Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy, 20 Volume XX (2004)

PROCEEDINGS OF THE BOSTON AREA COLLOQUIUM IN ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY

PROCEEDINGS OF THE BOSTON AREA COLLOQUIUM IN ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY VOLUME XX, 2004

EDITED BY

JOHN J. CLEARY

AND

GARY M. GURTLER, S.J.

BRILL

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2005

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

ISSN 1059-986X ISBN 90 04 14248 7 (Pbk) ISBN 90 04 14249 5 (Bound) © Copyright 2005 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. PRINTED IN THE NETHERLANDS

CONTENTS Preface .............................................................................................. Introduction ......................................................................................

vii ix

COLLOQUIUM 1 Aristotle’s Metaphysics as the Ontology of Being-Alive and its Relevance Today ALFRED E. MILLER & MARIA G. MILLER ........................................

1

Commentary on the Millers JOHN J. CLEARY ............................................................................

97

Millers/Cleary Bibliography .............................................................. 105

COLLOQUIUM 2 Socrates, Aristotle, and the Stoics on the Apparent and Real Good MARCELO D. BOERI ...................................................................... 109 Commentary on Boeri IAKOVOS VASILIOU ........................................................................ 142 Boeri/Vasiliou Bibliography .............................................................. 151 COLLOQUIUM 3 The Faces of Justice: Difference, Equality, and Integrity in Plato’s Republic ARYEH KOSMAN ............................................................................ 153 Commentary on Kosman MARY-HANNAH JONES .................................................................. 169 Kosman/Jones Bibliography .............................................................. 175

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COLLOQUIUM 4 The Flow of ĭȪıȚȢ and the Beginning of Philosophy: On Plato’s Theaetetus JOHN SALLIS ..........................................................................................

177

Commentary on Sallis NICKOLAS PAPPAS .................................................................................

194

COLLOQUIUM 5 Aristotle’s Account of Agency in Physics III 3 URSULA COOPE ....................................................................................... 201 Commentary on Coope DARYL M. TRESS ................................................................................

222

Coope/Tress Bibliography .......................................................................

227

COLLOQUIUM 6 Class Assignment and the Principle of Specialization in Plato’s Republic SUSAN SAUVÉ MEYER ........................................................................

229

Commentary on Sauvé Meyer TAD BRENNAN ....................................................................................

244

Sauvé Meyer/Brennan Bibliography .......................................................

263

COLLOQUIUM 7 The Relationship Between Justice and Happiness in Plato’s Republic DANIEL DEVEREUX .............................................................................

265

Commentary on Devereux LEE FRANKLIN ....................................................................................

306

Devereux/Franklin Bibliography .............................................................

312

About our Contributors ........................................................................... Index of Names ........................................................................................

313 317

PREFACE GARY M. GURTLER, S.J.

This marks the twentieth volume of the published Proceedings, and the eighth volume that has appeared with Brill Academic Publishers, giving a higher international profile to the series. Once again, we have retained the essential structure of these Proceedings, so as to reflect the dialogical character of our Colloquium. As with previous volumes, this volume contains (in chronological order) papers and commentaries that were originally given during the 2003-04 academic year at different meetings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Each colloquium represents the activities of a single meeting at one of the following participating institutions: Boston College, Boston University, Brown University, Clark University, the College of the Holy Cross, Dartmouth College, and Harvard University. In most cases, the dialogical character of such colloquia is partially preserved by publishing both a paper and commentary from each of the meetings. In many cases these oral presentations have been extensively revised by their authors in the light of subsequent discussions, and especially in response to critical comments from our external referees. For their generous assistance as referees, I would like to thank the following people: David Depew, Bernard Freydberg, Alessandra Fussi, Brad Inwood, Vasilis Politis, David Roochnik, Christine Thomas, Daryl Tress, Raphael Woolf. At the end of the volume, together with the section ‘About our Contributors,’ readers will find a general index of names which was collated by our editorial assistant, Michael J. Smith. In place of an index of contents, readers can use the Introduction that my co-editor has written, covering the main topics touched upon by the papers published in the volume. In conclusion, I wish to thank my colleagues on the BACAP committee, whose voluntary work structures the reality to which these Proceedings stand at one remove. Furthermore, I am very much indebted to my coeditor, John Cleary, whose contribution has been crucial for the continuation of this series. I would also like to thank our editorial assistant, Michael J. Smith, for his painstaking work in preparing cameraready copy for this volume in the Philosophy Department at Boston College. Finally, I want to acknowledge the continued financial assistance provided by the administrators at Boston College, whose support for this project has remained solid over the years. BOSTON COLLEGE

INTRODUCTION JOHN J. CLEARY

This volume is once again dominated by Plato, since four of these colloquia are devoted to studies of his dialogues, especially the Republic which is central to four of them. The exception is the Theaetetus whose dramatic elements are discussed in one of the colloquia. However, two colloquia concentrate exclusively on the Republic with reference to the justice of its principle of specialization, and the relationship between justice and happiness. In addition, there is a colloquium on the historical appropriation of the Socratic problem of akrasia by the Stoics, while Aristotle’s biology and ontology take center stage in the first colloquium. As a poor substitute for an index of contents to this volume, let me adopt my usual procedure of giving a detailed summary of the contents of each colloquium. I. In their massive and challenging paper, Alfred and Maria Miller put forward a new paradigm for interpreting the ontology of ousia in Aristotle’s Metaphysics with reference to the dynamic entities represented by organisms in the De Anima. They propose to reinterpret the Metaphysics and De Anima in terms of a common underlying ontology that accounts for organisms as stable entities. While offering their new interpretation, they also target what they call the ‘traditional’ interpretation of substance as a static entity which persists as a stable substratum for change. However, instead of pursuing detailed textual exegesis, they elaborate and defend a number of interpretive theses. For instance, their interpretation depends on three explicit assumptions that guide their general perspective, as well as their interpretive stance with regard to specific issues: (1) that the Metaphysics as a whole constitutes a coherent didactic unity; (2) that the ontology developed in the Metaphysics is the same as that applied in De Anima to the analysis of existing organisms; (3) that the resulting ontological paradigm provides a conceptual and causal framework for analyzing ordinary experience and practice. In addition, the Millers claim that such a paradigmatic framework can provide a systematic foundation for modern biological science, as well as for Aristotle’s biology. They consider the following interpretive problem concerning the relation between the ontology of ousia in the Metaphysics and the biological

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works: For Aristotle, just as for biologists today, the being-alive of an organism exists as a dynamic physiological process of constant self-renewal and self-stabilization that actively preserves its identity. The Millers claim that ‘traditionally’ the ontology of the Metaphysics has been conceived in static terms both descriptively and causally, as evidenced by translations of ousia as ‘substance’ and of ‘ti en einai’ as ‘essence,’ which indicate an objectified or static conception of the existing of entities. For instance, ousia as an individual composite entity is traditionally construed as a synthesis of unchanging form (eidos) imposed as a stable structure on unchanging matter. Thus substance is conceived simply as the inertly persisting (static) presence of whatever an entity already is, and hence active causal processes are not seen as playing a role in its continued existing as what it is. By contrast, the Millers claim, for Aristotle and for modern biologists the being-alive that constitutes the existing of any organism is conceived dynamically as a constant physiological process of self-perpetuation. In their terminology, the process of being-alive exists as the holistically unified, cooperative organization of the ongoing functional activities that are enabled by the instrumental potentials of the body. Accordingly, the Millers hold that the ti en einai as formal cause of ongoing existing must be conceived as the dynamic organization of causally grounded sub-functions into the holistically unified process of self-maintenance. Furthermore, its continuing identity is also dynamically constituted as the self-preserving unity of the configuration (ousia according to logos) of mutually enabling functions that comprise the functional organization of the unified process of self-maintenance. The Millers insist that this self-stabilizing unified configuration results from continuing hou heneka causal relations and exists as entelecheia, though not as a one-time actualization of matter into its persisting stable eidos (form) at the time of genesis. Thus the two reconceptions central to their dynamic reinterpretations of the ontology of ousia are as follows: (1) the ti en einai as the selfsufficient cause of ongoing existing; (2) entelecheia as the continuing actualization of the stable unity of the eidos as the product of hou heneka causal relations. In order to resolve the apparent incongruity with the application of the ontology of ousia in De Anima, it must be reinterpreted in dynamic terms within the Metaphysics itself. The Millers contrast their interpretation with those of dualists, materialists, and hylomorphists, all of whom assume some kind of double-layered ontology. For instance, they claim that modern functionalists tacitly assume two separate ontologies; namely, a static one for the existence of the body and a dependent dynamic one for the existence of the psyche as being-alive. According to the Millers, this is tantamount to a sub-

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strate/attribute ontology, which Aristotle firmly rejects for ousia. They argue that such a functionalist interpretation neither conforms with Aristotle’s conception of the existing of organisms as being-alive nor with modern biology, as it presupposes the stable existing of the organism as a self-subsistent entity, which then functions secondarily. But it is for the self-sufficient existing of an organism as being-alive that Aristotle tries to account in De Anima by treating the psyche as the dynamic process of being-alive which constitutes the fundamental ground of existing for organisms. Similarly, modern biology accounts for the dynamic existing of organisms on the basis of their self-maintaining physiology. For Aristotle, however, the psyche as the ti en einai is constituted from the various functional potentials and activities exhibited by the organism which account not only for its ability to function appropriately in its environment but also for its very existing as being-alive. In effect, the Millers argue, the functional activities of the psyche cannot be relegated to derivative status as products of dispositions grounded in an underlying substrate. The second part of their argument is that the ontology of the Metaphysics itself must be reinterpreted dynamically so as to render it consistent with the application of that ontology in De Anima. They refuse to accept the hypothesis that between the Metaphysics and De Anima Aristotle may have changed his conception of the basic nature of ousia. Thus they insist that the ontology of ousia in the Metaphysics must be interpreted as fundamentally dynamic, just as it is in the De Anima. Hence their project in this paper is to offer parallel dynamic interpretations of ousia in Metaphysics and De Anima, so as to replace what the Millers call the ‘traditional’ static interpretation of substance in the Metaphysics. Adopting the conventional role of commentator, John Cleary first paraphrases the main claims of the Millers’ paper. Secondly, with reference to specific questions, he raises some doubts about a number of the claims made in the paper. Finally, in terms of contemporary scholarly debate, he presses them to clarify where they stand on Aristotle’s view about the relation between the soul and the body. II. Marcelo Boeri provides us with a highly nuanced account of how the distinction between the apparent and the real good functions in the Socratic approach to the problem of akrasia, which is critically appropriated by Aristotle and reappropriated by the Stoics. In a very rich paper Boeri’s general claim is that, although subsequent thinkers rejected Socratic intel-

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lectualism, they could never dispense with Socratic elements in accounting for human action in terms of desire and cognition. For instance, he explores how Aristotle incorporated some Socratic topics into his own accounts of human action, even while being critical of Socratic intellectualism. Boeri also discusses how the Stoics retained such intellectualism in their explanations of human action, while also allowing for Aristotle’s criticism. Thus Boeri’s narrative about the development of moral inquiry from Socrates to the Stoics underlines the continuity of themes and approaches rather than stressing the discontinuities, as other scholars have done. Despite differences between Socrates, Aristotle and the Stoics, Boeri finds a common thread in their approaches to human action in the claim that what an agent takes to be really good depends on his cognitive state. This is especially relevant for the Socratic analysis of the unwilling wrongdoer and the Stoic understanding of the unwilling base person, but it is also important for Aristotle’s investigation of the akratic person. The problem is to understand how people can do bad things, while knowing that their action conflicts with what is best for themselves. This problem is usually thought to be dissolved by the Platonic Socrates through a parallel set of distinctions between the real and apparent good, and between knowing and believing. Thus, if someone does an action which is bad for himself, we can understand him to be pursuing the apparent good, while mistakenly believing it to be his real good. According to the Socratic intellectualist, it would be unintelligible for someone to perform a bad action, while knowing it to be bad for himself. With specific reference to the puzzle about akrasia, Boeri argues that for Socrates the cognitive state of the agent is crucial for his correct assessment of the good and for the quality of the particular actions that he is able to perform. In the latter part of his paper Boeri claims that both Aristotle and the Stoics took for granted the Socratic analysis of the cognitive and psychological state of the agent for their evaluation of what the agent takes to be good. He tries to show that, despite criticism of Socratic intellectualism, Aristotle adopted some Socratic insights for use in his own ethical theories. In order to highlight both the continuities and discontinuities, Boeri examines Aristotle’s criticism of Socrates’ identification of virtue with knowledge. He quite correctly points out that Aristotle’s use of his own distinction between different kinds of knowledge probably obscures what Socrates meant when he claimed that virtue is knowledge. For instance, it is unlikely that Socrates would have accepted the possibility that wisdom or knowledge can be misused, as Aristotle suggests is possible for craft knowledge like medicine, which can either kill or cure.

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With regard to the Stoics, Boeri claims that they acknowledged the phenomenon of akrasia without abandoning their intellectualist approach to ethics. Unlike Aristotle, however, the Stoics did not distinguish incontinence from intemperance, so that any failure to master oneself is treated as akratic. Like Socrates, therefore, the Stoics held that vices are types of ignorance, while the virtues are forms of knowledge. According to the Stoic psychology of action, an agent gives assent to a practical proposition that describes a motivating phantasm, so that the assent becomes an impulse for action. Since a rational agent can give or withhold assent, however, he is responsible for his cognitive states and for the actions derived from the assents given to practical propositions stating what should be done in particular circumstances. Therefore, the Stoic solution to the problem of akrasia is to say that the individual is mastered by pleasure because he does not have knowledge in the strict sense but only opinion. Subsequently, Boeri offers some insightful remarks on the parallelism between Aristotle’s practical syllogism and the Stoic model for the psychology of action. For instance, despite the Stoic denial of conflict between parts of the soul, they seem to share Aristotle’s view of the cognitive state of the akratic agent; namely, that these cognitive faculties are weakened but not totally absent. For both Aristotle and the Stoics it is characteristic of the incontinent person to regret his actions, so that he assumes responsibility for what happened, and knows what is good and bad for himself. Like Aristotle, the Stoics think that the akratic agent suffers some weakness in his rational faculties, so that he is unable to use the knowledge that he has. By way of helpful commentary, Iakovos Vasiliou claims that Boeri’s treatment of Socrates could be improved upon by focussing more on moral epistemology before he discusses the role which an understanding of the good plays in action. For instance, Vasiliou argues that the hedonist arguments in the Protagoras and Euthydemus dialogues differ in moral epistemology; i.e. knowledge of the measurement of pleasures and pains. But this art of hedonism provides ‘salvation of life’ only on the assumption that hedonism is true, and Vasiliou wonders whether this is endorsed by Socrates. This has a definite bearing on the problem of akrasia. Given the hedonist principle, one would be correctly aiming at maximizing pleasure but, since one lacked the art of measurement, one would fail to determine correctly which action in fact leads to the most pleasure overall. But Vasiliou contends that this is not Socratic intellectualism. Contrary to what Boeri claims, Vasiliou does not believe that the art of measurement is what distinguishes between good and bad pleasures in the Gorgias, where it is acknowledged that we seek pleasure for the sake of the good. When the

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distinction has been made between pleasure and the good, however, the problem of determining the good remains unresolved by the art of measurement. III. Aryeh Kosman begins his provocative paper by expressing puzzlement at modern scholars who view Plato as the ideologue of unity and the enemy of difference. Against this mistaken perception, Kosman proposes to explore the notion of justice in the Republic as a normative principle of difference. Thus he examines how justice as a principle of appropriate differentiation in Republic I-IV is later complemented by Plato’s discourse on integrity, as illustrated by the image of the divided line. Kosman takes this image to be Plato’s way of figuring “the logical space of being” in relation to unity and difference. Kosman begins with two ‘straightforward’ questions about justice in the Republic; namely, what is the relation of justice to virtue, and why is the exposition of justice so central to Plato’s ideal polis. He considers a typically modern answer, as exemplified by Rawls, according to which justice is central to morality because it concerns our relationship to others. But Kosman regards this answer as unsuitable for understanding the Republic where ‘virtue’ does not refer narrowly to human morality but more generally to the excellent functioning of things, including artifacts. In brief, a virtue is the quality possessed by something which enables it to perform its function well. This implies that finding justice in the polis will involve knowing its characteristic activity, which in turn involves knowing its nature. Plato addresses these questions by first imagining the origin of social collectivity in the division of labor that responds to our lack of selfsufficiency. From this emerges the central claim about justice in the polis, that it will work best if different people perform different jobs for which they are best suited. Contrary to our modern intuitions about morality, Kosman points out that for Plato anything may count as a virtue of the polis if it makes that system of organization work well. Perhaps that might help us to understand why Plato seems unconcerned about the existence of slavery in the polis. Thus justice in the polis consists of each person performing the function for which he is best suited. By analogy, justice within the individual involves each differentiated element doing what it is best able to do. Kosman suggests that we cannot discover the nature of justice in a subject until we specify what kind of harmony is achieved when the differentiation of function is determined. For an individual person justice is a balance

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achieved when each functionally differentiated element of his soul performs the function for which it is best suited. Thus, for instance, reason itself does not desire but rather through its exercise it facilitates the proper exercise of desire. Kosman claims that a central project of the Republic is imaginatively to represent the happiness of a human life ruled by reason when reason does not have to act like a tyrant. He suggests that Plato began by viewing justice in the polis before the individual soul because the former is more obviously a functionally differentiated being, given that it is a social collectivity founded on the division of labor. Indeed, justice can be seen as a general principle of adjustment between being and acting, so that it can be presented both as a metaphysical concept, as well as a political and moral concept. In a functionally differentiated universe, each thing is what it is proper for it to be, as in a just polis each citizen does what it is appropriate for him to do. Generally, therefore, Kosman argues that the Republic may be read as an inquiry into the ethics and metaphysics of difference; namely, an investigation of the proper modes of being’s articulation into differentiated parts. Thus, insofar as it is an essay on justice, the Republic is an essay on the principle of appropriate division, or an inquiry into the nature of right difference. In the latter parts of his paper, Kosman discusses the kind of unity reached through collection that is the other facet of justice in the Republic. He calls this the platonic virtue of integrity, which underpins the unity of a good polis. It is consistent with the general requirement for such complex entities to be good they must show integrity and wholeness, as well as proper differentiation. According to Kosman, such unity is promoted by the virtue of sophrosune, which functions as a principle of political friendship and psychic harmony. He also finds integrity manifested in the image of the divided line through the vertical relation of different parts of the line to one another, thereby revealing the ideal unity and integrity of the line itself. In addition, Kosman draws attention to the horizontal or lateral dimensions of unity and integrity within the spatial metaphor for Plato’s ontology in the Republic. Generally, therefore, Kosman stresses the equal importance of sameness and difference in Plato’s philosophical thought, in order to guard against one-sided interpretations that stress the one at the expense of the other. He tries to show that no account of difference can do justice to Plato’s intentions without also stressing the importance of unity and integrity, as exemplified by the Platonic Forms. In her astute commentary, Mary-Hannah Jones reveals her appreciation of the fine points of Kosman’s argument concerning justice in Plato’s Republic. By way of dissent, however, she argues that while the normative

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principle of difference is a general one that applies to any functionally differentiated entity, yet Plato’s notion of justice in particular is applicable only to entities in relation to a particular function. In other words, she claims (pace Kosman) that justice for Plato is not the same as the normative principle of difference but is rather a special kind of normative difference. Thus a polis is just only when it has a division of labor that arises in the right way so as to achieve the right purpose. So there is a real doubt as to whether the austere, the luxurious, and the ideal polis can all be called equally just, even if they perform their functions well in satisfying human desires. By way of conclusion, Jones suggests that the ideal polis is just and good because it exhibits integrity and wholeness with reference to the Form of Justice in a way that is not available to the other kinds of polis. IV. In his own inimitable fashion, John Sallis presents a phenomenological account of the theatrical element in Plato’s Theaetetus by inviting potential readers to imagine some of its scenes as if they were being presented on stage. What Sallis finds striking about the dialogue is that it translates its philosophical claims into theatrical spectacles that one can imagine happening before one’s eyes. For instance, there is the vignette in which Theaetetus emerges suddenly from the gymnasium in the full flow of his youthful vitality. In general, Sallis claims that the primary manifestations achieved by the dialogue are realized in and through such developing scenes as this, which he labels ‘the scene of physis’ and through which are translated certain theses about physis. According to Sallis, the second scene that is stage-managed by Plato involves the appearance of the philosopher, to be found at the very center of the dialogue. Thus his declared intention in this paper is to trace the evolution and intersection of these two extended scenes, involving the showing of physis and the appearance of the philosopher in Plato’s Theaetetus. By means of his highly suggestive presentation, Sallis connects the initial appearance of Theaetetus with the extended scene which manifests physis, relying on the explicit references to the physis of Theaetetus in the dialogue. He claims that the image of Theaetetus flowing like olive oil is decisive for the discussion of physis in which virtually everything flows. But yet this flow of becoming challenges the very possibility of logos; i.e., of saying anything definite or appropriate about physis. Sallis takes the Theaetetus to be posing the question of how any determinacy can be discovered in the flow of physis such that a definite logos can be given. According to his analysis of the dialogue, this difficulty is also connected

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with the declaration that wonder is the beginning of philosophy, as it is produced by the conflicting opposites within the soul. The wonderful nature of Theaetetus that is capable of excess (or monstrosity) serves as a prelude to the scene in which the philosopher appears (155d), since wonder is held to be the peculiar pathos of the philosopher. Thales typifies this slightly ridiculous figure who is lost in wonder, gazing up at the heavens while failing to see what is under his feet, and so is mocked by the Thracian maid for falling down a well. According to Sallis’ phenomenological reading of the Theaetetus, philosophy involves an ‘opening to being’ that goes beyond physis while providing it with the determinacy that it lacks as flowing. In the Heideggerean terms used by Sallis, what is still lacking in the philosopher (e.g., Thales), as he appears in the central scene, is a comportment that would remain bound to physis, while at the same time exceeding physis. But the promising young philosopher, Theaetetus, achieves this ‘monstrous’ condition through wonder. Sallis reads the concluding discussion between Socrates and Theaetetus on whether knowledge is perception in terms of the tension between the flow of physis and the stability of determinate being. On the one hand, the discussion reveals that knowledge involves something not found in perception but, on the other hand, it shows that perception only becomes fully possible through a certain kind of knowing. For instance, the ‘look’ towards which perceptions stretch is something that exceeds physis, yet it is still the look of something in physis, so that it belongs to physis. Thus, in the final passages of Theaetetus, Sallis claims to discover a fusion of the two extended scenes; namely, the scene of physis and the appearance of the philosopher. Socrates is a typical example of such a Janus-faced figure, looking to the beyond while still remaining bound to his physis. In his sympathetic commentary, Nickolas Pappas wonders whether Plato’s maxim that ‘philosophy begins with wonder’ should be taken to say that the inauguration of philosophy was a historical event or simply a metaphysical possibility always ready to be repeated. If it is crucial that philosophy began with some historical event, Pappas argues, then it does not matter so much that everyone always has the potential to begin philosophizing. The original debt to someone like Thales is not discharged but increased with every subsequent engagement in philosophy. Pappas claims that such issues are relevant for Platonic interpretation because the dialogues continually restage the first appearance of philosophy. For instance, he finds the Theaetetus to be very preoccupied with the history of philosophy; namely, that it has already begun and can no longer begin again as it once did. Even though this dialogue claims that wonder is the

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beginning of philosophy, it is most resistant to deciding whether that is an eternally present possibility or an actual historical event. V. Through her carefully argued paper, Ursula Coope brings out clearly how different from modern conceptions is Aristotle’s notion of causal agency, even in the case of efficient causation. While underlining this difference, she focuses on a specific claim that Aristotle makes about agency in Physics III.3; namely, that an agent produces change by acting on something. With regard to the explanatory role of this sort of action, she wonders about what is involved in saying that the agent was acting on something to bring about change. More specifically, she analyses Aristotle’s claim that the agent’s action is one and the same as the change brought about in the thing acted upon. In making her analysis of Aristotle’s notion of causal agency, Coope shrewdly explores the puzzle which he lays out and resolves in Physics III.3 concerning the relation between the agent and the patient involved a causal nexus. This is a very shrewd approach because it clarifies Aristotle’s own conception of the problems associated with causal agency, and avoids introducing a modern problematic. From our perspective it appears rather strange that Aristotle should raise a puzzle about whether the action of the agent and the change in the patient are two distinct changes. But it is even stranger to find him resolving the puzzle by arguing that they are one and the same change, even though different in being and definition. It is precisely such strangeness that reveals the distance between the modern conception of causality and that of Aristotle. Coope performs a valuable service by rendering Aristotle’s notion less strange to us by examining in detail the puzzle which he raises and the resolution which he reaches. According to Coope’s interpretation, a crucial point for Aristotle’s solution is that an agent’s action is simply the change that is occurring in the patient, and not in the agent. Yet this change is still the actuality of a potential of the agent, otherwise it would not occur in the patient. Thus the agent of change has a special kind of potential that can only be fulfilled in something else. For instance, the capacity of a teacher to teach can only be realized in students who are learning – a sobering thought for university professors! Thus, as Coope points out, a complete definition of change must cover both the potential of the patient to be changed and the potential of the agent to change the patient. So a change is the incomplete actuality of the potential patient and of the potential agent, qua such. In this way,

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Coope throws some light on Aristotle’s definition of change in Physics III.3, by clearly differentiating it from modern notions of causal agency. While providing an admirably succinct commentary, Daryl Tress distinguishes between two theses (bold and very bold) which Coope might be defending, in order to suggest that one is more defensible than the other. The bold thesis is that the reciprocity of agent and patient is such that change simply is their mutual contact. Tress finds this thesis quite bold from our modern perspective because it does not involve any mechanical push-pull that we associate with efficient causality. On the other hand, she describes as ‘very bold’ the thesis that change is the actualization of an agent’s potential that takes place in the patient. Tress suggests that this thesis is excessively bold because it undercuts some Aristotelian assumptions about potentiality and its fulfillment; e.g., that a determinate substance has a limited set of potentials. Thus she finds the bold thesis to be preferable as an interpretation of Aristotle because it is consistent with what he says about efficient causation by way of criticism of Plato’s Forms; namely, that a thing causes change by acting and not by simply being what it is. VI. In her well argued paper, Susan Sauvé Meyer discusses the relationship between class assignment and what she calls the Principle of Specialization in Plato’s Republic. By contrast with modern conceptions of political justice, which tend to focus on the distribution of material goods, Plato thinks the main task of the politician is to make the citizens good through an education in virtue. Given this ancient perspective, however, Meyer finds it strikingly anomalous that the artisans, which constitute the largest class of citizens in Plato’s ideal polis, fail to receive such an education in virtue. Her paper critically examines Plato’s justification for the exclusion of artisans from political activity in accordance with the Principle of Specialization. A common interpretation of this principle is that members of the artisan class are naturally incapable of acquiring the political excellence that is necessary to become auxiliaries or rulers. But Meyer argues that Plato gives us no good reason to suppose that artisans are excluded from political participation because of any natural incapacity. She also argues that the institutions of the ideal city show no sign of having been designed to make sure that all those with a natural capacity to be guardians are given the opportunity to develop it. The crucial question is whether the lack of civic

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virtue in the artisans is the result of a natural incapacity or of a lack of education in civic virtue, which might have become second nature, as it were. Meyer claims that the Principle of Specialization does not provide adequate justification for the fact that the artisans are denied civic education, since the institutions of the ideal polis are not designed to ensure that all those with a natural aptitude to become guardians are given an opportunity to do so. The main body of Meyer’s paper provides an analysis of the Principle of Specialization in terms of two clauses which specify, respectively, a natural aptitude for a particular occupation and a specialization in it to the exclusion of competing occupations. According to her analysis, the facts about natural aptitude are insufficient to support the second clause, which requires a person to specialize in a single craft. This must be supported also by the so-called ‘requirements of expertise,’ such as exclusive focus and lack of impeding distractions. Meyer argues that the Principle of Specialization is consistent with the possibility (not envisaged by Plato) that a person might not be assigned the occupation for which he is naturally suited, since it does not entail that one lacks a natural aptitude for an occupation to which one is not assigned. For instance, a person who is naturally suited for carpentry and justice might still be relegated to the artisan class because of the political need for people to build houses. But surely (one might object) Plato does make it clear that natural suitability is the relevant criterion for assigning people to different classes in his ideal polis. In response, Meyer points to an ambiguity in the term ‘nature,’ which may refer to a person’s ‘antecedent nature’ or to a person’s developed capacity (or ‘second nature’). While nature in the sense of natural aptitude is invoked in the technical versions of the Principle of Specialization, nature in the sense of developed capacity is equally important for achieving the goal of the principle. But, Meyer argues, if the principle assigns people to the artisan class on the basis of their developed rather than antecedent nature, then it does not provide the sort of justification that is usually attributed to it. In regarding artisans as being unsuitable for guardian functions, Plato adopts the aristocratic prejudice that tradesmen are incapable of attaining the virtue of free men, but it remains unclear whether this is due to their antecedent or developed natures. In the final part of her paper, Prof. Meyer examines the so-called ‘myth of the metals,’ which describes how each citizen is assigned to a political class on the basis of natural aptitude, in the sense of antecedent nature. Although this appears to provide justification for class assignment that is consistent with the Principle of Specialization, Meyer notes that the myth is a falsehood insofar as it represents the developed capacities of the three classes as if they were simply natural aptitudes. She thinks the myth is

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clearly designed to mitigate resentment on the part of those excluded from the guardian class. She finds a similar intent in the promise that the ‘metal’ of all offspring will be tested, so that a ‘golden’ child from an artisan family may be elevated to the rank of guardian. For many reasons, however, she casts doubt on whether the promise of equal opportunity implied in the Myth of the Metals actually functions as a constraint on the institutions of the ideal polis. Hence Meyer concludes that the Principle of Specialization is quite blind to what we now call ‘distributive justice,’ since it quantifies over occupations and not persons in the polis. By way of critical commentary on Meyer’s paper, Tad Brennan formulates a principle of fairness (Principle F), which he takes to be central to her argument, with reference to two related points: that Plato’s Kallipolis does not satisfy this principle and that the satisfaction of this principle is not a goal of his general political program. By way of response, however, Brennan claims that there is evidence that Kallipolis actually does satisfy Principle F but yet he finds other reasons to conclude that Plato did not adopt as a political goal the satisfaction of that principle. Thus, pace Meyer, Brennan argues that the distribution of political power in Kallipolis is fair by the standards of Principle F but yet that Plato did not make fairness of distribution his goal, although it may be a collateral consequence of the pursuit of other goals, such as the well being of the whole polis and its parts. Given that the Republic treats political participation as a burden rather than a good, Brennan notes that it is possible to misunderstand Plato by applying to his thought modern concerns about unfair distributions of political power. If anything, Brennan argues, it is the rulers of Kallipolis who have grounds for complaint about unfairness in the distribution of goods because they are forced to shoulder the burden of ruling. In his critical response to Meyer’s analysis of the Principle of Specialization, Brennan agrees that it involves more than a principle for assigning people to jobs on the basis on the basis of natural ability. However, he disagrees with her claim that other parts of the principle operate by assigning people to jobs on the basis of the requirement of expertise. Instead, he argues, these other parts are directed to creating and justifying the right sorts of jobs to begin with, even before the assignment of individuals is addressed. Therefore, for the many reasons given in his thorough commentary, Brendan remains unconvinced by Meyer’s claim that people are assigned to jobs in Kallipolis on grounds other than their natural ability.

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VII. In his closely argued paper, Daniel Devereux revisits the scholarly debate about the relationship between justice and happiness in Plato’s Republic. First, he outlines the debate through a schematic series of questions and, subsequently, discusses these questions by means of specific and detailed analysis of the text. In this way, Devereux argues that Plato regards happiness as being a consequence of justice, and that what he means by justice being valuable ‘for its own sake’ is that it is intrinsically valuable. With specific reference to Aristotle’s concept of something being valuable for its own sake, Devereux defends his interpretation of Plato’s conception against the charge of anachronism. The purpose of this digression is to show that Socrates in the Republic understands happiness as a consequence of justice in the same way that Aristotle views happiness as a consequence of virtue. Devereux acknowledges that it is difficult to square this interpretation of happiness as a consequence of justice with Socrates’ ostensible task of responding to Glaucon’s demand for a proof that justice is valuable in itself rather than for its consequences. It would appear that such a proof is possible only if justice is a constituent of happiness, which is a second (and different) interpretation of Plato’s view that justice is valuable for its own sake. This interpretation is favored by many scholars because it yields one continuous argument in Republic II-IX, which is designed to show that justice is valuable for itself by showing that it yields happiness. By contrast, the first interpretation involves a two-part argument for the value of justice: the first part shows how it is valuable for itself, while the second shows that it yields happiness as a consequence. Devereux also lists a third interpretation which views happiness as a direct effect of justice. Having clarified these three possible interpretations of Plato’s view of the relationship between justice and happiness in the Republic, Devereux defends the first interpretation by providing other plausible ways of understanding the passages in Books II-X that seem to tell against it. In effect, he tries to show how these passages are compatible with the two claims that constitute the first interpretation; namely, (1) that Socrates regards justice as intrinsically valuable, and (2) that he views happiness as a consequence of justice. In this way, Devereux claims that the argument of the Republic is composed of two parts; i.e., the first part shows that justice is valuable in itself, while the second shows the superior happiness of the just life. While he accepts that Aristotle may be called a eudaimonist because he regards happiness as the supreme good, Devereux casts doubt on whether Plato can be called this since he holds that justice is the greatest good that human beings can possess.

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In his concise commentary, Lee Franklin takes issue with Devereux’s argument that Plato is not a eudaimonistic because happiness is an activity which is a consequence of justice, which is a state of the soul. From this distinction Devereux had concluded that if justice is valuable for itself, then its intrinsic value must be distinct from the value it has due to any of its consequences. But, against this conclusion, Franklin undertakes to show that justice for Plato is the sort of entity whose intrinsic value is identical with the value it has due to its consequences. He argues that justice by definition is the source of a certain pattern of desire and action. For instance, in Republic IV, Socrates’ account of justice is given in terms of the desires and actions it produces. According to the function argument, therefore, the excellence of a soul that is identical with justice is exactly the state in which it rules, deliberates and lives well. But this is precisely what constitutes human happiness. Thus the intrinsic value of justice is identical with its value as the source of happiness. In fact, Franklin concludes, justice is valuable for itself because it makes us happy. According to the long-established practice of our Proceedings, each colloquium in this volume is dialogical both in structure and content, which underlines our intention to provide a forum for conversation between different traditions of interpreting ancient philosophical texts. The dominant analytic tradition is well represented in at least three colloquia which reflect the virtues of careful argumentation and close textual analysis of Platonic dialogues. However, the necessity of providing a phenomenological account of the dramatic and dialogical dimensions of these dialogues is shown in another colloquium, which ably represents the hermeneutical tradition. Another colloquium reflects the Latin-American tradition in ancient philosophy, which combines elements from both the analytic and hermeneutical traditions. The first colloquium, however, cannot be neatly classified under any tradition of scholarly interpretation precisely because it involves two practicing scientists who adopt a different approach to Aristotelian scholarship. It essential for us to listen to all these differentvoices in order to promote fresh scholarship in ancient philosophy, which must be interdisciplinary in character. BOSTON COLLEGE & NUI MAYNOOTH (IRELAND)

COLLOQUIUM 1

ARISTOTLE’S METAPHYSICS AS THE ONTOLOGY OF BEING-ALIVE AND ITS RELEVANCE TODAY ALFRED E. MILLER & MARIA G. MILLER

I. A Dynamic Reinterpretation of the Metaphysics This paper proposes a combined reinterpretation of the Metaphysics (Metaph.) and De Anima (De An.) by bringing to light a shared underlying ontology that accounts for organisms as well as stable entities on a dynamic causal basis. This interpretation closely resembles today’s scientific understanding of the corresponding problems so that illuminating comparisons are possible. The Introduction lays out the background assumptions of our exegetic approach and shows how they enable a coherent unified exegesis of the texts. We analyze the problem context that prompted the interpretation and clarify how our approach differs from other attempts to relate the ontology from the Metaph. to its application in De An.1 Our approach rests on three basic assumptions that determine the general perspective and interpretive stance on the issues: (1) The Metaph. as a whole is assumed to be a coherent unity that establishes the systematic ontology of ousia by a unified, cogent, methodologically organized argu_________ 1 This paper was originally presented at Boston University on Sept. 18, 2003. We are grateful for the comments and suggestions from the respondent, John Cleary, from the anonymous referee and from participants in the discussions. This revision attempts to address these points. The basic argument of the original paper remains unchanged, but we have tried to clarify issues where questions were raised and amplify points where our argument was unclear or in need of more support. This introduction (Sec. I) was added to spell out the problems that prompted our interpretive approach and to elaborate the methodological assumptions underlying our reinterpretation of the ontology of ousia. The account of the ontology of artifacts (Sec. II) was also expanded to clarify and support our central thesis that the Metaph. itself must be reinterpreted on a dynamic, holistic-causal basis. This is to show the validity for stable entities of the dynamic causal ontology that emerges from the analysis of organisms in De An. Our other aim is to highlight the differences of our interpretation from other current approaches—a central question raised by commentators. A detailed defense of the background assumptions cannot be undertaken here. The intent is first to make these assumptions and our approach explicit and then demonstrate their cogency as a coherent interpretive framework in Sec. II-V by showing how this framework resolves the issues and allows a consistent interpretation of the texts.

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ment.2 (2) The ontology of ousia developed in the Metaph. is the same as that applied in De An. as the basic paradigm used to account for the existing of organisms—so that rigorous comparison of the two works is possible. (3) The ontology established in the Metaph. starts from the understanding inherent in dealing with things in everyday life and language. It thematizes and reformulates this implicit ontological knowledge (the endoxa of daily life) into the systematic terminological framework that provides the conceptual and causal foundation of natural science—which we still rely on.3 Because Aristotle’s original ontological analysis is still preserved in the basic framework of scientific thinking, we can use today’s more detailed knowledge of causal mechanisms to help understand his more abstract ontological principles in concrete terms. Conversely, because Aristotle’s ontology is the basis of the framework still used for analyzing and accounting for the physical world, his ontological insights and analyses can also aid understanding of today’s problems in many fields. A. Seeming Incongruence of the Ontology of Ousia in De Anima and the Metaphysics 1. The Ontology of being-alive is inconsistent with a static interpretation of ousia in the Metaphysics De An. explicitly bases its account of the being-alive of organisms [the psuchê as ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ] on the ontology of ousia developed in the Metaph.4 This _________ 2 This assumption has, of course, been hotly contested for the past century since Jaeger’s proposal that the Metaph. includes inconsistent parts stemming from different periods in Aristotle’s philosophical development. We discuss our position on this issue in more detail later in this Introduction (cf. n. 21). For now suffice it to say that we accept Ross’s (1924) position based on philological grounds, viz., that the work forms a unified text (with the exception of certain clear intrusions [į, Ǽ & ȁ]) essentially as we have it from Andronicus and Alexander. Owens (1963) argues more from systematic and didactic grounds, but comes to the same conclusion. Our major reason for assuming this unity of the work is that it enables a coherent systematic interpretation that conforms with its application in De An. 3 Unfortunately a few pivotal empirical errors, such as Aristotle’s acceptance of the geocentric conception of the universe and his failure to understand the nature of inertial motion, led to serious misunderstanding and rejection of his valid conceptual framework and causal insights as the foundation of natural science. As argued below, the scientific revolutions and paradigm revisions of twentieth-century physics and biology now make it possible to understand and correctly apply some of his most important ontological insights—which ironically were the very grounds for his rejection during the scientific renaissance of the 17th Century. 4 We use ‘being-alive’ to translate the infinitive ‘ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ’, which Aristotle explicitly equates with psuchê and with the existing [ijց ıՂȟįț] of the organism (An. II 4, 415b12-14). Although Aristotle most often uses the term ‘psuchê’ and seldom uses ‘ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ’, we use ‘being-alive’ to refer to the life-constituting aspect of organisms whenever its seems appropriate to call attention to the dynamic nature of life. The substantialized conception of the

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ontology serves as the systematic conceptual and explanatory framework used to analyze and account for the nature of organisms, how they exist and for their various functional capabilities. Thus the ontology of ousia provides the fundamental paradigm for Aristotle’s science of biology.5 However, the relation between the ontology of ousia established in the Metaph. and its application in the biological works as the ontology of living things also involves deep-seated interpretive problems. For Aristotle, just as for biologists today, the being-alive of an organism exists as a dynamic physiological process of constant self-renewal and self-stabilization which actively preserves its own existing and identity. Yet as traditionally understood, the ontology from the Metaph. is conceived in static terms— both descriptively and causally.6 This static conception of ousia is evidenced in the conventional translation of terms like ‘ousia’ [beingness] as ‘substance’, the ti ên einai [the existing as what it (always) is] as ‘essence’ and other cases where verbal or perspectival Greek terms are rendered in modern languages and Latin in terms of concrete substantives. These translations are indicative of a pervasive objectified (static) conception of the existing of entities [ousiai as tode ti] that has traditionally shaped the interpretation of the Metaph. Ousia as a composite entity is construed as a synthesis of unchanging form [eidos] imposed as an intrinsically stable structure on unchanging matter. In effect, then, understanding ousia as ‘substance’ conceives its existing simply as the inertly persisting (static) _________ life-aspect of organisms evoked by the nominalized form ‘psuchê’ (and especially its standard translation as ‘soul’) implicitly biases the understanding of any interpretation in the static direction. By contrast, ‘being-alive’ emphasizes the dynamic nature of life and its functional manner of existing and thereby keeps the associated ontological problems in view. The hyphenated form indicates the underlying infinitive [ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ] suggesting its role as the ti ên einai of an organism [‘the existing as a living being’]. (All translations are our own.) 5 The term ‘paradigm’ is used in Kuhn’s (1962) sense as the systematic conceptual and explanatory model assumed by a given science to serve as the overall framework for analyzing and accounting for particular phenomena. This paradigm as the general ontology of being-alive is developed most thoroughly and systematically in De An. However, it is applied throughout the biological works as the basic conceptual and causal framework to account for the nature, manner of existing and functioning of organisms. 6 By ‘traditional’ we mean not only the classic comprehensive interpretations and commentaries, such as Aquinas 1480, Schwegler 1847-8, Bonitz 1848-9, Zeller 1889 or Ross 1924, but also the vast body of more recent commentary and interpretation concerned with the Metaph. It is beyond this paper to consider the variations and disputes within this diverse range of interpretation in any detail. Our contention is that all extant interpretive approaches to the Metaph. share basic assumptions regarding the general nature and ontology of ousia, which we characterize as ‘static’. We attempt to define more precisely what this static interpretation involves in the succeeding discussion.

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presence of what already exists. Active causal processes are assumed to play a role only in the coming to be or change of a substance, not in its continued existing as what it is.7 In the same way, the continuing identity of an ousia (tode ti) qua substance is construed as the simple persistence of its hylomorphic unity that endures unchanged without needing further active causation. By contrast, for Aristotle, just as for biologists today, the being-alive that constitutes the existing of an organism is conceived dynamically as the constant physiological process of self-perpetuation.8 This process sustains itself as a whole by continuous active self-renewal that comprises its existing as the organism it is (cf. An. II 4, 416b9-29, see Sec. III.B.2). Such being-alive exists as the holistically unified, cooperative organization of ongoing functional activities enabled by the instrumental potentials of the body.9 This unified functioning maintains itself as the uninterrupted _________ 7 Insofar as the eidos is understood as the so-called ‘formal cause’ of a substance, ongoing causation is assumed in some sense. However, the eidos itself is conceived as a static structure simply persisting through time as a nexus of fixed relations of the unchanging materials that comprise it. As seen later, this amounts to assuming that the eidos is simply a formal attribute [morphê] of the matter, which is what really exists, or alternatively that the eidos is an additional static substance somehow combined with its matter into a static hylomorphic complex. 8 The term ‘dynamic’ is used to characterize the ontology of being-alive (or of ousia) in two interrelated senses. On the one hand, used to describe being-alive existing as a selfmaintaining functional process (the ti ên einai), ‘dynamic’ is meant in the modern sense of a system that propagates itself through time by being the cause of its own subsequent continued existing. On the other hand, ‘dynamic’ characterizes the cooperative organization of parts into a unified whole based on their functional interdependence. The mutual adaptation of the functional parts must be dynamically self-adjusting so the functional fit is maintained as needed for the unified functioning of the whole. As will be shown, Aristotle accounts for this characteristic of living organisms on the basis of the openness of interacting dunameis [potentials] for being shaped dynamically by each other in merging into a causal relation. 9 By ‘cooperative’ we mean the mutually enabling organization of functions that also jointly brings about a unified functioning of the whole capable of more (something different) than the parts taken separately. (Cf. n. 8.) The term ‘holistic’ is used to indicate the role of the inseparably unified and configured whole in determining the organized functioning or interactive fit of its parts. In holistically functioning systems the function and interactions of each part is not only dependent on its own potentials and those with which it interacts. It is also crucially co-determined by the unified functioning of the whole into which it is organized and by the role within this cooperatively integrated functional whole. The integration and determination of the functional roles of the parts by the configuration of the whole is shown to result from the combination of the ti ên einai and hou heneka causal relations, which in turn are linked by the species-typical configuration [ousia according to the logos] of the whole. Consequently, we refer to this constellation of relation-

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process of being-alive and also continuously renews the bodily parts and potentials. Thus, the existing of an organism is not simply the persisting presence of material structures that are stable in themselves and function only secondarily. Existing as being-alive (psuchê as eidos/ti ên einai) is itself the dynamic process by which an organism maintains itself as the entity it is. Accordingly, the ti ên einai as the so-called ‘formal cause’ (more accurately the cause of ongoing existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț]) must be understood as the holistically unified organization of causal subfunctions that cooperatively bring about self-preservation.10 _________ ships or any component of it as holistic causation. The mechanisms of these relationships are discussed in Sec. III-IV. We call these special Aristotelian causal relations ‘holistic’ because they depend on the merger of parts into a species-configured whole. This whole simultaneously integrates and shapes its parts into an all-or-nothing unity that is self-sufficiently capable of preserving its own existing as what it is. The term ‘holistic’ causal relations is intended to set Aristotle’s conception apart from so-called ‘downward causation’, which is used to describe the action of higher levels of organization on lower ones. ‘Downward causation’ is meant to denote types of causal relations contrary to ‘upward causation’, which is assumed to ground the higher (emergent) levels of organization reductionistically (cf. Campbell 1974; Andersen, et al. 2000). Such downward causal action presumably takes place by a kind of inverse efficient causation between actually existing, distinct levels (however such action is assumed to come about). As discussed in Sec. IV, such efficient causation between levels of organization is explicitly denied by Aristotle (Phys. II 7). Instead the basis of unity and stability (for which holistic causal relations account) is the species-typical fit (as unmoved mover) among the parts that is the ground of their merger into a holistic (all-or-nothing) unity. Merged in this way, the parts do not exist independently of the whole, but only as interdependent modules providing functional potentials for the continuing actuality of the whole. Thus, there are no independent (actual) levels between which such causal relations could take place. As we shall see, what appears to be the action of the whole on its parts is in fact the selfoptimization of the species-typical fit among the functional potentials of the parts themselves—but this is getting ahead of our story. 10 The Latinized translations of these holistic causal relations as ‘causa formalis’ and ‘causa finalis’ are misleading and responsible for much of the misunderstanding of Aristotle’s natural philosophy as handed down. They conceal the coherent cogency of Aristotle’s biological analysis and its agreement with modern understanding of these same problems. To avoid the difficulties inherent in traditional interpretations and translations, we refrain from using these standard terms and rely directly on Aristotle’s own precise terminology. The holistic causal relations introduced by Aristotle sound unfamiliar today, even misguided as explanations as a result of the ingrained misunderstandings. Yet, these accounts correspond closely to modes of explanation used in modern science for equivalent phenomena and problems (cf. n. 99). The interdependent unity of the entelecheia and ti ên einai aspects of the psuchê rests on the holistic unity of their special causal roles in the overall account of the nature of being-alive. The ontological analysis of this causal unity is presented most directly in An. II 4 (415b8-28), but comparative interpretation shows that the

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Moreover, since an organism’s existing is constituted by the dynamic physiological process of self-preservation, its persisting identity as an individual also cannot derive from some unchanging substance that underlies this functional existing. Continuing identity is also dynamically constituted as the self-preserving species-figuration [ȡ՘IJտįȟ Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] that comprises the functional organization of the process of selfmaintenance. 11 This self-stabilizing configuration of mutually enabling functions is the result of continuing hou heneka causal relations and exists as entelecheia [ongoing actualization holding in a telos].12 Entelecheia is _________ same causal relations are established more rigorously, though less concretely, in the overall argument of Metaph. ZH4 culminating in analysis of the causal role of the ti ên einai, such as Z 17, 1041a27-30; H 6, 1045a29-33. 11 ‘Species-configuration’ refers to the spatially arranged nexus of functional potentials that brings about the appropriate interactions and thereby mutually sustaining causal relations among the parts that cooperatively constitute its stable structure. This configuration is the ontological embodiment of the defining logos of the species in the individual entity, its “beingness [ousia] according to the logos” [ȡ՘IJտįȟ Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ], which is its being as what it is. Our interpretation of ‘ousia according to the logos’ (An. II 1, 412b10-11, b19-20) as species-configuration is based on Aristotle’s ontological usage of ‘logos’ as ratio or relationship in addition to the epistemological usage as definition. The relation between the two meanings is apparent in an example of the ontological aspect at PA I 1, 642a18-24; in the context of arguing for hou heneka causation in nature Aristotle asserts: Empedocles, led by the truth itself, is compelled to say that “ousia and phusis are the logos,” e.g., the “ijվ ԚIJijțȟ” of bone is the “logos of the mixture,” not some single element or two or three or all. (Comp. Metaph. A 1, 993a17-22, where it is also stated that this logos of bone is the ti ên einai and ousia.) The relation between the meanings of logos, as definition and as ratio/configuration, is further clarified at PA I 1, 639b11-16. The hou heneka cause is said to be prior to the moving cause (whence the archê of motion) because it is the logos as archê (starting point) in things by technê and in natural things. The technician starts from the definition [logos] and thinks through [İțįȟȡտį] the causes of the thing to be made and why one should make it this way. However, hou heneka causation (as logos) is even more in the works [ԤȢȗį] of nature (and this cannot be a consequence of the logos in the epistemological sense [definition], but rather in the sense of ratio or relation between parts). Moreover, just as technê is “in the artifacts,” so the logos as archê and cause (hou heneka) is “in the natural things themselves” (641b12-15). (We discuss later how the logos as known in technê comes to exist in the entity as the nexus of relations comprising the species-configuration, Sec. II.A.2.b.) The concept ‘ousia according to the logos’ [ȡ՘IJտįȟ Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] is also treated in Metaph. Z 10, esp. 1035b12-16 and in Z 11, 1037a13-18. The double nature of the concept is ultimately grounded in Metaph. Z 4-6 argument that the logos as definition expresses the species-typicality of the ti ên einai, but must also be identical with the existing in the individual entity—leading to the well known aporia of incommensurability of universal and particular. (Cf. also n. 72.) 12 For discussions of entelecheia cf. An. II 1, passim; An. II 4, 415b9-20; Metaph. H 3, 1044a7-11.

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ordinarily thought of as a one-time actualization of matter into its persisting stable eidos [form] at the time of genesis—which then simply continues to exist as such. In De An., however, the psuchê itself is defined as entelecheia, so it is clear that it also must exist dynamically as the product of continuous ongoing causation. Thus, as analysis of De An. II 1-4 shows in Sec. III and IV, these two core ontological characterizations of the eidos, as ti ên einai and as entelecheia, must be understood dynamically in that work to account for the nature of being-alive. By contrast, the same aspects of ousia as eidos have always been interpreted statically in the Metaph. to account for the stable nature of non-living entities, which are the primary examples used in this work. As ordinarily interpreted, then, the statically conceived ontology of ousia in the Metaph. is fundamentally incongruent with the dynamic ontology used to account for the nature of organisms in De An. This seeming conflict between the two works is the central problematic addressed by this paper. 2. A common ontological paradigm for the Metaphysics and De Anima. A consistent interpretation of the relation of De An. to the Metaph. requires resolving this apparent incongruity of the ontologies in the two works. Traditionally interpreters have glossed over this difficulty by implicitly assuming a two-level ontology of some kind in De An. The body or the organism as a hylomorphic complex (or the psuchê in addition to the body for dualists) is presumed to exist as a self-sufficient substance accounted for by the statically interpreted ontology of Metaph. This stably existing substance then functions secondarily to bring about the lifefunctions of the psuchê as some kind of supervenient level of existing that accounts for the dynamic nature of how organisms exist. Such a two-level (substance/activity-attribute) approach is characteristic of the classical interpretations of De An. as well as the more recent functionalist approaches. We argue in Sec. I.B that none of these interpretations conforms with Aristotle’s position in De An., nor are they in agreement with modern biological undestanding of the nature of being-alive. All such attempts to patch up the ontology of De An. by superimposing a secondary functional layer on the underlying (static) substance ontology fail to provide an adequate account of the dynamic existing of organisms as being-alive. Existing as being-alive is itself constituted by the allinclusive functional process of self-preservation. It is our counter-thesis, then, that reconciling the ontologies in the two texts requires reinterpreting the Metaph. itself dynamically, which then allows interpreting the dynamic nature of the psuchê in De An. as ousia in full agreement with the

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Metaph. Such a reinterpretion depends on uncovering an unrecognized, deeper ontological paradigm in terms of the ongoing causal grounding of ousia that constitutes its ontology as better known by nature. This causal ontology of ousia accounts for the stable as well as dynamic characteristics of all entities [ousiai as tode ti]—the dynamic characteristics of organisms as ousia analyzed in De An. as well as the stable ones primarily dealt with in the Metaph. This shared causal foundation (better known by nature) resolves the seeming incongruity between the ontology found in the two works. To uncover the nature of this underlying causal ontology we must show how it depends on holistic causal relations (the ti ên einai and entelecheia as the outcome of hou heneka causal relations). These causes are holistic in the sense that their mechanisms are based on the cooperative nature of the interdependent functioning of parts that merges them into a stably unified, species-typically configured whole.13 B. Interpretive Thesis for Resolving the Incongruency 1. Two-level ontologies are not an acceptable solution. Interpreters of De An. have always needed to account for how the dynamic functional nature of the psuchê fits together with the seemingly static ontology of the Metaph. on which it is grounded. However, they have usually done so within De An. alone by implicitly assuming an ontological grounding for the apparently stable bodily structures different from that for the dynamic psychic functions. The seemingly substantial aspects of organisms are assigned to the statically construed ontology of ousia, while the dynamic functioning of the psuchê is attributed to some type of semiindependent functional superstructure. Thus, the functional processes of being-alive are implicitly treated as an additional level of existing comprised of activities arising from stable functional dispositions. In effect, these interpretations assume a substrate/attribute ontological relation between body and psuchê. This implicitly assumed status of the psuchê as an attribute, however, fails to account for how its functioning constitutes the ongoing existing of an organism, sustains its persisting identity and determines the functional activities for the sake of preserving its existing. _________ 13 The crucial role of these causes in the ultimate ontology of ousia is presaged in Metaph. A. Aristotle repeatedly emphasizes the importance of ‘the good’/hou heneka and intimates that it is a major contribution to his ontology. Only this mode of causation is specifically mentioned in A 2 in characterizing sophia as the science of first principles and causes (982b4-10), and he explicitly sets himself apart from his predecessors because they spoke of this cause not as it is naturally [ʍջĴȤȜıȟ] but only incidentally [Ȝįijո IJȤμȖıȖșȜցȣ] (A 7, 988b6-16).

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Historically, most interpreters have simply disregarded these ontological problems of combining the stable with the functional aspects of an organism. The psychic functions are assumed to be products of (unexplained) quasi-self-sufficient dispositions based on some unchanging substantial substrate. Then, despite the ontological inconsistency, the causal roles of an eidos/ti ên einai are attributed to the psuchê (as described in An. I 1) without accounting for how psychic functioning conceived as an activityattribute of the bodily structures can account for what the psuchê in fact does. Recent ‘functionalist’ interpreters have more clearly recognized the problem of accounting for the quasi-independent integrity of psychic functioning and its relation to bodily functioning. However, they approach the issue entirely from the perspective of the mind/body problem of modern Cartesian vs. materialist debates. As a result they consider the psuchê as ‘mind’ alone and thereby also ignore the basic ontological problems of combining the stable and dynamic aspects of being-alive itself. 14 The self-sufficient being-alive of the organism is simply presupposed as the substantial ontological basis for the mind’s existing as a functional attribute. In effect then, functionalist interpretations also assume a two-layered (substrate/attribute) ontology of organisms. This again fails to account for how the functioning of the psuchê constitutes the ongoing existing and persisting identity of the organism as well as determining how its parts function for the sake of preserving the whole. Consequently, the approach is irrelevant for interpreting Aristotle’s (or modern) biology where these are the central questions. Our use of the term ‘functioning’ to describe the dynamic manner of existing of the psuchê has led some commentators to assume that we are proposing a variety of modern ‘functionalism’ (as applied to De An., cf. Shields 1988). Therefore, it is important to distinguish our interpretation of Aristotle’s ontology from these recent ‘functionalist’ approaches. For us the term ‘function’ [ergon] always signifies an activity determined by its role in relation to some purpose or end [telos], i.e., for the sake of something [ԥȟıȜո ijȡȤ].15 In Aristotle’s biology this is usually for the sake of _________ 14 The various contemporary functionalist approaches for interpreting De An. fall into this category (e.g., Shields 1988), as do older interpretations in terms of so-called faculty psychology. It could be argued that these approaches (as well as other modern forms of dualism and materialism) are essentially sophisticated replays of Aristotle’s predecessors, whose inadequacies he critiques and rejects in Book I of De An. 15 ‘Purpose’ here is not to be understood as intent, but as determined by the overall configuration of a dynamically self-optimizing system of which it is a part (cf. Sec. IV.C).

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preserving the existing of the organism. It is precisely this goal-determined nature of functioning that accounts for the dynamic stability of organisms (as well as non-living entities). Therefore, the ontology of ousia is based on holistic causation by the ti ên einai and the hou heneka relation. By contrast, the ‘functionalist’ approach considers functions as activityattributes of a universally definable type that are ‘realized’ by being grounded in some arbitrary substantial substrate. This interpretation neither conforms with Aristotle’s conception of the existing of organisms as being-alive—nor with modern biology. De An. II 1 emphatically rejects any such two-layered approach from the outset. Because the psuchê is entelecheia of the body, Aristotle asserts, one should not investigate whether the psuchê and body are one—nor in general whether the matter of each thing (including artifacts) and that of which it is the matter are one (412b4-9). Functionalists presuppose the stable existing of the organism as a self-subsistent entity, which secondarily enables the functioning that constitutes the psuchê. For Aristotle, however, the psuchê itself constitutes the primary existing of an organism, which cannot be construed as a mere functional attribute of some underlying substance. This primary existing of an organism qua psuchê as the self-sufficient functional process of being-alive is precisely what De An. (or today’s biology) systematically and causally accounts for based on the ontology of ousia. The psuchê (qua eidos) as entelecheia and as the ti ên einai is the selfmaintaining functional process of being-alive that causes and constitutes the primary existing of an organism (An. II 1, 4).16 The psuchê itself is comprised of the various functional potentials and activities analyzed and accounted for in the remainder of De An. (cf. An. II 2-4). Unlike the functionalists, then, in arguing for the functional nature of the psuchê we do not consider being-alive as some emergent activity of the self-sufficiently existing organism or in some sense supervenient on it. Instead, as the cooperatively organized, self-maintaining unity of these functional processes, it constitutes the ongoing existing of the organism itself.17 In sum, the current interpretive approaches to De An. misconstrue Aristotle’s analysis of the nature of the psuchê as being-alive by failing to ac_________ 16 Cf. An. II 4: “...for the cause of the existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț] for all things is the ousia, and the being-alive [ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ] is the existing [ijց ıՂȟįț] of living things, and the cause and archê of this is the psuchê.” (415b12-14) 17 Computer analogies appropriated from the philosophy of mind for interpreting the psuchê/body relation strikingly (though unintendedly) reveal the difficulty of separating functioning from existing in organisms. If the functioning of the software were really analogous to the psuchê, the computer hardware would disintegrate whenever it is turned off since such functioning would constitutes its ongoing existing.

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count for how it constitutes the fundamental self-sufficient cause of ongoing existing in terms of the dynamic process of self-maintenance. In contrast to De An.’s dynamic functional account of the existing of the psuchê itself, these current approaches all rely on a static conception of the underlying ontology of ousia and account for the functional features of organisms by superimposing an additional dynamic level on the underlying static one.18 2. The ontology of the Metaphysics itself must be reinterpreted dynamically. The two-layered (substrate/function) approaches of traditional as well as current interpreters, then, seriously misconstrue Aristotle’s analysis of the nature of the psuchê as being-alive. They fail to confront the basic issue of reconciling the incongruity of the dynamic nature of the being-alive of organisms with the statically interpreted ontology used to account for them. Resolving this problem is the central goal of this paper. The fundamental ontological concepts applied in De An. are clearly used in a dynamic functional sense. The same basic ontological concepts and relationships in the Metaph. have always been understood in static terms. Yet, Aristotle treats the ontology of ousia as fully equivalent in the two works and uses the terminology of the Metaph. without change in De An. A satisfactory interpretation of how the two works fit together must somehow deal with this dilemma. It seems highly unlikely that Aristotle changed his conception of the fundamental nature of ousia from the Metaph. to De An. so that these key works could be inconsistent with each other. Yet it is impossible to overlook the fundamentally dynamic functional nature of the ontology of ousia as applied in De An. Thus, the search for a consistent joint interpretation of the two works seems to force us in the direction of reinterpreting the ontology of ousia in the Metaph. itself in dynamic terms. Can we uncover a _________ 18 This conception of the psuchê as the self-maintaining process of being-alive is most obvious in regard to the primary or nutritive psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ], which is the essential ontological basis of being-alive at all. Any satisfactory account of the ontology of organisms in De An. must deal first with the self-maintenance of the psuchê as being-alive by this fundamental life-activity—as Aristotle himself does. This is why we limit our analysis in this paper to that life-function. Accounts of the so-called higher faculties (such as perception and nous) must be established within the ontological framework developed in regard to this primary mode of being-alive. Neglect of this point is probably a major reason that interpretations of De An. from a functionalist perspective miss the mark. These approaches take their point of departure from the psuchê/body dichotomy of the philosophy of mind rather than from Aristotle’s unitary account of the existing of organisms.

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deeper dynamic level of Aristotle’s ontology in the Metaph. that the timehonored static interpretation has somehow failed to grasp? C. Difficulties of a Dynamic Reinterpretation of the Metaphysics 1. The seemingly static conception of ousia in Metaph. Z. Attempting to reinterpret the Metaph. on a dynamic basis raises serious exegetic difficulties, however. On what grounds can we propose an interpretation that differs fundamentally from the traditional one? How could such a divergent understanding of the Metaph. be overlooked if the proposed dynamic ontology is indeed present in the text? There are, after all, good reasons why the ontology of the Metaph. has always been understood statically. Many passages, in fact lengthy arguments, are formulated in language that is unmistakably static (e.g., Metaph. Z 7-9). Moreover, the traditional static interpretation of the ontology seems consistent with everyday understanding of how entities exist as stable objects. Aristotle is known for adhering closely to ordinary understanding and generally accepted assumptions (endoxa) as the starting point of his analyses, and Metaph. Z 1-9 seems to do exactly that.19 How can we reinterpret or account for this initial analysis of the nature of ousia if the ultimate ontology is so contrary to it? There are actually two interrelated exegetic problems here. On the one hand, how is the obviously static analysis of the aspectual components of ousia in Metaph. Z to be understood if it does not, in fact, represent the ultimate formulation of the ontology of ousia? On the other hand, where and how is the dynamic ontology to be found that presents a doctrine so different from the static analysis of ousia given in Metaph. Z 1-9? 2. Reinterpreting the Methodological Structure of Metaph. Ǿǿĭ recontextualizes its parts. Our approach for resolving these interpretive difficulties does not presume that the familiar concepts, arguments and doctrines of Metaph. Z have been misunderstood as such. Instead, we contend that the systematic significance of concepts, textual analyses and arguments have been misconstrued by not discerning their methodological role in the overall argument that establishes the ontological paradigm—despite individual passages _________ 19 One might object that Aristotle’s terminology in Metaph. Z is far removed from common language (esp. the concept of the ti ên einai and the arguments of Z 4-6). Granted that he develops and employs unfamiliar terminology to carry out his analyses, which is self-coined for the sake of precision (and, as we see later, to enable the transition to a dynamic understanding of existing). Nevertheless, the arguments in these chapters are based on the endoxa embodied in ordinary language and practice.

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being correctly interpreted. We suggest that the deeper significance and implications of the analyses in Metaph. Z 1-9 (and hence the rest of the central books) have been misunderstood because the systematic methodological approach of the Metaph. as a whole is overlooked or misconstrued. Understanding the reinterpreted methodological role of the various parts of the Metaph. uncovers new significance for long-familiar ontological concepts and doctrines. Therefore understanding how it is possible to reinterpret the ontology of ousia dynamically requires reconsidering the nature of the method in the Metaph. for developing the ontology of ousia as the science of being (Sec. I.D and I.E). D. The Reinterpreted Structure of the Argument in Metaph. Ǿǿĭ and the Roles of its Parts 1. The seemingly static conception of ousia in Metaph. Z 1-9 as the thematization and systematic conceptualization of entities as “better known to us.” Admittedly, then, the analysis of ousia in Metaph. Z 1-9 in terms of the triad of descriptive perspectives (eidos, matter and composite) and the different aspects of the ti ên einai is patently static. This analysis is ordinarily taken as laying the definitive foundation of the ontology, but in fact it only establishes the conceptual framework for the ultimate ontology by formulating the essential characteristics of ousia as better known to us.20 The definitive ontology itself is the account of ousia as “better known by nature,” i.e., as it exists in itself, which is only developed in Metaph. Z 174 9 in terms of the holistic causal relations that ground it.21 _________ 20 This misconception has led to centuries of (still continuing) fruitless debates based on Metaph. Z alone as to whether the eidos/ti ên einai is universal or particular and other such conundrums. These in fact are precisely the aporiai that Aristotle is analyzing in order to learn what is necessary to resolve them causally in later chapters. (Cf. I.E.) 21 As stated earlier (cf. n. 2), our approach to the Metaph. is based on the presupposition that it can be considered as a consistent, coherent unity. Because of preoccupation with developmental analysis and textual critique during the past century, little attention was given to the methodological principles underlying the structure of the overall argument by which the ontology is developed. The resulting lack of understanding of the systematic structure of the Metaph. as a whole is a major reason for overlooking the dynamic foundation of the ontology, which is so crucial for understanding its application in De An. As Wians 1996 points out, ‘development’ does not need to mean a change of opinion or philosophical positions in the course of Aristotle’s life work, but can instead represent a shift of perspectives in analyzing the same position. Brinkmann 1996 extends this point by arguing cogently and specifically that the alleged shift from the Categories, where the tode ti is considered to be primary ousia, to the Metaph., where the eidos/ti ên einai is assigned

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This path of analysis follows Aristotle’s familiar methodological doctrine for establishing the conceptual and causal framework of a science, which is best known as set forth in Phys. I 1, 184a10-18. Developing the fundamental paradigm of a science [epistêmê] requires beginning with the observations, concepts and general assumptions better known to us and proceeding from these to the principles, causes and elements [ԐȢȥį‫ה‬, įԼijտįț, IJijȡțȥı‫ה‬į] that account for the phenomena as better known by nature. Moreover, “first philosophy” (ontology) is designated as the science of being as such [ousia] (Metaph. Ĭ 1-2). Yet, little regard is taken of this general methodological approach for developing the conceptual and causal framework (paradigm) for a science when the Metaph. is interpreted. However, Metaph. A 1-2 plainly lays out the methodological route— parallel to Phys. I 1—of proceeding from perception (as revealing what is better known to us about entities) through experience [empeiria], technê (which understands the causes by using them) and finally to the knowledge [sophia] that constitutes the science [epistêmê] we are seeking. 22 Metaph. A 2 then characterizes the nature of sophia [philosophical wisdom], which constitutes the science of ‘being’ (the nature of existents as such) by being knowledge of its first principles and causes (ousia as better known by nature). Sophia is characterized as the most universal and fundamental knowledge by being based on such first principles and causes. This analysis discloses how sophia constitutes what is better known by nature and also reveals why knowing the principles and causes comprises knowledge of this kind. 23 Thus, Metaph. A 1-2 not only invokes the _________ that role, is actually a deepening of the level of analysis from the descriptive to the ontological. We contend that a similar interpretation can be given to the seemingly different positions or perspectives within the Metaph. itself. In fact, this movement of the analysis of any given phenomenon from descriptive to more ontologically explanatory levels is characteristic of Aristotle’s approach to investigation in general—most familiar from Phys. I 1 as proceeding from what is better known to us toward what is better known by nature. By considering the argument of the central books as proceeding along a similar, carefully structured methodological path, we maintain that we are able to uncover a highly systematic, fully consistent overall argument in the Metaph. that establishes the dynamic ontology of ousia powerfully applied in De An. 22 “That sophia is epistêmê concerning certain archai and causes, then, is clear” (Metaph. A 1, 982a1-3). 23 Metaph. A 2, 982a4-b7 points out how each of the characteristics attributed to the person having sophia derives from knowledge of the principles and causes, designated in Phys. I 1 as “better known by nature.” The epistêmê of first principles and causes is distinguished as (1) more universal (and therefore constitutes knowledge of all things in a general way), (2) difficult to know (since it is further removed from immediate perception and therefore less familiar), (3) more fundamental [ԐȜȢțȖջIJijıȢȡȟ]) (since it is based on fewer principles), more teachable (because teaching requires stating the causes of each thing), and

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methodological doctrine from the Physics for establishing a science. These chapters also spell out how the method is to be applied in the Metaph. and justify why knowledge of first principles and causes is better known by nature.24 Besides this detailed discussion of the method in Metaph. A, Metaph. Z 3 reiterates the intended progression for analyzing ousia from what is better known to oneself toward the account as better known in itself (i.e., by nature, 1029b3-12). Moreover, Metaph. Z 17 proclaims the new start of the analysis by examining the nature of ousia qua ti ên einai as the cause of existing (1041a6-10, cf. 1041b27-28). Thus, there is abundant evidence that Aristotle uses the well known methodological procedure of the Physics in the Metaph. as well.25 Yet, the application of this method in the Metaph. and its significance for understanding that work remains largely unrecognized. This oversight is a major reason for misconstruing the overall structure of the argument that develops the ontology of ousia and hence the significance of the various parts of the Metaph. in establishing that ontology. Reconceiving the methodological role of parts of the text recontextualizes them and thus changes their significance within the overall argument. This reanalysis reveals how the parts constitute a coherent, systematically unified argument that establishes the dynamically conceived ontology of ousia. 2. The overall methodological structure of Metaph. ZH4. We maintain, then, that Metaph. Z 1-9 primarily develops the systematic terminological framework for conceptualizing and analyzing ousia as better known to us. This is accomplished by thematizing the essential characteristics of ousia revealed by the endoxa implicit in the conventions of

_________ (4) known for its own sake (which is knowledge from which and because of which other things are known, and not vice versa) and (5) most governing [ԐȢȥțȜȧijչijș] (because it knows the good for the sake of which everything should be done [ʍȢįȜijջȡȟ]). Here, then, Aristotle spells out which kind of knowledge the ontology of ousia has to provide when it progresses from what is better known to us to what is better known by nature. Cf. Heidegger 1992, 94-100, 121-125. 24 The remainder of Metaph. A (chaps. 3-10) examines the types of causal relations that are especially important for grounding ontology. We return to this topic later. 25 A careful analysis of the methodological significance of Metaph. A and its application to the overall argument of the Metaph. would lead us too far afield and must be postponed for later. Here we can only indicate its significance for the dynamic reinterpretation of the Metaph. we are proposing.

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ordinary language and the assumptions of everyday practice.26 In itself, however, this conceptual framework does not comprise the causal account of the existing of ousia, which constitutes its ultimate ontology as better known by nature. Thus, the familiar triad (eidos/ti ên einai, matter and composite) established in Metaph. Z 1-9 to characterize the key aspects of ousia validly designates these aspects throughout the Metaph. and other works. However, to know how the different aspects are constituted ontologically (how they exist as such) and what each contributes to the existing of an entity, we need to understand the causal relations that account for their particular characteristics, i.e., how they exist as better known by nature.27 As with the being-alive of organisms, the continued existing of any ousia requires ongoing causation. The necessity of causal grounding is not limited to its generation or modification. For the dynamic ontology we are seeking, then, ousia and its characteristic aspects must be accounted for by continuing causal relations that constitute them. The various holistic causal relations will be seen to account for and constitute the existing of the descriptive aspects. In fact the different causal accounts of an entity are how its descriptive aspects actually exist, and the unity of these causal relations is how the entity as a whole (composite ousia) exists as what it is. Thus the causal grounding of the ontology of ousia constitutes its dy_________ 26 Metaph. Z 10-16 then critically analyzes these characteristics to reveal the aporetic problems inherent in integrating them in a consistent, systematic ontological paradigm. However, we postpone discussion of this step until the next sub-section (I.E). 27 The descriptive analysis portrays entities as better known to us, while the causal account reveals how the same aspects exist as better known by nature. Thus, the same terms that denote the descriptive aspects must also denote the causal aspects. We cannot say how something exists without saying what it is that exists. (The context, especially the problemsetting, makes clear whether a term is being used in a descriptive or causal sense.) Aristotle implies this necessary relation between description and account in the APo. (II 1, 89b23-30) and likewise between description or definition and existing in regard to the ti ên einai in Metaph. Z 6 (1031b3-11, b18-20), which is then shown to be its nature as cause of ongoing existing (Z 17, 1041a9-10, a26-30). There is also a suggestive parallel in modern physics to this interdependent relationship between descriptive and causal terminology, which is illuminating philosophically. Niels Bohr, the founding interpreter of modern quantum physics, maintained that although the quantum account of phenomena (in effect the causal/ontological explanation) defies objective description in classical-physical terms, the theory must nevertheless be formulated in such classical terms. Not only is it necessary to use the terminology of classical physics to describe the experiments that measure the effects of the underlying quantum account. Classical concepts derive from everyday language, i.e., from how we experience and deal with entities at all. Therefore, they determine the conceptual framework for conceiving and hence describing the nature and relationships of the objects (entities) of the science —even though the nature and relationships are found to be non-objectifiable in the original classical sense. (Cf. Murdoch 1989, 99-103.)

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namic foundation and corresponds to the functional ontology of beingalive in De An. This causal basis of ousia that constitutes its existing as better known by nature is worked out stepwise beginning with the announcement of the “new start” in Metaph. Z 17 and continuing through Metaph. H-4. As with Metaph. Z 1-9, however, failure to understand the methodological role of Metaph. ǿ-ĭ leads to misconstruing the significance of the analyses and arguments of these books. They are generally viewed as semi-independent, though interrelated, treatises dealing with certain additional problems in regard to ousia or as different perspectives for analyzing the ontology of ousia. In fact, we shall see they provide the causal account (its ontology as better known by nature) of the characteristics and relations of ousia descriptively and conceptually analyzed in Metaph. Z. 3. Metaph. ǿ-ĭ as the causal accounts of ousia—as “better known by nature.” As with Metaph. Z 1-9 (Sec. I.C above) there are good reasons for the traditional interpretation of these books. Aristotle’s doctrine that being [ijց Րȟ, the existent] is said in four general ways is usually taken to mean that existents can be analyzed from four different, but interrelated perspectives.28 However, no definite relationships are specified between them, so that the significance of the different perspectives must be determined by their roles and interrelationships in various contexts and ontological analyses. Since Books H and ĭ are formulated primarily in terms of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations, they are often treated as dealing with a different aspect of being in general rather than with the nature of ousia itself, which designates a particular category. Consequently, these books can seem peripheral to the central argument establishing the ontology of ousia.29 Even interpreters who consider Metaph. ǿ-ĭ as essential in establishing the ontology of ousia, largely overlook the causal implications of these analyses. Thus their methodological role of accounting for the ontology as better known by nature remains generally unrecognized. _________ 28 Viz., (1) as existing per se [ȜįȚ‫ ׶‬įՙijր] vs. accidental [Ȝįijչ IJȤμȖıȖșȜցȣ]; (2) according to the schemata of the categories; (3) as dunamis, energeia (and entelecheia) and (4) as true or false. (See Metaph. D 7, 1017a7-b9; E 2, 1026a33-b2.) 29 Some scholars (e.g., Witt 2003) assume that these books, esp. Metaph. ĭ , deal primarily with a separate topic or aspect of existents, viz., their modal characteristics in the modern logical or Kantian sense. Other scholars (e.g., Kosman 1984) assume that dunamis/energeia relations represent a different perspective for analyzing of the characteristics and relations of ousia considered in Metaph. Z. Thus they recognize Metaph. ǿ and ĭ as playing a role in establishing the ontology, but the nature of this role remains vague.

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Yet, Aristotle clearly indicates that Metaph. H and 4 provide the causal accounts that ground the ontology of ousia. As noted earlier, Metaph. Z 17 explicitly announces the beginning of the account of the ti ên einai as the cause of (ongoing) existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț] of entities out of their material parts. In fact, the ti ên einai is also said to include for-the-sake-ofwhich [ijտȟȡȣ ԥȟıȜį] causal relations.30 Nevertheless, the implication of this Z 17 transition to causal analysis is usually unrecognized as setting the stage for Metaph. H and 4 and establishing the context for interpreting them because Metaph. H 1-3 deals with the problematic matter/eidos relation only in terms of dunamis, energeia and entelecheia—making no mention of the causes familiar from the Phys. or Metaph. A. Moreover, when the four causes are explicitly referred to in Metaph. H 4, they scarcely seem connected to the earlier dunamis, energeia and entelecheia analysis. However, Metaph. H 6 explicitly relates the ti ên einai as the cause of existing, to the dunamis/energeia formulation of the eidos/matter relation, viz., as the cause that a potential existent (matter) exists actually (qua eidos). Moreover, the central theme in Metaph. H and 4 clearly relates them to the problems of accounting causally for the characteristics of ousia analyzed in Metaph. Z. In both books the matter/eidos relation of ousia is reanalyzed in terms of dunamis, energeia and entelecheia to account for the unity of the composite entity, a key problem raised in Metaph. Z 10-12 and Z 17.31 Metaph. H 1-2 is recognized as providing the solution to the problem of unity. Nevertheless, this analysis is not usually seen as a causal account of the relation between the matter and the eidos/ti ên einai that grounds the ongoing existing of the composite entity. Instead, the dunamis/energeia analysis of the unity of ousia is typically understood as a purely descriptive and static account of that unity. Thus, the continuing unity of eidos and matter is not seen as needing an ongoing account in terms of holistic causal relations as developed in Metaph. ǿ 3-ĭ 9. Likewise, Metaph. ĭ explicitly extends the dunamis, energeia and entelecheia _________ 30 See Metaph. Z 17, 1041a26-32. The double role of the ti ên einai as cause of ongoing existing and as hou heneka is reaffirmed (implicitly) throughout PA I 1, based on the (only) explicit statement of the grounding role of the ti ên einai for the parts of animals at PA I 1, 640a33-35 and the explicitly dominating role given to hou heneka causation in this work (e.g., PA I 1 641a2-18). The mechanism for the necessary belonging together of the ti ên einai and hou heneka is clarified in Phys. II 7 198b4-9. This interrelationship is examined in detail in Sec. IV.C. 31 The nature of these aporetic difficulties and their resolution are discussed in more detail below (n. 87 in Sec. IV). Most interpreters consider the issue already resolved by the account provided by Metaph. H 1-2. In the succeeding argument, however, we attempt to show how the H 1-2 analysis merely sets the stage for the lengthy analysis and causal resolution of the aporia at issue.

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account of motion (developed in Phys. III 1-3) by analogy to the matter/ousia relation. However, it makes no explicit use of causal relations in doing so. Thus, it is understandable that the role of Books H and 4 in establishing the causal basis of the ontology as better known by nature is generally unrecognized. 4. Dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations account for causal relations in ousia as well as in motion. Despite the seeming absence of causal analysis of the type found in Phys. B, it is our thesis that Metaph. ǿ and ĭ do follow the methodological program suggested in Metaph. A 1-2 by establishing the causal account of the ongoing existing of ousia. This task is accomplished by using dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations to ground the mechanisms of the causal relations that account for the nature of this existing of ousia. (The details of how the ti ên einai and hou heneka causal relations are accounted for by dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations are the subject of Sec. III and IV.) To show how Metaph. ǿ and ĭ fulfill their methodological roles in grounding the ontology of ousia, two major misunderstandings must be overcome which mask their causal interpretation. (1) Although Phys. III 13 explicitly accounts for the (dynamic) efficient causal interactions on the basis of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations, interpreters of the Metaph. are usually oblivious to this ontological basis of causal relations in general. Thus the fact that the ontological analyses of Metaph. ǿ-ĭ expressed in dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations actually constitute a causal account of how ousia exists goes unrecognized. Even scholars cognizant of the dynamic account of efficient causal interactions in the Phys. ignore its implications for the ontology of ousia. In modern philosophy causation is only considered necessary to account for change, not for the continued existing and persisting stable identity of entities. Thus the detailed analyses in Metaph. ǿ and ĭ formulated in terms of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations go unrecognized as accounts of the holistic causal relations needed to establish the dynamic causal ontology of ousia (the ti ên einai and entelecheia resulting from hou heneka relations). Consequently, the equivalence of the dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations investigated in these books and the causal account of ousia as better known by nature goes unnoticed. The former analyses are presumed merely to examine characteristics of existents that exist as stable entities in their own right and require no further causal account. Thus the crucial causal ontological implications of these analyses are entirely missed. (2) The second reason for overlooking the role of Metaph. ǿ-ĭ in estab-

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lishing the causal ontology of ousia is that the primary problems dealt with (unity and stability) depend on holistic causal relations for their solutions. Most modern philosophers explicitly or tacitly reject formal and ‘for-thesake-of-which’ [ti ên einai and hou heneka] causal relations as legitimate ontological accounts distinct from efficient and material causes. Consequently, it is difficult to comprehend how Metaph. ǿ-ĭ constitutes the causal grounding of ousia (its ontology as better known by nature). 32 These holistic causal relations account for the most fundamental and essential characteristics of the nature and ongoing existing of entities as ousia. However, they are less familiar and more difficult to understand than efficient causation because they require deeper analysis of the ontological nature of dunamis, energeia and entelecheia together with the modes of interplay by which they are determined. This analysis is precisely what Metaph. H-4 provides. As seen later, the roles of holistic causal relations (and their dynamic functional natures) in the ontology of ousia are more obvious in accounting for the existing of organisms. Therefore examining the application of the ontology in De An. helps understand that ontology in the Metaph. itself. This is why comparative analysis of the Metaph. and De An. is useful in both direction. Since the causal relations involved in both cases exist as dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations, these can also be interpreted as existing dynamically in the Metaph. in correspondence with the functional processes of being-alive. E. Methodological Role of the Ontological Aporiai 1. Aporiai frame the issues of the ontology of ousia and guide development of the causal accounts for resolving them. We have seen how the central books follow the methodological path laid out in Metaph. A 1-2 from the conceptual analysis of ousia in Metaph. Z 1-9 to the causal account of its essential characteristics in Z 17-4 9. However, it remains to be shown how Aristotle ascertains the nature of the causal relations that constitute the ultimate ontology accounting for the persistent existing of ousia. Metaph. A 1-2 suggests two interrelated methodological routes for this development. (1) As indicated in Sec. I.D above, implicit understanding of these causal relations is inherent in knowing how to deal with things in everyday practice and by technai [crafts]. _________ 32 For precisely this reason, it is a necessary objective of this paper to relegitimate these prime Aristotelian modes of causation by showing how the mechanisms and relations that Aristotle uses to ground them and account for their mode of action have been reincorporated into modern science at the cutting-edge during the past century. (See Sec. III-IV.)

