry becomes clear
when Socrates renews the discussion of mimēsis and articulates the effects of
mimetic poetry in a different way and with a different focus. These effects rest
on two things: the authoritative position of the Homeric poems in ancient
Greece and the capacity that mimetic poetry has to make its audiences iden-
tify with characters in the poems. This combination is potentially dangerous
to a city and its citizens because it discourages critical reflection and par-
ticipation in framing the terms through which people (citizens) understand
their world and their roles in that world.5
Socrates notes that people praise Homer and call him the educator of
Greece (R. X.606e); he noted earlier that people also take Homer and trag-
edy as knowledgeable about all the arts and about virtue and vice (R. X.598d).
m i m ēs i s 233
So people take Homer and tragedy as authoritative possessors of knowledge

and understanding about human life and activity whose teachings ought to
be followed and, indeed, are followed. Socrates addresses a historical reality:
study of the Homeric poems was, as far as we can tell, a standard activity of
mousikē throughout ancient Greece. These poems were taken as authoritative
accounts of the myths of the Trojan War and, more significantly, as providers
of examples of the ethics proper to elite Greek men. Homer is the leader and
teacher of tragedy at least because tragedy, like Homeric epic, concerns itself
almost exclusively with heroic myth and with the presentation of instantia-
tions of various kinds of heroic excellence.
Scholars disagree about the precise point at which the Homeric poems,
products of a long and sophisticated tradition of composition in performance,
took the form in which we have them. They can be dated roughly to the mid-
dle of the eighth century b.c.e., during the period that saw the development
in Greece of the polis (city-state) and the idea of the politēs (the citizen). The
Iliad, the Odyssey, and the archaic Greek epic in general are panhellenic in
their orientation; they address themselves to an audience conceived as a uni-
versally Greek audience, not to a local audience based in the particularities of
any one city-state. The ideology of these poems is aristocratic and patriarchal;
it justifies itself through appeals to Zeus as the universal patriarchal aristo-
crat par excellence, whose divine status renders patriarchy and aristocracy
natural. In part, the work of Homeric epic was to rely on and help to create
a sense of the self-sameness of the elites of the emerging Greek city-states, a
recognition that there was such a thing as Greekness as such and a political
ideology that promoted the inherited rule of elite families.6
At issue in the discussion of mimēsis and poetry in Republic X, then, is
tragedy’s representation of the heroic world with its kings and heroes and
their exemplary status in ancient Greece. Socrates has already claimed in
Book VIII that tragedy is a problematic art form because it can draw cit-
ies and their constitutions toward tyranny and democracy (in this context,
away from timocracy and oligarchy) because tragic poets praise tyranny
(R. VIII.568c). In Book X, Socrates explains how it is that tragic mimēsis
is able to influence constitutions. The political power of tragedy rests on
its mimetic ability to portray strong emotion. Socrates notes that what
audiences especially enjoy in tragedy is the powerful experiences of the
characters, particularly their lamentation. When we see the heroes onstage
suffering, Socrates says, we suffer along with them (R. X.605d). In mimēsis,
we audience members feel involved in the action represented onstage and
so we identify with the tragic hero; we feel sympathy for him, regardless of
anything he has done. Tragedy functions through the pleasure it provides its
234 patricia fagan
audience by portraying and eliciting strong emotion. The characters repre-

sented in tragedy are for the most part aristocrats and kings, the old heroes of
myth. Tragedy praises tyranny in that it justifies that type of regime by mak-
ing kings and tyrants onstage individual characters who are worthy objects of
our sympathy. Tragedy encourages its audience to develop an affective identi-
fication with one isolated particular perspective on tyranny (with Sophocles’s
Oedipus, for example). Tragedy does not encourage its audience to cultivate
practices of critical reflection on the nature of tyranny or on political life in
general; indeed, it discourages its audience from taking up the very questions
that a play itself can ask.7 Tragedy focuses our attention and our emotions on
a man, this suffering man here, and not on the more abstract, more univer-
sal questions about how politics should work, how governing a city should
work. Tragedy encourages us, as citizens, to look for new ‘heroes’ with whom
we can feel sympathy and to enact our political life through feelings like
sympathy and enmity. It is through its mimetic activity, its presentation of
particular characters and situations onstage as real and present, its summon-
ing of its audience into the mimēsis, that tragedy can have this effect.
In the Republic the seriousness of mimetic poetry, of tragedy in particular,
derives from two things, one taken up in Book III, the other in Book X. The
content and authority of tragedy, as Socrates articulates it in Book X, make
the situations presented onstage politically volatile. The form of tragedy, the
mimēsis in which the poet conceals himself to present the characters and
their situations as the real terms of our experience, involves the audience in
the presented action and is the ground for the audience’s sympathetic iden-
tification with particular kings, tyrants, and heroes. The pleasing sympathetic
particularity of tragic mimēsis can discourage the audience from engaging in
precisely the kind of careful, rigorous thinking about politics that forms the
conversation of the Republic.
III. Mimēsis in Aristotle’s Poetics

When we look to Aristotle’s account of mimēsis in the Poetics, we see a simi-
lar recognition of the seriousness of tragic poetry; as in Plato’s Republic, this
seriousness rests on tragedy’s being a mimetic poetry. In Aristotle’s terms,
poetry in general is a function of humans’ being by nature animals with logos;
poetry is, above all, the art of speech, of words. Further, mimetic poetry is a
function of humans’ being “the most mimetic of animals” (Poet. 1448b8). The
crafted mimetic speech of poetry is thus a manifestation of especially human
capacities, one realization of what makes humans human, much as a polis is.
Related to our human capacity for mimetic poetic speech, for Aristotle, is
m i m ēs i s 235
the pleasure that we derive from mimēsis; this pleasure itself derives from the
fact that, Aristotle says, humans learn first by imitating and take pleasure in
learning (Poet. 1448b5–9). Let us consider the two causes, both natural, that,
Aristotle argues, have brought poetry into being (Poet. 1448b4–5).
The first of the two causes is the fact that to do mimēsis is innate
(sumphuton) in humans from childhood; indeed, humans are the animals
most given to mimēsis (mimētikōtaton). Further, humans do their learning first
through mimēsis (Poet. 1448b8). Our earliest experience of mimēsis comes
when, as children (as infants, surely), we learn by trying to do the things that
the people around us do: we hear our parents speak, for example, and we try
to do that talking thing; we see people walking and we try to do that, too.
These examples are elementary but they draw attention to some important
features of mimēsis. First, our impulse toward mimēsis rests on our looking at
the world as open and questioning beings, on our encountering the world
with the attitude that we are not already complete and self-sufficient.8 To
learn by doing mimēsis, we have to enact our ability, desire, or reflex to change
ourselves. Our impulse toward mimēsis is also a reflection of our ability to see
ourselves in others; as infants we try to talk like grownups because we grasp
that their activity is also an activity for us, that we are the same as these talk-
ing people in that we will talk. We become mature human beings by doing
the things that mature human beings do and by getting better at doing those
things. Aristotle’s remarks about mimēsis and learning here reveal themselves
to be another version of his insight in the Politics (I.1253a) that the human
being is the zōion politikon: we are human beings only in relation with other
human beings and only through trying to participate in human activities.
The second of the causes of the art of poetry, Aristotle says, is that “all
humans rejoice in works of mimēsis” (Poet. 1448b9). Whenever we look at
works of art, we enjoy the experience, regardless of what the art represents,
because, for us, “to learn is a very sweet thing” (Poet. 1448b13). The second
cause of the art of poetry is thus the pleasure that human beings take in
learning, in coming to understand.9 We learn or come to understand when
we look at the works of mimēsis, Aristotle says, because we observe a likeness
and figure out who the likeness represents (Poet. 1448b16).
There are a couple of things to notice in Aristotle’s remarks so far. First,
in mimēsis, what is being represented is human beings: we look at a likeness
and figure out who it is. Second, the primary activity we engage in when we
look at works of mimēsis is coming to understand, learning. That activity is
productive of pleasure. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle argues that plea-
sure (hēdonē) occurs when an animal acts to fulfill its natural potential—we
take pleasure, that is, in performing the activities that are natural to us (EN
236 patricia fagan
X.1176 a3–23). What we experience here is the pleasure of acting to ful-

fill our human potential to come to understand. Mimēsis, then, when we
engage in it to learn by seeing ourselves in others and others in ourselves and
when we observe its works and figure out who they are about, fulfills two
key aspects of the human being for Aristotle: we are the animal with logos
(the animal that can speak and come to understand), and we are the political
animal (the animal that is itself only in relation with others of its own kind).
Humans are the most mimetic of animals because in human mimēsis we real-
ize our capacities for thought and our capacities for shared life.
Aristotle notes that works of mimēsis can be pleasing even when we do
not recognize their subjects, because we can take pleasure in appreciating the
craft that produced the work or in the color or some such thing; in this case,
however, we do not take pleasure from the fact that the work is a mimēsis.
For the work of mimēsis to please us qua mimēsis, it must put us in mind of
someone we know; it must call to mind something directly relevant to us.10
It must speak to us. The work of mimēsis qua mimēsis directly and personally
engages its observers—they feel that it implicates them in its presentation.
Aesthetic appreciation of the skill that produced the work or the attractive-
ness of the color and proportion of the work is pleasure, but not mimetic
pleasure, which results from our recognition of ourselves and our experi-
ence in the work. Mimetic pleasure rests on our exercising our innate human
capacity to understand and to come to know and our human capacity to be
involved in shared experience with other humans. For Aristotle, the serious-
ness of tragedy rests in mimetic pleasure.
Poetry as a whole for Aristotle is a reflex of human nature, for, just as
mimēsis (the content of poetry) is ours by nature, so harmony and rhythm
(the form of poetry) are also ours by nature. It is evident, Aristotle says, that
poetic meters are a part of rhythm (Poet. 1448b20ff.). It is natural for human
beings, the animal endowed with logos, not only to have speech, but to craft
and arrange speech in patterns of syllable lengths and to make speech musi-
cal, euphonious, and tuneful. It is natural to humans, within the general
phenomenon of speech, to mark some kinds of speech as special. Poetry is
one example of such marked speech.11 In terms of form and content, then, as
mimetic and as rhythmically and harmonically crafted, poetry is a working
out of various potentials of human nature. We humans are the zōion poiētikon.
The bulk of the Poetics contains Aristotle’s analysis of one genre of this
marked, crafted, mimetic speech: tragedy. I will focus now on how mimēsis
works within this genre of poetry. In chapter 6, Aristotle gives his famous
‘definition’ of tragedy: it is “the mimēsis of a serious action” that, through pity
and fear, “accomplishes the cleaning out [κάθαρσιν] of such emotions” (Poet.
m i m ēs i s 237
1449b24ff.). Tragedy does something: it achieves the katharsis of pity and fear
and such emotions. The work of tragedy is to arouse pity and fear in its audi-
ence and thereby to allow the audience members to get these emotions out
of their systems. The fact that mimēsis is the means by which tragedy does its
work indicates that mimēsis is uniquely suited to and capable of accomplish-
ing this katharsis. I want to pursue now the question, What is it about mimēsis
that makes it the way to achieve katharsis of pity and fear in particular?—or,
What are pity and fear, and why does mimēsis belong with them?
In Book II of the Rhetoric, Aristotle provides an account of the nature
and function of various emotions relevant to persuasive speech, including
pity and fear. What he says there helps us to understand the intimate con-
nection between pity and fear and mimēsis in the Poetics; consequently, I will
examine Aristotle’s accounts of pity and fear in the Rhetoric before discussing
his account of these emotions in tragedy. In Book II of the Rhetoric, Aristotle
says that eleos, or ‘pity,’ is a pain at what appears to be a destructive or painful
evil that happens to “someone who does not deserve it or is not responsible
for it” and which we feel that “we or someone we care about” could also
experience (Rhet. II.1385b13ff.). There are three key elements here: the evil
is something that phainetai, or ‘appears,’ to us; we do not ourselves experience
the evil. Second, the evil is undeserved, not, for example, an appropriate ret-
ribution. Third, we feel ourselves vulnerable to the same evil, either directly
or through someone we care about. Pity occurs when we feel a fellowship
with the person who is the object of our pity—we see ourselves in that suf-
fering person. Pity occurs when we are witnesses or beholders: we are not
involved in the destructive or painful situation but, through our capacity to
see ourselves in others and others in ourselves, we feel ourselves implicit in
this situation and the suffering because we recognize there a situation and a
suffering that we could experience ourselves. We consider the victim of this
evil not to deserve it, not to be responsible (she is anaxios); the pain is a mis-
fortune, not something we deserve.
For Aristotle, phobos (fear), like pity, is a pain or disturbance that arises ek
phantasias, or ‘from the imagination,’ of some immediately impending disas-
ter. The kinds of disaster that elicit fear are the same as those that will elicit
pity. No one fears what he thinks will not affect him in the near future (Rhet.
II.1382a21–28). Fear is something that we feel for ourselves: a bad thing that
will do harm or cause pain to us is about to happen and we tremble at the
idea of that harm. In rhetoric (as in drama) it is not an enemy threatening my
life that makes me fearful but talk about that enemy that awakens my imagi-
nation. The talk about the enemy tells me that I am vulnerable to my enemy
(it brings my enemy to mind in a way similar to the way that mimēsis brings
238 patricia fagan
someone to mind) and so I feel afraid of my enemy. Again, as with pity, in

fear I see myself, my own vulnerability, my own experience in an appearance
(an imagination, a speech) that is not me. This appearance is such that I am
taken up into it and feel myself involved in what it presents as a reality of the
here and now.
Tragedy is a mimēsis of a serious action, Aristotle says. He is insistent
that the mimēsis is of an action and not of a character (Poet. 1448a1–2,
1149b36–37, 1450a21ff.). Nonetheless, as he notes, action is performed by
people, so the mimēsis of action is mimēsis of “people doing things” (Poet.
1449b26). Poetry is also, Aristotle notes, more philosophical than history—
another kind of telling of actions, “through narrating or declaring them”
(Poet. 1449b28)—because history is about particulars and poetry is about the
universal (Poet. 1451b5–7). As poetry, tragedy is ‘about’ the universal, but as
tragedy, as mimetic poetry, it can only put before us this person and that per-
son doing something; tragedy identifies for us particular people performing
particular actions. Tragedy makes the particular universal.12
Pity and fear emerge from our feeling that we are implicit in the situation
that arouses pity or fear. This sense of being involved arises, in pity, from our
recognition that we are like the object of our pity. In fear we see ourselves as
directly involved in the fearful situation—we feel pain at the thought that we
personally are about to be harmed. Tragedy, Aristotle argues, is able to elicit
both of these emotions; tragedy makes us feel involved in the serious action
that is being enacted onstage. We feel involved, we feel ourselves to be part
of the action, only because tragedy is a mimēsis, a reenactment. Tragedy thus
functions by presenting a particular. The arousing of pity and fear that trag-
edy accomplishes can occur only if tragedy presents particulars and presents
them as concretely present. As we have seen from Aristotle’s accounts of pity
and fear in the Rhetoric, we feel pity and fear at a particular situation that is
real to us: we pity the woman for the deaths of her children; we fear the lurk-
ing enemy in our imagination. For tragedy to fulfill its function, the katharsis
of pity and fear, it must make the universal particular; mimēsis is what does
that work.
Pity and fear arise in us when we feel ourselves implied in the situation
that we are witnessing. We see ourselves threatened by an impending disaster
and feel fear, we see someone like ourselves suffering undeservedly and we
feel pity. To arouse pity and fear tragedy needs to present us with human
situations that are like human situations we could face; so, Aristotle says, the
tragedy that most effectively arouses pity and fear is one in which “some-
one like us in virtue and justice, having great reputation and good fortune,
changes from good fortune to misfortune not because of wickedness but
m i m ēs i s 239
because of some mistake” (Poet. 1453a8–11). We need to recognize someone