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This causal understanding has been accumulated by individual and cultural experience and is implicitly embodied in ordinary language and in the know-how of technai transmitted from one generation to the next. To become a systematic science [epistêmê], however, this tacit understanding must be made explicit, formalized and systematically organized. How is this accomplished? This methodological step is especially difficult for the most general science, the ontology of existents as such. The special sciences presuppose the general ontology of existents as the paradigmatic basis for investigating the characteristics of a particular genus. “First philosophy,” however, as the science of being as such, cannot build on a more universal ontological paradigm since it is itself that most universal science. Therefore, Aristotle’s second basic methodological doctrine is especially important for guiding the discovery and grounding of the first principles and causes of being as such. (2) This second method for uncovering the causes that constitute the ontology as better known by nature is aporetic analysis and resolution, whose role is also sketched in Metaph. A 2 (982b7-21, 983a11-20). However, Metaph. B 1 provides the most familiar and detailed analysis of this second methodological route. Therefore, we first examine its presentation there and then consider what Metaph. A 2 reveals in addition about the link between this aporetic method and the uncovering of the causes: It is necessary in relation to the epistêmê being sought, for us to discuss [ԚʍıȝȚı‫ה‬ȟ] first the issues about which [ʍıȢվ կȟ] one first ought to be perplexed [ԐʍȡȢ‫׆‬IJįț]; ... And for those wishing to have clear passage [ı՘ʍȡȢ‫׆‬IJįț] it is advantageous [ʍȢȡ՜ȢȗȡȤ] to go through the aporiai well [İțįʍȡȢ‫׆‬IJįț Ȝįȝ‫׭‬ȣ]; for the later clear passage [ı՘ʍȡȢտį] is the solution of the earlier aporetic issues [ԐʍȡȢȡȤμջȟȧȟ], but to solve [them] is not possible if one is ignorant of the bond [İıIJμցȟ], ... because those investigating without first going through the aporiai [İțįʍȡȢ‫׆‬IJįț] are similar to those ignorant of whither [ʍȡ‫ ]ה‬one must proceed, and in addition to these [shortcomings] it is not possible to recognize whether one ever has discovered [ı՝ȢșȜıȟ] the thing being sought or not; for the telos is not clear to him, but it is clear to one having dealt with the aporiai in advance [ʍȢȡșʍȡȢșȜցijț]. (Metaph. B 1, 995a24-25, a27-30, a34-b2)

This well known passage analyzes the nature of aporiai and their methodological role in establishing a consistent conceptual framework for a systematic science [epistêmê]—in this case the ontology of ousia itself. The passage makes four major points: (1) For establishing the epistêmê being sought (the science of being as such), it is first necessary to discuss the issues that block understanding [ԐʍȡȢ‫׆‬IJįț] and work through them well [İțįʍȡȢ‫׆‬IJįț Ȝįȝ‫׭‬ȣ]. (2) This is advantageous because success [ı՘ʍȡȢտį, clear passage] consists in resolving these difficulties (aporiai), and this is

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impossible without knowing them well. (3) Ignorance of the impasse (aporia) precludes knowing the methodological direction for proceeding with the investigation (to resolve it). (4) Moreover, failure to understand the nature of the impasse also precludes recognizing the solutions because the goal is only clear to one having investigated the aporetic problems in advance [ʍȢȡșʍȡȢșȜցijț]. This generally recognized, but largely disregarded, methodological doctrine is pivotal in establishing the causal ontology of ousia and therefore crucial for interpreting the overall argument of the Metaphysics. Overlooking its key role in developing the ultimate ontology of ousia is responsible for much of the misunderstanding of Metaph. Z as if it represented the definitive foundation for the ontology. The precept put forth in Metaph. B 1 as well as the consequences of overlooking its application in the central books exemplifies the basic hermeneutic (and scientific) principle that how the problem is framed and understood determines which kind of answers can be arrived at.33 By itself this key passage concerning the methodological role of aporiai gives little indication of how the method is actually used to resolve issues and guide the development of the causal ontology of ousia in the central books. Moreover, aside from some general methodological problems, the substantive issues analyzed in Metaph. B 2-6 are primarily concerned with the problems raised by the Theory of Ideas as pertinent for the ontology of ousia. Thus, only Book Z takes up analysis of the wider range of difficulties that Aristotle himself first unncovers in combining Plato’s insights with the causal insights of his physicalist predecessors. These new problems together with Plato’s original ones are the key aporetic issues that must be resolved in establishing the ontology of ousia as better known by nature which constitutes the science of being qua being. 2. Causal resolution of the aporiai establishes the consistent ontology of ousia. Metaph. A 2 offers the most explicit discussion of the methodological role of aporiai in developing the causal account necessary for the ontology of ousia. Metaph. A 1-2 as a whole is concerned with the crucial role of causal understanding in scientific knowledge [epistêmê], especially in regard to sophia as the science of first principles and causes sought for its own sake rather than practical usefulness. Two key passages (A 2, 982b721, 983a11-20) provide the link between the first methodological principle (that knowing things by nature requires uncovering their archai and _________ 33 Cf. Cleary 1995 for a detailed discussion of this passage in relation to mathematics in Metaph. M.

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causes) and the pivotal role of analyzing and resolving aporiai in establishing the foundation of any science—as discussed in Metaph. B 1. Aporiai (impasses in understanding) are the sources of wonder [ȚįȤμչȘıțȟ] that instigate and drive philosophy as knowledge for its own sake. Coming to know the causes resolves the difficulties and overcomes the ignorance underlying the wonder. In this way the causal accounts that simultaneously resolve the aporiai and account for the essential characteristics of ousia (as better known by nature) are revealed as the knowledge [sophia] that first philosophy is seeking.34 Together with Metaph. B 1, then, these passages clarify the crucial double role of aporetic analysis in developing the causal ontology of ousia. On the one hand, resolving the aporiai that arise from the apparent incompatabilities of certain essential characteristics of ousia requires causal accounts that reconcile them in order to establish a consistent systematic paradigm. On the other hand, these aporetic problems serve as the primary guideposts for developing the systematic causal framework that constitutes the ontology as better known by nature. Thus, the aporiai delineate the conditions that the causal relations must fulfill to integrate the conflicting characteristics of the descriptive aspects of ousia into the consistent systematic paradigm comprising the ontology.35 In this way the conditions disclosed by the requirements for resolving the aporiai determine the structure of the causal accounts necessary to resolve them. Metaph. Z 10-16 plays a central role in analyzing the aporiai inherent in the characteristics of ousia. As seen earlier, Metaph. Z 1-9 thematizes and systematizes the descriptive ontology of ousia (better known to us) in terms of the aspectual triad of ousia and the nature of the ti ên einai. Metaph. Z 17-4 9, in turn, establishes the foundation of this ontology (as _________ 34 It should also be noted that this same argument of A 2 emphasizes “the good and forthe-sake-of-which” [ijԐȗįȚցȟ Ȝįվ ijց ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį] as the [chief] cause of sophia, the only cause explicitly named among the first principles and causes that characterize this epistêmê (A 2, 982b4-10). It will be seen that interpretation of the ontology of ousia necessarily centers around ‘the good’ (the optimally self-preserving configuration as telos) and hou heneka causation. The mechanism of this type of causation, aided by modern insights, is discussed in Sec. IV.C. 35 Thus, the method and goal of aporetic analysis as used in the central books differs from dialectic analysis (as described in the Topics) that examines conflicting opinions and demonstrates which one is more tenable. By contrast, aporetic analysis in the Metaph. investigates the basis of logically incompatible perspectives and reconciles them by showing how they are integrated as necessary conditions for each other. Here, aporiai are resolved by demonstrating the complementarity of the logically conflicting characteristics, i.e., by showing how the seemingly incompatible aspects are actually mutually grounding factors within the overall unifying causal framework.

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better known by nature) by grounding the causal relations between its formal and material aspects in terms of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations. It is not surprising, then, that Metaph. Z 10-16 links these two levels of analysis by beginning the analysis of the aporiai that guide the establishment of the causal ontology. However, these chapters do not make explicit how the logical difficulties uncovered there will finally be resolved in a consistent ontology of ousia. Our exegetic task, therefore, is to identify the ontological questions and their implications that are addressed by the aporetic problems treated in Metaph. Z 10-16 and how they relate to the subsequently developed causal resolution.36 This requires reconstructing the core ontological aporiai from the related issues discussed in the text and from the problems inherent in the subject matter itself, i.e., the grounding of a general ontology of ousia. The first approach involves determining how these aporetic-analysis chapters fit into the overall argument of the central books to play their role in the meaningful unity of the whole. The second approach of problemdiscovery is guided by examining the application of the ontology to the being-alive of organisms in De An., where the basic ontological problems are more easily recognized. A detailed textual analysis is beyond the scope of the present paper.37 Here our objective is primarily to show how these key ontological aporiai determine the structure of the overall argument of the central books and that the causal ontology developed there resolves them. In this way we attempt to support our initial sketch of the dynamic ontology that accounts for both organisms and artifacts by showing how this interpretation makes a meaningful unity of the texts. 3. The key ontological aporiai arise from three major logical incompatabilities between essential characteristics of ousia. What are these core aporiai that guide the development of the causal ontology, and what conditions are imposed on the completed ontology by the _________ 36 Here Gadamer’s principle is helpful that the hermeneutics of philosophical texts requires determining the problems that the texts are attempting to answer (cf. Gadamer 1960, 344-360). 37 It will be seen that Z 10-11 primarily analyze the difficulties of unifying form and matter in composite entities (as thematized in Z 7-9) based on the different nature of the parts of the logos (expressing the form as eidos) and the parts as matter and their different ontological priorities in relation to ousia (as eidos and as sunholon). Nevertheless the seeimgly incompatible characteristics must be combined in the composite ousia. Likewise, the incompatibility of universal knowability and individual existing discussed in Z 13 analyzes the aporia already inherent in Z 4-6 where the ti ên einai is thematized in this double significance which must be combined in the material entity.

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necessity of resolving them? The key ontological aporiai derive either from the difficulties familiar from Plato’s Theory of Ideas (the universal/particular problem) or from the seemingly incompatible characteristics of the formal and material aspects of ousia (cf. fn. 37). How does an entity composed of changeable, distinguishable material parts nevertheless exist as a stable, all-or-nothing unified whole (qua eidos)? How does the existing of an individual entity as such a holistic unity depend on its speciesdetermined organization? The central problems of biology also hinge on accounting for precisely these dilemmas. How does the being-alive of an organism exist as a stable unified identity despite being composed of constantly changing physiological processes with distinguishable functional parts? These key problems inherent in existing as being-alive manifest the aporiai of composite unity and dynamic stability in concrete ways that constitute the core issues of the science.38 As a result, the aporiai that concern us are often more evident—even though more complex—in organisms than in stable entities. Thus, it is advantageous to point out the biological difficulties and their solutions first and then investigate how the same problems are manifested and analyzed in the Metaph. Moreover, the aporetic problems shared by biology and the Metaph. provide a crucial basis for comparing the ontology of the two works. a. Knowability as species-typicality vis-à-vis individual existing. The best known aporia is the logical incompatability of the species-nature of entities, which is ‘universal’ in the sense of being in-common to all members of the species, vis-à-vis their individual existing, which is unique to each thing. The seeming incompatibility of the two essential characteristics of ousia leads to both the so-called ‘participation’ [methexis] problem in the Theory of Ideas and the ‘third-man’ argument.39 Yet experientially it is obvious that all entities have both a species-nature and exist as individuals. The basis of the problem and its resolution are readily understood in the context of biology where the dynamic functional nature of _________ 38 This does not mean that Aristotle came to the aporiai or their solutions from his work in biology. To the contrary, the way they are analyzed in the Metaph. and the tangential nature of their treatment in De An. and other biological works strongly suggests that he was primarily influenced by the difficulties that arise in the Theory of Ideas and the new problems that Aristotle had to deal with in reconciling the conflicting key insights of Plato and physicalists. 39 This dilemma plagued philosophy throughout the Middle Ages as the universal/particular debate and has recurred in recent decades in a new round of debates over whether the eidos or ti ên einai should be considered as a universal or a particular.

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existing easily illuminates the roots of the difficulty and its solution. Individual organisms only exist as distinct species-types. This is because only specific configurations of functional parts are capable of cooperatively bringing about the self-sustaining life-processes—as well as functioning in their environments as needed to survive and reproduce. Obviously, Aristotle could not know the mechanisms for this dependency of the existing of individual organisms on their species-configuration in the detail that we do today. Nevertheless, the basic principles and conditions were clear to him (cf. An. II 4; PA I 1, I 5). Moreover, the Theory of Ideas had already thematized and analyzed the crucial role of species-types and its problems. Aristotle reanalyzes this central aporia of Plato’s in his own terms in Metaph. B 4-6 (esp. B 6, 1003a6-17). What is knowable (the species-type) must be common to many entities recognizable as species-members, while the existing of an entity is unique to the individual (cf. Metaph. Z 13). Yet as Metaph. Z 6 argues explicitly, the same eidos/ti ên einai must account for the species-typicality (knowability) and individual existing of an entity. Otherwise, what is knowable and what exists could be different and would require something else in-common to link them (the so-called “third-man” argument). Thus, it seems necessary for the same eidos to be something both unique and in-common, an obvious logical contradiction. (Cf. Code 1984.) As shown in Sec. II-III, Aristotle resolves the difficulty by reconceiving the eidos construed by Plato as an ideal type into the ti ên einai, which serves ontologically as the dynamic functional cause of ongoing existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț]. The ti ên einai constitutes and accounts causally for the ongoing existing of the individual entity by being the cooperatively organized functioning of its parts that brings about the self-sustaining functioning of the whole. The functional organization that enables the whole to exist self-sustainingly depends on the parts fitting together functionally in a mutually sustaining way, which is determined by a particular speciesconfiguration. The resulting functioning of the whole in turn preserves the cooperative configuration of its parts necessary for its self-sustaining existing. Only certain species-typically patterned configurations lead to such mutually enabling, holistic functioning that preserves and stabilizes the very configuration that brings it about. This is why only certain distinct species of entities exist, those capable of perpetuating themselves over time in this way. This interdependent relation between speciesconfiguration and the existing of each individual, which is obvious for organisms, will be shown to apply to ousiai in general. In this way the logical incompatibility of species-typicality and individual existing is converted into causal interdependence between them. Thus

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the aporia points the way toward the dynamic causal account of the existing of entities (as better known by nature). It also reveals the necessary role of the unifying organization of the whole (the holistic speciesconfiguration) in sustaining the existing of the individual entity. Both points exemplify the methodological roles of analyzing and resolving the aporia. We deal with this aporia and its resolution by the holistic causal role of the ti ên einai in detail in Sec. III. b. All-or-nothing unity of the eidos vis-à-vis divisible material parts. A second core aporia arises from the logical incompatibility of the holistically indivisible eidos of an entity and its divisible material aspect, which must be unified in composites. Again, the nature of this problem and its resolution are more obvious in biology. The being-alive of an organism exists as an all-or-nothing unity (either intact as alive or else dead), which constitutes and causes its ongoing existing. Yet, the process of selfmaintenance constituting being-alive consists of many subfunctions, and the organism as an entity consists of many functionally and spatially distinguishable parts. Thus the existing of an organism as being-alive is both an indivisible unity and a composite of parts. Logically speaking, then, this same entity seems to have contradictory characteristics. As with the first aporia, the resolution of the difficulty is also clear in organisms. The vulnerability of being-alive to interruption of any essential function reveals its dependency on the mutually enabling functioning of its parts necessary for its ongoing existing. The all-or-nothing unity of beingalive results from the interdependence of its functioning parts. If any vital function fails to fulfill its role appropriately, the whole ceases to exist. Conversely, the appropriate functioning of each part is only possible in its proper context within the whole. We understand the mechanisms of this functional interdependence in more detail today, but the general principle was already clear and significant to Aristotle and physicians of his day (cf. PA I 1, I 5). Again, then, the aporia is resolved by the causal interdependency of the functional aspects that are logically incompatible from a descriptive standpoint (the indivisible whole and its parts). Moreover, the causal account (the existing as known by nature) that resolves the descriptive logical incompatibility (as first known to us) again depends on the role of the holistic unity of the organism.40 _________ 40 In contrast to the first aporia, the whole/part aporetic difficulty is less well known because it only comes to light when Aristotle combines the all-or-nothing unity of Plato’s eidos with the account of entities in terms of their material parts (as seen by the physicalists). (Cf. Metaph. Z 10-11.)

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As suggested in Sec. I.B, Aristotle has a clear conception of the nature of functional relations on which the unity of ousia depends. They are always delineated by hou heneka [for-the-sake-of-which] relations (discussed in detail in Sec. IV). ‘Functioning’ is not simply an activityproperty of the matter involved—or something ‘emergent’ or ‘supervening’ on matter (as the functionalists assume). Rather, the existing of a relationship as functional is determined by its role in the overall unified configuration in which material parts can act in some specific instrumental manner. In themselves, material parts only form a heap [IJȧȢցȣ, Metaph. Z 17, 1041b11-16, and 1041a26-30] but never constitute the indivisible unity that characterizes ousia (as entelecheia). The material requirements of composite ousia are secondary to the functional roles of the parts, the roles they play in this unity (as specified in terms of ‘hypothetical necessity’, PA I 5). Functional parts, then, cannot exist (i.e. function) or be defined independently of the functional unity whose parts they constitute (just as a finger cannot function apart form the living organism, cf. Metaph. Z 10, 1035b23-25). Conversely, the functional unity—based on the proper interactive fit of the parts—is indivisible and exists all-ornothing, as living organisms demonstrate. Thus in a functional relation the holistically functioning unity and its functional parts determine each other causally, thereby constituting the indivisible unity of ousia. Material parts as such only exist independently (as pieces) when the functional unity disintegrates. The whole/part aporetic difficulty is equally important in non-living entities—but less obvious and scarcely recognized as an issue by interpreters of the Metaph. In fact, however, the problem is raised repeatedly in this work, and its resolution plays a central role in establishing the dynamic causal ontology of ousia. Metaph. Z 10-11 begins examining this aporia inherent in the eidos/matter relation as descriptively delineated in Z 7-9 (better known to us). There the aporia is brought to light by the logical incompatibility of the eidos and material aspects of entities considered as conceptual perspectives of the same composite unity. The eidos (as expressed by the definition) denotes the functional all-or-nothing unity of the entity necessary to constitute its existing. By contrast, the material aspect is divisible into spatially distinct parts. Since the eidos and matter describe the same entity from different aspects, it seems to be simultaneously divisible and indivisible—an obvious logical contradiction. This initial logical characterization and analysis of the aporia is reformulated and reanalyzed stepwise and ultimately resolved causally in accord with the dynamic interdependency of whole and parts just as in the biological example. In Metaph. Z 17 the problem of unity of eidos and matter is reformulated in terms of how the ti ên einai as ousia (i.e., as spe-

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cies-configuration [ousia according to the logos]) accounts for the ongoing existing of the composite entity as what it is by organizing its parts into a holistically functioning unity. This issue of the dependence of the existing of the composite on its holistic unity remains central to the argument throughout Metaph. ǿ and ĭ.41 Thus, just as in the aporia arising from the incompatibility of speciestypicality and individual-existing, the nature of the whole/part aporia and its analysis show the direction for uncovering its resolution. In this way the aporiai also determines the nature of the causal accounts required to establish the ontology. The logical incompatability between the holistic eidos and the distinguishable parts of the composite is resolved by the causal interdependence of whole and parts. Similarly, analysis of the aporia reveals the kind of holistic causal relations needed to account for the unity of eidos and matter and thereby for the ongoing existing and stability of the entity organized as what it is. c. Stability of the unified whole vis-à-vis changeability of the parts. The third core aporia arises from another logical incongruence between the eidos and material aspects of ousia, which must also be reconciled to account for their unity as a composite entity. The eidos must be unchangeable to constitute the persisting identity and species-typicality of the entity. Yet, the material components must be changeable to account for genesis as well as continued existing. Since the two aspects of ousia refer to the same unified entity (just described from different perspectives), the same thing seems to be both changeable and unchangeable. Again organisms provide the best example. The identity of an organism remains the same throughout its lifetime despite continuous changes in its material parts. Its sameness as an individual cannot be interrupted without its demise because existing as being-alive is the same process of self_________ 41 As seen in Sec. II-IV, the problem of reconciling the holistic (all-or-nothing) unity of composite entities with the apparent divisibility of their distinguishable parts comes up repeatedly in the remainder of the central books. Metaph. Z 17 raises the question how parts are made into a unity (instead of just a heap) by the ti ên einai although it is immaterial and cannot be a part itself. The problem is raised again in discussing the nature of the unity of entelecheia in Metaph. ǿ 3 and in analyzing the role of the ti ên einai in causing the unity of ousia in H 6. In Metaph. ĭ 8 the ontological priority of energeia as eidos and telos (viz., as entelecheia) over matter as dunamis resolves the unity of whole and parts in its most fundamental causal way. We see later that this is the same holistic causal resolution of the interdependence of whole and parts displayed so clearly by organisms (Sec. III and IV). Thus, this aporia (in its various stages of resolution) is one of the central themes that reveals the methodological unity of the Metaph. as a whole.

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maintenance that constitutes its persisting identity.42 Socrates is the same person as a boy and as an old man for the same reason that a chipmunk never becomes a squirrel. It is the whole as the unified functional configuration that remains the same over time despite internal changes in its parts. There is no unchanging substantial substrate that persists by inertly underlying the functional processes of being-alive. If this were the case, the physiological processes that constitute being-alive would merely be changing attributes (alterations) of what really exists. But the continuous functioning itself is the being-alive that constitutes the existing of an organism. What remains stable is the holistic configuration of functional relations necessary for self-preservation. In an organism (Aristotle’s prime example of ousia), then, it seems necessary for the ousia, its existing as what it is, to be simultaneously both changing and unchanging. Since these characteristics are logically contradictory, the aporetic dilemma is clearly illustrated by the nature of organisms. The aporia of accounting for the simultaneous changeability and stability of ousia is less obvious in artifacts and other non-living entities because the replacement of parts while preserving the continued identity of the whole is less common in such things. Nevertheless, the same difficulty of reconciling the stability of form [eidos] with the changeability of material parts occurs in both cases. A well known example is the famous tribute ship to Delos that was rebuilt piecemeal until no part of the original remained. The most fundamental way, however, in which the ousia of an entity is both changeable and stable (in artifacts as well as organisms) is a consequence of the basically dynamic nature of existing. In organisms the internal functional relations of the configuration itself (not only its material components) adjust for modified internal and external conditions in order to preserve the dynamic stability of the whole. The actions of parts on each other change so that the stable existing of the whole is maintained under differing circumstances. This is the well known biological phenomenon of physiological homeostasis (maintaining a stable internal environment, Cannon 1932). The variable functioning of the parts is determined by their role in the overall configuration so that they adjust to maintain the stability of the whole under differing conditions. Likewise, in artifacts any stable structure must be configured so that the forces between parts compensate appropriately for varying loads to sustain the stability of _________ 42 As discussed in detail in Sec. III and IV, the continued existing of an individual organism depends on the persisting sameness of the functional configuration that brings about its existing as its species-type so that ongoing existing and persisting identity are inseparable. Internal changes great enough to preclude its being the individual and kind of organism it is would also preclude its continued existing as an organism at all.

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its overall functional configuration. 43 Thus preservation of the ongoing existing and identity (the ousia) of either an organism or an artifact as a stable holistic unity comes about not despite changes of its parts—but rather as a result of the proper changes to compensate for changing conditions. Again, then, the original logical aporia (changeability vs. stability) directs us toward a resolution in terms of the interdependent causal relations between those seemingly incompatible characteristics. The dynamic interrelation of stability and change in the existing of ousia is highlighted by contrast with the relation between persisting substrates and changing attributes dealt with in the Physics. Changes such as locomotion, alteration and other kinêseis are interpreted by analyzing the process into (1) an unchanging substrate that persists through the change and (2) the replacement of one contrary attribute of the substrate by another. The persisting substrate connecting sequential contrary states accounts for the change as a unified phenomenon—not two unrelated states of affairs (Phys. I 7). However, this conceptual framework cannot simply be extrapolated to ousia or modified in some way to account for the integration of change and stability of eidos and matter in genesis or ongoing existing. The stability of the substrate itself (i.e. of ousia) in combination with compensatory changes in its parts is where the ontological aporia of being stable and changing at the same time arises.44 What changes in replenishing and adjusting the functioning of parts during genesis or ongoing existing is not extraneous to the ousia itself (like an attribute), not an accompanying property of the substrate as in alterations. Instead, the composite ousia itself undergoes internal modification of its own parts while still _________ 43 The ongoing existing of such seemingly static entities is actually constituted by the nexus of mutually sustaining forces that hold the parts together and sustain their stable functional structure as a whole by being an equilibrium that brings about the stability of the whole. Any engineer is familiar with this actively equilibrated nature of stable structures and takes it as the necessary basis for designing or repairing them. Because of the stable equilibrium condition, the nexus of sustaining forces does not appear outwardly to constitute an active process of self-maintenance. However, the way in which the different forces involved in the equilibrium compensate or accommodate to outside changes reveals the true dynamic nature of the nexus of causal relations that sustains the entity as what it is. 44 The widespread misunderstanding of the eidos/matter relation (and its extension to the psuchê/body relation) stems largely from simply extrapolating the substrate/attribute model of the account of change from the Physics to the analysis of composite ousia. Even biologists, who actually know better, tend to think of the anatomy as what really exists and then functions secondarily to maintain itself. This is because modern biological research concentrates primarily on the composition and functioning of particular parts rather than on how the entire organism necessarily fits together into an interdependently unified whole necessary for remaining alive.

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remaining the same ousia. The difficulty in the Metaph. (as opposed to the Phys.) is that one and the same entity as ousia is simultaneously both changing and not changing. Thus, a very different approach is needed for the ontological integration of eidos and matter as the stable and changeable aspects of ousia—rather than considering the eidos as if it were simply a special sort of attribute of its matter.45 In Sec. IV we discuss Aristotle’s resolution of this difficulty, his account of the dynamic stability of entities based on his conception of entelecheia and its relationship to hou heneka causation and “the good” (for preserving the ousia). Today these same relationships are well understood in scientific terms as self-stabilizing cooperative systems, which enables us to show that Aristotle’s account was not ‘teleological’ in the sense of quasibackward efficient causation. His holistic causal relations established in Metaph. Z 17-4 9, then, account for the dynamic stability of ousia in organisms and artifacts alike. Such dynamic stability is seen to result from determination of the functional roles of the changeable instrumental matter by the overall functional configuration. Thus again, analysis of the aporetic problem guides developing the causal ontology by showing what is necessary to resolve the difficulty and account for the stable ongoing existing of ousia. 4. Holistic causal relations resolve the logical incompatibilities. The central ontological aporiai just discussed all point to the same root difficulty that entities must exist as holistic (all-or-nothing) unities while nevertheless being composed of distinguishable parts. All cats have parts, but the parts cannot be separated and still be a living cat. Nor do broken tools exist as tools since they cannot fulfill their functions. What makes the composite whole [IJփȟȡȝȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį] exist as an indivisible unity is the key question of the Metaph. as well as De An. Each aporia represents a particular aspect of this central problem of accounting for this stable unity of ousia (in both works) and also points the direction toward the solution (as Metaph. B 1 suggests). That solution establishes how the essential, but logically incompatible characteristics of ousia as eidos and as matter are _________ 45 Much of the misunderstanding of Aristotle’s conception of the psuchê in recent ‘functionalist’ approaches to interpreting De An. results from precisely this erroneous extrapolation of the model for attribute change from the Phys. As a consequence, these approaches treat the functions of being-alive comprising the psuchê as if they were mere activity-attributes of a self-sufficiently existing body. Considering the psuchê/body relation in biology (as we do in this paper) makes the inadequacies of the functionalist models clear since the psuchê as being-alive must constitute the primary existing of the organism. The body provides instrumental dunameis for enabling the functioning of the psuchê as the unified whole that constitutes the individual organism’s ongoing existing.

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nevertheless united in term of their interdependent causal relatedness. Moreover, in accord with the analysis of the aporiai, Aristotle’s resolution of each of the aporetic difficulties depends on the unified whole serving in a particular way as the ultimate causal basis of the ongoing existing and stability of the entity. The types of causal relations required are holistic (in contrast to individual efficient causes) in two interrelated senses. (1) The causal relations at issue account for the cooperative organization of the parts into a holistic (all-or-nothing) unity based on their functional interdependence. (2) At the same time, these causal relations account for how such a dynamic, interactively existing unity maintains and stabilizes its functional parts on the basis of the species-configuration of the whole (cf. fn. 9). The major challenge in establishing the dynamic ontology of ousia, then, is to account for the mechanisms by which these holistic causal relations accomplish what they do. Sections II through IV analyze and account for the ontological nature of these holistic causal relation and their roles in grounding the dynamic existing of stably persisting entities—living and non-living. This account is set forth in terms of the interrelationships between (1) the ti ên einai, (2) its species-typical configuration [ousia according to the logos] as the organizing functional configuration and (3) entelecheia as the existing of that configuration and as the telos and product of hou heneka causal relations. F. Interpretive Strategy Our strategy for interpreting the dynamic causal ontology of ousia established in the Metaph. is to compare its systematic development there with its application in De An. This comparison illuminates the ontological paradigm common to both works by mutual elucidation. Accounting for the existing of organisms on the basis of the ontology of ousia exemplifies the dynamic nature of the key ontological problems of the Metaph. and their solutions. Applying the ontology in De An. clarifies the role of causal relations in accounting for the existing of organisms (qua persisting entities) as an ongoing process of self-preservation. The conceptual and causal framework of ousia from the Metaph. provides De An. with a predeveloped systematic framework for analyzing and resolving the ontological problems of being-alive and its causal grounding. By formulating the concrete problems of De An. in terms of the ontology of ousia, they are situated in a paradigmatic framework that organizes their accounts into a systematic science. Moreover, the formulation of these causal accounts in terms of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations discloses a deeper level of

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analysis, which also enables demonstrating the ultimate unity of the various causal relations and their comparability in the two works. The ontological nature of the causal relations involved in being-alive— and thus ousia in general—is further elucidated by discoveries and insights of twentieth-century science that are strikingly consistent with the basic conceptual and causal framework of De An. Consequently, modern knowledge casts light both on Aristotle’s biology and on its ontological foundations. This furnishes deeper understanding of the mechanisms of the causal relations that account for the nature and behavior of complexly organized systems.46 1. Comparing the ontology of ousia in De Anima and the Metaphysics requires identifying corresponding components. As valuable as the comparative approach is for mutual elucidation of the ontology of ousia in the Metaph. and in De An., it also raises its own methodological and exegetic problems. Valid comparisons of corresponding components of the Metaph. and De An. require taking account of the differing structures of the analyses in the two works. The comparability of concepts and arguments is determined by their corresponding roles in the ontology, which necessitates considering the different approaches in each work. As discussed in Sec. I.D, the ontology is established stepwise in the Metaph. The conceptual framework is first developed by thematizing and formalizing the endoxa regarding the nature of ousia (Metaph. Z 1-9). The resulting conceptualization is systematized into the triad of descriptive perspectives (eidos/ti ên einai, matter and composite entity). Next, the aporetic difficulties inherent in the incompatabilities among the essential characteristics are analyzed (Z10-16). Finally, the causal accounts are developed that ground those characteristics and resolve the aporetic difficulties of integrating them into the completed systematic ontological paradigm (Z 17-4 9). This completed ontology is applied in De An. as a full systematic unity from the beginning. Therefore the causal basis of the descriptive ontological aspects is already presupposed as established. The conceptual analyses and causal accounts are not separated in De An. as they are in the Metaph. However, as argued earlier, the same terms must be use to denote both the descriptive and causal accounts of the perspectives. Thus, to make meaningful comparisons it is necessary to ascertain the precise significance of terms from the issues under discussion and from their context within the _________ 46 As discussed earlier, the comparability of basic conceptual frameworks and causal accounts of the fundamental ontology of ousia with Aristotle’s as well as today’s biology derives largely from the correspondence of the basic aporetic and general ontological problems faced by these disciplines.

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overall composition of the work. Moreover, just as in the Metaph., much of the causal account in De An. is formulated in terms of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations, so it is necessary to associate the mechanisms analyzed in these terms with the corresponding causal relations. For example, when An. II 1 begins the analysis of organisms as ousia in terms of the descriptive triad (matter, shape morphê/eidos, and composite out of these, 412a6-9), this cannot be understood as a simple reiteration of the purely descriptive conceptualization introduced in Metaph. Z 3 (1028b37-29a5). In Z 3 the analysis of ousia is in its first phase (as better known to us), where the key aspects are thematized and conceptualized, but the question of their causal basis is not yet raised.47 At this stage the triad is exemplified by purely static referents, viz., as bronze, shape/schema and statue (1029a3-5). In An. II 1, by contrast, the same triadic conceptualization of ousia is immediately explicated in dynamiccausal terms, viz., as dunamis and entelecheia (and not in terms of flesh or organs and the living organism.)48 Equating matter and eidos with dunamis and entelecheia shows that Aristotle, in fact, invokes the entire causalontological analysis of the Metaph. (ousia as better known by nature), formulated in the original descriptive terminology but already understood as related by the causal accounts developed in Metaph. H-4. The argument in An. II 2-4 can therefore continue the investigation of what this terminology implies causally for the existing of organisms as beingalive.49 _________ 47 The account of how the eidos and matter constitute the unity of the sunholon begins with Metaph. Z 3, where the triadic description is introduced (1029a15), and is only completed in Metaph. H 6, where the ti ên einai (the species-configuration) is stated as the only cause (aside from the efficient causal maker) that huletic dunameis are actualized into an entity (1045a29-33). In fact, the entire analysis of Metaph. ĭ 1-9 is also necessary to ground the dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relationships used in Metaph. H to account for the unity of ousia. 48 “And while the matter is dunamis, the eidos is entelecheia...” (An. II 1, 412a9-10). 49 The application of the ontology of ousia to De An. is not simply a matter of subsuming biological concepts under those developed in the Metaph. to describe corresponding characteristics of organisms—as the parallel conception of eidos/matter and psuchê/body relations might suggest. Rather, the aporetic analyses and causal accounts worked-out in the Metaph. must be rethought in the specific context of applying them to organisms existing as being-alive. This reanalysis involves reconceiving the ontological nature of the psuchê, the body and their interrelations in a way that resolves the problems equivalent to those dealt with by the Metaph. Therefore understanding the methodological route for developing the ontology of ousia in the Metaph. is essential for discerning the equivalent problems in organisms and how they are dealt with in De An.

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Thus, understanding the ontological analysis in De An. (starting in II.1) in relation to the Metaph. depends primarily on comparing it with the causal analysis of ousia developed in Metaph. Z 17-4 9. The aporetic analyses of Metaph. Z are presupposed as already resolved by the causal relations and dunamis/energeia/entelecheia analyses of Metaph. ǿ-ĭ. Thus the same basic ontology framework and its holistic causal mechanisms accounting for ongoing existing and dynamic stability are common to both works. They can be legitimately and fruitfully compared if the appropriate correspondences are respected in doing so. The primary concern in De An., however, is to account for the essential characteristics of beingalive and the causal mechanisms that sustain it. In the Metaph., by contrast, the major concern is with the fundamental aporiai that must be analyzed and causally resolved in establishing the dynamic ontology of ousia. Therefore, comparing the discussion of causal relations in the two works also requires taking account of the differing contexts in which the analyses and accounts are carried out. However, this difference of approaches is also responsible for making the comparison so illuminating in both directions.50 2. The ontological paradigm must be understood in its systematic coherency and internal unity. A core thesis of the paper is that the Metaph. establishes a previously unrecognized, more definitive ontological paradigm which is constituted by the causal accounts of the existing of ousiai (as better known by nature). Our task, therefore, is to uncover this underlying level of the paradigm and demonstrate its conceptual coherency and causally grounding power. This _________ 50 A similar example of the reflexive interpretation from applying general ontological principles to specific fields was shown by Peter Plaass (1994/1965) in his study of Kant’s Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science (MF). This work was written between the two editions of the Critique of Pure Reason (CPR) and was intended to show how the principles developed in the CPR could be applied to the field of physics to serve as an a priori basis for the principles of that science. To accomplish this, however, Kant could not develop the ontological principles needed for physics by simply subsuming the concepts that characterize material bodies under the concepts that apply to all possible experience worked out in the CPR. To develop the metaphysical foundation of physics in the MF it was necessary to re-develop the concepts, principles and relations from the CPR in direct relationship to the problem of moving bodies by repeating the basic analysis of the CPR in the more specific context (Miller & Miller (Plaass) 1994, xii, 24-28). Plaass showed that the deeper interpretation of the ontological principles of the CPR that resulted from the rethinking involved in their application to the MF accounts in turn for many of the modifications of the CPR that are found in the second edition (Plaass 1994, 210-213). Aristotle’s analysis of ousia in De An. based on the ontology of the Metaph. is another striking example of the interactive nature of interpretation by application—a general hermeneutic principle emphasized (in non-scientific contexts) by Gadamer (1960, 290-323).

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paradigm synthesizes the causal approaches of accounting for phenomena introduced by the physicalists with Plato’s approach based on knowable species-forms. By resolving the aporetic difficulties inherent in this synthesis, the new causal ontology develops the general systematic paradigm needed to account for both the stable entities primarily dealt with in the Metaph. and also for organisms in De An., whose existing involves constant dynamic change. Our presentational challenge, then, is to illuminate the systematic unity of a consistent scientific paradigm in which the basic concepts, methodological assumptions and causal accounts are mutually defining (cf. Kuhn 1962). This interdependent unity of the paradigm precludes presenting and arguing for its validity in a piecemeal or a simple straight-line fashion. It requires demonstrating that the paradigm provides a consistent conceptual and causal framework that enables an adequate account of the phenomena and a coherent interpretation of the texts involved. Yet, a satisfactory detailed analysis and defense of the reinterpreted paradigm would be too long for the present paper. As a compromise, we sketch the core reconceptions and justify the central arguments on the basis of internal coherence and consistency guided by the text—without attempting an interpretation based primarily on textual exegesis. Our presentation is organized in terms of four interrelated theses: (1) The being-alive of an organism is a unified, dynamically selfmaintaining process (the ti ên einai) that constitutes its existing as what it is. The dynamic equilibrium of forces that constitutes the stable unity of a non-living entity (such as an artifact) plays the same ontological role of accounting causally for its self-sufficient preservation over time. (2) Despite being composed of many constituent subprocesses and specialized functional relations, the being-alive of an organism (or the existing of an artifact) is constituted as an all-or-nothing unity (existing as entelecheia). This holistic unity constitutes the distinct and persisting identity of the entity and is self-stabilizing by functional counteractions to distorting influences. (3) The holistically unified process of being-alive determines the functioning of its parts (by hou heneka causal relations) in such a way that they maintain their unity and properly fulfill their roles in preserving the process of self-maintenance, i.e., being-alive. (Again, the comparable ontological relationships and causal mechanisms exist in stable artifacts between the all-or-nothing unity of the whole and its functional parts.) (4) Both the process of self-preservation and self-stabilization depend on the species-typical functional configuration [ousia according to the logos]

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of the organism and require holistic modes of causation to account for them. For Aristotle these causes are systematically analyzed and embodied in the ti ên einai and hou heneka [for-the-sake-of-which] relations—for organisms as well as artifacts. For biologists today they are embodied in many ad hoc accounts of particular phenomena such as homeostasis of the organism as a whole or the self-configuration and stabilization of tertiary protein folding on the molecular level.51 Biologists have taken these holistic characteristics and problems of the nature of being-alive for granted for almost a century—though they have seldom reflected on the ontological significance of their assumptions. Aristotle’s biology (esp. De An.) recognized the same characteristics and problems of being-alive that modern biology assumes and for which it is still learning to account at various levels of analysis. Unlike modern biology, however, Aristotle was more directly concerned with the ontological nature of the problems involved and explicitly introduced holistic causal relations and accounts needed to resolve them. Our plan, then, is to investigate how the basic ontological paradigm developed in the Metaph. applies both to stable entities such as artifacts (Sec. II) and also to the dynamic functional nature of the being-alive of organisms (Sec. III). In both cases the reinterpreted ontology succeeds in accounting for the stable as well as the dynamic functional natures of the entities in question. The consistent systematic unity and explanatory adequacy of this ontological paradigm is demonstrated by how its holistic causal basis accounts for the essential features of being-alive and ousia in general—as well as resolving the core aporiai by reconciling the seeming incongruencies of certain essential characteristics (Sec. IV). _________ 51 Aristotle’s use of these holistic modes of causation was seriously misunderstood during the scientific revolution of the 17th century. They were misinterpreted as unacceptable teleology (in the sense of predetermination by some future state or outside purposive direction) or as circular explanations. Aristotle’s reliance on these holistic causal relations was a central reason for the wholesale rejection of his scientific work. The ghost of these historical misconceptions still haunts scientists and most modern interpreters, who carefully avoid association with such seemingly unacceptable accounts. Instead, they invent poorly founded ad hoc concepts and methods to circumvent explanations that might be construed as ‘teleological’ when confronted by phenomena that obviously require holistic accounts. (Cf. Phys. II 7-9; Metaph. A 7; An. II 4; PA I 1,5; GA II 6.) Failure to see the cogency of Aristotle’s position in this regard only seems explicable as a tenacious retention of the rejection of these modes of causation by 17-19th century science. Yet, the most fundamental advances and paradigm shifts in 20th century physics and biology have incorporated versions of holistic causation very similar to those that Aristotle systematically introduced to account for such phenomena. Ironically, then, for the very reasons that led to his rejection by the scientific revolution of the 17th century, Aristotle turns out to be the only philosopher who provides adequate conceptual and causal tools for interpreting the scientific revolutions of the 20th century.

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II. The Dynamic Ontology of Ousia in the Metaphysics—The HolisticCausal Relation between Eidos and Matter Exemplified by Artifacts A. Conceptual Analysis and Causal Grounding of the Eidos/Matter Relation as Exemplified in an Artifact Before investigating how the ontology of ousia accounts for the nature of organisms in De An., we examine a simpler example of Aristotle’s dynamic ontological paradigm grounded on holistic causal relations. Although organisms are his prime examples of ousia (Metaph. Z 7, 1032a19), artifacts are predominantly used in the Metaph. (and even in De An.) to exemplify the basic ontological principles and arguments. The ontology of artifacts is more transparent and simpler to understand than that of organisms since they are less complex, do not have a principle of motion and stasis in themselves, and their parts are not constantly being replaced and modified. Nevertheless, they depend on the same functional and holistic causal relations between eidos and matter that account for the psuchê/body relations and other features of organisms. The continued existing of ousia (non-living as well as living) requires ongoing causation. In this sense artifacts also exist dynamically and their characteristics as existing entities must be accounted for ontologically (and physically) in terms of continuing dynamic and holistic causal relations. 52 Because of this causal basis of existing that is common to all ousiai, artifacts are helpful concrete models of the systematic dynamic paradigm and its validity for interpreting the ontology of ousia in the Metaph. Thus, our task is to show how Aristotle’s dynamic, holistic causal relations account for the ongoing existing, unity, stability and other ontological characteristics of stable entities like artifacts. Artifacts display directly and concretely how the material parts are cooperatively organized into a self-sustaining unified entity—not because of their material existence per se—but by the functional roles they play in the unifying configuration of the whole. This clarifies how the specifically configured organization of the parts comprises the functional unity of the eidos as ti ên einai that constitutes the self-sustaining existing through time of a particular entity as well as its species-defining functioning as what it is. In addition, however, artifacts also exemplify the essential role of holistic causal relations in accounting for the nature and stability of the _________ 52 It will be recalled from the Introduction (cf. Sec. I.D.2-4) that our dynamic reinterpretation of the ontology is based on the methodological assumption that the ontology of ousia consists of the causal account (better known by nature) that grounds the characteristics of ousia and its functional manner of existing.

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configuration that brings about their ongoing existing. The form of artifacts is usually simplistically conceived as a static structure reductively accounted for by construction out of unchanging material. Actually they show clearly how the holistically organized cooperative unity of the eidos both enables and determines the necessary roles of the parts. In this way artifacts provide a key model for analyzing the two-way causal interdependency between matter and form that illuminates the poorly understood causal relation between body and psuchê. Furthermore, we are familiar with how various types of causal mechanisms work by knowing how to make and use artifacts capable of stably existing and fulfilling their functions. As a result, this implicit understanding can be thematized and systematized into explicit knowledge of the causal relations involved. As examples of ousia, then, artifacts demonstrate how the full systematic conceptual and causal paradigm resolves the core ontological problems and fits together as a coherent ontology. The principles and causal relations can then be generalized to more complex and obviously dynamic entities like organisms, which exemplify best how the unity and stability of any ousia must ultimately be accounted for as dynamic-functional processes. A final reason for examining the ontology of ousia as applied to artifacts is the key role they play in the analyses of the Metaph. and the prevailing assumption that stable entities are what the ontology of ousia primarily accounts for. Our aim is to demonstrate the cogency of the dynamic causal interpretation of the general ontology of ousia. Therefore, it is important to show how this interpretation also accounts for the existing of stable objects, which are the primary models of ousia used in the Metaph. We maintain that the traditional static conception of the ontology must be reinterpreted dynamically in the Metaph. itself. Since the Metaph. is ordinarily interpreted statically on the basis of stable examples of ousia, it is essential to demonstrate that our dynamic interpretation of the ontology also accounts for the characteristics and existing of stable entities. 1. The ti ên einai, which constitutes the ongoing existing of an entity, has two ontological aspects: (1) the self-preserving functioning of the entity as a whole and (2) its species-configuration [ousia according to the logos]. Take a simple wooden box as an example. Pieces of wood fastened together in a mutually supporting configuration become parts of a box (sides, bottom and top) by being organized into its unified existing as a container. The material components per se might seem to constitute its existing as an entity (as better known to us). However, engineers consider material parts primarily as bearers of the forces that preserve the unified configuration of the entity under varying conditions as long as it exists

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(not only during construction). The crucial role of the interactions among the parts (internal forces) in sustaining the unity and stability of the whole is more dramatic in a tall building or the arches of a bridge, but it is not different in principle for a simple box (one of the Aristotle’s examples in Metaph. 4 7, 1049a18-24). The ontology of ousia recognizes in the same way that the functional configuration is what (1) enables the parts actively to support each other using the instrumental potential of their material and (2) also enables each part to play its role in the functioning of the whole. The position and support of a side, e.g., bring about its functioning as a lateral retaining surface of the container. The cooperatively organized functioning of all the parts (the configuration) integrates their roles into the unified functioning of the whole as a container—which constitutes its existing as a box. Moreover, the same cooperative functioning of parts that constitutes being a box is also the cause of its ongoing existing by sustaining its function-enabling configuration. In this way, then, the properly configured functioning of the parts and the holistic configuration that brings about their functioning are mutually enabling and interdependent. The example shows (1) how the species-configuration [ousia according to the logos] accounts for the ongoing existing of an entity by organizing its functional parts into a self-sustaining unity—without being anything besides the nexus of interactions themselves. During construction, the parts must be held in position by something substituting for the forces of the finished configuration. When completed, however, the parts hold each other interactively in their proper relationships. In this way the configuration of functional interactions sustains the continued existing of a box and brings about its holistic functioning as a container. Thus, the configuration constituting the ti ên einai (the cause of ongoing existing) exists entirely as the specially organized nexus of interactions among the parts that makes it self-sustaining. (2) Conversely, the species-configuration as the cooperatively functioning unity of parts in particular relations to each other also enables and determines the functional role of each part.53 A piece of wood held in a certain way by other parts is thereby organized into the unified configuration, which enables its functional role as a particular part of the container. (Cf. Sec. I.E.3.b on the role of functionality in the resolution of the whole/part aporia.) _________ 53 This determining of the functioning of parts by the whole implicitly invokes the hou heneka causal role of the ti ên einai, which we take up in detail in Sec. IV. However, it is already essential here in analyzing how the functioning and the species-configuration are mutually enabling.

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a. The ti ên einai is the ongoing cause of existing by the functional process of preserving itself—not only of coming to be. This cooperatively unified functioning of the whole organized by the species-typical functional configuration [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] is the ti ên einai [the existing as what it (always) is] of each entity [ousia as tode ti]. This holistic functioning constitutes its being a box by serving as a container. The same holistic functioning is also the cause of its continued existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț] as a box. The functional forces among the parts constitute and sustain the very configuration that organizes their subfunctions into (1) the self-sustaining holistic functioning that comprises the ongoing existing as well as (2) the species-typical external functioning of the whole as a container.54 Yet, the double nature of this holistic functioning of the ti ên einai (maintaining its own existing and bringing about its species-typical external function) is not made up of two separate functions. The same cooperatively organized functioning of the whole that constitutes its being a container also maintains the functional relations among the parts that comprise the unifying configuration so its existing continues as what it is. Thus the species-typical functional configuration and the self-maintaining holistic functioning are two aspects of the same ti ên einai. (Cf. Sec. I.E.3.a. on the aporia of individual existing vs. speciestype.) Even in this stable example, then, it is evident that Aristotle’s ontology of ousia radically transforms the conception of the nature of existing itself. He rejects the static (Parmenidean) notion that the existing of anything is simply the inertly persisting presence of what is already there. This static conception of existing is most evident in materialist ontologies. 55 They _________ 54

Metaph. Z 17 begins the analyis of the ti ên einai as the cause of existing:

Why are these things, e.g., bricks and stones, a house? Well, it is clear we are seeking the cause, and this is the ti ên einai, which in some things is the ‘what it is for-the-sake-of’ [ijտȟȡȣ ԥȟıȜį], e.g., in regard to a house or a bed, ... and which is sought in regard to the being [Ԛʍվ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț]. (Z 17, 1041a26-32)

Thus, the ti ên einai is the cause of the matter actually existing as a certain ousia, e.g., the bricks and stones existing as a house (rather than as another artifact from the same materials—or just a heap of them). The conclusion of the causal analysis in Metaph. H 6 states similarly that the ti ên einai is the only cause (besides the efficient-causal maker) that a potential sphere, i.e., matter like bronze that can be a sphere, exists as an actual sphere (1045a29-33). Thus, it is not the matter that is the cause of existing of a house or a sphere. That is to say, it is not the determining cause, as the ti ên einai is. Moreover, the connectedness of the ti ên einai and hou heneka cause, indicated in the quoted passage of Metaph. Z 17 turns out to be crucial in Aristotle’s new paradigm of ousia (cf. Sec. IV). 55 The same static conception of existing also underlies ancient and modern dualist and hylomorphic approaches to the ontology of organisms or the philosophy of mind as well as

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assume that active causation of what exists self-sufficiently [ȜįȚ‫ ׶‬įՙijր] occurs only during the generation of an entity, not in its continued existing as what it is. Once generated, it is assumed to simply persist inertly as the substrate of any changes of attributes (and of external functioning) based on dispositions of the existence-grounding static structure. Even in the generation of entities, the nature and existence of the underlying matter is assumed to remain unchanged—only being rearranged into new static structures. By contrast, Aristotle’s ontology replaces this static conception by reformulating existing as the ongoing functional process of self-preservation [IJօȘıțȟ ijսȟ ȡ՘IJտįȟ] (An. II 4, 416b14). This dynamic conception assumes that the continued existing of any entity also requires ongoing causation, inherent in the self-sufficient [ȜįȚ‫ ׶‬įՙijր] nature of any ousia. This selfsustaining causation of ongoing existing derives from its form [eidos], which is no longer conceived as simply a statically persisting structure— neither in organisms nor in artifacts. Instead as the ti ên einai, form is reconceived as the cause of ongoing existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț], the dynamic process of self-preservation that constitutes continued existing.56 b. Self-maintaining physiological processes stabilized by homeostasis in organisms are analogous to the equilibrium of forces sustaining an artifact. This dynamic conception of existing is familiar in an organism. The overall physiological (functional) process of being-alive (the psuchê as the ti ên einai) constitutes its ongoing existing by actively maintaining its being what it is. This function of self-preservation causally maintains its own organizing configuration and functioning by using outside resources to

_________ interpretations of De An.—just more complexly applied. The distinctions are not essential for our present argument. 56 That Aristotle reconceives ongoing existing as a process of self-preservation [IJօȘıțȟ ijսȟ ȡ՘IJտįȟ] is clearest in An. II 4, in the context of discussing the ti ên einai as the beingalive of organisms (Sec. III.A.2., B.2-3). However, the extensive discussion of causation in the introduction to the Metaph. (esp. chapters A 1 and A 2) clearly emphasizes the crucial role of causation in grounding the existing of ousia in general. There causation is discussed entirely in regard to the role of the principles and causes in establishing sophia, the science of being qua being (ousia)—not in regard to generation. (Cf. our discussion in Sec. I.D.) This dynamic conception of the entity itself existing as the process of selfpreservation again emphasizes the important difference between our interpretation and the ‘functionalist’ approaches, which considers only ‘mental processes’ as functional—not the existing of the organism itself.

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sustain the self-maintaining functions of being-alive.57 The material body as the necessary instrument for the functioning of its physiology is also maintained by this process. In this way being-alive as the functional process of self-preservation constitutes an organism’s ongoing existing through time. This dynamic, self-preserving nature of existing is just as essential for the systematic causal ontology of stable entities. While it is less obvious in artifacts than in organisms, its analysis there is simpler and more transparent. Because of the complexity of the physiological and regulatory mechanisms that bring about the holistic causation of being-alive in organisms, the unity and generality of the ontological principles involved are difficult to discern. The internal self-preserving functioning of an artifact (comparable to the physiology of an organism) occurs by means of the active forces between the parts that maintain its configuration as a stable unified whole. The joints between parts (whether nailed, glued or dove-tailed) enable the forces produced by them to act on each other. The parts in turn maintain the spatial relations of the interactions and provide the instrumental potentials that are the sources of the interacting forces. Thus the (indivisible) unity of the box depends ultimately (i.e., ontologically) on the cooperative actions of these interacting forces of the parts on each other and their functional roles in the entity as a whole.58 In a box the sides and bottom hold each other in the proper positions to maintain their mutual supporting actions and to function as the retaining surfaces necessary for the whole to serve as a container. Because of the stable equilibrium condition, the nexus of sustaining forces does not appear outwardly to constitute an active process of selfmaintenance. However, the way in which the cooperatively organized, equilibrated forces constituting the overall configuration accommodate to outside changes reveals the true dynamic nature of the causal relations that _________ 57 An. II 1 argues that the psuchê as the ti ên einai [the existing of each thing as what it is] is the functional existing qua being-alive of the organism as a whole in the same way that the sight of an eye is its functional existing as an eye. As shown in An. II 4, the primary product of the function of being-alive (as vegetative psuchê, ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ) is the preserving [IJȧijșȢտį] of the organism as what it is, i.e., self-maintenance. (Sec. III.) 58 The joints as such, then, are not the ultimate ontological basis of the unity and stability of the box-configuration as a whole—as might easily be supposed. Rather, they are instrumental parts for transmitting forces just as the sides are for generating them. The forces between stable parts are comparable to the physiological diffusion gradients between vegetative organ systems, like the nutrient gradient between digestive and circulatory system. Such gradients require the spatial proximity of the respective organ systems (as material parts) but they are determined and maintained as gradients by the functioning and stability of the organism as a whole, as a homeostatic unity. The physiological gradients represent the configuration of vegetative functions. (Discussed in Sec. III.B.1, esp. n. 73.)

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sustain the entity as what it is. The stability of the whole is maintained under changing external stresses by the role-determined compensation of the equilibrated forces in the configuration so that the parts continue to fulfill their functional roles determined by the overall configuration. Thus, the seemingly static structure composed of unchanging parts is actually a self-maintaining dynamic equilibrium of forces enabled by the material potentials of the parts. The actions of the parts on each other constitute the dynamic functional existing of the box as the entity it is. The material parts as such are not what primarily constitute the existing of an artifact as what it is. Rather, the actions of the parts on each other comprise the existing of the whole by sustaining the functional relations that stabilize their positions and functional roles in the whole. 2. How the species-configuration [ousia according to the logos] organizes the functional parts into a cooperatively unified whole. As shown by the box, the species-configuration is the organization of functional relations of the parts that brings about the self-maintaining functioning of the whole, which is the ti ên einai that constitutes its continuing existing. Yet this configuration of the whole is not something besides the functional relations among the parts themselves, only the organization of the functional parts themselves (cf. Metaph. Z 17, 1041b25-31). Nevertheless, this species-configured organizing principle of the ti ên einai, plays the determining role in sustaining the ongoing existing, holistic unity and species-typicality of each entity. How does the species-configuration account for these essential characteristics of entities attributed to the eidos/ti ên einai? How does the species-configuration itself exist as the organizer of relations among the parts—without being anything in addition to the material parts and nevertheless serving as the ultimate cause of both ongoing existing and speciestypicality? Our challenge is to account causally for how this immaterial complex of relations organizes its own parts into a unified functioning whole that sustains the necessary interactive relations and also the overall enabling configuration. a. Reciprocal determination of the species-configuration and the cooperative fit among interdependent functioning of the parts. The key feature of the ti ên einai that constitutes and sustains the existing of an entity is its specific pattern of functional interactions that unifies and organizes them into the self-perpetuating functioning of the whole. The species-configuration [ȡ՘IJտįȟ Ȝįijչ ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] as this pattern of organization depends on the parts fitting together functionally so they enable each

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other’s functional roles and collaboratively sustain the overall configuration in a stable way. The cooperatively organized functioning of the parts that sustains the functional whole depends on the mutual enablement of the functional roles. Only the cooperating roles of the sides, bottom and top make a box self-sustaining and bring about its functioning as a container. The parts must hold each other in the proper positions to sustain the overall configuration that enables it to function as a whole. This arranging and holding of the functional parts by each others’ actions integrates and organizes their subfunctions cooperatively into the species-defining functioning of the whole. Thus the cooperatively integrated functioning of the parts sustains the whole as what it is, and this unified self-preserving action of the whole constitutes the existing of the entity. The mutual enablement of the functional parts is brought about by the species-configuration of relations that is organized precisely so that this occurs. If the nexus of functional relations among the parts were arranged otherwise, their interaction would not lead to the self-preservation of the whole. Thus the species-pattern of interactions is the specific organization of functional roles of the parts that fits them together precisely so they constitute a self-sustaining holistic unity. Reciprocally, the proper interactive fit of the functional parts is determined and enabled by their roles that integrate them into the overall pattern of the species-configuration. Functional fitting, then, is the reciprocally determining relation between interacting parts that accounts for their cooperative unity and dynamic stability as a self-sustaining whole.59 It is a requirement for any functional relation between parts as well as between the functional whole and the role of any part contributing to the whole. If the relations between parts do not fit together in the overall pattern, the parts cannot comprise a box. The shape, strength, etc., of the pieces must be appropriate for serving as sides of a box. 60 Conversely, not every arbitrary configuration of functional _________ 59 This functional interdependence of parts in a specific pattern that unites them cooperatively into a self-sustaining functional whole is, in fact, Aristotle’s resolution of the whole/part aporia, which directs development of the ontology toward this holistic causal account of the nature of existing. Similarly, the mutual determination of the functional fit between the parts and the overall species-configuration that cooperatively unites their roles into a self-sustaining whole already points ahead toward the resolution of the aporia of combining the stability and changeability of ousia. 60 This requirement that parts have the proper functional fit within the whole to fulfill their particular roles in the overall species-determined functional configuration reveals the true ontological basis of Aristotle’s much-debated conception of ‘hypothetical necessity’, which we consider later in the context of hou heneka causal relations (Sec. IV.C). Hypothetical necessity is usually interpreted in terms of the type of material necessary for a particular function. An axe must be made of iron or bronze in order to cut. Here we can see the requirement is actually more general. Any part must be functionally adequate to fulfill its

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parts forms a stable self-maintaining whole like a box. Only certain overall patterns of interacting parts comprise such self-sustaining unities. Selfmaintaining wholeness is a necessary condition for species-types that actually exist; other conceivable configurations cannot sustain themselves and so cannot exist. This is why species-types are distinct so that a continuous spectrum of intermediate types does not occur, e.g., between cats and dogs—let alone, between birds and horses (except mythologically as Pegasus). b. Reversal of the causal grounding in the ontology of ousia: how the unified whole determines and brings about the functioning of its parts. As seen, then, (1) the dynamic existing of an entity is constituted by the continuous function of self-preservation (the ti ên einai) brought about by the species-configuration that organizes the functioning of its parts into a self-sustaining unity. (2) By incorporation in this configuration, the functional potentials of the parts are employed instrumentally to fulfill their functional roles in sustaining the unified whole. (3) This same holistic functioning that sustains the entity also enables the species-defining external functioning, which makes it the kind of thing it is. Thus the functionally unified whole is what constitutes the being of an entity. The material parts provide the instrumental potentials, but they must be interactively merged by being organized according to the species-configuration to be actualized into the unified existing of the whole. In this way the ontological aspect (level of organization) that constitutes the existing of an artifact is reversed from the situation prior to construction or as interpreted from a materialist viewpoint.61 The whole (qua unified configuration) is now the cause of the appropriate functioning of its parts. This priority of the formal aspect of an entity by constituting its primary ground of existing is particularly conspicuous in organisms. It accounts for how the psuchê as the be_________ necessary role in the species-configuration of the whole. This broader (more ontological) sense of the term is made evident textually in PA I 1 and I 5 where Aristotle discusses the organization of the functions of the parts of animals on the basis of the hypothetical necessity of their roles within the whole or some module of the whole. 61 This reversal of ontological levels is described and analyzed by Aristotle in Metaph. Z 7 (1033a5-23) and ĭ 7 (1049a18-b3). The morphê [shape] as an attribute imposed on the material (which is the primary existent prior to construction) becomes the holistically functioning eidos, which now constitutes the existing of the entity. Conversely, the material becomes the instrumental woodenness of the box, the material potentials actualized by their cooperative organization into the unified function of the whole. Metaph. Z 10 discusses the issue in terms of the priority of the eidos over the material parts. The aporia involved is resolved only in ĭ 8 (1050a3-b6) as the priority of energeia and entelecheia as ousia over dunamis as matter. (Cf. Sec. IV.)

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ing-alive of the organism constitutes its existing and is also the determining cause of the functioning of its bodily parts. Contrary to the conventional wisdom, then, the holistic causation that brings about and determines the functioning of parts by their roles in the overall configuration is an ontological principle of ousia in general—which has important implications not only for biology, but for science and practice in general as well as philosophy. Again, the constructing of an artifact elucidates how the organizing role of the species-configuration accounts for reversal of the causal grounding priority between the whole and its parts, i.e., how “...ousia is the archê of all things;” (Metaph. Z 9, 1034a31). In constructing a box its logos, which exists potentially as the knowing-how to make it in a technê, is converted into the actual functional species-configuration [ousia according to the logos] of the parts by the actions of the craftsman. Only the completed box exists as an entity that performs its defining function as a container. Likewise, only the unified configuration and functioning of the box can serve as the holistic cause that determines and enables the role-function of each part. 62 Thus, in constructing an artifact we see the role of the speciesconfiguration in unifying the entity and the mechanism by which it brings about the various aspects of holistic functioning. This causal role of the whole acting by the functional fitting of parts into the species-configuration is, in fact, the mechanism by which the ti ên einai serves as the so-called ‘formal cause’, i.e, the cause of the matter existing as the unified entity that it is (Metaph. Z 17, 1041a26-32). The holistic functioning of the ti ên einai as species-configuration realizes the potentials of the material parts as the actuality of the holistically unified entity (Metaph. ǿ 6, 1045a29-33). The species-configuration brings this about by determining and enabling the functional roles of the parts as cooperatively organized into the holistic existing of what it is. The existing as the holistic function of self-perpetuation, then, rather than the material components, accounts for the causal relation between eidos and matter (as whole and part). This is how the primary grounding relation that accounts for the existing of entities is reversed (vis-à-vis the materialist approach _________ 62 This causal relationship is ultimately explained in Metaph. ĭ 8 with the argument for the ontological priority of energeia and entelecheia as ousia over dunamis (1050a3-b6). “... [W]hat is posterior in generation is prior in eidos and in ousia ...” (1050a4-5). In generation the telos is posterior in time as the product [ergon] that comes to be. Ontologically, however, the telos as ousia and eidos is prior to the dunameis (also in generation). The telos is the organizing principle for the sake of which the dunameis interact and thereby sustain it. Sec. IV. discusses how the conception of the matter/eidos relation as analogous to the dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations of motion provides the ultimate basis for the dynamically stable existing of entities (cf. n. 90).

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and everyday understanding), viz., by the holistic causal role of the ti ên einai determining the functioning of the material parts. Like the being-alive of an organism, then, the holistically organized functioning of the box constitutes its ongoing existing. Yet, the eidos/ti ên einai as cause of existing is not some additional entity acting on its matter (like a kind of downward or reversed efficient cause). Nor is it an additional structure superimposed on the underlying stable material parts that brings forth new the emergent properties comprising the box (as some of the contemporary functionalist interpretation of the psuchê would imply, cf. Shields 1988). Instead, the eidos (as ousia according to the logos) is the organized configuration of functional relations among the parts themselves. By being functionally organized according to the holistic configuration, the parts enable each other to fulfill their roles in the unified functioning of the whole—both its external functioning as the kind of thing it is and its internal functional as self-preservation. (This point is examined in detail in Sec. IV.) 3. Entelecheia as the dynamically stable, ongoing unitary actualization of the functional potentials according to the species-configuration on the basis of the hou heneka relationship. Thus, the species-configuration is the organization that fits the functional parts into an all-or-nothing unity of the self-preserving whole whose mutually enabling interactive roles are determined by that species-pattern. But what is the ontological mechanism that fits the parts into such an allor-nothing unity so that it exists as a stable species-typical entity? The dunamis/energeia/entelecheia conception of ousia provides Aristotle’s most fundamental causal and ontological account of this problem. In Sec. IV we argue in detail how individual functional relations between parts merge their fittingly interacting potentials [dunameis] into the single common energeia that makes them a functional unity according to the configuration of the ti ên einai. In a box the forces acting between sides at a joint hold each of them in its position necessary for serving as a lateral retaining surface. The overall configuration of such interactions and joint actualizations of matching potentials as equilibrated forces (according to the eidos/ti ên einai) comprise a unified stable state, which Aristotle calls entelecheia [holding in a telos]. By organizing such mutually stabilizing interactions into a self-sustaining whole, the functional configuration also merges the functional potentials of the parts (as retaining surfaces) into the holistically unified functioning as a container. Thus, the unified whole exists as the merger of the potentials of its parts into the single actuality as entelecheia. A box exists as the entelecheia of the instrumental potentials

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of its parts merged into a functional unity by their cooperative organization in accord with the species-pattern of a container. The functioning of the parts and their unified actualization as a container is determined by their configuration-organized roles for the sake of the whole, so the joint entelecheia of the whole is the outcome of hou heneka causation. Traditionally this actualization of the whole as eidos out of the potentials of the material parts is assumed to occur only during generation. This one-time actualization of the matter qua potential into its form during generation is presumed to leave a static structure superimposed on its stable matter. As we have seen, however, the ti ên einai exists as the dynamic functioning of the whole, and its enabling configuration exists as the interactively unified species-organization of its functional parts. Therefore the eidos as entelecheia must also exist as a dynamic process of ongoing actualization. This dynamic nature of the configuration (existing as entelecheia) was illustrated above by how the sides of the box actively hold each other in the arrangement necessary for fulfilling their roles in constituting the container. This process of entelecheia is also self-stabilizing since it exists as the species-typical nexus of interdependent interactions that constitutes its holistic unity. Thus the equilibrium of forces is continuously actualized out of the material potentials of the parts as the balance of forces that each enables and determines in the others through their interactions. This dynamic equilibrium makes the whole self-stabilizing under changing external conditions. Any changed force on one side of an equilibrium, e.g., from a new external load, evokes a corresponding change in the counterforce of that interaction. Unless the configuration brings about such selfstabilization of the whole, it cannot serve as the configuration of an entity that actually exists. This additional condition required of existing speciesconfigurations is another reason that species are distinct and that only particular species-types exist. (The mechanism of unity of entelecheia and its dynamic stability by hou heneka causal relations is examined in detail in Sec. IV.) B. The Dynamic Ontology of Ousia Resolves the Fundamental Aporiai Besides exemplifying its basic principles and causal framework, applying Aristotle’s dynamic ontology to a stable artifact also illustrates how its core aporiai are resolved. The core aporiai of the general ontology of ousia were pointed out earlier (Sec. I.E.3) as: (1) all-or-nothing unity of the whole despite consisting of distinguishable parts; (2) logical incompatibility of the existing of the individual entity with its species-typicality; (3) stability of the whole despite changeability of its parts.

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(1) The box exemplifies how its parts comprise an all-or-nothing unity by their dependence on each other to enable their functional roles in being a container. This indivisible unity exists as the box-configuration of forces [ousia according to the logos] between the parts and holds them in their proper positions for playing their roles in the holistic functioning of the container. The interactions between parts actualizes their potentials for exerting such forces. The mutually enabling pattern of these forces continuously actualizes the overall functional configuration as the joint entelecheia of the interacting potentials of the parts. Without being organized as a functional unity in this way, the material components would not exist as a unified entity [ousia] but only as a heap [IJȧȢցȣ] of pieces (Metaph. Z 17, 1041b11-16, b25-28). The interdependence of configuration and functioning not only resolves the aporia of how distinguishable parts constitute an indivisible whole. It also accounts for how ongoing existing is constituted by self-maintaining functioning (the ti ên einai)—even for an artifact. The ti ên einai of the box exists as this immaterial nexus of forces between components organized in accord with the box-configuration. This functional nature of the unity also accounts for the causal priority of the whole in relation to its parts by being the cause of their ongoing existing as a container. The organizing configuration of the whole is the primary cause of the ongoing existing of the box by bringing about the mutually enabling, instrumental functioning of the parts as a cooperative unity. (2) Artifacts also illustrate how the aporia of logical incongruence between the existing of the individual entity and its species-typicality (as knowably universal) is resolved by the holistic, dynamic ontology. The same interdependence of species-configured whole and cooperatively functioning parts that resolves the first aporia also is the basis for resolving this second better known one. The functional forces among the parts of a box constitute and maintain its unified configuration as a container. However, the mutual support of the parts necessary for continued existing and functioning as a box comes about only if the configuration organizes them cooperatively in accord with a box-pattern (logos). This organization of the instrumental potentials of the parts enables their roles in the unified functioning as a container that makes the entity species-typical as a box. At the same time the cooperatively organized forces constitute the ongoing existing of the box by sustaining the configuration and functioning of the box as what it is. Thus the species-configuration and the unified functioning of its parts are mutually enabling. Moreover, the same species-typical functioning of forces that constitutes

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the ongoing existing of the box as an individual entity also constitutes its functioning as the kind of thing it is, a container. Functioning as a container, which constitutes its individual existing, is simultaneously what defines it as the kind of thing it is. Being a rectangular container is what any box has in common with other boxes. Thus, the box exemplifies how its ti ên einai as species-configuration is the cause of its individual existing by organizing its functional parts according to a pattern common to species members. Conversely, the species-configuration can only exist as the joint actualization of the potentials of its individual parts by organizing their instrumental functioning into a unified whole. Thus, again the logically incongruent characteristics that lead to the aporiai turn out to be mutually grounding causally. (3) Finally, the stable structure of artifacts existing as the dynamic equilibrium of forces organized according to the species-configuration shows how the stability/changeability aporia is also resolved by holistic causal relations. The box as a whole maintains its overall stability as a container as long as it exists as such. By contrast, the individual forces (functions) between its parts change in adjusting to differing loads and circumstances. Yet the box-configuration of the parts united by the adaptable, mutually supporting forces between them remains stable. The overall stability of the box comes about because the configuration of interactions between parts is arranged in such a way that the forces cooperatively support and stabilize each of the parts. The dynamic equilibrium of the forces by which the parts support each other makes them adaptable (individually and collectively) to changing stresses and conditions imposed on the whole. The changeability of the individual forces between parts is what enables the whole to be stable under changing conditions. Thus, the dynamic stability of the configuration results from the cooperative nature of the functional interactions which brings about their appropriate adjustment for changing circumstances. 63 Again then, the same seemingly incompatible characteristics that lead to the logical aporia provide the causal basis for resolving it because of their mutual grounding and hence unifying interdependence. In summary then, analysis of the ontological nature of a simple artifact illustrates how both its ongoing existing and stable configuration as the kind of thing it is are grounded on a dynamic causal basis. Moreover, this same causal account resolves the core ontological aporiai by showing that the logically incongruent characters that evoke the aporiai are actually _________ 63 The equivalent mechanisms by which the whole determines and stabilizes the interactions of its parts in more thoroughly dynamic systems such as organisms is examined in more detail in Sec. IV.

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mutually interdependent from a causal perspective. Ontological distinctions and sameness of organisms and artifacts. There are, of course, important differences between how a stable artifact maintains itself as an entity and how an organism does so. The fundamental distinction of entities existing by nature [phusei onta] is having a principle of motion and stasis in themselves, while artifacts need an outside source of motion for generation and for organizing the configuration that provides their continuing stability. Moreover, the material constituents of organisms are continuously replaced, while this is not the case in artifacts. The functional parts of organisms themselves consist of ongoing physiological processes constituted by flows of constituents and bio-energy. By contrast, the functional parts of artifacts consist of independently stable materials. An artifact is a closed system whose configuration is maintained by the equilibrium of forces derived from the stable constituent materials. By contrast, an organism is an open system that sustains its dynamic existing as being-alive by continuously taking materials and energy sources from its environment to replenish its parts and to maintain its physiological processes. These activities themselves constitute the existing of the organism—demonstrating in a striking way how its unity qua ousia (as entelecheia) exists as an ongoing process that perpetuates its own unified configuration, thereby sustaining its ongoing existing and dynamic stability. Despite these deep-seated differences, however, the coming sections demonstrate that the same dynamic, holistic causal ontology that accounts for the existing and stability of artifacts (and resolves their basic aporiai) also accounts for the existing and persisting identity of organisms (and resolves the same aporiai). The analysis of the nature and mechanisms of these holistic causal relations is the subject matter of the remainder of the paper. III. The Dynamic Ontology of Ousia as Applied to Organisms A. The Conceptual Analysis of the Psuchê as Being-alive As discussed earlier, An. II 1 begins by introducing the familiar conceptual triad of ousia from the Metaph. (as matter, form and sunholon out of both) and mapping the corresponding concepts onto the respective aspects of organisms (412a6-9) (Sec. I.F.1). Thus organisms exist as ousia and can be characterized by the same aspects developed in the Metaph. to analyze and account for stable entities such as artifacts. In this way the triadic ter-

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minology for ousia is established as the conceptual framework for analyzing and accounting for the existing of organisms. However, the aporetic analyses and development of causal accounts carried out in the Metaph. are not repeated in De An.. Instead the complete ontology and its implications are presupposed from the Metaph. and assumed to apply in toto to organisms qua ousiai. This explicit application has important consequences in both directions. On the one hand, it provides the systematic conceptual and causal paradigm for biology in terms of the ontology of ousia established in the Metaph. Conversely, the analysis of organisms using the ontology of ousia serves as a concrete application (and hence interpretation) of the ontological framework developed in the Metaph. as a dynamic account of existing. (Cf. fn. 50.) An. II 1 begins by analyzing the ontological nature of the psuchê as ousia qua eidos, while the body is ousia as matter (412a3-21). As such, the triadic characterization would be simply descriptive, expressing what is better known to us. Yet, the concept of entelecheia is immediately invoked to characterize the psuchê as eidos, which indicates from the start that the analysis is to be carried out at the causal level, as better known by nature (cf. our sketch of the causal role of entelecheia in Sec. I.D and the detailed discussion in Sec. IV.). The first definition of the psuchê reads: It is necessary, then, for the psuchê to be ousia as eidos [and not ousia as matter] of a natural body having life potentially [İȤȟչμıț Șȧռȟ Ԥȥȡȟijȡȣ]. But ousia is entelecheia. Therefore, [the psuchê] is entelecheia of such a body. (II 1 412a19-22)64

Thus, the first definition of the psuchê in An. II 1 does double duty: it describes the psuchê/body relation as an eidos/matter relation and then accounts for it as an entelecheia/dunamis relation—both relationships having been developed and analyzed in the Metaph. In this way the stage is set for investigating what the entelecheia/dunamis relation entails in the case of organisms. From the analysis of artifacts we can assume that the bodily dunameis are integrated and organized by the functional speciesconfiguration of the psuchê qua eidos so that the organism exists as a selfsustaining, all-or-nothing unity.

1. The conceptual framework for the dynamic existing of the psuchê. The remainder of An. II 1 introduces the central theme regarding the na_________ 64 We break off the passage here to postpone discussing Aristotle’s emphasis on the double sense of entelecheia (An. II 1, 412a9-11, a21-27) to Sec. IV.A (including n. 84), where we focus on “first entelecheia.”

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ture of the psuchê, viz., how it exists as a constantly changing dynamic process (II 1, 412a21-b25). Traditionally these passages are interpreted as simply reiterating various ways of describing the eidos/matter relation from the Metaph.65 In fact, however, they begin the dynamic reconception of the fundamental nature of the psuchê. This reconception represents Aristotle’s major paradigm shift away from the static (Parmenidean) conception of existing held by his predecessors (and still tacitly assumed by most modern philosophers). The psuchê as the existing of an organism qua being-alive is constituted by the organized unity of the various selfsustaining life-functions themselves, not out of stable faculties that first exist in their own right and then function only secondarily. The basic conceptual framework used to account for the nature of beingalive is presented tersely in terms of the interrelationships among entelecheia, ousia according to the logos and the ti ên einai. Indeed if one should state something common [Ȝȡțȟցȟ] in regard to every psuchê, it would be the first entelecheia of a natural body able to act as an instrument [IJօμįijȡȣ ĴȤIJțȜȡ‫ ף‬ՌȢȗįȟțȜȡ‫]ף‬. Hence one also should not seek whether the psuchê and the body are one, just as not [the being one of] the wax and the schema [seal], nor generally the matter of each thing and that of which it is the matter; for since ‘one’ and ‘being’ are said in more ways, the authoritative way [ȜȤȢտȧȣ] is entelecheia. Generally then it has been said what the psuchê is; for it is the ousia according to the logos [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijչ ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ]. And this is the ti ên einai for such a kind of body [with a psuchê] just as if any of the instruments [ijț ij‫׭‬ȟ ՌȢȗչȟȧȟ] were a natural body, e.g., an axe; for the existing as an axe [ijր ʍıȝջȜıț ıՂȟįț, the ti ên einai of an axe] would be the ousia of it, and the psuchê is this [the ti ên einai as ousia of an organism]; and [if] this [the ti ên einai] were separated, it would not still be an axe, except homonymously, ... (An. II 1, 412b4-15)

Several important points are made here: (1) The psuchê exists as entelecheia, and the relation of the body to the psuchê as entelecheia is functional since the body serves as its instrument.66 (2) Conceiving the psuchê _________ 65 Hicks 1907, 312-18; Ross 1961, 213-14; Hamlyn 1968, 85-86; Apostle 1981, 96-99. In contrast, cf. Kosman 1984, 1994, on the active nature of being. 66 The concept of ‘instrumental dunamis’ [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ] is complex and is discussed repeatedly by Aristotle and in this paper. In PA I 1: “...the body is an instrument [ՐȢȗįȟȡȟ] (for each of the parts is for-thesake-of-something [ԥȟıȜչ ijțȟȡȣ], and similarly also the whole [is for-the-sake-ofsomething], ...” (642a10-12). In PA I 5 : “And since every instrument [ՐȢȗįȟȡȟ] is for-the-sake-of-something [ԥȟıȜչ ijȡȤ], and each of the parts of the body is for-the-sake-of-something [ԥȟıȜչ ijȡȤ], and that which it is for-the-sake-of [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį] is some praxis [ʍȢֻȠտȣ ijțȣ], it is evident that the composite body [IJփȟȡȝȡ IJ‫׭‬μį] has been put together for-the-sake-of-some polymeric praxis [ʍȢչȠıօȣ ijțȟȡȣ ԥȟıȜį ʍȡȝȤμıȢȡ‫ף‬ȣ].” (645b14-16)

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as entelecheia makes the question of what unites body and psuchê unnecessary since entelecheia is the authoritative way of being ‘one’ (a unity). These points are clarified in Sec. IV by analyzing how entelecheia is the outcome of hou heneka causation. The present passage essentially declares that the ontological framework developed in the Metaph. also serves as the core ontology of the psuchê. (3) As entelecheia the psuchê is ousia, more precisely, ousia according to the logos [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] of the body as instrument, and in this way the psuchê is the ti ên einai. As seen in regard to artifacts (Sec. II.A.2), ousia according to the logos is the speciesconfigured organizing principle of the ti ên einai. This set of relationships comprises the core of Aristotle’s ontology—and therefore of our investigation. The passage closely parallels Metaph. H 3 (1043b32-44a11, esp. 1044a7-11), where entelecheia is defined as ousia according to the eidos [ԭ Ȝįijո ijր ıՂİȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį] and where it is argued that entelecheia (as ousia) is like the ti ên einai insofar as nothing can be taken away or added without losing it. There can only be “more or less” of a composite ousia. (4) Finally, an artifact-instrument (an axe) is used as a simple model to show what it means that the ti ên einai of something is its ousia according to the logos (its beingness as the kind of thing it is). The ti ên einai of an axe as its ousia is analogous to the psuchê of an organism qua ti ên einai, which constitutes its existing as what it is. The artifact-instrument [ՐȢȗįȟȡȟ] example makes clear that the ti ên einai itself is to be understood functionally rather than as mere presence of an indwelling eidos in the limited literal sense of the appearance of an axe. The existing of an axe is its ability to function as an axe, e.g., splitting wood. This overtly instrumental example prepares the coming argument regarding the functional nature of the psuchê as ti ên einai, viz., that the existing of an organism is constituted by the functioning of its life-sustaining processes, not its material structures as such.67 Having established this conceptual framework, we now investigate how the three concepts, entelecheia, ousia according to the logos and the ti ên einai, denote interdependent ontological aspects of the eidos when it is _________ The most penetrating (if terse) analysis of the body asҏՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ, though not named as such, is in the final passages of An. II 4 (416b20-23, b25-27) where Aristotle analyzes the body as one of the means by which [֭] the psuchê nourishes the organism and thereby preserves the ousia. We discuss this argument at the end of this section (Sec. III.B.2). 67 As shown in regard to the box and will be seen as central to the nature of organisms, the species-organized internal functioning that sustains ongoing existing is one and the same as the functional organization that brings about the external functioning characteristic of the kind of thing it is. Being-alive is the internal functioning that sustains the existing of an organism. Being-alive as a particular kind of organism is its specific way of functioning in the environment that enables it to sustain itself.

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reconceived dynamically. Their meanings and interrelations must be understood from the analyses in the Metaph., i.e., from their roles in resolving the aporiai and establishing the general ontology of ousia—as well as from their usage in De An. and other works. Entelecheia is the ongoing joint actualization of the instrumental dunameis that holds in a telos. This dynamically stable state constitutes the existing of the functional configuration. Ousia according to the logos [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] is the functional configuration of the instrumental dunameis of the body which are integrated and organized in accord with the species-nature of the ti ên einai. As such it also constitutes the telos in which the entelecheia holds. The ti ên einai means the ‘existing as what it [always] is’, which constitutes the self-preserving functioning of being-alive. This unified functioning of the whole is brought about by the cooperative functional organization determined by its species-configuration [its ousia according to the logos]. 2. The ti ên einai as self-preserving functioning that constitutes ongoing existing as being-alive. Thus, An. II 1 introduces not just the descriptive conceptual framework, but also the causal ontological paradigm for reconceiving the psuchê dynamically. This is clearest from the culmination of the chapter that characterizes the ti ên einai as constituting the existing of the psuchê as the overall functional process of being-alive (412b10-25). Having introduced the simple instrumental model of an axe existing only insofar as it can function as an axe, Aristotle extends this functional conception of existing (stepwise) to organisms by analogy with an instrumental part of the organism itself. The eye as the instrument for the function of seeing is then taken as analogous to the whole body as the instrument for the selfsustaining functioning of being-alive: For if the eye were an animal, sight [ՐȦțȣ] would be its psuchê; for this [sight] is the ousia according to the logos [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] of an eye. And the eye is the matter of sight [՝ȝș ՐȦıȧȣ], and if it [sight] departs, it is no longer an eye, except homonymously, just as the one of stone and the one having been drawn. Indeed one should assume [what is the case] in regard to the part [the eye] in regard to the whole living body; for analogously as the part holds in relation to the part [i.e., sight to the eye], in this way the entire perception [ԭ Ցȝș įՀIJȚșIJțȣ] [holds in relation] to the entire perceptive body [ʍȢրȣ ijր Ցȝȡȟ IJ‫׭‬μį ijր įԼIJȚșijțȜցȟ], as such [as perceptive]. (412b18-25)

Thus, (1) the existing of an eye is its function as an eye, sight. The matter of the eye in itself does not constitute its existing because having sight is

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its ousia [beingness] (according to the logos) and therefore its existing as an eye.68 Thus the material eye in itself cannot be ousia—as if sight were merely a dispositional property. (2) Analogously, the existing of the whole perceptive body is constituted by having perception, not by the material body itself which then would have perception as an attribute. Instead, the whole animal body is an instrument for the function of perceiving in general, which constitutes its existing as a perceptive body. Finally, the analogy can be further extrapolated to the being-alive of the organism as a whole. The material body as such does not constitute the existing of an organism. Instead, its primary existing is constituted by the functioning of the vegetative psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ], the capacity of selfnourishment, which is the essential function of being-alive [ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ]. Being-alive constitutes the existing [ijր ıՂȟįț] of an organism—just as the eidos constitutes the existing of any ousia.69 Unlike perceiving, however, being-alive is an activity that cannot be interrupted. (Therefore the psuchê [qua ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ] is designated as “first entelecheia.”) Being-alive itself is the constant functional process of self-renewal and active adaptation to changing conditions by using external resources in self-nourishment. 70 _________ 68 We first continue to consider the ti ên einai as the functional basis of existing. In the next subsection (III.A.3) we take up its equally important ‘essence’ aspect as species-typical configuration [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] (412b19-20) and how matter is functionally configured by it in composite ousia. 69 That the functioning of the psuchê rather than the material body is the existing of the organism is expressed repeatedly, e.g.: “If indeed the psuchê is this [like the eidos of a bed] or part of a psuchê or not without psuchê, in any case if the psuchê departs, it is no longer an animal, nor do any of the parts remain the same, except only in schema, just as those in myths that are turned to stone ...” (PA I 1, 641a17-21). “That it [the psuchê] is [cause] as ousia is clear, for ousia is the cause of the [ongoing] existing [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț] for all things, and the being-alive [ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ] is the existing [ijր ıՂȟįț] of living things, and the cause and the archê of this is the psuchê.” (An. II 4, 415b1214). 70 This definition of being-alive is introduced near the beginning of the substantive discussion in An. II 1 and then again in II 4 to initiate the discussion of the nutritive psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜռ ȦȤȥս] proper. Finally, being-alive is explicated in the summing up of the activities of the nutritive psuchê at the conclusion of An. II 4, before taking up the discussion of the special functions (starting in II 5). “We call life [Șȧս] the nourishment [ijȢȡĴս] through itself [İț‫ ׶‬įՙijȡ‫]ף‬, as well as the growing and diminishing” (II 1 412a14-15). “So that first one should speak concerning nourishment and generation; for the nutritive psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜսȟ ȦȤȥսȟ] belongs also to the others, and it is the first and most incommon potential of the psuchê, by virtue of which being-alive [ijց Ș‫׆‬ȟ] belongs to all. It is that whose functions [ԤȢȗį] are to reproduce and to use nourishment” (II 4 415a22-26). The more complex discussion (II 4 416b20-29) of how being-alive as the function of self-preservation is brought about by the nutritive psuchê is analyzed in detail at the end of this section.

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Without this self-maintaining and adaptive functioning, an organism ceases to exist as such and becomes a rapidly deteriorating corpse. Thus, just as sight [ՐȦțȣ] is the existing of an eye and perception [įՀIJȚșIJțȣ] is the existing of the perceptive body, so is the activity of the self-nourishing ability [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ] the existing of the organism as beingalive. The ti ên einai, therefore, reconceives the eidos dynamically by understanding its existing as constituted by the self-preserving functioning of an entity. This new dynamic conception of existing has important consequences. Foremost, if an organism’s existing is its constantly changing functioning (physiology) that preserves its being-alive by continuous selfrenewal, how can we account for its stable unity and persisting identity, which are traditionally explained by the statically conceived eidos? 3. Inseparability of functioning as ti ên einai and species-configuration [ousia according to the logos]. It must be shown, then, how the psuchê can exist as a dynamic process, rather than a static structure, by accounting for how a constantly changing process constitutes the existing of an organism as a persisting entity. Functional activities in themselves are ephemeral and hardly seem capable of constituting the ongoing existing and persisting identity of a real entity. Yet, conceiving the existing of an entity as a steady self-maintaining process is not as strange as it first seems. Rivers, fountains, flames, and indeed the lives of individual organisms are considered as entities. A candle flame, e.g., shows not only how the constant renewal of components by self-maintenance accounts for the existing of its persisting identity, but also how the holistic configuration of causal relations brings about the self-sufficient causal basis of the flame as an ongoing entity. The flame exists as a self-maintaining process constituted by a cycle of efficient causal actions. These individual actions serially enable each other and collectively utilize outside resources (wax and oxygen) that sustain the overall process. The combustion of preheated wax at the interface of the flame with the surrounding air heats and melts more wax from the candle. This enables liquid wax to flow up the wick by capillary action where it can be vaporized by the heat of the adjacent combustion and brought to ignition. In this way the cycle of efficient causes that constitutes the flame maintains itself by the cooperative functioning of its component actions that collectively bring about utilization of wax and oxygen to keep the overall process going. At least so it may seem superficially. But this is only the naive reductionist account. As effective as this approach has been in understanding efficient causal mechanisms in biological systems, it nevertheless remains

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seriously incomplete by simply presupposing the crucial factor in greatest need of being accounted for. As any engineer knows in designing a candle or a building, and any physician in caring for a diabetic patient, the configuration of functional components that accounts for their cooperative integration into a self-maintaining whole is as crucial as the component causal relations themselves. If the configuration of the causal relations is modified and thereby functionally interrupted, its component causal relations no longer enable the flame to maintain itself. If the wick gets too short so not enough wax is vaporized, combustion ceases. Thus when the functional configuration is disrupted, the efficient causal interactions disappear as well.71 Similarly the mutually enabling functions of being-alive must be integrated and organized into a holistically functioning unity for an organism to maintain itself by consuming resources from the environment. This integration and organization is brought about by the appropriate speciesconfiguration [ousia according to the logos] that merges the nexus of interdependent efficient-causal relations into a holistically functioning, selfmaintaining unity. None of the components, not even all of them together, could accomplish such self-maintenance without being organized into a cooperatively functioning unity. Only the whole as an integrated unity can utilize external resource for maintaining its own existing. The whole in turn must be organized to supply the functional needs of its parts and to sustain the functional relationships among them that bring about their cooperative functioning as a whole. Thus, the unified functioning of the whole itself is the cause of the continuation of the same kind of functioning. Such self-maintaining functioning comprises the ti ên einai as the cause of ongoing existing. Thus, as the candle flame shows in a simple case, self-maintaining functioning is critically dependent on the specific configuration of the whole _________ 71 In designing a candle the overall functional configuration of wax source, wick and where combustion is to occur must be taken into account in determining what kind of wick is appropriate for a particular diameter of candle and type of wax. Similarly, an engineer designing a building must use the overall functional configuration of mutually stabilizing relations among wall, floors, etc., to determine the strength of materials needed to enable the finished structure to withstand the particular kinds of stresses to which it may be subjected. A physician must take into account the entire homeostatic system for the regulation of glucose metabolism and how it responds to particular dietary stresses in order to design a diet and insulin regimen for a particular patient or to bring a patient in diabetic coma back into metabolic balance. Aristotle also clearly saw the inadequacy of the reductionist approach as shown by his emphasis on appropriate holistic causation (cf. Metaph. A 7, 988a34-b16). As seen later, certain problems recently encountered in developmental biology also make this insufficiency of the reductionist approach especially evident in a modern context. (Comp. n. 99.)

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besides the efficient causal relations themselves. The nexus of relations that constitutes this integration and organization of parts into a functional whole is the species-configuration of the organism, i.e., the ti ên einai as ousia according to the logos. This completes the original eye analogy for the ti ên einai from which we started. As the sight of an eye or the psuchê of an organism, the ti ên einai is not only the functioning that constitutes their beingness [ousia] as ongoing existing; this functioning also constitutes their species-typical beingness, their “ousia according to the logos” (412b18-21).72 This crucial role of the species-configuration does not mean that the ti ên einai as ousia according to the logos is anything in addition to its functional components—such as a special efficient cause or material structure that unites and directs the subfunctions. The configuration is nothing other than the specific arrangement of efficient causal relations that fit together as a self-maintaining functional whole. Despite this purely organizational nature, however, the configuration plays a crucial causal role in the existing and persisting identity of all entities. Just like the eidos of the box, then, the configuration of a flame or an organism accounts for how the functional parts are organized into a self-sustaining unity capable of functioning holistically in the ways that are characteristic of the kind of thing it _________ 72 Thus, the conception of ‘ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ’ is the linchpin that inseparably connects the species-typical eidos nature of the ti ên einai and the existing qua functioning of the individual entity. Each member of a species functions (i.e., is alive) in a species-typical manner. Since functioning necessarily involves matter (for the efficient causal interactions involved), the inseparable connection to IJփȟȡȝȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį is a necessary consequence. In this way the material parts are determined by the ousia according to the logos and posterior to it. Likewise, the ousia according to the logos is prior to the sunholon. Cf. Metaph. Z 10 (esp. 1035b11-25) for Aristotle’s explicit argument on ‘ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ’ and its relationship to matter and to IJփȟȡȝȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį, as well as on the importance of ‘functioning’ for the definition and for the existing of parts. See also: PA I 5 on the priority of praxeis (i.e., functioning) over material parts. The material parts and their relationships to each other follow from the relationships of their functional interdependence (PA I 5, 645b28-33). In showing how the functional existing of an organism depends on its species-typical configuration, Aristotle also resolves a key aporia of the Metaph., viz., how the ti ên einai constitutes both the existing individual and the species-typicality [as ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] of an entity. Only individuals exist, i.e., function by using their material parts instrumentally in the cooperative way that sustains their unity and being as entities. However, only particular configurations of functions enable the continued existing of an entity, and these configurations are the same for all individuals that belong to the same species. (This aporia is more familiar in its traditional formulation of ‘particular vs. universal’, as Aristotle himself first poses it in Metaph. B 6 (1003a6-17) before transforming and resolving it in Metaph. Ǿǿĭ.)

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is. (Sec. IV examines in detail how the species-configuration exists as entelecheia.) B. The Interdependence of Functioning and Species-configuration in the Existing of Organisms as Ousia 1. Contemporary physiology exemplifies Aristotle’s conception of unity as cooperative interdependence. For organisms the dynamic nature of the functional configuration is crucial for maintaining its holistic functioning as being-alive and problematic because it must constantly adapt to changing conditions on which this depends. Therefore a core issue of modern biology is the mutual enablement of configuration and functioning. A familiar example is the interdependence of the vegetative functions [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ] needed for the being-alive of any animal. The digestive, respiratory and circulatory systems are cooperatively organized so that they mutually enable each other’s functioning and supply the resources for the metabolism of all cells of the body. The species-configured interactions of appropriate potentials within and between these systems brings about their mutually enabling functioning. The metabolic functioning of the cells (i.e., the cooperatively organized causal interactions that produce bio-energy and renew structural components), in turn, sustains the functional potentials of the three systems and their configuration that brings about their functioning as a unity to maintain the existing of the organism—its being-alive. These interdependent causal relations constitute the organism’s species-typical configuration, characteristic of its way of existing, which both maintains and is sustained by its unified functioning.73 _________ 73 Ultimately, the configuration of the vegetative functions consists of the appropriate concentration gradients of nutrients and oxygen maintained between digestive and respiratory systems and circulatory system. (These mutually enabling relations between physiological systems in animals are analogous to the equilibrated forces among parts of an artifact which comprise its functional configuration.) These gradients bring about the distribution of nutrients and oxygen to all cells of the body, where they are needed for the self-maintaining functioning of the organism (efficient causal processes of metabolism), i.e., for the production of energy and the maintenance of body. The stability of these gradients (i.e., of the functional configuration) is brought about by a variety of physical and chemical interactions—not the least being the pumping of the heart that automatically adapts its output to meet varying circulatory requirements as venous return increases (Starling’s Law). The seemingly more persistent anatomical components (which are themselves in constant physical turnover and dependent on nourishment and oxygen delivered to their cells) are only instrumental means of bringing about and stabilizing the real basis of existing, viz., beingalive as the self-maintaining process of metabolism together with the equally dynamic configuration that enables it.

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2. Analysis of the nourishing-ability [ȚȢıʍijțȜЅȟ] as the cycle of selfpreservation of ousia by using food. At the end of An. II 4 Aristotle analyzes this interdependence of functioning and configuration in regard to the organization of the same vegetative processes discussed above in modern terms. 74 Here the psuchê as ti ên einai is represented entirely by the self-nourishing-ability [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ], the primary capacity that any kind of psuchê must have and continuously exercise to be alive. Self-nourishment includes two interrelated functions. (1) The digesting of food transforms it into nutrients that can be assimilated into the body to sustain it and empower its potential functions. Aristotle calls this the transformation of food from being “unlike the body to like it” (416b6-7). (2) The digested food is then incorporated into the body by the nourishing-ability to preserve it (the equivalent of metabolism in modern terms). Such assimilation of nutrients sustains the bodily material and prepares its potentials to be at work. 75 This enables the continuing activity of the nourishing-ability itself as well as the potentials for all other activities of the organism. In this way Aristotle recognizes the complete cycle of internal self-preservation brought about by the nourishing-ability together with the instrumental activity of the body for using outside resources.76 _________ The interdependence of configuration and self-maintaining functioning is even more obvious in embryonic development. The functioning of the developing zygote, which is brought about by the holistic unity of its configuration at any stage, at the same time is actively transforming its own configuration from the egg into the species-typical larva or adult. Thus, biologists are especially concerned with the nature of configurations, how they come about and how they are maintained. Aristotle himself recognizes this interdependence of ongoing functioning and developing configuration of the zygote in GA II 6 (742a32-b12). 74 Not having our modern knowledge of the role of oxygen (and hence respiration) or the circulatory system in the physiology that constitutes being-alive, Aristotle’s analysis considers only the cycle of causal actions by which the nourishing-ability uses food and the body as the digestive instrument to sustain the same body itself. 75 “... the such archê of the psuchê is a dunamis [i.e., ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ] of a kind to preserve the thing having it [the dunamis] as such [i.e., as having it], on the other hand the nourishment prepares [the dunamis] to be active [ԚȟıȢȗı‫ה‬ȟ];” (An. II 4, 416b17-20). 76 The analysis of using food for preserving the ousia of an organism (its existing as being-alive) has a double significance for our interpretation of being-alive as ousia. (1) The passage gives a biological account of how the nutritive psuchê employs the instrumental functioning of the body for using food to nourish the body and so preserve the organism. (2) The same account completes the methodological project of providing an ontological grounding (causal account) for the original conceptual analysis of the psuchê/body relation and its functional nature given in An. II 1. There the psuchê qua eidos was analyzed as first entelecheia of the body as its instrumental dunamis [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ] (412a19-21, a27-2, b4-69). Here Aristotle shows how the psuchê (as entelecheia) determines the functioning of the

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a. The descriptive conceptual framework and causal analysis of nourishing. The concluding argument of An. II 4 summarizes the three factors whose causal interplay brings about self-nourishment (II 4, 416b20-23, b25-29).77 (1) What is being nourished [ijȢıĴցμıȟȡȟ] is the body [IJ‫׭‬μį], (2) that by which the body is nourished [֭ ijȢջĴıijįț] is nourishment [ijȢȡĴս], and (3) “...what is [doing the] nourishing [ijȢջĴȡȟ, the nourisher] is the primary psuchê [ʍȢօijș ȦȤȥս]” (II 4, 416b20-23).78 The last point, that the immaterial psuchê nourishes the material body, is the most difficult—but also the most interesting ontologically. It addresses the problem of how the immaterial psuchê is the cause of ongoing existing by bringing about nourishment of the body. The following passage analyzes these activities of the nutritive psuchê and its holistic causal relationships to the body and nourishment. And that by which [֭] [the psuchê] nourishes [the body] is twofold, just as that by which [֭] one steers is the hand and the rudder, (1) on the one hand, a mover [that is] also being moved [Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬ȟ Ȝįվ Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ], (2) on the other hand, that which is only being moved [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ μցȟȡȟ]. And it is necessary for every nourishment [ijȢȡĴսȟ] to be digested, and the hot works the digestion; hence everything with a psuchê has heat. (II 4, 416b25-29)

b. The cause of nourishing is self-preservation, the being-alive. The psuchê as functional configuration (ousia according to the logos) acts as telos. This much belabored passage must be interpreted in its larger textual and

_________ instrumental potentials of the body, i.e., the psuchê as telos of the hou heneka causal relation that unifies and stabilizes the configuration of the organism. The causal account of beingalive as self-preservation by the nutritive psuchê is simultaneously the ontology (as better known by nature) of the characteristics of the psuchê orginally analyzed in An. II 1 as better known to us. 77 We interpret these two passages (An. II 4, 416b20-23 and b25-29) as contiguous because the first summarizes the descriptive conceptual framework within which the second passage explicates causally the function of the psuchê in nourishing. This textual sequence was suggested by Torstik (according to Ross 1961, 231) and is also favored by Ross 1961, but not Hicks 1901 and Hamlyn 1968. However, our interpretation does not hinge on the strict textual sequence since it is important to read the passage in the overall context of summing-up the discussion of the nutritive psuchê, which includes generation [ȦȤȥս ȚȢıʍijțȜս Ȝįվ ȗıȟȟșijțȜս]. It is to be expected that both functions, the preservation of the being-alive of the particular ousia and the preservation of life beyond the individual as perpetuation of the species are interdigitated in such concluding passages. 78 The nutritive psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜս] is the primary psuchê because it is “the first and most in-common dunamis of the psuchê by virtue of which being-live [ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ] belongs to all things,” (II 4, 415a23-25).

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biological context.79 It concludes An. II 4 by accounting for how the nutritive psuchê uses food to preserve the being-alive of the organism by means of the instrumental functioning of the body. It has just been argued that the nutritive psuchê nourishes the body by using food to preserve its ousia and prepare the dunameis to be active.80 The issue now remains how the immaterial psuchê can use food (via the bodily functions) to nourish and preserve the organism and its dunameis. Only material entities (the body and its instrumental functions) can act or be affected by efficient or material causal relations. Yet, the bodily functions of digesting food and assimilating nutrients are not sufficient in themselves to account for preserving the being-alive of an organism. This requires sustaining its configuration that brings about its self-maintaining functioning, which in turn requires using nourishment in a precisely controlled way. Aristotle maintains that the psuchê itself (qua ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ) is the active cause of selfnourishment [ijȢջĴȡȟ]—in a way that preserves being-alive. How is this causal role of the psuchê to be conceived since it cannot act as an ordinary efficient cause? As seen in Sec. I, the eidos (here the psuchê) acts via holistic causal re_________ 79 Cf. the commentaries by Hicks 1901, 348-9; Ross 1961, 231-2; Hamlyn 1968, 98-9. In our judgment, these commentaries are confused because they attempt to interpret this analysis of how the nutritive psuchê works only in terms of material-efficient causation. They neglect considering the earlier discussion of the psuchê as cause, viz., as ousia and as telos of hou heneka causation (415b8-20). They also disregard the immediate context that is examining the function of nourishment as preserving the ousia (416b11-15, b17-20). Not taking account of the body being the instrument [ՐȢȗįȟȡȟ] of the psuchê, they overlook that that “by which” the psuchê nourishes the body is the body itself (as the digestive instrument of nourishing)—besides the food. 80 Earlier in II.4 Aristotle explains:

...[A]nd nothing generates itself but preserves [IJօȘıț] itself. So that on the one hand, such archê of the psuchê is a dunamis of the kind to preserve [IJօȘıțȟ] the thing having it [the dunamis] as such [i.e., as having it], on the other hand the nourishment [ijȢȡĴսȟ] prepares [the dunamis] to be active [ԚȟıȢȗı‫ה‬ȟ]; hence what lacks nourishment is not able to exist. (An. II 4, 416b17-20)

Here, Aristotle details the points that characterize self-preservation as a function of the psuchê: (1) that the nourishing-ability is the archê [principle] of the psuchê that is the dunamis for preserving the very entity that has that nourishing-ability—thus defining selfpreservation; (2) that the nourishment prepares the nourishing-ability or the dunameis generally to be active. Thus, it is not the food per se that nourishes the body (the reductionistic viewpoint), but rather the psuchê as nourishing-ability, the life process, does so by means of the food. Finally, (3) existing depends on nourishment, i.e., on self-preservation. (ijȢȡĴս, like the English ‘nourishment’ means both the food and the process of being nourished.) The causal analysis of how the psuchê nourishes the body is provided in the passage quoted above (II 4, 416b25-29).

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lations. The analysis of the box (Sec. II) and the flame (Sec. III) also showed how the functional configuration [ousia according to the logos] is necessary to bring about ongoing existing by organizing the constituent efficient causal relations into a unified, self-sustaining whole. Here this holistic causal account shows how individual instrumental actions (such as digestion) are brought about in living organisms by the ontological relationships analogous to those in artifacts. The efficient causal relations are organized and determined by their roles in the configuration as instruments by which the organism is self-preserving. This organizing and determining of the constituent causal relations is how the immaterial psuchê is able to use its material body and food as instrumental means for preserving the organism as being-alive. The psuchê is the functional configuration of the organism that organizes its subfunctions into the unified cooperative process of being-alive. This organization of the psuchê that brings about its holistic functioning as being-alive does so as the telos that directs the instrumental functioning of the body to achieve self-preservation. The quoted passage (416b25-29) analyzes this extension of the causal account: The psuchê as the organized functioning of self-nutrition constitutes the telos for which the bodily functions and food serve as instruments to preserve its being-alive. c. Body and food, the two instrumental means by which [б] the psuchê nourishes the body: efficient causes transformed into holistc causal relations. The issue, then, is how the immaterial psuchê can be the nourisher [ijȢջĴȡȟ] that preserves the ousia of the organism, and the assertion is that the psuchê accomplishes this via two means “by which [֭]” it nourishes the body. The two means by which the psuchê as nourisher preserves the ousia are compared to the instrumental roles of the hand and the rudder in steering a ship. This analogy shows how efficient causes and effects are directed by their roles in the organization of the whole to bring about goaldirected action. The first “by which [֭],” characterized as being both a mover and also being moved [Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬ȟ Ȝįտ Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ], is the body (acting as instrument of digestion). The second “by which [֭],” characterized as only being moved [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ μցȟȡȟ] is the food. (1) In the first instance, the psuchê uses the body as the mover [Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬ȟ] that acts on food in digesting it. In this process the body is also being moved [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ], but not by interaction with the food (as one might assume). Aristotle compares the process of digestion to the craftsman who is not affected by the matter on which he acts but only changes from idleness into activity [energeia] (An. II 4, 416a34-b3). Instead, the body is being moved [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ] as an instru-

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ment for the sake of self-preservation by the psuchê as active nourisher [ijȢջĴȡȟ]. (It will be seen later how the psuchê acts as an unmoved mover (qua telos) in moving the body as its instrument.) In nourishing the organism, the psuchê ‘uses’ the bodily potentials to replenish the body, including its potentials for digesting and assimilating the nourishment needed to preserve the organism. Thus, the body serves as the instrument for the nourishing activity of the nutritive psuchê that preserves the ousia of the organism. But how does the psuchê ‘use’ the body? Aristotle likens using the action of digestion on food for preserving the organism to the action of the hand on the rudder for steering the ship (preserving its course to the destination). The hand is a moved mover; it is moved for the sake of keeping the ship on course. To achieve this goal, it moves the rudder by which the proper course is maintained. The rudder is only passively moved by the goal-directed action of the steersman’s hand; it is not a goal-directed mover in its own right. Nevertheless, the rudder is also a means by which the ship is steered. Like the hand, the instrumental digestive function is moved by its functional role in the configuration of the nutritive psuchê and thereby moved for the sake of preserving the organism. Thus digestion acts on food as a moved mover and converts it from something unlike the body to something like it so it can be used to preserve its material (by renewal) and activate its potentials. In themselves the bodily activities, moving and being moved as digestion and assimilation, would only represent the results of efficient causal interactions (just as the combustion of wax and oxygen in a flame). As such, they would not account for the ongoing self-preservation of an organism. These bodily processes preserve the existing of the organism only if they function in a specific, organized manner, as determined by the species-typical functional configuration [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ]. This configuration is the psuchê (as first analyzed conceptually in An. II 1, 412b425). Its role as configuration, then, accounts for how the psuchê acts as the nourisher [ijȢջĴȡȟ, 416b21-22] of the body, viz., by being the functional organization of the bodily potentials that transform food and assimilate it to preserve the organism. (2) Food, the second means “by which [֭]” the psuchê nourishes, is “only moved [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ μցȟȡȟ]” by the psuchê using the instrumental bodily potential: “the hot works the digestion” (An. II 4, 416b28-29). (In modern terms, digestive enzymes act on food to transform it into nutrients that can be assimilated.) Nourishment, however, exists as such only in relation to an organism for which it can function to preserve the ousia—

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and this relationship is not incidental [ȡ՘ Ȝįijչ IJȤμȖıȖșȜցȣ] (An. II 4, 416b9-11). Again, the species-configuration is the prime factor that determines what can serve as food by being digested and replenishing the body.81 Thus, the nutritive functioning of the psuchê concretely illustrates the causal interdependence of instrumental functioning and speciesconfiguration. Only the functioning of the body organized in a speciestypical way by the configuration of the psuchê (its ti ên einai) can preserve the existing of an organism as what it is.82 This organizing configuration of the psuchê, then, accounts for how the bodily functions can be used as the instrument for preserving its being-alive.

3. The psuchê is the cause of existing as ousia and as the telos of hou heneka causation. By presenting the causal framework that accounts for how the relations between psuchê and body bring about self-nourishment, the preceding analysis completes the establishment of the ontological paradigm of the psuchê as ousia. The causal account constitutes the dynamic ontology (better known by nature) of the characteristics and relations of the psuchê and body that were analyzed conceptually in An. II 1 (as better known to us).83 Earlier in the chapter (An. II 4, 415b8-28) the psuchê is characterized as being a cause in three senses: (1) as mover [ՑȚıȟ ԭ ȜտȟșIJțȣ], (2) as that for-the-sake-of-which [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį] and (3) as the ousia of living bodies [ԭ ȡ՘IJտį ij‫׭‬ȟ ԚμȦփȥȧȟ IJȧμչijȧȟ]. In digesting food as well as in using the resulting nutrients to preserve the ousia of the organism, the psuchê acts as the mover using the body as instrument. In Sec. IV.C the mechanisms are _________ 81 Thus, the double activity of the psuchê in nutrition provides refined differentiation of the material-bodily activities of digestion proper (guided by the psuchê) from the functionalconfigurational activities necessary for preserving the psuchê as the being-alive of the organism itself (in modern terms, maintaining the homeostatic state). It also shows how outside resources are incorporated into the organism while maintaining it as what it is—the feature that distinguishes organisms having the source of motion in themselves from artifacts. 82 Just as sight (the ti ên einai of an eye) is the functioning of an eye in accord with the logos [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] (An. II 1, 412b18-20), so too is nourishing (the primary ti ên einai of the body as alive) the functioning of the bodily processes in accord with the logos. 83 This exemplifies the methodological principle (cf. Sec. I.E) of how the holistic causal account that grounds the essential characteristics and resolves the aporiai thereby provides the ontological paradigm of ousia as better known by nature. The example also shows how the three ontological aproriai are inseparably interrelated: how the stable integrity of the organism is maintained by compensatory changing of the material constituents, how the species-typical configuration is essential for the existing of the particular entity, and how the organism as an indivisible whole determines and is dependent on its distinguishable parts.

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examined through which the psuchê acts as mover by being the telos for the sake of which the bodily dunameis are active and by which they are directed as such instruments. We have seen repeatedly that the psuchê as ousia is the cause and archê of the existing itself, the being-alive of living things. However, this passage makes the connection especially clear between ousia (as ousia according to the logos), its existing as entelecheia and how this relates as telos to the body as instrument: That it [the psuchê] is [cause] as ousia is clear; for ousia is the cause of [ongoing] existing [įԼijտį ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț] for all things, and being-alive [ijր Ș‫׆‬ȟ] is the existing [ijր ıՂȟįț] for living things [ijȡ‫ה‬ȣ Ș‫׭‬IJț], and the cause [įԼijտį] and principle [archê] of this is the psuchê. Furthermore, the logos of the potentially existent [ijȡ‫ ף‬İȤȟչμıț Րȟijȡȣ] is entelecheia. And it is evident that the psuchê is also cause as hou heneka [that for-the-sake-of-which]; for just as thought [ȟȡ‫ף‬ȣ] acts for the sake of something [ԥȟıȜչ ijȡȤ], so does nature also, and this is its telos. And in living things the psuchê is such [i.e., a telos as being-alive] according to nature; because all the natural bodies are instruments [ՐȢȗįȟį] of the psuchê, like the ones of animals, so also the ones of plants are existents [Րȟijį] for the sake of the psuchê [ԥȟıȜį ij‫׆‬ȣ ȦȤȥ‫׆‬ȣ]; An. II 4, 415b12-20

As the ontological grounding of the original conceptual analysis in An. II 1, Aristotle now reiterates in causal terms how the psuchê is ousia according to the logos [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ]. As such, it is the ti ên einai as the species-configuration of the bodily efficient-causal interactions that organizes them into the self-maintaining functioning of being-alive. In this way the psuchê is the life-sustaining functioning of the organism as a whole, its existing. The passage further analyzes the indivisible, dynamic unity of body and psuchê here by characterizing it as the unity of dunamis and entelecheia. The potentially existent is the living body capable of serving as instrument [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ], while the logos of the same living body is its ousia [according to this logos], the species-configuration whose unity exists as entelecheia (again as first analyzed in An. II 1 and to be discussed further in Sec. IV). As seen in the causal framework of nutrition, the account of how the psuchê uses the body for nourishing the organism depends on considering the psuchê as hou heneka cause [for-the-sake-of-which] and telos [goal state]. Nourishing the body or steering a ship depends on an overarching (holistic) causal context, the preservation of the ousia (the being-alive of the organism or the ship’s destination). This is the telos for the sake of which the constituent efficient causes are organized in the species-typical way and function to fulfill their roles in overall self-maintenance. The next section examines how hou heneka causation brings about the necessary

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relationship between the psychic ti ên einai as ousia according to the logos and the bodily potentials as its instruments. Such a cause is essential for the stability of functional unities, thus for the ousia of artifacts and of organisms. The existing of such unities is inherently dynamic because they depend on the cooperative functioning of the parts within the whole. Modern scientific insights are especially helpful here for clarifying the role of this long disregarded and shortsightedly discredited cause of stability in dynamic systems and for illuminating the mechanisms by which it works. This is topic of the next section IV. IV. The Dynamic Stability of Ousia as Entelecheia in Organisms and Artifacts Analysis of the ongoing existing of organisms as being-alive has now shown how this existing is constituted and caused by their ti ên einai reconceived functionally as the continuous process of self-maintenance. To account for the adaptable dynamic stability and persisting identity of being-alive as this process of continuous self-renewal, we must also account for the dynamic organizing configuration [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] that brings about the self-sustaining functioning. The stability and holistic unity of artifacts is brought about by the interdependent functional fit of the mutually enabling functional parts organized by their speciesconfiguration. We must now show how the corresponding unity, stability and self-sustaining functional organization is brought about causally by the more dynamic nature of the species-configuration in organisms. This is accounted for by the dynamic existing of the functional configuration as entelecheia. We interpret this account in three steps: (A) Descriptive analysis: the functional configuration [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] is the unified nexus of causal relations that brings about the cooperative functioning of the ti ên einai as a self-maintaining unity. This configuration itself exists as entelecheia constantly actualized out of the interacting component dunameis as the persisting configuration that it already is. (B) Causal account: the unity of entelecheia is continuously actualized by merger of its enabling potentials within the holistically unified speciespattern. (C) Holistic-causal account: the species-typical pattern of the entelecheia is determined and stabilized by hou heneka [for-the-sake-of-which] causal relations including “hypothetical necessity.”

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A. The Psuchê as Entelecheia Exists as the Continuous Holistic Actualization of the Species-configuration [Ousia according to the Logos] 1. As “first entelecheia” the psuchê provides the uninterrupted continuity of being-alive. An. II 1 characterizes entelecheia as having two senses, corresponding to knowledge [ԚʍțIJijսμș] and thinking [ȚıȧȢı‫ה‬ȟ], both of which are entelecheia but in different ways (412a9-11, a21-23). This distinction is very important for characterizing the existing of the psuchê as eidos and ousia by specifying that they are first entelecheia: Hence [considering the double sense of entelecheia] the psuchê is the first entelecheia [Ԛȟijıȝջȥıțį ԭ ʍȢօijș] of a natural body having life [Șȧս] potentially. And such [a body] is one that can serve as an instrument [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ]. (II 1, 412a27-29).

The entelecheia constituting the psuchê is “first” because the activity of being-alive (which comprises the psuchê) cannot be interrupted, but continues in sleep as in waking (II 1, 412a21-27). The psuchê is not an activity of the organism that can occur intermittently, like thinking [ȚıȧȢı‫ה‬ȟ], and for which the body as substrate could provide the continuity. Instead, it is the psuchê that provides the continuity of being-alive.84 Therefore, existing as first entelecheia of instrumental parts [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ] is what is common [Ȝȡțȟցȟ] to every psuchê (II 1, 412b4-6). 2. As the functional configuration, entelecheia is self-perpetuating. Like a flame, being-alive exists as a self-maintaining process that cannot be interrupted without ceasing to exist. The functional configuration [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] that integrates and organizes the causal components of this process into its holistic functioning as a unity is itself the continuous product of the same self-maintaining processes that it brings about. In an organism, the anatomical structures appear to provide a stable basis that serves as its configuration enabling it to function self-maintainingly. Yet, even these relatively stable components are constantly renewed and

_________ 84 In regard to the continuity of existing, the psuchê as first entelecheia is analogous to epistêmê, which as a ԤȠțȣ [disposition] exists as a kind of entelecheia even when its dispositional potentials are not actively being exercised (as ȚıȧȢı‫ה‬ȟ). First entelecheia, then, is contrasted to entelecheia as the activities of thinking or perceiving, which are entelecheia as intermittent actualizations of dispositional potentials (cf. An. II 5). These are not continuously or immediately involved in preserving the ousia as being-alive in the same way that the primary psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜռ ȦȤȥս] is.

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reshaped by the overall physiological process.85 Thus, the configuration itself also exists dynamically. How does such a nexus of functional relations account for the ongoing existing and persisting identity of an organism? The configuration is comprised of the same functional relations that constitute the cooperatively self-maintaining functioning of the ti ên einai. Thus, there is no additional substrate to account for the existing of the configuration. The unified configuration itself constantly comes about as entelecheia, the ongoing actualization of the potentials of the parts. In fact, the functional configuration is unified as the species-patterned, self-perpetuating nexus of the mutually enabling causal interactions of the parts. This species-pattern determines how the subfunctions (the ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ of the An. II 1 definitions) fit together to bring about such a unity. Such a functional configuration is selfperpetuating like the self-propagating form of a wave, which is both the cause of further propagation of the wave and its continuous product. Thus, like a wave (or a flame), the configuration determined by the pattern of functional fit among its parts provides the dynamic stability of the organism only as long as the self-maintaining process persists. This functional configuration is nothing besides the unified, stably patterned process of existing as self-maintenance. Nevertheless, the continuously actualized configuration constitutes the persisting unity and identity of the individual organism, as long as it is continuously actualized by being-alive. 3. Entelecheia embodies the species-typicality of the configuration. However, this reciprocally enabling relationship between functioning and configuration only works for configurations with specific organizational patterns. The species-typical actualization of entelecheia sets it apart from energeia and it is that at which energeia aims.86 Entelecheia is the unity _________ 85 The seemingly more persistent anatomical components are only instrumental means of aiding and spatially stabilizing the real basis of existing and persisting identity, viz., being-alive as the self-maintaining process itself—together with the equally dynamic configuration that enables it. Without these processes the body is merely a corpse. 86 The relationship between energeia and entelecheia is succinctly stated in Metaph. ĭ 8: “energeia ... aims at entelecheia [IJȤȟijıտȟıț ʍȢրȣ ijռȟ Ԛȟijıȝջȥıțįȟ]” (1050a22-23). This short passage is part of the detailed discussion (Metaph. ĭ 8, 1050a3-1050b2) in which Aristotle explicates the analogical extrapolation of the dunamis/energeia relationship from motion to existing (stated at ĭ 6, 1048a35-b9) and brings it to completion by relating energeia to entelecheia (as projected in ĭ 1, 1045b32-46a2). In relation to matter as dunamis, ousia [beingness] exists as energeia, i.e., as the being-at-work of matter. In the same sense the eidos and the telos of generation are energeia as the being-at-work of the respective matter as dunamis (1050a3-16). However, insofar as ousia is the telos for the sake of which generation occurs (ĭ 8, 1050a7-15), ousia exists as entelecheia, i.e., as the self-sufficient and stable function/work [ergon] according to the eidos, namely as a particular entity of a certain kind. In contrast to energeia, the concept of entelecheia expresses existing as spe-

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according to the eidos [ԭ Ȝįijո ijր ıՂİȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį] and exists as such or not at all. Any “more or less” is only possible for composite ousia with matter.87 _________ cies-typical unity, ‘the holding in the telos’. Metaph. ĭ 8 summarizes this relationship of energeia to entelecheia: For the function [ԤȢȗȡȟ] is the telos, but the function [ԤȢȗȡȟ] is energeia [rather than dunamis], which is why the name ‘energeia’ is said in respect to the function [ԤȢȗȡȟ] and aims [IJȤȟijıտȟıț] at entelecheia. (1050a21-23)

Thus, insofar as the telos is the issue, i.e., the unitary function [ergon], energeia (the beingat-work and named after ԤȢȗȡȟ) aims at entelecheia, since entelecheia denotes the entity as species-typical unity (i.e., in its telos) while in the conception of energeia neither unity nor species-typicality is inherent. (Cf. next n. for the discussion of the same topic in Metaph. H 2-3.) In effect, Aristotle defines entelecheia here as the product [work, ergon] where matter is at work [energeia] for the sake of the telos and thus exists as the result of hou heneka causation. (‘Ergon’, like ‘work’ in English, means both the product and the exercise of work, i.e., function.) 87 The conception of entelecheia is worked out most thoroughly in Metaph. H where the causal account of ousia is given in terms of dunamis, energeia and entelecheia. The difference of ousia as energeia and ousia as entelecheia are discussed in H 2-3—though this important argument is generally not recognized in the literature. Metaph. H 2 deals of ousia as energeia in relation to matter as dunamis, i.e., as the being-at-work of the matter. This chapter deals with how the continuous change of the matter into differentiae [İțįĴȡȢįվ] (like the threshold or lintel of a house) occurs by efficient causation according to the logos (definition), i.e., being-at-work with respect to position, synthesis, mixing, etc. (e.g., 1042b15-31, 1043a4-14). But the differentiae are not ousia, not even if all are combined (1043a4-5). They are not self-sufficient entities, but instead can only exercise their functional role within ousia as a functional whole. What is analogous to ousia in differentiae is that both are predicated of matter as energeia according to the definition (1043a5-14). In Metaph. H 3, ousia as entelecheia is explicitly contrasted with the energeia of H 2. Ousia as entelecheia does not come to be by continous change like the differentiae; it is nothing material (1043b14-18). It is eternal [Ԑǹİțȡȟ] or destructible without being [in the process of being] destroyed [ĴȚįȢijսȟ ԔȟıȤ ijȡ‫ ף‬ĴȚıտȢıIJȚįț] and generatable without being [in the process of being] generated [ȗıȗȡȟջȟįț ԔȟıȤ ijȡ‫ ף‬ȗտȗȟıIJȚįț], i.e., in either case not by the usual continuous process of change. Entelecheia [holding in the telos] is the unity according to the eidos [ԭ Ȝįijո ijր ıՂİȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį], and exists all-or-nothing, just as the definition [ՍȢțIJμցȣ] or the ti ên einai, where nothing can be added or subtracted without destroying them (1043b32-44a11). The task, then, is to understand how entelecheia as species-configuration exists, how it is constituted in some way out of its differentiae [İțįĴȡȢįտ] as parts and nevertheless is immaterial as an indivisible, all-or-nothing unity—and in which sense the differentiae as energeia aim [IJȤȟijıտȟıț] at entelecheia (cf. preceding n. 86). As will be shown, the answer lies in the functional roles of the differentiae that can be exercised only within the unity of entelecheia. Because of the functional nature of existing of ousia, the causal account of entelecheia depends on the for-the-sake-of-which relations [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį] as the functionally organizing cause in which the interacting potentials are active for the sake of the telos (a kind of aiming at the telos)—and thus are determined by the telos. (See Sec. IV.C).

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Organisms are good examples for such unity as entelecheia: To be viable, a species-configuration must organize the functional components of an organism into a holistically integrated process of self-maintenance (as the unified functioning of the ti ên einai discussed in the preceding Sec. III). The same species-patterned functional fit among the components brings about the continuous actualization [entelecheia] of their organized relations as the holistic unity constituting the configuration (ousia according to the logos as first entelecheia). As ousia according to the logos, then, the functioning of the ti ên einai and its enabling configuration existing as entelecheia are one and the same process (though they denote different characteristics of it). Only certain patterns of configurational organization meet both these requirements of jointly enabling self-maintenance and stable existing, both necessary for survival—which is why species-types are distinct and stable. This accounts for how the configuration exists dynamically as the continuous actualization of entelecheia and nevertheless remains stable in accord with its species-typical pattern as telos. (The mechanism that accounts for this stability by hou heneka causal relations is discussed below in Sec. IV.C.) In this way, then, entelecheia constitutes the persisting unity and identity of the individual organism, as long as it is actualized by being-alive.88 B. The Unity of Entelecheia as Species-typical Merger of Potentials—the Ontological Basis of Physical Causal Relations Aristotle designates the unity of entelecheia as authoritative [ȜȤȢտȧȣ] (An. II 1, 412b8-9) and characterizes its special kind of unity in a key passage in Metaph. H 3 (1043b32-44a11). Entelecheia, he argues, is an all-ornothing unity as “ousia according to the eidos” [ԭ Ȝįijո ijր ıՂİȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį]. Thus entelecheia is not a unity by having no parts like a point and not a quantitative unity like a monad. Instead, its unity (being that of the ousia it constitutes) derives from the species-pattern of its functional configuration _________ A longstanding debate exists about the distinction or sameness of energeia and entelecheia. (See, e.g., Blair 1992, Cleary 1998). Much of this debate hinges on the question of whether there was a development in Aristotle’s use of the concepts and the distinction between them. Our concern, by contrast, is entirely with the systematic and ontological role of entelecheia (as distinct from energeia) in accounting for the unity and stability of the enmattered eidos in the Metaph. and De An. From this perspective the distinction between energeia and entelecheia made in Metaph. H 2-3 is especially crucial. 88 Since specific types [ıՀİș] of functional configurations also usually have characteristic spatial arrangements [μȡȢĴįտ], we often fail to distinguish these two senses of ‘form’— particularly in regard to perception. Therefore it is easy to overlook that it is the functional nature that ultimately determines what kind of thing it is. Aristotles’s frequent use of “μȡȢĴս Ȝįվ ıՂİȡȣ” draws attention to this distinction.

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and so is also not material in itself. Qua functional, the configuration exists as the nexus of interactions organized into the species-typical whole that brings about the function of self-perpetuation. As seen in the box example, the stability of ousia also depends on the all-or-nothing unity of its configuration as entelecheia despite being composed of distinguishable interacting parts. Thus, these two key characteristics of entelecheia, its unity and its species-typical stability, which are co-essential for the ongoing existing of ousia, are inseparably linked in the underlying speciesconfiguration and are both accounted for by the same hou heneka [for-thesake-of-which] causal relations. On the one hand, this holistic (all-or-nothing) unity results from the functional interdependence of whole and parts necessary for the organism to function as a self-maintaining unity. This functional unity comes about because of the interdependence of the roles of the parts and the organizing configuration in sustaining the unified whole. On the other hand, the functional unity of the whole depends on the ontological unity of the entelecheia itself as the stable merger of the interacting potentials. Entelecheia exists as the steady actualizing merger of the component potentials into the joint telos state of their interactions. Such merger of interacting potentials is the ontological unity that constitutes the ground of all causal relations— both efficient and holistic, though not in the same way (cf. Sec. IV.C). Thus, it underlies the unity of organisms as entities both as their ongoing existing and their persisting identity. (Because of its role in the causal grounding of ousia, as well as motion, we summarize the ontology of efficient causal relations as presented in Phys. III 1-3 and its extension to holistic causation in Metaph. 4 1-8 in nn. 89 and 90.)89 _________ 89 The argument in Phys. III 1-3 elucidates the ontological mechanisms of the causal relations responsible for motion/change [ȜտȟșIJțȣ] that in modified form are also the basis of the dynamic but stable existing of ousia. In causal interactions two dunameis (those of mover [ȜțȟșijțȜցȟ] and movable [Ȝțȟșijցȟ]) are actualized by merger into a single energeia of both [μտįȟ ԭ ԐμĴȡ‫ה‬ȟ ԚȟջȢȗıțį] and a common entelecheia of both [Ԛȟijıȝջȥıțįȟ ԐμĴȡ‫ה‬ȟ] which exist in the thing affected (Phys. III 3, 202a13-21, esp. a15-16, a18). This common actualization as a single energeia of two dunameis from separate sources is the ontological basis of efficient causation. That is to say, such causal relations exist physically in this way—in contrast to causation in the logical sense of demonstrative explanations as analyzed in the APo. The distinction between energeia and entelecheia in the analysis of motion is important for the extension by analogy to the existing of ousia. Entelecheia [actualization holding in a telos] is how the motion [ȜțȟսIJțȣ] itself exists as a stable ongoing process, e.g., existing as a particular alteration rather than another motion such as growth or housebuilding (III 1 201a11-19). As the particular motion, the merging dunameis are in their common telos as long as the motion exists. By contrast, the merger as energeia is the being moved [Ȝțȟı‫ה‬IJȚįț] of the movable [Ȝțȟșijցȟ] from one state to another, i.e., toward another telos that

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As Metaph. ĭ argues, the merger of interacting dunameis as their joint energeia and entelecheia accounts not only for individual efficient causal relations. Such joint actualizations of species-organized potentials also account for the unifying ontological relation between matter and eidos as dunamis and entelecheia and hence how the configuration of the psuchê exists dynamically.90 The essential features of such merging interactions _________ is separate from the energeia and entelecheia of the motion itself. As energeia the motion is not yet in the telos toward which it is moving; rather it is the incomplete [Ԑijıȝսȣ] common energeia of the movable [Ȝțȟșijցȟ] and moving ability [ȜțȟșijțȜցȟ]. The entelecheia and energeia of a motion are inseparable, however, since being moved [Ȝțȟı‫ה‬IJȚįț] as the energeia of the motion occurs only as long as the entelecheia exists (III 1, 201b5-7). If the nature of existing is conceived dynamically (as most clearly shown by organisms), stable existing itself—not only change and coming to be—requires ongoing causation. Just as the entelecheia of motion accounts for its stable existing as an ongoing motion of a particular kind, the entelecheia of ousia accounts for its stable existing as an ongoing unified entity of a particular kind. Again, just as in motions, this unity and ongoing existing of ousia as entelecheia comes about by the merger of interacting dunameis (the instrumental potentials of the body as ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ) into single energeiai of particular functions. The potentials of these functions are merged into the single entelecheia of the being-alive of the organism as a whole. In themselves these interactions might be considered incomplete energeia [Ԑijıȝսȣ] like motions [ȜțȟսIJıțȣ], e.g., the metabolic processes, which Aristotle describes as using food (An. II 4, 415a25-6, 416b20-23). However, since they exist as part of the overall configuration according to the eidos (as entelecheia) they are in their telos as functions. There is no other telos (as in motion) separate from their roles in the unified functioning of the whole, whose telos is the preserving of the organism that already exists. The interactions in ousia, therefore, are praxeis [ʍȢչȠıțȣ, actions], i.e., in their telos state as functions while nevertheless in ongoing activity. (Cf. also n. 90 on praxeis.) They are functional parts of the body as instrument [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ], acting for the sake of the other parts as praxeis [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį ʍȢֻȠțȣ ijțȣ] and together as composite body for the sake of the psuchê [ij‫׆‬ȣ ȦȤȥ‫׆‬ȣ ԥȟıȜıȟ] as the being-alive. (Cf. PA I 5, 645b14-33 for an explicit discussion.) Thus, while motions [ȜțȟսIJıțȣ] as incomplete energeiai are the cause of change, praxeis as energeia haplôs [ԑʍȝ‫׭‬ȣ] are the (co-)causes of ongoing stable existing and part of hou heneka causation. (Cf. An. III 7, 431a6-7 for the use of ԑʍȝ‫׭‬ȣ in this sense.) (This analogy between change and stable existing is one of Aristotle’s great ontological insights, which comes to full fruition in his functional conception of ousia, cf. Metaph. ĭ 6 and n. 90.) There has been extensive philological analysis and debate regarding how motion [ȜտȟșIJțȣ Ԑijıȝսȣ] and praxeis [ԚȟջȢȗıțį ԑʍȝ‫׭‬ȣ] are related and expressed by different kinds of verbs and tenses—esp. in reference to Metaph. ĭ 6 (cf. Ackrill 1965, Penner 1970; and many others). This work is interesting but not helpful in the present context. Our analysis, instead, is based on the usage and significance of the terms in regard to the ontological problem under consideration, in particular as applied in PA I 5. We return to the parallel problem addressed in Metaph. ĭ 6 later in the section. 90 Metaph. ĭ extends the ontological account of efficient causal relations that ground motion and change (ĭ 1-5) to the holistic causation of the existing of ousia and its stability (ĭ 6-9). In both instances these relations are analyzed in terms of dunamis, energeia and entelecheia (cf. n. 89 and n. 87). Metaph. H, discussing the matter/form relation of ousia, takes these concepts and their causal implications for granted as standing for matter and form. Only Metaph. ĭ works out the ontological basis of the causal grounding for the mat-

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_________ ter/form relation by building on the corresponding analysis of motion given in Phys. III 1-3. Energeia as praxis [ʍȢչȠțȣ, action] and energeia as ousia are considered to be analogous to energeia of the dunamis/energeia relation of motion (Metaph. ĭ 6, 1048a30-b9). This analogy is grounded in the dynamic nature of existing common to motion [ȜտȟșIJțȣ], praxis and ousia (based on their dunameis), while their distinction and transformation depends on the different role of the telos. With each step the telos is more integral to the interaction of the dunameis itself as the analogy moves from pure motion to the fully autotelic nature of the dynamic stability of ousia. The telos toward which a motion moves (qua energeia) lies outside the entelecheia of the motion (the existing of the motion itself). By contrast, the telos of ousia existing as entelecheia (or of its component functional praxeis) is inseparable from the telos of joint actualization of interacting dunameis as entelecheia that simultaneously constitutes the existing of the ousia. In praxeis the interacting dunameis are dependent on the common telos (the self-preservation of the ousia) as that for the sake of which they function and with which they form a functional unity. In the case of ousia, existing in the inherent telos state (as entelecheia) is the holistic causal ground of the self-suffient, species-typical unity of the interacting parts. By holding in this telos of self-preservation (as entelecheia), the entity continues to exist as the ousia it is. (Cf. n. 87 on Metaph. ǿ 3.) Metaph. ĭ 6, 1048b18-35 presents this telos-based distinction by analogy for motion as incomplete energeia [Ԑijıȝսȣ] and for praxis as energeia haplôs. In Metaph. ĭ 7 and ĭ 8 the analysis is then extended to ousia as energeia and as entelecheia with the telos fully integrated. Entelecheia, i.e., the species-typical unity (holding in the telos), determines when each thing [ԥȜįIJijȡȟ] fully exists potentially—namely when nothing has to be changed for the existing as the entelecheia of which it is the dunamis. It comes to be [merely] from thought [Ԑʍր İțįȟȡտįȣ] when it is wished (ĭ 7, 1048b37-1049a7). This argument emphasizes the necessary fit of the corresponding dunameis in order to be actual as entelecheia. Moreover, the ensuing entelecheia is self-sufficient, based on the functional fitting of its dunameis alone, in natural entities as well as artifacts, when nothing prevents their existing from outside or inside, respectively (1049a7-18). A dunamis, then, is not the ability to be at work as energeia unless all the conditions are met for its joint actualization with other dunameis as a particular form of entelecheia. Unlike in motion, for ousia there is no outside telos other than sustaining the ousia (as entelecheia) itself. In effect, this exemplifies the holistic causation of existing, viz., that the whole (as entelecheia) determines the parts (existing as dunameis) and the parts enable each other and the whole. This ontological priority of ousia as energeia and entelecheia over dunamis is the topic of ĭ 8, 1050a3-b6. “... [W]hat is posterior in generation is prior in eidos and in ousia...” (1050a4-5). In generation the telos is posterior in time insofar as it is the product that comes to be. But ontologically, the telos as ousia and eidos is prior to the dunameis (even in generation). The telos is the organizing principle, the eidos as ti ên einai and ousia according to the logos for the sake of which the dunameis interact and sustain the entity as what it already is. Therefore Aristotle can assert that energeia aims at entelecheia (1050a2123., cf. n. 86). This is the core principle underlying holistic causation. (See the following subsection.) Thus, the progression of the analogy of Metaph. 4 6 can be interpreted as extending and incorporating the ontological account of efficient causation of motion into holistic causation of praxeis and ousia. The scope of this paper only allows indicating how the text supports our approach to this topic of accounting for the stability and all-or-nothing unity of holistic composite enti-

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between dunameis clarify the nature of functional relationships: (1) The merging dunameis lose their independent characteristics and identity as component parts and are subsumed as instruments for their functional roles in the configuration of the merged state. Thus, the unity of the interacting potentials as entelecheia is both the product of their merger and the unifying relationship that holds the resulting unity together as its optimally merged state (telos). These relationships are well exemplified today by a covalent chemical bond, e.g., in a carbon dioxide molecule. The potentials of the interacting atoms (represented by the component electrons) merge into the shared orbitals that comprise the bond uniting the parts into the holistically unified molecule. The unity of the molecule, as entelecheia, is the product of the interaction and also what holds the merged atoms together. Similarly, the characteristics of the individual atoms are markedly different from those of the stably unified molecule. In the same way the orginal interacting dunameis have different characteristics from those of their common entelecheia. Carbon dioxide is very different from its constituent atoms without anything else being added; correspondingly any entelecheia is different from its constituent dunameis without anything else being added. (Again, because of the importance for the ontological unity of ousia, an analysis of energeia and entelecheia as presented causally in Phys. III 1-3 and ontologically grounded in Metaph. ĭ 1 is summarized in the following two footnotes.)91,92 _________ ties. For a more detailed analysis of the nature of dunamis/energeia/entelecheia relations cf. Miller & Miller 1996). 91 Phys. III 1-3 (as in n. 89) again provides the analysis of the ontological mechanisms underlying the merger of dunameis in ȜտȟșIJțȣ [motion or change, etc.], which corresponds closely to the nature of the chemical bond just discussed. The unity of the single common energeia of interacting dunameis is based on their being relative to each other [ʍȢրȣ ijț]: The dunamis for causing moving [ȜțȟșijțȜցȟ] exists as such only in relation to the correlative dunamis for being moved [Ȝțȟșijցȟ]. Conversely, the dunamis for being moved [Ȝțȟșijցȟ] exists as such only in relation to the correlative dunamis by agency of which [ՙʍր ijȡ‫ף‬ ȜțȟșijțȜȡ‫ ]ף‬it can be moved (Phys. III 1 200b28-32). The merging can occur because the active mover [Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬ȟ] is also movable [Ȝțȟșijցȟ] and moves [Ȝțȟı‫ ]ה‬by being itself in motion [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ], i.e., as a moved mover (III 2, 202a3-5; also III 1, 201a19-25, esp. a22-25). The being active [ԚȟıȢȗı‫ה‬ȟ] of the mover is the causing-to-move [Ȝțȟı‫ה‬ȟ] and this occurs by contact [ȚտȠțȣ] with the movable, so that the mover is at the same time affected [ʍչIJȥıțȟ] (III 2, 202a5-7). Thus, mover and movable form a single, common energeia in the movable. Aristotle concludes: “Therefore, motion [ȜտȟșIJțȣ] is the entelecheia of the movable [Ȝțȟșijցȟ] qua movable and this accompanies the contact of that which can cause moving [ȜțȟșijțȜցȟ] so that at the same time it is also affected [ʍչIJȥıțȟ]” (Phys. III 2, 202a7-9). The entelecheia in the movable, therefore, is both a product of the merger of dunameis and also the way in which the particular motion is stable as such, e.g., as an alteration or growth. The entelecheia of entities (as ousia) also exists as a merger of the interacting dunameis of its

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(2) The merger of dunameis in a functional relation involves concomitant reciprocal determination of the original openness of the potentials. Each potential is open to being actualized in a spectrum of ways depend_________ parts, but leads to stability of the whole rather than change because such instrumental dunameis are in their telos functioning to sustain the entity as what it is. The praxeis of organisms are a prime example. 92 The ultimate ontological ground of the relational nature of interacting dunameis and the oneness of their common energeia and entelecheia is presented in Metaph.ĭ 1. In the key passage at ĭ 1, 1046a19-29 Aristotle argues that the correlative potentials to act and to be acted on [İփȟįμțȣ ijȡ‫ ף‬ʍȡțı‫ה‬ȟ Ȝįվ ʍչIJȥıțȟ] exist, on the one hand, as one single dunamis [թȣ μտį İփȟįμțȣ]. To be capable [İȤȟįijցȟ], in fact, encompasses the unity of both the active and passive dunamis. On the other hand, the correlative dunameis to act and to be acted on exist as different [թȣ Ԕȝȝș] insofar as they are in different entities. This distinction is exemplified by oil being the burnable [ȜįȤIJijցȟ], while the heat (which burns the oil) is in what is capable of heating [Ԛȟ ij‫ ׮‬ȚıȢμįȟijțȜ‫]׮‬. Yet, even when the active and passive dunameis exist in separate entities (before interacting and merging into a single energeia), they are still ontologically interdependent because they only exist as dunameis relative to each other (as discussed in n. 91). However, when the dunameis are naturally united [IJȤμʍջĴȤȜıȟ] (as ‘İȤȟįijցȟ’ is defined in the following quote), they do not act on each other because they are a unity [ԥȟ]. (Cf. Heidegger 1981, 103-107.) The core passage reads: It is evident then that it [dunamis] exists in one sense as a single dunamis of acting and being acted on (for it is capable [İȤȟįijցȟ] by its having [ij‫ ׮‬Ԥȥıțȟ į՘ijց] the dunamis of being acted on as well as [Ȝįվ...Ȝįվ] by [having] another by agency of it [ij‫ ׮‬Ԕȝȝȡ ՙʍ‫ ׶‬į՘ijȡ‫[ ]ף‬i.e., by agency of which the passive dunamis is acted on]), but in another sense it [the dunamis] exists as different. ... [But] insofar as it is naturally together [IJȤμʍջĴȤȜıȟ], it is not acted on by agency of itself, for it is one [ԥȟ, a unity] and not another. (1046a19-22, a27-29)

An adequate discussion of Aristotle’s conception of how correlative dunameis exist as a unity as well as being different is beyond the scope of this paper. However, several points pertinent to our present concerns need mention: (1) The interactive relation of dunameis in different entities (or in one entity qua different), i.e., their functional fitting together, is based on the inherent ontological oneness of being capable [İȤȟįijցȟ] from which potentials to act and to be acted on derive. Being capable [İȤȟįijցȟ] of being acted on inherently determines the nature of the (fitting) dunamis by agency of which it can be acted on, and this functional fit is what constitutes the interaction. (2) The single [common] energeia actualized by the merger of interacting dunameis is grounded on the same ontologically oneness of such dunameis. The functional fit that enables the interaction of correlative dunameis also results in their unified merger. This holds not only for the incomplete [Ԑijıȝսȣ] energeia of motions, but also for energeia haplôs (praxeis)—and thus for the ongoing existing of composite ousia [IJփȟȡȝȡȣ ȡ՘IJտį] as the unity of the common entelecheia of the interacting dunameis of its instrumental parts. (3) The all-or-nothing unity of entelecheia is based on the fitting merger of correlative dunameis into joint energeiai. As entelecheia the fit of the merging potentials is determined by the species-configuration of the eidos qua ti ên einai (as ousia according to the logos). The functional fit among the parts inherent in the speciesconfiguration accounts for the unity and stability of the merged potentials in motion (entelecheia as ԐȝȝȡտȧIJțȣ or ȜտȟșIJțȣ, etc.) as well as in the psuchê, entelecheia as being-alive (and generally in ousia as entelecheia of existing).

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ing on what it interacts with (though not in unlimited ways, cf. Metaph. ǿ 4, 1044a25-32). The mutual molding into a shared jointly determined state constitutes the grasping fit [ȚտȠțȣ] of their interaction that merges them into a unity. Thus the single entelecheia comes about by the reciprocally determined fit of the interacting potentials into a cooperative, dynamic configuration.93 Aristotle illustrates this unifying fit between interacting dunameis with heat and the burnable oil (Metaph. ĭ 1, 1046a19-27, esp. a2227) or the single process of teaching and learning (in spite of the fact that to teach and to learn are not the same) (Phys. III 3, 202b5-22, esp. b5-8, b16-22). (3) The functionally interdependent unity of dunameis by merger as a joint entelecheia is inseparable from the stability of the merged state. The reciprocal functional fit of interacting dunameis determines and enables their merger. What constitutes the proper fit and how such a merger occurs depends on the stability of the resulting unity from how the functioning of the parts fit together (fulfill their roles) in the overall functional speciesconfiguration as entelecheia. Aristotle accounts for the unity and stability on the basis of the species-typical pattern of the outcome as telos. Phenomenologically he justifies this on the basis that in nature things come to be in the same way “always or for the most part.”94 In fact then, the unified species-typical pattern [ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] of the functional configuration persists as a stable unity precisely because of its dynamic existing as the continuous actualization of its enabling potentials—rather than despite its dynamic manner of existing. Therefore, organisms existing by ongoing self-renewal are prime, though complex, examples of ousia, more so than artifacts where the ongoing interactive merger occurs via the equilibrium of forces between stable parts. In either type of functional unity of ousia, however, the stable pattern of the species-configuration determines and links the two dynamic aspects. It serves as the unifying organizer of the functionally existing ti ên einai and as the telos of the continuous actualizing of entelecheia.95 _________ 93 In a chemical bond this is the minimum Gibbs free-energy, which corresponds to the maximum bond strength. In an organism it is the optimum mutual reinforcement of interdependent functions that maximizes capability for self-preservation. 94 See, e.g., Phys. II 8, 198b34-36: “...for all things by nature either always come to be in this way or for the most part, but none of these by luck or chance.” In this context it is clear that Aristotle wants to explain the regularity with which things occur in nature—not eternal eidê [ıՀİș] per se. 95 With his conception of entelecheia as the steady actualization of changeable dunameis into the stable, unified pattern of a functional configuration, Aristotle in effect resolves the core aporia of the Metaph. of uniting change and stability. (Cf. Introduction, Sec. I.E.3.c.)

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C. The Stability of Entelecheia by Hou Heneka Causation: Hypothetical Necessity and Optimization of Mutual Functional Enablement as the Good for Ousia 1. The stability of entelecheia as the result of hou heneka causation— today’s dynamic self-optimization. We now examine the mechanism by which the functional fit of its parts constitutes the unity of the species-configuration and also accounts for its inherent stability. Since the entelecheia that constitutes the configuration exists as the continuous unifying actualization of its functional potentials, the interactive merger that comprises it must be self-stabilizing. Aristotle accounts for the self-stabilizing nature of entelecheia (as well as its persisting unity) on the basis of holistic hou heneka [for-the-sake-of-which] causation. The stability brought about by hou heneka causal relations adds a new factor to the account of ousia (qua ti ên einai) as the cause of existing by considering its unity with the body. The account of the psuchê as cause in multiple ways in An. II 4 (415b8-28) explicates the unity and relationship between entelecheia and the instrumental bodily dunameis in terms of hou heneka causation. (We began consideration of this passage about the psuchê as cause of existing at the end of Sec. III and must now complete it.) Furthermore, entelecheia is the logos of the potentially existent [ijȡ‫ ף‬İȤȟչμıț Րȟijȡȣ]. And it is evident that the psuchê is also cause as hou heneka [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį, for-the-sake-of-which]; for just as thought [ȟȡ‫ף‬ȣ] acts for the sake of something [ԥȟıȜչ ijȡȤ], so does nature also, and this is its telos. And in living things the psuchê is such [i.e., a telos as being-alive] according to nature; because all the natural bodies are instruments [ՐȢȗįȟį] of the psuchê, like the ones of animals, so also the ones of plants are existents [Րȟijį] for the sake of the psuchê [ԥȟıȜį ij‫׆‬ȣ ȦȤȥ‫׆‬ȣ]; (An. II 4, 415b14-20)96

_________ 96

A discussion of thought [ȟȡ‫ף‬ȣ] is beyond the scope of this paper. Here we only can point out that both intentional as well as configurational organizations of natural bodies are functional in nature; therefore, both involve hou heneka causation and hypothetical necessity. This functional aspect makes the commparison illuminating and fruitful. A similar, more explicit train of thought connecting entelecheia and hou heneka causation is found in PA I 1 (641b23-642a18). The existing of dunameis (there of the seed) in relation to entelecheia is accounted for by invoking hou heneka causation and hypothetical necessity acting in this causal relation. Furthermore the seed exists as potential [dunamei] and we know how dunamis holds in relation to entelecheia. Therefore there exist these two causes, that for-the-sake-of-which and from necessity [ijր ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį Ȝįվ ijր ԚȠ ԐȟչȗȜșȣ]; ... since the body is an instrument [ՐȢȗįȟȡȟ] (for each of the parts is for the sake of something [ԥȟıȜչ ijțȟȡȣ] and similar also the whole [ijր Ցȝȡȟ]), therefore it

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The interdependent unity of the psuchê as entelecheia and instrumental bodily dunameis is here accounted for by considering the psuchê as telos in a hou heneka relation with the body serving instrumentally for the sake of preserving it as being-alive. On the one hand, the ongoing existing of the psuchê as ousia depends on the efficient causal interactions of the body as its instrument. On the other hand, however, these processes are self-maintaining only because of the species-configuration [ousia according to the logos] of the psuchê by which they are organized to function holistically. Thus the bodily dunameis act for the sake of the psuchê which they preserve by their functioning.97 Our question, then, is how the hou heneka relationship accounts for this unity of the psuchê/ti ên einai and for its dynamic stability as entelecheia. Unfortunately, this mechanism by which functional parts dynamically fit together and hold themselves in an optimal configuration as telos has generally been misunderstood as ‘tele_________ is [by hypothesis] necessary for it [the whole] to be this kind of thing and out of these kinds of things, if that [the whole] is to exist. (PA I 1, 641b36-642a3, 642a10-13) 97 The quoted passage (II 4 415b14-20) continues by summarizing (and formalizing) what was just said about the hou heneka relationship between psuchê as telos and its instrumental dunameis: “...and the hou heneka [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį] is double [İțijij‫׭‬ȣ], the ‘for which’ [ijր ijı ȡ՟] as well as the ‘by which’ [Ȝįվ ijր ֭]” (An. II 4, 415b20-21). It follows naturally from the preceding argument that the ‘for which’ is the psuchê as telos, the being-alive, the preservation of the functional configuration as unity [ousia according to the logos]. Likewise it follows that the ‘by which’ consists of the bodily functions as instruments, the efficient causal interactions that maintain the species-configuration [ousia according to the logos] and its self-maintaining functioning. At the end of the same chapter (II 4, 416b25-29) Aristotle explicates how that ‘by which’ [֭] the psuchê nourishes the body is the body being active itself (body as Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬ȟ Ȝįվ Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ), besides the food in digestion. (Cf. our interpretation of this passage at the end of Sec. III.) Aristotle uses the same shorthand formalization of the double nature of the hou heneka relation, the ‘for which’ and the ‘by which’, in regard to the reproductive-nutritive psuchê (II 4, 415a25-b8). There he summarizes the “most natural function for living things,” as the making of another thing like itself (in order to participate in the eternal and divine as much as this is possible), and that for the sake of this [ԚȜıտȟȡȤ ԥȟıȜį] they do [ʍȢչijijıț] whatever they do according to nature. The ‘for which’ [ijր ȡ՟], again refers to the telos, now the preservation of the species rather than the particular ousia. The ‘by which’ [ijր ֭], again comprises the means to that end, doing “whatever they do [ʍȢչijijıț] for the sake of this,” i.e., all the reproductive-nutritive activities necessary for reproduction. The ontological distinction between ‘for which’ as the telos being an unmoved mover and ‘by which’ as efficient causal interactions and moved mover is further discussed in n. 101, 102 in regard to the analysis of hou heneka causal relations in Phys. II 7. Our translation and interpretation of the double nature of the hou heneka relation is unconventional, but our interpretation is consistent with the other passages where Aristotle uses these expressions, including the exptrapolations to the eternal unmoved mover (Metaph. Ȃ 7, 1072b1-4). Being eternal, only one aspect of the hou heneka relation can apply, the ‘for which’ [ijțȟցȣ or ijր ȡ՟], since a ‘by which’ [ijțȟվ or ijր ֭] depends on motions by material-efficient interactions (cf. n. 101 on unmoved movers).

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ology’ in the pejorative sense—as a kind of backward efficient causation from something existing separately from the functional parts.98 Today we understand the mechanisms of such dynamic stability between a whole and its parts (the basis of hou heneka causal relations) more precisely than Aristotle could. Nevertheless, the basic principles that he discovered phenomenologically remain valid for today’s physics and biology. Modern science accounts for the self-stabilization of such holistically functioning systems by the self-optimization of the functional fit among the parts. The key is the cooperative nature of these interactions. The functional components hold themselves in the specific pattern by the optimal mutual enablement of interdependent functioning of the parts so that any deviation from this optimum is counteracted. This reciprocal stabilizing of parts within a unified whole corresponds to how the interactions between the parts of a box hold each other in a cooperatively unified functional configuration. In organisms the parts themselves are dynamic processes stabilized by their internal interactions rather than being stable components that only require stabilizing of their interactions within the larger configuration. In both cases, however, the basic nature of the holistic selfstabilization is the same: mutually determined functional fit by optimization of interactions in a species-configuration. This mechanism of species-configural self-stabilization is manifested under different descriptions in a wide variety of phenomena.99 Many of _________ 98 Aristotle himself explicitly argues that hou heneka causation is not to be understood as acting like an efficient cause (Phys. II 7, 198a35-b9). Instead, he maintains, the telos serves as an unmoved mover in the sense that it is the unified configuration (as ti ên einai) in which functional parts (efficient causal interactions) fit together to perform their roles optimally for the good [Ȝįȝցȟ] of the whole organism (or ousia). Thus an unmoved mover as an eidos/telos is not a dunamis at all and so cannot act on the bodily dunameis in a kind of backward efficient causation. Our task in the following analysis is to define and account for this holistic causal relationship more precisely. (Comp. next subsection and n. 101, 102 on Phys. II 7.) 99 Such holistic self-stabilization of entities by the same forces and mechanism that unify them out of their parts is repeatedly encountered in modern science, and its holistic causal mechanisms are well understood. Edward Purcell, the Nobel laureate who demonstrated and accounted for nuclear magnetic resonance, surmised that all types of form in modern physics are ultimately accounted for by so-called cooperative phenomena of this sort (like resonance or crystal structure). Cooperative phenomena are stable entities because of the two-way relationship in which the interactions of the parts constitute a unified whole that in turn stabilizes the functioning of each of its parts (personal communication, 1962). Recent discoveries in molecular biology and embryology suggest that the same is true in biology. The functional organization of protein molecules, e.g., as enzymes, is determined by the energetically optimal fit among molecular parts that both shapes them structurally and enables their enzymatic activity. In embryology Nüsslein-Volhard and Wieschaus’s

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these are complex, such as metabolic regulation or quantum resonance states. Yet, simple phenomena, like soap bubbles, exemplify the basic principles involved in the mechanisms of all these phenomena. The spherical configuration of soap bubbles results from the self-optimizing equilibrium of the surface-tension forces between soap and water molecules that hold the bubble together. This holistically configured unity, in turn, integrates and stabilizes the interactions of its parts (the pulls among its soap and water molecules) so they optimally fulfill their roles in the configuration of the spherical bubble. In this way the whole as an optimized cooperative unity holds its parts together and shapes their interactions to sustain the configuration of the whole. In effect, then, the optimizing relationship works in both directions between whole and parts— corresponding to the bi-directionality between whole and parts in the hou heneka causal relation100 —to which we now turn. Again, using modern understanding of how the stable species-configurations of dynamic systems are accounted for, we can more easily discern the nature and meaning of Aristotle’s ontological account. _________ 1995 Nobel Prize work demonstrated that the differentiation of the egg cell into specialized tissues also depends on interactive stabilization for establishing the basic body plan of the animal at early stages of development. This self-stabilizing mechanism of cooperative phenomena is what Aristotle describes and accounts for in terms of entelecheia. Similarly, in our physiological example (Sec. III.B.1), each component (digestive, respiratory and circulatory systems and cellular metabolism) functions for the sake of the being-alive as a holistic process. Each system or subprocess, in turn, is maintained and shaped by the whole so that it fulfills its role as a necessary means for maintaining the whole as being-alive. 100 Here again, it should be emphasized that the whole that shapes its own parts is not anything besides the unified interactions of the parts themselves. There is no additional stable eidos structure of any kind besides the self-optimizing interactions that stabilize themselves. This is obvious with a chemical bond or the stable state of an atom. The action of the whole (which is the eidos) is the optimized collective effect of all the parts cooperatively acting on each of them. Nevertheless, this whole is something very real with an all-ornothing existence that constantly brings about the continuing existence of its parts and the relations between them. Puncture a bubble, and the entire structure disintegrates. Interrupt a vital function of an organism or its necessary interrelations with the environment, and the entire unified process of being-alive ceases. Moreover, the configuration as a whole remains stable despite changing constituents and relations of the functioning parts within it. Because the optimal configuration is determined by the equilibrated interaction of mutually reinforcing functions (as exemplified by the bubble), any deviation from the optimal interacting relations automatically produces disequilibria that tend to move the system back toward the optimal set of relations defining the species-configuration. This phenomenon is familiar in modern biology in terms of the homeostasis of physiological systems, e.g., the stability of blood glucose levels under widely varying conditions of glucose intake and utilization.

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2. Hou heneka causation is bi-directional: the “good” as “unmoved mover” acts via “hypothetical necessity.” Like modern biology and physics, Aristotle’s ultimate ontological problem (in the Metaph. as well as in De An.) is also to account for the unity and stability of species-configurations—despite their dynamic way of existing. As seen earlier, the functional organization of the ti ên einai as the process of self-preservation is dependent on its species-configuration [ousia according to the logos]. The unity and stability of the species-configuration in turn depend on the continuous actualization of functional potentials into the joint entelecheia. These same factors are combined in hou heneka causation. The species-configuration of the ti ên einai is the telos (that for-thesake-of-which) of the continuous actualization as entelecheia. This actualization occurs by interaction of the parts for-the-sake-of the telos, which is the optimal preservation of the whole. As the soap bubble shows, the key to the causal basis of the unified species-pattern and its stability is the bi-directional self-optimization of the cooperative interactions that constitute it. Aristotle explicitly recognizes this bi-directional causation in the hou heneka relation as well as the mechanisms that account for it in both directions. In Phys. II 7 (198a33b4) he terms these directions the two principles [archai] of physical motion that work together in hou heneka causation.101 In generation, which _________ 101 Phys. II 7 (198a33-b4) explains the mechanism of telos and hou heneka causation as a second archê of motion, the opposing cause [ijռȟ ԐȟijțȜıțμջȟșȟ įԼijտįȟ] to “whence the archê of motion [ՑȚıȟ ԭ ԐȢȥս ij‫׆‬ȣ ȜțȟսIJıȧȣ]” (Metaph. A 3, 983a30-32). While generation, Aristotle argues, is mostly investigated as the succession [ԚĴıȠ‫׆‬ȣ] of acting and being acted on (i.e., efficient causation based on moved movers), telos and/as hou heneka causation is distinct by being an unmoved mover:

But the principles, the physically moving ones [įԽ ԐȢȥįվ įԽ Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬IJįț ĴȤIJțȜ‫׭‬ȣ] are two, of which one is not physical [ȡ՘ ĴȤIJțȜս]; because it does not have the principle of motion in itself [ȡ՘ ȗոȢ Ԥȥıț ȜțȟսIJıȧȣ ԐȢȥսȟ Ԛȟ įՙij‫]׮‬. And it is such if something causes moving [while] not being in motion [Ȝțȟı‫ ה‬μռ Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ], just as the completely immovable [ʍįȟijıȝ‫׭‬ȣ ԐȜտȟșijȡȟ] and first [mover] of all things [ʍչȟijȧȟ ʍȢ‫׭‬ijȡȟ] and the whatness [ijվ ԚIJijțȟ] and the shape [μȡȢĴս]; because it is a telos and hou heneka [ijջȝȡȣ ȗոȢ Ȝįվ ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį]; (Phys. II 7, 198a35-b4)

Thus, the telos and/as hou heneka is an unmoved mover, which causes motion not by being itself in motion but in some other way. (This distinction between moved and unmoved mover is also emphasized in the preceding passage, 198a28-29.) Being unmovable [ԐȜտȟșijȡȟ] in this sense (rather than simply being at rest, Phys. III 2 202a3-5) makes this cause ‘not physical’ [ȡ՘ ĴȤIJțȜս] since being in motion [Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ] is Aristotle’s definition for belonging to nature, i.e., the physical world (Phys. I 2, 185a12-13). Nevertheless, hou heneka causation is one of the two physically moving principles [įԽ ԐȢȥįվ įԽ Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬IJįț ĴȤIJțȜ‫׭‬ȣ] since the telos and hou heneka are inseparable from the efficient causes that act for the sake of the telos. This is the double nature of the hou heneka relation that unites the

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proceeds over time towards the telos, the factors involved in hou heneka causation are more easily discerned than in existing as ousia where the same factors are in the telos at any moment. The efficient causal interactions between parts move (or, as praxeis, mutually determine and enable) each other by acting and being acted on. Thus, they are moved movers, as discussed earlier in regard to energeia as their joint actualization. As seen, this comes about by interacting potentials merging into a unified configuration by reciprocally determining each other in fitting together (cf. fn. 89 and 91). By contrast, the second archê of physical motion, the telos and that for the sake of which the efficient causal parts act, is unmoved [ԐȜտȟșijȡȟ]— not by being at rest, but completely immovable [ʍįȟijıȝ‫׭‬ȣ ԐȜտȟșijȡȟ] like the first mover of all things [ʍչȟijȧȟ ʍȢ‫׭‬ijȡȟ] or whatness [ijվ ԚIJijțȟ] or shape [μȡȢĴս]. An important consequence of this characterization of the causal role of the telos is that it cannot occur by dunamis-dunamis interactions between whole (qua telos) and its parts, i.e., not by backward or ‘downward’ efficient causation. Instead, the species-configuration (telos as ousia according to the logos) as unmoved mover is the optimal pattern of mutual enablement among the functional roles of the parts for the best _________ ‘for which’ [ijր ȡ՟] and the ‘by which’ [ijր ֭], i.e., the telos as unmoved mover and the means to this telos, the efficient-causal moved movers. (For a discussion of ‘ijր ȡ՟’ and ‘ijր ֭’ see n. 97.) In the physical motion of generation the telos as unmoved mover cannot exist by itself (because qua eidos as ti ên einai it is the functional configuration and as such it cannot exist apart from the efficient causal interactions of which it is constituted as their configuration). This distinguishes it from the eternal unmoved mover discussed in Metaph. Ȃ which (qua being eternal) exists as ‘for which’ [ijțȟցȣ or ijր ȡ՟] without a ‘by which’ [ijțȟվ or ijր ֭], which involves matter (Metaph. L 7, 1072b1-3; further explicated in EE VIII 3 1249b13-18). Causing motion while not being in motion itself is crucial, then, for how the telos works as that for-the-sake-of-which the efficient causes are active (the bi-directional whole/part relationship). As will be seen, the telos ‘functions’ by being an optimal speciesconfiguration in regard to which the interacting efficient causes move each other to reach an optimally mutually enabling functional state, the hallmark of stability in cooperative dynamic systems. (For ‘optimization’ see below and n. 104). While the analysis in Phys. II 7 concerns generation, the same bi-directional relationship causes the existing as entelecheia. The priority of the two archai, however, is different ontologically (concerning ousia) than temporally (concerning generation). In GA II 6 (742a18-36) Aristotle makes this case for the developing embryo in a complex but astounding argument. The telos [as ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį, that for-the-sake-of-which] has priority in regard to existing, also in the developing living embryo, but the efficient-causal interactions [as ijȡփijȡȤ ԥȟıȜį, the means for-the-sake-of-this] have priority insofar as the embyro is in the process of changing. Understanding this difficult relationship continues to be a burning issue of contemporary embryology, albeit with much more detailed understanding of the mechanisms involved. Yet, Aristotle conceptualized the problem with astonishing clarity, which we only now are in the process of regaining. (Cf. n. 99.)

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overall functioning of the organism. Thus, the species-configuration as telos (unmoved mover) moves by determining the necessary functional fit among parts such that these parts move each other into optimal functional relations by their own interactions. (These factors and relationships are beautifully exemplified today by homeostatic regulatory mechanisms in physiology and quantum state resonance and other stabilizing mechanisms in atomic and molecular structures.) This necessitating of the functional relations between parts and between the overall configuration and the mutually enabling dunameis is designated as hypothetical necessity [ԚȠ ՙʍȡȚջIJıȧȣ ijր ԐȟįȗȜį‫ה‬ȡȟ] by Aristotle and analyzed as such (or as hou heneka causation) (Phys. II 9, e.g., 200a13-15, 200b4-5; PA I 1, 642a2-18). The causal relation inherent in hypothetical necessity is hou heneka causation in the sense of the whole (qua telos) determining the nature and interrelations of its own parts. Thus, ‘hypothetical necessity’ denotes the aspect of the hou heneka relation that accounts for the stability of the entity by interactively determining the functioning of the parts necessary for the sake of sustaining the whole.102 _________ 102 Having established the telos and hou heneka as unmoved mover and second archê of motion (Phys. II 7, 198a33-b4), Aristotle proceeds to state all three factors [İțչ ijվ] involved in hou heneka causation and the way they necessarily belong together:

[S]ince nature is for the sake of something [ԥȟıȜչ ijȡȤ], one also ought to know this [viz., telos and hou heneka cause], and the ‘why’ should be given in all senses [ʍչȟijȧȣ Ԑʍȡİȡijջȡȟ ijր İțչ ijվ], like (1) that [Ցijț] it it is necessary for this [ԐȟչȗȜș ijրİı] to be out of this [ԚȜ ijȡ‫ף‬İı] (and out of this either haplôs [i.e., always] or for the most part), and if [ıԼ] it is going to be this [ijȡİտ, particular thing] (just as from the premise the conclusion [i.e., with the same certainty, cf. Phys. II 9, 200a19-24]), and (2) that [Տijț] this would be the ti ên einai, and (3) because [İțցijț] it is better [Ȗջȝijțȡȟ] in this way, not haplôs [not absolutely], but rather [better] in relation to the ousia of each thing [ʍȢրȣ ijռȟ ԚȜչIJijȡȤ ȡ՘IJտįȟ]. (Phys. II 7, 198b4-9)

Points (1) and (2) speak of the two archai of motion of the immediately preceding passage (198a33-b4), now connected to each other by hypothetical necessity (“necessary ... if”), as conceptualized and explicated in Phys. II 9 (199b34-200b8, esp. 200a7-15). Thus, if this [ijȡİվ] particular thing is going to exist, viz., the telos of generation, it is necessary for it to be out of this [ԚȜ ijȡ‫ף‬İı], i.e., out of the material-efficient causal interactions (which other investigators of generation consider to be the only archê of motion). Point (2) states the second factor [İțո ijտ], the telos as the ti ên einai, thereby clarifying that the second archê is ousia according to the logos (i.e. the functional configuration of the entity; cf. Sec. III). Point (3) states why (1) and (2) are necessarily connected in hou heneka causation, namely because [İțցijț] it is better for ousia as an existing entity (i.e., better for preserving its existing than other configurations would be). We examine this frequently yoked relationship of hou heneka causation and ‘the good’ in terms of optimization later in this subsection (and n. 104). How the ti ên einai determines what kinds of parts an entity must have if it is to exist, is more fully analyzed in PA (I 1 640a33-35). This treatise on the causes why animals consist

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(Because of the central role of the hou heneka relation in accounting for the nature and ongoing existing of ousia, we discuss the explicit treatment of this cause in the Phys. II 7 in fn. 101, 102, 104.) In one direction, then, the fit of the parts in their functional roles for-thesake-of something [ԥȟıȜչ ijțȟȡȣ], viz. the preservation of the whole as telos, and in relation to each other, accounts for how they constitute the unity of the organism and its specific configuration. Conversely, the species-configuration shapes the functional parts (via their reciprocally determining interactions) to perform their roles optimally in preserving the whole. This corresponds to how the overall configuration of the soap bubble determines the interactive fit among the forces that hold each part in place in the optimized spherical configuration. In modern physiology such shaping of functional parts by their roles in the whole is familiar in homeostasis, the maintaining of optimal states and relations of the functional parts under varying conditions, as necessary to sustain optimal overall functioning of the organism (Cannon, 1932). Thus Aristotle’s conception of the telos as an unmoved mover corresponds closely to the modern physical understanding of the stability of configurations as the optimal state of cooperative phenomena.103 _________ of their particular parts (PA II 1, 646a8-12) is centrally concerned with the interrelationship of hou heneka causation and hypothetical necessity. There the theoretical discussion of Phys. II 7 regarding hou heneka causation is applied to analyze the concrete problems of how organisms are functionally unified and organized. (E.g., PA I 1, 641b23-642a18.) In sum, accounting for the mechanism of hou heneka causation requires showing how the three factors comprise a unity: (1) the material-efficient causal interactions, which provide the ‘out of which’ or ‘by which’ [ijր ԚȠ ȡ՟ or ijր ֭], which are necessary for the sake of sustaining the whole; (2) the ti ên einai as telos [ijր ȡ՟], which constitutes the configuration within which these sustaining functions are possible, and (3) as being the good (optimally self-preserving) in relation to ousia. Aristotle accomplished this by pure observation and ontological reasoning. It has taken physics and biology two millenia to regain and ground the same insights. Unfortunately, Ross 1936, 527-8; Charlton 1970, 113; Apostle 1980, 37, 217, and others tortuously attempt to interpret this passage as restating the four causes from the beginnning of the chapter rather than analyzing the nature of hou heneka causation itself. However, Zekl 1987, 85-7, 250, recognizes essentially the same sentence structure and argument that we propose here. In the present paper we argue for this interpretation primarily on the basis of how it enables understanding Aristotle’s ontology, esp. as applied to organisms in De An. and PA. A detailed philological analysis further to support this interpretation is beyond the present scope. 103 That Aristotle saw the necessity of the functional fit of parts in constituting the unity of the configuration is shown repeatedly. It comes out clearly in his stand against Empedocles in An. II 4 (415b28-416a5) arguing that functionally the head of animals corresponds to the root of plants. In An. II 2 (413a20-b10) and II 3 (entire chapter, 414a29-415a13) he argues that certain perceptual abilities fit together and are necessary for sustaining different levels of animal life. Moreover, Aristotle devotes an entire work, PA, to argue and present

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Aristotle also explicitly recognizes the nature of these mechanisms that account for such control of the interacting parts by the whole. The overall mechanism that serves as the archê of motion by which the whole determines its functional parts is the optimal pattern of interactions serving as an unmoved mover of the parts. The optimum that determines the telos of the entelecheia and thereby serves as unmoved mover (optimizer) of their interactions is the good in relation to the organism, viz., its selfpreservation [IJօȘıț ijսȟ ȡ՘IJտįȟ] (An. II 4, 416b14).104 Hou heneka rela_________ examples of how hou heneka causation is the cause that makes a unity out of its parts (PA II 1, 646a7-12, b27-28). In the methodological discussion of PA I 1 he argues that the ti ên einai determines what kinds of parts an animal must have in order to exist (640a33-b4). This is accomplished by being the telos (as ousia according to the logos) for the sake of which the parts function and come to be. Furthermore, throughout this work, but most explicitly in PA I 1, Aristotle makes it clear that the aspect (direction) of the hou heneka relation being applied is hypothetical necessity where the telos if it is to exist necessitates the materialefficient interactions and not vice versa (641b23-642a18). 104 As quoted earlier (n. 102), the hou heneka relation exists “because it is better [Ȗջȝijțȡȟ] in this way, not in an absolute sense [ȡ՘ȥ ԑʍȝ‫׭‬ȣ], but [better] in relation to the ousia of each thing [ʍȢրȣ ijսȟ ԛȜչIJijȡȤ ȡ՘IJտįȟ]” (Phys. II 7, 198b8-9). Thus, the ultimate force behind hou heneka causation, the cause of unity of the parts [“out of this”] organized according to the ti ên einai, is “that it is better this way for the ousia,” i.e., for preserving the ousia as the self-maintaining functional unity of developing and existing entities. Grasping the holistic causal nature of ousia as unmoved mover was also difficult in Aristotle’s time. No one understood how the ti ên einai as the configuration best for the self-sufficient existing of an ousia could cause such existing by being the telos for the sake of which the component efficient causes interact as they do. Metaph. A argues that the predecessors did not succeed in distinguishing the hou heneka cause clearly from efficient causation. Earlier thinkers (“forced by truth itself”) also considered ‘the good’ as a cause in some sense and even as the hou heneka, but not as Aristotle conceived it, viz., as the optimal interactive relation between functional parts for preserving the whole. They either took ‘the good’ as a source from which the motion comes or as the cause of ousia, but not that something exists or comes to be for the sake of the good. (Cf. Metaph. A 3, 984b8-22, esp. Metaph. A 7, 988b6-16.) Aristotle, by contrast, conceives of ‘the good’ as entirely integral to the existing and coming to be of self-sufficient entities as ousia, not as an efficient cause (whence the motion) and not as existing separately from ousia. Conceiving ousia as entity that exists through the good (functional) fit of the parts, which in turn is (hypothetically) necessitated by the unity of the whole, was a revolutionary and difficult idea then—and remains so today. As argued earlier, we explain such unity and stability today by the self-optimization of cooperatively interdependent, self-maintaining systems. Thus we can use modern insights regarding the mechanisms to show that Aristotle’s conception of holistic causation was on solid ground in regard to such phenomenon. Conversely, his conceptual analyses offer deeper understanding of the ontological significance of our more detailed knowledge today by providing a systematic framework for posing and exploring the questions that ground our investigations. While we have relied for our analysis primarily on the Physics, where causation is dealt with explicitly—albeit mostly in regard to motion and change—Aristotle makes use of

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tions are repeatedly characterized as for the sake of the good [ԐȗįȚցȟ, Ȝįȝցȟ], or the telos is said to be the better [Ȗջȝijțȡȟ] or as taking the place of the good [Ȝįȝցȟ].105 The good in this context is not to be taken as the source of motion or the source of ousia, as his predecessors assumed. To the contrary, ‘hou heneka’ and ‘telos’ are the good as that for-the-sake-ofwhich motion occurs or ousia exists (Metaph. A 7, 988b6-16). Thus, Aristotle recognizes that configurations of existing species depend on the functional fit among their parts being better for enabling the selfmaintaining functioning of the whole than other thinkable configurations. Toward the end of the methodological introduction PA states that there are these two senses of cause, the hou heneka and “hypothetical necessity,” and that all who fail to state this say nothing about nature, so-to-speak, and give virtually no account of it (PA I 1, 642a2-18). This powerful insight regarding the key role and nature of hou heneka causal relations arose from the phenomenological necessity of accounting for why certain configurations come to be “always or for the most part” out of components that could be actualized in other ways. Thus the general principle that stable, viable configurations of organisms are determined by the optimized functional fit among their parts is a pivotal component of his approach to biological understanding. Today’s science is still pursuing this basic principle and its consequences. V. Unity of the Causes as the Persisting Identity of Ousia and the Basis of Sophia A. The Unity of the Causes Constitutes the Ontological Unity of Ousia _________ the same mechanism of hou heneka causation in PA (as repeatedly indicated) and elsewhere (including An. II 4) in accounting for the self-preservation of organisms. The legitimacy of this ontological extension rests on the analogical relationship between motions and praxeis (worked out in Metaph. 4 ), which are the functional parts of dynamically existing organisms (cf. nn. 89 and 90). 105 Cf. Metaph. A 2, 982b4-11, A 3, 983a27-33: Hou heneka and the good [ԐȗįȚցȟ] are one cause. Cf. Phys. II 2, 194a27-33: Aristotle argues that nature [ĴփIJțȣ] as telos and hou heneka does not refer to the ultimate [ԤIJȥįijȡȟ] telos (as is the case in motion and in some poet’s ridiculous fancy that one has a telos, death, for the sake of which one came to be) but rather to the best [ȖջȝijțIJijȡȟ]. Cf. PA I 5, 645a23-26: “For what does not happen by chance but rather for the sake of something [ԥȟıȜչ ijțȟȡȣ] exists most of all in the works [ԤȢȗį] of nature; and the telos forthe-sake-of-which [hou heneka] they are composed [IJȤȟջIJijșȜıȟ] or have come to be, has taken the place of the good [ijռȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬Ȝįȝȡ‫ ף‬ȥօȢįȟ].”