like ourselves in character, a person like us, in order to feel pity and fear at
that person’s change of fortune. We need to witness the change of fortune
occurring because that person like us makes a mistake, is, like us, not infal-
lible, and so suffers to an extent out of keeping with anything she has done.
Tragedy thus accomplishes its work, the arousing of pity and fear and
the katharsis of those emotions, because it is mimēsis. Pity, fear, and mimēsis,
as Aristotle shows, are all manifestations of the fundamental human ori-
entation toward others. The human is the animal endowed with logos, the
political animal; our being human makes us communicative and mutually
reliant. Tragedy (for Aristotle, the highest kind of poetry)13 exploits, enacts,
and supports these uniquely human features.
Conclusion
Like Plato, Aristotle investigates the distinctive power of mimēsis as such—
the rhetorical power of being drawn into an imitative reenactment—to
persuade us of a perspective, and, indeed, a politically charged perspective.
In the Republic, Plato draws our attention to the way that our emotions can
be manipulated by mimetic performances such that we come to identify
with characters of whom we should be critical. More specifically, the form
of mimēsis actually encourages us to respond out of sympathetic emotions
and not to detach ourselves in critical reflection on the content of the situa-
tions presented to us. In the Poetics, Aristotle continues this line of analysis,
showing us in particular how mimēsis can have this power in our lives—can
exist as such—precisely because of those same characteristics that make us
political in the first place: mimēsis draws on our inherent sociability and on
our logos. What Plato and Aristotle’s accounts of mimēsis ultimately reveal is
that the sources of political life—the proper arena for justice and for human
flourishing—are also the sources for the undermining of the political world.
Notes
1. Others have criticized simplistic interpretations of these texts from the Republic. See,
for example, Claudia Baracchi, Of Myth, Life and War in Plato’s Republic (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2001). I have discussed other aspects of the account of poetry in
Republic III in Plato and Tradition: The Poetic and Cultural Context of Philosophy (Evanston,
Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2013), chap. 3. Dennis Schmidt, in chap. 2 of On Ger-
mans and Other Greeks: Tragedy and Ethical Life (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
2001), offers an analysis of Aristotle’s Poetics that is consonant with my analysis here, but
his discussion of Plato repeats many of the traditional prejudices concerning Plato that I
would criticize.
240 patricia fagan
2. All translations here are my own. I use the following Greek texts: Plato, Respublica,
ed. S. R. Slings (Oxford: Clarendon, 2003); Aristotle, De arte poetica liber, ed. R. Kassel
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1922); Aristotle, The Art of Rhetoric, ed. J. H. Freese (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1926).
3. For an account of the parallel discussion of education in Plato’s Laws, see John Rus-
son, “Education in Plato’s Laws,” in Plato’s Laws: Force and Truth in Politics, ed. E. Sanday
and G. Recco (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013), 60–74.
4. Compare Plato, Chrm. 164d–165a, where Critias discusses human individuals who
use mimetic presentation of direct speech to portray their own views as those of Apollo
at Delphi.
5. See Aristotle, Pol. I.2, where such critical engagement—collective discussion, among
“animals with logos,” of “what is just and unjust, expedient and inexpedient” for the po-
lis—is identified as the essence of distinctly “political” life. On this interpretation of the
nature of politics, compare section 5, “Action,” of Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition,
2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998).
6. See chapter 3 of Gregory Nagy, Greek Mythology and Poetics (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell
University Press, 1990), for a classic discussion of panhellenism in archaic Greek poetry.
7. Powerful arguments have also been made to demonstrate how, in performance, trag-
edy, the art form of democratic Athens, precisely worked to make the heroes and kings of
myth problematic. See, for example, Richard Seaford, Reciprocity and Ritual: Homer and
Tragedy in the Developing City-State (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994).
8. For a subtle account of learning that is resonant with this Aristotelian model, see
chapters 1–4 of John Dewey, Democracy and Education (New York: Free Press, 1944).
9. Compare here Aristotle, Met. I.980a21: “All human beings by nature strive towards
knowing.”
10. Compare Plato, Phd. 73c–e, on the experience of having an absent friend made
present through a likeness or a memento.
11. I speak here generally in the terms developed by Roman Jakobson.
12. Compare Hegel’s discussion of Greek sculpture in Lectures on Fine Art II, trans.
T. M. Knox (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), section 2.
13. See Poet. 26, where Aristotle concludes that tragedy achieves the end of poetry more
completely.
Key Readings
Baracchi, Claudia. Of Myth, Life, and War in Plato’s Republic. Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
Fagan, Patricia. “Republic 3 and the Sirens.” In Plato and Tradition: The Poetic and Cultural
Context of Philosophy, 47–64. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2013.
Goldhill, Simon. “The Great Dionysia and Civic Ideology.” In Nothing to Do With Dio-
nysos? Athenian Drama in Its Social Context, ed. John. J. Winkler and Froma I. Zeit-
lin, 97–129. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990.
Jones, John. On Aristotle and Greek Tragedy. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press,
1980.
Nagy, Gregory. Poetry as Performance: Homer and Beyond. Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 1996.
Pickard-Cambridge, Sir Arthur W. The Dramatic Festivals of Athens. Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1968.
m i m ēs i s 241
Russon, John. “Education in Plato’s Laws.” In Plato’s Laws: Force and Truth in Politics, ed.
Gregory Recco and Eric Sanday, 60–74. Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
2013.
Schmidt, Dennis J. “Aristotle.” In On Germans and Other Greeks: Tragedy and Ethical Life,
46–72. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001.
Vernant, Jean-Pierre, and Pierre Vidal-Naque. Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece. Trans-
lated by Janet Lloyd. New York: Zone Books, 1988.
The Hellenistic Schools
Ataraxia: Tranquility at the End
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In their investigation of eudaimonia (happiness, human flourishing), Hel-

lenistic philosophers uses terms that were relatively new in the philosophical
lexicon: ataraxia or ‘freedom from disturbance,’ hēsychia or ‘serenity,’ tran-
quillitas and securitas (Seneca and Cicero’s Latin translation of euthymia),
eustatheia or ‘stability,’ athambia or ‘quietness,’ adiaphora or ‘indifference,’ and
apatheia or ‘the condition of being unmoved.’1 What is at stake is not simply
a particular development in the history of ancient philosophy. As eudaimonia
was determined in terms of ataraxia, the very purpose and meaning of phi-
losophy also changed. To be a philosopher became a matter of conquering
fears and desires and philosophical schools must be judged on their ability
to lead to that end. Thus, the emergence of ataraxia is deeply rooted in a
renewed understanding of philosophy itself.
What earlier philosophers meant by eudaimonia is quite different from
the modern view of happiness as ‘enjoyment.’ As a philosophical term, eudai-
monia indicates the summum bonnum of human life. As Aristotle proclaims:
“The human good occurs as the full activity [ἐνέργεια] of the soul in accor-
dance with virtue, and if the virtues are more than one, in accordance with
the best and most complete virtue. But also, this must be in a complete life,
for one swallow does not make a spring” (EN I.1098a17–19).2
However, during the Hellenistic era three new developments occurred:
(a) It is argued that one can measure a philosophical school by its ability
to lead its disciples to happiness. Thus, eudaimonia becomes a metaphilo-
sophical criterion. But on this count (b) both Plato and Aristotle have failed.
Their followers are no closer to happiness than nonphilosophers are. (c)
This situation demands that the requirements for happiness be reevaluated.
For the Epicureans and the Skeptics, eudaimonia calls for the attainment
of ataraxia. The Stoics held a rather similar view, although they prefer the
term apatheia. Note that the terms are negative (a-taraxia, a-patheia, a-
diaphora). Happiness is now a release from anxiety and disturbance. The
inner conflicts of the soul have become the chief concern. Yet despite their
245
246 pascal massie
privative inception, ataraxia and apatheia are hardly passive; they require, on
the contrary, self-mastery and fortitude. To reach ataraxia is to raise one-
self above a condition of misery and despair, and all Hellenistic schools
suspect that the author of this unpleasant condition is none other than
ourselves.
I. Epicureanism: Ataraxia beyond Want

Epicurus’s ethics derives from his reflection on the nature of unhappiness
and misery. We all know what unhappiness feels like but, surprisingly, most
of us rarely think about its nature. For Epicurus, unhappiness is a specifically
human problem. No doubt, animals can suffer, they can be hurt and mis-
treated; no doubt, these things also happen to human beings. Yet we may not
be injured, abused or in pain and still remain deeply unhappy. What, then, is
missing? This question is essential for any therapy must begin by a diagnosis
and an etiology. Epicurus, like Socrates, thinks that we can trace the source
of unhappiness to mistaken beliefs concerning what is truly valuable. Thus,
the task of philosophy is to extirpate wrong opinions and replace them by
true beliefs.
From this standpoint, the denial of any involvement of the gods with
human affairs is not just a matter of theology. In its prephilosophical
sense, a happy existence—eudaimōn—is a life protected by a good spirit;
a daimōn smiles on those who enjoy a blessed life, while an unhappy life
is kakodaimōn—under the spell of an adverse spirit. The ordinary language
of the Greeks links happiness (or unhappiness) with a divine dispensation.
Following Epicurus, however, we must dismiss the etymology and sepa-
rate semantics from causality. Once severed from divine blessing happiness
becomes a human responsibility.
Pleasure is the beginning and the end of all human activities; this proposi-
tion is an axiom of Epicureanism. It may seem strange then that an ethics
famously concerned with pleasure would actually seek ataraxia. Yet ataraxia
is not the opposite of pleasure at all but true pleasure. In the Letter to Menoe-
ceus, one can read the oft-quoted claim:
It is for the sake of this, namely freedom from pain and trouble
[aponia, ataraxia], that we act as we do. Once this condition is
reached, any storm in the soul is quieted since the animal has no
need to go in search of something that is lacking or to look for any-
thing else by which he may fulfill the good of the soul and the body.
(Ep. Men. 128)3
ata rax i a 247
The claim is surprising. If pleasure is the beginning and the end, shouldn’t
we seek to maximize it? The idea that the absence of physical pain and mental
trouble is equivalent to pleasure and that no more needs to be sought is fre-
quently contested. Most people would assume that the absence of pain and
anxiety constitutes, at best, only a neutral state, while pleasure begins with
some positive stimulation. Cicero reports the argument thus:
Epicurus did not think that there was some intermediate stage
between pleasure and pain; for that state which some people think
is intermediate, viz. the absence of all pain, is not only pleasure
but it is even the greatest pleasure. For whoever perceives the state
which he is in must in fact be in pleasure or in pain. But Epicurus
thinks that the limit for the greatest pleasure is set by the absence
of all pain; and although later pleasure can be varied and adorned, it
cannot be increased or augmented. (Fin. I.38)
We cannot not sense: to cease sensing is to cease being. Furthermore, any

state of self-awareness is either one of pain or one of pleasure. Sensation has
no zero degree. Thus, the awareness of the absence of pain and disturbance is
ipso facto an experience of pleasure. Epicurus’s ataraxia is not simply a ‘state
of mind’ (pace Striker) but a state of being that depends on the discovery of
another form of pleasure, the pleasure of being rather than the pleasure of
possessing or consuming. This pleasure comes from knowing one’s limits.
But Epicurus goes further and claims that this experience is the greatest
pleasure. This superlative doesn’t denote intensity (it cannot, since “later plea-
sures can be varied and adorned”) but quality (it is the pleasure that, most
of all, must be sought, what is most valuable). This relates to the distinction
between static and kinetic pleasures. A character in Cicero illustrates the
distinction:
“Is there pleasure in drinking for a thirsty person?”—“ Who could

deny that,” he [an opponent of the Epicurean school] said. “Is this
the same pleasure as the one we experience when thirst has been
quenched?”—“No, it is of a rather different kind.”—“ Thirst when
quenched has a static kind of pleasure [stabilitas voluptatis] while
the other one, the pleasure of actual quenching, is in movement.”
(Fin. II.9)
In quenching thirst, one experiences the pleasure of alleviating an uncom-

fortable yearning; in quenched thirst, one enjoys the absence of the yearning.
248 pascal massie
Kinetic pleasure remains, by definition, incomplete: so long as the animal

keeps drinking it is still thirsty. In kinetic pleasures one experiences the pro-
gressive lessening of pain—which presupposes that some form of pain or
discomfort is still there. By contrast, katastematic pleasures are stable (rather
than ‘static’)4 because they repel the infinite frustration of kinetic desires.
“The removal of all pain is the limit of the magnitude of pleasures. Wherever
pleasure is present, and as long as it is present, a feeling of pain, a feeling of
distress, or their combination is absent” (Maxim 3, Lives X.139). The clause
“as long as it is present” indicates that the stability of katastematic pleasures
is not everlasting. It is true that Epicurean texts invoke the calm bliss of the
gods but, for us, the divine is a model, not a destination. The end of human
life must be compatible with the human condition. Maxim 21 declares: “One
who knows the limits of life knows how easy it is to provide that which
removes pain due to need and that which makes the whole of life complete.
So there is no need for any dealings involving struggle” (Maxim 21, Lives
X.146).
A katastematic pleasure is not a limited pleasure but the pleasure of dwell-
ing within one’s own limits. ‘Limit’ is arguably one of the most essential
notions of Epicurean ethics:
The flesh takes the limits of pleasure as unlimited and unlimited

time brings it about. But the intellect, considering the goal and
limit of the flesh, and dispersing fears about the time to come,
brings about the complete life, and we no longer need an unlimited
time. (Maxim 20, Lives X.145)
The flesh craves pleasures that always fail to satisfy its want, for to any degree
of intensity there is always a further degree; since unlimited desire calls for
infinite time the life of the flesh is doomed to remain incomplete. It is so
because of a paradox inscribed at the core of desire. Desire seeks its annihila-
tion. This is why the satisfaction of “varied and adorned pleasures” turns into
renewed frustration and the resurgence of new desires. The intensity of desire
is proportionate to the pain caused by its nonsatisfaction. Pains and pleasures
of this kind are not opposite but complementary. The pursuit of katastematic
pleasures is an attempt at breaking this cycle.
Kinetic and katastematic pleasures are often described as two kinds of
pleasure derived from different objects. At times, it seems that the Epicureans
construe the pleasures of the flesh as kinetic in contrast to the katastematic
pleasures of the mind. Careful examination of the texts, however, reveals a
more complex scheme. The kind of pleasure that constitutes the end is not
ata rax i a 249
identified with something mental by opposition to something physical, nor

is it katastematic by opposition to kinetic (kinetic desires are unavoidable).
Rather, the fundamental requirement is that pleasure be ‘natural’ and the class
of natural pleasures encompasses both kinetic and katastematic instances. The
opposite of a natural desire is an empty one (kenai epithumiai), a desire that
rests on false belief and social imagination. The problem is not that some
pleasures are kinetic and unstable; the problem is that we pursue ideologi-
cally constructed objects of desire. No doubt, the fulfillment of empty desires
will lead us to experience some pleasures, but they are spurious and doomed
to collapse into disappointment or sorrow.
In a sense, katastematic pleasures are the goal that kinetic pleasures
secretly aspire to. To see this, we must ask whether the ultimate object of
desire is really an object. Pleasure is commonly understood as delight in or
enjoyment of something; it construes itself as a relation to an object. Yet, this
transitivity is also what eventually turns the search for the satisfaction of
desire into an experience of disappointment or frustration, since the object
is either missing or is meant to be consumed and destroyed (symbolically
if not literally). In either case, desire must recognize its dependence on an
object that, even when consumed, remains an alterity. For this reason, most
of our desires seek the impossible. Epicurus’s answer consists in seeking a
pleasure without object, a pleasure without outside; true happiness calls for
self-sufficiency. This, however, is what common desire was already seeking,
since no one desires unlimited frustration or recurrent unhappiness.
Ataraxia is the only form of pleasure that can put an end to the unlimited.
The pleasure that is found in being (rather than in having) is beyond desire,
because it is without object or, if we must still talk of an ‘object,’ it is not alien
to the seeker anymore. Self-sufficiency (autarkeia) is therefore the hallmark
of ataraxia, and the search for happiness turns out to be a search for free-
dom. “The greatest fruit of self-sufficiency is freedom [eleutheria]” (Vatican
Maxim 77).5 Self-sufficiency is not a matter of withdrawing within oneself;
the attainment of the end permits friendship, which is at the service of tran-
quility—so long as loving the friend is not identical with depending on her.
Yet how could a mortal who is necessarily a creature of desire attain self-
sufficiency? If self-sufficiency is not identical to divine bliss, it shares at least
one important trait with it: it is complete. “Unlimited time and limited time
hold equal pleasure if one measures its limits by reasoning” (Maxim 19, Lives
145). Reason must recognize that the measure of pleasure cannot be found in
its duration. Should we become immortal, there is no reason to assume that
we would ipso facto become happier.6 Happiness would not be increased if
250 pascal massie
death were abolished; or better, happiness would not be increased because the
Epicureans abolish death.
Epicurus is attentive to the specific temporal character of unhappiness,
its way of dwelling in the past or dreading the future. While physical pain
occupies the now of its occurrence, psyche’s grief lingers on frustrated desires
and memories of suffering. Since the Epicurean ethics is essentially a therapy
of beliefs, a student of the Garden must understand the emptiness of her
fears. This is particularly true of the fear of death. It is not life that should
be extended to infinity, rather it is the longing for immortality that must
be removed. Epicurus can, without contradiction, claim both that “death is
nothing to us for all good and bad consists in sense experience and death is
the privation of sense experience” (Ep. Men. 124) and that “one can attain
security against other things, but when it comes to death, all men live in
a city without walls” (Vatican Maxim 31). The inevitability of death is the
inevitability of a nonevent that will not fail to happen. “So death, the most
frightening of bad things, is nothing to us; since when we exist, death is not
yet present and when death is present we do not exist. Therefore, it is relevant
neither to the living not to the dead, since it does not affect the former, and
the latter do not exist” (Ep. Men. 125). The absence of an intermediate stage
(a zero degree) applies not only to pain and pleasure but also to life and death.
Death is never present. The end of all experience cannot itself be an object of
experience, it cannot occur in any lived ‘now.’ To focus on the now is to undo
the anxiety about the future. Although all compound things must eventually
disintegrate, a certain form of eternity can be found within the present.
If this is so, though, how can Epicurus claim that a chief component of
happiness resides in the recollection of fond memories? Plutarch’s testimony
is explicit: “As they say, the recollection of past blessings is the greatest factor
in a pleasant life” (Pleas. Life 1099d); “the memory of a dead friend is pleas-
ant on every account” (Pleas. Life 1105e).7 One could object that recollection
(a) doesn’t agree with the goal, since it is a kind of kinetic pleasure and that
(b) it could lead to opposite results: if one delights in the recollection of past
goods, then it seems that one is ipso facto acutely aware of their actual loss.
The “sweetness” Plutarch talks about should taste rather bitter. However, the
appeal to memory does not contradict the temporal focus on the present and
can be supported on two grounds:
First, the recollection of a past good can be used to deal with a present
evil. In the Letter to Idomeneus Epicurus describes how he counterbalanced
the pain of dysenteric discomforts with “the joy in my soul produced by the
recollection of the discussions we have had” (Ep. Id., Lives X.22). In this case,
memory is meant to ward off actual pain. Remembrance is the cause of the
ata rax i a 251
present joy (or at least the assuaging of present suffering) and the ethical art
is a matter of letting a happier past reemerge into the present.
Second, the Epicurean appeal to these fond memories is a matter of reac-
tualizing the past. In other words, the focus on the ‘now’ still remains. In the
present recollection, the dead friend is alive. The ethical art is a matter of
letting the past merge back into the present.
II. Stoicism: Apatheia beyond Passion