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V. Unity of the Causes as the Persisting Identity of Ousia and the Basis of Sophia A. The Unity of the Causes Constitutes the Ontological Unity of Ousia 1. Reprise of the central ontological role of the causes. As in many other works, An. II 2 announces the typical transition from the descriptive analysis of the psuchê (as better known to us) to its causal account (413a11-20). This causal account provides understanding of those characteristics and relations as ‘better known by nature’ and also resolves the aporetic problems uncovered in the preliminary analysis (cf. Sec. I.DE). Then, using an artifact model, Sec. II shows how these roles of the causes are used to ground the ontology of ousia in the Metaph. These methodological principles and tightly structured argument of the Metaph. enable Aristotle’s reconception of the ontology of ousia in terms of holistic, dynamic causal relations. The completed conceptual and causal ontological framework provides a consistent systematic account of the existing of stable entities as well as organisms. To demonstrate the systematic coherence and consistency of this dynamic ontological paradigm, we concentrated on the central role of holistic causal relations (the ti ên einai, ousia according to the logos and entelecheia, as united by hou heneka relations). These relations are key to resolving the aporetic problems encountered in establishing the dynamic ontology. The most striking features of the causal level of Aristotle’s ontology uncovered by our interpretation are the necessary dynamic accounts of entities that traditional philosophy as well as 17th-19th century science has always taken for granted as the stable basis of everything else. This discloses Aristotle’s ontology, in fact, as far closer to the worldview of 20th century science (and today’s thought in general) than are other, presumed more modern philosophical positions. The ongoing existing of ordinary entities is found to occur as the continuous self-sufficient causal process of self-preservation rather than as simple inertly persisting presence. As a corollary the seeming stability of such entities is found to require a dynamic causal mechanism to account for stabilizing their configuration and identity which exist as dynamic processes. Here comparison of the Metaph. and De An. is especially valuable since the one treats primarily stable entities while the other accounts for living beings, which obviously embody highly dynamic modes of existing. Both works, however, rely on the same holistic causal relation to account for their dynamic manner of existing and mechanisms of self-stabilization.

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2. Unity of the causes in An. II.4 explicates the conceptual account of the psuchê in An. II.1. A final important point in the causal account of being-alive is the unity of the causes inherent in the psuchê, which accounts for the unity of the characteristics of the psuchê itself. The pertinent passage of An. II 4 begins: And the psuchê is cause and archê [įԼijտįț Ȝįվ ԐȢȥս] of the living body. And these [cause and archê] are said in many ways, and similarly the psuchê is a cause in three senses that have been distinguished; for the psuchê is the cause [as] whence the motion [ՑȚıȟ ԭ ȜտȟșIJțȣ] and hou heneka [ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį] and as the ousia [թȣ ԭ ȡ՘IJտį] of living bodies. (An. II 4, 415b8-12)

If we had not explicitly linked the conceptual analysis of the psuchê in An. II 1 to the causes discussed here and in the following lines (415b8-28), it might not seem obvious from this passage alone that these causes refer back and account for the characteristics of the psuchê analyzed in An. II 1. The ti ên einai is not specifically mentioned, and we had to make clear how entelecheia (415b14-15) relates to ousia and hou heneka causation. Other passages also reveal this linkage of the causes to An. II 1, however. These texts employ the terminology used for the causes in An. II 4 to denote the features of ousia analyzed in II 1. Metaph. A 3 explicitly links ousia as cause with the ti ên einai as cause. Therefore, ousia as cause of being [įՀijțȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț] invoked in An. II 4 (415b12-13) can be taken as equivalent to the ti ên einai described in its functional-causal role in An. II 1 (412b11-25). This is further confirmed by the analysis of the causal role of the ti ên einai in Metaph. Z 17.106 We have already discussed how entelecheia as “the logos of the potentially existent” (415b14-15) is (qua logos) ousia [according to the logos], the species-configuration that brings about the functional organization of the bodily potentials (e.g., Sec. III.B.3). Further, we discussed how the hou heneka relation serves as the causal mechanism that accounts for ongoing entelecheia as the stable dynamic unity in which the psuchê is the telos (as ȡ՘IJտį Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ) for the sake of which the bodily potentials serve as instrument [ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ] (cf. Sec. IV.C.1). It is not unclear, then, that the causal account in An. II 4 does indeed ground the characteristics of the psuchê identified in the definitions of II 1, which state this same relationship between the body as ՌȢȗįȟțȜցȟ and the psuchê as entelecheia. Most of all, the connection between the conceptual definitions of the _________ 106 In Metaph. A 3, before discussing his predecessors’ opinions, Aristotle states his own conception of the four causes and considers ousia and ti ên einai as one cause: “... we say one cause [μțչȟ μպȟ įԼijտįȟ] is ousia and the ti ên einai ...” (983a27-33). In Metaph. Z 17 (1041a26-30, b27-28) Aristotle introduces the ti ên einai qua ousia as the “primary cause of existing” [įՀijțȡȟ ʍȢ‫׭‬ijȡȟ ijȡ‫ ף‬ıՂȟįț], the same terminology used in An. II 4 (415b12-13).

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psuchê in II 1 and its causal account in II 4 is supported by Aristotle’s general methodological principle that the causal account established as better known by nature must ground the characteristics initially analyzed descriptively (cf. Introduction, I.D-E). At the beginning of the ousia analysis Metaph. Z 3 maintains that learning comes about from things less known by nature, but more known to us, and occurs by advancing [μıijįȖįտȟȡȟijįȣ] from there to what is known by nature (i.e., the principles and causes). Knowing things by nature, then, makes known to us (i.e. in terms of principles and causes) what “first is known to us only slightly [ԬȢջμį ԚIJijվ ȗȟօȢțμį] and holds little or nothing of the existent [qua existing] [μțȜȢցȟ ԰ ȡ՘Țıȟ Ԥȥıț ijȡ‫ ף‬Րȟijȡȣ]” (Z 3 1029b3-12). Thus, having learned how the conceptual components of the descriptions of the psuchê in An. II 1 are causally interrelated gives us knowledge [epistêmê] of how the psuchê and living entities exist as such, i.e., their beingness as known by nature. Without this causal knowledge, we know little or nothing about existing things [ijո Րȟijį]. B. Persisting Identity as the Ongoing Process Uniting Self-maintenance and Species-configuration in the Hou Heneka Causal Relation The three causes presented in An. II 4, then, are interdependent grounds of being-alive as its self-maintaining functioning and its unifying and selfstabilizing species-configuration (Sec. III.B and IV.C). Aristotle, in fact, repeatedly suggests that these three causes are somehow the same or comprise a unity.107 The analysis in An. II 4 of the cycle of self-preservation by the nutritive psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜռ ȦȤȥս] (using food and the bodily potentials to nourish the organism) also exemplifies this unity of the causes. The unified organization of the process of self-maintenance is dependent on the configuration [ȡ՘IJտįȟ Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] of causal relations that bring it about (Sec. III.B.3).108 _________ 107 108

See, e.g., Phys. II 7, 198a24-27, Metaph. H 4, 1044a33-b1. An. II 4, 416b20-29. The psuchê as ti ên einai is the cause of existing (ousia), which in this context consists entirely of the vegetative dunameis [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ]. As cause of existing it maintains the body, which in turn enables its functioning to maintain the dunameis of the ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ. In this process the psuchê is also a moving cause in acting on food, by digesting it from something unlike the body into something like it. In the overall process of using food to nourish the body and bring about self-maintenance, the psuchê serves as the bi-directional hou heneka [for-the-sake-of-which] cause. As the species-typical configuration [ȡ՘IJտįȟ Ȝįijո ijրȟ ȝցȗȡȟ] it is the telos that integrates, organizes and shapes the functioning of the body as instrument [րȢȗįȟțȜցȟ] for the sake of preservation of its own being [IJօȘıțȟ ijռȟ ȡ՘IJտįȟ].

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Thus, the unity of the causes thematized here is not an arbitrary coincidence in the sense that the same thing happens to serve as a cause in several different, but unrelated ways. The causes form a unity precisely because they jointly constitute the dynamic grounding of the originally (Platonic) statically conceived eidos, which also was assumed to account for the same cluster of characteristics. The static eidos was understood as constituting the species-typical and individual identity of entities by uniting and delimiting them by means of a particular kind of form [μȡȢĴս] or schema. At the same time, because existence was conceived simply as persisting presence, the unchanging nature of the eidos was all that seemed needed to account for the continued existing and persisting identity of the entity. ‘Forced by the truth itself’, however, Aristotle saw that the holistic unity of entities consisting of distinguishable parts can only be conceived in dynamic functional terms (best demonstrated by organisms). Therefore, he reconceived the nature of existing itself as the active functional process of self-preservation through time brought about by the ti ên einai. To match this dynamic and consequently changeable nature of existing, it was necessary to reconceive the continuing sameness (persisting) of entities in a correspondingly dynamic way. He accounted for this dynamic stability of composite interactive unities on the basis of their cooperative functional fit in a species-configuration (cf. Sec. IV). As telos of the functional roles of its parts, this configuration brings about stable continuous actualization (qua entelecheia) of the material potentials into the same persisting configuration that maintains the entity. The self-maintenance of the individual entity and its dynamic, but stable species-configuration depend causally on each other in the hou heneka relation whose outcome is the unitary existing as entelecheia. With this dynamic ontology of ousia, then, Aristotle first provided a consistent temporal account for the characteristics of entities previously attributed to the statically conceived eidos. C. Sophia: The Knowledge of First Principles and Causes. Returning to Metaph. A 2 (982a4-b10) from where our investigation started, we can now more fully understand Aristotle’s points characterizing the knowledge of first principles and causes that the wise person [IJȡĴցȣ] has about being as such. (1) It is knowledge [epistêmê] that is universal/general because it applies to all self-sufficiently existing entities (ousiai), not by knowing each and every thing but by having knowledge of them in a general way, viz., what constitutes their existing as ousia. (2) It is knowledge hard to acquire because it is furthest removed from immediate perception. Perceptual knowledge is what is better known to us, the

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starting point of the investigation. This first-hand knowledge requires conceptual thematization and analysis of the logical difficulties [aproiai]. (3) It is more fundamental knowledge [ԐȜȢțȖջIJijıȢȡȟ] because the first principles are fewer in number than those in the special sciences. First principles and causes are those that ground ousia itself, the existing of all entities, which then in their different aspects are the subject matter of special sciences. (4) It is knowledge for its own sake, not for practical use. This is knowledge in the highest degree [ijռȟ μչȝțIJijį ԚʍțIJijսμșȟ] since it is the basis of all sciences by establishing the unitary, stable existing of entities. It is because of this knowledge and from this knowledge [İțո ȗոȢ ijį‫ף‬ijį Ȝįվ ԚȜ ijȡփijȧȟ] that all other things become known [ȗȟȧȢտȘıijįț], not conversely that the principles of ousia become known because of things underlying [İțո ij‫׭‬ȟ ՙʍȡȜıțμջȟȧȟ] (like matter). (5) This knowledge is most governing [ԐȢȥțȜȧijչijș], since it knows the good for-the-sake-of which each thing [ԥȜįIJijȡȟ] is to be brought about [ʍȢįȜijջȡȟ] as it exists. The good and/as hou heneka [ijԐȗįȚցȟ Ȝįվ ijր ȡ՟ ԥȟıȜį], then, is crucial for sophia as one of the causes that this epistêmê contemplates [ȚıȧȢı‫ה‬ȟ]. We have seen that ‘the good’ in relation to ousia is its unity and selfpreservation brought about by the species-typical configuration of fitting material-efficient causal interactions. (These points were sketched first in Sec. I.D.1, fn. 23.) Our analysis makes a start at showing how this knowledge characteristic of a wise person [IJȡĴցȣ] becomes expressed in the founding principles of Aristotle’s ontology of ousia. 109 Much remains to be thought about the nature of these first principles and how they are established in the Metaph. and in De An.—as well as what the consequences of this conception are for our understanding of the world. Aristotle offers powerful insights about the relation between the nature of existing and our understanding of

_________ 109 We have presented an interpretation of Aristotle’s conceptual framework for the primary psuchê [ȚȢıʍijțȜցȟ] without which being-alive is impossible. This should not be understood as implicitly reducing the higher functions of animal and human life to mere physiological processes. On the contrary, we would maintain that the conceptual and causal framework analyzed here is paradigmatic for the higher functions as well. Aristotle conceives perceptual and noetic activities as inseparable from their meaningfulness for the organism as a whole, i.e., in terms of for-the-sake-of-which relationships that integrate these functions into the overall unity of being-alive. (“...[J]ust as nous works for the sake of something, in the same sense nature also [acts], and this is its telos.” II 4, 415b16-17.) In beinghuman, however, the ‘organism as a whole’ is most significantly (but not only) defined by linguistic and socio-cultural factors. But this is a topic for another day.

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it—insights as valid today as then. Our challenge is to recapture and use them anew in approaching today’s problems.110 THE CATHOLIC UINIVERSITY OF AMERICA

_________ 110 Our heartfelt thanks go first to Daniel Dahlstrom whose friendship and collegial help has sustained us for many years through his unwavering belief that philosophical issues can be clarified and that this is important. With gratitude we would also like to thank our friends and colleagues, Robert Sokolowski, Kurt Pritzl, Harvey Stupler, Richard Pfanzelt and Eric Miller for their intellectual support and encouragement in many discussions and their personal warmth and commitment during the long gestation of these ideas. Finally our thanks go to Carl-Friedrich von Weizsäcker who first planted the seeds for our pursuit of the relevance of Greek thought for contemporary problems.

COMMENTARY ON THE MILLERS JOHN J. CLEARY

Introduction Not long ago Max Delbrück 1 half-jokingly suggested that Aristotle be posthumously awarded the Nobel prize for the discovery of DNA. Now it seems that the professors Miller have quite seriously claimed that Aristotle should be credited with the discovery of functional systems in dynamic equilibrium, as exemplified especially by living organisms. My task as commentator is to assess the merits of this claim from both the ancient and modern perspectives. Given Darwin’s praise of Aristotle,2 there are some grounds for interpreting Aristotle positively from the perspective of modern biology, yet there is also the hermeneutical difficulty of remaining true to his ancient problematic and its presuppositions. It is just such a delicate balancing act between ancient and modern perspectives that every interpreter of Aristotle must attempt, and the Millers provide us with the skilled high-wire act of two scholars well acquainted with both perspectives. By contrast, since I have no head for heights, my contribution will seem very pedestrian and it may never even get off the ground, so to speak. First, I paraphrase what I think are the main claims of this challenging and insightful paper. Secondly, with reference to specific questions, I raise some doubts about a number of the claims being made by the Millers. Finally, with reference to a contemporary scholarly debate, I press them to clarify where they stand on Aristotle’s view about the relation between the soul and the body. I. Summary Analysis The explicitly stated general aim of their paper is to propose a dynamic reinterpretation of Aristotle’s basic ontological paradigm of ousia in the Metaphysics, so as to stimulate discussion within the scholarly commu-

_________ 1 2

See M. Delbrück (1971). See also W. Kullmann (1978). See The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin Vol. 3 (ed. F. Darwin). London: Murray, 1888, p. 251.

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nity. They discuss how their reinterpretation can be applied to De Anima in order to account for the nature of being-alive (to zên), and they also compare it with the dynamic understanding of comparable phenomena in modern biology and physics. Thus there are two different dimensions to the Millers’ project: (a) On the one hand, there is an ancient dimension, involving a comparison of the ontology of substance in Aristotle’s Metaphysics and De Anima; (b) On the other hand, there is a modern dimension, where the Millers draw parallels with the modern ontology of organism. In both cases, they want to reject traditional misinterpretations, which allegedly stem from a static conception of ousia in Metaphysics VII-IX, as witnessed by typical translations of the term as substance or essence. In any event, the three central interpretive theses of the Millers’ paper are as follows: (1) that Aristotle applies the eidos/hulê ontology of ousia to resolve the aporiai about the psychê/body relation in De Anima. (2) that the psychê is conceived of as a dynamic process of the ti ên einai, which is to be interpreted as the self-maintaining functioning of being-alive rather than as a static structure that then functions secondarily, as in the case of artifacts. (3) that the species-configuration aspect of the ti ên einai exists by continuous actualization as entelecheia, which is unified and stabilized through hou heneka causality. Since the first thesis is uncontroversial, I will focus almost entirely on the second and third theses which constitute the core of the paper. But it was only after many rereadings that I grew accustomed to the peculiar terminology used by the Millers in this paper, so perhaps it will prove helpful to readers if I paraphrase some of its major claims in slightly different terms. Using DA II.1, 412a21-b25 as evidence for the existence of psychê as a constantly changing dynamic process, the Millers claim that this passage introduces the conceptual framework for reconceiving the nature of the psychê dynamically, by contrast with the static conception of existence held by Aristotle’s predecessors. In effect, psychê as the being-alive of the organism, conceptualized as the ti ên einai, is constituted by its various life-functions, not by static parts as in the case of artifacts like a box or a table. The basic framework used to account for the nature of being-alive consists of the following elements: the ongoing actualization of instrumental dynameis that yields a telos as a dynamically stable state (entelecheia), the species-configuration (kata ton logon) that constitutes the telos, and ‘existing as what it is’ (ti ên einai) as the self-maintaining functioning brought about by the organization of its species-configuration.

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On the basis of their reconception of psychê, the Millers claim that Aristotle adds holistic modes of causation to traditional material and efficient modes; e.g. ti ên einai as cause of ongoing existing (aition tou einai) and for-the-sake-of-which causation, which accounts for the unity and stability of the continuous actualization of the species-configuration as entelecheia. By means of their apt example of a candle flame, the Millers try to render more plausible the notion of the existence of an entity in terms of a steady self-maintaining process. Their example illustrates how the holistic configuration of causal relations brings about the self-sufficiency of the flame as a persisting entity. In summary, the cycle of efficient causes that constitutes the flame maintains itself by the cooperative functioning of its component actions that collectively bring about the utilization of wax and oxygen to keep the overall process going. However, any reductionist physical account in terms of efficient causal interactions proves insufficient to explain the continued functioning of the complete self-maintaining system, and so for this we need a configuration of functional components. In the case of living things, this is none other than the appropriate speciesconfiguration of the organism which enables it to maintain itself as a whole by consuming resources for sustaining its own existence. Thus the whole must be organized to supply the functioning needs of its parts and to sustain the functional relationships among them that bring about their cooperative functioning as that whole. According to the Millers, this is the real meaning of self-maintenance and such functioning constitutes the ti ên einai as the cause of existing. In this way, according to the Millers, Aristotle is able to resolve the aporia in the Metaphysics about how the ti ên einai constitutes both the existing individual and the species-typicality of an entity. For example, the functioning of sight in the eye is its particular beingness (ousia), like the psychê of an organism, but it is also its species-typical beingness; i.e. ousia kata ton logon. The species-configuration of an organism is not an additional efficient or material cause but rather the appropriate arrangement of efficient causes that fit together in a self-maintaining functional whole. Yet the species-configuration still plays an active causal role in the existing and persisting identity of all entities. For example, the configuration of a flame accounts for how the functional parts are organized into a self-sustaining unity that is capable of functioning holistically in ways typical of the kind of thing it is. For organisms, however, the nature of the configuration is especially puzzling because it is constantly undergoing changes to itself so as to adapt to its environment. Thus the Millers do not find it surprising that a core issue of modern biology is this mutual en-

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ablement of configuration and functioning; e.g. the interdependence of the vegetative functions needed for the being-alive of any animal. II. Doubts and Objections According to the Millers, therefore, the nexus of functional relations accounts for the ongoing existence and persisting identity of an organism. But it is unclear to me whether they regard this is an instance of change (kinêsis) or of activity (energeia) in Aristotle’s terms.3 One crucial difference is that a change happens over a definite (and finite) period of time during which the potentiality for change is eventually exhausted, whereas an activity is complete in each moment but yet does not exhaust the correlative potentiality. For example, the growth of a human being from an embryo to a mature adult involves a process of change, whereas that person being engaged in thinking would constitute an activity. Judging from their frequent use of terms like energeia and entelecheia, it would appear that the Millers have activity primarily in mind, though Aristotle uses both of these terms to define change and to describe different kinds of change; cf. Phy. 201a27-31, 201b31-33, 202a7-8. For instance, the actualization of the potential for species-form involves a process or change (kinêsis) which is completed when a living organism comes into existence. This is different from the activity (energeia) of continual self-preservation of the organism, which seems to be what the Millers have in mind when they propose their dynamic reconception of the psychê as the overall functional process of being-alive. Unfortunately, they continue to use the terms energeia and entelecheia as if these designated particular substances rather than the mode of being of such substances. Since potentiality and actuality are modes of being that apply to all genera of being (i.e. the categories), it seems to me misleading to use them as substantive terms. In any case, the Millers lay down two requirements for the viability of a living thing: a species-configuration must organize the functional components of an organism into a holistically integrated process of selfmaintenance, and also continuously actualize the relations of those components into the stable unity of the whole that constitutes the persistence of the same configuration. While the Millers concede that Aristotle nowhere explicitly connects entelecheia with hou heneka causation, yet they refer to PA I for his account of how hou heneka relations are the cause of unity and functional fit among the parts of animals. The Millers rightly

_________ 3 In their revised version of this paper the Millers have now clarified their view that the ongoing existence of an organism is an activity rather than a change.

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warn against any misunderstanding of Aristotle’s teleology as a kind of backward efficient causation from something independently existing, and they refer to Physics II.7, 198a35-b-9 where he argues that hou heneka causation is not to be understood as acting like an efficient cause. A potential difficulty for their interpretation arises from the fact that the eternal species-form must act through the bearer/parent on the material for generation, and it is also both temporally and ontologically prior. Yet if the continued survival or self-preservation of the organism were dependent solely on the activity of the species-form (without the appropriate matter) then the individual organism could be eternal, or at least imperishable. But the only example in Aristotle of such an enduring conjunction of kinêsis and energeia is to be found in the circular motion of the heavenly bodies, which involves both their natural potential for motion and also the characteristic activity of their species-forms. It is no accident, I think, that both Plato and Aristotle conceived of rational thought in terms of the circular motion of the heavenly bodies. However, this cannot serve as Aristotle’s model for conceiving of the relationship of the human soul to its body, since human beings are mortal unlike the heavenly entities which he took to be immortal. Furthermore, despite what the Millers seem to assume, the modern evolutionary perspective on species-configuration differs from Aristotle’s view of species as fixed and not historically adaptive to the environment, even though they ‘feed off’ their surroundings through psychic functions like nutrition and perception. Of course, it is reasonable to suggest that Aristotle would have regarded living organisms as being well-adapted to their environment for the purposes of survival and self-propagation, but that is different from the sort of ‘feed-back’ effect of the environment on the organism that Darwin envisaged. The only approximation to such an effect in Aristotle is where he talks about the circular motion of the heavenly bodies, and specifically the oblique orbit of the sun, as causing the cycle of the seasons and thereby effecting the generation of living things; cf. Met. 1071a15-18. In this way the eternal motion of the universe serves as a subsidiary efficient cause for the generation of living things in the sublunary realm due to the special kind of heat provided by the sun. But yet for Aristotle actuality is prior (in every important sense, including temporally)4 to potentiality, so that he posits eternal forms as the formal causes of these organisms, and ultimately he appeals to an eternal unmoved mover as a final cause for the existence of a unified cosmos. There-

_________ 4

See J.J. Cleary (1988).

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fore, unlike Darwin, Aristotle did not think that time plays any significant causal role in the development of organic species, even though he accepted that the individual organisms which instantiate each species are born and perish in time. For Aristotle the species are unchanging forms, by contrast with modern species, conceived of as historically stable patterns of organization. On the other hand, the eternal species-form must act efficiently through the male parent on the material for generation, and so it is both temporally and ontologically prior. What does all this have to do with the Millers’ paper, given that they have not taken any position on the compatibility of Aristotle’s notion of species-form with modern evolutionary theory? Well, I am still unsure as to where they stand on the issue, despite the parallels which they have drawn between ancient and modern approaches to biology. I am sure that they are aware of the controversies among contemporary Aristotelian scholars. For instance, the late David Balme (1980) thought that Aristotle’s philosophy of biology does not exclude the possibility of the evolution of species but rather that he never considered it due to lack of empirical evidence. On the other hand, James Lennox (2001) holds that Aristotle is committed to the fixity of species, which rules out the possibility of evolution.5 Still, Lennox does not think that Aristotle is necessarily committed to eternal forms, even though the species may continue to exist throughout all time due to the continual propagation of individual instances of the species. III. Functionalism and Dualism It is also unclear to me where the professors Miller stand with respect to the traditional mind/body problem. For instance, they claim that Aristotle’s application of the ontology of ousia to the nature of organisms lays the foundation for dealing with the difficult problem of accounting for the causal relations between psychê and body in both directions. While material causation (i.e. changes in bodily parts that affect the functional whole) seems unproblematic, there is still a problem concerning the way in which the psychê, as the principle of unity for the whole, affects the functioning of its own parts. The Millers claim that, for Aristotle, the important question is how the whole controls the actions of its own parts. They claim that the whole does not act on its parts by efficient causation but rather by facilitating the optimal shaping of their actions on each other; i.e. through

_________ 5 For a good discussion of this issue, see D.M. Balme (1972, p. 97), and J.G. Lennox (1985 p. 90).

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for-the-sake-of-which (hou heneka) causation. The controlling action of the whole on each part is simply the organized action of all the other parts in accord with the species-configuration necessary for the entity to exist as what it is. But, despite its intrinsic plausibility, it is not completely clear to me how this analysis maps on to what Aristotle actually says in De Anima when he defines soul as the form of an organic body potentially having life; cf. DA 412a20-22. In the light of this passage we could review three possible ways in which the soul as a form might be related to body: (1) as a form which is a structural or physical feature of matter; (2) as a form which is supervenient but dependent for its existence on immediate physical features of matter; (3) as a form which does not depend on material features for its existence. The latter possibility might cover Platonic dualism but that is obviously not Aristotle’s view about the relation of soul and body, though it might capture his view of the relationship between intellect and body. The first possibility could be described as a kind of reductive physicalism, while the second would be some sort of dualism. What remains unclear to me is how the Millers would characterize the view of Aristotle, given their analysis of his teleological functionalism. They claim that the materialists and dualists (both ancient and modern) are making the same mistaken ontological assumption; namely, that the ongoing existence and identity of organisms are grounded in statically persisting substrates. Thus the functional activities typical of being-alive are assumed to exist only as ephemeral activity-attributes of the corresponding unchanging substrate, which has an inherent potential for such activities. Such statically conceived existence will require causal explanation only when things are coming to be, whereas dynamically conceived existence requires causation that actively sustains it throughout life. As Robert Heinaman (1990) points out, however, there are persuasive reasons for thinking that Aristotle regarded all forms, including the soul, as immaterial entities. Thus he considers Aristotle to be a kind of dualist, just as does Christopher Shields (1988) who regards him as being a supervenient dualist with respect to properties of mind and body, rather than with respect to substrates, as in the case of radical Cartesian dualism. This would fit with Aristotle’s rejection of Plato’s separation of soul from body, as well as with his opposition to Empedocles for trying to reduce the soul to the elements. Shields admits that Aristotle’s anti-reductivism is compatible with materialism, but claims that the best overall interpretation of Aristotle’s position is that he is a ‘supervenient dualist’. I am therefore pressing the Millers either to describe Aristotle’s position in these modern

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analytic terms, or else to tell us whether it is at all possible to situate his view of the relationship between soul and body within the context of the modern (post-Cartesian) debate. This is hardly an unreasonable request, given that their paper tries to show how Aristotle’s biology can be better understood from the perspective of self-regulating and dynamic systems in modern biology. Conclusion What the history of Aristotelian scholarship shows is that Aristotle’s texts are like potentialities that can be actualized in different ways, depending on the presuppositions of the interpreter. It is very tempting to read Aristotle as the grandfather of modern biology but there are real dangers of anachronism. If species-forms are eternal for Aristotle, they cannot be products of historical evolution, as Darwin suggested. Does this make any difference for our understanding of the functioning of species-forms within shorter periods of time? Well, for one thing, the hypothesis of eternal species-forms implies that the development of the human species is not open-ended but is rather determined by an actually existing form. Thus for Aristotle there can be no ‘hopeful monsters’ (in Stephen Jay Gould’s terms)6 but only monsters that deviate from the norm to no particular purpose. In effect, all such deviations from the ideal are hopeless accidents. Secondly, when we ask about Aristotle’s views on the relation of the soul to the body, we find modern interpreters attributing to him positions that range from emergent dualism all the way to a radical identity theory. There are at least two possible explanations of this curious state of affairs: either Aristotle held very nuanced or even ambiguous views on the relationship between soul and body, or he was not thinking about the problem in the same way as modern philosophers of mind. The Millers suggest that Aristotle’s rejection of the materialism and dualism of his predecessors can be used as evidence to infer an implicit rejection of modern dualism and reductive materialism with regard to the relation between mind and body. But perhaps such an inference runs the risk of making the anachronistic assumption that the post-Cartesian problem-situation is the same as that in which Aristotle developed his psychology. BOSTON COLLEGE & NUI MAYNOOTH (IRELAND)

_________ 6

See S.J. Gould (1985, pp. 371-3).

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Primary Aristotelian Texts Apostle, H.G. (tr.) 1966. Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Grinnell. _______ 1980. Aristotle’s Physics. Grinnell. _______ 1981. Aristotle’s On the Soul. Balme, D.M. (tr.) 1972/1992. Aristotle. De Partibus Animalium I and De Generatione Animalium I (With Passages from II.1-3). Oxford. Bonitz, H. (tr.), Seidl, H. (ed.) 1989. Aristoteles’ Metaphysik. Bd. 1 & 2. Hamburg. Charlton, W. (tr.) 1970 Aristotle. Physics I & II. Oxford. Hamlyn, D.W. (tr.) 1968. Aristotle’s De Anima II & III (With Passages from Book I). Oxford. Hicks, R.D. (tr.) 1907. Aristotle. De Anima. Cambridge. Lennox, J.G. (tr.) 2001. Aristotle. On the Parts of Animals I-VI. Oxford. Peck, A.L. (tr.) 1942. Generation of Animals. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge. _______ 1961. Aristotle. Parts of Animals. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge. Ross, W.D. (ed.) 1924. Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Vol. I & II. Oxford. _______ 1936. Aristotle’s Physics. Oxford. _______ 1956. Aristotelis. De Anima. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford. _______ 1961. Aristotele. De Anima. Oxford. Theiler, W. (tr.), Seidl, H. (ed.) 1995. Aristoteles. Über die Seele. Hamburg. Zekl, H.G. (tr.) 1987. Aristoteles’ Physik I-IV. Bd. I. Hamburg. Secondary Texts Annas, J. (ed.) 1984. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy. Vol. II. Oxford. Andersen, P.B., Emmeche, C., Finnemann, N.O. and Christiansen, P.V. 2000. Downward Causation. Aarhus. Aquinas, T. 1995. Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Rowan J.P. (tr.). Notre Dame. Ayala, F. and Dobhansky, T. 1974. Studies in the Philosophy of Biology. Berkeley. Balme, D.M. 1980. “Aristotle’s Biology was not Essentialist,” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie LXII: 1-12. Bambrough, R. (ed.) 1965. New Essays on Plato and Aristotle. New York. Blair, G.A. 1992. Energeia and Entelecheia: “Act” in Aristotle. Ottawa. Cannon, W.B. 1932. The Wisdom of the Body. New York. Cleary, J.J. 1988. On the Many Senses of Priority in Aristotle. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Delbrück, M. 1971 “Aristotle-totle-totle,” in Microbes and Life (eds. J. Monod & E. Borek). New York: Columbia University Press. Gadamer, H.-G. 1960. Wahrheit und Methode. Tübingen. Gotthelf A., (ed.) 1985. Aristotle on Nature and Living Things. Pittsburgh. Gotthelf, A. and Lennox, J.G. (eds.) 1987. Philosophical Issues in Aristotle’s Biology. Cambridge. Gotthelf, A. 1987. “Aristotle’s Conception of Final Causality,” in Philosophical Issues in Aristotle’s Biology (eds. A. Gotthelf & J.G. Lennox). Cambridge: University Press: 204-242.

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Gould, S.J. 1985. The Flamingo’s Smile. Reflections on Natural History. New York & London: Norton. Halper, E.C. 1989. One and Many in Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Columbus. Heidegger, M. 1981. Aristoteles, Metaphysik Q1-3. Freiburger Vorlesung 1931. Gesamtausgabe Bd. 33. Frankfurt. _______ 1992 Platon: Sophistes. Marburger Vorlesung 1924/~25. Gesamtausgabe Bd. 19. Frankfurt. Heinaman, R. 1990. “Aristotle and the Mind-Body Problem,” Phronesis 35: 83-102. Kuhn, T.S. 1962. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago. Kullmann, W. 1978. Aristoteles und die moderne Wissenschaft. Stuttgart: Steiner. Lennox, J.G. 2001. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Biology. Cambridge: University Press. _______ 1985. “Are Aristotelian Species Eternal?,” Aristotle on Nature and Living Things (ed. A Gotthelf). Pittsburgh: Mathesis Publications. Murdoch, D. 1989. Niels Bohr’s Philosophy of Physics. Cambridge. Nussbaum, M.C. and Rorty, A.O. (eds.) 1992. Essays on Aristotle’s De Anima. Oxford. O’Rourke, F. 2004. “Aristotle and the Metaphysics of Evolution,” Review of Metaphysics 58.1: 3-59. Owens, J. 1963. The Doctrine of Being in the Aristotelian Metaphysics. Toronto. Prigogine, I. and Stengers, I. 1984. Order out of Chaos. New York. Raff, F.A. 1996. The Shape of Life. Chicago. Randall, J.H. 1960. Aristotle. New York. Scaltsas, T., Charles, D. and Gill, M.L. (eds.) 1994. Unity, Identity, and Explanation in Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Oxford. Schwegler, A. 1847. Die Metaphysik des Aristotles. Bd. III. Frankfurt. Shields, C. 1988. “Soul and Body in Aristotle,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 6: 103-137. Sim, M. (ed.) 1995. The Crossroads of Norm and Nature: Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics and Metaphysics. Lanham. Wians, W. (ed.) 1996. Aristotle’s Philosophical Development. Boston. Wood, O.P. and Pitcher, G. (eds.) 1970. Ryle. Garden City. Zeller, E. 1897. Aristotle and the Earlier Peripatetics. Vol. I & II. Costelloe and Muirhead (trs.). London Translated Texts by Authors other than Aristotle Plaass, P. 1965. Kant’s Theory of Natural Science. Miller, A.E. and Miller (Plaass), M.G. (trs.) 1994. Boston Studies in the Philosophy of Science Vol. 159. Dordrecht. Article from a Secondary Text Ackrill, J.L. 1965. Aristotle’s Distinction between Energeia and Kinesis. In Bambrough (ed.): 121-141. Balme, D.M. 1987. Aristotle’s Biology was not Essentialist. In Gotthelf and Lennox (eds.): 291-312. Bickhard, M.H. and Campbell, D.T. 2000. In Andersen et al. (eds.): 322-348. Brinkmann, K. 1996. The Consistency of Aristotle’s Thought on Substance. In Wians (ed.): 289-302. Campbell, D.T. 1974. Downward Causation in Hierarchically Organized Biological Systems. In Ayala and Dobzhansky (eds.): 179-186.

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Code, A. and Moravcsik, J. 1992. Explaining various Forms of Living. In Nussbaum and Oksenberg Rorty (eds.): 129-145. Cleary, J.J. 1995. Working through Puzzles with Aristotle. In Sim (ed.): 175-220. Kosman, L.A. 1984. Substance, Being, and Energeia. In Annas (ed): 121-149. _______ 1987. Animals and other Beings in Aristotle. In Gotthelf and Lennox (eds.): 360-391. _______ 1994. The Activity of Being in Aristotle’s Metapahysics. In Scaltsas, Charles and Gill (eds.): 195-213. Miller, A.E. and Miller (Plaass), M.G. 1994. Analytic Introduction and Commentary. In Plaass: 1-162, Penner, T. 1970. Verbs and the Identity of Actions - A Phiolosophical Exercise in the Interpretation of Aristotle. In Wood and Pitcher (eds.): 393-460. Wians, W. 1996. Introduction. In Wians (ed.): ix-xiv. Article from a Journal Cleary, J.J. 1998. Powers that be: The Concept of Potency in Plato and Aristotle. Methexis XI: 19-64. Code, A. 1984. The Aporematic Approach to Primary Being in Metaphysics Z.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy, Supplementary Vol. X: 1-20. Gilbert, S.F., Opitz J.M. and Raff, R.A. 1996. Resynthesizing Evolutionary and Developemental Biology. Review. Developmental Biology 173: 335-372. Heinaman, R, 1990. Aristotle and the Mind-Body Problem. Phronesis XXXV/~1: 83102. Nüsslein-Volhard, C. 1991. Determination of the Embryonic Axes of Drosophila. Development, Supplement 1: 1-10. Shields, C. 1988. Soul and Body in Aristotle. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 6: 103-137. Sokolowski, R. 1970. Matter, Elements and Substance in Aristotle. Journal of History of Philosophy 8:263-288. Papers Presented Miller, A.E. and Miller, M.G. 1996a. Aristotle’s Ti Ɯn Einai as Functionality: the Unity of Universal and Individual. The American Philosophical Association. Seattle. _______ 1996b. Aristotle on Dunamis, Temporality and Time. Society for Ancient Greek Philosophy. Binghamton. _______ 1997. Energeia, Entelecheia, and Formal Causation in Metaphysics H. Society for Ancient Greek Philosophy. Binghamton.

COLLOQUIUM 2

SOCRATES, ARISTOTLE, AND THE STOICS ON THE APPARENT AND REAL GOOD1 MARCELO D. BOERI

I. Introduction All people wish to do well. Nobody disagrees about whether or not one wishes to do well. It is even stupid or ridiculous to raise such a question; as a matter of fact, there seems to be a formal agreement with regard to that. Now, since we wish to do well, the question should be how we are to do so. This is the puzzling aspect of the issue, on which almost everyone disagrees. Apparently, the most natural answer is “through having goods” or rather “many goods.” But at this point one has to face an extremely difficult problem: what is the good or what is a true (or “real”) good? Can something be a good because of the fact that it looks pleasant and beneficial just in the short term, or in order for something to be really good should it be pleasant and beneficial in the middle and in the long term as well? Is there any reason to think that if one does not have his or her cognitive abilities trained enough he or she is deceived by what is always most pleasant (in the short term), so that it seems to be of highest worth? As is obvious for any reader familiar with some of Plato’s early dialogues, this is just a paraphrase of some well known remarks contained in texts, such as Protagoras, (Prot. 354a-d; 356b5-8; 357d1), Euthydemus (Eu. 278e3-280b6), and Gorgias (Gor. 464d1-465a2), where the distinction between the apparent and real good is suggested. The difficulty put forward by Socrates (Plato) in these passages was earnestly considered by all the philosophers who were worried about the subject. In fact, the discussion of whether just people (or, in general, virtuous people) live better and are happier than unjust people is not a haphazard topic, but one that should be seriously taken: how we ought to live, the most serious issue

_________ 1 For their questions, advice, and critical remarks I am grateful to John Cleary, Deborah De Chiara-Quenzer, Gary Gurtler, Marina McCoy, Michael Pakaluk, David Roochnik, and especially Iakovos Vasiliou, my commentator in the BACAP session. I am also indebted to the anonymous referees for their criticisms. This piece was written with the financial support of Universidad de los Andes (Chile, project FIL-002-03).

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that everyone should take into account (Gor. 500c1-4; Republic [Rep.] 352d2-6). Everyone remembers the opening pages of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (EN), where he lays down that all people (both the many and the refined) are in agreement on the fact that the highest good— among the goods that are achievable for human beings—is happiness, and they suppose that living well and doing well are the same as being happy. There is a sharp controversy, however, regarding what happiness is, and the many and the wise do not account for it similarly (EN, 1095a16-22). Even the Stoics, who establish a semantic equivalence between such expressions as “living according to nature,” “living honorably,” “living well,” “to be happy,” and “to live according to virtue”, are willing to accept the Socratic-Platonic view. Accordingly, the Stoics distinguish the mere “living” from “living well” (a point on which there is general agreement), and are in line with the Socratic-Platonic tradition maintaining that living well means living in accordance with virtue, which is what happiness consists in.2 I am perfectly aware that the subject I intend to deal with is too large to be examined in detail within the limits of a single paper. The aim of this essay is to sketch an account of how the distinction “apparent-real good” is meant to be understood in a line of thought that begins with Socrates, is critically developed by Aristotle—in his criticism of the Socratic account of human motivation—and is resumed by the older Stoics. My most general claim is that, in spite of the fact that the Socratic insight into the way human action should be grasped is always puzzling in its details, and that Aristotle (and probably the mature Plato) disagreed with it at some important points, none of them was able to get rid of some Socratic features in accounting for the complex mechanism that takes place between desire and cognition when what is intended is to explain human action. I will begin by describing some well known Socratic theses, placing emphasis on some issues I consider that were particularly relevant both for Aristotle and the Stoics. With regard to Aristotle I will explore the way in which he appears to have incorporated some Socratic topics into his own moral discussion and how he refined them within his account of action. Finally,

_________ 2 See Stobaeus, Eclogae, (Ecl.) 2.77, 16-78, 6, ed. Wachsmuth (cf. SVF 3.16 and LS 63A; compare this Stobaeus’ passage with Plato, Crito, 48b5-d3: it is not living that matters but living well, this meaning “living according to virtue”). See also Clement, Stromateis, 7.10, 5.5 1-3, ed. Stählin-Früchtel-Treu (SVF 3.511), who, in a presumably Stoic manner, says that all action done by the one having knowledge (epistemon) is doing well (eupragia). When possible, in the quotation of the Stoic passages I shall indicate the section and number text of the cited passage in Anthony A. Long & David N. Sedley, 1987, 2 volumes; abbreviated LS (followed by the section and text number), and in Herman von Arnim, 1903-1905, 3 volumes (abbreviated SVF).

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with respect to the Stoics I will be suggesting that they took for granted some relevant details of the Socratic approach to moral matters (an issue that is not novel at all),3 even though they seem to have taken into consideration Aristotle’s criticism of the so-called Socratic intellectualism, but without dismissing their intellectualist approach to moral matters. At this point, I hope to offer some evidence that, in fact, the Stoics might have known some of Aristotle’s strategies for dealing with the account of practical weakness, and that they may have been sensitive to some criticisms Aristotle addressed to the allegedly Socratic extreme intellectualism (mainly represented by the Socrates portrait coming from Plato’s Prot.). The connections between Aristotle and the Stoics I intend to establish will not be explored for the sake of merely comparing their explicative devices of action; my concern is rather systematic, and aims at analyzing their philosophical motivations. I think that this undertaking might be helpful to shed light on these ancient views about action that, even though they sometimes seem to be conflicting, share a common background as well. I consciously avoid dealing with Plato’s mature developments in this topic; no matter how controversial this strategy may be, I believe that if I took into consideration the Platonic account of the good (such as the subject is presented in the Rep., for example), I would have to make reference to the Form of Good, something that for Aristotle—but probably also both for Socrates and the Stoics—is impossible to put into practice, and thus it is beyond the moral treatment (as understood by these philosophers). Socrates, Aristotle, and the Stoics would agree with Plato that if something X is a real good, it is “what every soul pursues as that for the sake of which the agent performs all his or her actions” (Rep., 505d11-e1; my translation).4 None of them, though, would be willing to admit that such a good is “the Good itself” in terms of a Platonic Form, like Plato seems to be considering the point in the passage I just quoted (see also Rep., 534b-c, where it is quite clear that the fact of being unable to define the Form of Good and distinguish it from the other things is a feature of someone who

_________ 3 This topic has been largely discussed by a number of scholars, notably by A.A. Long, 1968. Long’s paper was critically examined by Sandbach 1985: 24-28. Long responded to this criticism (in his 1996: 185, n. 7); in recent years he appears to have partially accepted Sandbach’s suggestions, even though he still believes Sandbach’s position to be extreme (Long, 1998: 363, and n. 13). More recently the connections between Socrates and the Stoics have been treated in detail by Alesse, 2000, especially chapters 5-9. 4 See also Symposium, 205e-206a, and Philebus, 20d. The same conception is present in some “Socratic dialogues”, such as [Plato?] Greater Hippias, 297b2-7; and Gor., 468b1-c1. Unless otherwise stated, all the translations are mine.

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knows neither the Good itself nor any good thing). Plato keeps regarding the distinction “apparent-real good” as crucial,5 and in Rep. VI what can be labeled as being “the real good” or “what is unqualifiedly good” is definitely the “Form of Good”, something that Socrates indeed would have identified with knowledge, but probably not with “the supreme object of knowledge” (megiston mathema; Rep., 505a2) understood as a Form.6 As for the Stoics, like Aristotle, they did identify the Form of Good with what is impossible to be practiced (prakton) or what is unattainable for a human being (kteton anthropoi [dative]; EN, 1096b32-34. See also On the soul, 433a28-30) in so far as they identify the good with virtue, and virtue is just the commanding of the soul—which for the Stoics is a body—disposed in a certain way.7 Thus I shall start by assuming that Socrates can be a suitable starting point to explore this subject. Both Aristotle (who identified “the human good” with an activity of the soul in accordance with virtue; EN, 1094b7; 1098a16-17) and the Stoics (who identified the good with virtue and with what participates in virtue; DL 7.94) make reference to Socrates on this topic, not to the mature Plato. 8

_________ 5 See the significant passage of Rep., 505d5-9, where the distinction between “what appears to be good” (ta dokoûnta agatha) and “what is really good” (ta onta) is sharply made. See also Rep., 598b1-5, where the appearance-truth opposition is stressed in characterizing painting as an imitation of appearance. 6 In Plato’s Eu. Socrates maintains the awkward thesis that the virtuous person has all that is necessary to be happy: wisdom, “the only thing good alone by itself”, and the other things (those which usually are supposed to be “real goods”) are not good at all (279a-281e). The same position is defended, almost in the same terms, by the late Plato (compare Laws, 631b3-d2; 660e2-661e4 with this Eu. passage and with Gor., 507a5-c7). Some of the most influential interpreters emphasise that for Socrates knowledge is a necessary and a sufficient condition for moral virtue. For discussion see Santas, 1979: 231-232; Vlastos, 1991: 209214; Santas, 1993: 39-48. Irwin, 1995: chapters 3-4. 7 Of course, Plato himself must have noticed that the Form of Good is not “the human good” in terms of the good attainable and practiced by the agent. As any other Form, the Form of Good might be “attainable” in so far as one comes as close as possible to it (see Rep., 472c1-2). See also Philebus, 11b, where the theme of “the good for man” (i.e. pleasure or reason) is stressed. Plato finally dismisses both alternatives (i.e. pleasure or reason) as proper candidates for being the human good. His final answer is that “a measured mixture” of pleasure and reason should be the good (Philebus, 67a6). For discussion see Carone 2000: 265-279; Ferber 2001: 10-17; 2002: 192-93; Gill 2002: 214. For the Stoic evidence see Plutarch, On Moral Virtue (MV), 441c-d (SVF 1.202; LS 61B); Plutarch, On Stoic SelfContradictions (SC), 1042e (SVF, 3.85; 60R); Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.60, 7-8 (cf. SVF 3.262); Diogenes Laertius, (DL) 7.89-90 (SVF 3.197; LS 61A). 8 In recent years some scholars have been skeptical about a developmental approach to Plato, particularly when such an approach relies on the fact that the early dialogues are intended as showing the historical Socrates’ positions (see Kahn 1996: chapters 2-3, and more recently Annas 1999: 23-30). When speaking of “Socrates”, I am thinking of Plato’s construal such as it can be found in some of Plato’s early dialogues. Note that such a construal

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II. Socrates on what appears to be good and what is good From Socrates onward the Greek philosophers have taken as crucial the difference between performing an action pursuing “what appears to be good” (phainomenon agathon) and pursuing “what is good” without qualification or “the real good.”9 Socrates, Aristotle and the Stoics agreed that there are things that appear to us to be goods and things that are goods; the point they disagree on is the criterion that should be employed to determine which things are really good. Although what appears to be good can coincide with what is really good, if the agent only bases his choices on a doxastic belief (doxa), he can be led to confuse the apparent with the real good. It does seem to me that, in Socrates as well as in Aristotle and the Stoics, an assessment by a certain agent of what is really good strongly depends upon the cognitive state of the agent at that time. This point looks particularly significant both in the case of the allegedly unwilling Socratic wrongdoer and the presumably unwilling Stoic base person (phaûlos), but it probably also plays an important role in Aristotle’s investigation of what is really good.10 Some leading Greek philosophers took pains to arrive at a

_________ was taken seriously by Aristotle and by the early Stoics and Epictetus. Against Aristotle’s reliability as evidence for Socrates’ philosophical positions see Kahn, 1996: 81-87. 9 Both in Plato and Aristotle the distinction between “the real and apparent good” is pretty obvious; in Plato it is displayed through expressions such as “what appears to be good” and “what is good” (Rep., 505d5-9; see also Philebus, 42b9-c1). Aristotle also contrasts what is good (agathon) with what appears to be good (phainomenon agathon). See Eudemian Ethics (EE), 1227a22; 1235b25-30. On the Soul, 433a27-30. Topics, 146b36147a4. Sometimes Aristotle refers to “the real good” as “that which is good in the strict sense” (Protrepticus, Frag. 9.4, ed. Düring: ijր ȜȤȢտȧȣ Րȟ ԐȗįȚցȟ), or as “what is really good” (Protrepticus, Frag., 30.1: ontos agathon). He even identifies the real good with “what is object of wish by nature” (physei bouleton; EN, 1113a21. EE, 1227a28-29: “wish is of what is good by nature”). 10 The fact that I do not deal with the mature Plato does not mean that I believe that he can be left out of this story. As stated above (n. 8), the developmental assumption that we can clearly distinguish a “Socratic” from a “Platonic” dialogue has been seriously questioned; however, for the sake of convenience, I shall take the early dialogues as “Socratic” in character. On the other hand, the distinction “appearance” (phantasia, phantasma, phainomenon) - “reality” (to on, ta onta têi aletheiai [dative], aletheia) in Plato’s mature dialogues in most cases refers to the difference between a Form and its copy, a distinction that cannot be found in Plato’s early dialogues (see, e.g., Rep., 596e4; 598a-b; 599a2. Sophist, 236b-c. Cf. Philebus, 42b8-c7, where the “apparent-real good” distinction seems to be present). Indeed Plato’s philosophy on moral matters was crucial for Stoic ethics. Plato is quoted or referred to a number of times in the Stoic sources, even though the Stoics were hostile to him in some points of detail (SVF, 2.885; 3.157; 3. 288; 3.313). For the Stoics Socrates (as presented by Plato), not the mature Plato, was the model they took as an ethical exemplar. The Older Stoics defended a psychology without opposing parts that would fit

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reasonable account of the manner in which the cognitive and desiderative factors involved in human action work. As Aristotle says, as part of his criticism of Socrates, people act somehow knowing that their actions conflict with what is best is something that appears manifestly (toîs phainomenois enargôs; EN, 1145b27-28). The difficult point is to account for how that phenomenon takes place. In the Greek moral tradition, represented by Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and the Stoics, this issue proved to be an important one and the point, it seems to me, continues to be significant for some contemporary philosophers.11 Socrates is used to saying that to think (or to believe; oiesthai) that that for the sake of which the agent does what he does is good is different from knowing (epistasthai) that that for the sake of which the agent does what he does is good (the difference between “to think” or “to believe”, and “to know” that something is good or bad is clearly drawn by Socrates with the verbs oiesthai or hegeîsthai and gignoskein or epistasthai, respectively; see Plato, Gor., 461c3; Meno, 77c3-5; d1-6). Everyone agrees that those things in view of which his or her actions are performed are seen by himself or herself as being goods (in fact, it is not rational that an agent performs an action pursuing something bad for himself). Thus even though one cannot make a mistake in wishing what is best for himself, one can make a mistake in believing that this determined thing is best for himself. Therefore, it is not so clear that what is thought to be good is actually good and the point is how to discern “the object of desire” rightly. Thus, as long as any agent knows what is (really) good (when he or she is able to discern the object of desire rightly), he or she will do what is good. Hence nobody does wrong willingly and the agent chooses the lesser good only on account of ignorance (Plato, Gor., 509e5-7; Meno, 77b-78a). In fact, it may happen that in performing an action such an action turns out to be something bad or harmful for the agent (Plato, Gor., 468d1-7), and since nobody pursues what is bad or harmful for himself, it follows that the agent has not performed his action wishing it, for such an action produces harm rather than a benefit. So what the agent thought to be good turned out to be bad, which shows that this supposedly good thing was actually bad.12 If this is so, the agent did not do what he really wished.13

_________ better into the “Socratic” psychology, at least as the one that mainly appears at Prot.. The early Stoics do not follow the tripartite Platonic psychology (at least up to Posidonius), as it can be found in the Republic and the Timaeus. 11 See Anscombe, 1963: 14; 57-70; Davidson, 1980: 27-35; Gadamer 1985: 174-177; Gadamer 1993: 501-502; Anscombe: 1995, 1-34, at 3-10;. 12 I am aware that the issue is not so simple. As pointed out by T.C. Brickhouse & N.D. Smith (1994: 87-88), it might be the case that the desire Socrates attributes to everyone is not the desire for and only for what each agent conceives as good for him. If this were the

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The allegedly intellectualistic Socratic position in moral choice is present in a crucial passage contained in Plato’s Gorgias, whose argument can be roughly outlined as follows: most people claim that orators and tyrants can do what they want; they can confiscate their enemies’ property, kill them, and drive them into exile (466b). Astonishingly Socrates objects that, although they can do all these things, they neither have great power (if “power” is understood as something good for the one who has it) nor do what they want (467b3-9). So, even though they do whatever may seem best to them (Ԓȟ į՘ijȡ‫ה‬ȣ İЅȠш ȖջȝijțIJijȡȟ 466d6-e2), they have the least power in their cities and do not do what they really want. An agent doing what seems to him the best thing might not be doing what he really wants. In the context it is quite clear that Socrates implicitly assumes that all our actions (voluntary actions, of course) are done for the sake of some good and hence what we (really) want in each action is the good for the sake of which we want to perform the action (Gor., 468b7-c6; 499e8-9). If an agent performs an action it is because he believes that such an action leads him to something good or beneficial. So tyrants and orators do what they do believing that it is better for them to perform their actions rather than not (ȡԼցμıȟȡț Ԕμıțȟȡȟ ıՂȟįț ԭμ‫ה‬ȟ ijį‫ף‬ijį ʍȡțı‫ה‬ȟ, 468b6). However, as it had been taken for granted earlier (467c5-10), people wish that for the sake of which they do things rather than the things they do (to put Socrates’ example, people who take some medicine do not want what they do— drinking a medicine and suffering—but to be healthy). It follows that what we really want is the real good because what effectively benefits us is the real good. If this conclusion is applied to the example under consideration, it must be said that a tyrant wants to kill his enemies if and only if such an action is beneficial to himself; if it is harmful he does not want it (Gor., 468c), provided that every rational agent wants the good, and he or she does not want the bad or what is neither good nor bad. As we have seen above, in the context of the argument, Socrates observes that it may happen that, in performing an action, such an action turns out to be bad or

_________ case, there would be no room for the distinction between doing what one desires and doing what one thinks is best for himself. Brickhouse and Smith suggest that this dichotomy is just possible if one desires only what is really best for himself. But this dichotomy, it seems to me, can be only clear to the one whose cognitive state is knowledge (episteme), i.e. an epistemic state that makes his possessor really a knower. Otherwise, the agent would not be capable of analyzing his own cognitive states. What is really good is what is really desired; but again the condition for grasping this is not to be ignorant (Plato, Meno, 77d4-e4). 13 At Rep., 577d10-e3 the tyrannical city and soul least do what they want. The tyrannical soul is dragged by “the stings of a gadfly”, and it is full of disturbance (tarache) and regret (metameleia).

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harmful to the agent (Gor., 468d5-6), and since nobody pursues what is bad or harmful to himself, it follows that the agent has not performed his action wanting it: the agent did not know that what he thought to be good for him was actually bad (see also Meno, 77b-78b). The wrongdoer’s choice is thus based upon ignorance and his choice depends on his epistemic state: “doxastic belief” or opinion (doxa) for no one willingly performs something bad for himself, this bad performance being something disadvantageous. 14 The Gorgias passage shows that the agent having a doxastic belief as his characteristic epistemic state can be wrong with regard to what he thinks to be good; actually, what these passages in the Gorgias appear to suggest is that the one having opinion as his characteristic cognitive state always fails.15 This point can be also drawn from the Socratic argument (included in Plato’s Eu.) intending to clarify what a real good is; there Socrates maintains both that people take good fortune (eutuchia) to be the greatest of the goods (Eu., 279c7-8; 279d6), and that wisdom (sophia)16 can be identified with good fortune because it makes people more fortunate. And this is so, Socrates suggests, because wisdom never errs (280a7-8). In fact, Socrates points out that knowledge, inasmuch as it is ruling and conducting the action rightly, provides people with good fortune and with well doing (eu-

_________ 14 This is what Kahn calls “the prudential paradox” (see his 1996: 92, n. 40, and Plato, Apology, 25c5-d3, cited by Kahn). 15 Professor Vasiliou has objected to me that there is no reason to think that Socrates says that an agent without the skill of measurement will “always” err, and quotes the Meno passage where Socrates argues that, for the sake of action, it suffices to have a true belief since at the practical domain true belief is not worse or less beneficial than knowledge (97ac). Besides the fact that the issue concerning true belief is not present in the Eu., at the passage quoted below (Eu., 280a7-8) Socrates does explicitly say that sophia (an apparently possible agent’s cognitive state for Socrates) never errs. It is true that at Lesser Hippias 367a Socrates asserts that the ignorant person would often tell the truth unwillingly when he wants to tell falsehoods. But this occurs by chance; in addition to that, the ignorance of calculations that one can have does not seem to be the same as the ignorance that the one has when lacking the art of measurement of the Prot. (discussed below). The former consists in being ignorant about what three times seven hundred is, the latter is the ignorance preventing one from properly recognizing what the good is (i.e. an ignorance implying a practical consequence for the agent). 16 Plato’s use of words such as sophia, phronesis and episteme is quite wide; compare “the knowledge of carpentry” (Eu., 281a5) with “good sense” (phronesis) and “wisdom” (sophia) as being the conditions that the things taken to be goods by most people are goods (281d8). See also the very “Socratic” passage in Theaetetus 145d11-e6, where “wisdom” (sophia) is said to be the same as “knowledge” (episteme). The knowledge involved in practical matters must be a sort of knowledge that benefits us since it is a knowledge of what is good and bad, and if the agent acts according to that knowledge, he will do well and be happy (see Plato, Charmides, 173d; 174b-d).

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pragia). As it was established at the outset of the argument, the thesis that we shall do well through having many goods might be true on one crucial condition: what people usually call “goods”—including moral virtues, such as justice, temperance, and courage—are not goods by nature or in themselves.17 They are goods if and only if “good sense” (phronesis) and wisdom (sophia) rule over them (Eu., 281a8-e1). We are not happy by the mere presence of things such as wealth or beauty (Meno, 87e-88a), because such things can harm us. Similarly, if one takes away knowledge from crafts, such as medicine or shoemaking, no craft can be performed rightly: neither can medicine produce health nor shoemaking produce shoes nor the pilot’s craft prevent the loss of life at sea (Charmides, 174cd). The right use (orthe chrêsis) of these goods (wealth, beauty) and crafts (medicine, shoemaking, the pilot’s craft) benefit us and their wrong use harms us (Meno, 88a-b), and what can guarantee the right use of these is knowledge. This distinction could eventually be applied to moral virtues, too. If we suppose that a moral good, such as courage, is a certain kind of recklessness or boldness, (tharros ti) and that, accordingly, it is not accompanied by wisdom, it can harm us.18 But if moral virtues are necessarily beneficial, they must be forms of wisdom, since the things having to do with the soul are in themselves neither beneficial nor harmful but with wisdom or folly they become beneficial or harmful (Meno 88c-d). Now, good sense, wisdom or knowledge describe the cognitive state of the individuals, and such a cognitive state is that which allows them to make a “correct use” of things. For Socrates, then, the cognitive state of the agent

_________ 17 I think that the words į՘ijո ȗı ȜįȚ‫ ׶‬įՙijո (at Eu., 281d4-5) refer to all the goods listed at the outset of the argument: non-moral goods (wealth, health, beauty; 279a7-b3), and moral goods (temperance, justice, and courage; 279a4-5). At Plato’s Gor., 467e4-6 even wisdom (sophia) is recognized, along with health and wealth, as being a (conventional) good (see also Eu., 279c1-2 and the next note). 18 In commenting on Eu., 281d-e, where virtues are included among the things whose nature is not to be good by themselves, Vlastos (1991: 228, n.92) asserts that “the control by ‘ignorance’ of attributes whose very essence is wisdom is a counterfactual.” He quotes the Meno passage where indeed the issue is put forward in terms of a counterfactual: ıԼ μս ԚIJijț ĴȢցȟșIJțȣ ԭ ԐȟİȢıտį Ȝ.ij.ȝ; 88b3-5). But at the Eu. passage (and at Gor., 467e4-6, cited in the previous note) the point is not so clear: for Socrates virtues are attributes whose essence is wisdom, not for the majority of people. In fact, for the common sense both the non-moral and moral goods are “conventional” goods, as long as everyone recognizes that to be brave, for example, is good. This becomes clear at Eu., 279a-c: everyone acknowledges as being good both things such as wealth, health, beauty, political power, honor, and wisdom.

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is crucial for the correct assessment of what the good is and, of course, for the quality of the particular actions he or she is able to perform.19 I would like now to turn to a widely commented upon passage in Plato’s Prot., where the cognitive state of the agent is closely related to his state of character. Once the premise that the good should be identified with pleasure and the bad with pain has been laid down (354c3-6), Socrates suggests that, if our doing well (eû prattein) depended on doing and choosing large quantities (presumably of what is pleasant) and avoiding and not doing the small quantities (of what is painful) there would be two candidates that we might see as our salvation in life: either the art of measurement (metretike techne) or the power of appearance (he tou phainomenou dunamis; 356c8-d4. See also 357a5-b4). This is so because if one weighs pleasant things against pleasant, the greater and the more should be taken; by contrast, if one weighs painful things against painful, the fewer and the smaller should be taken (356b-c). Note, however, that Socrates had established a criterion for distinguishing what appears to be pleasant: the very enjoying of something can be called “bad” whenever it deprives the agent of greater pleasures than it itself has or provides him with greater pains than the pleasures that are present in it (354c5-d1). Pleasures and pains are different in magnitude, so if an agent weighs pleasant things against painful ones and the painful ones are exceeded by pleasures—whether the near by the remote or the remote by the near—he has to perform the action in which what is really pleasant (among the things that appear to be pleasant, i.e. good) prevails (Prot., 356b5-8). But since we are easily deceived by the quantity of pleasure and pain (in so far as the near pleasures and pains look greater than the remote ones), we need a criterion to measure pleasures and pains. This is the art of measurement that, as every art or craft, is (for Socrates) a form of knowledge. So when an agent fails to do something good, apparently overcome by pleasure, there was actually ignorance, i.e. lack of knowledge, the same knowledge that had been agreed to be measurement (357d1-e2). This must be understood as the result of a miscalculation that the apparent benefit of a course of action had shown as beneficial or convenient for the agent in the short term; so, when overvaluing the pleasure of the moment and de-

_________ 19 This faces important difficulties for we may have strong reasons for thinking that no one can rightly claim to have the sort of knowledge which makes its possessor wise (see Brickhouse & Smith 1994: 31). In fact, apparently, no human being has ever attained the sort of wisdom that would allow him to render his own life harmonious “by tuning” his deeds to his words (Plato, Laches, 188d4-6). As we shall see, this Socratic conception is adopted by the Stoics and is incorporated without discussion into the ideal of the sage person, who does not vacillate, or hold an opinion and, accordingly, never makes a (moral) mistake (Stobaeus, Ecl., 111, 17-112, 8).

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valuing the pain of the moment, one is deceived. To be sure, the actual situation of being in pain (like medical treatments) can be called “good” when it relieves pains greater than the ones that are in it and, conversely, the enjoyment of something that appears to be good in the immediate moment can be called “bad”, if it deprives the agent of greater pleasures or provides greater pains than the pleasures that are in it (Prot., 354a-d; see also Gor., 467c5-10). A lot has been said about the two different positions defended by Socrates in the Protagoras and the Gorgias on pleasure. In spite of the apparently contradictory versions offered in both texts, I think there is a way to make them coincide: both in the Prot. and in the Gor. Socrates is willing to admit that if X is good because of being merely an immediate pleasure, X cannot be a real good. There is some evidence that this is so in the Prot. (356b5-8), but this point can be seen at Gor. as well. There flattery (kolakeia) is an example of something shameful, which, however, appears to be good; it appears to be good because it aims at what is pleasant, but cares nothing for what is best (464e-465a). Flattery “deceives folly with what is always most pleasant” (implying “what is always most pleasant in the short term”; 464d1-2). When Callicles is pressured by Socrates to accept that there are types of pleasure (500a), the warning seems to be that the kind of hedonism Socrates rejects is the one based on the short-term pleasure, which for the most part coincides with sensual pleasure. But this does not necessarily mean that the long-term pleasure cannot be related to what is good. Socrates is particularly interested in seeking how we are to do well in life (Prot., 356d1), and the two candidates mentioned above concerning what we should pursue to get “salvation in life” are strongly contrasted. Each of them is characterized by the presence of two different cognitive and psychological states in the individual: the agent who is ruled by the power of appearance is weak-minded and such power of appearance makes him change his mind about the same things (metalambanein) and regret (metamelein) his own actions and choices. His psychological state is wavering, and probably his cognitive abilities are not reliable (Prot., 356d5-6). In a different context, and probably assuming a different psychology (of conflicting parts), Plato’s Socrates says that the part (touto) of the soul where appetites (or irrational desires; epithymiai) exist is the sort of thing that is seduced (anapeithestai) and changes its mind suddenly

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(metapiptein) up and down (Gor., 493a3-5).20 Socrates attributes this “oscillating state” to himself, insofar as he includes himself among the people who are searching for knowledge and have not attained it yet: “I waver (planômai) up and down regarding these and it never seems to me the same thing” (Plato, Lesser Hippias, 376c2-3).21 If virtue requires moral knowledge (Laches, 1945d1-2; Prot., 361b1-2) and Socrates is honest when he declares he lacks moral knowledge (Apology, 21b1-d7; Gor., 509c4-7), he should assume himself to have an “oscillating character” (as in fact he admits in the Lesser Hippias passage just cited). By contrast, the agent having the art of measurement will be able to make the power of appearance powerless and, by noticing the truth, he will have peace of mind and will “save his life.” The truth here must mean the correct calculation in weighing pleasant things against the painful ones (Prot., 356d4e4). Maybe this calculation is the expertise demanded by Socrates to make a correct distinction between good pleasures and bad ones (Gor., 500a4-6). The explicit assumption is that the grasp of the real good and, accordingly, the ability to become a virtuous person presuppose the existence of a “stable belief”, which means a belief accompanied by knowledge.22 The person having “the art of measurement” cannot remove the appearance— which does not depend on him—but he will not be ruled by it insofar as he will be able to assess it critically. Now if we conflate this argument with the opening discussion on what “to be overcome by pleasure” means, where Socrates asserts that knowledge is a fine or noble thing capable of ruling the person having it (352c3 ff.), we should conclude that for him knowledge involves the guarantee that, whenever one acts in possession of it, the action will be necessarily good. This is not the case of the one whose cognitive state is opinion, which is the same as a feeble form of knowledge and, therefore, a type of knowledge that can fail or, what is worse, that fails all the time. Hence if we act in the cognitive state of opinion we can be following our best judgment but such a judgment, in being one based on a weak form of knowledge (doxa), cannot guarantee the un-

_________ 20 The issue reappears in Plato’s Rep. (508d7-9), where he sharply distinguishes the soul that understands and knows (which is the same as having “intellect”; noûs) from the soul merely “holding opinions, dimming, and changing its mind up and down” (İȡȠչȘıț ijı Ȝįվ ԐμȖȝȤօijijıț Ԕȟȧ Ȝįվ Ȝչijȧ ijոȣ İցȠįȣ μıijįȖչȝȝȡȟ), a wording reminding Plato’s Prot., 356d5-6. 21 See note 19 above and also Lesser Hippias, 372b3-4. However, Socrates has some moral knowledge: he does know (oîda) that it is bad to do wrong and to disobey one’s superior (Apology, 29b6-7), which is the same as saying that he knows that injustice is something shameful and bad and, conversely, that justice is something fine and good. Socrates also knows that good people are not unjust (Eu., 296e8-297a1). 22 A pistis monimos, as Plato goes on to think at Rep., 505e2-3.

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derstanding of the real good. The agent having knowledge will always attain what is truly good and act accordingly, while the one having opinion will attain what is apparently good (and does not coincide with the real good), and his action will be wrong. Opinion as one’s characteristic epistemic state fits very well in the oscillating psychological condition of the agent dominated by the power of appearance. This strongly opposes the peace of mind (hesuchia) that the art of measurement provides to the agent who can make the appearances lose their power.23 III. The Socratic Heritage in Aristotle and the Stoics I have emphasized the Socratic issue concerning the cognitive and the psychological state of the agent in evaluating what he or she takes to be good because I think this is a crucial point that both Aristotle and the Stoics took into account and, to some extent, took for granted in their own moral inquiries. In this section I shall concentrate on some points that I have presented and discussed briefly in the previous part of my paper and that I believe to be crucial for the understanding of how Aristotle and the Stoics, sometimes on Socratic grounds, considered the distinction between the apparent and the real good. I shall also try to show how plausible is my suggestion that the Stoics might have known and taken into consideration Aristotle’s strategies for accounting for weakness of will. I shall start by showing that, even within his criticism of Socratic intellectualism, Aristotle incorporated some Socratic features into his ethical accounts. Again, I am aware that this is not novel; some others have argued for the thesis that Socrates’ views on moral matters influenced Aristotle.24 However, I think the point deserves to be discussed again emphasizing other details. In what follows I shall concentrate on the following topics: (i) Aristotle’s criticism of the Socratic identification of virtue with knowledge; (ii) some analogies between Aristotle’s and the Stoics’ strategies for explaining the acratic behavior; (iii) the way in which the (Socratic) thesis of the “power of appearance” influenced both Aristotle’s and the Stoics’ accounts of what appears to be good/pleasant in the short term. Within the same sphere

_________ 23 The state of mind described by Socrates as proper to the virtuous person can be paralleled with what Plato says of the guardians, who have firmness and peace of mind as their characteristic psychological state (Rep., 503c4). 24 See Robinson 1977: 83-84; Cleary 1991: 107-110. Some interesting connections concerning the Socratic language in Aristotle (and the Stoics) can be found in Alesse 2000: 256-262.

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of problems, I shall point out the relevance that the psychological state of the vicious agent, described above as an “oscillating state”, had for Aristotle and the Stoics in evaluating the cognitive and the psychological state of the weak-minded agent. In this respect, I propose some evidence to show that the Stoics, even taking for granted a Socratic intellectualistic picture in their theory of virtue, seem to have made room for the arguments Aristotle deploys against Socrates. I begin by focusing briefly on two arguments Aristotle addresses against Socrates’ identification of virtue with knowledge. Let me outline them: (1) Socrates claims that all virtues are forms of knowledge; if this is the case, one should investigate, Aristotle contends, what “knowledge” means, since knowledge can be used either “truly” (i.e. “correctly”; alethôs) or “in order to make a mistake” (i.e. incorrectly; hamartanein); for example, when someone willingly writes incorrectly, he is using knowledge as ignorance. Now, if justice is a form of knowledge, and knowledge can be used either correctly or incorrectly, it might be possible to use justice incorrectly, i.e. as injustice. So, when one performs an unjust action, one will be unjust on account of justice. In other words, in performing unjust actions, one will be doing such actions on account of knowledge, which is absurd. Therefore, virtues cannot be forms of knowledge, because an agent cannot be ignorant out of knowledge (apo epistemes; EE, 1246a31-b2). (2) Aristotle’s second argument focuses on the (wrong, in his view) identification of wisdom (phronesis) with knowledge (episteme) and tries to deepen the absurd consequences that would follow from considering that phronesis can be misused (I just sketch the first part of the criticism): if wisdom is knowledge and something true, it would be possible to act foolishly out of wisdom and to commit the same mistakes as the person lacking wisdom (aphron). Aristotle adds that if something (i.e. wisdom) can be used in only one way, then, in so acting people would be acting wisely, which is absurd, because the wise and the base would not be distinguished from one another. Aristotle’s arguments sound persuasive and seem to solve the somehow counterintuitive Socratic identification of virtue with knowledge, but the fact that they are based on Aristotle’s own distinctions of types of knowledge—what is, to some extent, reasonable within a philosophical discussion—probably fails to clarify what Socrates must have meant by “knowledge” (episteme) or “wisdom” (phronesis) when he argues that knowledge is what allows and guarantees the agent to make a correct use of goods. First, if Socrates is willing to defend his thesis that wisdom (sophia) never errs (Eu., 280a7-8), he may not have accepted the possibility of misusing wisdom or knowledge. Aristotle’s example of misusing knowledge

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(grammar) is the kind of knowledge Socrates attributes to craftsmen and explicitly declares himself to lack (Apology, 22d3-4), but that is not the kind of knowledge he takes to be “knowledge of what is good and bad”; the knowledge craftsmen profess cannot be that which prevents the agent from confusing an apparent good with a real good, either. It is a know-how knowledge that, for Socrates, does not necessarily guarantee happiness to the one possessing it. By contrast, the kind of knowledge Socrates is talking about when saying that by acting according to knowledge we should do well and be happy does not seem to be the sort of knowledge craftsmen have. Indeed craftsmen, even having the knowledge specific to their field of expertise, are not necessarily happy. The knowledge that makes the agent happy is the one of what is good or bad (Plato, Charmides, 173d-e; 174b-c), a knowledge of which one cannot make a bad use.25 For Socrates the only bad action is to be deprived of knowledge (Plato, Prot., 345b5; Eu., 281e; 292b), but being deprived of knowledge does not come from a deliberately incorrect use of knowledge, but from lack of knowledge, i.e. from ignorance as the opposite cognitive state, not as the result of misusing knowledge. But, of course, one could wonder: “how about the art of measurement”? After all, it is indeed a techne and, as such, it should be included among the “know how” forms of knowledge. Furthermore, the knowledge that virtue is turns out to be like craft knowledge. But perhaps Socrates, in declaring himself to lack the sort of knowledge the possessors of technai have, was heavily concerned with warning against confusing a (mere) skill—which just allows you to have good fortune or success at your craft—with moral expertise, the form of knowledge that allows you to draw the distinction between what is good and bad, and to choose what appears really good and coincides with what is good. Second, Aristotle’s remark that it would be possible to act foolishly out of wisdom was probably envisaged by Socrates himself, although hewould not have identified this kind of wisdom with the wisdom that virtue is and that helps the agent make a correct choice. When at the very beginning of Plato’s Lesser Hippias (365d-366a) Socrates says that the wily (polutropoi) are deceivers due to their cunning or villainy (panourgia) and some kind of wisdom (phronesis), and that on account of having wisdom they know what they are doing, he seems to be admitting the possibility that an

_________ 25 Aristotle’s criticism derives from his view that knowledge is a sort of logos, and the same logos can show the thing and its privation (Metaphysics, 1046b7-9). Someone with knowledge (epistemon; a doctor, for instance) can make a mistake willingly (hamartanei hekon; Physics, 251a32-33).

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individual willingly may act against his knowledge of what is best. In other words, what the Socrates of the Lesser Hippias appears to be accepting is the possibility that an agent can do wrong willingly. The deceivers are able to deceive because they have a certain knowledge or wisdom which is indispensable to deceive (exapatân); they, then, are somehow phronimoi (365e5).ҏ To be sure, if the context of this passage is analyzed in detail, one could object that the bulk of this Socratic argument is rather concerned with the fact that deceit presupposes some type of knowledge. But the knowledge of the wily is not, in the standard Socratic terms, the same as the understanding of what is morally good. So in this passage phronesisҏ does not mean wisdom or knowledge of what is truly good. Socrates could be implying that the person who is skillful in deceiving is ignorant of what is best for himself. It is tempting to suggest that this kind of phronesis is later developed by Aristotle under the form of what he calls “cleverness” or “quickness of mind” (deinotes). Aristotle characterizes cleverness as a capacity which permits one to do the things aiming at the proposed target and hitting it. Now, the goodness or badness of cleverness depends on the quality of the target (skopos) the agent has set before him: if it is fine or noble, cleverness is praiseworthy, if it is base, it is reduced to cunning or mere villainy. Now Aristotle stresses that, while prudence (phronesis) is not cleverness, it does not exist without cleverness (EN, 1144a26-29). Both cleverness and prudence presuppose a certain kind of knowledge, but while the former may aim at what is evil (when associated to kakia), the latter just aims at what is fine or noble. But the ability itself to do the things tending to the proposed end corresponds to cleverness. If this reading is plausible, we could accept that Aristotle has taken a Socratic topic again and, after refining it, he has adapted it to his approach of what a right moral inquiry should be in considering a cognitive factor involved with virtuous action. It is indeed suggestive to note that Aristotle accepts part of the Socratic dictum in his identification of virtue with different forms of knowledge:26 in saying that all virtues are forms of phronesis, Aristotle contends, Socrates did his research rightly in one way, but in another way he made a mistake. He was wrong in believing that all virtues are forms of phronesis, but he was right in thinking that such (moral) virtues do not exist without phronesis. Of course, Aristotle proceeds to apply his own conceptual schemes to Socrates, and with his doctrine of prudence Aristotle seems to

_________ 26 “Different” forms of knowledge (“practical wisdom or prudence”—phronesis—and knowledge—episteme) for Aristotle (EN, 1144b17-18: aretai are phroneseis; EN 1144b2930: aretai are epistemai), not for Socrates who uses interchangeably the Greek words for knowledge and wisdom (see above n. 16 and the passages indicated there).

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have resolved, at least in part, the Socratic puzzlement: in any account of action there is an intellectual factor involved, and it is impossible to be a virtuous person without having refined one’s cognitive abilities. Prudence, as long as it is an intellectual virtue, fits properly into the Socratic requirement concerning the presence of an intellectual component in virtue (even though this does not necessarily mean to identify virtue with such a component, as Socrates appears to have done). In addition to that, prudence, despite being an intellectual virtue, turns out to be decisive in the moral domain, since acting—which is where prudence plays a crucial role insofar as it makes the agent do the things that lead to the end (EN, 1145a5-6)—has to do with particular cases (ta kath’ hekasta), or rather, with the concrete situations. So, even though some universal standards are relevant in accounting for action (standards expressed in the Socratic definitions of virtues), they cannot leave aside the concrete situations of action. Moral virtue, then, is a state of character that exists according to the right reason, but such right reason is reason according to practical wisdom (EN, 1144b18-24; see also EN, 1106b36-1107a2). As Aristotle reminds us, it is not possible to be good without practical wisdom or practically wise without moral virtue (EN, 1144b30-1145a2). The Stoics recognize the existence of the phenomenon of incontinence without renouncing their intellectualist position. Unlike Aristotle (EN, 1146b19-24; 1150b29-31; 1151a11-14) and following Plato’s view (Laws, 636c7; Rep. 439e6-440a3), the Stoics did not distinguish incontinence from intemperance (see Plutarch’s complaints about this point, MV, 445b). For them any failure in being master of oneself counts as an instance of akrasia. In a Socratic vein, the Stoics maintain that vices are ignorance, and virtues forms of knowledge (cf. Galen, On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato, [PHP], 5.1, 292, 17-20, ed. De Lacy). But if this is effectively the case, how can the incontinent action be explained? Although the Stoics identified virtue with knowledge, they did not draw the conclusion that there is no incontinence. For them incontinence is a vice subordinate to intemperance (DL 7.93). Therefore, their notions of knowledge and ignorance must have been different from the Socratic ones, given that the Stoic incontinent, even being an agent in a state of passion and, accordingly, a person whose cognitive state is opinion or ignorance, seems to envisage that it is advantageous not to do what he or she is about to do (Stobaeus, Ecl., 89, 6-9; LS 65A). The apparently “orthodox” Stoic psychology of action can be roughly outlined as follows: firstly, a phantasia (whose contents humans express propositionally through articulated language; DL 7.49; SVF 2.52; 55; LS

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39A) appears to the agent.27 Secondly, appearance is followed by an assent (sunkatathesis), which is the act of accepting such an appearance (or rather the propositional formula of its contents) as true. 28 Once the agent has given assent to a practical or evaluative proposition of the form “I ought to do X” an impulse is produced (see Plutarch, Against Colotes, 1122c, probably reproducing a Stoic position). Such an impulse is his assent translated into an intentional movement toward what the agent takes to be good and, accordingly, choiceworthy. So when the agent gives assent to the practical (or evaluative) proposition describing the content of an impulsive or motivating appearance (phantasia hormetike), the assent becomes an impulse (horme• for action.29 Assent causes the impulse to perform the action described in the proposition’s predicate.30 Now a rational agent is, according to the Stoics, able to give or to withhold assent to such propositions. If this is so, the rational agents are responsible for their cognitive states, and such agents are also responsible for the actions derived

_________ 27 At this point I am following (with no argument) the prevailing view according to which an appearance has a content which can be expressed in a propositional way. A convincing defence of this position can be seen in Inwood, 1985: 73-75 and especially Frede, 1987: 151-76. Other scholars have followed this view too: see LS 1987, vol. 1: 293-241, and more recently, Labarrière, 1993: 228-230; 232. Long 1996: 283-284, and Gill, 1998: 116. 28 Strictly speaking, assent is given to a propositional formula (logos), not to an appearance (see Sextus, Adversus Mathematicos, [M] 7. 154, included in LS 41C). Every impulse comes from assent but not every assent yields an impulse. When you give your assent to the proposition “X is Y”, no impulse necessarily follows. What activates impulse is the impulsive appearance, whose propositional content can be “the right thing to do is X.” See Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.88, 2-6 (LS 33I). For further discussion see Inwood, 1985: 60-2; Ioppolo, 1995: 25-55, at 27-8. Sorabji, 2000: 43. 29 For evidence see Cicero, Acad., 2. 24-25, supported by Plutarch, SC, 1056f-1057a (cf. LS 41E and 53S). Cicero, On Fate, 41-42 (cf. LS 62C) and Seneca, Ep., 113, 18, offer a different sequence: appearance, impulse, assent. There has been a good deal of discussion on this topic; see Ioppolo, 1988: 407-417. Against Ioppolo’s interpretation that Zeno and Cleanthes held that impulse precedes assent, see Inwood’s persuasive remarks in his 1993: 166, n.29. However, Seneca, in observing that anger (ira) does not follow immediately without the involvement of mind giving assent to the appearance, seems to present the supposedly orthodox account (De ira, 2.1.3-5). For a detailed discussion of this passage see Inwood, 1993: 173-74; Sorabji, 2000, 41; 66-75. 30 This could be understood in terms of the impulse that immediately translates the proposition’s predicate into action. Cf. Plutarch, SC, 1056f and Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.86, 17-18. Actually at this passage what causes impulse to be in motion is the direct “impulsive appearance” (phantasia hormetike) of that which is appropriate (kathêkon). The proposition “the appropriate thing to do is X” expresses the content of the impulsive appearance, and in order to act in accordance with this proposition the agent must assent to it first. For a challenging analysis of Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.86, 17-18 see now Sorabji (2000: 33, n.19), who is willing to suggest that “not every appearance of what is appropriate motivates” (see also 423; 328-29).