Although apatheia is the Stoics’ preferred term, many Epicurean claims about
ataraxia could find a natural place in the Stoic discourse.8 Still, the choice of
terms is significant. If unhappiness is Epicurus’s initial concern, the passions
are the initial concern of the Stoics. ‘Passions’ are not simply ‘feelings.’ Rather,
the term is used to cover a vast class of erroneous judgments that misrepresent
what is truly valuable. ‘Judgments’ are assertive acts whereby we hold as true
what the judgment represents. Passions then are erroneous assents to false
representations. Thus, and despite a popular caricature, the Stoics do not
claim that the sage would be immune from feelings or sensations.9
Apatheia is not imperviousness: “The wise man is free of passion because
he is not disposed to them while the wicked man is ‘free of passion’ in a dif-
ferent sense, in the sense of being insensitive and cold” (Lives VII.117). The
wretched man is a case of insensibility, not apatheia. The sage, conversely, is
free from passions because, although she remains subject to emotions, she
is not controlled by them. One is tranquil when one is capable of coping
with emotions, not when one represses them. Given our embodied condi-
tion, suppressing emotions is an impossible task in the first place. The matter
is to elevate sorrow, not to abolish it. Irrational judgments, hasty flights of
imagination, superstition, and so forth confuse what is the case with our
misconceptions: “It is not the things themselves that disturb men, but their
judgment about these things” (Ench. 5). It is the belief that some things are
terrible that terrifies us.
What’s more, the Stoics recognize the positivity (and therefore desirabil-
ity) of some feelings.10
There are three good affects [εὐπαθείας]: joy, vigilance and wish.
They say that joy is the opposite of pleasure, consisting in well-
reasoned elation. Vigilance is the opposite of fear, consisting in
well-reasoned avoidance, for the wise man will not be afraid at all
but he will be vigilant. They say that wish is the opposite of appe-
tite, consisting in well-reasoned striving . . . Falling under wish are
252 pascal massie
kindness, generosity, acceptance, and affection. Under vigilance are

respect and purity. Under joy are delight, sociability, and cheerful-
ness. (Lives VII.116)
Thus, the Stoics do not advocate a life deprived of pleasure. Joy, vigilance,
and wish, the three good affects (eupatheia) are therefore concomitant with
apatheia. While passions enlist our best judgment to serve them, rational
affects express the pleasure of being guided by reason. Seneca offers the fol-
lowing definition of tranquillitas (one of the Latin names for apatheia):
The state in which the soul proceeds always in a measured and

untroubled course, and is well-disposed towards itself, and looks
on its own affairs happily and never interrupts this joy [et sua laetus
aspiciat et hoc gaudium non interrumpat], but remains in this peace-
ful state, never raising nor depressing itself. That will be tranquility.
(Tranq. II.4)11
Although a Stoic may be involved with various obligations, the tranquility

she has attained stems from an unconflicted relation of the soul to itself.
Once again, the term apatheia is misleading. In English, an ‘apathetic’ indi-
vidual is lethargic and unconcerned, while the attainment of Stoic apatheia
demands strenuous practice. One who has reached true apatheia has disen-
tangled what is her ‘self ’ from the multiple traps and obligations of ordinary
life. It is particularly when one is at peace and ease that one must prepare
oneself for unpleasant circumstances through a regimen of mental and phys-
ical exercises; it is when one has comfort and resources aplenty that one must
practice fasting and deprivation.
Yet, if the Stoic sage is pleased with her life, her satisfaction is a conse-
quence of having reached the end: virtue and virtue alone. Virtue is happiness
and vice unhappiness. As Seneca puts it: “Virtue per se is sufficient for a
happy life” (Ep. 92, 23).12 If one were to point to a wretched virtuous person,
the Stoic would have to contend either that this person is not truly virtuous
or that we fail to see her true happiness. The claim that happiness is found in
virtue and only in virtue is both a central tenet of Stoic ethics and one of its
most controversial. Many find it hard to reconcile these terms and embrace
the Stoic synthesis. It often seems that in order to do the right thing one
must sacrifice one’s happiness. The Stoics insist, however, that virtue is not
only good, it is self-beneficent. If the agent wishes to be happy, she must
desire virtue for its own sake, and if she obtains the end (virtue) she will ipso
facto be happy.
ata rax i a 253
At first glance, the description of happiness as harmony of the soul with

itself suggests an ethics that is concerned with the cultivation of the self: if
one undergoes the strenuous regimen of stoic training, it must be with the
expectation of becoming a better person. To be happy is to live in agree-
ment with oneself (while the wretched lives a life of inner turmoil). But the
homologoumenos the Stoics are seeking is concordance with reason, and this
has nothing to do with one’s private rationalization; one can always put one’s
reason at the service of any end. In investigating and cultivating the self, one
discovers a rational order that transcends the self. My own good agrees with
an order that is much larger than I am. This is implied by the Stoic motto
“Follow nature,” which means simultaneously (a) follow your own nature
(and since your nature is to be a rational animal, become fully rational) and
(b) follow the cosmic order. These are not different natures. Chrysippus, as
reported by Diogenes, wrote:
For our natures are parts of the nature of the whole universe. Hence
our aim becomes living consistently with nature, that is, in accor-
dance with one’s own nature and that of the universe, being active
though in no way forbidden by the law common to all that is right
reason which pervades everything and is the same as Zeus, lord of
the ordering of all that exist. (Lives VII.88)
Nature displays a rational order, but only rational beings can become aware
of this. One reaches virtue when one understands oneself as part of a greater
whole and acts accordingly. Thus, the true ‘care-of-the-self ’ entails deflating
its importance.
The insistence on agreeing with a cosmic (and divine) order has been per-
ceived as odd by some commentators. As Julia Annas puts it, “The appeal to
cosmic nature does the opposite of what is required; it pulls the agent away
from the kind of attachment to her own concerns which is needed for useful
reflection on her final end to be possible.”13 Since the true self is reason, the
ethical care-of-the-self demands autonomy; yet, the insistence on following
cosmic reason seems to advocate heteronomy. At best, for Annas, the appeal
to the cosmos and its divine order adds a ‘prescriptive force’ without which
morality would dry out as a mere set of rules deprived of anything worthy of
awe. Beyond this prescriptive force, the cosmic point of view would be use-
less. I believe, however, that this objection betrays a modern assumption that
sees an unbridgeable gap between the starry sky above me and the moral law
within me. If the natural world is, as the Stoics believe, fundamentally rational,
to assent to it is to fulfill the agent’s rational nature. The sage has reached full
254 pascal massie
understanding of her own nature, but to know oneself fully is to understand

oneself sub specie aeternitatis. Annas’s objection presupposes that the two senses
of nature (human nature and cosmic nature) and the two senses of reason
(agent’s intellect and cosmic/divine reason) designate separate and incompat-
ible orders when in fact they are one. Conscience (syneidēsis), whose regular
examination is an important part of the stoic training, refers primarily to the
ethical relation the agent has toward herself; but the very possibility of assess-
ing her past actions presupposes a reference back to the norm of a common
nature. Syneidēsis is a natural faculty and a spark of an order larger than the
agent. Human nature is dynamic and teleological; the satisfaction of our needs
may be where we must begin, but it is not where we should end. The sage who
has achieved virtue hasn’t stepped outside nature but has completed it.14
But why would such a life be happy? The identification of happiness with
virtue remains a counterintuitive claim. It may even appear incoherent for
virtue is shown to be an instrumental part of happiness while the concern
for virtue requires that we value it without any reference to happiness. Hap-
piness cannot be found in the possession of those things that are usually
deemed goods (wealth and health, for instance). In that respect, virtue would
correspond to the art of making proper use of these preferred ‘indifferents’
(a skill that most people who simply happen to be wealthy and healthy do
not possess). As Nussbaum puts it: “The injunction to live in accord with
nature is in large part an injunction to drop the frenzied pursuit of these
pseudo-goals and to reform one’s desires and preferences in the light of the
recognition that they are at best highly limited tools of human function-
ing.”15 Yet this still doesn’t establish that the virtuous life is ipso facto a happy
one. If the Stoic can point to unhappy wealthy people to illustrate her con-
tention, can we not point to unhappy virtuous ones to refute her? In which
case, it would be up to the Stoics to show that in fact these people either are
not unhappy or that they are not truly virtuous.
The goal of all these virtues is to live consistently with nature. Each
virtue through its individual properties enables man to achieve this.
For from nature he has initial impulses (άφορμάς) for the discovery
of what is appropriate, for the balancing of his impulses, for acts of
endurance, and for acts of apportioning. Each of the virtues, by act-
ing in concert and by its own particular properties, enables man to
live consistently with nature. (Arius, 5b3)16
Nature, virtue, and happiness are ultimately unified in the sage. The stoic
must establish that a virtuous life (and it alone) is a complete and fulfilled
ata rax i a 255
one. Annas contends that all the stoics have to support this claim is an argu-
ment, developed in Cicero’s On the Ends of Good and Evil, which aims at
showing a discrepancy between the virtues, on the one hand, and all other
valued things. “It is not the case that wisdom plus health is worth more than
wisdom by itself alone” (Fin. III.44). The argument targets the Aristotelians
who think that external conditions must be added to virtue for one to be
happy. However, there is no common denominator between these things and
incommensurable things cannot be added. Wisdom and wealth cannot be
compared, for wealth is not a good. The sage could happen to be wealthy, but
her wealth adds nothing to her virtue, since it doesn’t increase her goodness
and consequently cannot increase her happiness. There are, however, further
grounds that can be given in defense of the Stoics’ contention (pace Annas),
and they depend on considering the Stoics’ reworking of happiness in terms
of tranquility, ataraxia, and apatheia.
Disturbances of the soul produce wretchedness, while tranquility

produces a happy life; and the course of disturbance is twofold, for
distress and fear rest on evils that are expected, while extravagant
joy and lust rest on a mistaken notion of what is good, and all these
things conflict with thoughtfulness and reason. Will you hesitate to
call happy the man you find undisturbed, liberated, and free from
agitations so oppressive and so mutually discordant and estranged
from one another? And yet, this is always the condition of the wise
man: the wise man therefore is always happy. (Tusc. V.xv.42)17
The argument turns the objection on its head. One cannot truly obtain hap-
piness without disengaging from the other nonvirtuous values since their
pursuit (or, once obtained, the fear of their loss) leads to wretchedness. The
advantages provided by wealth or health are never secure and the very pos-
sibility of losing them is a source of anxiety. Thus, virtue, and virtue alone, can
offer the security which is an intrinsic characteristic of true happiness.
So, must we seek the good or must we seek happiness? In matters of ulti-
mate end, there is no room for plurality, but the end may be multifaceted: it
may appear as virtue and happiness. If we search for happiness, we discover
that virtue is the right candidate, and if we attain virtue, we experience true
happiness. It is so because the end has the fundamental attribute of self-
sufficiency (this is a necessary attribute for whatever is not self-sufficient,
by definition, depends on another, and therefore cannot be the end). The
goodness of nonvirtuous valued things is relative, since it depends on their
appropriate use whereas the goodness of virtue is intrinsic, thus stable. Only
256 pascal massie
virtue then passes the requirement for the end and happiness follows (as was
implied from the beginning).
III Skepticism or Ataraxia beyond Commitment

For contemporary philosophers Skepticism belongs to epistemology. Most
scholarship on the Sextan corpus focuses on the possibility of suspending
judgment and the dilemma of self-referentiality (can the Skeptic articulate
her own stance without contradiction?). Yet the Skeptic hypothesis is an
ethical matter, and not simply because it advocates suspension of judgment
in moral matters, but because the very practice of suspending judgment is an
ethical act.
The goal of the Skeptic is ataraxia in matters of opinion and mod-

eration of feeling in inescapable matters. For Skeptics began to do
philosophy in order to decide among appearances and to ascertain
which are true and which are false, so as to become tranquil; but
they came upon equipollent dispute, and being unable to decide
on this, they suspended judgment. And when they suspended
judgment tranquility in matters of opinion followed fortuitously.
(Outlines I.25–26)18
What is wrong with Dogmatics is that they make the end dependent on
some ultimate knowledge. As we saw earlier, moral education consists in
replacing our false beliefs with true ones so that we may redirect our desire
toward the attainment of those authentic goods (the right kind of pleasure
for the Epicureans, virtue for the Stoics). Yet, as McPherran puts it, the prob-
lem is that “the root of our unhappiness is not having the wrong beliefs about
objective values but our having any such beliefs at all; for such beliefs lead
us to pursue and shun things with an intensity [suntonos] that only serves to
increase our inner disturbance and so diminishes our happiness.”19 The Skeptic
doesn’t deny that some of our experiences are good, that some actions are
beneficent or that some things are pleasurable, but because these experiences
are fluid, it is not possible to locate good and evil in some permanent object
that is good ‘by nature.’
Why would a Skeptical life, a life in which one constantly suspends judg-
ment, be a happy one? What tranquility is there in living an existence whose
ultimate ground and purpose seems unfathomable? The alleged outcome of
Skepticism seems to be the main reason so many people embrace Dogma-
tism in the first place.
ata rax i a 257
The answer takes two steps. First, dogmatism has failed to deliver the
tranquility it advertises. Second, the problem lies in the intensity of the dog-
matic desire to know which causes elation and fear and, thus, disturbance.
Those who hold the opinion that things are good or bad by nature
are perpetually troubled. When they lack what they believe to be
good, they take themselves to be persecuted by natural evils and
they pursue what they deem good. And when they have acquired
these things they experience more troubles; for they are elated
beyond reason and measure, and in fear of change they do anything
so as not to lose what they believe to be good. But those who make
no determination about what is good or bad by nature neither avoid
nor pursue anything with intensity; and hence they are tranquil.
(Outlines I.27–28)
The contrast is between torment and elation, on the one hand (the ethos
of the Dogmatist), and tranquility, on the other (the ethos of the Skeptic).
The dogmatist resembles a religious fanatic whose fervor masks a deep inse-
curity; she engages in her quest with a vehemence that condemns her to
unhappiness.
It is not possible to be happy if one assumes the existence of any-

thing good and evil by nature. For he who does this is tossed about
with endless perturbations caused by avoiding some things and
pursuing others; drawing upon himself many evils because of the
goods and being afflicted by many times more evils because of his
belief about evils. (Adv. math. 11.144)20
Skeptical contentment, however, will not occur without the common worries
of life, whose avoidance cannot be assured. Yet the Skeptic’s critical target is
not about the common beliefs we use to conduct our daily existence; they
provide practical guidance, provided one is aware that they simply express
how things appear at the time and nothing more.21 Rather, the Skeptic’s tar-
get is limited to dogmatic contentions: philosophical verities professed by
schools that claim to know the true nature of things. “You must remem-
ber that we do not use these phrases [i.e., statements such as “I determine
nothing,” or “opposed to every account there is an equal account”] about
all objects universally, but about what is non-manifest and investigated in
dogmatic fashion” (Outlines I.208). If we bracket all claims that pretend to
identify what is ‘by nature and universally’ good or evil, there is still room
258 pascal massie
for appearances as well as for the guidance of experience and custom.22 The
Skeptic only rejects the ‘strong wish with a strong inclination’ that accompany
dogmatic certainties. Since we must act, accepting social norms is commend-
able, so long as it is performed without commitment. Conventionalism, then,
but conventionalism without illusions.
One of the most common objections has been to dismiss the Skepti-
cal way of life (agōgē) because it impoverishes human existence.23 Yet this
ignores what the very word skepsis means: “The Skeptical school is also called
investigative from its activity in investigating and inquiring [σκέπτεσθαι]”
(Outlines I.7). Thus, the suspension of judgment is not a suspension of
inquiry but its opposite. It is rather the dogmatic contention to have the
‘last word’ and to know exactly what is right and wrong that the Skeptics
question, and not because this is in principle impossible (this would be a
dogmatic claim), but simply because, so far, this has not been found. The
absence of persuasion is not the end of inquiry but a reason to pursue it.
Although there might be an external resemblance between a Skeptic and
an ordinary unreflective existence, the Skeptic remains deeply commit-
ted to the Socratic axiom: the unexamined life is not worth living, but she
does not identify with the thoughts she investigates.24 Beyond unreflective
existence and dogmatism another path is possible. Such a path follows an
undecided ‘perhaps.’ “Someone who says: ‘perhaps it is’ implicitly posits what
seems contradictory, namely ‘perhaps it is not,’ insofar as he refuses to affirm
that it is so” (Outlines I.195). The inquiry occurs in the space freed by this
‘perhaps.’
It is within this form of consciousness that ataraxia may emerge—may, for
even this cannot be guaranteed. Although Sextus describes Skepticism as a
process that leads from inquiry to equipollence, from equipollence to epochē,
and finally from epochē to ataraxia, he is unable to assure us that the first
steps will necessarily result in the attainment of the last one. Why mention
ataraxia, then, if no belief can be held concerning its desirability and attain-
ability? According to McPherran the quest for ataraxia was simply part of
the general Hellenistic culture.25 Machuca, on the other hand, argues that
Skepticism does not really need ataraxia.26 This later interpretation seems
to be contradicted by Sextus, who declares that “it belongs to Skepticism to
secure a happy life [τὸ εὐδαίμονα βίον περοποιεῖν]” (Adv. math. 11.140). It
seems to me that even though the Skeptic is prohibited in principle from
giving a dogmatic account of the goal, that does not prevent her from having
one which can be posited (a) negatively—she can show that the dogmatic
schools lead to a troubled existence and (b) positively—the Skeptic acknowl-
edges that all our endeavors are oriented toward what appears as good.
ata rax i a 259
The Skeptic began to philosophize with the aim of deciding among

appearances and determining which are true and which false, so
as to become unperturbed; but he encountered an equipollent dis-
agreement; being unable to decide this he suspended judgment.
And while he suspended judgment unperturbness in matter of
opinion closely followed by chance [τυχικῶς]. (Outlines I.26)
Two things are striking: first, this is a narration, not an argument. Sextus
reports what (allegedly) happened.27 Second, the relation between epochē
and ataraxia is haphazard. The goal ends up being reached. Although wis-
dom has not been obtained ataraxia followed “by chance.” Ataraxia emerges
from epochē without necessity. Commitment to Skepticism is the result not
of a conviction but of observing the inner peace that followed epochē. The
only plausible candidate that could allow us to discriminate, not between
dogmatic claims but between dogmatism and Skepticism itself, is the attain-
ment of ataraxia. Thus, ataraxia cannot be an external consideration (pace
Machuca). If the Skeptic is unsatisfied with the ends proposed by the Epicu-
reans (pleasure) or the Stoics (virtue) she does not reject the notion of an end
and the desirability of its pursuit. In other words, that epochē cannot guarantee
the attainment of ataraxia is one thing; but it does not follow from this that
the attainment of ataraxia ceases to be a valuable goal and even a metalevel
criterion. But even this must be said “in a nondogmatic fashion,” as Sextus is
fond of repeating.
Notes
1. See Gisela Striker, “Ataraxia: Happiness as Tranquility,” in Essays on Hellenistic Epis-
temology and Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 183–184.
2. Unless otherwise stated, translations are mine.
3. Striker argues that ataraxia is a part of happiness, since Epicurus distinguishes it
thus: “tranquility (ataraxia) . . . the pleasant state of the mind, corresponding to the state
of aponia, absence of pain, in the body” (Striker, Ataraxia, 185). I believe this reading is
unjustified. We find in Cicero a parallel formulation which, instead of aponia, lists ‘leisure
from duty’ (ND I.53). Instead of construing the absence of physical pain (or ‘leisure from
duties’) as ‘parts’ of happiness (and one could think of other conditions), it is more plau-
sible to conceive of them as various contributing factors of ataraxia.
4. Erler and Schofield point to Cicero’s translation of katastēma as ‘stabilis’ and ‘in stabil-
itate.’ Michael Erler and Malcom Schofield, “Epicurean Ethics,” in The Cambridge History
of Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. K. Algra, J. Barnes, J. Mansfeld, and M. Schofield (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999), 656.
5. B. Inwood and L. P. Gerson, The Epicurus Reader (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994), 40.
6. Cicero rejects this argument. How could a pleasure that lasts longer not be preferable
to a pleasure of a shorter duration, when everyone would agree that a longer pain makes us
more miserable than a shorter one (Fin. II.88)? However, Epicurus’s point is that a com-
260 pascal massie
plete life does not depend on an infinite time, while sustained pleasure is preferable to an
ephemeral one. See Erler and Schofield, “Epicurean Ethics,” 665; and P. Mitsis, Epicurus’
Ethical Theory (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 23–26.
7. Plutarch, Moralia, vol. 14, trans. Benedict Einarson and Phillip de Lacy (Cambridge,
Mass.: Loeb Classical Library, Harvard University Press, 1968).
8. Simplicius uses the complete expression “freedom from emotions and disturbance”
(50:25), combining Epicurean ataraxia and Stoic apatheia. Simplicius, On Epictetus’
Handbook 1–26, trans. C. Brittain and T. Brennan (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press,
2002), 98.
9. Even Seneca, who talks about “extirpating” and “eliminating” the passions, is clear:
“You must not think that our human virtue transcends nature; the wise man will tremble,
will feel pain, and will turn pale. For all these are sensations of the body.” Ep. 71.29.
10. Inwood has a felicitous formulation: “The doctrine was not that we should be pas-
sionless but rather that ‘apatheia’ is ‘eupatheia’ [good feeling].” Brad Inwood, Ethics and
Human Action in Early Stoicism (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 173.
11. Seneca, Moral Essays, vol. 2, trans. John W. Besore (Cambridge, Mass.: Loeb Clas-
sical Library, Harvard University Press, 1935); translation modified.
12. Seneca, Moral Letters, vol. 2, trans. Richard Gummere (Cambridge, Mass.: Loeb
Classical Library, Harvard University Press, 1970); translation modified. Not all Sto-
ics accepted this thesis. “Panaetius and Posidonius say that virtue is not sufficient [for a
happy life] for there is a need for health, material resources and strength” (Diogenes, Lives
VII.128).
13. Julia Annas, The Morality of Happiness (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 161.
14. “When they say that the final good is to live in agreement with nature, what this
means, is, I think, the following, always be in accord with virtue and choose that which is
in accord with nature if it is not in disaccord with virtue” (Cicero, Fin. III.13).
15. Martha Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University
Press, 1994), 501.
16. Arius Didymus, Epitome of Stoic Ethics, trans. Arthur J. Pomeroy (Atlanta: Society
of Biblical Literature, 1999).
17. Cicero, Tusculan Disputations, trans. John E. King (Cambridge, Mass.: Loeb Classi-
cal Library, Harvard University Press, 1927); translation modified.
18. Sextus Empiricus, Outlines of Scepticism, ed. Julia Annas and Jonathan Barnes
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); translation modified.
19. Mark L. McPherran, “Ataraxia and Eudaimonia in Ancient Pyrrhonism,” Proceed-
ings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 5 (1989): 138.
20. Sextus Empiricus, Against the Ethicists, vol. 3, trans. R. G. Bury (Cambridge, Mass.:
Loeb Classical Library, Harvard University Press, 1960).
21. “The standards [of action] of the skeptical persuasion is what is apparent, implicitly
meaning by this the appearances; for they depend on passive and unwanted feelings and
are not objects of investigation . . . Thus, attending to what is apparent, we live in ac-
cordance with every day observances, without holding opinions, for we are not able to be
utterly inactive” (Outlines I.22–23).
22. Burnyeat claims that “far from relying on the will to control ascent, the skeptic
panacea . . . is to use reason to check all the sources of belief and destroy all trust in reason
itself, thereby eliminating the very inclination to believe. The life without belief is not
an achievement of the will but a paralysis of reason by itself.” Myles Burnyeat, “Can the
ata rax i a 261
Skeptic Live His Skepticism?,” in The Original Skeptics: A Controversy, ed. M. Burnyeat
and M. Frede (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997, 46, my emphasis. The kind of intellectual
suicide that Burnyeat attributes to the Skeptics is contradicted by Sextus’s insistence on
pursuing inquiry.
23. A sign of this is the unusually high number of references to pigs in the accounts of
Pyrrho’s life. “They [pigs] seem to have no desire or impulse beyond sating hunger.” James
Warren, Epicurus and Democritean Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002),
115; see also 141–142.
24. “The Skeptic will report that he is able (contra Burnyeat) to treat his own thoughts
as non-identical to himself and so is able to report that ‘it is thought within me—in my
rational organ—that p is the case, but I do not believe it’ ” (McPherran, Ataraxia, 169).
25. “The aim (τέλος), then, of the Pyrrhonian lifestyle (ἀγωγή) is happiness, is eudai-
monia (Adv. math. 11. 140–161), and in this Pyrrhonism was completely undistinctive,
non-doctrinaire and so, uncontroversial” (McPherran, Ataraxia, 136–137).
26. “Neither the search for nor the attainment of ataraxia . . . are essential to Pyr-
rhonism.” Diego Machuca, “The Pyrrhonist Ataraxia and Philanthrōpia,” Ancient Philoso-
phy 26, no. 1 (2006): 111.
27. “In the present work we will give an outline of the Skeptical way of thought. To
start with, we do not positively affirm any of the things to be discussed that they are just
as we say they are; rather, we report descriptively [ἱστορικῶς ἀπαγγέλλομεν] on each thing
according to how it appears to us now” (Outlines I.4).
Key Readings
Algra, Keimpe. The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge
Annas, Julia. The Morality of Happiness. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.
Bailey, Cyril B. Epicurus: The Extant Remains. Oxford: Clarendon, 1926.
Burnyeat, Myles. “Can the Skeptic Live His Skepticism?” In The Original Skeptics: A Con-
troversy, edited by M. Burnyeat and M. Frede. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997.
Inwood, Brad. Ethics and Human Action in Early Stoicism. Oxford: Clarendon, 1985.
Long, A. A. Hellenistic Philosophy, Stoics, Epicureans, Sceptics. 1974; reprint, Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1986.
McPherran, Mark. “Ataraxia and Eudiamoniain Ancient Pyrrhonism: Is the Sceptic
Really Happy?” Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 5
(1988): 135–171.
Mitsis, Phillip. Epicurus’ Ethical Theory. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988.
Nussbaum, Martha. The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1986.
Schofield, Malcom, and Gisela Striker. The Norms of Nature: Studies in Hellenistic Ethics.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.
Sharples, R. W. Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics: An Introduction to Hellenistic Philosophy.
London: Routledge, 1996.
A Well-Ordered World: The Developing Idea of
Kosmos in Later Greek Philosophy
Gina Zavota
In the ancient Greek world, the term kosmos originally referred not to the
overarching structure of the universe, but to the social order most befitting
the ‘state,’ or polis. In later Greek thought, however, these two meanings
become more and more intertwined. This phenomenon is perhaps most
clearly observable in early Stoic philosophy, with its foregrounding of both
physics and ethics.1 The shift that takes place amounts to a change of focus,
whereby the two distinct contexts in which the term was used—discussions
of the heavens, on the one hand, and the city and its inhabitants, on the
other—become less significant. Conversely, a great deal of emphasis is placed
on a particular characteristic in virtue of which the term was applied to both,
namely the sense of harmony and order that is characteristic not only of the
heavens but also of any virtuous state or individual. In the case of the Stoics,
the notion of kosmos plays a pivotal role not just in their physics, but within
their ethical theory as well, due to their much-discussed emphasis on ‘living
in accordance with nature.’ It might at first seem that this mandate draws our
attention away from explicitly ethical concerns and toward considerations
more appropriately assigned to physics; however, both areas are components
of the general inquiry into what it means to live in harmony, as one part of a
larger whole. Seen in this way, Stoic ethics and physics are no more separable
than the two meanings of kosmos as expressed in Stoic thought; in fact, the
concept itself is the linchpin that holds these two disciplines together.
While this essay will focus on a discussion of Stoicism, I will begin with
a brief overview of Platonic and Aristotelian usages of the term, in order to
contextualize the changes that took place during the Hellenistic era. It is
my hope that this study will serve not only to deepen our understanding of
this important idea in later Greek thought, but also as an impetus for recon-
sideration of the place of harmony and balance in today’s world. The Stoic
understanding of kosmos, encompassing both the natural order and the realm
263
264 gina zavota
of human existence, could provide a fruitful alternative to the fragmentary

view of the world that many of us hold today.
In the Platonic dialogues, three related but distinct meanings of kosmos
can be identified. For the sake of brevity, I will illustrate these usages by
means of three exemplary passages from the texts. My goal here is not to give
an exhaustive account of how Plato employs the term, but rather to illustrate
the distinctness of its three meanings, at least relative to their intermingling
in Stoic doctrine. The first of these, which I will call the ‘political’ usage,
figures prominently in the section of Protagoras where Protagoras uses the
story of Prometheus bringing fire to humans to argue that virtue is teachable.
While Prometheus successfully steals fire from Hephaestus and knowledge
of the arts from Athena, he is unable to procure “political skill [πολιτικὴν
τέχνην]” (Prt. 322b),2 which is guarded by Zeus. The lack of such skill leads
to constant conflict and the eventual disbanding of human communities.
In the end, Zeus charges Hermes with the task of saving the human race
from destruction by bringing them the qualities necessary to create kosmos,
or order, in society: “Zeus therefore, fearing the total destruction of our race,
sent Hermes to impart to men the qualities of respect for others and a sense
of justice [δίκην], so as to bring order [κόσμοι] into our cities and create a
bond of friendship and union” (Prt. 322c). Paramount among the virtues
which he imparts, and which are vital for maintaining a sense of kosmos in the
polis, are aidōs and dikē, which Zeus stipulates should be distributed evenly
among all citizens (Prt. 323c–d). Given this distribution, the development of
Athenian democracy seems to be a foregone conclusion.
In Book VI of Laws, by contrast, Plato appeals to one of the other mean-
ings of kosmos, namely that concerned with a thing’s ornamental or decorative
qualities. While discussing the requisite duties of guards in a well-ordered
society, he states that, in addition to their more typical tasks, they should
also be called upon to beautify the countryside and to provide a comfortable
place for the old, the infirm, and those worn out from tending the land to
relax and recuperate. The warm baths and gymnasia they provide have many
purposes: “Work of this and similar kinds will be both useful [ὠφελία] and
ornamental [κόσμος] to a district and will also afford charming recreation”
(Lg. VI.761d). Although Plato seems to be contrasting the aesthetic qualities
of these public recreational areas with their utility, he goes on to imply that a
properly ordered and sufficiently harmonious space for relaxation can be an
effective treatment for exhaustion and related maladies in its own right; in
fact, it is “a treatment much more profitable than a poorly qualified physi-
cian” (Lg. VI.761d). Providing the proper aesthetic conditions for this cure
is an art as precise and valuable as that of a doctor. As with the first, political
a well-o rdered world 265
usage, the aesthetic usage of kosmos pertains to order, and more specifically
to a highly desirable ordering that has beneficial consequences wherever it is
made manifest.
Finally, there is perhaps the best-known occurrence of kosmos in Plato’s
works, namely in the description of the creation of the universe by the
Demiurge (dēmiourgos) in Timaeus. In this cosmological usage, the term is
employed almost as a synonym for ouranos; for example, as Timaeus sets the
stage for his cosmogonical discussion, he refers to “the heaven [οὐρανὸς]
then or the world [κόσμος], whether called by this or by any other more
appropriate name” (Ti. 28b). A closer examination of this section of the dia-
logue will illustrate the importance of harmony and proportion in Plato’s
conception of kosmos. The Demiurge sculpts the ‘body’ of the universe out
of the four elements, which are placed in very precise analogia, or ‘relations,’
to each other. As a result, “the body of the world [κόσμου] was created, and
it was harmonized by proportion [δι᾽ ἀναλογίας ὁμολογῆσαν]” (Ti. 32b–c).
The emphasis on proper ordering and proportion (analogia) is even more
apparent when Timaeus describes the creation of the ‘soul’ of the kosmos out
of ousia, or ‘being,’ the same (to auton), and the different (to heteron). After
blending the three principles together, he removes a sequence of portions of
the resulting mixture whose sizes correspond to the first several powers of
the numbers two and three. He then extracts a second sequence of portions
corresponding in size to two different means (mesos) between each pair of
two consecutive powers that he had sectioned off in the first pass.3 Through
this process, the celestial spheres—the visible expression of the soul of the
kosmos—are brought into being. As with the other two usages of the term,
once again it is linked to a beautiful and highly desirable sense of order and
proportion, and with the excellence of character to which these qualities
attest. Whether in an individual life, a state, or the universe as a whole, this
order is something to strive for.
Aristotle also uses kosmos in a variety of ways in different texts, but even
in his work we can see the distinctions between the various aspects of the
concept becoming less well defined. In a similar vein to Plato’s ‘ornamental’
usage in Laws, he states in Book IV of Nicomachean Ethics that “a magnificent
man will also furnish his house suitably to his wealth (for even a house is a
sort of public ornament)” (EN IV.1123a6–7),4 characterizing a house as the
type of ornamental possession that a wealthy man would use to demonstrate
his financial status. The hallmark of such a man’s magnificence is a sense of
appropriateness of scale, as with the aforementioned house, the grandeur of
which corresponds to its owner’s level of wealth. Thus a house—or anything
else for that matter—can manifest kosmos when it is constructed in such a
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way that there is a harmony not only among the elements of its own design,
but also between it and the lifestyle of its owner. Hence the ‘ornamental’
implications of the term indicate, for both Plato and Aristotle, a beauty that
comes about through proper proportion, balance, and harmony.
Elsewhere, Aristotle employs kosmos in the cosmological sense, to refer
to the entirety of the known universe. For instance, he argues in Book VI
of Nicomachean Ethics that Homo sapiens’ status as the best of the animals is
not all that impressive, insofar as “there are other things much more divine
in their nature even than man, e.g., most conspicuously, the bodies of which
the heavens [ό κόσμος] are framed” (EN VI.1141a–b).5 The tendency to see
humans, and human reason, in the context of a larger, cosmic whole is also
present in Politics; in Book VII, for example, Aristotle asserts that the active
life is the best life, insofar as happiness consists in virtuous activity. In the
case of isolated states or individuals, the requisite activity takes place between
different parts of the whole, such as the various branches of government or
the organ systems in the body. These interactions require no outside stimulus
in order to function, or even to reach their optimal state. If this were not the
case, he argues, there would be absurd consequences: “God and the universe
[ό κόσμος], who have no external actions over and above their own energies,
would be far enough from perfection” (Pol. VII.1325b). He concludes that
the life of virtuous activity is the best choice for every individual and every
state, without exception: “Hence it is evident that the same life is best for
each individual, and for states and for mankind collectively” (Pol. VII.1325b).
The perfection of the kosmos is thus manifested in its order and the harmo-
nious interaction among its parts, as was the case with Plato, as well as its
completeness and self-sufficiency. Here we can already see the blurring of
boundaries between the application of this concept to humans, cities, and
the universe as a whole. This tendency will become dramatically more pro-
nounced in the Stoics, to whom we now turn.
Before beginning this discussion, I would like to specify that, although the
focus of this work will be on the early Stoicism of Zeno of Citium, Clean-
thes, and Chrysippus, I will also occasionally draw on the work of Seneca
and Epictetus. Although Stoic doctrine clearly did not remain static in the
intervening centuries, my use of these later authors will be for the purpose
of illuminating the doctrines of their predecessors; in so doing, I will not be
attempting to give a comprehensive exposition of the Stoicism of their era,
or of their understanding of kosmos. For my purposes here, I will use them in
essentially the same way as I do the works of the later doxographers.
For the Hellenistic philosophers, philosophy was a complete way of life,
and not merely an academic discipline. As is well known, the Stoics and
many others felt that one of the most important questions that could be
answered was that concerning the best kind of life to live. The traditionally
cited Stoic answer to this question is that “the goal [is] to live in agree-
ment with nature [φύσει], which is to live according to virtue. For nature
leads to virtue” (Lives VII.87),6 or, in Cicero’s words, “The goal is to live
consistently and in agreement with nature” (De finibus III 26).7 These state-
ments will serve as our starting point in the investigation of kosmos, for, as
we will see, the question of physis, and of how to live in accordance with it,
is central to a thorough understanding of the concept. To further explain
the notion of ‘living in accordance with physis,’ let us first consider the
nature of the Stoic God. Diogenes Laertius tells us that living according
to nature means living “according to one’s own nature and that of the uni-
verse, doing nothing which is forbidden by the common law, which is right
reason, penetrating all things, being the same as Zeus who is the leader of
the administration of things” (Lives VII.88). Thus, the Stoics recognized a
God who was immanently present in all creation through his divine rea-
son, and who remained responsible at every moment for its development and
continued organization. Furthermore, since they only accorded existence to
bodies, God himself was also a body, or a material particular; he was identi-
fied with the creative, elemental Fire or logos, one of the two Stoic archai.8
Thus God’s influence on the world was exerted from within that world, in
contrast to Plato’s dēmiourgos, who existed outside the world over which he
ruled.
For the Stoics, the divine logos or Fire pervaded everything that exists,
unifying and directing it and providing a framework within which the rela-
tions among all of its parts can become apparent. As Plutarch puts it, perhaps
oversimplifying the Stoic equation somewhat, “No particular thing, not even
the least, can be otherwise than according to common Nature and its reason
[λόγος]” (SSR 1050b).9 Plutarch’s fervent dislike of the Stoics notwithstand-
ing, this citation provides evidence of some kind of close relation between
God, the divine Fire, reason, and fate in Stoic thought. This is significant
for our investigation because it highlights the interconnectedness of a set
of principles that bridge physics and ethics in the figure of the Stoic God,
the source of order and harmony in the world. These are, of course, precisely
the traits that were most characteristic of the various usages of kosmos in
Plato and Aristotle. We can thus already see the distinction between the
cosmological and political contexts in which the term is employed beginning
to blur.
Returning to the question, then, of what it means to live in accordance
with physis, Diogenes Laertius tells us:
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By nature, in consistency with which we must live, Chrysippus