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from the assents they have given to certain practical propositions indicating what should be done. This seems to display a moderate intellectualism on the part of the Stoics, which, to some extent, would coincide with that of those who, in accordance with Aristotle (EN, 1145b33-1146a4), claim that nothing is superior to knowledge, but do not agree that no one is able to act against what they think is best.31 The solution provided by this moderate intellectualism would be to say that the individual is mastered by pleasure because he does not have knowledge in the strict sense but only opinion. In this line of thought, the Stoics would have accepted both that nothing is more powerful than knowledge and, at the same time, that it is possible that someone acts against his better judgment, this judgment being doxa. It is tempting to try to establish some parallels between Aristotle’s practical syllogism and the Stoic model of the psychology of action; what I shall do is to present some modest remarks on the topic.32 Like Aristotle, the Stoics acknowledged that cognition is decisive in emotional response, and like Aristotle, they also recognized that emotions are not automatic reactions but the agent is acting according to his own judgment.33 For Aristotle, as for the Stoics, any emotional state involves a certain type of judgment or belief (what’s more, the Chrysippean emotions are judgments): a person is angry at someone or is afraid of something because he believes that someone is despising him or something harmful is going to happen to him.34 Now, when explaining the practical weakness, both Aristotle and the Stoics must face the same puzzlement: what does “knowledge” mean when it is said that the incontinent “knows” in performing his or her action. For Aristotle, the cognitive mistake involved in the incontinent action happens due to the influence of emotional states over the rational abilities (EN, 1147a10-b5). Aristotle’s examples—a person asleep, mad or drunk—show that the agent cannot consciously control his action; this properly describes what Aristotle calls “actions done in ignorance” (EN, 1110b24-27). The cognitive faculties of the individual are momentarily deactivated. These actions, though, are not “involuntary” without qualification, but the person is responsible for being in the state he is in. So he is also responsible for the ignorance that such states produce. Unlike Socrates, who believed that the incontinent acts by ignorance (EN, 1145b27), the incontinent person acts in ignorance and, even though he

_________ 31 Aristotle takes to be the extreme intellectualist position the one discussed in Plato’s Prot. (see EN, 1145b21-31). 32 Some brief and thoughtful comments on the issue can be seen in Inwood 1985: 15-17. 33 See Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1356a15-16; 1378a19-24, and Fortenbaugh 1979: 145-148. 34 See Rhetoric, 1378a30-32; 1382a21-22.

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is indirectly responsible for his actions, he is directly responsible for the emotional states that provoked his incontinent action. Thus the Aristotelian picture of the incontinent action emerges as the consequence of an inner conflict between rational and irrational motivations belonging to two opposing parts of the soul. This is not what happens according to the Stoics, who defend a psychology without parts in conflict. Nevertheless, they seem to share with Aristotle’s account of the cognitive state of the incontinent agent the fact that his cognitive faculties are weakened, not totally absent. In the Stoic view, this is not due to the fact that a part of the soul is overpowered by the other, but because the soul as a whole is emotionally disposed and the individual’s beliefs are based on error. Both Aristotle and the Stoics also think that the incontinent person regrets.35 The base person (phaûlos), in not having experience of the right use of things (apeiros; Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.102, 22-23), does everything badly, which explains why the acratic only has the theory of what should be done, but is unable to practice it; he is prone to instability (eumetaptotos) and liable to regret about each thing he does. Regret is a pain (lype) about what has been performed; it is as though the agent had the belief that the actions which have been performed were erroneous by the agency of himself (ʍıʍȢįȗμջȟȡțȣ թȣ ʍįȢ‫ ׶‬įՙijȡ‫ף‬ ԭμįȢijșμջȟȡțȣ). So the person having regret suffers sorrow and is angry at himself for having been responsible (aition) for the things that have happened (Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.102, 25-103, 4). It clearly follows, then, that, if he is responsible for what happened, he must have certain knowledge of what is good and bad for himself. The Stoic thesis that the base person only has the theory of what ought to be done, not the prâxis (DL 7.126), sounds similar to what Aristotle says in comparing the incontinent to a city that votes for all that should be done and has excellent laws, but never makes use of them (EN, 1152a20-21). In both cases the agent is thought to have his rational faculties weakened so as to be able to put into practice the knowledge he has. By contrast, the Stoic sage is the one who is in possession of prudence (phronesis), a well justified belief (knowledge) of what should be done and of what should not be done (DL 7.92; Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.59, 4-5). The Stoic incontinent, like the Aristotelian one, has an “oscillating” character, which shows him swinging hesitantly from one course of action to another. Now, although the Stoics, like Aristotle, recognized that cognition is crucial in emotional response, they maintained (unlike Aristotle) that emo-

_________ 35 Aristotle, EN, 1150b30-31. The Stoic sources do not say that the incontinent regrets, but in so far as incontinence is a vice derived from intemperance, and the phaûlos (who is an intemperate person) is prone to regret and to change his mind (Stobaeus, Ecl., 102, 22-25), I think that the Stoics would have probably agree with Aristotle’s view that the incontinent regrets.

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tion (pathos) is not different from reason (logos); when reason as a whole is understood in terms of passion, it is vice, a “perverse” (poneros) and “intemperate” (akolastos) reason. For the Stoics there is no conflict (diaphora) or civil war (stasis) between reason and passion; what happens is a sort of turning (trope) of one and the same reason in two distinct directions or states.36 What is particularly important here is that, even though the acratic person seems to envisage the temperate as well as the intemperate propositions, he always assents to the intemperate one. That the acratic “sees” what the correct course of action is can be confirmed from a significant passage in Stobaeus (mentioned above), where it is said that passionate people (ijȡւȣ Ԛȟ ijȡ‫ה‬ȣ ʍչȚıIJțȟ Րȟijįȣ) frequently “see” or “notice” (horôntas) that it is advantageous not to do anything, but are dragged by the violence of passion and are drawn into doing it (Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.89, 4-90, 6; see SVF, 3.389; LS 65A). Even though they notice (mathosi) that they should not feel pain or fear (i.e. passions), they allow themselves to be drawn by passions.37 If this is so, it might be suggested that the conduct of an agent supposedly willing to assent to the proposition “the correct thing to do is X” but not doing X, is explained because such an agent has given a weak assent to this proposition. Although a weak-minded agent can be described as really assenting to p in time 1 and then really assenting to –p in time 2, his assent, if compared to the sage person’s assent, is weak, since he is changing his mind all the time. This is not what

_________ 36 See Plutarch, MV 441C; 446F-447A (SVF 3.459; cf. LS 61B. For the “oscillation model” see also Galen (PHP, 4.5, 270, 14; 274, 1-3), Epictetus (Discourses, [Dis.] 1.28, 610), and Stobaeus (Ecl., 2.111, 20-21). In all these passages the weakness of the soul— proper to the Stoic passionate person—is described and particularly emphasized in terms of a “vacillating mind.” See Gosling, 1987: 186-87. For the “model of oscillation”, see Joyce, 1995: 327-28. 37 Inwood holds (1985: 142-43) that this Stobaeus passage is influenced by Posidonius or by a Platonising philosopher (in fact, the comparison of the passionate state with a disobedient horse reminds us of Plato’s Phaedrus, 246a-249e). But in the Stobaeus passage what is compared to a disobedient horse is not the irrational part of the soul but the hegemonikon of the soul which, as a whole, is emotionally disposed. Those who are in states of passion are carried away by the violence of passion as though by a disobedient horse. To be sure, in the picture of the horses in Plato’s Phaedrus the disobedient horse depicts the irrational part of the soul and somehow it is that part. The Stobaeus simile, I think, looks like the one of the runner cited by Galen (PHP, 240, 36-242, 11, ed. De Lacy). On this point see Gill, 1996: 227, n.196 and 230, n.205. More recently Inwood has acknowledged how hard is to argue that the Stobaeus passage uses the Platonic image of the horse deliberately and has also shown how difficult is to decide whether or not a Platonic dualism is consistent with Stoic views (see his 1993: 158-60).

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happens to the sage, for changing one’s mind is liable to false assent (Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.113, 3-7). Now the account that the Stoic incontinent is able theoretically to recognize the truth value of the temperate proposition but is not capable of translating the predicate of such a proposition into action reminds me of the emphasis Aristotle places on the fact that the acratic character is unable to actualize the knowledge he has. Of course, the “in potentiality/in actuality” distinction is not present in the Stoics, but it is suggestive that they, like Aristotle, consider the fact that the weak-minded agent cannot practice the knowledge he has regarding what should be done. One last remark on this point: both Aristotle’s and the Stoic’s model contains a practical proposition which is prescriptive of what should be done; in both cases the result of the process is an action. Aristotle, probably like the Stoics, thinks that the acratic agent knows that his or her act is incorrect because somehow he knows that the rational standard is a standard that, if applied to the concrete situation of action, would produce a good action. For Aristotle, it may be the case that the agent has set before him both a syllogism containing a correct universal premise (“what is sweet should not be tasted”) and a syllogism having an incorrect universal premise (“what is sweet must be tasted”; EN, 1147a31-1147b3). Both syllogisms have the same particular premise, although the action will be different depending on whether the agent connects the particular premise either with the correct universal belief or with the incorrect one; so the incontinent agent possesses the right standard of action but at this moment his knowledge is purely theoretical to the extent that he is unable to use it (EN 1146b31-35).38 Similarly, the Stoic acratic seems to envisage the temperate as well as the intemperate propositions, but he is unable to give assent to the temperate one (the practical proposition that must be assented to in order to produce a correct action). It is also suggestive to note that in the Stoic account the proposition to which assent must be given somehow contains both the major and the minor premises of Aristotle’s practical syllogism.39 The last point I want to deal with in this section is concerned with the already mentioned topic of “the power of appearance” (Plato, Prot., 356c8-d4; 357a5-b4). Both Aristotle and the Stoics largely exploited the Socratic thesis that in order to neutralize the power of appearance and attempt to discriminate properly the apparent from the real good the agent

_________ 38

For further discussion see Gauthier-Jolif, 1958-59: II, 611-613; Broadie, 1991: 304-

307. 39 As persuasively observed by Brennan, “a Stoic impulse is not like the major premise of an Aristotelian practical syllogism, but rather like the psychological synthesis of both premises together” (see his 2003: 267; italics are mine).

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should strengthen or refine his or her cognitive abilities. I shall start by making a brief comment on a passage by Aristotle where he seems to have in mind Socrates’ insight into the role that one’s state of character plays when the agent evaluates his end and his appearance of what is good for himself. Secondly, I intend to examine briefly the way in which the Stoics recommend to deal with appearances to avoid being seduced by the apparent good. To put it roughly, if Socrates is right and nobody fails willingly, no one will be responsible for his or her actions. However, since wish is for the end and we deliberate and choose about what promotes the end, it is reasonable to think that the actions promoting the end are done according to choice and are voluntary. Now, the activities concerned with virtues are related to what promotes the end. Therefore, both virtue and vice are up to us. If acting is up to us, so is not acting, no matter whether our action is fine or base. So, being a decent or a bad person is up to us as well (EN, 1113b3-14). Of course, there can be cases in which either the agent is forced to do something or his action is done by ignorance (Ȗտֹ ԰ İț‫׶‬ Ԕȗȟȡțįȟ; EN, 1113b24-25). But no one would be willing to say that in these cases the person is responsible. Now Socrates used to argue that nobody is bad willingly, but the agent acts badly on account of ignorance; but the individual’s ignorance, Aristotle insists, can be punished if the agent seems to be responsible for his ignorance. That is the case of the drunk, for the principle of action is in himself: whether or not he gets drunk depends on him (EN, 1113b32-33). Now, this is an important part of the objection Aristotle deploys against Socrates. The Socratic claim that the agent’s character makes him careless with regard to what he should know and it is not hard to know and, ultimately, makes him ignorant is straightforwardly attacked by Aristotle: it is because of living carelessly and in injustice and intemperance that the agent is responsible for having the character he has. For the activities related to each particular case (peri hekasta) produce the corresponding characters (EN, 1114a1-7). Now, if an agent is somehow responsible (pos aitios) for the state of character he is in, he will also be responsible, somehow, for what appears to him to be good (EN, 1114b1-4. See also 1140b17-18). Otherwise, no one will be responsible for his own bad action. Aristotle is cautious enough to include the adverb “somehow” affecting both the issue of being responsible for one’s character and the appearance of the end one has. In fact, the agent is not responsible in the strict sense for the appearances he has, although he certainly is somehow responsible for the way the end appears to him or to her, for in being somehow responsible for his state of character, the agent

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must also be responsible for doing a proper evaluation of the way in which the object of wish (bouleton) appears to him. Accordingly, he should also be responsible for the effects that examining badly his own appearance of the end would have for his good life. With respect to the responsibility one has for his character, Aristotle is also watchful. If his thesis that everyone is both responsible for his character and how the end appears to him is rejected, we should accept that the agent acts through ignorance of the end and that the aiming at the end is not self-chosen, but we are born with a natural ability to discern rightly and choose what is truly good (EN, 1114b3-8). But if this is the case, it turns out to be impossible to explain how virtue will be more voluntary than vice (EN, 1114b12-13). Virtue does not arise in us by nature; what Aristotle emphasizes is that we are naturally disposed to receive (dexasthai; EN, 1103a25) virtue and to make it perfect through habituation. This makes it clear why we are “somehow” responsible for our state of character: even when the way in which the end appears to an agent is in close connection with his state of character, each agent also has some natural dispositions that do not depend entirely upon the agent. For instance, not everyone has the same natural disposition to be brave, no matter whether he or she is naturally disposed to acquire braveness as a moral virtue. That is why Aristotle says that we actually are “somehow co-responsible” (sunaitioi pos) for our states of character (EN, 1114b21-22). So, if virtues are voluntary, vices will be so, too. Now, Aristotle maintains that the excellent or virtuous person judges each concrete situation of action correctly. This agent indeed has appearances of what is good, but what appears to him is what is true (talethes; EN, 1113a29-31), and this is explained again by the fact that the way in which noble or pleasant things appear to each person depends on one’s state of character. So Aristotle seems to be suggesting that all people have a certain ethical perception, but such an ethical perception is strongly conditioned by the way his or her character is modeled. But in such modeling of one’s character each one should develop some refinements with regard to his or her cognitive abilities in order to be able to assess correctly what appears to him or to her to be good and, accordingly, worth choosing. And this, I think, is a Socratic heritage, although it is highly refined.40 Let me turn now to the Stoic analysis of the role of appearance in searching for what is good. As I have said at the outset of this paper, for both the early Stoics and Epictetus, Socrates was their ethical exemplar; in addition, the Stoics took for granted some standard Socratic tenets, such as the concept of virtue (arete) as a form of knowledge (episteme), the thesis

_________ 40 On the Aristotelian topic of the choosing of character, see Sherman: 1989, chapter 3, especially 86-94.

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of the unity of virtues and that virtue is necessary and sufficient for happiness.41 That appearance (phantasia) plays an important role in the Stoic account of action becomes obvious out of the Stoic psychology of action. For the Stoics, as for Socrates, opinion or doxastic belief (doxa), which is ignorance, is the characteristic cognitive state of the base person (phaûlos). And ignorance is nothing other than a vice opposed to prudence or wisdom (phronesis), it is what makes the agent’s impulses unstable (akatastatous) and fluttery (ptoiodeis; Stobaeus, Ecl., 68, 20-22). In fact, the Stoics maintain that, when the characteristic cognitive state of the agent is opinion, his or her impulses are excessive or fluttered, and this sort of impulse is emotion or passion (pathos). If this is so, both the passionate and the equilibrated states have a clear cognitive origin. The Stoic Chrysippus says that “impulse is the reason of man prescribing (logos prostaktikos) him to act.”42 Thus rational impulse is always “practical”, that is to say, it is a movement of mind in which action is involved (Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.87, 3-5). In the sequence of Stoic psychology of action, impulse is considered as a motion of the soul which is directed (or can be directed, if nothing hinders it) intentionally toward action as a result of an assent to an appearance.43 Then it is arguable that impulse becomes exces-

_________ 41 For the scope of these theses when attributed to Socrates see n.6 above. The presence of these Socratic positions in the Stoics can be found, for example, in Plutarch, SC, 1034d-e (LS 61C); Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.58, 18-19 (cf. SVF 3.95; LS 60K); DL, 7.92-93. According to Chrysippus (as reported by Galen, PHP, 7.2, 436, 10-15), there would be one virtue (knowledge) and one vice (ignorance), that fits into the Socratic view that to be deprived of knowledge is the only bad action (Plato, Prot., 345b5). See also Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.59, 4-60, 8 (cf. LS 61H); 2.63, 6-10 (LS 61D) and DL 7.97. For a detailed analysis of the unity of virtue thesis in Stoicism, see Alesse, 2000: 293-99. 42 Plutarch, SC, 1037f (SVF, 3.175; LS 53R). See also Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.86, 17-8 (SVF, 3.169; LS 53Q). 43 According to Stobaeus’ testimony, the Stoics hold that all impulses are assents (Ecl., 2.88, 1; see also 97, 15-98, 6), which may mean that impulse comes directly from assent. Some scholars suggest that giving assent to an appearance, whose content is “I ought to do X”, is the same thing as performing an impulse for doing X. In other words, there would not be two events (assent and impulse) but only one (see Brennan, 1998: 28, and 2003: 266, n.19. Sorabji, 2000: 42-43). What this view seems to imply is that, just as every impulse is an act of assent, so too every assent to an appearance is an impulse. Some textual evidence, though—included in Stobaeus too—suggests that assent and impulse are two different things (that, eventually, can work together as a whole): we give assent to certain propositions or statements (axiomata), and impulses are toward the predicates (kategoremata) (see Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.88, 2-6). As suggested by Ioppolo, assent and impulse can be considered as being two different events, since while assent is a sort of cognitive act implying the recognition of the truth of the proposition, impulse is a movement leading toward action (Ioppolo, 1988: 410-11). I would be willing to accept that assent and impulse are a unique totality as

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sive as a result of the assent the agent has given to a proposition of a certain kind. Passions are “excessive impulses”, perverse opinions (ponerai doxai) and judgments (kriseis) that do not arise as a result of parts of the soul in conflict (as Platonists assume), but are impulses (hormai) of the ruling part of the soul as a whole. Passions are certain states of one’s reason, that in a moment, due to weakness and lack of stability, have changed suddenly from the correct disposition into the bad one.44 This fits quite well into what Stobaeus says when reporting the two types of assent recognized by the Stoics. For a wise person never makes a false supposition nor does he assent to anything which is not graspable; certainly, he neither holds opinions nor is ignorant. By contrast, the base person’s assent (which is identified with ignorance) is changeable and weak. The cognitive state of the wise person guarantees that his beliefs are always safe and firm; this is why for the Stoics he holds no opinion at all. A base person, in giving his assent to what is not graspable, the “acataleptic”, (the first kind of opinion) and in making weak suppositions (the other kind of opinion), behaves precipitately and gives his assent before having a real understanding or apprehension (Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.111, 17-112, 8). The Stoic sage is characterized like the one who has no surmise (hyponoia), and his assents must be those that arise after a critical acceptance of an appearance. Before a non-graspable appearance the sage person simply suspends judgment.45 There has been a good deal of discussion concerning the “cataleptic” or cognitive appearances (kataleptikai phantasiai).46 Let me discuss briefly, however, a couple of points that are relevant for my argument in this section. A fundamental feature of any cataleptic appearance is that it “arises from what is and is stamped and impressed exactly in accordance with

_________ long as impulse immediately translates into action the proposition’s predicate (once that proposition has been recognised as being true). 44 Plutarch, MV, 441C; 446F-447A (cf. SVF 3.459 and LS 65G). For emotions (pathe) as deviations (diastrophai) or perversions of reason see Themistius, in de An., 107, 17-18 (SVF 3.382). 45 See Origen, De princ. 3.1.3, with Inwood’s discussion in his 1985: 78-81. On the Stoic sage’s epoche see Plutarch, SC, 1056f; Sextus, M. 7.156. In the critical cases where the sage cannot decide about the reliability of an appearance he must suspend judgment “in order not to make surmises” (Plutarch, SC, 1047c=SVF 2.763; Cherniss’ translation). 46 Frede 1987: 151-179; 1999. Those who have followed Frede’s treatment of this topic will note that he still thinks that the traditional view that the cataleptic appearances involve a clue of infallibility must be rejected. He does not think any more, though, that the cataleptic appearances should come just from perceptible objects: in fact, in a human adult they can derive both from true propositions and from objects (see his discussion on the ambiguity of hyparchon• in the definition of cataleptic appearances; 1999: 303-307). See also Hankinson 2003, especially 60-74.

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what is (kat’ auto to huparchon), and it is of such a kind as could not arise from what is not” (Sextus, M, 7.248; translation LS, 40E). At this point there is a significant difficulty having to do with the way in which it would be possible to account for how an appearance that does not reflect its object adequately occurs. For the Stoics, non-cataleptic appearances occur when the agent is in a pathological state (Sextus, M, 7.247). But this does not explain common cases of delusion that do not presuppose, at least necessarily, that the perceiver is in a pathological state (for instance, a mirage, an oar that looks bent under the water).47 On the other hand, it does not explain how the sage can have non-cognitive appearances; that he has them is obvious. What distinguishes the sage from the fool is that, while the former does not assent to the non-cognitive appearances (or, rather, to their propositional expressions), the latter does give his assent to such appearances uncritically. But, if the sage person does not give his assent to the non-cognitive appearances it is due to the fact that such phantasiai appear before him and, after having examined them critically, he rejects them and suspends judgment. By contrast, the psychological state of a passionate agent explains why those who are not trained in their appearances (phantasiai) have precipitancy (propeteia) in their assertions and veer into disorder (akosmia) and carelessness (eikaiotes).48 This can be clearly seen in the definition of some emotional states (pathe) which are closely linked to or are identified with an apparent good or bad. “Appetite” (epithymia) is described as directed at the apparent good, and fear (phobos) as directed at the apparent bad (Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.88, 16-18=SVF 3.378; 65A). Note that the causal account of each particular emotion is made from the base person’s viewpoint: the cause of appetite “is believing that a good is approaching, and that when it is here we shall do well by it.” Similarly, the cause of fear “is believing (doxazein) that a bad thing is approaching” (Stobaeus, Ecl., 90, 8-9; 90, 12).49 But the evaluation of what appetite and

_________ 47 The latter example is reported by Sextus (M, 7.244) as exemplifying the Stoic distinction concerning the “convincing appearance that is false.” It is false as long as one can make a false assertion (pseudes kategoria) of it, e.g. when one says “I believe the oar is bent.” 48 DL 7.48 (LS 31B); on precipitancy as a feature of the Stoic base person see Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.112, 5-7 (SVF 3.548; LS 41G). On the wise person’s aproptosia, “non-precipitancy”, see DL 7.48 and Papyrus Herc. 1020 (SVF 2. 131), with the comments by Görler, 1977: 8587. The issue of non-cataleptic appearances is more sophisticated than what I have sketched here, for while some non-cataleptic appearances are false, others can eventually be true but unclear. When an agent precipitantly yields to what is unclear, he is deceived if the appearances are false (for evidence see Plutarch, SC, 1056f [SVF 2.993] and Tieleman’s discussion 1996: 184-85; 193-94). 49 Inwood’s translation (in Inwood & Gerson 1997).

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fear are is based on a belief that is not accompanied by knowledge (and consequently that is not well justified), so it can lead to error. When something X appears to an agent to be something leading him to what appears to be good or bad, and this appearance of what is good or bad does not coincide with what is really good or bad (and not only with what appears to be good or bad in the short term), the agent shows himself as not being able to discriminate the true value of his appearances. The distortion that the base person’s emotions consists in—a distortion concerning what is good and bad—arises, Chrysippus says, because of the “persuasiveness of appearances and instruction” (İțչ ijı ijռȟ ʍțȚįȟցijșijį ij‫׭‬ȟ ĴįȟijįIJț‫׭‬ȟ Ȝįվ ijռȟ ȜįijսȥșIJțȟ; Galen, PHP, 5.5, 320, 16-18). But once more this shows the weak cognitive state of the agent, which is just an ill-justified belief. This explains why the sage person does not have appetite but “reasoned desire” (boulesis), or why he does not have fear but watchfulness (eulabeia; DL 7.116; Plutarch, SC, 1037f-1038a). As is obvious, the issue of assent and the cognitive state of the agent in giving assent to a proposition turns out to be crucial in order to account for how a person can distinguish an apparent from a real good. In their debates with the Academics, the Stoics Chrysippus and Antipater seem to have defended the thesis that there is neither action nor impulse without assent (asunkatathetos), and that those who maintain that when an appropriate appearance (oikeia phantasia) occurs, impulse ensues immediately without any yielding or assent (ı՘Țւȣ ՍȢμֻȟ μռ ıՀȠįȟijįȣ μșİպ IJȤȗȜįijįȚıμջȟȡȤȣ) talk nonsense.50 So Plutarch observes that, after all, for the Stoics the mere presence of the appropriate appearance activates the impulse immediately, requiring no assent. In order to escape from the contradiction Plutarch attributes to Chrysippus, this passage might be understood as meaning that giving assent to a proposition describing an impulsive appearance, such as “I ought to do X”, is the same as performing an impulse for doing X (see above n. 43). But there is a systematic problem that should be stressed: what is appropriate must be different in the sage and in the fool, inasmuch as the standards they have for deciding what appearances are really appropriate are different and their evaluations of what is good or bad can disagree. Both the sage and the fool receive cataleptic and non-cataleptic appearances, but when the sage, receiving the latter, doubts that the proposition describing its contents is true, he avoids

_________ 50 Plutarch, SC, 1057A (SVF 3.177; LS 53S). What follows in Plutarch’s passage is part of his dispute with the Stoics, and he attempts to show that Chrysippus is contradicting himself in saying that there is neither action nor impulse without assent and in suggesting later (1057a-b) that no assent or yielding is required, but only action and impulse towards what appears.

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assenting to it and suspends judgment. This shows that the impulsive appearance is just a necessary condition of action, not a sufficient one, since in order for an action to exist the agent must assent to the statement describing the appearance’s content, but assent depends on the agent. Again, what will guarantee assent to what is really appropriate is that the cognitive state is episteme, not doxa. We should wonder whether or not it can occur that the fool stands before what is properly or really good and does not acknowledge it as being so. Galen reports that, according to Chrysippus, if an agent considers that the pleasant is good and the painful bad, and if he follows this belief (doxa), chooses the former and avoids the latter, he is “ignorant of the essence of good” (ԐμįȚռȣ ԚIJijțȟ ȡ՘IJտįȣ ԐȗįȚȡ‫ )ף‬and, on account of this, he is intemperate. In all our actions, then, we choose what appears to be good and avoid what appears to be bad, and we possess by nature these tendencies toward each one. But in order to make our choices and avoidances correctly we need philosophy, whose function is to teach us what is truly good and bad (ijЄ ȜįijѺ ΔȝЁȚıțįȟ ΔȗįȚЅȟ ijı ȜįЂ ȜįȜЅȟ); in its therapeutic function philosophy becomes the means by which we could distinguish the apparent from the real good (Galen, PHP, 7.2, 436, 23-29, ed. De Lacy; SVF 3.256). Epictetus offers an interesting argument that helps scrutinize the different attitudes the virtuous and vicious agents have before an “appropriate appearance”, such an appearance being an appearance of what is truly good. People take seriously, Epictetus says, those things that they suitably love. They take seriously only good things; by contrast, they take seriously neither evils nor what does not concern them. So if they take seriously the goods, they love them, too. Therefore, whoever has knowledge of what is good should love it. On the contrary, the one who is unable to discriminate what is good from what is evil (and what is neither good nor evil) cannot love. Consequently, to love is proper to the prudent or wise person (phronimos) alone (Dis., 2.22, 1-3). The reason why the fool cannot distinguish between what is good and what is bad is that, while not making a correct use of his senses and not discriminating his appearances rightly, he is disturbed (ijįȢչijijׄ) and overcome (ԭijij‫׭‬IJțȟ) by appearances and their persuasiveness. The immediate effect is that he believes, first, that X is good, then, that the same X is bad, later that it is neither good nor bad. In Socratic words, this agent is being ruled by the power of appearance, which makes him change his mind about the same things and takes away his peace of mind, prompting his instability of character and indecisiveness. (Dis., 2.22, 5-7; 2.22, 25). By contrast, the person having his cognitive capacities rightly trained will have his character well disposed too,

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and will realize that the good of man is his prohairesis disposed in a certain manner (i.e. correctly disposed; Dis., 1.8, 16; 1.29, 1). The thesis that lies behind this account is that one will have a good moral life if and only if one makes a correct use of appearances (a topic on which Epictetus frequently insists),51 which is the only thing that is up to the agent. Humans cannot remove appearances from their lives, but they can scrutinize them, in order to reject those appearances which have not passed their reason’s inspection. Epictetus maintains that nature has endowed us with reason for making a correct use of appearances, and to make a correct use of appearances is nothing other than testing and discriminating among them (Dis., 1.20 5-8). Nothing indicates that one should be necessarily good or bad; on the contrary, one’s state of character (or prohairesis, which displays what humans are as agents who are properly defined in terms of their own volitional acts) depends on each person. 52 The place that the external things (ta ektos) have for Epictetus displays how one’s prohairesis should work in order to attain the real good and, accordingly, to have a good life. The external things are the materials (hulai) for our choice: depending on how one’s choice behaves, the agent will attain its own good or bad. And the only way through which choice will attain the proper good is not having a special consideration for such materials: if one’s beliefs (dogmata) regarding materials are correct, they make our choice good, if they are perverse and distorted, they make it bad (Dis., 1.29, 2-4). In addition to that Epictetus argues that the task of a rational agent who is making some progress in his moral life lies in (a) desire and rejection, in order to be unerring in the former, and not stumbling in the latter; (b) in impulse and repulsion, in order not to be in error; (c) in assent (prosthesis) and suspension of judgment, in order not to be deceived (Dis., 1.4, 12). Of these requirements, the most important and urgent, Epictetus remarks, is the first one, for passions arise when desire is frustrated or when the agent falls into what he rejects (Dis., 3.2, 3; in fact, the origin of an emotion is explained as wanting something to happen and that it does not come about; 1.27, 10-11). Indeed we should presume that the other two requisites also contribute importantly to emotional states not arising. For the correct evaluation of impulse and repulsion (which should be translated into an impulse to act or not to act in a determined direction) and, in connection with this, the assessment of assent and suspension of judgment (which prevents us from being deceived by what is unclear) pro-

_________ 51 See Dis., 1.1, 7; 1.1, 12; 1.6, 13; 1.20.5. Even the “essence of the good” (and of the evil in the same way) depends upon the use of appearances (2.1, 4). On the use of appearances in Epictetus see Long’s comments in his 1996: 275-281 and more recently 2002: 85 and 214-17. 52 On the difficulties to render prohairesis in Epictetus see Long 2002: 28-29; 218-220.

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vide the agent with proper resources for having beliefs based on knowledge, i.e. firm, trusted, and unwavering beliefs. But, of course, a problem still remains: if the fool is ignorant, what can he do to be aware of his own state of ignorance? Furthermore, according to Epictetus, a peculiar task of the good person is to deal with his appearances properly, i.e. “in accordance with nature” (Dis., 3.3, 1). But for doing that, one has already to be good or sage in Stoic terms; otherwise, one should presume, one’s assessment of appearance will be deficient. Besides, Epictetus observes that just as it is in every soul’s nature to assent (epineuein) to what is true, to reject (ananeuein) what is false, and to suspend judgment (epechein) with regard to what is unclear, so too the agent’s soul must be moved by its desire for the good, it must reject the bad and what is neither bad nor good. Now when the good appears, it immediately activates the soul toward it, while when what appears is what is bad the soul moves away from it. One’s soul will never reject “a clear appearance of good” (ԐȗįȚȡ‫ ף‬ĴįȟijįIJտį ԚȟįȢȗսȣ; Dis., 3.3.4). However, one might ask: “whose soul?” If Epictetus means the soul of the prudent person, there is no problem, but if he believes this to be so with regard to every soul (including the fool’s soul) the point sounds problematic. To be sure, you need to have your beliefs accompanied by knowledge in order not to reject such a clear appearance of the good. Perhaps Epictetus is just pointing out the natural disposition that the rational beings have toward what is good, in so far as, he contends, everyone comes into the world endowed with an inborn conception of what is good and bad (Dis., 2.11, 34), and this is in such a way that the agents will be completely or really rational when they recognize what is good at the theoretical level and act good at the practical lvevl. What seems to be more or less clear is that there is an essential relation between the good as an object of impulse and the good as an object of knowledge. But the appearance of the real good is the only one which is able to set in motion the correct impulse, an impulse which, according to the Stoics, is translated into a virtuous action. IV. Epilogue Throughout this paper I have been emphasizing the fact that both Aristotle and the Stoics conducted their moral inquiry as a reaction to and as a development and refinement of Socrates’ theses. Without overstating my case, I think it is reasonable to believe that for Socrates a cognitive enlightenment must transform the agent by showing him what he really knows

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about what is good and bad for himself.53 Both Aristotle and the Stoics took this proposal seriously, although Aristotle considered that wrongdoing cannot be accounted for merely on the grounds of ignorance. To be sure, the ignorance involved in a wrong action does not come from merely cognitive factors, but it is a result of such factors plus a good state of character. This becomes clear from the fact that for Aristotle the incontinent agent does not necessarily have an incorrect appearance of what is good (in fact, his failure is due to the fact that he acts guided by his irrational desires, not by his choice; EN, 1111b13-14). The incontinent agent’s problem is rather that he cannot actualize the knowledge he has: in order to do that one has to internalize his knowledge (sumphuênai) as well as to incorporate it into his habituations (EN, 1147a10-22).54 Emotions may be cultivated in order to put them in line with reason. Aristotle’s indication that the virtuous person hits the mean, making reference both to emotion and action, implies that the virtuous agent is morally evaluated for his actions as well as for his emotions, or rather, for the way he brings his emotions into line with reason. That for Aristotle emotions can be moderated or cultivated, if the agent is able to establish the right states of his character, is obvious from the fact that the person must be properly prepared beforehand (or “cultivated”: prodieirgasthai; EN, 1179b24) by means of habits for enjoying and hating finely (EN, 1179b24-31). A proper education of character, then, will allow the agent to delight in and to be pained by things that he ought (1104b11-12). This is certainly far away from the presumably Socratic psychology as described in Plato’s Prot.; but Aristotle also stresses, in a very Socratic manner, that rational beings are able to distance themselves from the immediate desires concerning bodily pleasure. His account is again based on a dividedmind conception of the soul, a synchronic model describing the conflict between opposing parts (On the Soul, 433b5-6); but it is also based on a Socratic distinction between two kinds of desire: boulesis, a desire for what is good, and epithymia, a desire for what is pleasant and not necessarily good (Plato, Charmides, 167e1-5; Gor., 509e5-6). Such a distinction was taken to be appropriate both by Aristotle and the Stoics,55 and they probably did so believing that the desire aiming at what is good belongs to us as something distinctive of a rational being and that, because of that, we

_________ 53 At this point, I am following Gerson’s remarks in his 1995: 247-49. See also Plato, Theaetetus, 210b-c. 54 On this and other related topics see Vigo, 1996: 321-25. 55 See Aristotle, EE, 1223a34; 1224b1-2; 1227a28-31; 1235b22-28. EN, 1111b16; 1119b5-7. Rhetoric, 1369a2-3; 1370a17-18. For the Stoics see DL 7. 116 (SVF 3.431); Stobaeus, Ecl., 2.87, 21-22.

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must pursue a rational or “reasonable” desire, a form of desire that works following a cognitively enlightened appearance of the object of desire. The view of philosophy as therapy properly belongs to the Stoics, not to Aristotle. For him, there are some agents (the intemperate) whose dispositions of character are incurable (EN, 1150a21-22; b29-30). The proper therapy for Aristotle consists in saying that, in the development of character, early education is crucial. For their part, both Chrysippus and Epictetus emphasize the fact that philosophy is the correct therapy for transforming our feeble beliefs into firm beliefs, and that the very beginning of exercising philosophy and applying it to one’s life is one’s own awareness of the proper state of one’s commanding faculty (Dis., 1.26, 15). This means that we need a philosophical education to learn how to use properly (i.e. “in accordance to nature”) our preconceptions of what is rational or irrational, good or bad, and how to apply them to the concrete situations of action (Galen, PHP, 5.5, 320, 16-18; Dis., 1.2.5-6; 2.11, 1-3). That is the most reliable way to dismiss the “persuasiveness of (false) appearances.” UNIVERSIDAD DE LOS ANDES SANTIAGO, CHILE

COMMENTARY ON BOERI IAKOVOS VASILIOU

Marcelo Boeri’s rich and interesting paper focuses on moral psychology. Beginning with Socratic Intellectualism, which holds that virtue and knowledge are identical, he discusses Aristotle’s criticism of it, the similarities between Aristotle’s and the Stoics’ alternative accounts of incontinence, and the Aristotelian and Stoic views about how the different ways the good appears to an agent affect action (121). In the limited space I have to discuss such a wide range of material, I shall argue primarily that Boeri’s treatment of Socrates might benefit from a more detailed focus on moral epistemology, before addressing the role one’s grasp of the good or apparent good plays in action. I shall also briefly point out how these issues might indicate the importance of a couple of neglected passages to his conclusions about the relationship of Aristotle and the Stoics to the Platonic Socrates. In the opening two pages of Boeri’s paper several importantly distinct, though closely related, questions are raised. At its broadest, his project is “to sketch an account of how the distinction ‘apparent-real good’ is meant to be understood” (113). This sounds like a project in moral epistemology: How do we know what is the real good and how do we distinguish it from the merely apparent good? One might then discuss what the ancients say about what the overall real good is – that is, discuss what they say happiness (eudaimonia) is. As Boeri himself states (114-115), for the Platonic Socrates, Aristotle, and the Stoics, the real good for human beings is essentially bound up with virtue.1 But there is also a second set of epistemological concerns, frequently raised in the paper (e.g., 109, 110), which addresses knowing what ought to be done in the here and now: how does an agent correctly determine what to do in some concrete situation, and how does she avoid, in particular, having her judgement about what to do adversely affected by a presently available pleasure? Boeri frequently speaks of these two cognitive assessments together: “One might think it is

_________ 1 I say “essentially bound up” as a way of ignoring for present purposes all of the substantive differences between their respective views concerning the relationship between virtue and happiness: whether virtue is merely necessary or also sufficient for happiness; whether, as Aristotle insists, it is not the state of being virtuous, but virtuous activity that is (part of) the highest good, since happiness itself is an activity, etc.

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a truism to maintain that one must have a certain refinement of his or her intellectual abilities when attempting to (a) make a proper evaluation of what the correct course of action is or (b) of what the real good is for oneself.”2 (a) concerns knowing what to do in the here and now; (b) is knowing what one’s happiness consists in. The first two paragraphs of the paper focus on correct and incorrect judgements about the real good in both of these senses. I want, however, to call attention to their difference. I might have a mistaken conception of my overall good, incorrectly believing that it is, say, honor or pleasure (think of Aristotle’s consideration of conceptions of happiness in EN I.5). But I may have, either alternatively or in addition, a mistaken grasp of what I ought to do in the here and now. So the gap between the apparent and the real good opens up on two distinct fronts in moral epistemology. In the third paragraph, Boeri shifts his focus to moral psychology: what role does the grasp of the real good, as opposed to the merely apparent good, have in action? What goes wrong when a person acts contrary to her conception of the real good? Does a person ever act contrary to the way the good appears to her? Boeri is now asking about the effect of our beliefs about the real and apparent good on our actions, rather than raising questions about which of those beliefs are the right ones, and how we justify them. Naturally enough, the puzzle of incontinence then arises, and a study of the similarities and differences between Socrates, Aristotle, and the Stoics on akrasia dominates much of the paper. Now Socrates’ position, with which Boeri begins, is a limiting case that largely collapses the distinction between moral epistemology and moral psychology: if the true grasp of the good guarantees correct action, so that there is not even the possibility of a person with a true grasp of the good failing (voluntarily) to act correctly, then grasping the real good is the beginning and end of virtue. This, of course, is Socratic Intellectualism. Unsurprisingly, then, the Protagoras is important since it is the dialogue that seems to offer the most extensive defense of Socrates’ intellectualism and since it is apparently quoted from by Aristotle in his own discussion of incontinence (EN, VII.2, 1145b21-7).3 Immediately before his discussion

_________ 2 Although Professor Boeri said this in the original draft of his paper, it was cut from the final draft. 3 I say “apparently”, although I think almost all scholars take the reference to Socrates’ denial that “knowledge could be dragged around like a slave” (1145b23-4) to be a quotation from the Protagoras. I simply suggest the possibility that this was a famous line from the historical Socrates that everyone knew, which is then quoted both in the Protagoras and in the EN. If Aristotle had the Protagoras specifically in mind, I find it surprising that there is

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of the Protagoras, Boeri writes: “For Socrates, then, the cognitive state of the agent is crucial for the correct assessment of what the good is and, of course, for the quality of the particular actions he or she is able to perform” (118). This sentence once again joins the epistemological question of knowing what the overall good is with the question of knowing what the good action in the here and now is. It also provides the transition between Boeri’s discussion of the “misuse arguments” in the Euthydemus and Meno, and his discussion of the hedonist argument in the Protagoras. I am not certain we ought to connect these arguments in the way Boeri advocates, and I shall try to explain why. The Meno and Euthydemus argue that only wisdom/knowledge are necessarily beneficial, because only wisdom/knowledge guarantee the correct use of things.4 Other apparent goods, like fortitude, wealth, or health, are merely conditional goods insofar as their goodness depends upon their being used properly (i.e., by knowledge). Misused, these “apparent” goods can become downright harmful. While this argument is hardly trivial, it nevertheless clearly leaves important questions unanswered. It establishes that knowledge of how to use other things correctly (ՌȢȚ‫׭‬ȣ) is necessary for those things to function as goods. But what is it to use these things correctly? Knowledge is the state that enables an individual to make correct use of things, but putting aside moral psychology questions (is that knowledge alone sufficient to get me actually to use things correctly?), there is a lot more work to be done simply in terms of discovering what the good is: what would it be to use, say, wealth “correctly”? If I want to do what is truly good in the here and now with my wealth, simply knowing that I need to know how to use it correctly, and not misuse it, will not help me to determine what to do. Now this is the problem addressed in Socrates’ second engagement with Clinias in the Euthydemus (288d292e). There it is concluded that what is needed is some sort of “royal skill (ȖįIJțȝțȜռ ijջȥȟș),” which will provide us with knowledge of how to use the first-order skills and their products. But famously and frustratingly, Socrates and Clinias (and Crito as well) are not able to specify what that knowledge is (292e) despite its being (at least) necessary

_________ no mention at all of its hedonism, which figures so centrally in the argument for the denial of incontinence. Aristotle takes it as obvious that incontinence has to do with being overcome by some sort of pleasures and pains (1146b10-11). 4 I think that the Euthydemus argument should not, as it often is, be taken as straightforward evidence of what Socrates (or Plato) thinks about wisdom, goods, and happiness, since it arises in a very particular and charged context: an explicit example of protreptic aimed at turning the young Cleinias towards virtue and philosophy. It is not an investigation into the truth about the nature of wisdom and happiness; it is explicitly an attempt at conversion, to be contrasted with the methods of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. I cannot elaborate on this here, however.

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that knowledge is (292e) despite its being (at least) necessary for happiness. It seems to me that the key difference between the hedonist argument in the Protagoras and Socrates’ arguments in the Euthydemus is that although they both prize knowledge as critical, in the Protagoras the argument proceeds on the assumption that what the good is has already been determined. The knowledge that is critical to happiness has an object in the Protagoras: it is knowledge of the measurement of pleasures and pains. In the Euthydemus the wisdom is simply wisdom of how to use things “correctly” or “rightly” (ՌȢȚ‫׭‬ȣ); it is, further, a knowledge that will make people good – but in what respect they are good remains undiscovered. In the Protagoras, by contrast, the good, and thus right action, is clearly cashed out: “rightly” means in order to achieve the greatest amount of pleasure overall. The “art of measurement,” then, is not a skill the possession of which enables a person to know what the overall good is, anymore than knowledge of medicine is what makes a person know that the end of medicine is health; it does not address that question in moral epistemology. The answer to that question is simply accepted in the Protagoras: the real good for human beings is pleasure. The art of measurement is not a second-order techne, whose end or product is problematic, as was the case with the “royal skill” of the Euthydemus. It is rather a first-order techne, whose end is clear: the maximization of pleasure. What the knowledge of this skill will enable one to do, in contrast to the mere “power of appearance,” is to guarantee that one gets acting well in the here and now right, given that pleasure is truly the good. It does not help, nor is it concerned with, the question of whether pleasure is in fact the real or only the apparent good. The art of measurement, therefore, is the “salvation of life” only on the assumption that hedonism is true.5 This is relevant to the issue of incontinence, on which Boeri focuses. What ensures the absence of incontinence is the hedonism, not the art of measurement. Hedonism enables one to swap the terms “the pleasant” and “the good” and thereby render “I did what was bad, knowing it was bad, because I was overcome by pleasure” as “I did what was bad, knowing it was bad, because I was overcome by the good.” If one had only the “power of appearance” to go by one would go wrong, but not in the way an incontinent goes wrong. Given the hedon-

_________ 5 An assumption explicitly brought up for consideration five or six times, which leads me to be sceptical about whether the hedonism is endorsed by Socrates. But I cannot discuss this here.

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ist principle one would be correctly aiming at maximizing pleasure, but then, because one lacked the art of measurement, one would fail to determine correctly which action in fact leads to the most pleasure overall. This is not Socratic intellectualism as I understand it – this is the different and significantly weaker idea that you need knowledge or (as the Meno claims, 97c) at least true belief to get things right. Boeri describes the agent with the art of measurement, in contrast to the confused person with the mere power of appearance, as follows: …[he] will be able to make the power of appearance powerless and, by noticing the truth, he will have peace of mind and will ‘save his life’. The truth here must mean the correct calculation in weighing pleasant things against the painful ones (Prot. 356d4-e4). Maybe this calculation is the expertise demanded by Socrates to make a correct distinction between good pleasures and bad ones (Gorgias 500a4-6) (118).

I do not think that the art of measurement can be what distinguishes between good pleasures and bad ones in the Gorgias, for there it is acknowledged that we seek pleasure for the sake of the good and not vice versa (500a). The art of measurement deals exclusively in pleasures and pains; there is no independent sense to “good” and “bad.” The whole point is that these terms have been replaced by quantitative measurements of pleasure and pain. Once we have effected a distinction between pleasure and the good, as happens in the Gorgias, the problem of determining what the good is, both in general and in the here and now, rises again with full force. The Protagoras is a special case where this question has, for the moment, subsided.6 Consider the following example. Let us assume that the hedonist argument is correct, and that Fred possesses the art of measurement. We can imagine the possibility of an incontinent Fred who chooses to perform, for example, a kind action, even though he knows via his art of measurement that it is not the action that provides the most pleasure overall, and although he also knows, not via the art of measurement, that pleasure is the good. We can imagine Fred saying, “I know that pleasure is the good, and I know that this action fails to maximize it, but, overcome by pity, I just

_________ 6 It is not surprising, then, that I would also not agree with Boeri’s suggestion, similar to Gosling and Taylor’s (The Greeks on Pleasure [Oxford, 1982], ch.’s 3-4), that the Gorgias and Protagoras may be rendered consistent by distinguishing between short and long-term pleasures. See also, G. Rudebusch, Socrates, Pleasure, and Value (Oxford, 1999). Further, does Boeri’s idea that the Gorgias and Protagoras may be reconciled mean that he thinks that Socrates is a hedonist of some sort? If so, how does this influence his assessment of Aristotle’s and the Stoics’ relation to Socrates, since they are obviously opposed to hedonism?

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can’t resist this plea for help.” In the context of the Protagoras such incontinence, where one is persuaded to act contrary to pleasure and not in exchange for greater pleasure, is not envisioned – all of those present, and “the many” for whom they answer already accept hedonism. But I do not see that Socrates’ argument excludes such a possibility. If he denied this sort of incontinence is possible, as he presumably would, it would be as paradoxical as his denial in the more ordinary contexts where hedonism is not on the table. A related disagreement I have with Boeri concerns his insistence that according to Socrates a person with mere opinion will “always” fail (116, top 121 twice): “the agent having knowledge will always attain what is truly good and act accordingly, while the one having opinion will always attain what is apparently good (and does not coincide with the real good), and his action will be wrong” (121, his emphasis). I have two remarks. First, if Socrates does believe that the person with knowledge will always attain what is truly good, then the knowledge in question is not the knowledge of the art of measurement alone, but must be the possession of that skill plus the knowledge that hedonism is true. Second, even if knowing that hedonism is true and possessing the skill of measurement is sufficient for virtue and happiness, I do not see where Socrates says that a person without the skill of measurement will “always” fail – could he not get lucky sometimes, relying simply on his beliefs? Indeed, in the final argument in the Meno (97c ff.), Socrates notoriously claims that true belief can operate just as reliably as knowledge when it comes to action. Consider too the Hippias Minor, discussed by Boeri, where the person who attempts to be a liar about sums but is ignorant of calculation is said to run the risk of accidentally speaking the truth (367a). Aristotle as well in his account of incontinence dismisses the importance of whether a person acts contrary to knowledge or simply to belief, “for some are convinced no less about what they believe than others about what they know” (EN VII.3, 1146b29-30). This seems to me to affect Boeri’s later discussion of Aristotle’s critique of Socrates’ identification of virtue and knowledge (122-125). For present purposes, I shall accept Boeri’s interpretation of Aristotle’s criticism of Socrates in the extremely difficult EE VIII.1: in a nutshell, the virtues cannot be forms of knowledge, since knowledge can be misused, but the virtues cannot. Boeri begins by saying that Socrates’ thesis in the Euthydemus that sophia never errs appears to preclude the idea that knowledge can be misused. Boeri notes, however, that Aristotle’s examples involve ordinary craft-knowledge and that “[craft-knowledge] is not the kind of

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knowledge [Socrates] takes to be ‘moral knowledge’, or ‘knowledge of what is good and bad’; the knowledge [craftsmen] profess cannot be that which prevents the agent from confusing an apparent good with a real good, either” (123). This should strike us as puzzling, since of course Socrates seems to be searching for just such a craft, and, as Boeri himself wonders, the art of measurement from the Protagoras seems indeed to be just such a craft. He writes: After all, [the art of measurement] is indeed a techne and, as such it should be included among the “know how” forms of knowledge. Furthermore, the knowledge that virtue is turns out to be like craft knowledge. But perhaps Socrates, in declaring [that he lacks] the sort of knowledge the possessors of technai have, was heavily concerned with warning against confusing a (mere) skill with moral expertise, the form of knowledge that allows you to draw the distinction between what is good and bad, and to choose what appears really good and coincides with what is good (123).

Here I think the distinction is critical between knowing what happiness is and knowing what the correct action in the here and now is. The art of measurement of pleasures and pains, which is a first-order craft, does prevent the agent from confusing what appears to be the good with what is really good, but in the here and now. That this knowledge by itself causes us to choose the real good is plausible only when conjoined with the hedonism of the Protagoras. It is true that this first-order techne, the art of measurement, is not moral expertise in the sense of enabling us to know what our overall good is. It is not a “royal craft” because hedonism preempts the necessity for such a second-order skill – the special sort of wisdom that cannot be misused. As I noted earlier, the second-order craft arises in the context of there being no substantive picture of what will count as using the first-order crafts, and the other “apparent” goods, correctly. Hedonism solves that problem: things are used correctly when they maximize pleasure. And, in the context of the Protagoras it is assumed that no one would voluntarily act against what is most pleasant – that is, there would be no one like incontinent Fred. Without the plausibility of this assumption, however, we are stuck with the denial of incontinence that Aristotle complains “conflicts with the manifest appearances” (1145b27-8). When Socrates denies having craft knowledge of virtue, what he denies, in my view, is knowledge of how to determine what the right action is in the here and now. If he were able to answer the Socratic “what is F?” question he would be able to distinguish without error the virtuous from the non-virtuous actions. This is the knowledge that the art of measurement provides on the assumption that hedonism is true. Without this knowledge, questions of incontinence entirely aside, Socrates can never

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know (without the aid of his daimonion) that what he does is actually virtuous, even if he is explicitly aiming at acting virtuously. But this kind of “going wrong” is of course different from weakness cases. If the good is not identical to pleasure, but to virtue, there are, if we follow the above distinction, two ways we might “go wrong.” One is that we might mistakenly believe that pleasure is the good: when we pursue the pleasant then we are not acting incontinently, we are pursuing what we falsely believe is the good. In addition or alternatively, we may pursue our false conception of the good incorrectly by not doing the actions that would in fact lead us to maximize our pleasure—this would be rectified by the knowledge of the art of measurement. Both of these goings-wrong would be different from cases that might possibly be considered “weakness” cases: in those type of cases we are acting against either what we believe to be our overall good, or what we take to be the good in the here and now. Since space is limited I shall conclude by simply mentioning two critical passages in Aristotle, which Boeri does not discuss, but which I believe are important for understanding how these issues in Socrates connect to both Aristotle and the Stoics. 1. Boeri attributes a moderate intellectualism to the Stoics according to which one cannot act contrary to knowledge, but can act contrary to what seems best to one (127). According to Boeri, the Stoics claim that a person is overcome by pleasure because he has only opinion, but not knowledge. Of course this sounds quite similar to Socrates. But it seems to me that this also ought to be compared with Aristotle’s absolute rejection of the possibility that the phronimos acts incontinently (1146a4-9). 2. Boeri says: “It is also suggestive to note that in the Stoic account the proposition to which assent must be given somehow contains both the major and minor premises of Aristotle’s practical syllogism” (130). On his account of Aristotle the incontinent’s failure is due to his having the incorrect major premise. But several times in EN VII.3 the blame is put on a faulty minor premise. In fact in the closing passage of the chapter (which I wish Boeri had discussed) Aristotle famously pulls back from and seems to half-retract his criticism of Socrates. In Ross’s Oxford Translation: And because the last term is not universal nor equally an object of knowledge with the universal term, the position that Socrates sought to establish actually seems to result; for it is not what is thought to be knowledge proper that the passion overcomes (nor is it this that is dragged about as a result of the passion) but perceptual knowledge (1147b13-17).

This strikes me as a critical (though famously difficult) passage to come to terms with for assessing Aristotle’s similarity with Socrates as well as his

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potential connection with the Stoics. If the incontinent’s failure concerns the minor premise, it seems to me that Aristotle’s position moves much closer to the Stoics’, insofar as they claim that the distinction between the Sage and non-Sage stems from differences in particular propositions about the world around them to which they assent. THE GRADUATE CENTER/BROOKLYN COLLEGE, CUNY

BOERI BIBLIOGRAPHY Alesse, F. La Stoa e la tradizione socratica, Napoli. Annas, J. 1999. Platonic Ethics. Old and New. Ithica and London. Anscombe, E. 1963 Intention, Oxford. _______ 1995. “Practical Inference”, in R. Hursthouse, G. Lawrence, W. Quinn (eds.) Virtues and Reasons. Philippa Foot and Moral Theory, Oxford 1995, 1-34. Arnim von, H. 1903-1905. Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, Stuttgart. Brennan, T. 1998. ‘The Old Stoic Theory of Emotion’, in J. Sihvola, T. EngbergPedersen (eds.) The Emotions in Hellenistic Philosophy, Dordrecht-BostonLondon, 21-70. _______ 2003. “Stoic Moral Psychology”, in B. Inwood (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, Cambridge, 257-294. Brickhouse, T.C., Smith, N. D. 1994. Plato’s Socrates, New York-Oxford. Broadie, S. 1991. Ethics with Aristotle, New York-Oxford. Carone, G.R. 2000. “Hedonism and the Pleasureless Life in Plato’s Philebus”, in Phronesis, XLV/4, 257-283. Cleary, J.J. 1991. “Socratic Influences on Aristotle’s Ethical Inquiry”, in K.J. Boudouris (ed.) The Philosophy of Socrates, Athens, 98-115. Davidson, D. 1980. Essays on Actions and Events, Oxford. Ferber, R. 2001. “Ist die Idee des Guten nicht transzendent oder ist sie es doch? Nochmals Platons epekeina tês ousias”, in Méthexis, XIV, 7-21. _______ 2002. “The Absolute Good and the Human Good”, in G. Reale & S. Scolnicov (eds.) New Images of Plato. Dialogues on the Idea of Good, Sankt Augustin, 187-196. Fortenbaugh, W.W. 1979 ‘Aristotle’s Rhetoric on Emotions’, in J. Barnes, M. Schofield, R. Sorabji (eds.) Articles on Aristotle. Psychology and Aesthetics, London, 133-153. Frede, M. 1987. “Stoics and Skeptics on Clear and Distinct Impressions”, in his Essays in Ancient Philosophy, Oxford, 151-179. _______ 1999. “Stoic Epistemology”, in K. Algra, J. Barnes, J. Mansfeld and M. Schofield (eds.) The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, Cambridge. Gadamer, H.G. 1985. “Logos und Ergon im platonischen Lysis”, in Griechische Philosophie II (Gesammelte Werke VI), Tübingen. _______ 1993. Hermeneutik II. Wahrheit und Methode (Gesammelte Werke II), Tübingen. Gauthier, R-A., Jolif, J.Y. 1958-1959. Aristote. L’ Éthique à Nicomaque, LouvainParis (vols. I-III). Gerson, L. 1999. “On Knowledge and Self in Plato”, in J.J. Cleary & G.M. Gurtler, S.J., (eds.) Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy, vol. XV (1999), Leiden-Boston-Köln, 231-253. Gill, C. 1996. Personality in Greek Epic, Tragedy, and Philosophy. The Self in Dialogue, Oxford. _______ 1998. “Did Galen Understand Platonic and Stoic Thinking on Emotions?”, in J. Sihvola, T. Engberg-Pedersen (eds.), The Emotions in Hellenistic Philosophy, Dordrecht-Boston-London, 113-169. _______ 2002. “Critical Response to Hermeneutic Approach from an Analytic Perspective”, in G. Reale & S. Scolnicov, (eds.), cited above, 211-222.

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Görler, W. 1977. “Asthenes sunkatathesis. Zur stoischen Erkenntnistheorie”, in Würzburger Jahrbücher für die Altertumswissenschaft neue Folge, Band 3, 83-92. Gosling, J. 1987. “The Stoics and Akrasia”, in Apeiron, 20, 179-202. Hankinson, R.J. 2003. “Stoic Epistemology”, in B. Inwood (ed.), quoted above, 59-84. Inwood, B. 1985 Ethics and Human Action in Early Stoicism, Oxford. __________1993. “Seneca and Psychological Dualism”, in J. Brunschwig and M.C. Nussbaum (eds.) Passions & Perceptions. Studies in Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind. Proceedings of the Fifth Symposium Hellenisticum, Cambridge, 150-183. Inwood, B., Gerson, L.P. 1997. Hellenistic Philosophy. Introductory Readings, Indianapolis-Cambridge. Ioppolo, A.M. 1987. ‘Il monismo psicologico degli stoici antici’, in Elenchos, 8, 449466. _______ 1988. “Le cause antecedenti in Cic. De fato 40”, in J. Barnes & M. Mignucci (eds.) Matter and Metaphysics. Fourth Symposium Hellenisticum, Napoli, 397-424. _______ 1995. “L Horme Pleonazousa nella dotrinna stoica della passione”, in Elenchos, Anno 16, 1, 25-55 Irwin, T. 1995 Plato’s Ethics, Oxford. Joyce, R. 1995. “Early Stoicism and Akrasia” Phronesis, 60, N° 3, 315-335. Kahn, C.H. 1996. Plato and the Socratic Dialogue: The Philosophical Use of a Literary Form, Cambridge. Labarrière, J.J. 1993. “De la ‘nature phantastique des animaux chez les Stoïciens” in J. Brunschwig and M.C. Nussbaum, (eds.) cited above, 225-249. Long, A.A. 1968. “Aristotle’s Legacy to Stoic Ethics”, in Bulletin of the University of London Institute of Classical Studies, 15, 72-85 (reprinted in Irwin, T. [ed.] Classical Philosophy: Collected Papers, vol. V: Aristotle’s Ethics, New York 1995, 378-391). _______ 1996. Stoic Studies, Cambridge, _______ 1998. “Theophrastus and the Stoa”, in van Ophuijsen, J.M, van Raalte, M. (eds.) Theophrastus. Reappraising the Sources, New Brunswick and London, 355-383. _______ 2002. Epictetus. A Stoic and Socratic Guide to Life, Oxford. Long, A.A., Sedley, D.N. 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers, Cambridge (2 vols.). Robinson, R. 1977. “Aristotle on Akrasia”, in J. Barnes, M. Schofiedl and R. Sorabji (eds.) Articles on Aristotle: Ethics and Politics, vol. 2, 79-91. Sandbach, F.H. 1985. Aristotle and the Stoics (PCphS suppl. Vol. 10), Cambridge. Santas, G.X. 1979. Socrates. Philosophy in Plato’s Early Dialogues, London. _______ 1993. “Socratic Goods and Socratic Happiness”, in T. Irwin & M.C. Nussbaum (eds.) Virtue, Love & Form. Essays in Memory of Gregory Vlastos, Edmonton, 37-52. Sherman, N. 1989. The Fabric of Character, Oxford. Sorabji, R. 2000. Emotion and Peace of Mind. From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation, Oxford. Tieleman, T. 1996. Galen & Chrysippus on the Soul. Argument and Refutation in the De Placitis, Books II-III, Leiden-New York-Köln. Vigo, A.G. 1996. Zeit und Praxis bei Aristoteles. Die Nikomachische Ethik und die zeit-ontologischen Voraussetzungen des vernunftgesteuerten Handelns, FreiburgMünchen. Vlastos, G. 1991. Socrates. Ironist and Moral Philosopher, Ithaca-New York.

COLLOQUIUM 3

THE FACES OF JUSTICE. DIFFERENCE, EQUALITY, AND INTEGRITY IN PLATO’S REPUBLIC ARYEH KOSMAN

I recently read two books in which Plato plays an emblematic role as villain.1 Both books are in one way or another devoted to celebrating modalities of difference (mainly religious and cultural) among people, and to urging greater respect and appreciation for these differences. And in both, impediments to what one of the authors terms the ‘dignity of difference’ are attributed primarily to Plato, who is not discussed in any detail, but who is depicted as an archetypal champion of unity and enemy of difference. I recognize as common the perception that difference is something to which Plato is hostile, but it is a perception that puzzles me, and the puzzlement is connected to my reading of one of Plato’s master dialogues, the Republic. For that work, it seems to me, includes among its many and complex themes arguments that call into question such a characterization of Plato. One of those arguments seems central to the manifest thinking of the dialogue. Here it is: one way to characterize justice, ostensibly the dialogue’s central topic, is as a normative principle of difference. In the first part of this essay I want to explore this characterization of justice. The discussion of justice that rules the early sections of the Republic, in the course of which the meaning of the virtue is most clearly articulated, reveals justice to be a principle of appropriate differentiation. In later moments in the dialogue, the emphasis upon differentiation in Books 1 to 4 is complemented by a discourse on equality and unity, and in the second part of this essay, I will consider justice in relation not to differentiation, but to integrity. The discourse on integrity is connected to the complex account of being and forms elaborated in the central books of the dialogue and illustrated by the figure of the divided line. That figure, to be sure, alerts us by its central trope of images and what they are images of to

_________ 1 Jonathan Sacks, Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, (London: Continuum, 2002) and Daniel Boyarin, A Radical Jew: Paul and the Politics of Identity, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). These books are not in any sense about Plato, and my exploitation of them here as symbolic of a cultural cliché should not be read as critical of their larger purposes, which are in many ways admirable.

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the existence of governing themes in the dialogue’s ontology other than that of the unity and differentiation that I will discuss. But I will suggest nevertheless how the divided line is used by Plato to figure the logical space of being in relation to unity and difference, attention to which might offer new perspectives on the old question of the one and the many. I Let us begin briefly with what I have (somewhat tendentiously) styled the ‘obvious’ point about the Republic. Consider these two fairly straightforward questions about justice in the Republic. 1) What does it mean to speak of justice as a virtue, or perhaps more generally, what is the relation of justice to virtue? 2) Why is the exposition of justice in the Republic so importantly related to the elaboration of an ideal city? An easy read of the dialogue might offer in answer to the first question the fact that justice is a paradigmatic form of virtue. It is not difficult to see why, and seeing why may at the same time answer my second question. For we often think of justice as a primary mode of social or political virtue, and we often think of social or political virtue as essential to our notion of morality. We might also be impressed with the fact that justice concerns itself with our relations to others; if we think that our moral, in contrast to our prudential, concerns are essentially about our relations to others, this might lend credence to the centrality of justice in our moral repertory. On both of these views, justice is seen to organize the moral habits and modes of actions and institutions in which as individuals we are able to flourish in our dealings in the political and social realm. It is perhaps some such reasoning that leads John Rawls to claim at the beginning of his Theory of Justice that justice is to morality as rationality is to inquiry and science. Thinking of justice and virtue this way may help us to understand why justice was such a key concept in Greek moral thought. It would explain to us why İտȜįțȡȣ is a standard word for doing right, and ԔİțȜȡȣ for wrongdoing. But this view depends on a very broad understanding of virtue, in which ‘virtue’ refers to a general state or condition of morality. As we read the Republic, however, we very soon come to realize the infelicity of this view. Recall when the notion of virtue is first introduced in the Republic. It comes first early in Book 1 at 335b when we read of the virtue of dogs and the virtue of horses, by which, it is made clear to us, is meant the characteristics that make dogs good dogs or horses good horses. Somewhat later, in a discussion with Thrasymachus at 353b, the notion of virtue is connected with that of function. A function—the Greek word is

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ergon—is, as it becomes for Aristotle, a characteristic activity; it is what something is busy doing when it is most being itself. It means, as we can hear in its English cognates, the work specific to an entity under some particular description. So a virtue is the quality that something has that enables it to perform its function well, that is, to be itself characteristically in a good fashion. That is why Socrates is able to discuss the virtue of a dog or of a horse. Putting the matter most simply, we might say that a virtue is a good quality. Morally, we ought perhaps to be less inclined to speak of a general condition of virtue than to speak of particular virtues, recognizing that a virtue is a good state of character. Justice therefore is a virtue. This means simply that it is a state or quality of an entity that in some sense enables that entity to do well what it characteristically does. But what kind of virtue is justice? This is the very question that the Republic asks in book 1 and then addresses in books 2 to 4. Socrates there proposes (a) that the answer to this question, because justice is a general attribute, will be constant over several different kinds of entity to which we might ascribe it and (b) that we would do well to look at justice in a political organization where it might be easier to discern. So: whatever it is to which we are ascribing the virtue of justice (saying of it, in other words, that it is just) justice is (one of the things that) enable it to do well what its function is. To know then what justice is in a city (that is, in a social or political commonwealth) we will need to know what its characteristic activity is, that is, we will need to know what is the nature of a city. Socrates suggests that we address this question by imagining the origin of social collectivity, and finds this origin in the division of labor, that feature of social organization that responds to the fact that none of us is self-sufficient. Thus Socrates at 369b: I think that a city comes to be because none of us is self-sufficient, but we all need many things; ….so we call one person to do one thing for us, and another to do another.

The argument with which he immediately follows this observation that the city is founded on a division of labor is simple but critical. Different folks are different; they are therefore able to do different things well, differently suited for different tasks. There will therefore be better and worse divisions of labor depending on who does what. Put this observation together with the claim that one will do her best at a given task if she devotes the large part of her energies to it, and there emerges the central claim of this

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section of the Republic. A society will work best if different people do different jobs and do the jobs for which they are best suited. Given this originating principle of a city as a political organization, anything will count as a virtue of a city if it makes that system of organization work well. Note that we can devise the same archaeology with any kind of social organization that is constituted for a purpose. Suppose for example that we wish to organize a group to rob a local bank. There are several characteristics that our group will need to cultivate or hope that it antecedently has so as to enable the venture to be successful. It will need intelligent planning. It will need not to be easily frightened. It will need to have a kind of self-restraint, by virtue of which our robbers will not necessarily grab the first piece of money they see nor be so greedy as to endanger the operation, by ignoring, for example, a timetable because there is still more money to be had. Notice that the characteristics I have just listed include three of the four cardinal virtues that Socrates invokes in these books of the Republic, the virtues of wisdom, courage and IJȧĴȢȡIJփȟș: temperance or self-mastery. In addition, a number of particular functions will be required. One person might be required to act as a driver; another might be needed to handle the alarm systems, and yet another to stand guard. Note furthermore that for each of these functions there will be an appropriate virtue, such that for each function some of our company will be better suited than others. It will be best to have as a driver someone who knows how to drive; indeed, someone who is able to drive well. Similarly the person who is to deal with alarm systems should understood such systems; the person who is to stand guard should be someone who is alert. So our band of thieves will require wisdom, courage and temperance (IJȧĴȢȡIJփȟș). But what about justice? Is Platonic justice a virtue that appears in this project? In fact, this is what we have just now been talking about. The assignment of these tasks according to the principle, give to each person the job for which he is best suited, is justice. And so it is, according to Socrates, in general. It is in light of just such a principle that justice is defined in the conversation at Republic 433a and b: Justice, I think, is exactly what we said must be established throughout the city when we were founding it… We stated, if you remember, that everyone must practice one of the occupations in the city for which he is naturally best suited. Moreover, we have heard many people say and have often said ourselves that justice is doing one’s own work and not meddling with what isn’t one’s own…. Then it turns out that this doing one’s own work—if taken in a certain way—is justice.

In listening to how Socrates here articulates the definition of justice, understand by “one’s own” what is appropriate to one, or more specifically,

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what one is best suited to do. That is the force of Socrates’ condition: “ijȢցʍȡȟ ijțȟչ: in a certain way.” Justice in the city is each person doing what he is best suited to do. Recall next that this account applies to justice not only in the city, but in the individual as well. Here is how Socrates puts it at 441d: A man is just in the same way as a city…. And the city was just because each of the three classes in it was doing its own work….. Then each one of us in whom each part is doing its own work will himself be just.

At least two things important for the understanding of this dialogue follow from this account. In the first place, note that an individual is just by analogy to, not by fulfilling justice in the city. It is tempting but wrong to suppose that because justice in the city consists of each person doing what she is best suited to do, justice for the individual will consist of acting accordingly, doing what she is best suited to do. But it is not that; individual justice is an analogue of justice in the city. It obtains when each functionally differentiated element of the individual does what it is best able to do. A robust discussion of justice in the dialogue will then need to ask: what is the relation between this sense of justice and the sense of justice by which one contributes to the justice of the city? And more pointedly, what is the connection of this sense of justice to the more obvious sense of justice as ‘doing right.’ But this discussion will be possible only if we understand justice as an internal principle of individual virtue. Secondly, we need to note that it is not sufficient to say, as we sometimes do, that justice is a quality of balance or harmony among the parts of the city or of the individual, not even if we add, proper balance or harmony. It is of course important to realize that justice is a principle of harmony, and that, like temperance, it is a different sort of virtue from wisdom and courage. The one sort belongs to the whole by virtue of belonging to some part of the whole; the other does not properly belong to any part, but only to the whole by virtue of some global fact about the parts in their relation to one another or to the whole. But we have not specified the nature of justice in a subject until we specify what kind of harmony or balance it is, and I have suggested that the kind of harmony is that achieved when the differentiation of function is determined by who or what is best able to carry out the several specific functions of the subject. So we can now put fairly simply the notion of justice that is developed in the discussion of books 2 to 4 of the Republic. A city is constructed on the principle of the division of function; that is because division of labor is the fundamental feature of social life. Justice is the differentiation of function based on virtue. The question is: what should different groups of folks

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do? The answer is: what they have the virtue for. That is only, as we might say, just. And the reason this is understood to be a virtue is quite simple; it is good for individuals to do what they are good at. We need to say that quite carefully. For individuals to do what they are good at is a good thing; it is, of course, another question, one that is indeed generated by the Republic, whether for them to do what they are good at is a good thing for individuals. The same type of analysis then yields an understanding of justice in each individual; justice is a balance achieved when each functionally differentiated element of a person is given and performs the function for which it is best suited. Realizing this fact should lead us to reflect on the question: what is the virtue of mind, that is, what is wisdom or IJȡĴտį? ǿn terms of the question, what is the function of mind? And we should also be led to ask, what is spirit, and what are its function and its virtue? And what is it to desire and to desire appropriately? At the end of that exercise, we should be clear that the mind does not desire, but through its rational powers enables a proper exercise of the desiderative faculties. To realize this is to realize that that which rules properly—the guardians of a good city or the mind of a good individual—is non-tyrannical. I take one central project of the Republic to be that of inviting us to imagine the felicity of a life ruled by reason when reason is not a tyrant. But we need to come back to difference. For Socrates, an appropriate function means the function for which a thing is best suited, and that in turn means the function for which it has the appropriate virtues. Justice, therefore, is a virtue of any complex entity that is functionally differentiated in such a way that function is assigned on the basis of virtue. So it turns out that justice is, so to speak, a self-referring virtue. It is the virtue that characterizes those entities whose functional differentiation is in accordance with the principle of function following virtue. It is, to reveal again why we think of it as justice, the proper adjustment of function and virtue. Note two consequences of this understanding. 1) Recognizing justice as a normative principle of differentiation offers an interesting answer to the question, why begin with the city? Justice may be ‘easier to view’ in the city not simply because justice is a social or political virtue, but because a city is more obviously a functionally differentiated being. It is precisely because social organization is not merely a matter of collectivity, but of collectivity founded upon the division of labor, that Socrates turns first to the city in explicating the nature of justice. 2) Justice now turns out to be a quite general principle of the adjustment between being and acting, that is, between the way things are, and what it is that they do. It is in light of such a general account that justice is able to

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appear as a metaphysical concept in the Republic, as well as a concept that is grounded both politically and morally. The notion of the forms and their connection to the Good is governed by this concept. For the universe is itself a functionally differentiated complex; and, as in the just city, each citizen does what it is appropriate for him to do, so in a just universe each thing is what it is appropriate for it to be. We may wish to recall in this connection earlier ontological invocations of justice, in for example, these two fragments from the now lost tapestry of philosophy before Plato. Anaximander speaks of generation, coming into being, as the emergence of things out of some indeterminate nature and corruption, and things going out of being as their rightful return to that nature when “of necessity they give to one another just recompense and penalty (İտȜșȟ Ȝį‫ ה‬ijտIJțȟ) for their injustice (ԐİțȜտį)”2 On Anaximander’s view, coming to be is figured as a mode, so to speak, of ontological pleonexia, the greed and overreaching of one’s due that violates proper justice; existent things overstep the primordial justice of equality represented in the indeterminate apeiron. Compare this view with the saying of Heraclitus that war is common and that İտȜș is ԤȢțȣ: justice is strife.3 Heraclitus sees justice in the eristic struggle of difference found in being and in its deepest polemical structure. We might describe the distinction between these two thinkers in anachronistic terms as the distinction between an ontological politics of equality and an ontological politics of difference. Plato situates himself directly in the midst of this dialectic, offering the allegiance of particular things to their essential natures, that is, to their forms, as a mode of justice. This ontological justice is determined by an equality of individuals under the forms, although the forms themselves are defined in their being by their essential difference from one another. Think here, following Plato’s spatial metaphors, of justice as the ideal principle that governs the downward direction of Book 6’s divided line, a vector of imaging, but also of dispersion and exemplification, producing the diaspora of being whose upward direction is in turn governed by eros, by the love that the phenomenal world has for its own true nature. When we think of the divided line in these dynamic terms, its vectors thus evoke the twin themes of justice and love that properly divide and hold together the commonwealth of being.

_________ 2 Simplicius, In Aristotelis Physicorum libros quattuor priores commentaria, Commentaria in Aristotelem graeca, IX (Berlin: Reimer: 1882), 24.18-21 = Diels-Kranz 12B1 3 Diels-Kranz, 22B80

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So the sense in which justice plays a role in the ontology of the Republic becomes clearer in light of the notion of justice I have urged is at work in that dialogue. In so far as it is right for things to act out their nature, justice is once again some form of adjustment between proper being on the one hand, figured in the dialogue as virtue, ԐȢıijս, and proper action on the other, figured in this dialogue as function, ԤȢȗȡȟ. I have hoped to show by this long discussion of the relationship between justice and virtue that the Republic may be seen as an inquiry into the ethics and metaphysics of difference, an investigation of the proper modes of being’s articulation into differentiated parts. What I have suggested is that if a complex entity, a city for example, is functionally differentiated, as a city perforce is, the Republic asks: what is the principle of right differentiation. For since that principle is justice, the inquiry into justice is an inquiry into that principle. The vision of justice the dialogue elaborates, we have seen, figures justice as a principle of difference in which function is determined by ability and differentiation follows the lines of virtue. In this sense, the Republic, insofar as it is an essay on justice, is an essay on the principle of appropriate division, an inquiry into the nature of right difference. II The dialogue’s foregrounding of justice as a principle of difference, however, may avert our attention from the corresponding issue of appropriate collection. In what follows, I want to ask about the importance in the Republic of what is, as it were, the other face of justice. What are the principles of right collection to which Plato’s discourse in this dialogue attends? If a city is to be appropriately organized, it must not only be differentiated in the right way, which in the conceptual scheme of the Republic means that parts must be given the functions for which they are best suited. It must also be true, in the first place, that only differences that truly make a difference are honored. The city must be attentive to those accidental differences that mask an underlying equality. Justice must therefore attend to equality at a deeper level than that of mere equity. It must also be true, in the second place, that a good city is a properly unified city, a whole, and not merely a random cluster of parts. We might call this the platonic virtue of integrity. It is a virtue that, although frequently invoked in Socrates’ remarks in the Republic, is never made thematic in quite the way that justice as normative difference is. But it informs the Republic’s discussion from politics to ethics to ontology, by which I mean that the question of the integrity of being, as I have urged is true with the differentiation of

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being, characterizes in general the complex entities within the dialogue’s purview, not only the city, but the individual soul as well, and the modes of being introduced in Book 6. The requirement that complex entities, if they are to be good, must exhibit integrity and wholeness as well as proper differentiation is revealed in a number of ways in the Republic’s argument. At the most obvious level, it is represented in the correspondent virtue of IJȧĴȢȡIJփȟș, which in Book 4 matches justice as a global virtue, that is, as a virtue that characterizes complex beings like cities or persons by reason of global facts about them rather than facts about one or another of their parts—in this case the global fact of proper agreement rather than proper differentiation. It is thus the principle of political friendship and psychic harmony. It is more subtly exhibited in features of the spatial imagery of the divided line. The image of the divided line, I suggested, does not simply organize kinds of entities and their corresponding cognitive states along a vertical axis; it also figures justice and eros in the directional vectors of that axis. But consider now the fact that the divided line may also be thought of as having a horizontal axis. Along this axis is arrayed, at one echelon, the manifold of images of which Socrates speaks in introducing ıԼȜįIJտį, and, at another, the many originals of the next level (510a). These arrays are not independent of one another; one group of images at the lowest level is unified by being the images of a certain original on the next, and another group by being the images of another original. We are enabled to recognize images insofar as we see them in terms of what they are images of. The upper level of the line is thus the source of the unity and integrity of the manifold of objects at the level below it. I take this fact to be central to the philosophical thrust of Plato’s imagery, both here and in the upper sections of the line. Integrity is clearly seen in the vertical relation of different parts of the line to one another, the ideal unity and integrity of the line itself. This unity figures the most basic unity of the Republic, the ideal unity of being and appearance, a unity that is most fundamental to the dialogue’s vision of justice. But of equal importance, though perhaps less obvious, is the integrity invoked in the other dimension of which I have just been speaking, the lateral relation of items at the same level to one another. These items, I have suggested, are given unity and integrity only in reference to higher levels of the line that provide the principle at once of their commonness and of their integrity. In this section, then, I am going first to say something briefly about sites of equality in the dialogue, and then about its vision of what I am inviting

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us to think of as the lateral or horizontal dimensions of unity and integrity in the spatial metaphor of Plato’s ontology. Very early in book 5, and therefore quite soon after the explicit account of justice as a principle of proper difference, the discussion turns, in a way that might seem accidental, to the question of women. Here Socrates mounts a notorious argument for the equality of women’s access to the role of guardian: since women are inferior to men in every respect, there can be no significant difference between the two. Note how this concern emerges from the discussion we have been following. For the question as Socrates spins it is explicitly the question of whether all differences are differences that demand differentiation of the sort to which we have attended. Here is how he puts it: When we assigned different ways of life to different natures and the same ones to the same, we didn’t at all examine the form of natural difference and sameness we had in mind or in what regard we were distinguishing them….. [So] we might ask ourselves whether the natures of bald and longhaired men are the same or opposite. And, when we agree that they are opposite, then, if the bald ones are cobblers, we ought to forbid the long-haired ones to be cobblers, and if the long-haired ones are cobblers, we ought to forbid this to the bald ones…And aren’t we in this ridiculous position because at that time we did not introduce every form of difference and sameness in nature, but focused on the one form of sameness and difference that was relevant to the particular ways of life themselves? (454b)

The question here is the obvious question: are men and women different in a way that is significant? For not every difference makes a difference. Much of the rest of the dialogue concerns these conditions on difference. Some of them involve cases in which sameness trumps difference, as with men and women. It is revealing that at this moment in the dialogue, just before philosophy is introduced into the discussion, the question is one of understanding the relative weight of sameness and difference. For one way of reading philosophy in the Platonic lexicon is as the ability to understand principles of sameness and difference; think, for instance, of the Parmenides. More important, however, is the respect in which difference is the condition of proper unity. I said earlier that one pole of ontological justice is represented by an equality of individuals under the forms; but this is not quite accurate. For a form is a principle of structured wholeness, not merely of collective totality. The unity of instances under a form is, in the language of the Theatetus, a Ցȝȡȟ and not simply a ʍֻȟ. The instances of a form are in turn not fungible, that is, not identical with one another so as to be interchangeable. For they are equal only insofar as they are instances of that form; each of them is characterized by many other predicates that make them different from one another. So the unity of a form is

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permeated by difference, a difference among individuals brought into harmony by the form that marks their common being. They inhabit a field of difference organized in so far as a form is the principle of their being this or that. It is because the form governs a field of difference, and not merely a plurality, that we can speak of the horizontal vector of the divided line, the relation among the several images that are images of a single original, or among the several instances of a kind that are instances of that single kind, or among the several accounts of a being that are various ways of revealing the single nature of that being. III To explore further this horizontal dimension, with an eye to showing how the mode of unity that is achieved is that of integrity, I want to look at a passage in another dialogue, the Statesman. In that dialogue, there is a long process of division that the Guest from Elea introduces as part of a quest for the definition of a statesman and the nature of the kingly art. At what seems the end of that process, Young Socrates allows that their goal seems to have been reached; the explanation of the nature of the statesman, he says, is now complete. But the Guest insists that there are still problems, and that these problems might be cleared up by producing what he calls a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį—an example or model. Indeed, he adds, (277d) it is in general difficult to achieve the kind of understanding we seek without the use of an example, a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį. Then, because young Socrates is not quite sure what he means, the Guest expresses his realization that, as he puts it, the notion of ʍįȢչİıțȗμį is itself in need of a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį. What does he mean? When Young Socrates, as I said, allows that the explanation of the statesman is complete, the term he uses is ԐʍցİıțȠțȣ. This word, usually translated as ‘demonstration’, derives from the root İıțȜ- found in the verb İıտȜȟȤμț—to show or reveal. In speaking of the ԐʍցİıțȠțȣ of the statesman, Young Socrates suggests that the nature of the statesman has been revealed by a series of articulations that show the successively more determinate kinds to which he belongs. For that is, after all, what the method of division consists of: his nature has been de-marcated and demonstrated, one instance of ԐʍȡİıտȜȟȤIJȚįț, being de-monstrated, completely shown or revealed, succeeding another.