understands both the common and, specifically, the human nature.
Cleanthes includes only the common nature, with which one must
be consistent, and not the individual. And virtue is a disposition in
agreement. (Lives VII.89)
Two points are worth noting here. The first is that, at least in this account,
there was a difference of opinion about which nature should be followed,
the “common” nature of the universe alone, or this universal nature along
with that of the individual human being. While these two are not identi-
cal, then, there must have been a close affinity between them, or else there
would not have been a disagreement between these two early leaders of the
Stoic school. Second, the belief is expressed here that virtue is equivalent to
a disposition marked by homologia, or ‘accordance, agreement,’ with the sur-
rounding world; this is in keeping with the desire of Plato’s dêmiourgos as he
seeks to create a kosmos characterized by order and harmony. The upshot of
this doctrine, as Gisela Striker points out in a discussion of a similar state-
ment in Cicero’s On the Ends of Good and Evil, “is not that one comes to
value rationality, but that one comes to value order and harmony above all
else . . . [The question immediately becomes, then,] . . . Why should love for
rationality—one’s own rationality—be the same as love for the order and
harmony of nature?”10 To respond to this question, we should note, first of
all, that both the individual and the visible world as a whole, insofar as it is
infused throughout with God’s presence, are characterized by rationality. As
we saw above, there is an intertwining of cosmological and ethical elements
in Stoic thought, so it is not unreasonable to assume that the virtuous person
will value the same characteristics in his or her own life as those that the
astronomer most values in the visible kosmos.
What Cleanthes and Chrysippus agree on is that we should look to the
universal nature for moral guidance; we must live our lives in accordance
with the whole of creation, not just with our own individual proclivities. That
nature is essentially the manifestation of God’s presence, which extends to
all existing things, including individual human beings. For example, with
respect to the wise, Diogenes Laertius tells us that “they are godly; for they
have in themselves a kind of god” (Lives VII.119). In a similar vein, Seneca
asks, “Why shouldn’t you think that there is something divine in him who
is a part of god? All of that which contains us is one and is god. And we
are his allies and parts” (Ep. 92.30).11 This envisioning of the relationship of
individuals to the kosmos as one of parts to a whole has two important conse-
quences for our investigation here. The first is that it helps clarify why a love
of harmony and proportion might be central to ethics; if homologia is one

of the defining features of the kosmos, then it stands to reason that it would
be equally vital to the ‘ordering’ of a human life as well. In other words, the
excellence of the individual, the state, and the visible world as a whole will
be dependent on the development of similar virtues, namely those which are
present in the kosmos insofar as it is the visible manifestation of God’s nature.
Second, given God’s immanent physical presence in the world, Stoic ethics is
necessarily interconnected with the realm of physis; it does not make sense to
talk about divine virtue serving as a model for human conduct without also
taking the physical world into account.
The extent of the overlap between these two areas of inquiry is clear from
Diogenes Laertius’s listing of the various conceptions of kosmos in Stoic
thought: “They use the term ‘cosmos’ in three senses: [1] the god himself
who is the individual quality consisting of the totality of substance, who is
indestructible and ungenerated, being the craftsman [δημιουργὸς] of the
organization [διακοσμήσεως] . . . [2] they also call the organization itself
of the stars cosmos; and [3] thirdly, that which is composed of both” (Lives
VII.137–138). If this is an accurate representation of Stoic usage, then the
conceptual boundaries between God and the physical universe which his
divine reason has brought into existence were not all that clear-cut. This
is in agreement with the Stoic belief that “the cosmos is administered by
mind [νοῦν] and providence [πρόνοιαν]” (Lives VII.138). Examining in
more detail the most prominent characteristics of the kosmos serves to further
accentuate the interconnectedness of cosmological and ethical aspects of the
theory: “The cosmos is one, and limited at that, having a spherical shape”
(Lives VII.140); furthermore, “spread around the outside of it is the unlim-
ited void, which is incorporeal . . . Inside the cosmos there is no void, but it is
[fully] unified” (Lives VII.140). We know from Plato that the sphere, being
the most perfect physical form, is also the most fitting shape for the kosmos,
insofar as the latter is the most perfect physical world possible (Ti. 32c–34b).
Here there is a stark contrast between an ordered, well-defined world within
the sphere, administered by logos, and an unlimited, incorporeal void sur-
rounding this realm of order. This image illustrates in striking fashion how
the Stoic universe can be likened to a city, insofar as the latter typically fea-
tures a complex set of interconnected systems within its walls and (at least in
the time of the Stoics) a comparative void and lack of organization outside.
Katja Maria Vogt presents an intriguing exposition of this likeness, and
its ramifications for Stoic ethics and political philosophy, in her book Law,
Reason, and the Cosmic City, where she asserts, “The study of perfectly rational
parts of the cosmos may help us understand the physical side of the Stoic
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end, life in agreement with nature; a star’s movements may exemplify what
it means to enjoy an ‘easy flow’ of life.”12 Thus an examination of the Sto-
ics’ cosmology not only helps us gain a fuller picture of their thought, but
such examination was also vital for the Stoics themselves. Their thoroughly
materialist metaphysics meant that the totality of the physical kosmos was all
that existed for them; their conceptualization of it as limited in extent, and
surrounded by an endless void, further emphasizes this exclusivity. Remem-
bering Aristotle’s argument that even the isolated individual can achieve a
life of virtuous activity, insofar as the requisite interactions can take place
among parts of a single whole, we can conceive of the Stoics’ ‘life in accor-
dance with nature’ as a result of our interacting properly with that element
of nature that most obviously manifests divine reason, namely the heavens.
As Vogt puts it:
There is nothing besides the stars that can impress on us an image

of perfect integration into the order of nature, of perfectly regulated
movement, and of a full fit into the universe as a whole. When we
look at the planets, we can better understand what life, or a life, in
agreement with nature is.13
When we look to the stars and learn from their harmony, then, we are
attempting to learn from the ‘experts’ in the field of living harmoniously as
part of a whole. Just as, in the virtuous person, reason should direct and tem-
per the emotions and appetites, and just as the members of a community
should turn to the wisest among them for leadership, we, as parts of the com-
munity of the kosmos, should look to its most perfect members for guidance
in the conduct of our daily lives. Seneca expresses this sentiment in a differ-
ent context, in which he likens the organization of the field of philosophy
to that of the universe: “I only wish that philosophy might come before our
eyes in all her unity, just as the whole expanse of the firmament is spread
out for us to gaze upon! It would be a sight closely resembling that of the
firmament” (Ep. 89.1). While his point here concerns the optimal way to
obtain a complete philosophical education, it is still notable for its depiction
of the kosmos as something which, while divisible into parts, acquires its true
significance from the interrelatedness of those parts. The magnificence of the
heavens is best appreciated when the full expanse of constellations is visible
in its entirety.
The cosmology of the Stoics can thus, to borrow the words of A. A. Long,
“be described as a cosmo-biology, a system in which the basic model for
understanding all natural processes is drawn from the vital functions of
living beings.”14 This unique combination of a teleologically ordered system

(à la Aristotle), and a first principle that is conceived of as an intelligent,
rational being who is responsible for the ordering, highlights the connec-
tion between the cosmological and the ethical. Essentially, the guiding force
behind the organization of the universe is a perfect, unlimited version of our
own human reason. Given this similarity, it is only natural that the qualities
that make for an optimally organized world would be the same as those that
lead to a virtuous, happy life or a peaceful, productive state. As is well known,
the Stoics posited that every living thing naturally moves toward what is
appropriate for it, and furthermore that we each do this in our capacity as a
component of the ordered universe which has been created, and is still being
structured, by a rational God. Thus, the manner in which each of us strives to
live a good life as a member of society contributes not only to the harmony
and order of the state, but also to that of the universe. In the words of Cicero,
the Stoics “hold that the cosmos is ruled by the will of the gods, that it is like
a city or state shared by gods and men, and that each and every one of us is a
part of this cosmos. From which it naturally follows that we put the common
advantage ahead of our own” (Fin. 3.64).
At times, it seems that the Stoics might have even gone so far as to hold
that the study of cosmology was necessary for the understanding of ethics.
Plutarch, for example, reports that Chrysippus stated that “there is no other,
and certainly no more appropriate, way to approach the discussion of good
and bad things or the virtues or happiness, except on the basis of common
nature and the administration of the cosmos” (SSR 1035c–d). However, the
extent to which Stoic ethics was dependent on physics is a matter of debate
among scholars. Julia Annas has supported the position that Stoic ethics can
be understood without relying on the rubric of physics or cosmology and has
adeptly criticized the opposing view. For example, in The Morality of Happi-
ness, she argues that “there are many problems with [this view] . . . First, it
does not seem to be an ethical position at all. Virtue, on this view, is simply
doing what is needed to conform to nature, where that is taken to be cosmic
nature, understood in ways that are independent of human nature.”15 Those
holding some version of the opposing position include John Cooper, who
asserts, in a response to Annas, that “we have an initial appeal to nature . . .
to human nature in particular—at the foundations of Stoic ethical theory.”16
After discussing the universal ordering principle inherent in the Stoics’ con-
ception of God, he concludes that “there is very clear and explicit evidence
in Diogenes Laertius that Chrysippus based his account of the human good
upon non-ethical premises about universal nature and how it relates to
human nature.”17 Other scholars expressing this view include Striker, who
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states that “the foundations of Stoic ethics are to be sought, as Chrysippus

said, in cosmology or theology, and not in human psychology.”18 Long puts
it even more directly, claiming that “Stoic ethics is ultimately parasitical on
physics.”19
While this debate is of great importance to scholarship in this area, I will
not be able to do it justice within the context of this essay. I mention the issue
primarily to illustrate that there is no consensus among scholars concerning
the nature of the connection between cosmology and ethics in Stoic thought.
However, my argument concerning kosmos does not require the establish-
ing of a foundational relationship between the two areas of inquiry. The
points I have attempted to make in this essay concern not the relationship
between these two branches of Stoic philosophy, but rather the centrality of
the notion of kosmos, and in particular the sense of homologia that it implies,
to both of them. This naturally creates an overlap and blurs the boundaries
between the two areas of inquiry, perhaps to the point at which speaking of a
foundational relationship between them implies a greater degree of concep-
tual separation than what may have existed previously.
In conclusion, it bears mentioning that, in today’s world, philosophical
and cosmological inquiry are generally seen as entirely distinct, and harmony
and balance are often elusive ideals. Perhaps, then, a more serious, ongoing
consideration of the Stoic conception of kosmos is warranted, not only as a
moment within the history of philosophy, but also as a notion that has much
to show us even today.
Notes
1. The third main Stoic focus, logic, while no less important to a complete understand-
ing of Stoic philosophy, does not bear on the topic of this essay and thus will not be
discussed here.
2. All translations of Plato are taken from Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns,
eds., The Collected Dialogues of Plato (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1961).
3. Using a and b to represent two numbers, the two means in question are, first, the
harmonic mean, or the number that exceeds a by the same fraction of a as that by which
it is itself exceeded by b (e.g., 1⅓ is the harmonic mean between 1 and 2). The second
mean, the arithmetic, is the value halfway between a and b (e.g., 1½ is the arithmetic mean
between 1 and 2).
4. All translations of Aristotle are taken from Richard McKeon, ed., The Basic Works of
Aristotle (New York: Random House, 1941).
5. In a similar vein, in Book I of Metaphysics he uses the term during a discussion of the
Pythagoreans’ belief that everything that exists is composed of number (Met. I.990a20).
6. Brad Inwood and L. P. Gerson, trans., Hellenistic Philosophy: Introductory Readings
(Indianapolis: Hackett, 1988).
7. H. Rackham, trans., Cicero: On Ends (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1914).
8. The other archē, matter, was seen as wholly passive and inert, something which is
acted on by God (see Diogenes Laertius, Lives VII.134).
9. Harold Cherniss, trans., Plutarch: Moralia, vol. 18, part 2 (Cambridge, Mass.: Har-
vard University Press, 1976).
10. Gisela Striker, Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1996), 227.
11. Richard M. Gummere, trans., Seneca: Moral Epistles, 3 vols. (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1917–1925).
12. Katja Maria Vogt, Law, Reason, and the Cosmic City: Political Philosophy in the Early
Stoa (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 136.
13. Ibid., 145.
14. A. A. Long, From Epicurus to Epictetus: Studies in Hellenistic and Roman Philosophy
(Oxford: Clarendon, 2006), 259.
15. Julia Annas, The Morality of Happiness (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 160.
The chapter from which this quote was taken, “The Stoics: Human Nature and the Point
of View of the Universe,” provides an excellent and very readable discussion of this topic.
16. John Cooper, “Eudaimonism and the Appeal to Nature in the Morality of Happi-
ness: Comments on Julia Annas’ The Morality of Happiness,” Philosophy and Phenomenologi-
cal Research 55, no. 3 (1995): 591.
17. Ibid., 596.
18. Striker, Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics, 231.
19. A. A. Long, “The Stoic Conception of Evil,” Philosophical Quarterly 18 (1969): 329–
343, 341.
Key Readings
Annas, Julia. “The Stoics: Human Nature and the Point of View of the Universe.” In The
Morality of Happiness, 159–179. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.
Cooper, John. “Eudaimonism and the Appeal to Nature in the Morality of Happiness:
Comments on Julia Annas’ The Morality of Happiness.” Philosophy and Phenomeno-
logical Research 55, no. 3 (1995): 587–598.
Furley, David. “Cosmology.” In The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, edited by
Keimpe Algra et al., 412–451. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005.
Long, A. A. From Epicurus to Epictetus: Studies in Hellenistic and Roman Philosophy. Ox-
ford: Oxford University Press, 2006.
———. Hellenistic Philosophy: Stoics, Epicureans, Skeptics. 2nd ed. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1986.
Salles, Ricardo, ed. God and Cosmos in Stoicism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009.
Striker, Gisela. “Following Nature: A Study in Stoic Ethics.” In Essays on Hellenistic Epis-
temology and Ethics, 221–280. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
Taub, Liba. “Cosmology and Meteorology.” In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism,
edited by James Warren, 105–124. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
White, Michael J. “Stoic Natural Philosophy (Physics and Cosmology).” In The Cambridge
Companion to the Stoics, edited by Brad Inwood, 124–152. Cambridge: Cambridge
Searching for the ‘Why’: Plotinus on Being and the
One beyond Being
Michael Wiitala
Plotinus is an exceptionally rich and insightful thinker, whose teachings

spawned the philosophical tradition we today call Neo-Platonism. There
is a tendency among contemporary scholars to think that Plotinus’s philo-
sophical orientation is significantly different from that of Plato. One such
difference is that Plotinus seems to be more interested in systematically pre-
senting and articulating a specific set of philosophical doctrines than Plato
was. After all, Plotinus lived and wrote in a context in which there were a
number of highly developed philosophical schools—the Stoics, Peripatetics,
Gnostics, and Epicureans, to name just a few—and is interested in showing
where his teachings stand in relation to these. Plato, on the other hand, is far
less interested than Plotinus in situating his philosophical views in relation
to those of others—although we do see some of this in the dialogues—and
arguably more interested in educating his readers on how to philosophize:
how to become “better dialecticians in relation to all things,” as the Eleatic
Stranger puts it in the Statesman (Plt. 285d).1 Despite these and other dif-
ferences between the projects of Plato and of Plotinus, in this chapter I want
to focus on a point of continuity and fundamental agreement between the
two thinkers: namely on their philosophical orientation toward the ‘cause’
(aitia) or the ‘why’ (dioti) of things.2 I will argue that Plotinus’s philosophical
orientation, like that of Plato before him, is driven by a search for the ‘why’
of things and a confidence that the goal of every why-inquiry is attainable.
The search for the ‘why’ that characterizes philosophy for both Plato and
Plotinus can, I think, serve as a key to understanding Plotinus’s philosophi-
cal outlook as a whole. Given the limits of this chapter, however, I will focus
on only one dimension of Plotinus’s thought. I will show that understanding
Plotinus’s project as an instance of the Platonic search for the ‘why’ of things
can shed light on his claim that the first principle—the One or Good—is
beyond being.
275
276 michael wiitala
I. The Forms as Answering Why-Questions: Plato’s Phaedo

In order to identify the sort of why-inquiry I am arguing is operative in both
Plato and Plotinus, it will be useful to consider briefly a well-known passage
in Plato’s Phaedo, wherein the nature of inquiry into why things are the way
they are is discussed in some detail. In the process of describing his “second
sailing,” Socrates introduces the forms as causes. He explains how as a young
man he was interested in “that wisdom which they call natural science [περὶ
φύσεως ἱστορίαν]” (Phd. 96a), for it seemed to him “splendid to know the
causes of each thing [τὰς αἰτίας ἑκάστου], why each comes to be, why it per-
ishes, and why it is [διὰ τί γίγνεται ἕκαστον καὶ διὰ τί ἀπόλλυται καὶ διὰ τί
ἔστι]” (ibid.). What he names an aitia, a ‘cause’ or ‘explanation,’ is simply that
after which his inquiry into the ‘why’ of things is searching.
A cause is that which answers a why-question, although we must be care-
ful to note that an answer in this case is not a statement or account (logos),
but rather a principle—the principle that explains why the subject of the
why-question is the way that it is or has the character that it does. Socrates
eventually identifies these sorts of principles as forms. He explains that he
came to the conclusion that if asked, for example, why anything other than
the beautiful itself is beautiful, he could safely answer that “it is beautiful for
no other reason than that it participates in the beautiful itself ” (Phd. 100c).
And he thinks that one can safely make the same sort of answer to any other
why-question (ibid.). Why is x large? Because x participates in the form
Large. Why is z good? Because z participates in the form Good.
In trying to discover why spatiotemporal beings are the way they are,
Socrates concludes that he was not searching for their material conditions,
nor for how they come to be or pass away. Rather, he was interested in dis-
covering why they are the way they are. Socrates is confident that for every
object or state of affairs,3 there must be some principle that explains why that
object or state of affairs is the way it is or has the character it does.
II. Soul, Intellect, and the One as Answers to Why-Questions

Plotinus’s philosophical framework, I contend, both displays and enacts the
Platonic inquiry into why things are the way they are. The why-inquiry Plo-
tinus undertakes prompts him to posit three principles (archai). Each of these
three principles is a hypostasis, a reality about which true and false things can
be said.4 Plotinus generally calls the first and most fundamental principle the
One or the Good. The first principle, according to Plotinus, is beyond being
in that it is not ‘some thing’ (ti) at all (Enn. V.3[49].12.50–52),5 but rather the
searching for the ‘why ’ 277
power (dunamis) from which all things emanate (Enn. V.3[49].15.32–33).6

The emanation of all things from the One proceeds in an order. After the One
comes the second principle, which Plotinus variously calls Intellect (nous),
the forms (eidē), and being (ousia, on). Intellect proceeds from the One by
attempting to understand the One (Enn. V.2[11].1.9–13; V.3[49].11.1–16).7
In order to understand the One, Intellect makes the One the object of its gaze.
Since the One is not an object, however, Intellect does not “attain to it [the
One] in its simplicity,” but “comes out continually apprehending something
else made many in itself ” (Enn. V.3[49].11.2–4).8 The things “made many”
are the forms. The forms, ordered in relation to one another, are being. After
Intellect, the third principle, Soul, emanates. Unlike the One and Intellect,
“Soul does not remain unchanged when it produces” (Enn. V.2[11].1.18).
Rather, explains Plotinus, “it looks to its source and is filled, and going forth
to another opposed movement generates its own image, which is sensation
and the principle of growth” (Enn. V.2[11].1.19–21). Soul is the principle of
life, growth, and change in spatiotemporal beings.
When simply stated in outline, Plotinus’s philosophical framework can
sound rather fanciful. What philosophical reasons could there be for posit-
ing the One, Intellect, and Soul as three principles? One such philosophical
reason for positing these three principles is that our ability to engage in why-
inquiries presupposes them. Consider some kind of plant or animal, a cat, for
instance. What explains its bodily motion? Why does it chase that mouse?
Why does it start to purr when I walk in the door? For Plotinus, this cat’s
soul is the most immediate answer to these sorts of questions. Soul is that
which makes a living body live. Soul, in other words, is that which explains
the growth, development, and movement of a given body, why that body
engages in these activities at this time and those other activities at another
time. Given that a living body moves itself and develops, if successful why-
inquiry is possible, there must be a principle that explains why it moves and
develops. Plotinus calls that principle Soul. Yet we can ask further why-
questions about souls themselves. For example, what explains why the soul
of a cat will typically generate a body with four legs, a head, and a tail, while
the soul of an oak tree will typically generate a body with roots, a trunk,
branches, and acorns? Plotinus would answer this sort of question by claim-
ing that the form Cat and the form Oak Tree explain the differences between
their respective souls. The soul organizes and unifies the motion, growth,
and development of a living body, but we are still in need of an explanation
of why it organizes and unifies this body in one set of ways rather than in
another set of ways. The form Cat explains why the soul of a cat moves the
cat’s body in the ways that it does. It explains, for example, why the cat runs
278 michael wiitala
after a mouse. Likewise, the form Oak Tree explains why the soul of an oak
tree moves the oak tree in the way that it does. For instance, the form Oak
Tree explains why the soul of an oak tree makes it grow toward the sun. Soul
in an oak tree will not chase mice and soul in a cat will not make the cat grow
toward the sun because the soul of each is structured according to a differ-
ent form—the form Cat in one case and the form Oak Tree in the other.
Plotinus sees the need to posit Soul and Intellect as principles at least in part
due to his commitment to the Socratic confidence that for every object or
state of affairs there must be some principle that explains why that object or
state of affairs is the way it is or has the character that it does. Soul explains
why spatiotemporal objects move and develop in the way they do, while the
forms/Intellect explain why an object is what it is and has the character that
it does.
Yet given that for every object or state of affairs there must be some prin-
ciple that explains why that object or state of affairs is the way it is or has
the character it does, and given that the forms are objects—each form is one
of the many forms that are—one can ask why the forms themselves are the
way they are. And Plotinus raises just this question: “But why these animals
there [in Intellect]? For why should they be in God? Rational animals, yes;
but what majesty does so great a multitude of irrational ones have?” (Enn.
VI.7[38].8.15–17). The forms compose a structured whole, a whole in which
each part—each form—calls for and necessitates all the others.9 Considering
all the forms in relation to one another, we can ask why they have the struc-
ture they do? Why are these forms related to one another in the way that
they are? Why, for instance, are there forms of all irrational animals? If there
were no forms of irrational animals, there could be no spatiotemporal irra-
tional animals. The question, however, is not why there are spatiotemporal
irrational animals, but why there are forms of the various irrational animals
in the first place. Given that for every object or state of affairs there must
be some principle that explains why it is the way it is or has the character it
does, these are legitimate questions. Plotinus offers an answer by positing the
One or Good as the principle that explains why the forms are the way they
are (cf. Enn. VI.7[38].8.17ff.). The One or Good itself, however, is neither an
object nor a state of affairs, but rather the “power of all things [τὸ δὲ δύναμις
πάντων]” (Enn. V.3[49].15.32–33). Hence the One or Good can serve as the
first principle that requires no further explanation, since, given that the One
or Good is not an ‘it,’ it makes no sense to ask why it is the way it is or has the
character it does. With this summary account of the structure of Plotinus’s
metaphysics, we are now in a position to begin our inquiry into why Plotinus
claims that the forms require the One as an explanatory principle.
III. Why There Must Be a One beyond Being

Plotinus directly addresses the question of why the forms presuppose a
higher-order explanatory principle in various passages of Ennead V. The two
main passages I will focus on are found in V.3.12 and V.6.3.
In V.3.12, Plotinus criticizes the Aristotelian/Peripatetic thesis that
Intellect (nous) is the first principle. While Plotinus agrees with the Peri-
patetics that Intellect is a highly unified multiplicity, he argues that the first
principle—the One—cannot be a multiplicity at all. In order to appreciate
Plotinus’s reasons for positing the One as first principle, we should briefly
consider the sort of unity he attributes to Intellect. Intellect is all the forms
in relation to one another. Forms, however, do not relate to one another as
portions of a random bundle or aggregate. In a bundle or aggregate, the vari-
ous objects that compose it need not occupy specific positions within it.10 In
a pile of rocks, for example, the location of rock A in the pile makes no dif-
ference. Rock A could be on top of the pile, on the bottom, or anywhere in
between and the pile would still remain the pile of rocks that it is. The same
goes for the position of any other rock in the pile. In Intellect, however, each
form occupies a unique ‘position’ in relation to all the others. Each form’s
intelligible relations to all the other forms are necessary and unchanging.
The form Dog, for example, is necessarily related to the form Animal as spe-
cies to genus, and it is impossible that the form Dog could be related to the
form Tree in the same way it is related to the form Animal. Furthermore,
the unity of Intellect also exceeds the unity exemplified by organic wholes.
In the case of organic wholes, such as my body, at least some of the parts
must occupy specific positions—or play specific roles—within the whole. My
head, for example, cannot occupy the position of my toenail, and my toenail,
likewise, cannot play the role of my arm. Yet my body can still function even
if some of its proper parts are missing. For example, my body as a whole
can function—although perhaps not as well—without a toenail and without
an arm. In Intellect, however, every ‘part’—that is, each form—occupies a
specific and necessary ‘position’ and plays a unique and necessary role in rela-
tion to the others and to the whole. Thus, forms cannot be removed from
or added to Intellect. Each form and the unique role it plays in Intellect are
absolutely necessary.11 Plotinus claims, therefore, that “the multiplicity [of
Intellect] is not a plurality of compositions, but its activities are the mul-
tiplicity [τὸ γὰρ πλῆθος οὐ συνθέσεις, ἀλλ’ αἱ ἐνέργειαι αὐτοῦ τὸ πλῆθος]”
(Enn. V.3[49].12.2–3). The forms are not objects that could be rearranged,
added, or removed, but rather activities, each of which would be unintel-
ligible without the others.12
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While each form is inseparable from every other and bears unique intel-
ligible relations to every other, the forms are still many. And since they are
many, Plotinus argues, they presuppose a higher-order principle that explains
their unity. Plotinus shows why this is so by comparing the way in which any
composition presupposes a higher-order principle with the way in which a
number series presupposes a “one before the many.” The text of this rather
difficult passage reads as follows:
But there needs to be a one before the many, [a one] from which
the many [comes]: for the one is first over every number. But they
[the Peripatetics] say the same in the case of number; for objects
in order are the composition [σύνθεσις γὰρ τὰ ἑξῆς]; but over the
things that are [i.e., the forms], what necessity is there now for
there to be some one here too from which the many [comes]? [If
there is not] the many will be separated from each other and will
each come by chance from a different direction to their composi-
tion. (Enn. V.3[49].12.9–14)
In Greek mathematics, a number (arithmos) is a composition of enumerable

units. Hence, Euclid defines ‘number’ as “a multitude composed of units” (El.
VII, Def. 2). He defines ‘unit’ as “that according to which each of the things
that are is called one [καθ᾽ ἣν ἕκαστον τῶν ὄντων ἓν λέγεται]” (El. VII, Def.
1). When Plotinus says that “there needs to be a one before the many . . . for
the one is first over every number,” he does not mean that when counting,
we must begin by saying “one” before we can move to “two,” “three,” and so
on. Rather, he is claiming that the ordered composition that each number is
presupposes a higher-order principle that explains the unity of the compo-
sition. And in this, as Plotinus points out, the Peripatetics agree with him.
For on Aristotle’s account, the units that compose a number should only be
considered as its matter.13
The structure or order (hexēs) in terms of which units compose a number
is itself simple. The structure calls for a certain composition and is causally
prior to that composition. Take the number three, for example. The number
three is a composition made up of three units—one that stands in the one
place, one in the two place, and one in the three place. The structure or order
of the number three can be described as “the one place, followed by the two
place, followed by the three place.”14 The structure is not itself a composition.
It is not a unified multiplicity. Rather, the structure is a norm. Objects can
only be three insofar as they are governed by this norm, that is, insofar as
they can relate to one another by standing in the one place, two place, and
three place. A number is a composition (sunthesis) that consists of nothing

other than “objects in order” (ta hexēs).15 Thus, when Plotinus claims that
“there needs to be a one before the many, [a one] from which the many
[comes],” he means that if there are to be “objects in order,” there must first
be a norm that simply is that order as such.16 This norm is the “one before the
many.” It must be “first” in the sense of ontologically prior: the composition
cannot be without the norm, but the norm can be without the composition.
Since the forms are many and are ordered in relation to one another such
that each must play a unique role in relation to the others, there must in their
case too, proposes Plotinus, be a “one before the many.” Any composition
requires a norm to explain the way in which it is structured. The composition
of forms—Intellect—is no exception. If there were no norm that governed
the composition of forms, then the forms would “be separated from each
other,” and each would “come by chance from a different direction to their
composition.” The forms are such, however, that their separation from one
another and their coming together from different directions by chance is
utterly impossible. Only if one were to misunderstand what a form is could
one think that the forms might be separate from one another or might com-
bine from different directions by chance.
In Ennead V.6.3, Plotinus presents a more detailed argument for why
there must be a “one before the many” in the case of the forms, which con-
firms the analysis I have been offering. One of Plotinus’s main goals in V.6 is
to show that Intellect presupposes the One. He begins V.6.3 with the follow-
ing puzzle: It seems clear that nothing prevents one and the same thing from
being both one and many. My body is both one and many, for example. It is
one as a whole but has many parts. So what prevents the first principle from
being both one and many? The text reads as follows:
But if they [those who object to Plotinus’ views on the One] are
going to say that nothing prevents the same thing [τὸ αὐτό] from
being many [πολλά], there will be a one underlying these [many]
[ἓν τούτοις ὑποκείμενον ἔσται]; for there can be no many if there
is not a one from which or in which [ἀφ’ οὗ ἢ ἐν ᾧ] these are, or
in general a one that is counted first before the others, which must
be taken alone [μόνον], itself by itself . . . It must be alone by itself
[μόνον] if it is also to be seen in other things; unless someone is
going to say that its being [τὸ εἶναι] depends on its having exis-
tence [τῆν ὑπόστασιν ἔχειν] with the others; [but] it will not then
be simple [ἁπλοῦν], and the composite of many will not be either
[οὐδὲ τὸ συγκείμενον ἐκ πολλῶν ἔσται]; for that which is unable to
282 michael wiitala
be simple will have no existence [ὑπόστασιν], and the composite of

many will not be itself, if the simple is not . . . If, then, something is
many [εἰ ἄρα πολλά τί ἐστι], there must be a one before the many.
If, therefore, there is multiplicity in the thinking principle [i.e., in
Intellect] [εἰ οὖν τῷ νοοῦντι πλῆθος], there cannot be thinking
[τὸ νοεῖν] in what is not a multiplicity. But this [i.e., what is not a
multiplicity] is the first. Thinking and Intellect [τὸ νοεῖν καὶ νοῦς],
then, will be in what comes after. (Enn. V.6[24].3.1–15, 21–25)
Plotinus grants that one and the same thing can be both one and many.
For example, he grants that there are wholes composed of parts. He argues,
however, that a one-many, a composite, can only be what it is if there is a
noncomposite, simple one that underlies it. This simple one must underlie
the composite by being that from which or that in which the composite is.
Plotinus then characterizes this simple one as something counted before the
others. I will come back to the sense in which the simple one is counted. For
now, let us consider two examples.
First, consider my body. It is a composite—one whole composed of many
parts. All of the parts that compose my body at the moment—arms, legs,
eyes, and so on—are ‘in’ the whole that is my body. This whole is not simply
the parts that compose it. When we say that the parts are ‘in’ the whole, we
do not mean that the parts are in themselves. Hence, when we say that the
parts are ‘in’ the whole, we speak of the whole as something that is not reduc-
ible to the parts that compose it. If the whole has parts and so is a one-many,
there must be some higher-order principle that explains why it cannot be
reduced to its parts. This higher-order principle, Plotinus argues, is a non-
composite, simple one. This principle is that “from which” the composite is.
To return to our example, my body as a whole is such that it can be consid-
ered qua many objects, where the many objects are its parts. Yet my body as a
whole is also such that it can be considered qua one object. To consider it qua
one object is to consider it as the simple one—that is, the norm—in terms of
which it is structured.
As a second example, consider again a number (arithmos) as understood
in Greek mathematics. Take the number three, for instance. It is a compos-
ite—a collection of three objects or units. All three of the objects in question
are ‘in’ the collection. The collection of these three objects, however, is not
reducible to the objects that compose it. One and many are opposites and so
cannot be predicated of the same thing, at the same time, and in the same
respect. Yet the collection—the number three in this case—is one, while the
objects that compose it are many. In other words, ‘one’ can be predicated
of the collection—“this collection is one [collection]”—while ‘many’ cannot;

whereas ‘many’ can be predicated of the three objects—“these three objects
are many [objects]”—while ‘one’ cannot. The collection and the objects that
compose it, therefore, are not strictly identical to one another.17 Thus, Ploti-
nus would claim that there must be a simple one that explains the unity of
the collection. This simple one is the norm or structure in terms of which the
collection—in this case, the number three—is structured. To consider the
number three qua many is to consider it as the three objects that compose it.
To consider the number three qua one is to consider it as the simple one or
norm in terms of which it is structured.
In both of the above examples of a one-many composition, there is a sim-
ple one from which the multiplicity in the composition receives its unity.
This one “from which,” Plotinus claims, is “a one that is counted first before
the others.” It is counted first in the sense that without it the multiplicity
that it unifies could not be counted. Thus, Plotinus says that it “must be taken
alone, itself by itself.” The simple one from which the unified one-many
composition receives its unity is not counted with the many members of the
composition, since they are only many because of the simple one. For “the
composite of many will not be itself,” explains Plotinus, “if the simple is not.”
Consider again the number three. It is composed of three countable objects.
But the simple one or norm that makes this counting possible—which I
described above as “the one place, followed by the two place, followed by the
three place”—is not itself one of the three objects and so cannot be counted
along with them (cf. Enn. V.5[32].4.11–16). Without the norm in terms of
which the number three is structured, there can be no number three (cf. ibid.;
Enn. V.3[49].11.22–23). That norm, however, is not itself one of the three
objects, but is rather “itself by itself.” Only because it is “alone by itself ” can
it also “be seen in other things.” In the case of the example at hand, only
because the norm in terms of which the number three is structured is alone
by itself, can it also be seen in the countability of the three objects.
Now we could call the norm or simple one in terms of which a collection
of three objects is structured the form Three. This form Three is different from
the form Justice, the form Human Being, and so on. Hence, there are many
forms. Yet if there are many forms, there must be a one from which the many
forms receive their unity as Intellect. This one is what Plotinus calls the One
or Good. It is not countable along with the many forms, and since all multi-
plicity other than the forms derives from the forms, the One is not countable
along with anything at all (Enn. V.5[32].4.11ff.; V.3[49].11.22–23). The rea-
son for this, explains Plotinus, is that the One is “a measure [μέτρον] and
not measured [οὐ μετρούμενον], and it is not equal [ἴσον] to the others so as
284 michael wiitala
to be among them [σὺν αὐτοῖς]” (Enn. V.5[32].4.13–15). If it were among