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But the Guest from Elea thinks otherwise. For, he says, it is difficult to get a clear grasp of the nature of something (the word he uses is ԚȟİıտȜȟȤIJȚįț—to be shown into something) without making use of ʍįȢįİıտȗμįijį. We might say that it is difficult to grasp something’s nature without (though Plato does not use this word, rare in antiquity) some act of ʍįȢչİıțȠțȣ—some act by which the thing’s nature is ʍįȢįİıտȜȟȤIJȚįț, side-revealed by lateral comparison with another instance of the same kind and shown, so to speak, from the side. And that, on the Guest’s view, is part of the pathos of human understanding: ԐʍցİıțȠțȣ, the mode of revealing something’s nature by revealing the kind of which it is an instance, rarely does the trick without reasoning through ʍįȢįİıտȗμįijį—without the cooperation of some form of ‘ʍįȢչİıțȠțȣ’ by which the nature of one instance of a kind is revealed by being set beside another instance of the kind, a lateral as it were rather than a vertical form of revelation. I suggest that the use in this short section of Statesman 277 of these three variously prefixed forms of the verb İıտȜȟȤμț, show—Ԛȟ-İıտȜȟȤμț, Ԑʍȡ-İıտȜȟȤμț and ʍįȢį-İıտȜȟȤμț—are to be taken seriously by us. We ought to think of a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį, whatever subsequent history the term may be and whatever other nuances may be given it by other contexts and, above all, whatever other customs and usages its English cousin paradigm may have adopted over the years—we ought to think of a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį in terms of this notion of lateral comparison, as a side shower. These indeed are exactly the terms in which the Eleatic Guest explains the nature of paradigmatic understanding when he provides a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį designed to illuminate for us the nature of ʍįȢչİıțȗμį. (278b) When you are teaching young people to read and they are able to recognize a set of letters in simple words but not in more complex ones, here is what you do: get them in front of both sets of words and then, putting the words side by side—ʍįȢįȖչȝȝȡȟijį—show them—ԚȟİıțȜȟփȟįț—that the very same characters are in each of them. In this way, he says, the words that are known, by being placed beside the unknown ones—ʍįȢįijțȚջμıȟį— and being shown—İıțȥȚջȟijį—will thus become side shown—ʍįȢįİıտȗμįijį, and thus side revealers. This use of paradigmatic thinking in the sense of lateral thinking is introduced by the Guest not to replace an earlier paradigm thought to be defective, but because of a problem in the inconclusive nature of the ԐʍցİıțȠțȣ that has preceded it. It is not that the dialogue’s division yields the wrong account; it yields an account that is underdetermined, that is, unable to pick out the statesman from a number of competing candidates who could be said equally to fit the account that results from the dieresis. It is for this reason that the ʍįȢչİıțȗμį is introduced and that the Guest

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from Elea seeks to illustrate its nature with the ʍįȢչİıțȗμį of learning to read. It is an important feature of Plato’s thought that the hierarchical and vertical relation of form to particular cannot by itself accomplish the noetic clarity of which Plato thinks us capable; such clarity requires the addition of a lateral elucidation by some form of what I have here styled ʍįȢչİıțȠțȣ, thinking along the ‘horizontal’ dimension. This fact is an integral part of Plato’s analysis of the relation of particular to logos and of logos to form throughout the early dialogues, and as I have suggested, it is revealed in the imagery of the divided line. The complex activities of division and collection—İțչȜȢțIJțȣ and IJփȗȜȢțIJțȣ—together with such close kin in the Western tradition as resolutio and compositio, and analysis and synthesis, may be, as the Statesman suggests, the central activities in the process of realizing the world’s intelligibility; but these activities enable us to learn to read our experience (as the Guest’s paradigm suggests) only by the transversal play among correlative particulars and (as most notably in the Socratic dialogues) the transversal dialectic of coordinate accounts of a form. It is surely to this dimension of our thinking that the dialogue’s ʍįȢչİıțȗμį of weaving, with its correlative warp and woof, is meant to alert us, in particular contrast to that of carding. (279b-283b) The use of ʍįȢչİıțȗμį to mark the illumination that a parallel but better-known particular can provide is not unique to Plato; think of Aristotle’s account of ʍįȢչİıțȗμį at the end of book II of the Prior Analytics. “It is evident” he writes, “that a ʍįȢչİıțȗμį concerns neither the relation of particular to general nor of general to particular, but of particular to particular when both are instances of the same general term but one is better known than the other.”4 The use of the term “better known” here reminds us that a paradigm is not just any instance but an exemplary instance of a kind, a paradigmatic instance, as we might say. But what that means is that its exemplary nature allows it to serve as a means of making clear other instances of its kind, instances, that is, governed by the same principle of being and therefore on a lateral par with it. Over-devotion to the vertical axis of Plato’s thinking—to the relation between form and particular—risks blinding us to the importance of transversal reasoning founded on example, analogy, and collateral vision. But it is this reasoning that ultimately grounds the power that we have to read particulars in light of their forms.

_________ 4

Prior Analytics 2.24, 69a14-17

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The Guest’s observation that, as he puts it, his ʍįȢչİıțȗμį is in need of yet another ʍįȢչİıțȗμį should remind us of a further truth about Plato. For Plato no theoretical discourse is illuminating without the experiential understanding that ‘paradigmatic’ reasoning brings, and this reasoning is not itself reducible to a form of theoretical reason. Even on the standard reading of the Guest’s remarks, according to which examples themselves need examples to be understood, this point emerges; there can be no explicit rules for how an example is to be read, just as there can be none for how to interpret theory. What allows us to read an example and to understand how it applies to a case, or how it makes clear a theoretical point, is an acquired skill, an art. This connects to the larger view of the dialogue, which concerns the capacity of the statesman, a capacity that is also an art or skill. IV But here I stray; for my purpose in introducing this discussion of the Statesman has been to stress the importance of the lateral dimension in the spatial metaphors of Plato’s ontology, an importance that would make no sense without the recognition of difference I have here tried to reveal. It has also, I hope, served to show that no account of difference can capture Plato’s intentions without also stressing the vital importance of unity and integrity. To recognize that fact is simply to acknowledge the importance of the Platonic Form. In that spirit, a more charitable reader than I might not have been so upset by the works that first occasioned this discussion. But we must not lose sight of the salient fact that the Platonic form is ideal, that is, it is a virtual although at the same time transcendent principle of the being of its many instances. That is why these instances, as I have claimed, occupy a field of difference such that their unity must be achieved not by mere collection, but by the integrity that is the other face of justice. Recall the just individual: precisely because he does not allow any part of himself to do the work of another part…he puts himself in order…and harmonizes the three parts of himself like three limiting notes in a musical scale… He binds together those parts and any others there may be in between, and from having been many things he becomes one, moderate and harmonious. (443d)

This integrity of the individual and the corresponding integrity of the city are reproduced in the ontological register in the integrative harmony of the many in relation to the one. Ultimately, what governs this mode of integrity for Plato is the Good.

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A well-known later tradition recounts that Plato, in his lectures on the Good, maintained (on some versions to the disappointment of those present) that the first principles of all things are the One and the indefinite Dyad.5 This myth invokes for us an interesting connection between the Good and these principles. The principles of the One and the Dyad are different from those either of cardinality or of ordinality. One and two are principles of cardinality, that is, of number, as first and second are of ordinality, of the order of sequential experience; but the One and the Dyad are principles of the opposition between collection and division, dynamic principles of unity and multiplicity. Thus they are in a sense not principles of number at all. The One and the indefinite Dyad, unity and teeming diversity, are principles of being; more precisely they are principles of how it is that the manifold of experience presents itself to us in an organized fashion, both in our ability to organize elements in our experience into units, and of our ability to see similarities among the elements of our experience and to organize different things into their kinds. It is our ability to understand the structure of experience as involving the organization of different things into their kinds that is part of the foundation of Plato’s theory of Forms. It is to be sure only one part; nothing I have said in this essay touches on the other and perhaps more significant theme that runs through Plato’s ontology: the question of being and its appearance. This issue, clustered as I have suggested around the figure of imaging, is of critical importance in understanding Plato’s thought. We will, I think, fail to understand that thought properly if we consider appearance as always contrasted to being rather than thinking in terms of being’s appearance. We need, in other words, to distinguish appearance as coming to light from “mere appearance” or semblance (Heidegger’s schein and anschein). But all of that is a different issue from what I have been discussing. What I have here hoped to do is alert us to what I take to be two connected and dangerous misreadings of Plato. One is the Gnostic otherworldliness that pictures the Forms as resident in a world far, far away from ours, rather than as the principles of the intelligibility and being of this world. The other is the thought that these principles are ontological tyrants who wish to stamp out diversity, difference, and otherness. That is the upsetting view with which I began. We need to remember that the Republic is a concerted argument against tyranny, against the tyranny of the political

_________ 5 Simplicius, In Aristotelis Physicorum libros quattuor priores commentaria, Commentaria in Aristotelem graeca, IX (Berlin: Reimer: 1882), 151.6-11, 435.25-30

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ruler and the tyranny of reason alike, and against the tyranny of Forms as well. It is indeed an argument for rational rule, but that rationality is one which can flourish only by the process of proper collection and division, only by the recognition of the true similarities and differences alike in the world. This is simply to say that Plato is devoted to a philosophical vision designed to enable us to see things as they are. HAVERFORD COLLEGE

COMMENTARY ON KOSMAN MARY-HANNAH JONES

Professor Kosman provides us with an elegant reading of the Republic in investigating two complex and interrelated Platonic themes, difference or differentiation, and integrity or unity. In his thought-provoking and acute argument Aryeh Kosman shows that both these themes work to structure Plato’s ethics and his metaphysics in the Republic; indeed by thinking through the themes of differentiation and integrity in the Republic we can appreciate how tightly integrated and how subtly differentiated the philosophical project of the Republic is. Kosman argues that we should understand virtue as that which allows something to perform its function (ergon) well. Justice on this reading is a sort of upper level virtue: it is a quality of a functionally differentiated entity which is so organized as to assign function on the basis of virtue. This normative principle of difference is a general principle of adjustment between what things are and what they do; thus justice is a metaphysical concept as well as an ethical concept. Kosman goes on to argue that Platonic justice requires that the proper differences within a city be properly unified differences, rather than random clusters of differences. And so the just city, and all complex entities that are just, must exhibit unity and wholeness. And this principle is metaphysical as well as ethical, as is made evident by harmonic integration of the many to the one in a Platonic Form’s relation to its instances. My comments will mostly concern the first part of Kosman’s discussion. I will argue that while the normative principle of difference is a general principle that applies to any functionally differentiated entity, Plato’s notion of justice in particular is applicable only to entities in relation to a particular function. In Book II of Plato’s Republic, Socrates tells us his view of the origin of cities (369b), “I think that a city comes to be because none of us is selfsufficient, but we all need many things.” Socrates does not provide any sort of argument for this claim, and perhaps he does not need to. It makes sense that we want to live in association with others in order to have partners and helpers in meeting our needs, because many of our needs will not be met otherwise. And it makes sense that we want to share with these partners, not out of altruism, but because we think it best for ourselves (369c). Kosman argues rightly that here Socrates is making a claim about the function and nature of a city, rather than any sort of historical claim.

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This specification of the function of a city is the first step in the thought experiment that Socrates proposes to help answer Glaucon’s and Adeimantus’s questions about what justice and injustice really are and what their benefits really are (368c). By building up a theoretical model of a city, or rather a series of theoretical models, Socrates hopes to see how justice and injustice come to be in a city. That Socrates is not making a historical claim is made clear by the peculiar citizen body of the first model city he considers. Socrates observes that we all need food and shelter and clothes and shoes and things of this sort (369d), and so the city pared down to barest necessity would be a city with only four or five citizens: a farmer, builder, weaver and cobbler. Socrates certainly does not think that there was ever such a city as a historical matter, but the association of these particular artisans exhibits the minimal structure necessary to count as a city, given what Socrates claims a city’s function is. It is important to notice that the function of the first model city is not directed toward the satisfaction of all human needs and desires. Socrates specifies the city’s function as enabling its citizens to produce and share with one another food and shelter and clothes and other goods necessary for life so that these particular needs of the citizens are met (371b). Once the nature of a city is explained in terms of function, Socrates argues for the principle of the division of labor, since more and better necessary goods will be produced and shared by the citizens if each citizen practices that one particular craft that she can do best (370a-c). The principle of the division of labor transforms the minimal city of 4 or 5 artisans into a comparatively large community with a marketplace and currency and merchant sailors and other importers and exporters (370d-371d). The transformation takes place because the four or five original artisans will need tools and raw materials and imports from abroad and other things to perform their function well; they will not attempt to provide these things for themselves because each is attending to her own craft. And so other artisans must perform the functions of making tools etc., and the model city must expand accordingly. And so the result of the introduction of the principle of division of labor is a city that is much larger than the minimal city, but nevertheless has the same function as the minimal city, which function it performs much better on account of the division of labor. And since, as Kosman argues, virtue is keyed to function, and the division of labor is what ensures that the city perform its function best, it should be no surprise that a form (eidos) of this principle of the division of labor becomes the definition of justice in Book IV (433a-d). (At 443c the principle of the division of labor is called a phantom (eidolon) of justice.) And so there is a surprisingly close connection between the opening of Socrates’ discussion of the origin of the city and the definition of justice that is fi-

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nally reached in Book IV. And this connection, as Kosman shows, is the connection between function and virtue. Kosman takes the position that what he calls the normative principle of difference is quite general and applicable to many different kinds of things. And this seems persuasive. But he also takes the position that any assignment of functions would count as justice if the assignment were according to the principle of giving each individual the function that she can do best. Thus Kosman argues that even a gang of criminals organized for the purpose of robbing a bank would be a just gang, provided that each criminal was assigned to the function she was best able to do. I agree with Kosman that the normative principle of difference is quite general, but I suggest that justice for Plato is not the same as the normative principle of difference; justice is a special kind of normative difference. For this reason Plato does not call the principle of the division of labor justice, but merely a phantom (eidolon) of justice. The definition of justice is, strictly speaking, that each of the three classes of the ideal city does its own work (434d, 441d), not that each individual does her own work. It cannot be the case that for Plato an organization that has the purpose of doing something unjust is itself a just organization. Justice cannot be the cause of injustice, because as a general principle what is good cannot through its good activity be the cause of something bad (379a-c). This is not to deny that virtue is keyed to function and not to deny that even a gang of bank robbers who performed their function well would necessarily do so on account of some kind of virtue or excellence. But Plato could not identify that virtue or excellence with justice, although Kosman’s arguments show that Plato could not deny that such a virtue or excellence is analogous to justice, and perhaps a sort of phantom (eidolon) of justice. A city is just only when it has a division of labor that comes about in the right way so as to achieve the right purpose. And so it is significant that the function of the city discussed in Book IV, the city to which the definition of justice pertains, is not the same as the function of the city that Socrates specifies at the opening of the discussion in Book II. The austere city of Book II has the function of enabling its citizens to produce and share with one another the goods necessary for life: food, shelter, clothing, etc. In Book VIII at 558d-e Socrates describes desires for such things as necessary desires. These necessary desires are appetitive desires that we cannot suppress through habituation and those whose satisfaction does us some good. Glaucon finds the way of life of the citizens of the austere city to be repulsive because it is so very unsophisticated; their lives revolve around the production of goods that satisfy mere necessary desires.

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Their food is so simple that Glaucon thinks it is like fodder for pigs (372d). Socrates is more sympathetic to this city; he calls it a true and healthy city (372e). But he agrees with Glaucon that the life of the citizens of this city would not satisfy everyone, and that it would be helpful to move on to the examination of a luxurious city to see how justice and injustice grow up in cities. It is significant that Socrates does not call the austere city “just”, but merely “true” and “healthy”. Strictly speaking the austere city could not be just according to the definition of justice in Book IV, because there justice is defined as each of the three classes of the city doing its own work, but the austere city lacks the tripartite class structure. And there is good reason for this. Although everyone in the austere city performs the function they are best suited for, there is only one class, because the city’s function does not require three classes with three different kinds of functions. The austere city’s function resembles the function of the producing class in the ideal city. But the ideal city’s function is certainly not the same as the function of the austere city. Neither is the luxurious city’s function the same as that of the austere city, although its function seems to be an extension of the function of the austere city. But while the austere city’s function was to enable the citizens to fulfill their necessary appetitive desires, the luxurious city’s function is to enable its citizens to fulfill all of their appetitive desires. The necessary appetitive desires are a special class of appetitive desires in part because they seem to have natural limits that are part of the structure of this kind of desire. There are only a few necessary appetitive desires, and these desires can be satisfied with a limited amount of food or other appropriate resources. But unnecessary appetitive desires do not have this natural limit, and accordingly the number of unnecessary appetitive desires can grow indefinitely large while the resources required to satisfy each individual unnecessary appetitive desire can also increase without limit. (Socrates says that the transition from the austere city to the luxurious city is an overstepping the boundary (horos) of necessities to give oneself over to the unlimited (apeiron) acquisition of money (373d).) The principle of division of labor is active in structuring the luxurious city, although one might question how it remains the case that each individual performs the job that they are best able to perform, when so many of the jobs may now be to supply the means to satisfy dubious and amorphous desires. But it is clear that the division of labor is still active in the luxurious city, because it is the principle of the division of labor that requires that a professional army be created to appropriate the land and resources of neighboring cities so as to serve the proliferating appetites of the citizens of the luxurious city and to prevent the variety of luxurious goods

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that the city has accumulated from being seized by other aggressive cities (373d-374d). The austere city has a specifiable and achievable function, to produce and share the goods necessary for life. The luxurious city has a function that is indefinite and unachievable, to produce and share the means to satisfy an indefinitely large number of desires requiring an indefinitely large amount of resources. At the beginning of this discussion, Socrates said a city comes about because humans have many needs and they are not selfsufficient. If we take this statement as equivalent to the claim that the general function of a city is to provide the means to satisfy human desires generally, then cities will differ from each other on account of the particular kinds of desires those cities are meant to satisfy. The progress from the luxurious city of Book II to the purged and just city of Book IV can be understood as Plato’s gradual specification of which desires (and the desires of which citizens) it is a good city’s proper function to provide the means to satisfy. But, of course, this formulation is inadequate. By “good” I mean virtuous or excellent, but, as Kosman has shown, virtue just means that quality that allows an entity with a function to perform that function well. And so a good city is a city that performs well its function of satisfying human desires and needs. Does it follow that the austere city and the luxurious city and the ideal city are all equally just cities, because in each the function of satisfying desires is performed by those who can best perform that function? One way of avoiding this consequence would be argue that it is in fact the ideal city that best performs the overall function of a city in satisfying human desires, and so it is the ideal city which is maximally just. And Socrates does indeed argue that it is only in the city ruled by philosophers that all citizens can have as happy a life as their natures allow (473e), and it is only when reason rules in the soul that the desires of the lower parts of the soul can be given as much satisfaction as their nature permits (586e587a). But I suspect that there may be a deeper problem lurking here, which Kosman speaks to in his discussion of the proper adjustment between what a thing is and what it does. If we understand the excellence of a entity as its performing its function well, then we need to understand what its function really is, before we decide what it would be for that entity to perform its function well. Every entity of the relevant sort engages in many activities. Which activity is the function? The function must be that characteristic activity of the entity that makes the entity what it really is. But if we do not already have some understanding of what the entity really is, we will not be able to pick out the entity’s characteristic activity

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from among all its other activities. And if we do not have some grasp of what a thing characteristically does, we will not be able to understand its nature, for what it is cannot be understood in isolation from what it does. Understanding a thing in terms of its function seems to require some independent grasp of what it is; and understanding a thing in terms of what it is, seems to require some independent insight into its function. I suspect this is why in Book X Plato presents two different accounts of authoritative knowledge. Firstly, there is the authoritative knowledge of the craftsman (demiourgos) who looks toward the Form (596b), and so knows how to make excellent instances of what he crafts. And secondly, there is the authoritative knowledge of the user, whose knowledge of the use of the things he uses enables him to inform even the maker (poietes) of how best to make excellent instances of the things that the user uses (601d-e). These two accounts of authoritative knowledge are not mutually exclusive. A craftsman may very well be a user as well. But there does not seem to be a way of reducing one of these accounts of knowledge to the other. I would like to end with the suggestion that the progress from the luxurious city of Book II to the purged and just city of Book IV is not only a progress from a city that fulfills its function less well to a city that fulfills its function very well. That is to say, the ideal city possesses justice not solely on account of a more exhaustive application of the normative principle of difference. The ideal city is just and good in a way that the austere city fails to be, because the ideal city exhibits, as Kosman puts it, the integrity and wholeness it achieves in reference to the Form of Justice. Plato’s depiction of human nature, what humans really are, in his account of the ideal city, is incomparably richer and truer than the account of human nature presupposed in the construction of the austere city. And understanding what human beings really are is already understanding human beings in normative terms. Human justice can be understood to be the overarching human function’s differentiation of sub-functions assigned on the basis of virtue. But human justice can also be understood to be the normative standard inherent in what it is to be a human being. That is to say, what it is to be one of those kinds of being that are given their proper wholeness and integrity through their relation to the Form of Justice. WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY

KOSMAN/JONES BIBLIOGRAPHY Plato. Opera, Volumes I and IV, edited by John Burnet. Oxford: Clarendon, 967, 1968. Aristotle. Analytica Priora et Poesteriora, edited by W.D. Ross. Oxford: Clarendon, 1964. Diels, Hermann, and Kranz, Walther. Die Fragmente Der Vorsokratiker. Zurich: Weidmann, 1956. Secondary Material Boyarin, Daniel. A Radical Jew: Paul and the Politics of Identity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. Sacks, Jonathan. Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations. London: Continuum, 2002 Simplicius. In Aristotelis Physicorum libros quattuor priores commentaria, Commentaria in Aristotelem graeca, IX. Berlin: Reimer, 1882

COLLOQUIUM 4

THE FLOW OF ĮȋȉȀȉ AND THE BEGINNING OF PHILOSOPHY ON PLATO’S THEAETETUS JOHN SALLIS

In the Theaetetus there is much that is theatrical, much that belongs to theatre, scenes that one could well imagine seeing on stage.1 Think of how Socrates dons the disguise of a midwife and sets about aiding, as midwives do, the natural process of birth, or rather, Theaetetus’ perhaps not entirely natural birthings of ȝȪȗoț. Or think of the scene where Theaetetus with his gymnast friends has just been exercising and, having just finished oiling himself, his body gleaming in the full bloom of youth, suddenly appears before Socrates and Theodorus, as if his presence had been invoked by the words of praise that had just been uttered by Theodorus. Or think of the scene pictured by Socrates in which the head of the deceased Protagoras pops up out of the ground in order to castigate Socrates for talking nonsense. It’s not just that the Theaetetus is dramatic, not just that its temporal and topical settings—both doubled in this case—shape the sense of its discourses, not just that the identity and deeds of the various characters, including the deeds carried out through ȝȪȗoȣ itself, contribute essentially to the dialogue’s disclosive capacity, to its power to make something manifest. What is striking about the Theaetetus is that it stages the drama, that it stages certain scenes corresponding to what is said and shown, certain scenes that contribute to the showing of what is said. What is striking in this dialogue is that it translates its philosophical openings and theses into concrete scenes, into spectacles that one can imagine seeing. Though there are a number of highly impressive vignettes such as that of the sudden appearance of Theaetetus, there are also scenes that evolve and that are of somewhat larger compass, encompassing and setting in relation the various vignettes. It is in and through these overarching, de-

_________ 1 References to the Theaetetus are given in the text by Stephanus numbers only. All translations are my own, though I have consulted the translation by Seth Benardete: Theaetetus: Part I of The Being of the Beautiful, translated and with commentary by Seth Benardete (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, l986).

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veloping scenes that the primary manifestations achieved by the dialogue occur. The first part of the dialogue is determined by two such evolving scenes. One is the scene of ĴփIJțȣ, the scene into which is translated a certain thesis regarding ĴփIJțȣ. It could be called even a thesis about— producing thus a scene of—what ĴփIJțȣ is, were it not precisely such that in its inception it dissolves all whatness and indeed all being. The other scene is that of the appearance of the philosopher; it is the scene of the philosopher’s coming upon the scene. These two scenes run throughout the first part of the dialogue until finally, in the concluding section of this part, they coalesce. In their fusion something comes to be made manifest about ĴփIJțȣ and about the philosopher’s relation to ĴփIJțȣ. My intention is to trace the contours of these two extended scenes as they evolve and intersect in the first part of the dialogue and to mark especially the discourses and enactments by which are achieved decisive showings of ĴփIJțȣ and of the appearance of the philosopher. Most decisive will be the concluding fusion in and through which is made manifest the inception of philosophy, its beginning, in relation to ĴփIJțȣ. In saying that the evolution of these two scenes spans the first part of the Theaetetus, I am referring of course to the usual, conventional partition of the dialogue (excepting the introductory sections) into three parts corresponding to the three different answers that Theaetetus appears to give to Socrates’ question as to what knowledge is. And yet, while this partition has no doubt a certain legitimacy, it is by no means the only way in which the shape, the spacing, of the dialogue can with justification be construed. To this extent there is some warrant, then, for mutually superimposing various spacings, various ways of configuring the dialogue, and for opening thereby a certain exchange between them. One configuration that may be superimposed on the tripartite division can be drawn by marking the center and the extremes of the dialogue. For the topology of the Theaetetus is such that precisely at its center there occurs a discourse on the philosopher. Indeed it is not simply a discourse, not simply a defining of the philosopher; rather it is a discourse that stages a scene in which, by which, it is allegedly shown what a philosopher is. The name of the philosopher who appears in this scene is Thales. Here is the well-known passage in which Socrates describes the scene: “As Thales was studying the stars . . . and looking up, he fell into a well, and a graceful and elegant Thracian servant girl is said to have jeered at him, that in his eagerness to know the things in the heaven he was unaware of the things in front of him and at his feet” (174a). So, casting his vision

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upward, gazing at the heaven above, the philosopher Thales is oblivious to the everyday world in which the Thracian servant girl makes her way elegantly, gracefully, with ease. Because her everyday comportment is uninterrupted by any engagement beyond, she enjoys a certain superiority and mocks the philosopher Thales whose everyday comportment is so thoroughly disrupted by his higher vision that he is incapable of coping with what is at his feet. Socrates says of this comic scene: “The same jest suffices for all those who engage in philosophy” (174a-b). In this scene the philosopher appears as casting his vision above while stumbling about in the world around him, inviting the derision that common sense with its servant girls heaps upon him. As he appears in this scene, the philosopher is determined primarily by his ascensional orientation, by the upward directionality of his vision. It is as if the cost of maintaining this upwardness were that he must unwittingly play a role in a comedy. It is around this scene that the larger, evolving scene of the appearance of the philosopher is deployed. The opening and closing scenes of the dialogue belong to this larger scene. The opening scene is set in Megara and occurs many years after the death of Socrates. As the scene opens, Euclides has just returned from a brief trip outside the city. He explains to Terpsion: “On going down to the harbor, I met Theaetetus being carried from the army camp in Corinth to Athens” (142a). Going down: the word is ȜįijįȖįտȟȧ. This is the same as the very first word of the Republic, where also it denotes going down to the harbor, Socrates saying: “I went down [ȜįijջȖșȟ] yesterday to Piraeus” (Rep. 327a). Both passages may be read as citations of the passage in the Odyssey where Odysseus tells Penelope of the day when, as he says, “I went down [ȜįijջȖșȟ] to Hades to inquire about the return of myself and my friends” (Ody. 23.252-53). In the Republic, as in the Theaetetus, the descent is counterposed to the philosophical ascent described and enacted in the images of line and cave in the center of the Republic. And in all three texts, the going-down is intrinsically linked to death. Just as Odysseus went down to Hades to speak with the dead and as Socrates, in the Republic, enacted at the beginning what finally is told in the myth of Er, so likewise Euclides went down to the harbor of Megara where he met Theaetetus on the verge of death. He tells Terpsion that Theaetetus was “barely alive,” suffering indeed from wounds inflicted in battle but still more from the dysentery that has broken out in the army.

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Euclides reports that as he then returned to Megara he remembered and wondered at how prophetically Socrates had spoken about Theaetetus. For shortly before Socrates’ death, he had met Theaetetus, then just a lad, and had had a conversation with him. It turns out—remarkably—that Socrates had subsequently narrated the speeches of this conversation to Euclides, who then, at his leisure, had written down the conversation, conferring further with Socrates regarding points he failed to remember. Once Euclides has mentioned writing this book, as he calls it, the stage is set for a boy to read it to Euclides and Terpsion. What is thus read constitutes the remainder of the dialogue, which is thus doubly authored. It is the narrative of the conversation that Socrates, just before his death, had with Theaetetus, who at that time was in the full bloom of youth. In the middle of that conversation Socrates told Theaetetus of the philosophical ascent, and on the basis of their conversation, Socrates—as Euclides puts it— “expressed great admiration for his nature” (142c). Yet at the end of that conversation with Theaetetus, which is also the end of the dialogue Theaetetus, Socrates makes a remark that serves to link the dialogue to the chain of events that will lead to his death. For he says: “Now, however, I must go to the portico of the king to answer to the indictment that Miletus has drawn up against me” (210d). The larger scene of the appearance of the philosopher thus begins to take shape through the juxtaposition of the central image of philosophical ascendancy with the katabasis invoked at both the beginning and the end of the dialogue. This juxtaposition, this spread, is indicative that Thales is not the only philosopher in the dialogue, that he is not even the only one whose appearance is to be staged. One suspects already, from the case of Socrates, that ascendancy alone does not suffice to make one a philosopher. And yet, the other philosopher whose appearance as such is staged in the dialogue is not so much Socrates as it is rather Theaetetus. What is especially remarkable is the way in which the initial scene of Theaetetus’ appearance broaches the other extended scene, that of ĴփIJțȣ. Indeed, even prior to this scene, already in the opening conversation between the Megarians, there is—as mentioned—a reference to ĴփIJțȣ; in this very first occurrence of the word in the dialogue, the reference is— significantly—to Theaetetus, to his ĴȫIJțȣ. Euclides reports that Socrates, on the basis of his conversation with Theaetetus, “expressed great admiration for his ĴփIJțȣ.” This reference recurs almost immediately as the boy proceeds to read Euclides’ book, in which Socrates’ conversation with Theaetetus is recorded. As the scene of the conversation opens,

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Theaetetus is not yet present but only Socrates and Theodorus, who speak about the youth of Athens. Without yet naming him, Theodorus tells Socrates about Theaetetus, about his resemblance to Socrates, and about his “wonderfully fine nature [ȚįȤμįIJij‫׭‬ȣ ı՞ ʍıĴȤȜցijį]” (144a). Then Theodorus concludes his praise of Theaetetus with a very remarkable figure: “But he goes so smoothly, so unfalteringly, and so effectively to learning and investigation, and all with so much gentleness, just as a flow of oliveoil flows without a sound, as for it to be a cause of wonder that someone of his age behaves in this way” (144b). This figure of wonderful Theaetetus silently flowing like olive-oil is decisive for the entire first part of the dialogue: once the scene becomes that of ĴփIJțȣ, it will turn out that virtually everything flows. There will be the flow of youth and vigor, to be sure, but also the flow of decay and death, as indeed in the very first instance broached already in the opening report by Euclides, the dysentery from which the dying Theaetetus is suffering most severely. As if evoked by the words comparing his manner to the flow of oliveoil, Theaetetus at that very moment appears. His body, one presumes, is well-oiled, and he is accompanied by at least two fellow gymnasts, one of whom happens to be named Socrates. It is not long before Socrates—the older one—puts the question to him, the question as to what knowledge is. In response Theaetetus offers several knowledges: geometry, shoemaking, and the other ijջȥȟįț. When Socrates refuses the many that Theaetetus has offered in place of the one that would be knowledge itself, Theaetetus draws a parallel with his mathematical research, though even this parallel leaves him, for the time being at least, short of an answer to Socrates’ Theaetetus’ account of his mathematical research constitutes the first of a series of six passages that need to be examined closely in order to draw the precise contours of the two extended scenes unfolded in the first part of the dialogue. The account that Theaetetus proceeds to give concerns specifically the research on incommensurables that he and young Socrates had carried on beyond what Theodorus had taught them. Theaetetus refers to some drawing shown them by Theodorus concerning İȤȟչμıțȣ, literally powers, but in modern mathematical terminology roots; the sense is that to say that 3 is the power of 9 means that 3 has the power, if multiplied by itself, to produce 9. In the present passage the word İփȟįμțȣ is actually restricted to those kinds of roots on which the research has been focused. Theaetetus reports that with the drawing Theodorus had shown them that the three-foot (i.e., the side of a square of area 3—so what we call ¥3) and the five-foot (so, ¥5) and the others up to the 17-foot are incommensurable

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with the unit. What Theaetetus and young Socrates attempted was to extend this without limit, to gather into one (IJȤȝȝįȖı‫ה‬ȟ ıԼȣ ԥȟ) all the roots, since their multitude seemed unlimited, to gather them into one, by which all these roots can be named (147e). Yet—curiously—they began not by gathering into one but by dividing into two, indeed by dividing into two ones. Specifically, they divided all numbers into square numbers (i.e., those that can be formed by multiplying two equals) and oblong numbers (i.e., those that cannot be formed in this way but only by multiplication of two unequal numbers). The line that forms a side of the square of a square number they determined as—gathered under the one name—a length (μ‫׆‬Ȝȡȣ). The line that forms a side of the square of an oblong number they determined as a root (İփȟįμțȣ in the more restricted sense). These two kinds, lengths and roots, correspond to what later will be termed rational and irrational numbers. The ostensible point of this mathematical paradigm is that just as Theaetetus and his comrade gathered the roots into a one corresponding to the name, determining the bounds or limits of what the name İփȟįμțȣ names, so now—Theaetetus understands—he is to gather knowledges into a one corresponding to the name knowledge, delimiting what the name names. And yet, the paradigm has turned out to be rather curious. In order to gather a certain multitude of numbers (the roots) into one, Theaetetus and his comrade have had to gather all numbers, the entire multitude, into two ones. More precisely, they have gathered all numbers into two ones two times, into two pairs of ones, first into square and oblong numbers and then into lengths and roots. Furthermore, one of these ones, the one designated by the name root (İփȟįμțȣ), is such that each of the many gathered under it is incommensurable with the unit, incommensurable with the one; here there is, then, a gathering-into-one of a many none of which is one or even has a common measure with one. Once these features are noted, one cannot but suspect that the gathering of knowledge into one will likewise turn out to be something like a gathering into two ones, even a double gathering into two ones. Still further, one will anticipate that in the gathering of knowledge the many to be gathered into one of the two ones would be such that each of that many would be incommensurable with the one. In other words, one will expect that the multitude gathered into one of the two ones would contain no ones whatsoever nor anything even commensurable with one. This is, then, the anticipation, a kind of still open forestructure, that is evoked by the mathe-

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matical paradigm, a kind of schema for the gathering of knowledges that the dialogue will venture. The second in the series of passages is the longest. It begins with Theaetetus offering a one in answer to Socrates’ question regarding knowledge. It is not insignificant that Theaetetus’ answer is couched in the language of seeming and appearing: “It seems [İȡȜı‫ ]ה‬to me, then, that whoever knows something perceives that which he knows, and as it now appears [Ĵįտȟıijįț], knowledge is nothing else than perception” (151e). Socrates immediately identifies Theaetetus’ answer with a ȝȪȗoȣ spoken—and written—by Protagoras. Socrates cites the ȝȪȗoȣ: “Human being is the measure of all things, of the things that are, that [or: as, how (թȣ)] they are, and of the things that are not, that [թȣ] they are not” (152a). As it is not immediately apparent that this Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ says the same as what Theaetetus has said (that knowledge is perception), Socrates proceeds to interpret the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ and by a series of equations to show that it is the same as Theaetetus’ answer, only “said in a somewhat different way” (152a). Socrates begins by explaining what Protagoras meant: that as each thing appears to me, it is such to me, and likewise for what appears to you. This account yields the first equation, that of being with appearing. Referring to the situation in which the same wind may be cold to one and not cold to another, Socrates states a second equation, that of appearing with perception. The third equation follows from the first two: in Socrates’ words, “Perception is always of being” (152c). He continues: “and as knowledge it is not false.” Thus, in effect, he says: perception is knowledge, and, as such, it is not false. In this conclusion it is presupposed not only that all knowledge is true, that there is no such thing as false knowledge, but also, more significantly, that knowledge is of being, or, more precisely, that whatever is of being is knowledge. If this tacit assumption is granted, then the third equation (perception is always of being) can be made to yield the conclusion (perception is knowledge). Thus, it will have been demonstrated that the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ says the same as Theaetetus’ thesis that knowledge is perception. Having thus shown that the equation of perception with knowledge depends on their common reference to being, Socrates will set out to differentiate them by showing that perception is not of being but only of becoming. To Socrates’ declaration linking perception, being, and knowledge, Theaetetus answers: “It appears so [Ĵįտȟıijįț].” This response hints at one of the primary tensions in the entire discourse on knowledge as perception: the appearing in which the identity of knowledge and perception appears

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cannot have been a matter merely of perception, despite the identification made between appearing and perception. Theaetetus cannot have perceived that perception is knowledge, as one perceives that the wind is cold. At this point something very remarkable happens. This presumably ugly man Socrates, whose ugliness was mentioned earlier by Theodorus in comparing Theaetetus to him, suddenly swears: ʍȢրȣ ȥįȢտijȧȟ—By the Graces! Thus he invokes the goddesses, all daughters of Zeus, who represent charm, beauty, grace. The question is whether he invokes them because the scene he now envisages, the scene produced by translating the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ, by its mis-en-scène, is beautiful and graceful or because it lacks—and so is in need of—beauty and grace. As he goes on to depict the Protagorean scene, it will become ever more manifest that this scene is indeed so devoid of beauty and grace that nothing less than the graces, nothing less than a gift from above, would be required for its restoration. Even before this exclamation, at the point where he finally establishes the link between the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ and Theaetetus’ thesis that knowledge is perception, Socrates says that perception as knowledge is not false (ԐȦıȤİջȣ), conspicuously avoiding the word true. This avoidance has to do with a particular rhetorical feature that he is about to introduce and that remains in play throughout the remainder of this passage. What his swearing actually introduces is the curious supposition that Protagoras put forth an enigma for the many (namely, the saying that human being is the measure of all things) while, on the other hand, telling the truth as a secret to his pupils. In this supposition Socrates’ irony is unmistakable, indeed even more so when, later, he plays on the title of Protagoras’ book Truth. In this book, which Theaetetus admits he has read, one would find the enigmatic saying “Human being is the measure of all things” but not the truth that Protagoras told in secret to his pupils. In the book Truth the truth would not in truth be found. As Socrates nonetheless goes on to speak about this secret truth, which at a certain point he will contest, he does not simply represent as true something that he knows to be false or at least later will declare false. Rather, the relation of his saying to what is said assumes more subtle and complex forms, as reflected in the rhetorical structure of his speech. Thus, as he begins to say the secret Protagorean truth, he defers saying it in order first to take a certain distance from what he is about to say. Before saying it, he declares: “I will speak a very nontrivial ȝȪȗoȣ, that . . .”—then going on to say the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ.

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Thus, instead of simply saying that ȝȪȗoȣ, he says first that he is going to say it—that is, he lends his voice to it, almost as in ventriloquy. Later in the discourse Socrates will assume still other relations to the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ, sometimes turning critically against it, at other times assuming the voice of Protagoras himself, speaking for him as if he were present. Socrates proceeds to ventriloquize the esoteric Protagorean truth by drawing out the consequences of the exoteric maxim, which equates appearing with being. There are three consequences. The first he states immediately: “Nothing is itself one alone by itself [or: in accord with, in relation to, itself (į՘ijր ȜįȚ įՙijց)]” (152d). The example of the wind has already broached this consequence. Since the wind appears cold to me and not cold to you, it is both cold and not cold. But this means that it is not one in relation to itself, not one with itself, not one and the same as itself. For, being one thing, for instance, cold, it can also be something other than what it is, something different, not cold—hence, not one but two, cold and not cold. From this dissolution of oneness the second consequence follows directly: “You could not name correctly anything of whatever sort, but if you address it as large, it will also appear small, and if heavy, light . . .” (152d). Thus the dissolution of the oneness of things, of their selfsameness, makes it impossible to speak of them correctly. If something is called by one name, for instance, large, it can—and, presumably, will— always appear as something other, as calling for a different name, for instance, small; hence, in calling it large, one will have spoken incorrectly. The dissolution of oneness thus engenders a disruption of the capacity of speech to address things correctly; it produces a disempowering of ȝȪȗoȣ. As Socrates broaches the third consequence, his speech begins to evoke the scene that results from the dissolution of oneness. In other words, he lends his voice to the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ in such a way as to translate that ȝȪȗoȣ into a scene in which the consequences deployed by that ȝȪȗoȣ are depicted. His description is of a scene of genesis: “From locomotion and movement and mixing with one another, there come to be all the things that we say are, addressing them incorrectly; for nothing ever is, but [everything] always becomes” (152d). The scene is one of unceasing genesis, of perpetual becoming. It is not that things come to be, that they undergo becoming and then are. Rather, they become without ever having come to be, without ever being. The scene is aptly described when, a bit later, Socrates speaks of “becoming in becoming” (153e). Or, as Protagoras would

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have told his pupils in secret, it is a matter of the dissolution of being. This is the third consequence. From this consequence another follows directly. If being is utterly dissolved into perpetual becoming, then it can no longer be maintained—in accordance with the third of the equations—that perception is of being. But if perception is not of being, then it cannot be identified with knowledge. Hence, at this point in the dialogue, as the discussion of Theaetetus’ thesis has just begun, this thesis—that knowledge is perception—is already refuted. This development alone suffices to suggest that in the first part of the dialogue much more is at stake than merely Theaetetus’ thesis. To be sure, the dissolution of being does not simply follow from the dissolution of oneness implicit in the Protagorean maxim but rather depends on the analysis of perception, which is carried out only after the dissolution of being and the various signs taken to attest to it have been declared. According to that analysis, vision involves the interaction of the eyes and what strikes the eyes. In any given case, the actual seeing and the color seen are products of this interaction. Born from the interaction, color is relative and momentary, constantly changing as other eyes or one’s own in another condition are struck by something different. One sees only private (Հİțȡȟ) singularities as they are generated in the flow of radical becoming. Thus, as Socrates says, declaring again the dissolution of being, “Nothing is itself by itself” (157a). Already, at the moment when he first declares the dissolution of being, Socrates—ventriloquizing—invokes all the wise (except Parmenides) who are said to attest to this dissolution: not only Protagoras but also Heraclitus and Empedocles, and indeed poets too. But it is only the poet of poets who is actually cited: “Homer with the line ‘Oceanos and mother Tethys, the becoming [or: origin (ȗջȟıIJțȣ)] of the gods’ has said that everything is the offspring of flowing and motion” (152e). Since Oceanos is the river that encircles the entire world and Tethys, his sister and consort, is the mother who gave birth to all other rivers, to link the genesis of the gods to this couple is tantamount to saying that they—and, by implication, all things—are the offspring of flowing and motion. The word flowing (‫ע‬ȡս) is the same word that Theodorus used earlier in the figure of Theaetetus as flowing like a flow of olive-oil. But now the scene is one where all things flow forth from flowing, even the gods themselves. In the scene that translates his thesis (or at least the allegedly equivalent Protagorean maxim), Theaetetus has produced an image of himself, has displayed himself in a progeny that resembles its parent.

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The line cited from Homer occurs twice in the Iliad (14.201, 302). Without recounting the details of the contexts, let me simply mention that the line is spoken by Hera and that both times the speech in which it occurs is introduced with the words: “Then, with false lying purpose, the lady Hera said. . . .” In both instances Hera is involved in deceptive, seductive acts. Not only are these words thus uttered in a situation of lying and deceiving but also what they say is false: though Oceanos and Tethys were responsible for the generation of some heroes such as Prometheus, the gods are descended, not from them, but from their sibling Chronos. Thus, within this ȝȪȗoȣ, itself disempowered by the very disempowerment of ȝȪȗoȣ that it says, even the words of Homer—like all others—turn out to be false and deceptive. The manifold references to birth and being born (especially the word Ĵփȡμįț, passive of Ĵփȧ), which run throughout the depiction of the scene of perpetual becoming, strongly suggests the connection with ĴփIJțȣ. That this scene is the scene of ĴփIJțȣ becomes unmistakable at the point where, having declared the dissolution of being, Socrates—still ventriloquizing— brings this consequence to bear explicitly on ȝȪȗoȣ itself. The voice of Socrates declares what is required in the wake of this dissolution: “being [ijր ıՂȟįț] must be removed from everywhere” (157b), that is, the word to be must be removed from ȝȪȗoȣ, deleted entirely from discourse. Yet he adds, with evident irony: “not that we’ve not been often compelled even now by habituation and lack of knowledge to use it.” But, in place of a discourse of being, “one must make utterances in accord with ĴփIJțȣ [Ȝįijո ĴփIJțȟ]—becomings and makings and perishings and alterings” (157b). This scene on which being has been dissolved is none other than ĴփIJțȣ, and to speak of it requires that one’s utterances be in accord with ĴփIJțȣ. But, if ĴփIJțȣ is a scene of incessant flow, if it is a perpetual becoming in which the dissolution of oneness and being disempowers ȝȪȗoȣ itself, how is it possible to speak Ȝįijո ĴփIJțȟ? Is it perhaps because this requirement is aporetic that Socrates avoids the usual words that denote speaking, substituting for them the word that I have translated as to make utterances (ĴȚջȗȗıIJȚįț), which can denote not only human speech but also the vocal sounds made by animals? It is also the word that Heraclitus uses in Fragment 92 to describe the raving, prophetic voice of the Sibyl. How, then, is it possible to speak Ȝįijո ĴփIJțȟ? How is it possible to speak appropriately of ĴփIJțȣ? Must one resort to a raving, prophetic voice like that of the Sibyl? What sounds could possibly resonate with ĴփIJțȣ? Or with the flow of olive-oil flowing without sound?

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The scene of ĴփIJțȣ, staged by the second in the series of passages, comes to be interrogated in the third passage, interrogated with respect to the question of the possibility of ȝȪȗoȣ. What figures most prominently in this passage are the wonderful and laughable things that Socrates and Theaetetus are driven to say about the very scene of ĴփIJțȣ that puts all saying in jeopardy. The passage begins with Socrates taking a certain stand against being utterly swept away by the incessant flow of becoming. He declares—in the form of a question—that even in the flow of ĴփIJțȣ there is a certain determinacy or continuity: “Isn’t it the case, then, that if that against which we’re measuring ourselves or which we’re touching were great or white or hot, it would never, in its fall on something else, have come to be something else, if, that is, it itself does not at all alter?” (154b). Socrates’ declaration thus says that something could not come to be something else if it did not itself undergo alteration. Next, Socrates mentions the wonderful and laughable things: “Since as it is now, my friend, we’re being compelled somehow or other to say without qualms wonderful and laughable things, as Protagoras would say and everyone who tries to say the same as he does” (154b). Socrates explains by referring to, as he calls it, a small paradigm: “we say surely that six dice, if you apply four to them, are more than the four and one and a half times as much, and if you apply twelve, they’re less and half as much, and it’s unsupportable to speak in a different way” (154c). He then formulates the wonderful and laughable things as a question put by Protagoras to Theaetetus: “If Protagoras or someone else asks you, ‘Theaetetus, is it possible that anything become larger or more otherwise than by increase?’ what will you answer?” (154c). In view of the small paradigm, Theaetetus must answer yes, that it is possible. Protagoras’ declaration thus proclaims indeterminacy and discontinuity, proclaims that it is possible for something to become larger or more otherwise than by increase. Socrates stresses the opposition between the two declarations, referring to a battle between them being waged within their souls. Mentioning still another example, he exclaims: “And there are moreover myriads upon myriads of these” (155c). The opposition is between two ways of construing the scene of becoming. According to the first, something can become larger (for instance) only by itself gradually increasing; it will have been a determinate size, and there will be continuity as it increases to a larger size. According to the other construal, change can be utterly discontinuous and indeterminate.

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In setting up the opposition as he does, Socrates is in effect posing the question: How can the flow of ĴփIJțȣ be granted and yet a certain moment of determinacy be maintained? How, within the flow of ĴփIJțȣ, can a certain determinacy come to hold sway and to limit the flow? How can oneness and being be dissolved without determinacy also vanishing? If there is no determinacy within the flow of ĴփIJțȣ, then ȝȪȗoȣ will be virtually silenced, at least in its capacity to say things as they are, to speak Ȝįijո ĴփIJțȟ. And yet, what could limit ĴփIJțȣ without simply violating it? For, if determinacy were to come to ĴփIJțȣ from elsewhere, it would not be the determinacy of ĴփIJțȣ. A ȝȪȗoȣ geared to such alien determinacy would still remain incapable of speaking Ȝįijո ĴփIJțȟ. It is curious—indeed remarkable—that Socrates says these wonderful and laughable things precisely at the threshold of what may be the most decisive moment of the dialogue: the moment when Theaetetus confesses his wonder and Socrates declares wonder to be the beginning of philosophy. How is it that wonder breaks out precisely at this moment when Socrates has just said these wonderful and laughable things? One cannot but wonder whether something is at stake here that is less than apparent on the surface. A hint is provided when Socrates refers to the opposites battling within their souls, when he refers to them as ĴչIJμįijį. The word ĴչIJμį is related to Ĵįտȟȧ (bring to light) and so to the middle voice form Ĵįտȟıijįț (appear). It can designate an apparition or phantom, that is, a strange appearance, as of something not present. ĮչIJμį can also mean a sign from heaven, a portent, something exceeding, yet given to, human vision. Or, if there is stress on the moment of strangeness, of deviation from the natural cause of things, the word can mean monster. What is at stake here is the peculiar logic outlined by the wonderful and laughable things. It is a logic of excess or of monstrosity. If the wonderful and laughable declaration is reformulated as a statement, it reads as follows: something can become larger or more otherwise than by increase, that is, in some way other than by itself altering, increasing. What must this involve? In such a case a certain excess will be added to the thing so that it becomes larger; that is, something else exceeding the thing will be added to it, so that it becomes larger yet without itself increasing. And yet, it will itself become larger through this excess only if the excess also belongs to it. Otherwise it would simply be conjoined with something else (the excess), that is, would not itself become larger. Thus, the excess that comes to be added proves already to belong. And yet it must also exceed,

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must also remain other than the thing; for otherwise, if it were simply homogeneous with the thing, there would be mere increase rather than a becoming larger otherwise than by increase. Suppose, then, that what is to become larger or more than it is is ĴփIJțȣ. For it has already become manifest in this third passage that there is need for determinacy to be added to the flow of ĴփIJțȣ. Such excess is required for the very possibility of ȝȪȗoȣ. Yet, if ȝȪȗoȣ is to say ĴփIJțȣ as it is, to speak Ȝįijո ĴփIJțȟ, then the excess must also belong to ĴփIJțȣ. Thus, what will come to be added to nature is something other than nature that yet belongs to nature, a divergence from nature within nature. In a word: monstrosity. The fourth passage is the discourse of wonder. Now it is Theaetetus who swears, exclaiming “And by the gods!” and then going on immediately to confess his wonder. It is a matter, then, not only of discourse on wonder but of discourse spoken from out of a state of wonder. Theaetetus says indeed that he wonders excessively. The word ՙʍıȢĴȤ‫׭‬ȣ signifies a manner that goes beyond ĴփIJțȣ. The connection could hardly be more manifest: in the face of the excess or monstrosity posed by the wonderful and laughable things, Theaetetus wonders in a way that exceeds his ĴփIJțȣ. In wonder his ĴփIJțȣ is exceeded from within and in the moment of wonder becomes monstrous. One presumes that it was because Theaetetus’ ĴփIJțȣ proved capable of monstrosity that Socrates, as Euclides reported, expressed great admiration for his ĴփIJțȣ. In exceeding his ĴփIJțȣ so as to be drawn beyond himself, Theaetetus enacts the beginning of philosophy. The words of Socrates, identifying the scene as that of the philosopher coming upon the scene, enacting the beginning, are perhaps the most celebrated in the entire dialogue: “For this pathos is very much that of a philosopher, that of wondering [ȚįȤμչȘıțȟ]. For nothing else than this is the beginning [ԐȢȥս] of philosophy . . .” (155d). Across an expanse of further engagement with the Protagorean ȝȪȗoȣ and its scene, we reach again—now as the penultimate passage—the discourse on the philosopher that occurs at the very center of the Theaetetus. What this discourse addresses, as it brings the philosopher Thales onto the scene, might be called the opening of philosophy. It is a matter of an opening beyond, of an opening to the beyond, of an opening to being. Hence, this passage contrasts the philosopher, in his leisurely orientation to being, with those who are clever at speaking in court and who thus are obliged, as was the practice, to have the length of their speeches timed by

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the water clock. While their condition is described as being such that “water in its flow is bearing down on them” (172e), everything—or almost everything—that has preceded in the dialogue has served to deprive flowing ĴփIJțȣ of being. Philosophy would thus bring an opening to being—an opening of being—beyond ĴփIJțȣ. Indeed the ascendancy of the philosopher would, it seems, be so all-determining that even ĴփIJțȣ itself would— or would be taken to—undergo a kind of displacement beyond; for Socrates speaks—remarkably—of the philosopher’s thought as “exploring everywhere all the ĴփIJțȣ of each whole of the things that are and letting itself down to not one of the things nearby” (174a). And yet, Thales’ leisure does not go undisturbed. His contemplation of the things in the heaven does not escape interruption. On the contrary, he falls in a well, somewhat as others go down to a harbor or river. Yet his katabasis is inadvertent, a comic fall that earns him the jeers and no doubt the laughter of the Thracian servant girl. In his ascendancy he would exceed ĴփIJțȣ without also continuing to be bound to ĴփIJțȣ; at the extreme, his ascendancy would be—but cannot be—such as to bear even ĴփIJțȣ itself beyond itself, so as then to have no need of going down to any of the things nearby. What the Thales of this scene lacks is an ascendancy bound to katabasis, bound by katabasis—as this central ascensional discourse is literally bounded by the discourses of katabasis with which the Theaetetus begins and ends. What is lacking in the philosopher as he appears in this central scene is a comportment that, in exceeding ĴփIJțȣ, would at the same time remain bound to ĴփIJțȣ. What the Thales of this scene lacks is the monstrosity that Theaetetus achieves in the moment of wonder. The final passage, with which the first part of the dialogue concludes, addresses such monstrosity. As the passage opens, Socrates and Theaetetus have just been speaking of Heraclitus and Parmenides. They have compared themselves to those who, in a gymnasium, play at a tug-ofwar in which they stand in the middle between two opposing teams. They are pulled, in turn, in both directions—now toward those who set things aflow, who advocate the flow of ĴփIJțȣ, and now toward those who arrest all things, who are advocates of one being and of determinacy. It is between these—between the flow of ĴփIJțȣ and determinate being—that the conversation in this passage is stretched. Socrates begins by restating Theaetetus’ thesis that knowledge is perception. Regarded most straightforwardly, the passage will lead to the explicit refutation of this thesis; for it will be shown that knowledge involves something not found in perception. On the other hand, the passage

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will, in a certain sense, vindicate Theaetetus’ thesis; for it will show that it is through a certain knowing that perception of things becomes fully possible. Socrates and Theaetetus agree that in perception it is through (İțչ) the eyes, rather than by the eyes, that we see, and correspondingly for hearing. The first decisive move comes as Socrates says: “That’s because it’s surely dreadful [İıțȟցȟ], my boy, if many of these perceptions sit in us as if in wooden horses, but all these do not stretch together [IJȤȟijıտȟıț] toward some one look [Լİջį]” (184d). The one look would, then, be that in which the perceptions through the various senses come together. They come together in the look by stretching toward it, by being extended toward it. Thus, the look toward which perceptions stretch is something beyond, something that exceeds ĴփIJțȣ; and yet, it is the look precisely of something in ĴփIJțȣ, belongs itself, to this extent, to ĴփIJțȣ. In other words, the look is determined by the logic of excess, of monstrosity. It remains only to identify the looks more precisely in their relation to ĴփIJțȣ. To this end Socrates introduces the common (ijր Ȝȡțȟցȟ), that which is had in common by perceptions that come through different senses. He mentions the is that may be said of both sound and color, also the same and other that may be said of both (since each is the same as itself and other than the other). The question that Socrates then poses concerns the apprehension of the looks; it concerns that through which the stretching toward the look is carried out. Here is Socrates’ question to Theaetetus: “So through what [İțո ijտȟȡȣ] do you apprehend [or: think (İțչȟȡțį)] all these things about the pair? For it’s possible neither through hearing nor through sight to grasp the common [ijր Ȝȡțȟցȟ] about them” (185b). Theaetetus swears “By Zeus!” and then answers: “The soul itself through itself, it appears to me, looks upon the common things about all of them” (185e). Socrates’ repetition of the answer gathers the means of apprehension, the through which, into two kinds, beginning thus to rehabilitate the mathematical schema generated by Theaetetus’ research. Socrates says: “The soul itself through itself looks upon some things, and some things through the power of the body” (185e). Theaetetus refers then specifically to being and observes that it belongs “in those things that the soul by itself stretches itself toward [ԚʍȡȢջȗıijįț]” (186a). Thus, it is not as though the soul looked upon certain aspects of ĴփIJțȣ through the senses and then looked upon others through itself. Rather, that which it looks upon through itself is such that the soul must stretch itself toward it; for the commons, the looks, exceed ĴփIJțȣ and so require that apprehension of

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them stretch itself beyond ĴփIJțȣ. And yet, the commons are common to the things we perceive and the looks are the looks of these things. While exceeding ĴփIJțȣ, they belong also to ĴփIJțȣ as the very elements, its very elements, of determinacy. A double gathering into two ones has thus been carried out. On the one side, there are (1) the soul’s apprehension through the senses and (2) its extensive apprehension through itself. On the other side, there are also two: (1) the flow of ĴփIJțȣ with its changing perceptual qualities and (2) the looks, the commons, the moments of determinacy. Because the flow of ĴփIJțȣ is not itself determinate—but only monstrously so—it corresponds to the incommensurables in the mathematical schema; for within ĴփIJțȣ itself the dissolution of oneness will remain in force. But what decisively differentiates the schema of knowledge from the earlier, mathematical schema is that sense qualities and commons or looks are not related simply as two ones, even though, translated into the sensible and the intelligible, they have all too often been mistaken this way in the history of Platonism. Their relation is not arithmetic but rather one of inherent excess, of monstrosity. In this final passage the two extended scenes are fused, the scene of ĴփIJțȣ and that of the appearance of the philosopher. For just as ĴփIJțȣ proves to require the common excess that yet belongs to it as its determinacy, so the philosopher, appearing in the moment of wonder, must be drawn beyond himself while remaining advertently, heedfully, bound to his ĴփIJțȣ. There is no greater paradigm than Socrates, who, facing death, opened his thoughts and words to the beyond and yet, as Phaedo reports, “put his feet down on the earth and for the rest of the time conversed sitting in this way” (Phaedo 61d). THE PENNSYVNIA STATE UNIVERSITY

COMMENTARY ON SALLIS NICKOLAS PAPPAS

I. “Philosophy begins in wonder.” Professor Sallis renders the famous passage literally: “This pathos is very much that of a philosopher, that of wondering. For nothing else than this is the beginning of philosophy” (Theaetetus 155d). Is it true?—considering not the “wonder” just now but the “is,” the present tense of it. For translated absolutely word for word the last clause says, “no other beginning of philosophy but this.” To become minimally comprehensible the English needs a copula, and which one do you add? Do you say that to wonder is the ԐȢȥսof philosophy or do you say that it was the ԐȢȥսin other words that philosophy began with wonder? Is the inauguration of philosophy a historical event, or is it a metaphysical possibility always ready to be repeated? Aristotle, almost quoting Plato’s words but also tweaking them, makes wonder the cause of both human beings’ latter-day beginnings in philosophy and the human species’ first beginning (Metaphysics A 2, 982b11-19). But can the answer be fully both? If the ԐȢȥսin philosophy can come to everyone naturally, then why was there a specific and now celebrated event when it first happened? Shouldn’t the first philosophizing have the standing of the first handshake, a curiosity it’s nice to find out about but practically irrelevant to the present-day phenomenon? The converse would also have to be true: the more it matters that philosophy began on some ancient occasion, the less it counts that every human being contains the potential to embark upon philosophy. The original first philosophy creates an indebtedness not discharged by subsequent practices of philosophy but increased with every subsequent practice. There is no one better to read with these questions in mind than Plato, because there is no place like the Platonic dialogue for a perpetual restaging of the first appearance of philosophy. Plato’s works keep clearing the ground on which philosophy will stand, if that’s the metaphor you prefer, or legislating the language in which philosophy will henceforth speak. It is striking however that in addition to these familiar Platonic scenes of institution, the Theaetetus also positions new philosophical claims against

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philosophies of the past. This might be the Platonic dialogue most occupied with the history of philosophy, which is to say with the thought that philosophy already began and therefore can no longer begin as it once did. And that is to say: if the Theaetetus is the dialogue that calls wonder the beginning of philosophy, it is also the dialogue most resistant to pinning down that beginning as either an eternally present possibility or an actual historical past event. II. Professor Sallis hears stories of the birth of philosophy in the Theaetetus’s first section, as well as philosophical stories of nature as the place of constant birthing. On his reading philosophy is being alleged to begin in a relation to nature, though that relation does not catapult philosophy into the “intelligible” realm familiar to the history of Platonism. Instead the philosophical ȝցȗȡȣtreats that which grows out of ĴփIJțȣ as nature’s monstrous efflorescence. Those allegedly intelligible traits of things that Plato calls “common properties,” ijչ Ȝȡțȟչ, turn out to exceed nature even while continuing to belong to nature. Now, as Plato describes a philosophical ȝցȗȡȣproper to nature’s wild fluctuations, he simultaneously charts the philosopher’s appearance. What is it that brings a philosopher into the world—as Protagoras appears for example in this dialogue’s conversation in miraculous partial rebirth before ducking back to turn over in his grave (Tht. 171d)? What is that upand-down movement of a life in philosophy? The episodes of the Theaetetus press and strain this question. Then as Professor Sallis says “the two scenes . . . coalesce.” Their fusion demonstrates in his words “the inception of philosophy, its beginning, in relation to IXVL9.” The philosopher’s special standing with respect to nature follows from his mimetic or emblematic relationship to nature. “[J]ust as ĴփIJțȣ proves to require the common excess that yet belongs to it as its determinacy, so the philosopher, appearing in the moment of wonder, must be drawn beyond himself while remaining . . . bound to his ĴփIJțȣ.”

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III. And speaking of ĴփIJțȣspeaking of philosophy’s beginning: here at the heart of the Theaetetus is Thales—“precisely at its center” as Professor Sallis says, which is the right place for a “discourse on the philosopher.” Thales is already a known quantity. He will become a canonical figure in philosophy’s story of itself. Centuries hence when Diogenes Laertius wonders where and in the person of whom philosophy began (ԔȢȠįț), he will put Thales close to the scene of that event, as Aristotle also does (Metaph. A 3, 983b20). Diogenes will call Thales the first to study astronomy (Lives of Eminent Philosophers I.23); according to some people, he says, Thales was also the first to conduct discourses about nature (ʍıȢվ ĴȤIJջȧȣ İțıȝջȥȚș: Lives I.24). He was the first named among the Seven Sages, “the first one to be called IJȡĴցȣ” (Lives I.22). These both are and are not the terms in which Diogenes characterizes Socrates’ priority. Besides being the first philosopher tried and executed, Socrates was the first “who conducted discourses about life [ʍıȢվ ȖտȡȤ İțıȝջȥȚș]” (Lives II.20), which is one way of saying that Socrates effected the first Copernican revolution in philosophy, turning that cosmological enterprise around to look at human values. What you have is still discourse or dialectic, but saying something different—no surprise given Socrates’ conviction that “theory about nature is nothing to us” (Lives II.21). Socrates says something different about natural processes in the Theaetetus too, for instance in that famous scene in which he says his skill is like (ՑIJį) that of midwives (Tht. 150b). He is a midwife metaphorically speaking, for his concern is with the laboring soul instead of the body. You might say that in the movement to a metaphorical domain the philosopher renounces the body in favor of things pertaining to the soul. And this passage into metaphor is why people might speak of the philosopher “just as [խIJʍıȢ]” they speak of Thales (Tht. 174a), without the philosopher’s having to endure the actual fate that Thales faced. Why just as they spoke of Thales? Is Thales not a philosopher? Professor Sallis has observed that there is something lacking about Thales. Thales cannot control the circumstances of his own descent. Does that mean that Plato blames Thales for falling into a well, for remaining subject to physical laws? No, the point of the anecdote is that Thales is a man of ĴփIJțȣ. Up and down for him are a physical up and down. When he craned his literal neck to look literally up at the literal heights he set himself up for a literal fall. Philosophy by comparison rejects the literality of ĴփIJțȣ. Indeed philosophy begins by rejecting it. In Republic VII Socrates and Glaucon are

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planning the guardians’ education when Socrates mentions astronomy. Glaucon agreeing that it’s essential to education, and wanting not to sound mundane-minded, says that astronomy directs the soul to “what is above [Ԕȟȧ]” (Republic VII, 528e-529a). Not exactly, says Socrates. Glaucon is trying but still much too literal. For as astronomy is practiced by those who should be leading their pupils up (įȟչȗȡȟijıȣ) to philosophy, the subject actually turns the soul to look down (Ȝչijȧ ȖȝջʍıțȟRep. VII, 529a). Glaucon is part of that problem, Glaucon and his conception of “learning about what is above” (ijռȟ ʍıȢվ ijո Ԕȟȧ μչijșIJțȟ). That idea of the above sounds a lot like Thales’s. You are close to believing that if someone looking at decorations on the ceiling with his head tilted back should learn something about them, he is looking at them with his mind and not his eyes. . . But I can’t think that any other learning makes the soul look up than the one about being and the invisible. (Rep. VII, 529a-b)

The philosophers of the Republic’s city are not going to fall into any wells. Rather than look at the stars they will “look” (i.e., with minds’ eyes) at the “stars” (i.e., points of light newly understood as images of geometrical patterns). And by studying astronomy as mathematics, as if it were mathematics, they ensure that their downward movement will be limited to the as-if travel allegorized in the story of the Cave. The philosopher is therefore like Thales and Thales is like a philosopher, except that the up-and-down of philosophical thinking is metaphorical where Thales’s look up and fall down happened within ĴփIJțȣ. Is it as Professor Sallis says? “What the Thales of this scene lacks is an ascendancy bound to ȜįijչȖįIJțȣ.” But the ascendancy he has in mind is a metaphorical one. You could say that Thales lacks the central philosophical metaphor. For indeed “ascent” becomes Plato’s metaphor for the movement into metaphor. The philosopher will be spoken of “as” Thales was, in the same way that Socrates should be spoken of as a midwife. The natural midwife acts on the body, Socrates on the soul. Thales looked up with his body, the Socratic philosopher moves both upward and downward in and by means of his soul. Thales represents the ĴփIJțȣ to be countered, or made intermittently determinate, with a philosophical ȝցȗȡȣ. But he also conducted discourse about ĴփIJțȣ. Amidst all this talk of nature’s flow he is the figure in everyone’s mind who had said that all is water. He is ĴփIJțȣ and he is also the philosophical ȝցȗȡȣ.

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IV. Professor Sallis began by saying: “In the Theaetetus there is much that is theatrical.” Now it is striking that Theodorus denies the dramatic status of their scene. Theodorus thinks they are talking about nature. He’s the one who first speaks by commenting on the natural endowments of Theaetetus (Tht. 144a). Somewhat later, when Socrates digresses to describe the philosophical character, Theodorus encourages him to pursue the digression however long it takes. We’re not slaves to the clock, he says. “We have neither a juror standing by to penalize and govern us, nor (as poets do) a theatrical audience” (Tht. 173c). But in fact Socrates is about to face half a thousand jurors. Time is tight. Is Theodorus as blind to the drama being composed in front of him as he is to the citizens no doubt lining up behind them for jury selection? Maybe he does not notice the stichomythia latent in philosophical discourse, like the back and forth of eight pages later, when Socrates proposes his strategic approach to discovering the truth about nature. The method calls for Socrates and the others present to review the history of philosophy, simplified here into a tug of war between Heracliteans and Eleatics. If one team is stronger than the other they should join it (Tht. 181a). If both sides speak unreasonably, Socrates says, “we would be ridiculous to think that we, being as we are rather low types, could say something ourselves after having rejected such incomparably ancient and wise men” (Tht. 181b). Philosophers of the present like Socrates have to acknowledge that they come on the scene after other philosophers and because of them; and whatever they do after rejecting their predecessors, it will not be exactly a matter of saying something new. Now, rejecting what someone else says without saying something else might be a matter of restating what has been said, as Socrates restates Protagoreanism, or as the Ephesians (according to Theodorus) incessantly reformulate the philosophy of Heraclitus, each new version of it as he says “freshly renamed [Ȝįțȟ‫׭‬ȣ μıijȧȟȡμįIJμջȟ‫]׫‬,” metonymized (180a). What about Homer, who functions as a philosopher in this conversation? If you believe Socrates, the cryptic doctrine about Oceanus and Tethys came to be “openly [ԐȟįĴįȟİȪȟ] promulgated” by the latest crop of philosophers, in other words said again and yet not said in the same way but rather restated. The philosopher’s relationship to tradition might explain something about Theaetetus’s moment of transformation into a philosopher. He gives

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voice to his wonder at nature’s confusions and Socrates welcomes him into the philosophical corps—but that welcome does not take the form of a guided look at nature. Instead Socrates promises to expound the Protagorean teaching. After all there is no “uninitiated one [Ԑμփșijȡȣ]” in sight. “I am going to tell you the mystery doctrine [ijո μȤIJijսȢțį]” of Protagorean doctrine. The principle is the following, and everything we were just saying depends on this, that everything is motion and besides this motion there is nothing. (156a) The most inaccurate word in that translation is “principle.” What Socrates says is that this is the ԐȢȥս. In other words, half a page after the ԐȢȥս seemed like maybe a personal beginning, eternally possible for all potential philosophers, it becomes a philosophical teaching. The ԐȢȥս has been here and already been said, and the only thing left for you to do is learn it. Moreover Socrates’ talk of initiation, specifically an initiation that entails being taught philosophical doctrine, makes the primary relationship of the philosopher a relationship to already enunciated teachings. The philosopher can reject all the teachings that came before. But whether accepting or rejecting them the philosopher is oriented toward antecedent philosophers. V. Those two scenes are supposed to coalesce: the appearance of the philosopher and the ever-reappearing flow of nature. But now it seems that the philosopher’s arrival presupposes the earlier appearance of another philosopher. As Professor Sallis recounts the drama in the Theaetetus, its essential confrontation brings the philosopher face-to-face with nature. But the dialogue also dramatizes a struggle that happens within philosophy. On one reading the philosopher reacts to the monstrous fertility of nature. It has too much life in it. Intercourse, pairings, births, Socrates can’t say enough about nature’s fecundity. On the other reading the philosopher reacts against a philosophical patrimony represented as falling into holes in the ground (Tht. 174a), dead and buried (Tht. 171d), “very elderly” (Tht. 183e), in other words in need of being either freshly wakened or—as in Protagoras’s case—subjected to a fresh wake. To fuse the scene of nature with the scene of first philosophy you have to leave this other drama out of the picture. You would have to repress the

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importance of philosophical forebears, for instance by diverting attention away from Protagoras to his theory of nature. For once the drama of philosophy’s history becomes part of the Theaetetus, the story of philosophy can no longer be told as it had been. The philosopher who precedes falls victim to a new kind of indeterminacy. Thales must be a philosopher in order for his being supplanted to matter— much as Homer has to be called a philosopher to explain why anyone cares that he spoke of Oceanus and Tethys. Thales must not be a philosopher if supplanting him is to be a possibility eternally available to philosophers. He’d have to be a natural man, ready to teach philosophers without being one. If Thales is ĴփIJțȣ then everyone can draw the lesson that Theaetetus does and make a fresh start for philosophy. Philosophy continues to begin. If conducting discourses about ĴփIJțȣ makes Thales a predecessor in the discipline then philosophy will still have work to do, but the work will not be a wondrous new start but rather a start within what has already started. Plato becomes a footnote to Thales. THE CITY COLLEGE AND THE GRADUATE CENTER, THE CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK

COLLOQUIUM 5

ARISTOTLE’S ACCOUNT OF AGENCY IN PHYSICS III 3 URSULA COOPE

I. Introduction Among the things Aristotle describes as causes are agents. To be an agent is to be a certain kind of source of change. An agent is thus a type of efficient cause.1 In this paper, I shall be focusing on a particular claim Aristotle makes about agency: the claim that an agent produces change by acting on something.2 Fire, for instance, makes a kettle hot by heating it; a sculptor makes some bronze into a statue by sculpting the bronze. My question is about the explanatory role of this kind of action. What does it add to our understanding of why a change occurred to know, not just that a certain agent was responsible, but also that that agent was acting on something to bring about the change? This is a question that becomes puzzling when we look closely at Aristotle’s account of what it is for an agent to act on something. Aristotle claims that when an agent acts on something to produce a change, the agent’s action is one and the same change as the change that is brought about in the thing acted upon. For example, the sculptor’s action of sculpting the bronze and the bronze’s becoming a statue are both one and the same change (though they are, in a sense to be explained, ‘different in being’). My question, then, is this. If the agent’s action and the change that the agent brings about are one and the same change, how can one of them explain the other? How, for instance, can the sculptor’s sculpting explain the bronze’s becoming a statue, unless these are two different events?

_________ 1

An efficient cause, for Aristotle, is a ‘source of change or rest’ (Physics II 3, 194b29-

32). 2 For there to be a change, he says, it is not enough that there should be something that has the capacity to produce change, unless this thing also acts (Metaph. L 6, 1071b17). (The verb for ‘acts’ here is ԚȟıȢȗı‫ה‬ȟ, which Aristotle often uses for exercising a capacity.) This point that an agent must be something that acts is the basis for one of his criticisms of Plato. He maintains that Platonic ideas by themselves could not cause change. A change could only be produced by something that acted (ijր ԚȢȗįȘցμıȟȡȟ), ‘looking towards the ideas’ (Metaph. A 9, 991a22-3).

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In what follows, I first examine Aristotle’s account of agency in Physics III 3 and explain his argument that the agent’s action and the change in the thing acted upon are one and the same change (sections II-IV). Then (in section V) I return to my question about the explanatory role of the agent’s action. I look at two reasons why we might want to insist that producing a change involves acting upon something and I show that neither of these can be Aristotle’s reason. Why, then, does he think that an agent, if it is to cause a change in something, must act on that thing? I end by suggesting an answer. As we shall see, the notion of causal activity that emerges from his account is very different from any that might be employed in modern philosophy. Aristotle holds that an agent acts on something in virtue of having a special kind of potential that is actualised in that thing. On his view, in order to understand why a change occurs in the thing that is acted upon, we need to understand that this change is the actualisation of such a potential. This conclusion bears on a question that is commonly asked about Aristotelian efficient causes: to what extent is Aristotle’s notion of the efficient cause something we would recognise as a notion of causation? Michael Frede (1987, 126) has claimed that ‘there is a strong tendency [in modern thought] to conceive of causes as somehow active’ and that the strangeness of Aristotelian causes stems from the fact that they cannot be thought of in this way. According to Frede, even efficient causes are not, strictly speaking, things that act to produce change. In ‘more theoretical contexts’, he says, Aristotle cites the form (e.g. the art of sculpture) rather than the agent (e.g. the sculptor) as the efficient cause. Whether Frede is right to say that it is the form, strictly speaking, that is the efficient cause is a question that is beyond the scope of this paper.3 My point here is that the strangeness of Aristotelian efficient causes is, in fact, more radical than Frede’s argument suggests. It is not just that Aristotle often picks out the form, rather than the agent, as the efficient cause. Even in those places in which Aristotle does suggest that agents are causes, any similarity to ‘our’ notion of cause is deceptive. Although he thinks of

_________ 3 Aristotle calls the art of sculpture the efficient cause at Phys. II 3, 195a5-6. He says that the art of building is a cause that is ‘prior’ to the builder at Phys. II 3, 195b23-5. On the other hand, Aristotle does also often cite the agent as the cause. For example, the father is the cause of the child (Phys. II 3, 194b29-32) the house-builder (or the housebuilder building) is the cause of a house being built (Phys. II 3, 195b5-6). At Metaph. B 2, 996b6-7, he says that the efficient cause of a house is ‘the art or the builder’. Of course, even if Frede is right that it is, strictly speaking, the form that is the efficient cause, this does not in itself show that Aristotle would reject the idea that such a cause must be active. What it is for a form to be an efficient cause is an interesting question that I cannot go into here.

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agents as things that act to produce a change, his notion of what it is for an agent to act on something is not ours. Thus, the fundamental difference between Aristotle’s view and ours is not that we think that causes must be active whereas he does not; it is, rather, that his notion of what it is for an agent to act on something is very different from any that we might adopt. II. Key terms Before looking in detail at Aristotle’s account of agency, we need to be clear about certain key terms. What exactly does he mean by ‘agent’, ‘action’, ‘patient’ and ‘change’? The agent (ijր Ȝțȟȡ‫ף‬ȟ, ijր ʍȡțȡ‫ף‬ȟ) is the thing that acts on something to produce a change. It is important not to confuse this with the use of the word ‘agent’ in modern philosophy of action, where something only counts as an agent if it is capable of intentional action. Agents, in Aristotle’s sense, need not be animate. Just as a sculptor exercises agency in acting on some bronze to turn it into a statue, so also fire exercises agency in acting on the kettle, making the kettle hotter. An action (ʍȡտșIJțȣ), in the sense that concerns us here, is an acting upon something. There are certain kinds of activity (ԚȟջȢȗıțį) that are not actions in this sense. For example, on Aristotle’s view, thinking is an activity (an ԚȟջȢȗıțį). But to think is not to act upon something, so thinking is not an action (ʍȡտșIJțȣ). It is important to be clear about this because the English expression ‘the agent’s activity’ could be taken to refer to an activity (ԚȟջȢȗıțį) in the agent that enables it to act on the patient (for example, to the fire’s actively being hot). When I write of an agent’s action here, I do not mean to refer to this kind of activity in the agent, but rather to the agent’s action upon the patient (for example, to the fire’s heating the kettle). The thing that the agent acts upon, I shall call the patient (ijր ʍչIJȥȡȟ, ijր Ȝțȟȡփμıȟȡȟ). In the examples above, the patients are the bronze (the thing that is sculpted by the sculptor) and the kettle (the thing that is heated by the fire).4

_________ 4 According to Aristotle, there are cases in which agents act upon themselves. For example, when a doctor cures himself, he is both the agent of the cure and the patient that undergoes the cure (Phys. II 1, 192b23-7). In such a case, Aristotle says, the agent acts on itself qua other (Metaph. Q 1, 1046a10-11). The doctor has the potential to cure any suitable patient (anyone who is unwell and has the potential to be healthy). If, on a particular occa-

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I have said that we are interested in what it is for an agent to act on a patient to produce a change (ȜտȟșIJțȣ). Aristotle’s discussion of agency in Physics III 3 follows immediately upon his account of change. He has defined change, somewhat cryptically, as ‘the actuality of what is potentially qua such’ (201a10-11).5 What does this mean? It is easiest to understand it with reference to an example. Consider the bronze’s change into a statue. The bronze is potentially a statue. For the bronze to change into a statue is for this potentiality to be fulfilled (or actual, as Aristotle puts it).6 This change is an actuality of the bronze insofar as the bronze is potentially a statue (as opposed to an actuality of the bronze’s potential just to be bronze) (201a29-34). Of course, one way for the bronze’s potential to be a statue to be actual is for the bronze to be a statue. Being a statue is not a kind of change. The change is the actuality of the bronze’s potential, insofar as it is merely a potential. This, Aristotle says, is an incomplete kind of actuality (201b31-33). The bronze’s change into a statue is, thus, the incomplete actuality of the bronze’s potential to be a statue. Aristotle uses the fact that changes are directed in this way at an end point that has not yet been reached to draw a distinction between changes and activities that are not changes. If Xing is a kind of changing, then while something is Xing, it has not yet Xed (not yet reached the goal of Xing) (Metaph. ĭ 6, 1048b18-34). For example, walking from A to B is a change. While I am walking from A to B, I have not yet got to B. Seeing, in contrast, is an activity that is not a change. Seeing is not defined in terms of some goal that can only be achieved when the seeing has come to an end. While I am looking at a thing, I am already in the state that results from seeing it. This difference between changes and other kinds of activities is reflected in the fact that changes, unlike other kinds of activities, can be fast or slow. I can walk from A to B more or less quickly, but seeing is not the sort of thing that can be done more or less quickly (Nicomachean Ethics X 3, 1173a32-1173b4). A consequence of distinguishing in this way between changes and other activities is that the action of bringing about a change turns out itself to be a change.7 Consider, for instance, the action of sculpting a statue. This is something that can be done more or less quickly. It is an action that is di-

_________ sion, he is able to cure himself, this will be because, in addition to being a doctor, he also happens (on that occasion) to be a suitable patient. 5 Translations are my own, but have been influenced by that of Hussey 1993. 6 The Greek word is Ԛȟijıȝջȥıțį (though Aristotle also uses the word ԚȟջȢȗıțį, at 201b713). 7 He makes this assumption at 202a14-15. He says that building is a change at 201b13.

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rected at the end: there being a statue.8 This end is not achieved until the sculpting is over and the statue has come to be. While I am making a statue I have not yet made it. III. The Puzzle In Physics III 3, Aristotle lays out his account of the relation between the agent, the patient, the agent’s action and the change that is brought about in the patient. He does this by presenting, and then attempting to solve, a certain puzzle. The puzzle is about whether the action of the agent and the change in the patient are two distinct changes or are one and the same. He presents arguments that seem to show that, however we answer this question, there will be impossible consequences. His solution is to disarm the objections to the view that the agent’s action is the same change as the change that is brought about in the patient. To understand the account, then, we need to look in some detail at this puzzle. I shall first consider the argument that the agent’s action and the patient’s change cannot be distinct changes and then turn to the argument that they cannot be one and the same change. The argument that the agent’s action and the patient’s change cannot be two distinct changes takes as its starting point the following question: if they were two distinct changes, what would they be changes in? This question stands in need of some explanation. Aristotle is using the expressions ‘change of X’ and ‘change in X’ in quite a precise way here. We have already seen that any change is the incomplete actuality of some potential. A change of X is the incomplete actuality of one of X’s potentials. It is in this sense that the agent’s action is a change of the agent. To ask what a change is of is to ask what it is that has the potential of which the change is an actuality. Thus, the sculptor’s sculpting is a change of the sculptor, since it is an actuality of a power of the sculptor. Similarly, the bronze’s becoming a sculpture is a change of the bronze, since it is an actuality of a power of the bronze. To ask what these changes are in is to ask a different question. Aristotle thinks that if there is a change, there must be some one thing that undergoes that change. There must, that is, be some

_________ 8 In his discussion of agency, Aristotle reminds us that both the actuality of the agent and that of the patient have a ‘product or end’. The product or end of the action of the agent is the product of action (ʍȡտșμį); that of the patient is a modification (ʍչȚȡȣ) (202a24). It will turn out that the product of action and the modification produced in the patient are one and the same thing, but for now this is left undecided.

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one thing that changes (where the verb ‘changes’ is intransitive). In Physics I 7, he calls this thing that undergoes the change the underlying thing or subject (՘ʍȡȜıտμıȟȡȟ) of the change. To say that a change is in X is to say that X is what undergoes the change. Thus, the bronze’s becoming a sculpture is not only a change of the bronze but is also a change in the bronze. However, we cannot assume that, in every case, a change of X (i.e. a change that is the actuality of one of X’s potentials) will also be a change in X. When Aristotle asks what the agent’s action is a change in, he is asking what it is that undergoes the change that is the agent’s action. In other words, he is asking what it is that changes (‘changes’ being intransitive).9 If the agent’s action is a different change from the change that is brought about in the patient, then there are, it seems, two alternative answers to this question. Either the agent’s action is a change undergone by the agent (i.e. it is ‘in the agent’), or the agent’s action and the patient’s change are two distinct changes that are both undergone by the patient (i.e. they are both ‘in the patient’).10 Aristotle argues that neither of these alternatives is possible. To suppose that the agent’s action is a change in the agent is, he claims, to suppose that ‘everything that produces change will change or having change it will not change’ (202a30-1). Something that has a change in it undergoes that change. That is just what it means to ‘have change’. So if

_________ 9 The two main interpretations of Phys. III 3 with which I am disagreeing in this paper each, in different ways, fail to take sufficient account of this distinction between being a change in X and being a change of X. Mary Louise Gill argues (rightly, in my view) that ‘both the agent and patient are involved in the motion’ (i.e. in the motion that is the agent’s action and the patient’s change), but she infers that ‘if both are involved in the motion, then both the agent and patient are changed in a single motion’ (Gill 1980, 142). This inference is unwarranted. The agent is involved in the motion because it is a motion of the agent. But this does not imply that the agent is moved. That would only follow if the motion were in the agent. David Charles claims that, for Aristotle, one change cannot be the incomplete actuality of two different potentialities and hence that the agent’s action and the patient’s change must be two distinct changes. His evidence for this is Aristotle’s claim, in Phys. V 4, that changes are individuated, in part, by their subjects (and hence that it is impossible for one change to have two different subjects) (Charles 1984, 16-17). On the interpretation that I am defending, the one change that is both the sculptor’s sculpting and the bronze’s becoming a statue only has one subject: the bronze. To say that this is both a change of the sculptor and a change of the bronze is not to say that the change has two subjects. When he is discussing agency, and hence distinguishing between the notions ‘change in X’ and ‘change of X’, Aristotle identifies the subject of a change with the thing that the change is in. 10 Aristotle does not consider a third alternative: that the agent’s action is a change in both the agent and the patient. Perhaps he thinks that this is ruled out by his stipulation, in Phys. V 4, that a change can only have one subject.