them, he argues, there would be “something in common between it [the
One] and those which are included in the count [with it] [ἐπ’ αὐτοῦ καὶ
τῶν συναριθμουμένων], and that something in common will be before it
[the One]” (Enn. V.5[32].4.15–16). Hence, claims Plotinus, the One is not
even ‘one’ properly speaking (Enn. II.9[33].1.1–8; VI.9[9].5.29–33).18 That
is, the One is not one thing among other things (Enn. V.3[49].13.4). In fact,
it is not ‘some thing’ (ti) at all (Enn. V.3[49].12.50–52). Rather, the One is a
principle (archē) (Enn. V.5[32].6.6–7; V.2[11].1.1–3).19 It is the principle for
which the question “Why are there many forms?” is searching.
IV. Conclusion
We can ask why beings are. Socrates, as presented in the Phaedo, is confi-
dent that our why-inquiries can be satisfied. Presumably Plato himself had a
similar confidence. Plotinus also adopts this confidence, and his philosophi-
cal thought can be seen as an expression of it. That at which why-inquiries
ultimately aim, however, cannot be an individual entity or a group of enti-
ties, since if it were, we could raise the further question of why that entity or
group of entities is the way it is or has the character it does. Plotinus, there-
fore, posits the One beyond being. The One is beyond being in the sense that
it is not an individual, countable object. “Since the being [οὐσίας] which
is generated [from the One] is form [εἴδους],” explains Plotinus, “the One
must be without form [ἀνείδεον]” (Enn. V.5[32].6.1–2, 4–5). “But since it
is without form,” he continues, “it is not being [οὐσία]; for being [οὐσίαν]
must be some particular thing [τόδε γάρ τι δεῖ τῆν οὐσίαν εἶναι] . . . but it is
impossible to apprehend [λαβεῖν] [the One] as a particular thing [ὡς τόδε]”
(Enn. V.5[32].6.5–7). Given that Plotinus uses the term ‘being’ (ousia, on) to
designate individual, determinate objects—the forms—the One cannot be
a being. If it could, it would not satisfy our why-inquiries. The One is not a
being—not an individual entity—but rather, argues Plotinus, the “power of
all things [τὸ δὲ δύναμις πάντων]” (Enn. V.3[49].15.32–33). The One is the
power that explains why the forms are the way they are. Or to use language
from Plato’s Sophist: the One is the power that each form has to affect and be
affected (cf. Sph. 247d8–e4).
Notes
1. All translations of Plato’s work in this chapter are my own, in consultation with the
translations included in John M. Cooper, ed., Plato: Complete Works (Indianapolis: Hack-
ett, 1997).
2. For this use of the term dioti see esp. Enn. VI.7[38].2.1–19.
3. ‘State of affairs’ in this context, and as I will be using the term throughout this chap-
ter, means any arrangement or composition of objects.
4. As Lloyd Gerson points out, Plotinus does not reserve hypostasis as a technical term
for the One, Intellect, and Soul, but “often speaks of the ὑπόστασις of a variety of things
such as wisdom, matter, love, numbers, relations, time, motion, and so on.” Gerson, Ploti-
nus (London: Routledge, 1994), 3.
5. Cf. Plotinus, Enn. II.9[33].1.1–8; VI.9[9].5.29–33; V.5[32].6.6–7; V.3[49].11;
V.3[49].13.4–5, 16–30; V.3[49].15.15–18; VI.7[38].38.
6. Plotinus characterizes the One as the dunamis of all things not only in Enn.
V.3[49].15, but also at Enn. III.8[30].10.1; IV.8[6].6.11–16; V.1[21].7.9–10; V.3[49].16.2;
V.4[7].1.24–25, 36; V.4[7].2.38; V.5[32].12.38–39; VI.7[38].32.31; VI.7[38].40.13–14;
VI.8[39].9.45; VI.9[9].5.36. In Enn. V.3[49].15, Plotinus makes it clear that in claiming
that the One is dunamis, he does not mean dunamis in the sense of Aristotelian ‘potency.’
Rather, the One is a dunamis causally prior to the actuality of form. Cf. Gerson, Plotinus,
35–36.
7. Cf. Plotinus, Enn. III.8[30].8; V.1[10].7; VI.7[38].15–16.
8. All translations of the Enneads are my own, in consultation with Armstrong’s trans-
lation: Plotinus, Enneads, trans. A. H. Armstrong, Loeb Classical Library 440–445, 468
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966–1988).
9. See Enn. V.3[49].15.18–21; V.5[32].1.41ff.; VI.7[38].2.30ff.
10. Cf. Aristotle, Met. V.1024a1–10.
11. Cf. Gerson, Plotinus, 48ff.
12. Cf. Plotinus, Enn. V.3[49].15.18–21; V.5[32].1.41ff.; VI.7[38].2.30ff.
13. Aristotle, Met. VII.1039a11–14; VIII.1044a3–5, 1045a7–12; XIII.1084b5ff.; cf.
Cat. 4b20–5a37; Phys. IV.224a2–15; cf. Myles Burnyeat, The Theaetetus of Plato (India-
napolis: Hackett, 1990), 205–209; Verity Harte, Plato on Parts and Wholes: The Metaphysics
of Structure (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 44ff.
14. This description is not exhaustive. Cf. Plato, Tht. 204b10–c2; Mitchell Miller, “Unity
and Logos: A Reading of Theaetetus 201c–210a,” Ancient Philosophy 12, no. 1 (1992): 94.
15. Cf. Jacob Klein, Greek Mathematical Thought and the Origin of Algebra (Cambridge,
Mass.: MIT Press, 1968), 46.
16. Cf. Harte, Plato on Parts and Wholes, 158–167; Lloyd P. Gerson, Plotinus Ennead
V.5: That the Intelligibles Are Not External to the Intellect, and on the Good (Las Vegas: Par-
menides, 2013), 125.
17. Cf. Harte, Plato on Parts and Wholes, 21–25.
18. Cf. Plotinus, Enn. V.3[49].11, 16–30; V.3[49].13, 4–5; V.3[49].15, 15–18;
VI.7[38].38.
19. It should be noted that the One is only a principle in relation to what emanates
from it. Since there is, however, no necessity that anything emanates from the One, the
One is not essentially a principle. Hence Plotinus explicitly states in Enn. VI.8[39].8.8–9
that the One “is himself the principle (ἀρχή) of these [that emanate from him]; yet, also in
another way not their principle.” Cf. John Bussanich, “Plotinus’ Metaphysics of the One,”
in The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus, ed. Lloyd P. Gerson (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1996), 45.
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Key Readings
Bussanich, John. The One and Its Relation to Intellect in Plotinus: A Commentary on Selected
Texts. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1988.
Emilsson, Eyjólfur Kjalar. Plotinus. London: Routledge, 2017.
———. Plotinus on Intellect. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007.
Gerson, Lloyd P., ed. The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
———. Plotinus. London: Routledge, 1994.
Hadot, Pierre. Plotinus or the Simplicity of Vision. Translated by M. Chase. Chicago: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1993.
Kalligas, Paul. The Enneads of Plotinus: A Commentary. Vol. 1. Translated by E. K. Fowden
and N. Pilavachi. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2014.
O’Meara, Dominic J. Plotinus: An Introduction to the Enneads. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1993.
Rist, J. M. Plotinus: The Road to Reality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967.
Slaveva-Griffin, Svetla. Plotinus on Number. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009.
Yount, David J. Plotinus the Platonist: A Comparative Account of Plato and Plotinus’ Meta-
physics. New York: Bloomsbury, 2014.
contributors
Ömer Aygün is an assistant professor of philosophy at Galatasaray Univer-

sity in Istanbul. He specializes in ancient philosophy, especially the thought
of Plato and Aristotle. He has also translated Aristotle’s Poetics and On the
Soul into Turkish. He is the author of The Middle Included: “Logos” in Aristotle
(Northwestern, 2017).
Claudia Baracchi is a professor of moral philosophy at the University of

Milano–Bicocca. She works in the areas of ancient philosophy, psychoanaly-
sis, the philosophy of art, and the relation between philosophy, poetry, and
theater. Among her books are Of Myth, Life, and War In Plato’s Republic, Aris-
totle’s Ethics as First Philosophy, Il cosmo della Bildung (with Renato Rizzi),
and Amicizia. She edited The Bloomsbury Companion to Aristotle.
Walter Brogan is a professor of philosophy at Villanova University. He

works primarily in the areas of nineteenth-and twentieth-century conti-
nental philosophy and ancient Greek philosophy. He is the coeditor (with
James Risser) of American Continental Philosophy; cotranslator, with Peter
Warnek, of Martin Heidegger’s Aristotle’s Metaphysics Θ 1–3: On the Essence
and Actuality of Force; and author of Heidegger and Aristotle: The Twofoldness of
Being. His numerous articles have appeared in such journals as the Journal of
the History of Philosophy, Internationales Jahrbuch für Hermeneutik, Philosophy
Today, Research in Phenomenology, Southern Journal of Philosophy, and Philoso-
phy Today.
Rose Cherubin is an associate professor of philosophy at George Mason

University. She works mainly on ancient Greek philosophy and its contem-
porary significance. Her work has appeared in Ancient Philosophy, Epochē,
Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal, International Studies in Philosophy, and
in collections published by Cambridge University Press, SUNY Press, Rout-
ledge, the University of Michigan Press, and Rowman & Littlefield.
Patricia Fagan is an associate professor of Greek and Roman studies in the

Department of Languages, Literatures and Cultures at the University of
Windsor. Her work focuses on ancient Greek poetry, myth and philosophy,
287
288 contributors
particularly on the role and function of tradition and traditional materials

in philosophical practice and writings. She is the author of Plato and Tradi-
tion: The Poetic and Cultural Context of Philosophy (Northwestern, 2013) and
coeditor (with John Russon) of Reexamining Socrates in the Apology (North-
western, 2009).
Francisco J. Gonzalez is a professor of philosophy at the University of

Ottawa. He works in the areas of ancient Greek philosophy and twentieth-
century continental philosophy. He is the author of Dialectic and Dialogue:
Plato’s Practice of Philosophical Inquiry (Northwestern, 1998) and Plato and
Heidegger: A Question of Dialogue (Penn State, 2009). His articles have been
published in most of the major journals in his areas of research. His current
major project is an exhaustive study of Heidegger’s reading of Aristotle in
both published and unpublished seminars, where this study has also inspired
his own readings of key texts in Aristotle’s metaphysics and biology.
George Harvey is an associate professor of philosophy at Indiana University

Southeast. He works in ancient Greek philosophy, metaphysics, and episte-
mology. His research has appeared in the Journal of the History of Philosophy,
Ancient Philosophy, and Apeiron.
Phil Hopkins is Lurlyn and Durwood Fleming Professor of Philosophy

at Southwestern University. His research focuses on the phenomenology of
language and rhetorical practice and their intersections with identity and
morality in both ancient Greek philosophy and critical media studies. He is
the author of Mass Moralizing: Marketing and Moral Storytelling and chap-
ters in Philosophy in Dialogue: Plato’s Many Devices (Northwestern, 2007) and
Advertising and Reality. His research on Pre-Socratic thought has appeared
in Epochē.
Drew A. Hyland is Charles A. Dana Professor of Philosophy Emeritus

at Trinity College, in Hartford, Connecticut. He has also taught graduate
courses at University of Toronto, the New School for Social Research, Bos-
ton University, and Suffolk University. He works primarily in the areas of
ancient Greek philosophy, continental philosophy, and philosophy of sport.
His books include The Origins of Philosophy: Its Rise in Myth and Pre-Socratic
Philosophy, Finitude and Transcendence in the Platonic Dialogues, Questioning
Platonism: Continental Interpretations of Plato, and Plato and the Question of
Beauty.
contributors 289
Sean D. Kirkland is an associate professor of philosophy at DePaul Univer-

sity. He works in the areas of ancient Greek philosophy and nineteenth-and
twentieth-century continental philosophy, especially phenomenology. He is
the author of The Ontology of Socratic Questioning in Plato’s Early Dialogues and
editor, along with Tina Chanter, of The Return of Antigone: Interdisciplinary
Essays, and his research has appeared in Interrogating Antigone in Postmodern
Philosophy and Criticism as well as in journals such as Ancient Philosophy, the
Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium for Ancient Philosophy, and Epochē.
Pascal Massie is an associate professor of philosophy at Miami University

of Ohio. His work focuses on ancient philosophy, medieval philosophy, and
continental philosophy. He is the author of Contingency, Time and Possibility:
An Essay on Aristotle and Duns Scotus. His research has appeared in Epochē,
the Review of Metaphysics, Research in Phenomenology, and the Saint Anselm
Journal.
John McCumber is Distinguished Professor of Germanic languages

at UCLA. His Ph.D. is in philosophy and Greek from the University of
Toronto, and he works in the areas of ancient Greek philosophy and
nineteenth-and twentieth-century continental philosophy, as well as in the
social history of American philosophy. He is the author of numerous books
and articles in these fields, including Metaphysics and Oppression: Heidegger’s
Challenge to Western Philosophy and The Philosophy Scare: The Politics of Reason
in the Early Cold War.
Robert Metcalf is a professor of philosophy at the University of Colo-

rado Denver. His areas of specialization are ancient Greek philosophy and
nineteenth-and twentieth-century continental thought. He is cotranslator
of Martin Heidegger’s Basic Concepts of Aristotelian Philosophy and author of
Philosophy as Agôn: A Study of Plato’s Gorgias and Related Texts (Northwest-
ern, forthcoming). His work has appeared in Ancient Philosophy, Epochē, the
Journal of Speculative Philosophy, and Research in Phenomenology.
Marjolein Oele is an associate professor of philosophy at the University of

San Francisco. Her research intertwines Aristotle’s philosophy with topics
and figures in twentieth-century and contemporary continental philosophy.
Her articles have been published in a range of journals, including Ancient
Philosophy, Configurations, Electronic Antiquity, Epochē, Graduate Faculty
Philosophy Journal, and Radical Philosophy Review. She is the author of
290 contributors
E-Co-Affectivity and coeditor of Ontologies of Nature: Continental Perspectives

and Environmental Reorientations.
Eve Rabinoff is an assistant professor of philosophy at the University of

Minnesota Duluth. She works on Greek philosophy, and in particular Aris-
totle’s ethics and psychology. She is the author of Perception in Aristotle’s
Ethics (Northwestern, 2018).
Greg Recco is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis. He works in ancient

Greek philosophy and phenomenology. He is the author of Athens Victorious:
Democracy in Plato’s Republic and coeditor (with Eric Sanday) of Plato’s Laws:
Force and Truth in Politics.
John Russon is a professor of philosophy at the University of Guelph and

the director of the Toronto Summer Seminar in Philosophy. He is a specialist
in ancient philosophy and in nineteenth-and twentieth-century European
philosophy. He is the author of six books, including Human Experience, Bear-
ing Witness to Epiphany, and Sites of Exposure, and the editor of four books,
including Retracing the Platonic Text (with John Sallis; Northwestern, 1999)
and Reexamining Socrates in the Apology (with Patricia Fagan; Northwest-
ern, 2009).
Eric Sanday is an associate professor of philosophy at the University of Ken-

tucky. He works in the area of ancient Greek philosophy, especially Platonic
epistemology and metaphysics, and he has broader research interests in Ger-
man Idealism and twentieth-century phenomenology. He is the author of A
Study of Dialectic In Plato’s Parmenides, a number of journal articles, and he is
coeditor (with Greg Recco) of Plato’s Laws: Force and Truth in Politics.
Damian Stocking is an associate professor of classics and comparative liter-

ary studies at Occidental College. He works in the areas of ancient Greek
literature (epic, tragedy, comedy, and lyric) and contemporary continental
philosophy. His research has appeared in The Returns of Antigone: Interdis-
ciplinary Essays and Thinking the Olympics: The Classical Tradition and the
Modern Games, as well as in the academic journals Mosaic, College Literature,
and Analecta Husserliana.
Michael Wiitala is an assistant college lecturer of philosophy at Cleve-

land State University. He works in the areas of ancient Greek philosophy,
contributors 291
especially Plato, and ancient and medieval Neo-Platonism. His research

has appeared in Apeiron, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, Epochē,
International Philosophical Quarterly, Proceedings of the American Catholic
Philosophical Association, and Philosophy Today.
Gina Zavota is an associate professor of philosophy at Kent State University.