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the agent’s action is a change in the agent, it follows that any agent that produces change must itself undergo change. This, he claims, cannot be right. The agent’s action cannot itself be a change that the agent undergoes.11 To suppose otherwise would, he thinks, imply a regress of agents. If the agent’s action were a change undergone by the agent, then this change would itself need to be brought about by the action of some further agent. At least, this follows if we assume (as Aristotle does here) that every change must be brought about by the action of one thing (an agent) on something else (a patient).12 If the action of this further agent is a change that this agent undergoes, then this change must, in its turn, be brought about by the action of yet another agent. Hence, the claim that an agent’s action must be a change undergone by that agent entails that there is an infinite regress of agents. There are various possible ways to escape this regress. One strategy would be to deny that every change is brought about by the action of an agent. Another strategy would be to deny that the agent’s action is, in every case, a change. Aristotle adopts neither of these strategies. Instead, he takes the regress to show that the agent’s action cannot be in the agent. His thought, presumably, is that if the action is not a change that is in the agent, there will be no need for a further agent to explain it.13 This leaves

_________ 11 He himself believes that all changeable agents must undergo a change when they act to produce change (202a3). Any changeable agent will be acted upon reciprocally by its patient. When the sculptor acts on the bronze to produce a change, the bronze also acts on the sculptor to produce a change in him (Phys. III 2, 202a3-7). But this change that the sculptor undergoes when he acts is not the sculptor’s action, but a different change that is brought about in the sculptor by the bronze. 12 As I have already mentioned, Aristotle does allow that a thing can act on itself. But even in a case of self-change, he thinks that there must be a part of the self-changer that acts and another part that is acted upon. In this sense, even self-change involves one thing acting on another. This is because, on his account of agency, the agent must always possess the property that it is bringing about in the patient. If the agent and patient were the same part of one thing, then this part would have both to possess the property in question and to lack it (Phys. VIII 5, 257b7-14). 13 However, though Aristotle does not mention this, there is still a regress that would threaten, if the agent’s change and the patient’s change were distinct. For, (assuming still that all changes are brought about by the action of an agent) the agent would have to act, not only to bring about the patient’s change, but also to bring about the agent’s change in the patient. But, its action to bring about this further change in the patient, would itself have to be yet another change in the patient. This seems to imply that there would have to be infinitely many changes in the patient. For instance, in addition to becoming a statue, the bronze would undergo the change producing a statue, but also it would undergo the distinct change acting to produce a statue, and yet another change acting to act to produce a statue, and so on. Presumably, Aristotle does not think it necessary to mention this possible regress,

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him with a question. What is it that undergoes the change that is the agent’s action? If this change is not in the agent, it must, he thinks, be in the patient. It follows that if the agent’s action and the patient’s change are two distinct changes, they must be two distinct changes in the patient. Aristotle goes on to present objections to this view too. If the agent’s action and the patient’s change are two distinct changes in the patient, then in the first place the operation of each will not be present in each; and second, it is absurd that something should change with two changes at the same time: what two qualitative changes will there be of one thing to one form?14 This is impossible. (202a33-36)

The first objection is that this view implies that the operation of some thing’s potential need not be in that thing.15 For example, it implies that the operation of the sculptor’s potential to sculpt is not in the sculptor but, instead, in the bronze. This is an objection to which Aristotle will later reply. It would be an objection to any view on which the agent’s action was a change in the patient. The second objection is directed specifically at the claim that the action and the change brought about are two distinct changes in the patient. The objection depends on the fact that the agent’s action and the change brought about in the patient are directed at the same end. Like any other change, the agent’s action is directed at some goal that is achieved when and only when the action is completed. The agent’s action, like the patient’s change, is completed just when the new state is brought about in the patient. For example, the action of making a statue, like the change becoming a statue, is successfully completed just when there is a statue. Aristotle claims that one thing cannot, at the same time, undergo two distinct qualitative changes to one and the same end. The bronze can, of course, be undergoing two different changes at once. It can be getting hotter at the same time as it is getting dryer. But it cannot be undergoing two different changes, both of which have as their end being a statue. At any one time, anything going on in the bronze that is directed towards there being a statue will be part of one and the same change: the bronze becom-

_________ since he has, in any case, other reasons for rejecting the view that the agent’s action and the patient’s change are two distinct changes in the patient. 14 If I am right about the difference between ‘change in X’ and ‘change of X’, then Aristotle should really have said: ‘in one thing and to one form.’ His point is that one thing cannot undergo two distinct changes to one and the same form. 15 The word ‘operation’ here translates the Greek ԚȟջȢȗıțį. The ԚȟջȢȗıțį of a potential is the exercise of that potential. In these chapters of the Physics, Aristotle is not, I think, making any important distinction between ԚȟջȢȗıțį and Ԛȟijıȝջȥıțį (actuality). This is shown by his willingness to switch from using the word Ԛȟijıȝջȥıțį to using the word ԚȟջȢȗıțį in his definition of change (201b7-13).

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ing a statue. The bronze cannot, then, be undergoing two distinct changes one of which is making a statue and the other of which is becoming a statue. More generally, since the agent’s action and the patient’s change must both be directed at the same end, they cannot be two distinct changes in the patient. The first half of the puzzle is now complete. The conclusion of the arguments presented so far is that the agent’s action and the change in the patient cannot be two distinct changes. If they were two distinct changes, then either they would both be in the patient, or one of them would be in the agent and the other in the patient. But we have seen arguments against each of these alternatives. In the second half of the puzzle, Aristotle goes on to present objections to the remaining possibility: that the agent’s action and the patient’s change are one and the same. Aristotle presents two objections to this remaining possibility. The first is that two things different in form (namely, the agent and the patient), could not engage in one and the same activity: ‘it is unreasonable that there should be one and the same operation (ԚȟջȢȗıțį) of two things different in form’ (202b1-2). The second is that, if the action of the agent is the same as the change undergone by the patient, then, it seems, whatever is true of the agent’s action must also be true of the patient’s change, and vice versa. If, for instance, the teacher’s teaching the pupil is the same as the change which is the pupil’s learning, then ‘being a teacher (ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ) will be the same thing as being a learner (ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ)’16 and it will be necessary that ‘every teacher learns’ (202b3-5). Similarly, if building a house is the same change as getting built into a house, then it would seem to follow that someone who builds a house must also himself get built into a house. IV. The Solution The puzzle Aristotle has presented seems to show that the agent’s action and the patient’s change can neither be two distinct changes nor be one and the same. His solution is to defend the view that the agent’s action is the same as the patient’s change. This one change in the patient is both a change of the agent and of the patient. He needs, then, to reply to the arguments that suggested this was impossible. He claims (1) that the operation of one thing can be in another, (2) that the operation of two things can

_________ 16

I discuss the translation of these articular infinitives below.

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be one and the same, so long as it is not the same in being, and (3) that his account of agency does not imply that the agent undergoes the very change that it produces. 1. It is not absurd that the actuality of one thing should be in another. (202b5-6) In the puzzle, one of the reasons for denying that the agent’s action could be in the patient was that this would imply that one thing’s actuality could be in something else. Aristotle now claims that this consequence is not, after all, absurd. The reason he gives is that ‘teaching is the operation of the teacher, but it is in something and not cut off. It is of this in that’ (202b6-8). His point, I think, is that a capacity like the capacity to teach, though it is a capacity of the teacher, is a capacity to act in something else.17 In other words, it is a capacity that is fulfilled by something else’s being in a new state. It would, admittedly, be absurd to suppose that the teacher’s capacity could be fulfilled by a change in just any other thing. The agent (in this case the teacher) can only act on something that stands in a special relationship to it (in this case, the pupil). The teaching is a change in the pupil, but it is ‘not cut off’ from the teacher. It is the actuality of one of the teacher’s capacities. 2. The operation (ΤȟϿȢȗıțį) of two things can be one and the same, so long as it is not the same in being, but instead, the same ‘in the way that what potentially is is related to what is operating’. (202b9-10) If the agent’s action and the patient’s change are one and the same, then this one change is the incomplete actuality of two different potentials: a potential of the agent and a potential of the patient. Aristotle claims that it is possible for the actuality of these two different potentials to be one and the same change, so long as it is not the same ‘in being’. This claim that the actuality is one and the same change but not the same in being will be explained more fully later. Here, Aristotle contrasts sameness in being with another kind of sameness: the sameness that holds between what potentially is and what is operating. The agent’s action and the patient’s change are the same in the way that ‘what potentially is is related to what is operating’ (ijր İȤȟչμıț Րȟ ʍȢրȣ ijր ԚȟıȢȗȡ‫ף‬ȟ) (202b9-10). This is somewhat puzzling. What does it mean to claim that the agent’s action and the patient’s change are the same in this way?

_________ 17 Or possibly, in the agent itself qua other. As I explained in footnote 12 above, Aristotle thinks that in such cases of self-change, one part of the agent acts on another part of the agent. On his view, then, even a self-change involves one thing acting on another.

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A remark in Aristotle’s account of change, earlier in Physics III (III 1, 201a31-b3), provides a clue to what he might mean by the distinction between what potentially is and what is operating (ԚȟıȢȗȡ‫ף‬ȟ). In explaining his definition of change, he distinguishes between being bronze and being potentially something (for instance, being potentially a statue). It can be true of one and the same thing both that it is bronze and that it is potentially a statue, but being bronze and being potentially a statue are not ‘without qualification and by definition’ the same. A sign of this is that the actuality of the bronze, qua bronze, is different from the actuality of the bronze qua potentially being a statue (201a35-b3). I want to suggest that the relation between the bronze qua potentially being a statue and the bronze qua actually being bronze is, on Aristotle’s view, an example of the relation between what potentially is and what is operating. Qua potentially a statue, the bronze is potentially something (it is İȤȟչμıț Րȟ); qua bronze, it is actually operating (it is ԚȟıȢȗȡ‫ף‬ȟ). When Aristotle says that the agent’s action and the patient’s change are the same in the way that what potentially is is the same as what is operating, his point is that they are the same in the way that the bronze qua potentially a statue is the same as the bronze qua bronze. There is one lump of bronze, but we can distinguish between what is true of it insofar as it is bronze and what is true of it insofar as it is potentially a statue. Similarly, the action of the agent and the change of the patient are one and the same change, but what is true of this change insofar as it is of the agent is different from what is true of it insofar as it is of the patient.18 This prepares us for his third point. 3. The view that the agent’s action and the patient’s change are one and the same does not imply that a thing must undergo the very change that it produces. The structure of Aristotle’s argument here is complicated and its translation is controversial. Our interpretation depends partly on how we understand Aristotle’s use here of the noun forms (e.g. ԭ İտİįȠțȣ, ԭ μչȚșIJțȣ) and of the corresponding articular infinitives (e.g. ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ, ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ). In many contexts both ԭ İտİįȠțȣ and ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ would be translated by the English ‘teaching’, and both ԭ μչȚșIJțȣ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ , by the Eng-

_________ 18 Of course, the relation between some bronze qua bronze and that bronze qua potentially a statue is not exactly like the relation between a certain change qua of the patient and that change qua of the agent. But the comparison serves to make Aristotle’s point here that what is true of a certain thing qua F need not be true of that same thing qua G.

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lish ‘learning’, but I shall argue that in this passage Aristotle is deliberately distinguishing between the noun forms and the corresponding articular infinitives. Because this is controversial, I shall, initially, leave these terms untranslated. The passage falls into three parts. In the first part, Aristotle claims that even if ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ are the same, it does not follow that the teacher learns (that would only follow if ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ were the same in being) (202b10-16).19 He then goes on to say (202b16-19) that in any case (ȡ՘ μռȟ Ԑȝȝį) the claim that ԭ İտİįȠțȣ is the same as ԭ μչȚșIJțȣ does not imply that ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ are the same. (Note that the fact that Aristotle introduces this second claim with the connective ‘not but what’ (ȡ՘ μռȟ Ԑȝȝį) (202b16) suggests that the point he is making here is meant to stand in contrast to what he has said immediately before.20) Finally, he adds that ԭ İտİįȠțȣ and ԭ μչȚșIJțȣ (and, more generally, the action and the being-acted-upon)21 are not the same in being, though they are the same process (202b19-21). In this argument, the articular infinitives (ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ) cannot mean the same as the corresponding nouns (ԭ İտİįȠțȣ and ԭ μįȚșIJțȣ). Aristotle makes this quite clear in lines 202b16-17, where he says that the sameness of ԭ İտİįȠțȣ and ԭ μįȚșIJțȣ does not imply the sameness of ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ. One might be tempted to translate the articular infinitives as ‘to teach’ and ‘to learn’, but that would be misleading. The first stage of Aristotle’s argument (202b10-16) implies that it makes sense to suppose that ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ are the same though they are not the same in being. The claim ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ are the same cannot, then, amount to the claim that what it is to teach is the same as what it is to learn. I want to suggest that Aristotle is using the articular infinitives, ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ, to refer respectively to the state of being a teacher on some occasion and the state of being a learner on some occasion. The nouns, ԭ İտİįȠțȣ and ԭ μչȚșIJțȣ, in contrast, refer to the process of teaching and the process of learning. Being a teacher (ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ) is the state a teacher is in when he teaches. He is in this state in virtue of standing in a particular relation to the process of teaching (ԭ İտİįȠțȣ).22 With this understanding of the terms involved, we can make sense of the structure of Aristotle’s argument. In this passage, Aristotle is responding to two possible objections to (what will turn out to be) his own view that

_________ 19 He uses here the more general verbs, ‘acting and being acted upon’ (202b11). 20 This point is made by Charles 1984, 14, ft. 5. 21 ԭ ʍȡտșIJțȣ and ԭ ʍչȚșIJțȣ. 22 I am indebted here to a suggestion in Hussey’s commentary (1993, 69).

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the processes of teaching and of learning are one and the same change. According to both objections, Aristotle’s view commits him to the conclusion that a teacher, when he teaches, also learns. The first objection (to which Aristotle responds in the first two parts of the passage, lines 202b10-19) is that Aristotle’s view has a consequence that implies this conclusion that the teacher learns. The second objection (to which Aristotle responds in lines 202b19-22) is that Aristotle’s view itself directly implies this conclusion. The first objection comes from someone who takes Aristotle’s view to imply that being a teacher on some occasion is the same as being a learner on that occasion, and who thinks that, because of this, Aristotle is committed to saying that the teacher, when he teaches, also learns. Aristotle has two responses to this. His first response (202b10-16) is that even if his own view did imply that being a teacher on some occasion was the same as being a learner on that occasion, this would not in itself warrant drawing the further conclusion that the teacher, when he teaches, also learns. This conclusion would only follow if the definition of what it was to teach were the same as the definition of what it was to learn. It would only follow, that is, if the state of being a teacher on some occasion and the state of being a learner on that occasion were the same in being. In defending this claim, Aristotle provides a fuller explanation of what it is to be the same in being. If x and y are the same in being, then whatever is present in x is present in y. His example of things that are the same in this way is: clothing and raiment. He contrasts this with a way of being the same that he says he has described earlier: being the same ‘in the way that the road from Thebes to Athens is the same as the road from Athens to Thebes’ (202b13-14). One and the same road is the road from Athens to Thebes and the road from Thebes to Athens, but the definition of what it is to be the road from Athens to Thebes is not the same as the definition of what it is to be the road from Thebes to Athens. The reference (202b14) to what he has said earlier is to two other examples of this kind of sameness that he gave at the beginning of the chapter. The interval between 1 and 2 is the same as the interval between 2 and 1, but the definition of what it is to be these intervals is not the same. Similarly, the road uphill is the same as the road downhill, but what it is to be the road uphill is not the same as what it is to be the road downhill (202a18-20). His claim is that when

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things are the same in this way, what is true of one need not be true of the other.23 After making this first point about the consequences of holding that being a teacher on some occasion (ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ) and being a learner on that occasion (ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ) are the same, Aristotle goes on (in lines 202b1619) to explain that his own view does not, in any case, imply that they are the same.24 We cannot draw conclusions about the relation between the state of being a teacher and that of being a learner from facts about the sameness of the processes of teaching and learning. This second point does not depend upon his distinction between two different kinds of sameness. It rests, instead, upon the idea that the sameness of one thing need not imply the sameness of another. The sameness of the process of learning and the process of teaching does not imply the sameness of being a teacher on some occasion and being a learner on that occasion. Again, he defends this claim by appealing to an example. He says that ‘even if two things separated by an interval have one interval between them, to be here at a distance from there is not the same as to be there at a distance from here’ (202b17-19). To be here at a distance from there is to be related to the interval between here and there in one way, whereas to be there at a distance from here is to be related to this interval in a different way. Similarly, even if teaching and learning are one and the same process, the teacher and the learner are related to this one process in different ways. The state of being a teacher on some occasion (if there is such a state) is the state something is in just in case it is related to this process as its agent; the state of being a learner on some occasion (if there is such a

_________ 23 David Charles interprets this passage differently (1984, 13-14). According to Charles, when Aristotle says that the action of the agent and the change in the patient are related in the way in which the road from Athens to Thebes and the road from Thebes to Athens are related, he is claiming that the end point of the agent’s action is different from the end point of the patient’s change (as the end point of the road from Athens to Thebes differs from the end point of the road from Thebes to Athens). Charles claims that this is quite different from the analogy to the relation between the interval between 2 and 1 and that between 1 and 2. Aristotle, he thinks, rejects these earlier analogies. Against Charles: (i) just as the road from Athens to Thebes has a different endpoint from the road from Thebes to Athens, so too does the road uphill and the road downhill, but the point about the road uphill and the road downhill is clearly meant to be the same as that about the interval between 1 and 2 and the interval between 2 and 1. This suggests that in neither case is the difference in endpoint relevant to the analogy. (ii) It is hard to see how Charles can make sense of the words ‘as was said earlier’ (202b14), if they are not meant to refer back to the point about the road uphill and the road downhill. 24 This explains why he introduces this second point (202b16) with the connective ‘not but what’ (ȡ՘ μռȟ Ԑȝȝչ), which, as I have already said, implies a contrast between this second point and the point he has just made in lines 202b10-16.

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state) is the state something is in just in case it is the thing that is undergoing this process.25 In the final part of our passage (202b19-22), Aristotle responds to the other objection to his view that the processes of teaching and of learning are one and the same: the objection that this view, simply taken by itself, implies that the teacher, when he teaches, also learns. His response to this objection is to provide a fuller explanation of the sense in which, on his view, the processes of teaching and of learning are the same. To do this, he returns to his distinction between two different kinds of sameness. The teaching and the learning (and, more generally, the acting and the being acted upon), though they are one and the same process, are not the same in the primary sense of ‘same’. They are not, that is, the same in being (i.e. in the way that cloak and raimant are the same). The operation of A in B and the operation of B by the agency of A are different in definition (202b212), just as the road uphill is different in definition from the road downhill. If the process of teaching and the process of learning are not the same in being, then their sameness does not imply that the teacher, when he teaches, also learns. This completes Aristotle’s response to the objection that the agent’s action and the patient’s change cannot be one and the same. In solving the puzzle, he has defended a view of agency on which the agent’s action is a change that is in the patient rather than the agent. He has argued, moreover, that this action is the same change as the change that is brought about in the patient (though the definition of what it is to be the action differs from the definition of what it is to be the patient’s change). V. The role of the agent’s action in explaining change Having examined this complicated argument, we are now in a position to return to our original question. On this account of agency, how exactly does the action of the agent help to explain the change that comes about in the patient? It should already be evident that the agent’s action is not something that any modern philosopher would count as a cause of the patient’s change. In modern discussions of causation, a cause and its effect are usually as-

_________ 25 Note that my interpretation does not require that Aristotle in fact believes that there is a state a teacher is in just when he teaches (or that there is a state a learner is in just when he learns). He only discusses the relation between ijր İțİչIJȜıțȟ and ijր μįȟȚչȟıțȟ because he is anticipating an objection from someone who supposes that there are such states.

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sumed to be two distinct events and debates focus on the question of what relation must hold between these two events if one is to be the cause of the other. Against this background, Aristotle’s claim that the action of the agent is the same as the change undergone by the patient can seem very odd indeed.26 For on his view, the agent’s action and the change that is brought about in the patient are not two distinct events that are, in some sense to be explained, ‘causally connected’. They are two different aspects of one and the same change. If we insist that a cause must be distinct from its effect, then we are forced to conclude that the cause, on Aristotle’s account, is the agent (or perhaps, the form in the agent that enables it to act on the patient) rather than the agent’s action. This makes it hard to understand Aristotle’s insistence that this kind of causation must involve not only an agent (which must, in some sense, have the form that the patient is acquiring), but also the agent’s action on a patient. What is the point of referring to the agent’s action, in an explanation of the patient’s change? It might seem, after all, that Aristotle can explain this change perfectly well without invoking the agent’s action. For the change to take place, an agent must stand in an appropriate relation to the patient and this agent must (in some sense) have the form that the patient is acquiring: the fire must be hot if it is to heat the kettle; the sculptor must have the form of the sculpture he is making in his soul. Aristotle calls this form in the agent the ‘source of and thing responsible for’ the change (the change’s ԐȢȥռ Ȝįվ įՀijțȡȟ) (Phys. III 2, 202a9-12). Why is the fact that the agent possesses this form and stands in the appropriate relation to the patient not by itself enough to explain the patient’s change? This question becomes particularly pressing when we reflect that, on Aristotle’s view, if the agent does stand in an appropriate relation to the patient (and if, for those cases in which this is relevant, the agent chooses to bring about the change), the change in question will necessarily occur. A kettle will get hot if it stands in the appropriate relation to some fire (which is itself hot). Similarly, a lump of bronze will become a sculpture if it stands in the appropriate relation to a sculptor who intends to make a sculpture and has the form of the sculpture in his soul.27 What, then, does

_________ 26 One surprising consequence, which I do not discuss here, is that the agent’s action cannot precede the effect it brings about. If X puts a slow acting poison in Y’s drink and then X dies before Y does, then on this view, X kills Y after X himself is dead. (This is pointed out by Charles 1984, 79-81 and by Heinaman 1985.) 27 See Metaph. ĭ 5. When an agent that has an irrational potency (e.g. fire, which has the power to heat) comes into contact with the appropriate patient, then the agent necessarily acts on the patient and the patient necessarily is acted upon (1048a5-7). When an agent that has a rational potency (e.g. a sculptor, who has the art of sculpture) stands in the appro-

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it add to these explanations to insist that these changes come about because the fire is acting on the kettle and because the sculptor is acting on the bronze?28 Insofar as we moderns have a tendency to think that something that produces a change must do so by acting, this is, I want to suggest, for two main reasons. The first is that this view accords with certain empirical observations: we see the sculptor moving his hands in order to produce the sculpture; we see the fire flickering as it heats the kettle. The second reason is more theoretical. Regarding agents as things that act makes possible a certain type of explanation. It allows us to give a particular account of what goes on when several agents jointly contribute to bringing about a single effect. Our difficulty in understanding Aristotle stems from the fact that neither of these can be what lies behind his view that an agent must act on something to produce a change. First, the sculptor’s hand movements and the fire’s flickering are changes that occur in the respective agents: in the sculptor or the fire. Because of this, they cannot be identified with the agent’s actions. As we have already seen, on Aristotle’s view the agent’s action cannot be a change that is in the agent.29 Second, Aristotle’s account rules out a certain way of appealing, in explanations, to the notion that causes are things that act. A central use that we make of the notion that causes act to bring about their effects is in what Mill called explanations by ‘composition of causes’ (Mill, 1872). We sometimes want to say that a certain effect is coming about because of the interaction of several different causes. For instance, we might explain the fact that a room is slowly getting cooler, by saying that though the heater is heating it, a cold wind is blowing through the window. Or we might want to say that a piece of iron is moving in a certain trajectory because it is being acted upon both by a magnet, which exerts a magnetic force pulling it in one direction, and by the earth, which exerts a gravitational force pulling it in another.

_________ priate relation to a patient and chooses to produce a certain result, then necessarily the agent will act to produce that result and the patient will be acted upon (1048a10-16). 28 The claim that the agent is acting to bring about the change does tell us that the agent is, in fact, in the appropriate relation to the patient, but this is because the agent’s and patient’s being in the appropriate relation to one another explains both the agent’s action and the patient’s change. 29 It is, in fact, rather strange that his account in Physics III, 3 says nothing about the causal role of such changes in the agent; he must surely recognise that the sculptor’s hand movements have some role to play in the sculpting.

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What is important about this type of explanation is that it enables us to distinguish the contributions that are made to the effect by each of several different causes. The notion that a cause is something that acts enables us to isolate the contribution made by one agent to an effect, and to say that that agent is acting on the patient in the same way, though different effects come about. For instance, if the earth were exerting the same force on the iron but the magnet was not present, then the iron would move differently. If the earth were exerting the same force on the iron but something else were exerting an equal and opposite force, then the iron would be at rest. When we give explanations of this kind, we are not simply saying that several causes are jointly responsible for the effect; we are making a claim about the role that each of these causes plays in the production of the effect. We are saying how each cause acts in bringing about the effect. One consequence of Aristotle’s account of agency is that he cannot make this appeal to the agent’s action on the patient in explanations of this sort. If the agent’s action is the same change as the change that is brought about in the patient, then the agent cannot be acting on the patient to bring about a certain change, unless that change is in fact coming about. The heater cannot be heating the room, unless the room is getting hotter. If the sculpture is not coming to be, the sculptor is not doing any sculpting. If the pupil is not learning, then what the teacher is doing should not be described as teaching. In sum, the agent cannot be acting on the patient in the same way on each of two different occasions, if the effect that is coming about in the patient is different.30 Whether or not this should be regarded as an objection to Aristotle’s account is an interesting question that I cannot go into here.31 Instead, I want to focus on what this view implies about the claim that agents must produce their effects by acting on things. We have already noted that Aristotle does not identify the agent’s action with any of the changes that might be going on in the agent. We now see, in addition, that the explanatory role of the agent’s action cannot be that it distinguishes the contribution made by

_________ 30 Aristotle could still allow for explanations by composition of causes, if he were prepared to say that two conflicting effects were both coming about in the patient, e.g. if he were prepared to say that the room was simultaneously becoming colder and becoming hotter. This is, in fact, what Mill thinks we should say about the joint operation of mechanical causes: ‘the separate effects of all the causes continue to be produced, but are compounded with one another, and disappear in one total’ 1872, 440. But Aristotle would reject the consequence that one thing can be changing in two opposite ways at the same time. As he says at Phys. VIII 8, 264a28-9, ‘it is impossible for a thing to undergo two contrary changes at the same time.’ 31 Nancy Cartwright has argued that it is a mistake to believe in the reality of component forces (1983, Essay 3).

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one agent from that made by others, in jointly bringing about a certain effect.32 The agent’s action simply is the change that is occurring in the patient. This raises once again the question with which we began: on this account, what is the role of the agent’s action? Granted that the patient undergoes a change towards being F because of the proximity of an agent that (in some sense) has the form F, what does it add to this to say that the agent is acting on the patient? Does this talk of the agent’s acting amount to anything more than a figure of speech? My main purpose in this paper has been to raise these questions. But I shall end by suggesting a tentative answer to them. Aristotle’s insistence that an agent must act on something if it is to bring about a change suggests that he thinks the agent’s action does have an important part to play in explaining the change that comes about in the patient. How can this be? The answer is that Aristotle thinks that we can only understand why the change occurs in the patient, if we understand that this change is the actuality of a certain particular potential of the agent. For an agent to act on a patient is for it to have a potential that is (incompletely) fulfilled in the patient. In claiming that an agent must act on the patient in order to produce a change, he is saying that the production of a change must be the incomplete fulfilment of one of the agent’s potentials. An agent, on this view, has a certain special kind of potential: a potential that can be fulfilled in something else.33 It is helpful to compare this special kind of potential to the type of potential with which we are already familiar from the discussion of change. Any changeable thing has the potential to be other than it is. A child has the potential to be an adult. The incomplete actuality of this potentiality is the child’s growing up: a change that occurs in the child. What can make agency seem puzzling is that an agent has the potential for something else to be other than it is. A sculptor, for instance, has the potential for the bronze to be a statue. The incomplete actuality of this potential is the bronze’s becoming a statue. That this is Aristotle’s view is brought out by a remark he makes at the end of his chapter on agency. At the end of his account, he returns to his

_________ 32 There may be other ways in which Aristotle could distinguish between the contributions made by different agents. For example, in the case of a patient that is acted on simultaneously by a heater and a cooler, he could say that the hot agent is responsible for the hotness of the patient (insofar as it is hot) and the cold agent is responsible for the coldness of the patient (insofar as it is cold). My point is merely that, for Aristotle, the agents’ actions cannot play this role of distinguishing between the contributions that are made by different agents. 33 Or, in the case of a self-change, in the agent itself, but in the agent qua other.

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earlier definition of change and suggests a modification to it.34 According to the earlier definition, change was the ‘actuality of that which admits of qualitative change, qua admitting of qualitative change’ (202b25-6). What ‘admits of qualitative change’ is the thing that undergoes the change, namely, the patient. In his account of agency, he has shown that a certain kind of change - an action - is an actuality of an agent’s potential, though it is not a change that the agent undergoes. Accordingly, he now lays down a new, ‘more intelligible’ (ȗȟȧȢțμօijıȢȡȟ) definition of change: ‘more intelligibly, it is the actuality of the potential agent and the potential patient as such, both in general and again also in each particular case, e.g. building or healing’ (202b26-8). A change is the incomplete actuality of a potential for being F. One kind of potential for being F is the potential in the patient. His initial definition of change appealed to this kind of potential. But it now turns out that there is also another kind of potential for being F: the agent’s potential that has as its goal the patient’s being F. A full definition of change, then, must mention both potentials. A change is the incomplete actuality of the potential patient and the potential agent, qua such.35 We can now see why it is essential to mention the agent’s action in an explanation of the patient’s change. To understand why the bronze becomes a statue, we need to know that this change is the incomplete actuality of one of the sculptor’s potentials: the sculptor’s potential for the bronze to be a statue. But to know this just is to know that this change is the sculptor’s action on the bronze. In general, to say that the change, becoming F, came about in a patient because of the proximity of a certain agent that (in some sense) had the form F is only to provide a partial explanation of the change. A full explanation must also invoke the fact that the change in question is the incomplete actuality of the agent’s potential for the patient to be F. It must, that is, refer to the agent’s action.

_________ 34 Hussey is, I think, wrong to excise lines 202b26-28 (1993, 6 and 208). 35 By ‘potential agent’ here, he must mean not the thing that has the potential

to be an agent, but the agent, qua having the potential in virtue of which it is an agent, i.e. the agent, insofar as it contains the potential for a patient of a certain kind to be different. Similarly, the potential patient is not the thing that has the potential to be a patient, but the patient, insofar as it has a potential to be other than it is. The fact that Aristotle gives this revised definition of change enables us to decide between two alternative interpretations of lines 202b20-21. These lines could be understood either as (i) ‘the acting and the being-actedupon are not the same in the primary sense, but that in which they belong is the same, namely the change’ or as (ii) ‘the acting is not the same in the primary sense as the being acted upon, but the change, in which they are present, is the same as the being acted upon’. In Aristotle’s final ‘more intelligible’ definition of change, he defines the change as the actuality both of the potential in the agent and of that in the patient. This suggests, I think, that (i) is the right interpretation.

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The view I have attributed to Aristotle is very different from anything we might find in modern philosophy. This is particularly striking, since I have hardly mentioned those aspects of his views on causation that are more obviously strange to us. I have not discussed his views about final causes, but have looked instead at a claim he makes about agency, the claim that one thing produces a change in another by acting on it. I have argued that, on his account, the agent’s action is not something distinct from the patient’s change that can be said to bring this change about. Nevertheless, the action does have an important role to play in explaining the change. To understand why the change in the patient occurs is just to understand that this change is also the action of the agent.36 BIRKBECK COLLEGE, LONDON

_________ 36 I would like to thank an anonymous referee for helpful comments. Thanks also to Daryl Tress (my commentator), Michael Pakaluk (my host at Clark University) and the audience at my talk at Clark. I have benefited from discussing the views in this paper with Sarah Broadie and from presenting earlier versions of the paper to audiences at the universities of Princeton, Lampeter and Sussex.

COMMENTARY ON COOPE DARYL M. TRESS

I thank Prof. Coope for this very fine paper. We are in her debt for her cogent examination of agency of Phys. III.3, a dense and difficult chapter in which Aristotle presents this concept as part of his larger account of nature. How are we to understand the agent’s role in change, especially in light of Aristotle’s remarks that the agent’s action and the patient’s change are one single change? Prof. Coope’s closing suggestion for resolving the difficulties about the agent’s act is bold, or perhaps very bold. “The answer is that we can only understand why the change occurs in the patient, if we understand that this change is the actuality of a potential of the agent…. An agent, on this view, has a certain special kind of potential: a potential that can only be fulfilled in something else…. An agent has the potential for something else to be other than it is.” (219-220)

I see two different ways to construe this suggested resolution and I am not sure which Prof. Coope intends. Let me call these two construals the bold thesis and the very bold thesis. I shall state each and briefly summarize the discussion that leads to her suggested resolution. I then shall indicate which of the two theses I take to be more tenable and raise some questions about the other one. 1. The Bold Thesis: The reciprocality of agent and patient is such that the motion or change is their mutual contact or encounter. No other explanatory factor is involved or needed to account for motion. When the agent’s potential to move encounters the patient’s potential to be moved, the potentials of agent (to move something – transitive) and patient (to be moved) actualize together and that is what change is.1 This thesis is bold because it denies the common interpretation of the agent’s act as an efficient cause which initiates change by an impelling action with a subsequent effect produced in the patient. It may be disconcerting to have to renounce this mechanistic picture of agency and efficient causality. Viewed this way, it may have been the only one of Aristotle’s four causes that we moderns thought we easily recognized. The bold thesis replaces this now common picture with one of reciprocating potencies and acts that actualize immediately. _________ 1 See Helen S. Lang, The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics. NY: Cambridge University Press, 1998, Chap. 2.

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2. The Very Bold Thesis: Change is the actualization of the agent’s potential that a patient be otherwise, and the actualization of the agent’s potential takes place in the patient. The very bold thesis denies both the common picture of the agent’s efficient causal action and challenges a basic principle about potentiality and its actualization. That principle holds that actualization occurs according to the definitional limits of the patient whose potential is actualized. That is, every thing has its characteristic set of potentials to do, to undergo, and to be. Extrinsic factors importantly influence what, in fact, a thing does and what it undergoes. An intrinsic factor, the thing’s nature, determines what a thing is and its capacities for doing and undergoing. The very bold thesis departs from this principle in attributing to the (extrinsic) agent a potential for the patient to be otherwise than it is. I will ask Prof. Coope at the close whether it is the bold or the very bold thesis she proposes. In my view, the first, the bold thesis, is promising but the very bold thesis appears to be untenable. Prof. Coope cites Aristotle’s declaration (Metaph. 1071b17) that the agent (or “the doer,” “the mover,” “the changer’) must act on the patient to produce change and asks why Aristotle says that. To a modern ear, of course, it sounds sensible that an agent should act in order to induce a subsequent change. Yet, Prof. Coope points out, for Aristotle the agent’s action and the patient’s change are one single change. Why, then, does he insist that the agent act? What is this act and just what does it do? Aristotle’s declaration that the agent must act is key in his objection to Plato for whom – it seems to Aristotle – a thing can function as a cause simply by being, apart from acting. Aristotle’s declaration that an agent must act would explain, among other things, why the things that are do not continuously and everywhere bring about causal effects. To succeed in countering Plato’s thesis that being initiates motion or change, Aristotle must indicate something about the character of acting that differs from being and is necessary for causing motion or change. Aristotle wants to refute other philosophers as well, those who deny motion or put motion in odd categories such as “different,” “unequal,” or “not being.” His declaration that the agent of motion must act denies their theories by maintaining that motion is real and that it is not a comparative relation. To succeed in countering the “odd categorizers” and deniers of motion, he will show that two real partners are involved in motion. Once he establishes two partners, i.e. an agent and patient, then the question arises: in which of the two partners does the motion or change occur? Prof. Coope gives a lucid presentation of how Aristotle works through

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the puzzles generated by this question. It appears that the motion can be neither in the agent alone nor in the patient alone, nor can the agent and patient be said simply to be one and the same. Once Aristotle has cleared up the puzzle by means of distinctions like “change of” and “change in” and answered the likely objections, his own positive account of change can move ahead, as Prof. Coope shows. The components of his account are an agent and a patient, both of whom have potentials; an act; and a single change. What is the role of the agent’s act? It is helpful to put the question in the context, not only of chapter three, but of chapters one through three of Book III, in order to see his larger project. In chapter one, Aristotle establishes two central ideas: (a) There is no motion without things, i.e. no motion in itself over and above things that move, and (b) the cause of motion stands in relation to that which is moved. In chapter two, he establishes that motion in things is determinate and directed to an end. The question at issue at the start of chapter three, I believe, builds on these ideas. Given that motion is determinate and directed, what determines the motion, the agent or the patient, an extrinsic or an intrinsic cause? Thus the pertinence of Prof. Coope’s central inquiry into the character of and locus of the agent’s act, namely, what is this act and what does it do? Why must the agent’s act be part of the account of change? Her suggested resolution might be construed either boldly or very boldly, as I have said. I am inclined to believe that she intends the bold thesis, namely, the agent’s potential to move something is actualized in encountering the patient with the appropriate potential to be moved. Here, the agent is extrinsic but the agent’s act is not a prior, separate “doing” that brings about a subsequent effect in the patient. Rather, on the bold reading of Prof. Coope’s suggested resolution, the agent’s act is, immediately, the motion, occurring when the potentials of agent (to do) and patient (to undergo) meet and actualize. This bold thesis is consistent with Aristotle’s remarks that there is one change and that two real partners, agent and patient, play distinct and necessary roles in the one instance of change. But some of Prof. Coope’s comments point instead towards the very bold thesis that change is the actualization of the agent’s potential that a patient be otherwise. Why is this thesis very bold? Not simply because it thwarts our modern expectations about causality; the bold thesis does that, too. It is very bold because it transgresses the limits marking the integrity of Aristotle’s substances. Ordinarily, we take an Aristotelian substance to possess a constitutive set of potentials to be, to do, and to undergo. On the very bold thesis, however, an agent possesses potentials for a something other than itself to be somehow otherwise.

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The very bold thesis generates several critical questions. (1) What does it mean? I do not know how to understand a sentence stating that the agent has the potential for something else to be otherwise. The example, “The sculptor has the potential for the bronze to be a statue” is oddly ungrammatical in English and needs a transitive verb to set it right (e.g. “the sculptor has the potential to sculpt the bronze into a statue”). Such a modification, however, vitiates the very bold thesis by reintroducing the transitive action. Is the very bold thesis elliptical for, “The sculptor has the potential for the bronze to be a statue by means of sculpting the bronze”? Again, the transitive action is reintroduced that was to be avoided. (2) In Aristotle’s physics, could a natural substance have a potential for something else to be X? Isn’t it rather that each substance has and retains its own and only its own specific potencies? (3) Actualization occurs in the encounter of appropriate potencies to act and to undergo. In the very bold thesis, where is the active aspect of the agent’s potential for the patient to be X? How does a “potency to be” fit in the scheme of actualization? (4) What consequences would follow if agents were to possess potentials for something else to be X? The number and kinds of potentials belonging to any given agent would multiply ad infinitum in encompassing those of innumerable other substances. The agent substance’s range of potencies thus would be utterly indeterminate and so, too, its nature. Limitless expansion would trivialize the concept of potency and is inimical to Aristotle’s economical causal reasoning. The very bold thesis might be defended by positing the agent’s potency for something else to be X as second-order, whereby its effect derives from a primary act (along the lines, for example, of Cambridge-type causes). This position would curb the undesirable extravagance of potencies; the very bold thesis potencies would no longer be discrete but only accompaniments of an act. With this defense, however, the very bold thesis forfeits its core claim, i.e. that the agent’s potential replaces the agent’s obscure act as the cause of the patient’s change. (5) Would the very bold thesis accomplish the philosophical tasks Aristotle expects from his scheme of agency, namely, to correct his predecessors’ ideas about causes? Recall Aristotle’s objection to Plato: Plato makes being a sufficient cause of natural change and hence cannot explain why changes are not always and everywhere initiated. But the very bold thesis that change occurs because the agent has the potential for something else to be X hardly improves on Plato’s alleged shortcomings. Why at one

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moment would Aristotle’s agent have latent potential that at another moment acts? What factor would be responsible? If Aristotle holds the very bold thesis, his account is vulnerable to the same sorts of critical questions that he says Plato does not and cannot answer. If, however, the very bold thesis would make the agent’s potential a second-order cause, Aristotle would fail to overcome the deficiencies of his predecessors who regarded motion and change as merely relational. (6) Perhaps most importantly, does the very bold thesis explain the agent’s act? Prof. Coope sets out to understand why the agent must act on the patient to produce change. The very bold thesis, however, seems not to address the act and so its nature and necessity remain obscure. Does the very bold thesis hold that Aristotle decides to bypass or supercede the agent’s act with the agent’s potential for the patient to be X? (7) Finally, a point about the initial framing of the questions of agency and act: can we fruitfully inquire into the agent’s act in isolation from the natures of the agent and patient? According to Aristotle, surely, the agent’s acts depend on the agent’s and the patient’s natures, formal, final and material causes. There is a good deal to be said here, naturally, but his handling of the four causes and the overarching link in the Physics between nature and form would indicate that the agent’s act, while distinct, is neither separate from the other natural causes that nor can it be grasped separately. And indeed, the very bold thesis may implicitly acknowledge this in its turn away from an isolated analysis of the act and towards the potentials constituting the agent’s larger nature as a way to clarify the issue. Because these critical questions loom over the very bold thesis, my hope is that in reality Prof. Coope favors the first, my so-called bold thesis. It is appropriately non-modern with its reciprocality of potencies and acts and the explanatory sufficiency Aristotle accords them. Further, the simply bold thesis is consistent with Aristotle’s statements in Phys. III.3. In short, it is quite bold enough – and is not without its own obscurities that need examination. Whether it be the bold or the very bold thesis, however, Prof. Coope has presented a superb analysis, one that sharpens our perception of the ideas at work in Physics III.3.2 FORDHAM UNIVERSITY

_________ 2

I thank the anonymous reviewer for the Proceedings for helpful comments.

COOPE/TRESS BIBLIOGRAPHY Bywater, I. 1890. Aristotelis Ethica Nicomachea. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford. Cartwright, N. 1983. How the Laws of Physics Lie. Oxford. Charles, D. 1984. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Action. London. Frede, M. 1987. “The Original Notion of Cause.” In Frede, M. 1987 Essays in Ancient Philosophy. Minnesota 125-50. Gill, M. L. 1980. “Aristotle’s Theory of Causal Action in Physics III.3.” Phronesis 25: 129-47. Heinaman, R. 1985. “Aristotle on Housebuilding.” History of Philosophy Quarterly. 2: 145-62. _______ 1987. “Aristotle and the Identity of Actions.” History of Philosophy Quarterly. 4: 307-27. Hussey, E. (tr.) 1993. Aristotle’s Physics Books III and IV, translated with introduction and notes. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Jaeger, W. (ed.) 1957. Aristotelis, Metaphysica. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford. Mill, J. S. 1872. A System of Logic. In Collected Works, vii, 1967, Toronto. Ross, D. (ed.) 1936. Aristotle, Physics. Oxford. Waterlow, S. 1982. Nature, Change and Agency in Aristotle’s Physics. Oxford.

COLLOQUIUM 6

CLASS ASSIGNMENT AND THE PRINCIPLE OF SPECIALIZATION IN PLATO’S REPUBLIC SUSAN SAUVÉ MEYER

A recurrent theme in Plato’s moral and political writings is a response to the cynicism of those who, like Thrasymachus and Callicles, take politics to be the practice of ruling others for one’s own benefit. Instead, Plato’s Socrates insists, the job description of the true ʍȡȝțijțȜցȣ (“politician” or statesman) is to benefit the citizens (Rep. 345d-346e). The success of a true statesman, however, is not to be measured by the extent to which he supplies the citizens with wealth, security, material goods and other things they might desire. This is because it is not through having such things, but by using them well, that a person (or a city) is truly benefited.1 Thus the way to benefit the citizens is to teach them how to use these “good” things well, and this is to educate them in virtue (Euthd. 292a-e). Hence the job description of the true statesman, Socrates insists, is to make the citizens good.2 This is why Socrates in the Republic claims that the most important set of institutions in the ideal city are those of education (ʍįțİıտį) (Republic 424a). These institutions aim to make the “young people” of the city pious, courageous, temperate and just.3 These virtues are the proper qualifications of the citizen (ʍȡȝտijșȣ), as Plato’s Protagoras makes clear in his “Great Speech”. 4 Plato’s privileged speakers in the Statesman and the Laws concur that producing citizens with these virtues is the premier function of the statesman or lawgiver.5 This is how the statesman benefits the citizen. It is thus a striking anomaly that in the Republic the artisans, who compose the largest class of citizens and indeed are the original citizens, fail to

_________ 1

Euthydemus 278e-282d; cf. Gorgias 511a-512a; Laches 194c-195d; Charmides 173a-

175a. 2 3 4

Gorgias 513e-515d, 517b-c; Republic 500d; cf. Gorgias 4630465, 503-506; Republic 395c, 399a-c, 402b-c, 405a-b, 410a. Protagoras 320d-322d. On the virtues as the qualifications for citizenship, see Laws 807c-d. 5 Statesman 306a, 308e-310a; Laws 631a-631e; cf. 653a-b.

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receive this education. The paideia in question, extensively detailed in Books II and III, is a variation of the traditional cultural education (μȡȤIJțȜս) and physical training (ȗȤμȟįIJijțȜս) of an Athenian “gentleman” (Ȝįȝրȣ Ȝ‫ ׶‬įȗįȚցȣ). It is the job-specific training of the guardian class (here not further distinguished into rulers and auxiliaries), coordinate with the vocational training of the artisans. Cobblers are trained in cobblery, guardians in virtue (405a-b; 456d8-10). Thus in being assigned to the artisan class, a person is cut off from receiving the greatest benefit that a city can provide for its citizens. Why, if the goal of the polis is to benefit its citizens, are the vast majority of them excluded from this ultimate benefit? Even though none of Socrates’ interlocutors in the Republic voices such a concern,6 it is worthwhile, nonetheless, for us to raise the question because Plato’s reasons for assigning people to the artisan class are relevant to a full understanding of his notorious preference for non-democratic institutions. It is not just in the ideal city of the Republic that the largest class of citizens has no share in ruling the city. In superficial contrast, the constitution outlined in the Laws distributes political power much more broadly among the citizens. But this difference is achieved by the simple expedient of denying citizen status to the artisans—so the restriction on political participation among the city's population is effectively the same.7 In both cases, the artisans are excluded from political participation by the famous principle that: “Each person must practice a single occupation in the city, for which his nature is best suited” (Republic 433a4-6; Laws 846d-e).8 This Principle of Specialization, on which Socrates explicitly relies in relegating citizens to the artisan class in the Republic, is commonly understood to imply that the artisans are so relegated because of a natural inability to perform the function of the ruling classes. That is, the members of the artisan class are incapable of acquiring the political excellence that is the job description of the rulers and auxiliaries. Since Socrates claims that adherence to this principle is the very thing that makes the city just (433a),

_________ 6 No doubt this is because they identify with the guardian class: they are quick enough to voice concerns about the justice of the constitutional demands placed upon the guardians—their inability to acquire wealth (419a), and the requirement that they come back down into the cave to rule (519d-520d)—concerns to which Socrates responds with assurances that the guardians are not being unjustly treated. 7 Here I disagree with Bobonich 2002, who claims that the Laws advocates broader political participation than the Republic. 8 The principle is first articulated in the Republic at 369e-370c and is regularly invoked or referred to thereafter: 374a-e, 394d-e, 400e, 406c, 415a-d, 421a, 421c, 423c, 423d, (cf. 397e), 433a, 434a-b, 435b, 441d, 444b; Laws, 846d-e; cf. 807c-d

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it is tempting to conclude that it functions in this case as a principle for the just distribution of the most important good in the city.9 According to this interpretation, naturally occurring differences in people’s abilities to acquire excellence justify their assignment to their respective political classes. Only those who are naturally incapable of performing either of the guardian functions (including that of the auxiliaries) are relegated to the class that has no share in ruling the city. My task in this essay is to contest this reading of the Republic.10 Upon careful examination of the Principle of Specialization, and of the institutions of the ideal city, I will argue that, first of all, Plato gives us no good reason to suppose that the artisans are excluded from political participation because of any natural incapacity. Second, I will argue that the institutions of the ideal city show no evidence of having been designed with a concern to make sure that all those with the natural capacity to be guardians are given the opportunity to develop it. Let us begin where Socrates first introduces the Principle of Specialization in the Republic: the model of the “original city” constructed in Book II (369a-372e). Although this original city is populated solely by artisans, it is not simply a collection of artisans. Rather, it has an intelligible structure and organization in the service of a clearly articulated goal: meeting human needs in a way that makes life better for its participants than it would be outside the structure of a state (369b-c). The basic human needs are for food, shelter, clothing, shoes and medical care. So, the first articulation of the most basic city would be a collective of specialists in servicing these needs: a farmer, a builder, a weaver, a cobbler, and a doctor. The Principle of Specialization introduced here motivates this first step in civic construction: we satisfy our needs better and more easily in a case of specialization and exchange than if we each tried to minister ourselves to all of our own needs (369d-370a). Successive applications of the principle to the same set of basic needs warrants the introduction of further specialists, since you cannot properly specialize in farming if you need to make your own tools and raise oxen for ploughing; weavers and cobblers cannot concentrate on their own specialties if they have to raise sheep and cattle for fleece and hides (370c-e), and so on. So the next stage of specialists are those who produce the tools and materials used by the original specialists: herdsmen, smiths, and carpenters. Since it is unrealistic to expect that all

_________ 9 On the just city as one in which distributive justice is observed, see 433e. 10 I deal with the corresponding issue in the Laws in Meyer 2003.

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the necessary materials will be available in the city’s location, provision will need to be made to import the missing items. This necessitates the introduction of yet another set of specialties (importers, merchants, and navigators), along with an increase in the number of the people engaged in the previously enumerated specialties, so that there will be, not only enough goods for the increased domestic population, but also a surplus of goods available for export (371a-b). Finally, in order to facilitate the exchange of goods between the artisans who populate the city, without impeding the specialization on which the city rests, there will be further market specialists who exchange goods for currency and currency for goods (371c-d). The final specialty added to the city is that of the μțIJȚȧijցȣ, who provides unskilled bodily labour to assist the other specialists as needed. For example, the cobbler who has to devote part of his time to hauling and unloading supplies is less able to devote his time to cobbling per se. At each successive stage of articulation, both the range of occupations in the city and the number of citizens engaged in each is adjusted with a view to the original goal: the service of the basic human needs for food, shelter, clothing and health. Thus the city has an intelligible structure and a conception of good that it realizes. Of course the suggestion that the range of goods that make life good for the citizens is restricted to the satisfaction of bodily needs should fly a red flag to anyone familiar with other dialogues of Plato—where Socrates (or another privileged voice) consistently claims or argues that living well consists not simply in having these so-called goods, but in knowing how to use them well.11 However, is it clear that this knowledge is in fact absent from the original city? To be sure, it is not identified as a specialty in the city and no one is assigned to it. But it (or something like it) seems to be deployed in the construction of that city, at least by Socrates, who claims that (at least as contrasted with the feverish city that he goes on to describe) it is a true and healthy city (372e). The city avoids both poverty and war (372b-c), something Socrates will stress later as the goal of the guardian (IV 421d423c), by pursuing a restricted range of goods and by living within its means. These good features of the city are reliably transmitted from one generation to the next (372d). Socrates is deliberately provoking his audience (and Plato his readers) to ask, what is responsible for these good features? This too is a competence that must be present in a properly functioning city.

_________ 11 In addition to the references in note 2 above, see also Laws 631b-e and Statesman 306e-310a.

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Plato addresses this issue obliquely, by first of all raising the challenge, in Glaucon’s famous objection, that the range of goods produced by the city falls below civilized standards (372c). Socrates responds by increasing without limit the range of goods and services available in the city (372e-373d). No longer are the increased population or additional specialties justified in terms of the basic needs of the citizens. Instead, “what people nowadays have” is the standard (372d) and the city surrenders itself to the “limitless accumulation of property (or money)” (373d). Thus the original “healthy” city is transformed into the “feverish” city (372e). As a result, the population increases along with its territorial and material demands to the point that conflict with other cities is now inevitable (373e). This motivates the introduction of a new specialty, the military (374a). The military specialty is initially given the function of defending the city against external aggression (presumably from other feverish cities). The job description gradually expands to the point that the soldiers become “guardians” of the city in the broadest sense, which coincides with the function of the true statesman. They aim at the city’s preservation (IJȧijșȢտį, 417a) or freedom (395c, 414b) and the well-being of its citizens. The program of education aimed at inculcating in the guardians (here not further distinguished into rulers and auxiliaries) the requisite qualities to carry out this function takes up the rest of book II and all of Book III. It turns out not to be simple military education. Indeed, physical ĮȞį military training is dealt with very sparingly (403d-405a, 410c). Rather, it is training in the ethical virtues.12 Indeed, the goal of the training shifts away from the initial concern of making sure that they will not be savage to the other citizens (375b-c), to focus on inculcating proper fellow-feeling (Ĵțȝտį) among the guardians themselves.13 At the end of this gradual transformation of the guardians’ job description, the feverish city has been reduced in size again to something like the original city. It avoids both poverty and wealth (421d), and the range of

_________ 12 13

See references in note 4. This part of the Republic bears the marks of having originated as a self-standing treatise on the education of citizens in virtue—independent of any specifically military function—since at one point Socrates contrasts the lives of the educated youth from those of the craft workers by referring to them as the leisured rich (406-408)—whose specific civic function is to cultivate virtue (407a). The discussion of the program of cultural education outlined in II-III clearly serves as the model for Plato’s later development of models for inculcating the virtues in citizens. Aristotle’s account of habituation in the Nicomachean Ethics clearly builds on it.

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goods once again approaches that of the original city—except that delicacies (ՐȦȡȟ) are also to be included.14 Thus we are returned to a version of the original city that satisfies both Socrates’ and Glaucon’s constraints. The main difference is that Socrates has introduced into the city something that explains why the city observes and maintains these good limits. Identifying this feature is what will illuminate the justice or injustice of a city, Socrates indicates (372e). What is this feature? It is the competence of the guardians (here not further distinguished into rulers and auxiliaries). What is that competence? Resulting from the program of education outlined in detail in Books II-III, it is not the simple military competence with reference to which Socrates introduced this additional group of citizens, but ethical virtue: courage, temperance, piety and justice.15 While Socrates’ interlocutors in the Republic are inclined to think that the guardians do not have an advantageous position in the city (419a), Socrates’ own point of view is quite the opposite. The guardians receive a great benefit from their education. This is so not only for those who receive the further intellectual education of the philosopher rulers and thus can engage in the highest activity of which a human being is capable (519c-520d; cf. 420b). It is also true for the auxiliaries. For these, we have seen, are educated in the excellences of citizenship, and an enduring theme in Plato’s dialogues, we have seen, is that the job description of the true political ruler is to make excellent citizens. Thus to be relegated to the artisan class is to be denied one of the greatest benefits that a state can confer upon its citizens. On the interpretation of the Principle of Specialization that we are considering, the city’s failure to provide this benefit to those so relegated is justified by the fact that these citizens are naturally incapable of functioning as guardians or auxiliaries. But does the Principle of Specialization provide such a justification? Are the institutions of the ideal city in fact designed with the goal of ensuring that all those with the natural aptitude to perform the guardian or auxiliary function are given the opportunity to develop it? I submit that a

_________ 14 Necessary desires, as explained by Socrates in Book VIII, include desires for delicacies (559a-b). 15 Whether, as is often supposed, the auxiliaries fail to achieve wisdom, and as a result achieve a lower degree of the other virtues than the philosopher rulers, is not relevant here. (See Irwin 1977, p. 226, Reeve 1995, and Bobonich 2002.) The salient point is that the auxiliaries are benefited by their education, and thereby made “better” than the artisans are by theirs.

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careful examination of the Principle of Specialization, and of the institutions of the city built in accordance with it, yields a negative answer.16 Let us begin by examining the Principle more closely. Would strict adherence to it entail that only those who lack the natural aptitude to be guardians are excluded from that class? Not at all. In fact, on closer scrutiny the Principle does not even yield a unique class assignment for each person. Precisely stated, the principle has two clauses: THE PRINCIPLE OF SPECIALIZATION: Each occupation in the city should be practiced by a person who has a natural aptitude for it; and specializes in it, to the exclusion of competing occupations. The basic rationale Socrates offers for the Principle of Specialization in the context of the original city of artisans is that it yields “better and finer results” (370c). Each clause of the principle specifies one factor relevant to the quality of the “results.” The first cites differing natural aptitudes: each of us is naturally suited to different endeavours (370a). As elaborated in Book V, natural aptitude for a practice involves facility at learning the rudiments, the ability to carry on by oneself after initial instruction, and ease in having one’s body carry out what one has learnt (455b-c). Thus I will be better able to learn and carry out a practice for which I have a natural aptitude than one for which I am naturally ill-suited. Accordingly, an occupation will be performed better if it is practiced only by those who have a natural aptitude for it. Hence the first clause of the Principle. These facts about natural aptitude, however, are insufficient to support the second clause, which requires a person to specialize in a single craft. For it is perfectly consistent with the possibility that a single person might have a natural aptitude for more than one craft. If I am naturally suited to both carpentry and farming, why should I not engage in both? The benefits of adhering to the second clause of the Principle are additional to those of the first. While the performance of the crafts will be improved if people restrict themselves to practicing crafts for which they have a natural aptitude, they will be even better if each person further restricts himself to a single such craft. This is because of a set of considerations we might label “the requirements of expertise”. These fall into two main types. First of all, specializing enables the practitioner of an occupa-

_________ 16

On the latter question, I agree with Pappas 1995, pp. 72-3.

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tion to properly attend to the demands of his craft in a timely manner: for example, striking when the iron is hot and, in general, seizing the right moment (370b). If you are trying to juggle many different projects, the demands of some will likely interfere with your ability to meet the requirements of the others. Thus the expert practice of an occupation requires focus and lack of impeding distractions: More plentiful and better quality goods are produced if each person does one thing for which he is naturally suited (eis hen kata phusin), does it at the right time, and is released from having to do any of the others (370c) Each person is assigned one thing, to which his nature is suited (pros ho epephuke hekastos), at which he should work throughout his life, with leisure from all other pursuits, so as not to miss the right moment to practice his own work well. (374b-c)

Second, acquiring expertise in a discipline requires that one devote sufficient time to acquiring the relevant knowledge and practicing the relevant skills (375b-d). Unless you regularly engage in, for example, cobbling, you will not be able to keep up your skills. There just isn’t enough time in one life, the Principle presupposes, to acquire and maintain proficiency in two different disciplines. Plato’s reasons for thinking that cultivating virtue falls within the scope of the Principle of Specialization—that attempting to cultivate justice and carpentry is like trying to be a ballerina and a sumo wrestler—need not concern us here.17 Our concern is with the principle itself, which we are now in a position to see is perfectly consistent with the possibility that a person might not be assigned to an occupation for which he is naturally suited. While the principle does require that any occupation to which I am assigned be one for which I have a natural aptitude, it does not entail that I lack a natural aptitude for an occupation to which I am not assigned. A person who is naturally capable of both carpentry and justice might still be relegated to the artisan class by political authorities because of the second clause of the principle. Somebody, after all, has to build houses. Nonetheless, a proponent of the reading I am contesting might insist: even if the Principle of Specialization as it is originally formulated in Book III does not entail that those relegated to the artisan class are so relegated because they fail the requirement of natural aptitude, surely Socrates make it clear, when he applies the Principle, that natural suitability is the

_________ 17 Plato makes it quite clear in both the Republic (395b-c, 407a-c) and the Laws (807cd; 846d-e) that cultivating virtue is as time-consuming an activity and demanding an expertise as the most strenuous of the manual crafts. I discuss the evidence for this in Meyer 2003.

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relevant factor. For instance in Book IV, when arguing that the Principle is the very thing that makes the city just (433c-435b), he warns against the danger of someone who is “by nature an artisan” attempting to enter the guardian class (434a), and insists that “someone who is by nature a cobbler should practice cobblery and nothing else” (443c). In these cases, is it not evident that he understands a person’s nature to be the determining factor in assignment to an occupation? Here it is important to distinguish between two different ways in which Socrates employs the term ‘nature’ (ĴփIJțȣ) in the Republic. On the one hand, there is the natural aptitude for learning and practicing an occupation, which we have already considered. Let us call this a person’s “antecedent nature”. Nature in this sense is to be contrasted with nurture and training. But this is not the only way that Socrates uses ‘nature’ (ĴփIJțȣ and its cognates) in connection with the Principle of Specialization. He sometimes uses ‘nature’ to refer to a person’s developed capacity: the results of antecedent nature combined with nurture and training. This is explicit in Book III, when he warns of the importance of properly training the young guardians, who must be forbidden to engage in “imitation” of inferior people because “imitations practiced from youth become part of nature (ıԼȣ; ĴփIJțȟ), and settle into habits of gesture, voice, and thought” (395d1-3). So too in Book IV, when Socrates stresses that the institutions for education (ʍįțİıտį) and upbringing (ijȢȡĴս) are the most important ones for ensuring the success of the polis, he claims that “good education and upbringing produce good natures” (424a5-6). In both cases ‘nature’ (ĴփIJțȣ) refers to developed nature.18 While nature in the sense of natural aptitude is clearly invoked in the earlier, technical versions of the Principle, nature in the sense of the developed capacity is equally important for achieving the goal of the Principle of Specialization. Just as specializing in what you have a natural aptitude for yields better results than simply doing what you have a natural aptitude for, you get even better results if you specialize in what you have

_________ 18 Other contexts in the Republic where ‘ĴփIJțȣ’ (or its cognates) refers to developed, rather than antecedent nature include Socrates claim that the young guardians must be surrounded by beautiful art and architecture (401a-d). Thus, he concludes, the artisans who make these must be “by nature able to pursue what is fine and graceful in their work” 401c4-5. Clearly developed nature is what he has in mind. See also the recommendations for medical coverage in the ideal city in Book III, according to which treatment will not be wasted on those who are “by nature sickly” (408b2) but will be reserved for those “naturally well endowed in body and soul” (410a1).

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a natural aptitude for and also receive proper training. Indeed, if we examine the contexts in which Socrates invokes a person’s nature as the decisive factor in his proper class assignment, it is far from clear that it is antecedent nature rather than developed nature that is invoked. For example, the violation of the Principle of Specialization described at 434a-b (“a carpenter attempts to do the work of a cobbler, or a cobbler that of a carpenter”, 434a3-4) presumably invokes developed rather than antecedent nature, and this makes it reasonable to interpret the “natural artisan” invoked a few lines later (434a9-b1) in the same way. An especially clear example of developed nature being the relevant factor in one’s appropriate class assignment occurs at the end of the account of the guardians’ education. In addition to giving the young guardians the proper cultural and physical education, the city must place severe restrictions on their material possessions and living arrangements (416d-417b). These restrictions are necessary if the guardians are to develop and maintain the level of concern for the ruled population that has been part of their job description from the beginning (375b-c; 416d-417b). Otherwise, Socrates says, the citizens occupying those positions will be “household managers (ȡԼȜȡȟցμȡț) and farmers rather than guardians” (417a5-7). That is, their developed capacity will be that characteristic of the artisan class (to whom alone ȡԼȜȡȟȡμտį is permitted. So someone with the antecedent nature suitable for the guardian class may properly belong to the artisan class, because of his or her developed nature. But if the Principle of Specialization assigns people to the artisan class on the basis of their developed nature rather than their antecedent nature then it does not provide the sort of justification that it is commonly thought to provide. Is there any evidence in the Republic that Socrates thinks the artisans lack the antecedent nature appropriate for functioning as good guardians? Although Socrates does say more than once that the requisite nature for the philosopher rulers is very rare (491a, 495a), it is important to note that he does not say the same thing when identifying the antecedent nature appropriate for those who will later be called auxiliaries (375b-376d). Is there other evidence that Socrates understands the artisans to be naturally unsuited for the guardian functions? To be sure, there is the notorious passage in Book IX in which Socrates says, after likening the spirited and appetitive parts of the soul to a lion and a multi-headed monster inside a person: Why do you think the condition of a manual worker is despised? Or is it for any other reason than that, when the best part is naturally weak in someone, it can’t rule the beasts within him but can only serve them and learn to flatter them? Probably so.

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Therefore to insure that someone like that is ruled by something similar to what rules the best person we say he ought to be the slave of that best person who has a divine ruler within himself. (Republic IX 590c)

Plato here has Socrates appeal to a familiar and enduring social prejudice—that "tradesmen" or "base mechanicals" are morally inferior and incapable of the virtue of a "gentleman" (Ȝįȝրȣ Ȝ‫ ׶‬įȗįȚցȣ). There is no doubt that Plato subscribes to the prejudice.19 But the crucial question for us is whether the relevant incapacity is due to antecedent nature or to developed nature. Relevant evidence is provided by Plato’s contemporary Xenophon, who articulates and explains the prejudice with admirable candour in his Economics, when he has Socrates say to Critoboulus: The crafts that are called mechanical are disparaged and quite rightly carry a bad reputation in the cities. For [1] they ruin the bodies both of those who practice them and of their overseers, since they compel them to remain seated—sometimes even at the fire—and to be shut away inside away from daylight. This weakens the body, and [2] consequently undermines the strength of the soul too. Also, [3] the so-called mechanical crafts leave one no leisure for friends or for sharing in the oversight of the city. As a result, it seems, such people are no good to their friends and no good at defending their fatherland. That is why in some cities—especially those that seem to be best at conducting war—no citizen is allowed to practice a mechanical craft. (Xenophon, Oeconomicus, IV.2-4; cf. VI.5, VII.2)

A mechanical occupation, Xenophon explains, robs one of three things that are part of virtue as he conceives it: (1) bodily and mental vigour; (2) the leisure requisite for leading a publicly active life; (3) the resources to benefit friends and city (cf. VI.7, XI.9). Aristotle, another unapologetic advocate of the prejudice, summarizes Xenophon's explanation succinctly: "No one can carry on the activities of virtue while living the life of a mechanical or hired laborer" (Pol., 1278a20). Plato’s Socrates too concurs in this picture, when he says that those who engage in the manual crafts (by implication, this is all of the artisan class) have “defective natures” because “their souls are cramped and spoiled by the mechanical nature of their work” (Republic 495d). These explanations make it quite clear that it is not lack of antecedent natural aptitude, but rather the effects of living a “mechanical” life, that

_________ 19 Laws V, 741d4; cf. Epinomis VII 334b5; Laws I: the “mechanical” trades are slavish (644a4); cf. Symposium 203a, Theaetetus 176c-d, Alcibiades I 131a-b; cf. the pseudoPlatonic Amatores 137b5, Epinomis 976d3; Republic 405a9, 406c, 407a, 495d4-496a1.

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keep an artisan from being able to successfully cultivate virtue.20 These effects of being in the artisan class surely are irrelevant to the justification for assigning someone to that class in the first place. Thus these texts do not support the interpretation of the Principle of Specialization that we are considering. Finally, we must consider the “Myth of the Metals” in Book III, which says that each citizen is assigned to his or her political class on the basis of natural aptitude: bronze and iron natures to the artisan class, silver natures to the auxiliary class, and gold natures to the class of philosopher rulers (415a-c). It is clear that the iron, bronze, silver, and gold natures invoked by the myth are to be understood as antecedent natures. And there is no doubt that the myth is supposed to supply to the population of the city exactly the kind of justification for their class assignment that the Principle of Specialization is thought to supply, according to the interpretation that I am contesting.21 However, it does not follow from this that Plato understands and intends the Principle in this way. For one thing, Socrates tells his own audience that the myth is a falsehood (415b-c). Indeed, the one feature of the story that is explicitly identified as a falsehood (rather than an allegory) is the fact that it represents the developed capacities of the members of the three classes (which are in fact a result of their training and nurture) as the simple deliverance of nature (414d-e). The myth’s further claim that the citizens’ “natures” suit them to their assigned classes in the city (415a) is clearly intended to mitigate resentment on the part of those excluded from the guardian ranks. So too is the promise that the “metal” of all offspring will be tested, so that if an artisan family produces a gold- or silver-natured child, he will be elevated to the rank of guardian (415b-d). But is there any evidence that this part of the myth is any less an expedient falsehood than the first, aimed at fostering unanimity among the citizens whose lot in life is so unequal? That is, do the institutions of the just city outlined in the Republic actually make good on the myth’s promise? Only if they do will the assignment of people to the artisan class be justified by their antecedent nature.

_________ 20 Another text thought to be evidence that the artisans have defective antecedent natures is Book IX 581c, where Socrates distinguishes between three types of people: dominated by the reasoning, spirited, and appetitive parts of the soul respectively. Many readers suppose that these correspond to the denizens of the three political classes, the artisans being populated by the last group. (See Bobonich 2002, Reeve 1995, and Klosko 1986). But even if this is correct, which I doubt, it is highly dubious that these are three types of antecedent nature, as opposed to developed nature. 21 The myth is explicitly connected to the Principle of Specialization at 423c-d.

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To be sure, Socrates does once say, outside of the context of the Myth, that the guardians must see to it that any inferior offspring of the guardians is to be demoted to the artisan class, and that any superior offspring of the artisans is to be promoted to the guardian class (423c-d). However, what we are looking for is some indication that the institutions of the city are designed with a view to making good on this promise. I submit that if we scrutinize the institutions of the city, we will find plenty designed to filter out from the guardian classes those with unsuitable natures, but none designed to make sure that every person with a silver or golden nature is assigned to a guardian class. Socrates devotes considerable time to describing a set of institutional practices intended to sort people by their natural aptitude for the political classes. The context is the program of education (paideia) for the guardians outlined in Books II-III. Trainees are subjected to various tests to determine how well they retain, in the face of various stresses (412d-414a, 429c-430b), the main lessons of this education: that they must always do what is best for the city (413c). Those who fail these performance tests may, in extreme cases, be demoted to the artisan class (V 468a). In less extreme cases, they will be disqualified from entry into the higher of the two guardian classes. Entry into the program of education for the rulers (outlined in Book VII) is based on proficiency in the activities of the earlier guardian education outlined in Books II-III (412e-414b). In all these cases, however, the tests are administered to those receiving the training appropriate to the guardian class. Those admitted to guardian school must pass the tests to continue in that school, and must pass further tests if they are to make the higher grade of ruler. Differences in natural aptitude presumably explain why some trainees pass these tests and others fail. However, unless the entire population of the city receives this training—the children of artisans and guardians alike—these testing institutions are insufficient to make good on the promise made to the artisans in the Myth of the Metals. However, while it is clear enough that the offspring of the auxiliaries and guardians receive this education and have their mettle tested in this way,22 Socrates gives no indication that any off-

_________ 22 Those at any rate who survive the rigorous eugenic breeding program that works in tandem with the controlled “marriages” between the guardians outlined in Book V (459a461b).

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spring of the artisans will receive it, and as much as says that they do not receive it (405 a-b; cf. 456d) Thus, the institutions for testing the “mettle” of the population serve only as a filter to make sure that the unqualified do not stay in the ranks of the guardians. They do not provide the promised outreach to the children of the artisans, to identify any “gold” or “silver” natures that arise among them. Are there any other institutions that perform this outreach function? Socrates invokes the Myth of the Metals one last time when he explains in Book VIII, how the true city might begin to decline (546a-547a). It is here, if anywhere else, that we might expect to find evidence of a concern to make sure that all (not just only) those with silver and gold natures are assigned to the guardian classes. According to the myth of decline, the city’s fallible rulers will inevitably make a miscalculation in the eugenic breeding program outlined in Book V (450-465). Offspring with inferior natures will be produced, so that even when the best of these are given the program of guardian education outlined in Books II-III and V-VII, the results will be sub-optimal (546c-d). As a result, the institutions of education, which they oversee, will deteriorate, producing inferiorly developed natures down the road (546d), who will in turn fail to properly distinguish between iron, bronze, silver, and gold natures when selecting the next generation of leaders (546d-e). While this “application” of the myth of the metals does imply that the rulers are supposed to test the “mettle” of prospective guardians to make sure that no iron or bronze natures get into the guardian classes, this filtering function requires no institutions other than the testing institutions we have already examined. It does not indicate that there are “outreach” programs to test the nature of all citizens, so that “no natural guardian is left behind”. One might reasonably doubt, therefore, that the promise of equal opportunity for all made in the Myth of the Metals functions as a constraint on the construction of the institutions of the ideal city. The testing programs we have surveyed make good on one half of the myth’s promise that everyone’s mettle will be tested. No one in the city will be allowed to perform the functions of the ruling or auxiliary class unless he has passed the test that weeds out the naturally unqualified. But the other half of the myth’s promise remains unfulfilled: the promise that everyone with a “silver” or “golden” nature will be assigned to one of the two guardian classes. This is not to say, of course, that the ideal city described in the Republic is inconsistent with the existence of such an outreach program. It is no doubt possible, for all Socrates says, that the children of the guardians and the artisans alike are enrolled in guardian school, and have their mettle

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tested there—or that some other testing program, not mentioned in the text, is administered to the artisans’ children so as to identify those with the suitable natural ability for guardianship. However, since we are concerned with whether the Principle of Specialization is understood by Plato’s Socrates to show that the members of the artisan class are not unjustly treated in being relegated to this status, it is reasonable to require some evidence of a positive concern on his part to design institutions that aim at warding off this potential injustice to its citizens. We have seen no such evidence. The constitutional arrangements outlined for the ideal city give no support to the thesis that the institutions of the ideal city distribute fairly the opportunities to receive the greatest benefit that a state can confer upon its members. This result should not surprise us, given that the rationale offered for the Principle of Specialization is forward-looking. The Principle is justified by the fact that adhering to it will yield better results for the city. Performance of the various functions of the city—whether carpentry, farming, or ruling—will be “better and finer” (370c) if these functions are performed by those who are (a) naturally suited to it, and (b) specialize in it. The beneficial effects for the city of adhering to the principle will obtain even if someone who is naturally capable of performing the guardian function (but who is also good at carpentry) is relegated to the artisan class. Indeed the principle, properly understood, quantifies over occupations in the city, not persons. It does not have built into it any constraints on how the benefits produced by the city may be distributed among its members. We may conclude that even though the Principle of Specialization is identified by Socrates as the very thing that makes the city just, it is quite blind to questions of distributive justice. We would therefore do well to be wary of supposing that Plato’s notion of a “just society”, defined in terms of adherence to the Principle of Specialization, has any significant overlap with modern notions of political justice. UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA

COMMENTARY ON SAUVÉ MEYER TAD BRENNAN

Professor Meyer has written a fascinating paper that raises many interesting issues, and forces the reader to reconsider central topics in the Republic. In the first part of my comments I will try to distinguish some of these issues, before moving, in the second part, to considering the evidence for her claims.1 In the third part I will address a worry that may be motivating Professor Meyer, and certainly seemed to impress some of her BACAP audience. Finally I will sum up how I think the dialectic stands, so that a reader of her paper can see the options they face. I. Distinguishing Two Claims I think that the issues raised by this paper can be situated most perspicuously by reference to the principle of fairness that I will refer to as “Principle F”: A just society is one in which all and only those who are naturally incapable of the excellence required for political participation are excluded from the political class(es).2

It seems to me that most of Professor Meyer’s paper is devoted to arguing for two related points: first that the Kallipolis outlined in Plato’s Republic does not in fact satisfy Principle F, and so is not a just society by that principle; and second that Plato does not make the satisfaction of Principle F a goal in the construction of the Kallipolis, or in his general political program as it is expressed through that construction. This second point is expressed succinctly in the final sentence of Professor Meyer’s paper: “The fairness of the distribution of political power in a city is not a goal of politics, as Plato conceives it.”

_________ 1 I want to thank Susan Sauvé Meyer for her paper and for our discussions, Rafe Woolf and Gisela Striker for their hospitality at Harvard; and Michael Pakaluk for inviting me to participate. I enjoyed discussing these issues with Stephen Menn and Richard Kraut. And as always, my deepest thanks go to Liz Karns. 2 Principle F appeared in an earlier draft of Professor Meyer’s paper in exactly the formulation I quote, and though it was revised out of the final version, I think it still animates much of the paper and can help us to think our way through it.

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Now there is, of course, an obvious gap between claims of these two kinds, parallel to the difference between claiming that a bureaucratic system or governmental program is discriminatory in intent, and claiming that it is discriminatory in effect. The claims are distinct, and neither one entails or presupposes the other. We might find evidence that the Kallipolis was unfair in effect, and at the same time find evidence that Plato had made the satisfaction of Principle F a central goal. Systems can be discriminatory in effect, even if they are not discriminatory in intent; indeed, even if the eradication of discrimination was the principal goal of the system’s designer—even Plato can suffer unintended consequences. Or conversely we might find evidence that the Kallipolis satisfies Principle F, but conclude for other reasons that Plato did not take the satisfaction of Principle F as a goal. In fact, this is the view that I find most natural and plausible: it seems to me that the distribution of political power in the Kallipolis is fair by the standard of Principle F, but this property of fairness arises as a collateral consequence of other principles of construction that Plato made explicit goals. On the fairness of distribution per se Plato did not place the same weight that we now do, and so he did not make it a goal, but fairness results nonetheless from his pursuit of other goals, such as the well-being of the whole city and all of its parts. I will say more about this when considering the evidence. At times, Professor Meyer seems to want to infer from some unfair effect to a lack of interest in fairness on Plato’s part. This, I think, is rather difficult to do, for several reasons. First of all, Plato could have made fairness (i.e. the fairness of the distribution of political power) a goal of politics, without making it an over-riding goal. He might have been deeply concerned to foster this sort of fairness, and yet have allowed that concern to be trumped in certain cases by some more central concern, for instance a concern with the welfare of the city as a whole. So if we saw that some social arrangement sacrifices fairness for the sake of some other social value, then I think we could conclude that Plato did not make fairness a universally overriding goal—perhaps that he did not make it the “first virtue of social institutions” in Rawls’ phrase—, but not that he did not make it a goal at all, or that he was indifferent to considerations of fairness. Secondly, the pursuit of fairness may be constrained by economic realities of various sorts—realities that would constrain even the most ardent champion of fairness. Professor Meyer offers a case like this, but draws, I think, the wrong lesson from it. She suggests that as a matter of mere

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economic necessity, many must labor if a few are to philosophize.3 And she argues that some portion of that laboring multitude will have natures that make them capable of philosophizing. From this she concludes that Plato had no interest in ensuring that “all those who have such a natural capacity are given a fair chance to develop it.” Supposing she is right about the facts here, then we have a situation that is discriminatory in effect, and we have a failure to satisfy Principle F—some are excluded even though they are naturally capable. But the existence of such a state of affairs cannot show that Plato was indifferent to fairness. In light of the economic realities, it may be that the best anyone could have produced is not a city that was fair in the Principle F sense, but rather a city that is Pareto-equitable with respect to Principle F, in the sense that any attempt to redress the injustice done to one of the excluded individuals, by their promotion to the philosopher-class, would result in an injustice being visited on the individual who was consequently sent down to the artisan class.4 A Pareto-equitable system may not preclude all unfairness, but it may be as fair as the economic constraints will allow. Or, Plato might have wanted to ensure that “all who have the natural capacity are given a fair chance to develop it”, in the sense that each of them has a lottery ticket with an equal probability of winning, even though there are more tickets than prizes. These prizes, i.e. slots in the philosopher class, are simply a scarce resource, on this view, and there is a greater number of qualified applicants than there are places. If all that were true (though I will argue later that it is not), then the very existence of the economic constraints would prevent us from concluding that the unfair distribution resulted from indifference to fairness on Plato’s part. Now, many of these preceding considerations are drawn from recent discussions of fairness, equality, and so on. So perhaps this is a good place to note a certain dissonance or inconcinnity that results from applying these considerations to the distribution of political power in the Republic. We typically think that a political elite or its theoretical apologists are being culpably unfair when they refuse to share certain goods with the rest of the citizenry, or give a smaller share to others. But in the context of the Republic, it is vital to remember that Plato simply does not see political participation as a good at all. It is something that the best-informed citizens see as an undesirable necessity that is imposed on them, and imposed

_________ 3 4

This last aphorism received enthusiastic applause from the audience at Harvard. A distribution of some resource is said to be Pareto-optimal if and only if any redistribution that improves one person’s welfare inevitably reduces another person’s welfare. I introduce the notion of Pareto-equitability by an obvious extension of the first notion, familiar to economists and game-theorists.

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on them (rather than others) because they are best able to bear the burden. Political power, for Plato, is not a benefit, but a cost, and the distribution of political power in the Kallipolis is less like a jealously hoarded privilege than like a steeply progressive tax on the intellectually wealthy, with outright tax credits for the intellectually impoverished. If anyone has grounds for complaints about unfairness, in Plato’s view, it is the rulers rather than the ruled, since they are compelled to take on a greater share of a bad thing, not a good thing. This is one of the reasons why I will not try to argue, in the rest of my comments, that Plato really did make the fairness of the distribution of political power a goal of politics. I have raised several objections to parts of Professor Meyer’s paper in which she argued that it was not a goal, but those were objections to the cogency of the arguments, rather than to the conclusion. In fact, the conclusion about goals strikes me as so obviously right, that I wondered who exactly it is who has claimed that Plato made the fairness of the distribution of political power a goal of any central importance. That goal is salient and urgent in our view primarily because we think of political participation as a good, and think that goods should be distributed fairly. Plato, I think, does have some concerns about the fair distribution of goods across the citizenry, but he would never have thought of political power as one of those goods. Richard Kraut has suggested to me one sort of argument to which Professor Meyer might be responding.5 Plato wants to make the Kallipolis a good city, this argument goes, but that means that in particular he wants to make it a just city (as well as making it wise, courageous, temperate, and so on). The Kallipolis will be just only if all of its parts do their own jobs, and this in turn will require a correct correspondence between natures and jobs at the level of individuals. So, this argument concludes, the correct distribution of natures to jobs really is a goal for Plato, not merely a collateral consequence, inasmuch as the city’s justice is a goal for Plato. Perhaps it is something like this argument which Professor Meyer wishes to oppose. But it is important to see that one can endorse this argument (indeed, I think one is right to endorse it) without making the anachronistic projection that Professor Meyer decries (as indeed I think she is right to decry it). Perhaps it is easiest to see the distance between the two understandings of Plato’s goals by asking who, on each view, has the right to complain about any failure to attain an ideal distribution. On the view outlined by Richard Kraut, the Kallipolis itself would be less just, and so

_________ 5

In conversation. I do not know whether he wished to endorse the argument or not.

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less good, than it could have been, and the locus standi for complaints would rest with the city: it would have the right to protest the diminution of its overall goodness. On the Rawlsian reading, any mis-assigned individual would have the locus standi for complaining about their treatment; they could complain that the assignment was unfair to them in particular, quite apart from any damage to the city as a whole. Indeed, they could presumably complain that they had been treated unfairly even if the city as a whole was improved by their unfair treatment.6 I gladly agree with Professor Meyer that this sort of Rawlsian concern to respect the individual’s demand for fair treatment is not central to Plato’s concerns (the closest echo of such a thought might be heard at 501e, with the attempt to placate the many’s anger at the installation of philosopher-rulers, but the thought is still different, if for no other reason than because the aggrieved parties are not citizens of the Kallipolis). But I am not familiar with anyone who has attributed this view to Plato. I can more easily imagine attributing to Plato the sort of interest in the city’s justice that Richard Kraut’s argument envisions—indeed, I am willing to advocate that reading if no one else will—but then the charge of anachronistic projection is no longer apposite. Plato’s goal on this view is still not fairness to individuals in the Rawlsian sense, but justice in the Platonic sense, and justice as one aspect of the city’s overall goodness. II. Is the Kallipolis Fair in Effect? Arguments Pro and Con Here I turn to the question of whether the Kallipolis in fact satisfies Principle F, i.e. satisfies it in effect, regardless of whether or not this was one of Plato’s goals. And here, as I have said, it seems natural and plausible to me to think that Principle F will be satisfied as a collateral consequence of Plato’s goal of making the city as good as it can be. The city cannot be good unless it is ruled only by people who can see the Form of the Good and pattern both themselves and the other citizens and the city after its pattern, i.e. only by philosophers, who were born with a philosophic nature and received the proper nurture for it. And the city cannot be as good as possible unless all of those with that nature are members of that class.

_________ 6 Note the connection between this worry and the worry about a surplus of guardiannatures, which I discuss below. On that scenario, a conflict is supposed to come about between fairness to the individual and the city’s overall good, and from this we are supposed to conclude that Plato is not a Rawlsian. I think we can reject the Rawlsian reading for lots of other reasons, but we gain no advantage from basing our rejection on a scenario that Plato would find unworthy of consideration for a variety of reasons.

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Plato’s goal here is not fairness, but the result will be fairness all the same, at least fairness as characterized by Principle F. II.1. Arguments from Direct Evidence Pro There are two kinds of mechanisms for ensuring that all and only those who are naturally capable of doing philosophy will wind up as rulers. There are the ones that Professor Meyer calls, usefully, “weeding out” mechanisms, which take care of the “only” part—these are the tests and challenges for candidate guardians. And then there are what she calls “outreach programs”, to ensure that all of the children who have the natural ability will have a chance at the training. I assume that this takes the form of universal primary education organized with an eye to testing for talent, but I agree with Professor Meyer that “no institutions for doing this sort of population-wide testing are described anywhere in the text of the Republic.” On the other hand, there are texts that show that Plato must have envisioned such outreach being done, even among the children of the artisans: 415c: “But if an offspring of these people [sc. craftsmen and farmers] is found to have a mixture of gold or silver, they [sc. the guardians] will honor him and take him up to join the guardians or auxiliaries.” 423d: “…[W]e said that if an offspring of the guardians is inferior, he must be sent off to join the other citizens and that, if the others have an able offspring, he must join the guardians. This was meant to make clear that each of the other citizens is to be directed to what he is naturally suited for.” (translations here and below by Grube/Reeve from Cooper & Hutchinson eds, Plato’s Complete Works).