She works in the areas of twentieth-and twenty-first-century continental
philosophy, ancient Greek philosophy, and the philosophy of art. She is the
editor, along with Rudolf Bernet and Donn Welton, of the five-volume col-
lection Edmund Husserl: Critical Assessments of Leading Philosophers, and her
original research and German-language translations have appeared in a wide
range of scholarly journals.
index
action, 191–195, 200, 205, 221, 254; in arithmos, 113–116 passim, 280–283
tragedy, 230, 233–234, 236–238 art. See technē
activity. See energeia articulation, 84, 153–156 passim, 178–180
admiration, 191–192, 200 ataraxia, 245–249, 251, 255–256, 258–
affection. See pathos 259, 260n8. See also apatheia
aitia, 8–10, 46, 56–57, 62, 85–87, 113–114, autos, 72; autos kath’ auton, 69–71, 76, 123,
119–120, 161–166, 185, 275–276 163
aletheia, 21, 22, 156; regarding change and
movement, 38–39; excluding change, beauty. See kalon
43–45, 49, 90–91; and dialectic, beginning. See archē
211; as finite, 14–15, 16, 28, 30; being, 49n5, 97–105, 107n17, 110, 114,
and forgetting, 123; and the good, 116, 124, 127, 129–130, 147–156,
109–110, 117, 118; and language, 181, 184, 275–284; being-in-relation,
182, 183, 210; and phronesis, 43, 45; 73–77; natural being, 161–172;
in speaking and acting, 27–28, 34n15; human being, 72, 77, 111, 114–117,
discovered through the soul, 126, 120n3, 125–126, 131, 164–165, 171–
147, 150, 151, 152, 156 172, 183–186, 211–212, 215–219,
alteration, 38, 162, 168–169, 203–206 235–236. See also ousia
ambiguity, 34n15, 58, 178, 180–181, 184; body. See sōma
of the term eidos, 102 Butler, Judith, xi
analytic philosophy, xi–xii
anankē, 44, 55, 62, 86, 113 cataclysm, 7–8, 140–141
Anaximander, 27, 56–59 catharsis. See katharsis
anger, 65n9, 167, 191–200 cause. See aitia
apatheia, 245–246, 251–252, 255, 260n8 chance. See tychē
apeiron, 12, 18n15, 55 change, 9, 23–26 passim, 37–40, 44, 46,
appearance, x, xiii, 115, 118, 192–195 48–49, 85, 163, 203, 207, 277
passim, 205–206, 231, 238, 256–260 character. See ēthos
passim Chrysippus, 253, 266–268, 271–272. See
archē, 6–8, 10, 12, 14, 18n13, 54–55, 161, also Stoicism
166, 168, 169, 170, 278n8 Cicero, 203–204, 247, 255, 259n3, 267–
aretē, 91, 120, 127, 141–144, 191, 205, 268, 271
215–225, 226n7, 245, 252–259, city. See polis
263–264, 267–271 Cleanthes, 267–268. See also Chrysippus
Aristophanes, 67–68, 70–72, 74–77 passim comedy, 71–73 passim, 76, 79n15
Aristotle, xiii, xv–xvi, 8–12, 15–16, companionship, ix–xi
38–49, 58–59, 62, 83–86, 90–92, constitution, 220, 233–234. See also politeia
97–105, 120–122, 161–172, 177–187, continental philosophy, xi–xv; ‘analytic–
191–200, 203–207, 216–224, 229, continental’ divide, xi–xii. See also
234–239, 245, 265–271, 280 analytic philosophy
293
294 index
death, 25, 27, 73, 125–126, 128; and the ethics, 58–59, 112, 230, 233, 246–250,
Epicureans, 250; of Socrates, 91, 252–253, 263, 267, 269, 271–272;
123–124, 125, 131–132 Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, 120,
Derrida, Jacques, xi, 203–212 172, 180, 191, 198–199, 203–206,
desire, 61, 89, 139, 143–144, 179, 208, 217–224 passim, 235–236, 265–266
248–250; and beauty, 87–88; for ēthos, 58, 131, 257, 268
death, 126; to know, 106n6, 185 equivocity, 149, 181
destruction. See phthora Euclid, 280
dikē, 43–50, 54–55, 59, 63–64, 93, 104, eudaimonia, 245, 142, 144, 218–222
120, 135–140 passim, 145n3, 186, passim, 245–246, 249–257, 266
192, 216–217, 221–224, 226n9,
238–239, 264 family, 141–143, 215–218, 221–223
disposition. See ēthos fear, 88–89, 125–128, 131–132, 167, 191–
divine, 15–16, 17n5, 18n23, 30, 32, 75, 192, 195–200, 236–239, 245–257
90, 117–119, 131, 140–144, 162, passim. See also pathos, emotion
171–172, 207, 217, 233, 246–249 finitude, 31, 73–77 passim, 85–86, 90–91,
passim, 253–254, 266–270 passim. 112–113, 115
See also god force, xiv, 53–57 passim, 59–62, 63–64;
dunamis, 103–105, 116, 119, 168–169, love as, 86–87
276–277, 285n6 form. See eidos
Foucault, Michel, xi–xiii, 71
education, 78n7, 127, 131, 220–222, friendship. See philia
229–231, 240n3, 256, 270 fulfillment. See entelecheia
eidos, 9, 85–86, 97–107, 129, 147–156,
157n5, 158n11, 162–172, 174n28, Gadamer, Hans-Georg, xi–xiii, xiv–xv,
175n38, 276–285 passim. See also 119, 187n1
morphē genesis, 39, 114–117, 203–212 passim
elements, 17n11, 25; 54–55, 59–63 gnōsis. See also epistēmē
passim; as arche, 8; as from-which, god (or goddess), 5–6, 10, 14–16, 19n30,
10–11, 13; knowledge of, 46; as 27, 42–45, 62–63, 71, 83–84, 87, 116–
unlimited, 12 117, 125–126, 136, 141–144 passim,
emotion, 61, 87, 166, 191–200, 233–239, 209–211, 215–217, 230, 246–248,
251. See also pathos 266–271 passim. See also divine
Empedocles, 8, 56–64 passim good, the, 43, 91–92, 99–102, 109–120,
energeia, 103–104, 107n20, 174n31 124, 157n2, 216–222, 255, 276–277;
entelecheia, 85, 168–170, 174n31 “friendship of the good,” 204–205
envy, 141, 191, 195, 198–200
epic, 23, 233 happiness. See eudaimonia
Epicurus, 246–247, 249–251, 259n3 harmony, 33, 34n20, 54, 111, 115–116,
epistēmē, 15, 16, 37, 39, 42, 45, 46–49 224, 236, 253, 263–272. See also
passim, 104–105, 129–131 passim, homologia
149–156 passim, 158n11; of physis, hatred, 59–63 passim
38, 43, 46; self-knowledge, 24, 129 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, xi,
epochē, 258–259. See also ataraxia 240n12
eris, 56, 57, 60–62 passim, 65n10, 84–86, Heidegger, Martin, xi, xiii, 11–13, 28–29,
91–93 58–59, 75, 105n1, 161–163
erōs, 83, 87, 92–93, 120, 212 Heraclitus, 21–33 passim, 83–4, 86, 90
index 295
hermeneutics, 53–54, 184–186; Melissus, 37–42 passim

hermeneutic method, ix–xv passim metaphysics, 53, 55, 86, 161–162, 270;
Hesiod, 83–4, 86, 90 Aristotelian, 103, 161–162; Platonic,
history, ix–xvi, 139–144 103, 105n1, 209
Homer, 10, 18n21, 25, 56, 91–92, 127, metron, 112–114, 117–118; and the One,
231–233 283
homologia, 268–269, 272 mimēsis, 129, 198, 200, 229–239 passim
homonymy, 181–182 morphē, 100, 102–103, 107n19. See also
hylē, 8, 85–105, 119, 162, 164–172 form, eidos
hypostasis, 276, 285n4 mortality, 10, 124, 127
motion (or being moved). See kinēsis
imagination, 84, 192–195, 237–238; false myth. See mythos
belief, 249, 251 mythos, 83, 110–111, 124–133 passim,
immortality: of the gods, 10, 27; of the 144–145, 206–207, 233–234
psychē 23, 25, 26, 27, 125, 128, 131
indignation, 191–195, 198–200 Nancy, Jean-Luc, 72–73
infinite. See apeiron nature. See physis; human nature, 86–91,
intellect. See nous 135–143, 185–187, 215–219, 236–
Irigaray, Luce, xi 237, 253–272 passim
necessity. See anankē
justice. See dikē neikos. See eris
Neo-Platonism, 110, 275
kairos, 141–142 Newton, Isaac, 161
kalon, 87–91 passim, 97–101, 109, 110, Nietzsche, Friedrich, xi–xiv passsim,
111, 116–119 passim, 124, 130, xvin3, 19n30, 67, 78n7
148–149; and the forms, 209–210, nous, 43, 90, 110, 115–117, 151, 171–172,
212, 219 205, 254, 277–283
katharsis, 125–127, 237–239 passim number. See arithmos
kinēsis, 9, 32, 38, 46–48, 53, 56–57, 63–64,
85–87, 104–105, 155–163 passim, One, the, 150–154, 275–284, 285n4. See
168–172, 174n33, 206–211 passim, also hypostasis, arithmos
277 ontology. See metaphysics
knowledge. See epistēmē opportunity. See kairos
kosmos, 5–7, 12, 53–64, 117–118, 121n9, ousia, 37, 97–105, 106n6, 110, 170, 184,
263–272 265, 275–284
law, 59–60, 69, 92, 141, 220–222, 267; law Parmenides, 11, 15, 21, 34n5, 37–39
of gravity, 161; Plato’s Laws, 139- passim, 42–45 passim, 48–49, 56,
144, 206–208, 240n3, 264–265 153, 154–155, 157n7, 158n9
logos, 106n6, 110–113 passim, 124–128, part-whole relations, 40, 112, 127, 253,
131–133, 152, 178–187, 210–211, 281–282; of the city, 223, 226n10;
234–239 passim, 267, 269, 276 of the forms, 150, 152, 156, 157n5,
love. See philia and also eros 158n11278–279; of the kosmos,
54, 266–271 passim; of logos, 178,
matter (or material). See hylē 180–181; of the psychē 209
measure. See metron passion, 83–93, 166, 251–252, 260n9. See
mediation, 178–179, 181 also pathos
296 index
pathos, 166–167, 174b26. See also 162–172 passim, 193, 205–212, 216,
emotion 245–245, 250, 252–253, 255, 265,
perishing. See phthora 276–278; Aristotle’s On the Soul, 43
phenomenology (or phenomenological), punishment (or penalty), 54–55, 59,
ix–xv passim, 11–13, 16. See also 62–63
hermeneutic method
philia, 204–212, 249; translated as ‘love,’ recollection, 127–131 passim, 250–251
57–58, 60–61 reproduction, 170–172, 218; imitation.
philosophy, 28, 85, 103, 123–133 passim, See mimēsis
187, 245–246, 263, 266, 270, 272, rest, 46, 155–164 passim, 171
275; first philosophy, 45, 46, 187;
pre-Socratic, 5–6 Sappho, 87
phronēsis, 38, 42–43, 45–46, 60, 127 seeking. See zētein
phthora, 10, 37, 39, 42, 44, 55, 61, 63, self. See autos
72, 128, 196; unperishing, 38, self-sufficiency, 70–72, 137–139, 215–
40–41, 47 216, 249, 255, 266
physics, 47, 161, 263, 267, 271–272; Seneca, 245, 252, 268–270
Aristotle’s Physics, 38, 46, 56, 162– Sextus Empiricus, 258–259
164, 167–168, 172, Skeptic (or Skepticism), 245–246,
physis, 5–6, 9, 12, 17n2, 30–38 passim, 256–259
46–48, 54–57, 60, 65n4, 115–116, Socrates, 5–6, 26, 28, 64, 67–72 passim,
161–165, 168–172, 173n1 74, 76, 77, 78n7, 84, 86, 88, 89, 90,
pity, 125, 191–192, 195–200, 236–239 91, 99, 101, 107n17, 109, 114–118
Plato, ix, xii–xvi passim, 5–6, 21–33 passim, 121n8, 123–133 passim,
passim, 67–70, 83, 86, 90–105, 135–144 passim, 147–152, 164,
107n17, 109–113, 123–124, 127– 183, 200, 203, 206–207, 210–211,
130, 143–144, 147–156, 158n9, 162, 229–234, 246, 276, 284
165, 206–212, 223–224, 229–239, sōma, 26–27, 87–88, 91–92, 125–132, 162,
263–269, 275–276, 284 165–167, 172, 174n26, 179–180,
pleasure, 88, 115–117, 125; expression of 205, 210–212, 223, 266, 279, 282.
pleasure, 177, 179 See also pathos
Plotinus, xvi, xviin1, 275–284 soul. See psychē
poetry, 83–84, 124, 229–239 sound, 32, 75, 178–182
polis, 91–93, 135–139, 142–144, 145n2, source. See archē
145n6, 186–187, 216–224, 229–234, speech, 28, 74, 99, 147, 153–154, 157n5,
269–271 178, 206, 210–212, 216–217, 231,
politeia, 135–140 234–238 passim. See also logos
political, 72–77 passim, 91–93, 135–138, spite, 193–194
186, 215–225, 229, 232–236, 239, Stoic (or Stoicism), 245–246, 251–256,
240n5, 264; pre-political life, 259, 260n8, 263–264, 266–272
138–144 strife. See eris
potentiality (potency). See dunamis sympathy, 233–234
prudence. See phronēsis synonymy, 182
Pseudo-Alexander, 105, 107n22
psychē, 22–27 passim, 33, 87–92 passim, technē, 136, 163–164, 168, 185–186, 216,
112, 123–132 passim, 142, 151, 230–235, 251, 264–265
index 297
time, 13–16, 45, 46, 54–59, 71, 104, 123, universal, 39, 90, 100, 101, 233, 238, 271
129, 152–156 univocity, 181
tradition, xi, xiii–xv, xviiin6, 6, 139–141,
229–230, 275. See also virtue. See aretē
hermeneutics voice, 178–183, 186, 231
tragedy, 71–73, 76–77, 125–126, 198–
200, 232–239 Xenophanes, 6–16
transgression, 76, 162, 170–172 Xenophon, 5, 6, 68
tranquility. See apatheia, ataraxia
tychē, 57, 142, 259, 280–281 zētein, 14–16, 47, 91

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a c o m pa n i o n t o a n c i e n t p h i l o s o p h y

REREADING ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY

Edited and with an

northwestern university press • e va n s t o n , i l l i n o i s

Early Greek Thinking: The Emergence of Philosophy

Physis in Pre-​Socratic Thought: Seeking with Xenophanes 5

Going with the Flow: Soul and Truth in Heraclitus 21

Justice, Change, and Knowledge: Aristotle, Parmenides,

“As He Says in His Poetical Way”: Anaximander and

The Human as (W)hole: Aristophanes’s Contest with

Classical Greek Philosophy: Plato and Aristotle

Erōs and Eris: Love and Strife in Ancient Greek Thought

Measure, Excess, and the All: To Agathon in Plato 109

In the Wake of Socrates: Impossible Memory 123

The Origins of Political Life in Plato’s Republic and Laws 135

Being in Late Plato 147

Aristotle on Physis: Analyzing the Inner Ambiguities

Human Logos in Aristotle 177

Developing Emotions: Aristotle’s Rhetoric II.2–­11 191

Hontina tropon gignetai philos: Genesis versus Alteration

The Political Context for Virtue: Aristotle’s Politics 215

Mimēsis: Plato and Aristotle on the Political Power

Ataraxia: Tranquility at the End 245

A Well-​Ordered World: The Developing Idea of Kosmos

Searching for the ‘Why’: Plotinus on Being and the

Sean D. Kirkland and Eric Sanday

unfamiliar ways in which the ancients might address themselves to us.

introductory volumes in the way that a tour led by an experienced guide

Companionship and ‘Continental’ Readings of the Ancients

we will find a broad spectrum of interpretive presuppositions and methods.

The Ancient Textual Remains

been made in the processes of transmission and transformation according to

Homer Hesiod Thales

Greek Dark Ages c. 1100–850

B.C.E. 250 200 150 100 50 0

Cleanthes Carneades Cicero Antiochus Seneca

C.E. 350 400 450 500 550

Closure of the Academy

Parmenides Socrates Aristotle Euclid

Zeno of Elea Democritus Diogenes of Sinope

Empedocles Archytas Pyrrho

Persian War 499–478 Alexander 356–323

C.E. 50 100 150 200 250 300

Epictetus Sextus Empiricus Plotinus

Soph. Ref. Sophistic Refutations

Plato (Disputed or Spurious Works)

Pliny the Elder

That Pre-​Socratic philosophy was principally a matter of investigating physis

Thus, we should ask ourselves how, in particular, Xenophanes approached

In this passage, Xenophanes offers “demonstrations” (apodeixeis) that long

Given the influence of Aristotle’s interpretation of the ‘earliest philosophers,’ it

However true it may be that all generation and destruction proceed

Following these thinkers and their archai [τὰς τοιαύτας ἀρχάς],

However, the critical interpretive question for us is whether Xenophanes or

Still another possibility for understanding these fragments is what we

Aristotle interpreted this fragment as an attempt to explain the stability of

Although Xenophanes does not specify in this fragment that water is

Phusis, phuein . . . is said of the earth, hē gē phuei—­the earth lets

There are a number of critical points in Heidegger’s remarks that invite

Physis in Pre-Socratic Thought: Seeking with Xenophanes 5

Developing Emotions: Aristotle’s Rhetoric II.2–11 191

A Well-Ordered World: The Developing Idea of Kosmos

That Pre-Socratic philosophy was principally a matter of investigating physis

Phusis, phuein . . . is said of the earth, hē gē phuei—the earth lets

12. Martin Heidegger, Parmenides, trans. André Schuwer and Richard Rojcewicz

pessimism: the soul, in constant flux as it is, cannot be known; self-knowledge

and modus tollens—to be the way to obtain a correct account of what-is.

1. Whatever is either came-to-be or did not come-to-be. (Let us abbre-

3. [No thing can come-to-be from nothing.] (unstated axiom)

of what-is. Aristotle’s gnōsis, in its use of reasoning toward truth, needs to

For neither would you recognize [gnoiēs] what-is-not—for that is

B2 does not mention generation or destruction. At DK 28B8.20–21, how-

For as on each occasion there is a mixture of much-wandering

Dikē, Anankē, Moira, and the Characteristics of What-Is in Parmenides

7. Graham, The Texts of Early Greek Philosophy, 468.

Beginning with the Pre-Socratics, early philosophical thinkers published

Socrates as quasi-Sophist-cum-naturalist is a product of standard “comedic

self-contained—separated from each other and from ourselves. A definitive

Now again erōs the limb-loosener,

This—finding oneself gripped bodily by a domineering force, simultaneously