Professor Meyer would like to discredit this evidence, but I do not find the attempt convincing. She dismisses the first text because it appears as part of the Myth of the Metals. But she herself points out that only one part of the Myth is branded as a lie, namely the Phoenician parts about things popping out of the earth. What reason is there then for casting doubt on the other parts of the myth which claim that there are different natural types, and that the offspring of these types can move both up and down in social ranking? If we casually dismiss the evidence that the offspring of artisans can be elevated, should we also dismiss the evidence that the offspring of guardians can be demoted? I am uncomfortable with this treatment of the evidence.7

_________ 7 It is also worth remembering that if Plato did not want to build such mechanisms into the Republic, he could simply have omitted any mention of the possibility that the Metals

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That Plato is serious about promoting and demoting children who turn out to have natures different from those of their parents seems to me to be settled beyond sensible controversy by the fact that he has Socrates repeat the prescription in Timaeus 19a, in his résumé of the Republic: And do we also remember saying that the children of the good parents were to be brought up, while those of the bad ones were to be secretly handed on to another city? And that these children should be constantly watched as they grew up, so that the ones that turned out deserving might be taken back again and the ones they kept who did not turn out that way should change places with them? (translation by Donald J. Zeyl).

Note the reference to the constant supervision (skopountas aei) of both groups of children as they grow up. This fits well with what was said in the Republic; it is slightly more explicit about the active supervision of the Rulers, but it seems to me that we needed to assume exactly this activity in any case, as I argue in the next section. II.2. Arguments from Indirect Evidence Pro We can find supporting lines of argument for the existence of outreach programs from several other quarters. First, there is the question how the ordinary artisans are assigned to their jobs to begin with. We are not all born alike, but each of us is naturally suited to one task rather than another—one of us is a doctor by nature, another is not (370a, 455e). The city will be better run if the jobs in the artisan class are given to those who are naturally suited for them, and it will suffer some harm—no great harm, but some harm—if artisans switch jobs (370c, 434ab). From these considerations alone, it seems to me evident that the rulers of the Kallipolis will already have to be testing the natures of the artisan children, to see which one is a doctor by nature, and which one is a carpenter. It will not be hard for them to keep an eye out for future philosophers at the same time.8

_________ would not breed true. It is he who raises the possibility that offspring will diverge from their parental type, and this was an inexplicable blunder on his part if he raised the possibility, then mentioned a way of responding to it, and all the time did not mean a word of it. 8 Michael Pakaluk, in correspondence, wonders whether Plato might think children of this sort will be so rare, and so outstanding, that they will as it were leap to the community’s attention even without formal programs in place—they will tower over their artisanal contemporaries like physical giants, and be impossible to miss. I think this underplays the fact that Plato also thought philosophical natures could be easily perverted by the wrong upbringing—the “so-called wise and wicked” at 519a, who can only be kept from corruption if their souls are “hammered at from childhood”. These people never give signs of being potential philosophers even though “their sight isn’t inferior”. I think a closer discrimination would be needed to detect the early traces of genius.

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Second, there is an important line of argument to be derived from considering the danger of allowing a golden child to grow up without the proper philosophical training. The question of what happens to a child with superior natural endowments if it does not receive the right training is explored in detail in Bk V 491 and following. “I think,” says Socrates, “that the philosophic nature as we defined it will inevitably grow to possess every virtue if it happens to receive appropriate instruction, but if it is sown, planted, and grown in an inappropriate environment, it will develop in quite the opposite way….It is reasonable to say that the best nature fares worse, when unsuitably nurtured, than an ordinary one.” “It is among these men that we find the ones who do the greatest evils to cities and individuals,” Socrates concludes at 495b. Passages of these sort give us further reason to believe that Plato is in earnest when he refers to the outreach programs, exactly because he is so emphatic about the disastrous consequences of allowing golden children to grow up without proper training in philosophy and virtue. Consider also the passage at the end of Book III in which Socrates says that if the guardians acquire personal property then they will become “household managers and farmers instead of guardians.” Professor Meyer, attempting to downplay the importance of natures, concludes from this passage that “someone with the antecedent nature suitable for the guardian class may properly belong to the artisan class”. But this passage emphatically does not show that someone with a guardian nature may “properly” belong to the artisan class. Quite the opposite, Socrates’ whole point is that a disastrously improper mess will result if a guardian nature lives like an artisan: if they become household managers then, to continue this very quotation, “They’ll spend their whole lives hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, more afraid of internal than of external enemies, and they’ll hasten both themselves and the whole city to almost immediate ruin.” In fact, this picture at the end of Book III is a forecast of how the Kallipolis decays into a Timocracy when the guardians come to acquire private property (more fully spelled out at 547b). All of this is what results when someone with a guardian nature is put into the role of an artisan. And here is the crucial bit—such civic catastrophes do not occur when people who are artisans by nature own private property. The Kallipolis in its stable form, eons prior to any incipient decay, has household managers and farmers aplenty, and their presence does not lead to plotting and ruin, because these jobs are being filled only by people with artisan-natures instead of guardian natures. That is how dangerous it would be to allow a golden child to grow up among the iron masses. So

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that is how important it is to make sure that children are assigned to their social class on the basis of their natures, i.e. on the basis of their innate capacities for excellence. II.3. Arguments Con Now Professor Meyer denies that there were any such outreach programs, and denies that innate capacities for excellence play the sort of role in the assignment to social class that I have just suggested. She wants to argue that people are assigned to their social class for a variety of other reasons. And her strategy for doing this is to make a concession, as she thinks it, to us nature theorists, by proposing that it is the principle of specialization which is the basis for the allocation of individuals to classes. After she has hooked the nature-theorist with this bait, she then argues that the principle of specialization is not in fact a principle that assigns individuals to classes on the basis of nature alone, and that nature plays a much smaller role in the principle of specialization than has been thought—the principle of specialization can also assign people to roles on the basis of the requirements of expertise, economic constraints, contingencies of parental origin, and so on. So now I want to consider her discussion of the principle of specialization. Part II.3.A Professor Meyer’s Argument Con from the Principle of Specialization When the guardians are originally introduced in book II, the full class structure of the Kallipolis has not emerged yet, and we are simply trying to find people to wage war on behalf of the citizenry. Here I think we can better understand the interplay between the two kinds of factors that Professor Meyer identifies in her analysis of the principle of specialization, i.e. the consideration of the individual’s nature, on the one hand, and what she calls the “requirements of expertise”, i.e. that only a specialist can always strike while the iron is hot, and only a specialist can be sufficiently devoted to the time-consuming-task of mastering a specialty. When Socrates first proposes that the nascent city should have an army, he argues that it should not be a citizen army, by appeal to the requirements of expertise: competent soldiers need sufficient practice, and must not miss the right moment. He then asks, “And doesn’t it also require a person whose nature is suited to that way of life?” This leads to the long search for people who will have the right kind of nature, both gentle and fierce, which culminates in the pun about the puppies—these pages (374e376c) are saturated with instances of the word phusis.

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But notice that the requirements of expertise and the search for the suitable nature come into the discussion at distinct stages. The requirements of expertise are invoked in creating the job category, and in demonstrating that there is a need for this new job category which cannot be satisfied by any current profession. The enquiry into natures comes in the next step, when we have accepted the necessity of creating these new jobs, and turn to the task of selecting individuals to do them. When we are at that second stage, i.e. when we are trying to fill slots with individuals and assign individuals to slots, the question becomes solely one of finding the right nature. The phases are distinct and non-overlapping; the question of suitable natures could not be asked before there was a definite job-description in place, defined partly by the requirements of expertise, that allows us to ask “suitable for what?”. And conversely, once the requirements of expertise have played their role in showing the need for a distinct job-type, there is no role for them in the selection of candidates. The principle of specialization, then, operates at two levels, roughly corresponding to a type-token distinction. First it says that “better and finer results” will emerge if, at the level of worker-types, we respect the organic unity of certain job-descriptions and respect the requirements of expertise, and admit only such monolithic worker-types as carpenter, cobbler, and philosopher, rejecting such hyphenated job-types as citizen-soldier, farmer-accountant, or cobbler-dentist. Second it says that, within the frame-work of these single-purpose worker-types, better and finer results will emerge if we choose for each worker-type the worker-tokens who have the best natural qualifications for that job description. But, once again, I do not think that the requirements of expertise play any role in this second stage of assigning individuals to jobs, or assigning worker-tokens to worker-types—nor, in general, does the principle of specialization ever say that individuals are assigned to job-types on the basis of any considerations other than their natural qualifications. Accordingly, when Professor Meyer asks “Why are the artisans excluded from political participation?” and answers: “No doubt it is because of the famous principle of specialization on which Socrates relies in constructing the ideal city,” this seems to me to put the cart before the horse. It is not because they are already artisans that they are excluded from ruling, it is because they are excluded from ruling that they wind up being artisans. Plato does not argue that the artisans cannot rule because they have already been assigned the distinct job of being artisans, as though they might have been eligible had they not been previously engaged. Rather, these individuals do not rule because they do not have the correct

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nature for ruling, i.e. they are not capable of organizing their own lives or the lives of others in imitation of the Form of the Good, and neither are they capable of the kind of courageous tenacity to conviction that the auxiliary soldiers manifest. They have failed those tests before they have received any job at all. One way to see that the scrutinizing of natures is theoretically independent of the principle of specialization is by considering the fate of the sightlovers in book V. If we ask why they are excluded from rule, we certainly cannot reply “no doubt because of the principle of specialization”: that principle is only in operation within the Kallipolis, and the sight-lovers are found outside of the Kallipolis. It is not as though the Kallipolis has already assigned them the important civic function of being sight-lovers, which prevents them from taking on two jobs. No, they are excluded from power because of a philosophical inability, the inability to accept and understand the existence of the forms. Their eligibility for political power is assessed without any reference to any antecedent jobs they may have in the city—indeed, we know that there are no such workers in the Kallipolis—and this shows that Plato’s thoughts about the exclusion of the artisans do not need to run through the principle of specialization, a principle that is internal to the Kallipolis. This is a further reason why I think it is a mistake to approach the question “why are the artisans excluded from political participation?” by saying that it is “no doubt because of the principle of specialization”. One part of that principle, i.e. the requirements of expertise, explains why there is no such job-type as artisan-ruler, artisan-soldier, or sight-lover, and why there is such a job type as carpenter. A different part of that principle, i.e. the emphasis on natures, explains why this particular individual is suited only to being a carpenter, and excluded from political rule. But that exclusionary appeal to natures stands on its own feet, in no need of the rest of the principle of specialization. The scrutiny of natures is equally used to judge people’s suitability for rule even when the discussion is not taking place within the framework of those job-types sanctioned within the Kallipolis—I have in mind the sight-lovers again—and thus it seems to me that the most accurate way to answer the question why certain people are excluded from power is by pointing to their natures, without taking the detour through the principle of specialization. II.3.B. Two More Arguments Con There were two other points at which Professor Meyer suggested that there was explicit evidence against the existence of outreach programs or other mechanisms for ensuring the fair distribution of natures to jobs.

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On p. 241 the claim is made that 456d8 shows that “the early education of the guardians” is not given to “the whole population”. I do not see how this passage shows that. It says that the guardians who have received the guardian education will be better men than the cobblers who were educated in cobblery. And it follows from this, as Professor Meyer notes, that “the musical education of the guardians that is necessary for their training in virtue distinguishes their nurture from that received by the artisans.” Or at any rate, it follows that the whole education that the guardians receive, taken as a whole, “distinguishes their nurture”, from the whole education that the cobblers receive. But that is not the hypothesis that needs to be ruled out here in order to support Professor Meyer’s position. Those who think (as I do) that Plato is in earnest about his “outreach program” must think that all children, in every class, receive some common primary education. They must come under the direct or indirect scrutiny of the rulers, so as to be assayed for any traces of gold. How long this takes will presumably vary from case to case—some people with artisanal natures may reveal this fact early on, after few and rudimentary trials, whereas others may make it further along in the common curriculum before being directed into such specialist training as carpentry and cobblery. So, consider a cobbler and a guardian who both began in the common primary educational system. They each received the early education of the guardians, up to some point, say the age of seven, at which point the cobbler-to-be had shown such stellar promise as a cobbler (i.e. such utter inadequacy as a guardian) that there was no longer any question of there being any gold in his soul. Although he started out in the common primary education, which is the same as (at least part of) the “early education of the guardians”, his education diverged at some point, with predictable effects on his overall goodness as an adult. That set of facts allows Socrates to say “the guardians are made better by the education we have described than [are] the cobblers educated in cobblery.” Nothing about this quotation tells against the hypothesis of a common primary education. Everyone starts down a common path, and then most people branch off in other directions. This quotation does nothing to rule out that hypothesis. At another point, Professor Meyer claims that “the eugenic breeding program invoked in this context explicitly violates the promise given to the artisans in the myth….” Having mentioned a few of the provisions that are made for eugenic breeding among the guardians, she then concludes “And the offspring of all but the elite of the ruling classes are not even tested at all.” I do not see any evidence for this claim, either in the quotation she gives us or in the paraphrases that follow. I grant that these pas-

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sages are silent about the testing of the children of non-guardians (reproduction among the guardians is the topic at hand), but they certainly make no explicit or implicit claim that such testing will not occur, which is what Professor Meyer needs to show. She does say that “the inferior natures [among certain guardian offspring] are not even demoted to the artisan class; they are simply killed”. Perhaps her line of thought is as follows: the Myth of the Metals promised that the inferior children of the guardians would be demoted; here instead of being demoted they are killed; thus Plato violates his promise to demote the iron children of golden parents, and thus we may suspect he would be just as likely to violate his promise to promote the golden children of iron parents. If this is the line of thought, then it is worth taking a minute to sort out the details of who gets killed and why. I assume, to begin with, that the eugenics program is instituted only among guardians (to see this, begin at 458c when women with guardian natures are assigned to the men with guardian natures, and note that the restriction to the guardians and auxiliaries governs the quantifications in the rest of the discussion). As Professor Meyer notes, only the offspring of the best natures will be reared (459d), i.e. the children of the less excellent guardians will be killed. That is one group of infanticide victims. Then there are the guardians who have sex before or after the age of reproduction and are insufficiently careful in their family planning methods—their children, it seems most likely, will also be killed (461c—the language is somewhat coy, but if infanticide is not intended, then exposure-for-adoption is, in which case there will be de facto demotion to the artisan class). So, we are told of two groups of guardian-offspring who will be killed (or at least not reared among the guardians): the children of the inferior guardians (459d) and the children of the superannuated (or immature) guardians (461c). The offspring of superior guardians in their prime are all reared, and it is from among this group that some are to be demoted to the lower classes if they are found to have base metal in their soul. Notice that Professor Meyer’s account here is simply in error when she says that “[t]he inferior natures among this set of offspring… are simply killed,” where by “this set” she means the offspring of the legitimate unions of the best natures. The passage that she cites, 460b-461c, never says that any of the offspring of the legitimate unions of superior guardians will be killed. It only says that the offspring of inferior guardians, or of unions made illegitimate through age or youth, will be killed. So these passages do not even show that the eugenics program “explicitly violates the promise” to demote the iron offspring of the guardians, much less that it “explicitly violates the promise” to promote the gold offspring of the artisans.

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Neither of these passages is the least bit inconsistent with the supposition that the Kallipolis will have mechanisms for promoting qualified children of the artisan class. I know of no passages inconsistent with such mechanisms. They are mandated by passages that explicitly promise such promotion, and their general advisability is clear from other indirect considerations. The only argument against them is the argument from silence. III. Two Reasons Not to Worry about a Surplus of Guardian Natures III.1. The Republic Clearly Makes Philosophers Rare In the question period after Professor Meyer’s talk, many members of the audience seemed fascinated by the possibility that there would be a surplus of guardians, and worried about what Plato could do if there were. I do not think Plato thought this was a genuine concern—so long as we are dealing with the human race, rather than a race of semi-divine creatures, he thinks the proportion of wise to unwise will always be very low.9 “I suppose that everyone would agree that only a few natures possess all the qualities that we just now said were essential to becoming a complete philosopher, and that they seldom occur naturally among human beings” (491b).10 Plato also has structural reasons, within the Republic, for depicting the class of philosopher-rulers as a small minority of the city: it corresponds to the fact that he thinks that the rational part of our soul is the smallest, and, except in the fully virtuous person, the weakest and most impotent part of our soul.11 Just as the naturally philosophical are likely to be politically side-lined and ignored in any city other than the Kallipolis, so too in the majority of human psyches the appetitive and spirited parts have a vastly greater motivational ‘umph’, and are likely to win any time that reason opposes them. The structure of the Kallipolis, like the education of the virtuous individual, must achieve the delicate trick of making the naturally weaker into the effectively stronger, both by bringing the hulking

_________ 9 During the discussion, Gisela Striker, concurring with me, said very aptly that Plato relied on a “pre-established harmony” between jobs and natures. 10 And see 494a “the majority cannot be philosophic”, and 495-496 where the many craftsmen with imperfect natures try to wed philosophy, like the tinker wedding the boss’s daughter. 11 Michael Pakaluk reminds me that Aristotle too says that our contemplative reason is “small in bulk”, EN X.7, 1178a1

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appetites to heel through physical training, and by enlisting the spirit firmly on the side of reason, to act as its enforcer. (I say that reason is naturally weaker, even though it is by nature more authoritative, and more suited to command, not less—this again is exactly the problem of habituation, and the problem of politics). All this is summed up by Socrates’ comment in 442c, “And we’ll call him wise because of that small part of himself that rules in him and makes those declarations….” III.2. Even a Hypothetical Surplus Leads to No Problems Still, some may not be satisfied with this sort of assurance, and may still wonder how Plato could respond if it were put to him, per impossibile, that the guardians might be so numerous that there would not be enough artisans to feed their idle mouths.12 Even here, I do not think there is much difficulty for Plato. The answer is straightforward. All those with golden souls can, must, and will be educated as guardians. When they have reached the age of 35, Socrates tells us in 539e, “you must make them go down into the cave again, and compel them to take command in matters of war and occupy the other offices suitable for young people, so that they won’t be inferior to the others in experience.” We must not let them, he says in 519d, “refuse to go down again to the prisoners in the cave and share their labors and honors (ponoi kai timai), whether they are of less worth or of greater (eite phauloterai eite spoudaioterai).” Thus it is already part of the picture, even when the guardians are few and scarce, that they will go down into the city and perform some of the rather base and tawdry (phaulon) jobs that are to be done there. Socrates does not tell us what he has in mind here, although he must mean substantially more than “command in matters of war”, if he includes both timai and ponoi, and feels the need to insist that their baseness cannot provide an excuse for the guardians’ not doing them. Thus it seems to me that the answer is clear: in a city with a surplus of guardians and a deficit of farmers, the guardians will include stints at farming among their rotations down in the cave. They will “share the labors of the city, each in turn”, as 520d says. I now address two objections. First of all, some may worry that this will turn the guardians into “household managers and farmers”, thus creating the very civic chaos I warned against above. But this does not follow. What would make the guardians into “farmers” in the worrisome sense

_________ 12 Again, it may be significant that it was a Harvard audience that found this possibility especially alarming.

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would be their owning the land and its produce, i.e. their becoming large land-owners who can amass wealth (see 417a ktêsontai). Clearly, that is not what I am proposing. I am proposing that they would dig and harvest, undertaking this rather base labor in turn, but that they would continue to live the communal life of the guardians, acquiring nothing and owning nothing. Second, it might be objected that a guardian who has not been trained as a cobbler from youth up should not be allowed to take turns at the cobbler’s bench because he will make shoddy work—is that not just what the principle of specialization tells us? I think the answer here is that a guardian who continues living a guardian’s form of life rather than a cobbler’s—i.e. one who lives communally with the other guardians, owning no property, preferring contemplation but sharing in the labors of the city—such a guardian may indeed produce shoes that are not as good as those produced by someone who stuck with cobbling from first to last. Socrates does tell us that some harm is done when the carpenter takes the cobbler’s job (434ab). On the other hand, we also learn that the harm is not very great, and I do not see why a guardian should not be able to make as good a shoe, in a pinch, as the carpenter could. The quality of material goods in this city may not be as high as it is in the Kallipolis, but that is a very small determinant of the overall good of the city. I concede that the overall level of goodness in this city might not be as high with respect to consumer goods as it would be in a city with ideal ratio of guardians to artisans—but that is just to say that this whole line of speculation started with the question: what if there was a non-ideal number of guardians? If the number of guardians is far in excess of the ideal, then we should expect some non-idealities to appear in the Kallipolis; if the worst of them are a matter of ill-fitting shoes, then the structure of the Kallipolis as a whole has proven impressively robust and resistant to perturbation: a large change to one of its vital inputs has yielded a trivial decrease in the goodness of its consumer goods. Counteracting this is the fact that this entire surplus population of guardians will also be engaged in contemplation and philosophical rule—there will be far more people contemplating in this city than in the Kallipolis that Socrates thinks is consistent with a more realistic distribution of human natures. Far from leading to a worse city, it may well be that this city is better, more happy, than the Kallipolis. Socrates simply denies that any group of people could be so lucky as to have this sort of surplus of philosophical types (any more than any individual could have a rational soul that was larger than their spirited and appetitive parts).

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What I am arguing here is that no stark theoretical collapse occurs, no fundamental flaw or incoherence is revealed, if we imagine a city with a surplus of guardians. The shoes are not as good as they would be in a better-proportioned city—that is all. Those who wanted to press this line seemed to think that some terrible injustice would occur in the city if there were a surplus of guardian natures, or that reflection on this case will bring to light some deep injustice already latent in the Republic’s structure. I have argued that this is not so. It is already specified that the guardians, after age 35, will take jobs in the city, and I see no reason why they could not do any jobs that need to be done. If my proposal that the guardians could farm and cobble strikes some people as a violation of the principle of specialization, then Plato has already violated it when he says the guardians will “share in the labors of the city”—which means that people who think they have an objection here should probably rethink their understanding of that principle. IV. Summation, and Describing the Lay of the Land The difference between Professor Meyer’s interpretation and the one that I have advanced comes to this, as far as I can tell. There are two passages that directly say that the Kallipolis will contain promotion schemes that mandate an “outreach program”. I have argued that several other passages lend support, though of no decisive strength, to the idea that such a program will be needed. There are no passages that explicitly give details about its operations. Professor Meyer lays great stress on the silence about the details, and works to discount the two passages that directly mandate them, as well as working to find other texts that would show that “outreach programs” would be inconsistent with other parts of the Republic. I have argued that these attempts to find contrary evidence fail. She also argues that the Principle of Specialization involves more than mere considerations of natural ability, and takes this to show that the Kallipolis will sometimes over-rule the individual’s nature and assign them to a job or class that is contrary to their nature. I agree that the principle of specialization involves more than a principle for assigning people to jobs on the basis of their natural ability. But the other parts of the principle of specialization do not operate by invoking some other basis for assigning people to jobs, e.g. the requirements of expertise, as she thinks. Instead, the other parts of the principle of specialization are directed to creating and justifying the right sorts of job-categories to begin with, even before the question of the assignment of individuals arises. Accordingly, the ex-

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ploration of the principle of specialization does nothing to show that people are assigned to jobs in the Kallipolis on any ground other than their natural abilities. Nor, again, do I think that we need to worry that people who are capable of being philosophers will be forced into the artisan class rather than the ruling class because of the economic necessity that makes each philosopher rely on many artisans. The scenario in which an over-population of philosophical natures forces some of them down into the artisan class is clearly not one which worries Plato—there will be an open job for every nature suited to it because the distribution of natural abilities keeps pace with the distribution of the corresponding jobs in the Kallipolis. What I continue to find missing is any adequate motivation for this sort of strong-arm interpretation. In cases of dire interpretive need, I could imagine taking a stance comparable to Professor Meyer’s—directly squelching or rejecting what the text does say, and laying great weight upon its silence elsewhere. But what is the interpretive need here? What is the larger point that demands this treatment of the Republic? It cannot be Professor Meyer’s very largest point, that Plato was not a Rawlsian, for on that point I have been happy to agree with her. The reasons why Plato wants each person to have the job for which they are most naturally suited are completely distinct from the considerations of fairness in the distribution of societal goods that Professor Meyer mentioned at the outset of the paper. Thus I do agree with the final conclusion that “The fairness of the distribution of political power in a city is not a goal of politics, as Plato conceives it.” If she simply wants to reject as anachronistic those views that claim that Plato constructed his Kallipolis with the fairness of the distribution of political power as a central goal, she can do that without undue damage to the text, by distinguishing goals from collateral consequences. Is it instead that she wants to deny that natures play any role in the assignment of individuals to classes in the Republic? That extreme view is hinted at in her conclusion, but it is surely far too ambitious.13 Even had

_________ 13 She claims that the “natural moral frailty” which makes Plato “very pessimistic about the prospects of achieving excellence” does not “distinguish the members of the artisan class” from the “guardians in the Republic”. If I understand this, it is equivalent to the claim that, so far as their natural propensities towards achieving excellence go, i.e. so far as their natural aptitude for virtue, philosophy, and the like are concerned, there is no difference between a typical artisan and a typical guardian. This goes beyond alleging that Plato may tolerate some mismatching of natures to jobs, and seems to claim that there simply are no natural differences to base an assignment on.

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Professor Meyer shown that there were no “outreach programs”, and shown that Plato does not think it is imperative to create a complete correspondence between natures and class-structures in the Kallipolis, there would still be a lot of work left to show that Plato thought there were no differences between individuals’ natures, and that these natures played no role in the Republic. That would require squelching and rejecting a vast swath of the Republic itself. Still, I am always ready to be an empiric in these affairs, and a holistic one. If the overall gain in interpretive clarity merits it, then I am willing to contemplate sporadic acts of interpretive desperation. This is why I look forward to hearing more in the future about Professor Meyer’s views on the Republic. NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY

SAUVÉ MEYER/BRENNAN BIBLIOGRAPHY Adam, James. 1979. The Republic of Plato. Cambridge UK: Cambridge University Press. Annas, Julia. 1981. An Introduction to Plato’s Republic. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Aristotle. 1984. Aristotelis Ethica Nicomachea. Edited by Ingram Bywater. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Barker, Ernest. 1918. Greek Political Theory: Plato and his Predecessors. London: Methuen. Reprinted 1960. Bobonich, Christopher. 2002. Plato’s Utopia Recast: His Later Ethics and Politics. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Burford, Alison. 1972. Craftsmen in Greek and Roman Society. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press. De Ste Croix, G. E. M. 1981. Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World from the Archaic Age to the Arab Conquests. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press. Irwin, Terence. 1977. Plato’s Moral Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. _______ 1995. Plato’s Ethics. New York: Oxford University Press.

COLLOQUIUM 7

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN JUSTICE AND HAPPINESS IN PLATO’S REPUBLIC DANIEL DEVEREUX

Some 70 years ago, an exchange between M.B. Foster and J.D. Mabbott brought into focus a set of intriguing and important questions about Socrates’ defense of justice in the Republic.1 These questions set the framework for much of the subsequent scholarly debate concerning the argument of the Republic; and while there has been a sharpening of the issues involved, scholars seem to be no closer to agreement on answers to the questions. One of the questions concerns the relationship between justice and happiness: (a1) does Plato view happiness as a consequence of justice, or (a2) does he see a closer relationship between the two, namely, that the two are related in such a way that showing that justice contributes to happiness is a way of showing that it is desirable for its own sake? A second, related, question is about Plato’s understanding of the claim that justice is valuable “for its own sake”: (b1) does he mean that it is valuable apart from any desirable consequences it might have, or (b2) that it is valuable insofar as it directly produces certain desirable effects or consequences? A third question has to do with the structure of the argument in Books II-IX: (c1) is there one continuous argument designed to show that justice is valuable for itself by showing that it yields happiness, or (c2) is there a two-part argument, the first part aimed at showing how justice is valuable for itself and the second at showing that it yields happiness (as a consequence)? How we answer these questions is of crucial importance for our understanding of why Plato thinks justice is worth pursuing and what sort of value he thinks it has. Finding the right answers is no easy task because of the mutual entanglement of the questions: attempting to answer one inevitably leads to the others, and it is easy to lose one’s way. Scholars in recent years have staked out three main interpretations of Plato’s position on the value of justice based on their answers to the three questions. I. Happiness as consequence of justice (a1) Plato views happiness as a consequence of justice. (b1) By “justice is valuable for its own sake” Plato means _________ 1

See Foster (1937), Mabbott (1937), and Foster (1938).

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that it is valuable apart from any desirable consequences it might have, i.e. it is intrinsically valuable.2 (c2) The Republic offers a two-part argument for the value of justice, the first part aimed a showing how it is valuable for itself and the second at showing that it yields happiness (as a consequence).3 II. Justice as constituent of happiness (a2) Plato sees a particularly close relationship between justice and happiness (i.e. justice is a constituent of happiness) such that showing that justice contributes to happiness is a way of showing that it is valuable for its own sake. (b1) By “justice is valuable for its own sake” Plato means that it is intrinsically valuable. (c1) There is one continuous argument in Books II-IX designed to show that justice is valuable for itself by showing that it yields happiness.4 III. Happiness as direct effect of justice (a2) Plato sees a particularly close relationship between justice and happiness (i.e. happiness is a direct effect of _________ 2 By “intrinsically valuable” I simply mean non-instrumentally valuable, i.e. X is “intrinsically valuable” if it has value that is not derived from beneficial effects it may produce. “Intrinsic value” might also be contrasted with “extrinsic value”: something might have value apart from any benefits it produces, but it might derive this value not from itself but from something else; for example, justice might be non-instrumentally valuable, but derive this value from the Form of the Good (see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics I 6, 1096b8-13; for helpful discussion of different kinds of value, see Korsgaard (1983)). Another point about terminology: in his tripartite classification of goods, Glaucon does not use a term like “valuable”—he speaks of “things we welcome” or “things we are glad to have” for their own sake or for their consequences (357b4-d2; cf. Aristotle’s use of “choiceworthy” [įԽȢıijȪȣ]in, e.g., Nicomachean Ethics I 7, 1097b30-1098a21); but since he clearly assumes that these things have genuine value, there is no harm in using the term “valuable” in describing his classification. It is worth keeping in mind, though, that all three types of goods are regarded as things that we can “choose” or “have” (357b5, 8, c8). If there are goods that we cannot be said to choose or have, e.g. Forms, they will fall outside of Glaucon’s classification. 3 See, e.g., Annas (1981), 168-9, 294 (cf. 318 for some second thoughts). Mabbott (1937) clearly sides with the first interpretation at certain points (e.g. 62), but he also seems to approve of (a2), which is incompatible with the first interpretation (63); cf. White (1984), 396, n.6. 4 See, e.g., Kirwan (1965); Irwin (1977), 188-9, 216-7, 246-7; Irwin (1995), 189-93, 252-61, 295-6; Reeve (1988), 22-42.

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justice) such that showing that justice contributes to happiness is a way of showing that it is valuable for its own sake. (b2) By “justice is valuable for its own sake” Plato means that it is valuable insofar as it directly produces certain desirable effects.5 (c1) There is one continuous argument in Books II-IX designed to show that justice is valuable for itself by showing that it yields happiness.6 In this essay I will defend a version of the first interpretation; in other words, I will argue that Plato regards happiness as a consequence of justice, that he means by “justice is valuable for its own sake” that it is intrinsically valuable, and that the argument he sets forth in Books II-IX has two main parts—the first showing how justice is valuable for itself, and the second showing that the life of the just person is happier than that of the unjust person. After making my case for the first interpretation, I will conclude by pointing out an interesting and important implication of Plato’s argument as I have interpreted it. Before turning to the argument of the Republic, however, I would like to take a brief look at Aristotle’s conception of what it is for something to be “valuable for its own sake,” and his understanding of the relationship between virtue and happiness. Defenders of the third interpretation have charged that it is “anachronistic” to attribute to Plato, as the first and second interpretations do, the modern notion of intrinsic value, i.e. the notion of something’s being valuable in itself, apart from any consequences or effects that might result from it.7 It is clear, however, that Aristotle has the modern notion, and it also seems that he understood Plato’s claim that justice is “valuable for its own sake” in the ‘modern’ way—as the claim that justice is valuable apart from any consequences it might have. I. Aristotle’s Understanding of the Relationship between Virtue and Happiness Aristotle begins his Nicomachean Ethics with the suggestion that if there _________ 5 According to this interpretation, by “justice is valuable for its consequences” Plato means that it is valuable insofar as it indirectly produces certain desirable effects; see White (1984), 418-21; Sachs (1963). 6 Sachs (1963) and White (1984) are the chief proponents of this interpretation; cf. also Foster (1938), 229; and Cross and Woozley (1964), 66-8. 7 See White (1984), 394-5, 410, 421; cf. Foster (1938), 230; Sachs (1963), 148, n.14.

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is some final end of action, this will be the supreme or highest good for a human being (I 1, 1094a18-22); he then points out that there is general agreement that this highest good is happiness (I 4, 1095a14-20). If happiness is our final end, then it behooves us to gain a clear understanding of what it is so that we will have a better chance of attaining it (I 1, 1094a2224). Aristotle implies that once we have a clear view of our final end, happiness, we will be able to—and we should—choose the most effective means to attain this end. In his celebrated “Function Argument,” he seeks to establish that our final end is to live a certain kind of life, a life of virtuous activity (I 7, 1097b22-1098a18). In order to achieve this end, we must therefore cultivate and acquire the virtues. Aristotle clearly believes that the virtues are valuable insofar as they contribute to our happiness. But he also believes, as the following passage indicates, that they are valuable in themselves, apart from their contribution to happiness. Now such a thing [an unqualified end] happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for itself and never for the sake of something else, but honor, pleasure, understanding and every virtue we choose indeed for themselves—for even if nothing resulted from them [μșȚıȟրȣ ȗոȢ ԐʍȡȖįȔȟȡȟijȡȣ] we would still choose each of them—but we also choose them for the sake of happiness, judging that through them we shall be happy.8

Honor, pleasure, and virtue are chosen “for themselves,” for we would choose them even if they had no consequences. To choose virtue for itself, then, is to choose it regardless of any beneficial consequences it might have (cf. 1176a35-b9). In claiming that virtue is choicworthy just for itself, Aristotle is in effect claiming that it is intrinsically valuable. “But we also choose [virtue] for the sake of happiness.” Aristotle’s contrast between choosing virtue for itself and choosing it for the sake of happiness seems to indicate that in choosing virtue for itself we are not choosing it for the sake of happiness, and that in choosing it for the sake of happiness we are choosing it for something other than itself. So if virtue is choiceworthy for itself, it must have value independent of its contribution to happiness. Furthermore, the passage implies that when we choose virtue for something other than itself, we are choosing it for something “that results from” it, i.e. some beneficial consequence;9 hence when we choose _________ 8 I 7, 1097a34-b5. The translation is mine, adapted from W.D. Ross, The Works of Aristotle Translated into English, vol. IX (Oxford, 1915). Unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine. 9 To choose X for its own sake is to choose it without regard to any of the things that might “result from” it; thus choosing it not for its own sake but for the sake of something else would be to choose it for one of the things that “result from” it. It is worth noting that the Greek word Aristotle uses for “result from” (ԐʍȡȖįȔȟȧ) is the same word that is used by

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virtue for the sake of happiness, we are choosing it for the sake of a beneficial consequence. This passage thus seems to imply not only that Aristotle views virtue as intrinsically valuable, but also that he views happiness as a beneficial consequence of virtue. We find a similar view in Aristotle’s discussion of the intellectual virtues of practical and philosophical wisdom (ĴȢȪȟșIJțȣ and IJȡĴȔį) in Book VI. Now let us first say that they [practical and philosophical wisdom] are necessarily choiceworthy for themselves even if neither of them produces anything, since each is the virtue of one of the two [rational] parts of the soul. (1144a1-3)

In the following lines, Aristotle goes on to point out that they do produce goods: e.g. philosophical wisdom produces happiness insofar as its consequent activity, contemplation, is constitutive of (one form of) happiness.10 So these virtues are choiceworthy for themselves, i.e. they are worthy of choice even if they do not produce any valuable consequences; they are, in other words, intrinsically valuable. But they do produce valuable consequences insofar as they contribute to happiness. Being “choiceworthy for themselves” is again contrasted with being “choiceworthy for the sake of happiness;” if these virtues are choiceworthy for themselves, they must have value independent of their contribution to happiness. And the use of the verb “produce” (ʍȡțȡ‫ף‬IJț) seems to indicate, again, that happiness is viewed as a consequence of these virtues. Many recent scholars would argue that this cannot be the correct way of understanding Aristotle’s view of the relationship between virtue and happiness. They would point out that Aristotle has an inclusive conception of happiness according to which it includes several, if not all, of the goods that are choiceworthy or valuable for their own sake.11 As evidence for this inclusive conception, they cite Aristotle’s remarks concerning the “self-sufficiency” of happiness, and also his description of happiness as _________ Glaucon in speaking of goods that are or are not desired for their “consequences” (ij‫׭‬ȟ ԐʍȡȖįțȟȪijȧȟ); see Republic 357b4-8, 367c5-d1. 10 Aristotle’s words are: “Secondly, they do produce something, not as the art of medicine produces health, however, but as health [produces health], so does philosophical wisdom produce happiness” (1144a3-5). Ross suggests in a footnote that what Aristotle means by “health produces health” is that health, as an inner state, produces the activities which are constitutive of being in good health. (The following passage in X 4 seems to support Ross’s suggestion: ...ȡ՘İ’ ԭ ՙȗȔıțį Ȝįվ Ս ԼįijȢȪȣ ՍμȡȔȧȣ įԼijȔį ԚIJijվ ijȡ‫ ף‬ՙȗțįȔȟıțȟ— “..health and the doctor are not in the same way the cause of being healthy” [1174b25-26].) The activity ‘produced’ by philosophical wisdom would be contemplation, which is constitutive of the highest form of happiness (cf. X 7, 1177a12-22). 11 Cf., e.g., Ackrill (1980); Irwin (1985), 407; Irwin (1988), 360-3; Urmson (1988), 12-14.

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the “most complete” good (I 7, 1097a25-b1). The “self-sufficiency” of happiness is explained in the following passage in I 7. The self-sufficient we set down as that which by itself makes life choiceworthy and lacking in nothing, and we think of happiness as this sort of thing; and further, [we think of it] as the most choiceworthy of all goods, not being countable as one good alongside others—if it were countable in this way it would clearly be more choiceworthy by the addition of the least of goods. (1097b14-18)

If happiness “makes life lacking in nothing,” it seems clear that it must include various goods such as pleasure, honor and friendship, as well as virtue; and if happiness cannot be made more choiceworthy by the addition of other goods, this must be because it already includes these goods. Aristotle’s characterization of happiness as the “most complete” good clearly has the same implication: if it is more complete than other goods, it must include more than they do. If happiness includes virtue as a constituent, it cannot be a consequence of virtue; according to the inclusive conception, the relation between happiness and virtue is constitutive rather than ‘consequential’. But what should we say about the passages cited which seem to treat happiness as a consequence of virtue? It seems that the advocates of the inclusive conception must either regard them as unfortunate anomalies, or argue that the passages can somehow be understood consistently with the inclusive conception.12 However, the texts cited in favor of the inclusive conception can also be understood differently. Let us first consider the “selfsufficiency” passage. Aristotle states that “happiness by itself makes life choiceworthy and lacking in nothing.” The clear implication is that someone who has a happy life does not lack any (important) goods. Should we infer, as the ‘inclusivists’ do, that happiness itself must include these goods? This does not strictly follow from what Aristotle says. His statement is clearly compatible with the claim that happiness presupposes, but does not include, these goods. We might suppose, for instance, that since happiness consists in virtuous activity it presupposes the possession of virtue, but it does not include virtue because virtue is a state (and not an activity) while happiness is an activity (and not a state). The following passages seem to support this supposition. _________ 12 Cf. Irwin (1985), 304 (on 1097b3); cf. 402 (“happiness” #2). Irwin argues that since virtue, friendship, etc. are “goods in themselves, these components of happiness are not chosen only for their contribution to happiness, but also for their own sakes.” But as we have seen above (n.9), Aristotle implies in 1097a34-b5 that to choose virtue for the sake of happiness is to choose it for something that results from it. And as we shall see in a moment, Aristotle’s distinction between states and activities, and his classification of (i) happiness as an activity and (ii) virtue as a state, seem to rule out virtue being a component of happiness.

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Our account is in harmony with those who say that happiness is virtue or a certain virtue; for activity in accordance with virtue belongs to this [viz. virtue]. But presumably it makes a great difference whether we take the highest good to be a ‘possession’ or a ‘use’, i.e. a state (ԥȠțȣ) or an activity (ԚȟȒȢȗıțį). For a [good] state may exist without achieving any good, as in the case of someone who is asleep or otherwise inactive, but this is not possible for the [corresponding] activity, for this entails acting and acting well (ʍȢȑȠıț ȗոȢ ԚȠ ԐȟȑȗȜșȣ, Ȝįվ ı՞ ʍȢȑȠıț). (I 8, 1098b30-1099a3) ...what remains is to discuss in outline the nature of happiness, since this is what we have posited as the end of human endeavors. Our discussion will be more concise if we give a resumé of what was said before. We said that happiness is not a state (ԥȠțȣ) for if it were it could belong to someone who was asleep throughout life, living the life of a plant, or to someone who suffered the greatest misfortunes. If these consequences are unsatisfactory, then we must rather class happiness as an activity (ԚȟȒȢȗıțį), as we said before. (X 6, 1176a31-b2)

According to the inclusive conception, since happiness includes virtue and virtue is a state, we would expect Aristotle to say that happiness is both a state and an activity—it includes both. Instead, he says that happiness is an activity and not a state; and given that virtue is a state, we should not say that happiness is virtue but rather that it is activity in accordance with virtue. Of course, the possession of virtue is presupposed since activity “in accordance with virtue” can only be performed by someone with virtue.13 In the self-sufficiency passage Aristotle also makes the claim that happiness cannot be made more choiceworthy by the addition of other goods, which seems to imply that happiness includes these other goods. But this claim, too, is consistent with the supposition that happiness presupposes but does not include other goods such as pleasure, friendship, and virtue. And finally we should note that while the statement that happiness is the “most complete” good does imply that happiness is more inclusive than other goods, this is not the only possible translation of Aristotle’s words. In fact, it is only in the last 30 years or so that this has become the preferred translation of the Greek term ijıȝıțȪijįijȡȟ in the important passage at I 7, 1097a15-b6; in earlier translations, the usual rendering was “most final”. The recent shift to “most complete” seems to have been based on the view that Aristotle’s remarks about self-sufficiency commit him to an inclusive conception of happiness.14 If, as I have argued, there is room for doubt about that interpretation, the traditional, more neutral, translation seems preferable.15 To say that happiness is the “most final” of goods is to _________ 13 14 15

Cf. Kraut (1989), 235-6. See Hardie (1965); and especially Ackrill (1980), 20-23. The adoption of “complete”, “more complete”, and “most complete” as translations of ijȒȝıțȡȟ, ijıȝıțȪijıȢȡȟ, and ijıȝıțȪijįijȡȟ in 1097a25-b6 unfortunately gives the reader the

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say that it is the only good that is always pursued as an end and never as a means to an end (I 7, 1097a28-b6); and while this claim may be compatible with an inclusive conception of happiness, it does not commit Aristotle to it. In the light of Aristotle’s emphatic distinction between states and activities and his contention that virtue is a state and happiness an activity,16 we can better understand what he is getting at when he contrasts virtue’s being choiceworthy for itself with its being choiceworthy for the sake of happiness. Since virtue is a state while happiness is an activity (i.e. the activity which is the exercise of virtue), to say (i) that virtue is valuable for itself is to say that it is a state that has value apart from any consequences, including happiness, that it might have; and to say (ii) that it is valuable for the sake of happiness is to say that this state is valuable insofar as it enables its possessor to engage in the sort of activity that is constitutive of happiness. If we ask what it is about virtue as a state of the soul that makes it valuable in itself, Aristotle’s short answer is that it is valuable because it is the virtue or excellence of the soul; as he says in the passage from Book VI quoted above, even if practical wisdom (ĴȢȪȟșIJțȣ) and philosophical wisdom (IJȡĴȔį) produce no beneficial consequences at all, they are of worthy of choice (įԽȢıijȑȣ) insofar as they are the excellences of the two parts of the rational element. Perhaps the thought lying behind this claim is that since the faculty of reason is our most valuable possession (cf. X 7, 1177a12-21), it is a good thing for it to be in the best possible condition, even if circumstances prevent it from achieving anything good. But however we understand the basis for Aristotle’s claim, it is clear that he regards virtue as having value in itself, independent of its contribution to happiness. It is also worth noting that what Aristotle means when he says that virtue has value “in itself” or “for its own sake” is that it has value independent of any beneficial effects or consequences that it might have; that is, he holds that virtue is intrinsically valuable. Thus the notion of something’s having intrinsic value is not peculiar to the modern period. It is also important to note that Aristotle, in his critique of the Form of the Good in I 6, clearly implies that Plato held that certain things are intrinsically valuable. An objection to what we have said, however, may be discerned in the fact that their claim is not about all goods, and that the goods that are pursued and

_________ impression that this passage provides unambiguous evidence in favor of an inclusive conception of happiness—an impression which is not conveyed by the Greek. 16 Cf. I 10, 1100b8-11: the determining factor for happiness is virtuous activity (ȜȫȢțįț İ’ ıԼIJվȟ įԽ Ȝįij’ ԐȢıijռȟ ԚȟȒȢȗıțįț ı՘İįțμȡȟȔįȣ); cf. b33-34. For discussion of Aristotle’s rationale for identifying happiness with virtuous activity, see Kraut (1989), 197-311; and Devereux (1981).

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loved for themselves are called good by reference to a single Form, while those which tend to produce or to preserve these somehow or to prevent their contraries are called so by reference to these, and in a secondary sense. Clearly, then, goods would be spoken of in two ways, some good in themselves and others because of these. Separating the things good in themselves from the useful, let us consider whether the former are called good by reference to a single Idea. What goods would one call good in themselves? Wouldn’t they be those that are pursued even when isolated [μȡȟȡȫμıȟį] from others, such as understanding, sight, and certain pleasures and honors? For even if we pursue these also for the sake of other things, one would still place them among things good in themselves. (1096b8-19)

According to Aristotle, Plato and his followers distinguish a class of things “good in themselves” (ȜįȚ’ įՙijį) which may or may not be pursued for the sake of other things. These things are “good in themselves” in that they are desired and pursued “even when isolated from others,” i.e. when considered just by themselves, apart from the various other things for the sake of which they might be pursued. Aristotle’s choice of examples— “understanding, sight, and certain pleasures” (ijր ĴȢȡȟı‫ה‬ȟ Ȝįվ ՍȢֻȟ Ȝįվ ԭİȡȟįȔ ijțȟıȣ)—is pretty clearly a reference to the tripartite classification of goods at the beginning of Book II of the Republic.17 It seems clear that Aristotle understood Plato’s conception of something that is valuable for itself (or “for its own sake”) to be a good that is valuable just for itself, apart from any beneficial consequences it might have. II. Evidence for ‘Happiness as Consequence of Justice’ in Republic I We have seen that Aristotle views happiness as a consequence of virtue: virtue is understood as a state of the soul and happiness as an activity that flows from this state. In the final argument of Book I of the Republic, Socrates attempts to show that possession of justice guarantees a happy life. Several premises of the argument are controversial and are only conceded by Thrasymachus because he is eager to be done with the discussion.18 Nevertheless, the argument is worth examining because it reveals the way in which Socrates understands the relationship between justice and happiness. As we shall see, Socrates views happiness as a consequence of jus_________ 17 See 357b4-c3 (esp. c2: ...ȡՃȡȟ į՞ ijր ĴȢȡȟı‫ה‬ȟ Ȝįվ ijր ՍȢֻȟ); cf. Gauthier et Jolif (1970) II, 43-44. White acknowledges that the distinction made by Aristotle in this passage is similar to the ‘modern’ distinction between intrinsic and instrumental goods, but he does not mention that Aristotle is here reporting what he takes to be a Platonic distinction; see White (1984), 393, n.1. 18 See, e.g.,350d9-e4; at the end of Book I, Socrates points to this weakness when he criticizes himself for not taking the time to develop his arguments more carefully (354a12b3).

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tice in the same way that Aristotle views happiness as a consequence of virtue. The argument begins with an account of the “function” (ԤȢȗȡȟ) of a thing: a thing’s “function” is what it alone can do, or what it can do better than anything else (352e2-3). For example, the function of an eye is to see (nothing else can see), and the function of a pruning knife is to prune trees and bushes (it can prune trees and bushes better than anything else). For anything that has a function there is a particular virtue or excellence (ԐȢıijȓ) that enables it to perform its function well, and lack of this virtue will cause it to perform its function badly (353b2-c7). Socrates then suggests that the soul is one of the things that has a function; in fact, he attributes several functions to the soul: supervising and governing, deliberating, and living (353d3-9). Therefore the soul must have a virtue which enables it to perform its functions well; and if its virtue is lacking—or if the corresponding vice is present—it will perform its functions badly (353e1-5). Socrates notes that it was agreed earlier that justice is the virtue of the soul (353e7-9; cf. 350d4-5, 335c1-4). Hence it is justice that enables the soul to perform its functions well: to supervise and govern well, to deliberate well, and to live well. Since one who “lives well” is blessed and happy, the just person will be happy while the unjust person will live badly and be miserable (353e10-354a5). And since being miserable is not ‘profitable’ while being happy is, Socrates concludes that justice is more profitable than injustice (354a6-9). There are four key elements or concepts involved in Socrates’ argument: (i) the thing that has a function—e.g. the eye; (ii) the function itself— seeing; (iii) the excellent performance of the function—seeing well; and (iv) the virtue of the thing—that which enables the eye to see well. The virtue of the eye is not its seeing well, but that which enables it to see well, i.e. a certain state or condition of the eye. The eye’s seeing well is thus a consequence of its possessing its proper virtue. Analogously, the soul’s activity of living well—its being happy—is a consequence of its virtue, justice, which is a certain characteristic or state of the soul.19 Thus _________ 19 What exactly is meant by “consequence” in saying that happiness is a consequence of justice? For now, let us say that Y is a consequence of X if it follows from or results from (ԐʍȡȖįȔȟıț) or comes to be from (ȗȔȗȟıijįț ԐʍȪ) X (cf. 357b5-6, c1-2, d1-2, 358a2, b6). Y will be a consequence of X if X causes Y (e.g. physical fitness is a consequence of exercise: 357c5-d2), but also if X is not by itself a cause of Y, but it enables something to bring about Y (e.g. health enables one to perform vigorous physical activity: 357c1-3). We might call X in the latter case an “enabling condition” of Y; thus health is an enabling condition of vigorous physical activity. The relation between justice and happiness in the argument at the end of Book I seems to exemplify the second way of Y being a consequence of X: justice is an enabling condition of the activity, “living well,” which is constitutive of happiness. This way of understanding “consequence” is admittedly somewhat vague, but we should bear in

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justice (or virtue) is understood as an internal characteristic or state of the soul, and happiness is understood as an activity that results from that characteristic or state.20 This view of the kind of things that justice and happiness are, and how they are related to each other, is obviously very similar to Aristotle’s. Since Socrates views happiness as something that results from justice, it is clear that he does not regard justice as a constituent of happiness: he sees happiness as a consequence of justice.21 III. Problems for the First Interpretation (‘Happiness as Consequence of Justice’) The function argument at the end of Book I seems to give us a quick answer to the first question: since justice is a state of the soul that enables its possessor to perform the activities that are constitutive of happiness, it seems clear that happiness is viewed as something that results from justice, i.e. a consequence of justice. Moreover, if happiness is a consequence of justice, and if, as Socrates claims at the beginning of Book II, justice is valuable for its own sake, we get the interesting conclusion that justice has value independent of its contribution to happiness—the same view that we found in Aristotle. However, when we turn to Book II we immediately see problems for the ‘happiness as consequence of justice’ view. In the first place, Glaucon emphasizes that he wants Socrates to “leave aside the wages and conse_________ mind that Plato’s terminology is similarly vague; our best guide is his terminology (Y “comes from” or “results from” X) and his examples (fitness is a consequence of exercise). Cf. the helpful discussion in White (1984), 410-16. 20 Socrates argues that justice, a state of the soul, is “more profitable” (ȝȤIJțijıȝȒIJijıȢȡȟ) than injustice because of the activity (the “living well”) that it enables one to enjoy. In an interesting reversal, he contends in Books IV and IX, as we shall see, that just action is “more profitable” than unjust action because of the state of the soul, viz. justice, that it produces and preserves. While he also argues in the later books that the just person has a happier life than the unjust person, he does not claim that justice, the psychic state, is therefore “more profitable.” Perhaps the change is due to the introduction of the idea that justice is intrinsically valuable; there seems to be no hint of this idea in Book I. 21 The idea that justice—or any virtue—should be understood as a state or condition of the soul, is a familiar theme in the Socratic dialogues. For instance, in response to Laches’ suggestion that courage is standing firm in battle, Socrates first points out that courage is manifested in many circumstances and types of action, and then asks what is the “power” (İȫȟįμțȣ) or capacity that is manifested in all these actions (192bc); cf. also Charmides 158e-159a, where Socrates suggests that Charmides look within his soul to see whether or not he possesses temperance; cf. 160de.) For the identification of happiness with “doing well” or “acting well”—i.e. with activity—see Charmides 171e-172a, 173d, 174bc; Gorgias 507c3-5; Euthydemus 280b; Crito 48b.

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quences” of justice, and show how it is valuable in itself (358b4-7); but he also asks Socrates to show that the just person is happier than the unjust person. If he wants Socrates to show that justice is valuable for itself and to “leave aside” its consequences, and also wants him to show that justice yields happiness, he must be assuming that happiness is not a consequence of justice, and that showing the just person is happier is a way of showing that justice is valuable for itself.22 Second, when Glaucon asks Socrates in which class of goods he would put justice, Socrates replies that it belongs in the second class and that it is a thing “that must be loved for itself as well as for its consequences by the one who is going to be happy” (358a13). But this seems to imply that loving justice for itself is at the same time loving it for the sake of happiness; for if happiness were regarded as a consequence of justice, in loving justice for the sake of happiness one would not be loving it for itself but rather for one of its consequences. Thus, Socrates’ statement that one who is to be happy must love justice for itself as well as for its consequences seems to indicate that he does not regard happiness as a consequence of justice. A third problem is posed by a passage in Book X in which Socrates retrospectively describes his argument up to that point. He claims that his entire argument has focused exclusively on “justice itself,” and has avoided any appeal to “the rewards and reputations” of justice, i.e. the consequences of justice (612a8-e1). But since he has clearly argued that justice yields a happier life than injustice, he must believe that by showing how justice yields happiness he is showing that it is valuable for itself; and so, again, it seems that Socrates must not regard happiness as a consequence of justice. Now if Socrates holds that happiness is not a consequence of justice, and also that the just person is guaranteed a happier life than the unjust person, then he must regard justice as somehow identical with happiness, or—more plausibly—as a constituent of it.23 And thus we get the second interpretation: ‘justice as constituent of happiness’. On this view, Glaucon’s assumption that showing that justice yields happiness is a way of showing that justice is valuable for its own sake makes perfectly good sense. This interpretation also, of course, makes good sense of the fact that Socrates claims in Book X that he has restricted himself to showing that justice is valuable for itself even though he has argued that justice yields happiness (i.e. that the just person has a happier life than the unjust person). But there is another way of dealing with the problems for the first inter_________ 22 23

Cf. Irwin (1977), 188. For the view that they are identical, see Mabbott (1971), 63; for justice as a constituent of happiness, see Irwin (1995), 190-3; Reeve (1988), 24-33.

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pretation, a way which does not involve the idea that justice is a constituent of happiness. At the beginning of his speech, Glaucon asks Socrates to show what sort of “power” justice has “just by itself” within the soul of its possessor, and he links this to showing how justice is valuable for itself (358b4-7; cf. 366d5-e9, 367b2-6). This suggests that there are two sorts of ‘effects’ that justice produces: those it produces “just by itself” within the soul, and those it produces, not just by itself, but in conjunction with other things. Since Glaucon insists that Socrates “leave aside the consequences,” what he must mean by “consequences” is the effects that justice produces in conjunction with other things such as reputation. If he also thinks that showing the greater happiness of the just life is a way of showing that justice is valuable for itself, then he must be thinking of happiness as an effect that justice might produce in the soul just by itself. This is the third interpretation listed at the beginning: the ‘happiness as direct effect of justice’ view. According to this view, justice is not a part or constituent of happiness, but neither is happiness a consequence of justice—at least as the term “consequence” is understood by Glaucon and Socrates. Happiness is an effect of justice “just by itself,” whereas the “consequences” of justice are the effects it produces in conjunction with other things. If this is a correct account of how Socrates understands justice being valuable for its own sake, then it turns out, again, that he does not regard happiness as a consequence of justice. Both the second and third interpretations hold that happiness is not regarded as a “consequence” of justice, and that to show that justice yields happiness is to show that it is valuable for itself. The two views are also in agreement about the overall structure of Socrates’ argument: in Books IIIX there is a single, continuous argument designed to show that the just person is happier that the unjust, and thereby show that justice is valuable for itself. From beginning to end, there is no appeal to what are called “consequences” of justice, and in particular the argument for the superior happiness of the just person is not an appeal to a “consequence” of justice. The two interpretations differ in two main respects: in their understanding of the relationship between justice and happiness, and of what is meant by the claim that justice is valuable for its own sake. In regard to the latter, the second interpretation takes the claim to be that justice is valuable apart from any and all consequences, while the third takes it to be that justice is valuable for its direct effects on the soul. The fact that Glaucon asks Socrates to show what sort of “power” justice has within the soul, and links this to showing how justice is valuable for itself, poses a further problem for the first interpretation. For the first interpretation understands “justice is valuable for itself” as the claim the

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claim that justice is intrinsically valuable, i.e. apart from any effects it might have. Thus Books II-X pose at least four problems for the ‘happiness as consequence’ interpretation: (1) Glaucon asks Socrates to show that justice is valuable for itself and leave its consequences aside, and he also asks him to show that the just person has a happy life; so he must not regard happiness as a consequence of justice. (2) Socrates says that in loving justice for itself one is at the same time loving it for the sake of happiness, which implies that happiness is not a consequence of justice. (3) Socrates claims that his entire argument up to Book X has been focused on “justice itself,” and has avoided any appeal to consequences of justice; but he has argued that the just person has a happier life, so he cannot hold that happiness is a consequence of justice. (4) Glaucon asks Socrates to show the “power” that justice has within the soul, and links this to showing that justice is valuable for its own sake; this seems to indicate that he does not mean by “justice is valuable for its own sake” that it is intrinsically valuable. In the following sections, I will argue that there are other plausible ways of understanding the passages that give rise to these problems—ways which are not only compatible with, but which support the claims (i) that Socrates regards justice as intrinsically valuable, and (ii) that he views happiness as a consequence of justice. After dealing with the four problems for the ‘happiness as consequence of justice’ interpretation, I will briefly try to show that Socrates’ argument has two main parts: the first devoted to showing that justice is valuable for itself, and the second to showing the superior happiness of the just life.

IV. Glaucon’s Request: “Leave Aside the Wages and Consequences of Justice” Immediately after Socrates states his belief that justice is valuable for itself as well as for its consequences, Glaucon explains what he wants Socrates to show.

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I want to hear what each of them [justice and injustice] is and the power each has just by itself within the soul, and leave aside their wages and the things that come from them (ijȡւȣ İպ μțIJȚȡւȣ Ȝįվ ijո ȗțȗȟȪμıȟį Ԑʍ’ į՘ij‫׭‬ȟ). (358b47)

Glaucon gives the impression that he wants Socrates to ignore the consequences of justice and concentrate on showing how it is valuable for itself. But he also indicates later in his speech that he wants Socrates to show that the just person is happier than the unjust (360e1-362c8). So it seems clear that he does not regard happiness as a consequence of justice. But there is room for doubt as to whether Glaucon wants Socrates to leave aside all consequences of justice, or just those consequences that depend on having a reputation for justice. For in the lines immediately preceding his demand to leave aside the consequences, he mentions that “the many” do not regard justice as valuable for itself, but only for the “rewards and good repute that come from opinion” (358a4-6). This suggests that he is thinking of consequences that depend on reputation, and if so, it may well be that the consequences he wants Socrates to leave aside are those cited by the many, i.e. the ones that depend on reputation. And if he is asking him to leave aside only these consequences, it is possible that he thinks there are other consequences of justice that do not depend on reputation, and happiness may be one of these. On the other hand, the wording of Glaucon’s demand—”leave aside their wages and the things that come from them”—certainly gives the impression that he is asking Socrates to leave aside consequences of whatever sort, not just consequences that depend on reputation. And if the third interpretation is right, Glaucon simply means by “consequences” the benefits that come as a result of reputation. We therefore need to look carefully at both Glaucon’s demand and Adeimantus’ clarification of it in order to see whether they leave room for the view, set forth at the end of Book I, that happiness is a consequence of justice. Let us first examine the third interpretation’s view that what Glaucon means by the “consequences of justice” is simply the benefits that depend on reputation. If we consider Glaucon’s examples of goods that are valued for their consequences, it becomes clear that this cannot be all that he means. In his classification of goods he distinguishes between (i) those valued simply for themselves, (ii) those valued both for themselves and for their consequences, and (iii) those valued simply for their consequences (357b4-d2). Presumably the expressions “valued for themselves” and “valued for their consequences” have the same meaning as applied to the different types of goods. Glaucon mentions “exercise” and “undergoing medical treatment” as examples of goods that are valued simply for their consequences (357c5-7). It is clear that exercise and medical treatment

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produce certain beneficial consequences simply through themselves, and not through something else like reputation. It is surely these direct consequences that Glaucon has in mind when he says that exercise and medical treatment are valued simply for their consequences.24 If so, and if the expression “valued for its consequences” has the same meaning as applied to the different types of goods, then the claim that justice is valued for its consequences cannot mean that it is valued simply for benefits that it produces through reputation. If there are consequences that are directly produced by justice, as there are in the case of exercise and medical treatment, then these too must count as “consequences of justice.” It is clear, then, that Glaucon does not assume that the only valuable consequences of justice are those that depend on reputation—he does not rule out the possibility that there are other consequences directly produced by justice in the way that certain benefits are directly produced by exercise or medical treatment. Glaucon thus leaves open the possibility that there are two sorts of consequences of justice: those that depend on reputation and those that are directly produced by justice itself. But it is still unclear what he means when he asks Socrates to leave aside the rewards and consequences of justice: does he mean just the consequences that depend on reputation, or does he mean any and all consequences? V. Adeimantus’ Request: “Praise Justice Itself, not Its Appearance” Interestingly enough, Adeimantus begins his speech by referring to an unclarity in Glaucon’s speech. Listen further to what I shall say. For in order to clarify what I think Glaucon was getting at, we should also examine the arguments opposed to his, i.e. the arguments that praise justice and condemn injustice. (362e1-4)

Adeimantus goes on to point out that the poets and other authors, beginning with Homer and Hesiod, have commended justice by citing goods that come to the just person from human beings and from the gods (362e4363e4). But these goods all depend on appearance in the sense that they will only come to the just person if he or she appears just to others. Adeimantus endorses Glaucon’s claim that it is possible for someone to be just but appear unjust, and also for someone to be unjust and yet appear just (365a4-366b2). If this is true, he contends, then the poets who sing the _________ 24 Cf. Foster (1937), 387; Kirwan (1965), 165-6; Irwin (1995), 190-1. (We could turn the objection around by saying that since physical fitness is a direct effect of exercise, Glaucon has made a mistake in placing exercise in the third class of goods—it belongs in the first or second class, depending on whether or not it has indirect beneficial effects.)

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praises of justice are actually, whether knowingly or not, praising its appearance and not justice itself (363a1-2, 367b2-c5). The goods cited by the poets are not consequences of justice itself, but of its reputation; and since there is only a contingent relation between having the reputation and actually being just, the effect of their praise on those who are perceptive and clever is to suggest that the appearance is more important than the reality (365a4-c2). If Socrates wants to praise justice itself and not its appearance, he must leave aside all the goods cited by the poets, the consequences that depend on reputation (367b6-c5). Glaucon’s demand to “leave aside the rewards and consequences of justice” left it unclear whether he was urging Socrates to leave aside all consequences or only those that depend on reputation. Adeimantus claims that what Glaucon intended was the latter, i.e. that no appeal should be made to consequences that depend on reputation—”Set aside the reputations (ijոȣ İպ İȪȠįȣ), as Glaucon urged” (367b5-6). Adeimantus’ injunction, “praise justice itself, not its appearance,” sums up his interpretation of Glaucon’s request. The negative part of the injunction is clear enough: do not appeal to consequences that depend on reputation. But the positive part is less clear. In asking Socrates to “praise justice itself” is Adeimantus asking him to show that it is valuable for itself? Or does he want him to show not only that it is valuable for itself but also for consequences that it produces “just by itself”? We have seen that Glaucon’s classification of goods indicates that he is open to the possibility that there are consequences produced by justice through itself in the way that certain benefits are directly produced by exercise or medical treatment.25 In an important passage towards the end of Adeimantus’ speech it becomes clear that he also recognizes this possibility, and that he wants Socrates to show how justice is valuable both for itself and for its direct consequences. You have agreed that justice is one of the greatest goods, those worth acquiring for the sake of their consequences—and even more for themselves—such as seeing, hearing, understanding, being healthy, and other goods that are productive through their own nature (ȗȪȟțμį ij‫ ׇ‬įՙij‫׭‬ȟ ĴȫIJıț) and not through reputation. Praise this, then, about justice: show that it, through itself, benefits its possessors, and that injustice harms them; leave it to others to praise the wages and reputations. (367c5-d5)

Here again Adeimantus stresses the demand to leave aside the rewards that depend on reputation and show how justice “through itself” benefits its possessors. He points out that the other goods belonging to the second class (e.g. health, seeing, understanding) are worth acquiring not only for _________ 25 Recall that just a few pages earlier in the ‘function argument’ Socrates claimed that happiness is just such a consequence of justice.

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their own sake but also for the sake of consequences which they produce “through their own nature and not through reputation.” He wants Socrates to show that justice is similar to these other goods in being valuable in both of these ways. Adeimantus thus envisions three ways in which justice might be valuable: first, it might be valuable for itself, apart from any consequences; second, it might be valuable because of beneficial consequences that it produces through its own nature; and third, it might be valuable for consequences that depend on reputation. However, this way of understanding Adeimantus’ request is not free of difficulties. It might be objected that this passage actually implies that something’s being “valuable for itself” is equivalent to its being productive of benefits through its own nature. For immediately after mentioning that health and understanding are even more valuable for their own sake than for their consequences, Adeimantus points out that they are productive through their own nature and not through reputation—as if to explain how they are valuable for their own sake. Further, one might point to the fact that Adeimantus sums up his request by asking Socrates to show that justice through itself benefits its possessors, which seems to indicate that showing how justice is valuable for itself is a matter of showing what it produces; in other words, he seems to leave no room for the notion that justice is valuable apart from all consequences. The passage therefore seems to support the view that “being valuable for itself” is understood as being productive of benefits through its own nature, while “being valuable for consequences” is understood as being productive of benefits through reputation. However, if this is so, it becomes unclear what Adeimantus could mean by saying that goods like health and understanding are worth acquiring for their consequences. If he holds that these goods are valuable for their own sake as well as for their consequences, and if he identifies their being valuable for their own sake with their being productive of benefits through their own nature, then how does he understand their being valuable for their consequences? He claims that they produce benefits through themselves and not through reputation; he cannot, then, hold that their being valuable for their consequences consists in their being productive of benefits through reputation.26 The consequences for which these goods are con_________ 26 Aren’t there certain benefits derived from appearing to be healthy or wise—benefits that could not be obtained without appearing healthy or wise? Perhaps Adeimantus means that there are certain generally recognized benefits which health and understanding produce “through their own nature,” and these benefits are obtained whether or not one appears healthy or wise. In the case of justice, by contrast, it seems that the generally recognized benefits cited by its advocates cannot be obtained without appearing just. What Socrates

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sidered to be worth acquiring can only be the benefits that they produce through their own nature: goods such as health and understanding are valuable for their consequences insofar as they produce certain benefits through their own nature. And Adeimantus must hold that something’s being valuable for its own sake is its being valuable apart from any benefits that it produces, either through itself or through reputation. This passage thus implies a distinction between (i) something’s being valuable for itself, apart from any consequences, and (ii) its being valuable for benefits which it produces through itself, not through reputation. In regard to the second point, it is true that Adeimantus’ request to be shown how justice through itself “benefits” (ՌȟȔȟșIJțȟ) its possessor suggests that his focus is exclusively on the beneficial consequences produced by justice. But there is an alternative way of understanding the request which leaves open the possibility that he also wants Socrates to show that justice is valuable for itself even if it produces nothing. A good that is “worth acquiring” for its own sake is presumably a good we are better off having than not having; even if such a good produces nothing of value, it may still be worth acquiring because of the kind of thing that it is.27 And if possessing such a good makes us better off, it seems clear that we are benefited through its possession. Any good that is worth acquiring for its own sake can thus be described as “beneficial” insofar as one is better off as a result of possessing it.28 So Adeimantus’ request that Socrates show how justice through itself benefits its possessor is compatible with the view that he wants him to show that justice is valuable both for itself, apart from any consequences, and for the benefits it produces through itself. In the passage we have been discussing, Adeimantus recalls Socrates’ classification of justice as a good that is valuable for its own sake as well as for its consequences. He points out that the other goods belonging to this class have valuable consequences which they produce through their own nature and not through reputation; they are valuable for their own sake but also for consequences which they produce directly through their _________ needs to show, then, is that there are other benefits one obtains from being just, whether or not one appears just. 27 Cf. Aristotle’s claim in Nicomachean Ethics VI 12 that practical and philosophical wisdom are worthy of choice “just by themselves,” even if they “produce nothing” (ıԼ μռ ʍȡțȡ‫ף‬IJț μșİպȟ), since they are the virtues of the two rational parts of the soul (1144a1-3). If they are worthy of choice, then it is better to have them than not to have them; and it is better for us to have them insofar as we are better through having them—they are perfections of our nature. So even if these virtues “produce nothing,” they may benefit us since it is better for us to have them than not have them. Goods may be “beneficial” by being worthy of choice (i) just for themselves (even if they produce nothing), or (ii) for what they produce, or (iii) both for themselves and for what they produce. 28 Cf. Kirwan, (1965), 169-70.

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own nature. As we noted before, he recognizes three ways in which justice might be valuable to its possessor: (i) it might be valuable for its own sake, apart from any consequences; (ii) it might be valuable for consequences which it produces through itself; and (iii) it might be valuable for consequences which it produces through reputation. Adeimantus asks Socrates to “praise justice itself, not its appearance.” To praise the appearance of justice is to commend it for the consequences which it produces through reputation. To praise “justice itself” would involve showing that it is valuable (i) for its own sake, or (ii) for consequences which it produces through itself, or (iii) for both. Since Socrates placed justice among goods that are valuable in both of these ways, Adeimantus wants him to show that it is similar to these goods in being valuable for its own sake as well as for consequences that it produces through its own nature. Adeimantus removes the unclarity in Glaucon’s request by indicating that what they want Socrates to “leave aside” are the rewards and benefits that come from having a reputation for justice. He also makes it clear that they want Socrates to show two things: (1) what justice is and how it is valuable for itself; (2) what are the beneficial consequences, if any, that justice produces through its own nature and not through reputation. My response to the first problem is now complete. Recall that the first problem for the ‘happiness as consequence’ view is that Glaucon asks Socrates to show that justice is valuable for itself and to “leave its consequences aside,” but he also asks him to show that the just person has a happy life; it thus seems that he cannot regard happiness as a consequence of justice. But we noted that it was unclear whether Glaucon wanted Socrates to leave aside any and all consequences, or just the consequences that depend on having a reputation for justice. Adeimantus’ speech, as he indicates, is intended to clarify Glaucon’s demand, and he emphasizes that what they want Socrates to do is “to praise justice itself, and not its appearance.” Praising the appearance of justice would be to show the benefits one gets from having a reputation for justice; it is these benefits that Glaucon and Adeimantus want Socrates to leave aside. We also saw that what Adeimantus means by “praising justice itself” is twofold: it means showing that it is valuable for itself, apart from any benefits that it produces, or showing that it is valuable for benefits that it produces through its own nature, and not through reputation—or showing that it is valuable in both of these ways. So Glaucon’s request should be understood as having two parts: first, show what justice is and that it is valuable for itself; and second, show that the just person has a happier life than the unjust person, but do not appeal to any desirable consequences that depend on reputation. Understood in this way, there is no implication that showing that justice yields happiness is a way of showing that it is valuable for it-

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self; for showing that justice yields happiness may be understood as showing that it has valuable consequences that do not depend on reputation. VI. Socrates’ Statement: “Justice Must be Loved for Itself by One Who is Going to be Happy” The second problem for the view that happiness is a consequence of justice is that when Socrates assigns justice to the second class of goods, and says that it “must be loved for itself as well as for its consequences by one who is going to be happy,” he seems to be saying that if one loves justice for itself one is at the same time loving it for the sake of happiness. Now if happiness were regarded as a consequence of justice, in loving justice for the sake of happiness one would not be loving it for itself but rather for one of its consequences. Thus, given Socrates’ statement that one who is to be happy must love justice for itself as well as for its consequences, it seems that he cannot regard happiness as a consequence of justice. This argument is put forward by Terence Irwin in Plato’s Ethics.29 Irwin recognizes that in the ‘function argument’ at the end of Book I happiness is viewed as a consequence of justice, but he thinks that there is an important shift in Book II: he argues, on the basis of Socrates’ statement about loving justice for itself as well as for its consequences, that justice is now viewed as a part or constituent of happiness. Let us consider more carefully Socrates’ actual statement: “...one who is going to be happy must love [justice] both for itself as well as for its consequences” (358a1-3). Irwin claims that this statement implies that “in choosing justice for the sake of happiness we also choose it for itself” (190). It is important to note, however, that Socrates does not say that we choose or love justice for the sake of happiness; rather, he says that one who is going to be happy (ij‫ ׮‬μȒȝȝȡȟijț μįȜįȢȔ‫ ׫‬ԤIJıIJȚįț) must love justice for itself as well as for its consequences.30 This statement is not inconsistent with the view that happiness is a consequence of justice. For we can understand Socrates to be claiming that happiness is a consequence of justice which can only be obtained if one loves justice for itself, and not simply for its consequences. The rationale for such a claim would be, first, that in order to be happy one _________ 29 30

See Irwin (1995), 190-1. For other occurrences of the expression “one who is going to be happy,” see, e.g., 419a9-10, 427d5-6, 498c2-4; cf. Gorgias 507d5-6, Euthydemus 280d4-6. Socrates does not seem to speak (as Aristotle does) of pursuing justice or virtue for the sake of happiness. In the Gorgias, he says that “the good is the end of all actions,” and that everything should be done for its sake (499e7-500a1); but his later specification of the good identifies it with virtue, not happiness (506c7-d4).

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must be just, and second, in order to be just one must love justice for itself and not simply for its consequences. Since Socrates believes that justice is valuable for itself, he presumably also believes that a just person will love justice for itself (cf. 361b8-c3). Thus there is a perfectly plausible way of understanding Socrates’ statement that is consistent with happiness being a consequence of justice: we do not need to suppose that Socrates significantly revises his understanding of the relationship between happiness and justice without giving us any indication that he is doing so. It is also noteworthy that nowhere in the Republic does Socrates speak of justice as a constituent of happiness, nor does he speak of happiness as a whole made up of parts.31 VII. Socrates’ Retrospective Comments on his Argument The third problem for the ‘happiness as consequence of justice’ view is the passage in Book X in which Socrates, looking back on his entire argument, seems to say that he has limited himself to showing how justice is valuable for itself, thus implying that he has not appealed to any beneficial consequences of justice.32 If this is right, it would indicate that he does not regard happiness as a consequence of justice, for he certainly has argued (in Books VIII-IX) that the just person has a happier life than the unjust person.33 It is worth taking a careful look at this passage: Haven’t we answered the other charges [against justice] in our argument, and haven’t we refrained from invoking the ‘wages’ and reputations of justice, as you said Homer and Hesiod did? And haven’t we found that justice itself is the best thing for the soul itself, and that the soul should do what is just, even if it should have the ring of Gyges or the cap of Hades too? We have. That’s absolutely true. Then can there now be any objection, Glaucon, if in addition to those [goods provided by justice itself; cf. 614a1-2], we restore the various sorts of wages which justice and the rest of virtue provide for the soul from human beings and gods, both while a person is alive and after death? None whatever. Then will you give me back what you borrowed during the argument?

_________ 31 32

Cf. White (1984), 400. See, e.g., Cross and Woozley (1964), 62, 66: White (1984), 401; Reeve (1988), 25,

n.20. 33 This passage would also seem to support the view that justice is a constituent of happiness, if we assume that something’s being “valuable for itself” is its being valuable apart from any consequences.

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What do you mean? I granted to you that the just man should appear unjust and the unjust just, for you demanded that, even if it’s impossible for these things to escape the notice of gods and men, this should still be granted for the sake of the argument, in order that justice itself could be judged in relation to injustice itself. Don’t you remember that? It would be unjust not to. Well, then, since they’ve now been judged, I demand back on behalf of justice the reputation it has among gods and humans (and we agree about its appearing such), so that it may also recover the prizes, obtained through appearing just, which they [gods and humans] give to those who possess it; for the goods which it gives, through being just, are already clear, and also that it is no deceiver of those who truly possess it. Your demand is just. (612a8-e1)

Socrates begins with the claim that up to this point his argument has focused on “justice itself,” and has not appealed to any of the “wages and reputations” (ȡ՘ ijȡւȣ μțIJȚȡւȣ ȡ՘İպ ijոȣ İȪȠįȣ) of justice; and the contrast between justice itself and its “wages” and “rewards” is repeated in the passage and in its sequel (see 613e6-614a3). So it looks as if Socrates is saying that his argument to this point has been limited to showing how justice is valuable for itself; and this is how most interpreters have understood the passage. However, the contrast Socrates is invoking is not between showing how justice is valuable for itself and showing how it is valuable for its consequences.34 First of all, it becomes clear in the course of the passage that the “wages and rewards” which he refers to are those that depend on reputation or seeming to be just. He speaks of them both (i) as goods which justice “procures for the soul from gods and men” (612b7-c3; cf. 613e6614a3a), and (ii) as goods that are acquired through “seeming to be just” (612d6-9). The connection of course is that the just person will receive rewards from others for being just only if he seems just to them. These goods that come “from gods and men” are contrasted with goods that come from being, as opposed to appearing, just (612d8-9), or goods “provided by justice itself” (614a2-3). Socrates’ claim is that his argument focused only on goods that come from justice itself, goods that come from being just rather than from seeming to be just. Socrates’ contrast here in Book X is parallel to Adeimantus’ contrast between “praising justice itself” and “praising its appearance.” Praising the appearance of justice is done by appealing to the goods that come to a just person only if that person appears just to others; these are goods that come _________ 34

Cf. Annas (1981), 348-9.

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either from other people or from the gods. “Praising justice itself,” on the other hand, is a matter of showing that it is valuable for itself or that there are valuable consequences produced by justice itself—not dependent on reputation. Socrates does not claim that he has restricted himself to showing that justice is valuable for itself, and avoided any appeal to consequences of justice. He claims that he has focused on showing how justice itself is valuable and has avoided any appeal to reputation-dependent consequences. And therefore his argument that the just person has a happier (and more pleasant) life may be understood as showing how justice is valuable for its consequences, i.e. consequences that are produced directly by justice itself. This would be one way of showing how justice itself is valuable. Another way would be to show that justice is valuable for itself, apart from any consequences it might yield. VIII. Glaucon’s Request: “Show What Justice Does to the Soul of its Possessor” The final problem that we need to address is: what exactly do the interlocutors mean when they speak of justice as something valuable for its own sake? I argued earlier that Adeimantus understands something’s being valuable for itself as its being valuable apart from any consequences it might have. However, if we look again at Glaucon’s original request, it is not clear that this is how he understands something’s being valuable for itself. I want to hear what each of them [justice and injustice] is and the power each has just by itself within the soul, and leave aside their wages and consequences (ijȡւȣ İպ μțIJȚȡւȣ Ȝįվ ijո ȗțȗȟȪμıȟį Ԑʍ’ į՘ij‫׭‬ȟ). (358b4-7)

Glaucon’s reference to the “power” that justice has “just by itself within the soul” seems to indicate that he wants Socrates to show what justice does to the soul, i.e. what effects it causes or brings about within the soul. And he contrasts showing this with appealing to the “wages and consequences” of justice. Thus it seems that Glaucon wants Socrates to show how justice is valuable for itself by demonstrating the effects which it causes within the soul of the just person. And it has been suggested that Socrates satisfies this demand by showing how justice “just by itself” yields happiness; i.e., the argument for the just person having a happier life is meant to satisfy the demand to show how justice is valuable for itself. Adeimantus also asks Socrates to show what “justice does” within the soul of its possessor at one point in his speech.

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Socrates, of all of you who have claimed to praise justice, from the heroes of old whose speeches survive, to the men of the present day, not one has yet praised justice or blamed injustice except by appeal to the good repute, the honors, and the rewards that come from them. No one has yet adequately explained, either in poetry or prose, what each does of its own power within the soul of its possessor...whereby the one [injustice] is the greatest evil that the soul can have in it, and justice the greatest good. (366d7-e9; cf. 367b2-6)

Here again what justice does within the soul is contrasted with its rewards and consequences. In this passage at least, Adeimantus also seems to imply that showing how justice is valuable for itself is a matter of showing the power that it has to produce certain effects within the soul of its possessor. These passages appear to indicate that both Glaucon and Adeimantus understand something’s being valuable for itself as its being productive through itself of certain consequences or effects. Some interpreters have pointed out that the language used by Glaucon and Adeimantus does not necessarily imply that they are thinking of justice as producing certain effects that we would call causal, as, e.g., exercise produces increased strength and endurance in the body.35 For we can speak of X “making” something F where the relationship between X and F is not causal but rather formal or logical. For example, consider the following remark by Aristotle in his discussion of virtue. It should be said then that every virtue ‘accomplishes’ (Ԑʍȡijıȝı‫ )ה‬the good condition of that of which it is the virtue and makes the work (ԤȢȗȡȟ) of that thing be done well; e.g. the virtue of the eye makes (ʍȡțı‫ )ה‬both the eye and its work good; for it is through the virtue of the eye that we see well. ... If this holds true in every case, then the virtue of a human being will be the state (ԣȠțȣ) which makes a human being good and insures that the work of a human being is done well.36

Aristotle claims that it is a general property of the virtue of a thing that it makes that thing good, i.e. a good specimen of its kind, and also makes its work be done well. The second part of this claim is familiar from Socrates’ argument at the end of Republic I: he says that for anything that has a work or function (ԤȢȗȡȟ) there is a particular virtue or excellence (ԐȢıijȓ) that enables it to perform its work well (353b14-c7). Moreover, the first part of the claim is implied by Socrates’ assumption that a soul that possesses its particular virtue will be a good soul (353d11-e5).37 In claiming that the virtue of X makes X a good specimen of its kind, Aristotle does not _________ 35 36

See Mabbott (1971), 60; Kirwan (1965), 172-3; Irwin (1995), 191. Nicomachean Ethics II 6, 1106a15-24; cf. Topics V 3, 131a37-b4, where it is suggested that “that which makes (ʍȡțı‫ )ה‬its possessor good” is a proprium (Հİțȡȟ) of virtue. 37 Cf. Gorgias 506d1-4: “[Our] good is that through the possession of which we are good. But we—and everything that can be said to be good—are good through the possession of a particular excellence or virtue (ԐȢıijȓ).”

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mean that there is (what we would consider) a causal relation between X’s virtue and its being good. The relation he seems to have in mind is explanatory but not causal: we explain X’s being good by pointing to its possession of a particular virtue and specifying what that virtue is. We might say that X’s being good is a constitutive effect of its possessing its proper virtue: its being good consists in its possessing its proper virtue. In a similar way, we might understand the relationship between justice and “what it does” in the soul (its “effect”) as constitutive rather than causal. Those who advocate this way of understanding “what justice does” in the soul see a connection between this part of Glaucon’s request and Socrates’ later argument that justice makes the soul happy. They argue that Socrates views happiness as a constitutive effect of justice since he believes that part of what it is to be happy is to be just.38 I agree that we should understand Glaucon’s reference to “what justice does” constitutively; however, I do not think that happiness is the constitutive effect of justice that Socrates eventually argues for. In order to determine how Socrates understands Glaucon’s request, we should look to see where, if at all, he attempts to show the effect that justice has on the soul of its possessor. In making his request, Glaucon says that he wants Socrates to show both what justice is, and what power it has by itself within the soul. In the concluding section of Book IV, Glaucon agrees that Socrates has satisfied the first part of his request. Well, then, if we should claim to have discovered the just man and the just city, and what justice is in each, I take it that we would not seem to be saying something untrue. Certainly not. Shall we claim it, then? We shall. (444a3-7)

Interestingly enough, in the passage leading up to this conclusion, Socrates refers to the “power” of justice. Are you still looking for justice to be something different from this power which produces such men and such cities? No, I am not. (443b4-6)

What Socrates has in mind is more fully spelled out in his earlier discussion of justice in the city. And surely if we had to decide which of the four is chiefly responsible for making the city good by its presence, it would be difficult to decide whether it was the agreement in belief between rulers and ruled, or the preservation

_________ 38

See, e.g., Irwin (1995), 191; Kirwan (1965), 171-2.

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among the warriors of the belief... about what is and is not to be feared, or the guardians’ wisdom inherent in the rulers, or this which most of all makes it [the city] good, viz. that each person (child, woman, slave, freeman, craftsman, ruler, ruled) does his or her own work and not someone else’s. How could it not be difficult? In its contribution to the excellence (ԐȢıijȓ) of the city, then, it seems that this power of each doing his own work rivals the city’s wisdom, its temperance, and its courage. It does indeed. And wouldn’t you call that which rivals these in its contribution to the city’s excellence justice? Certainly. (433c4-e2)

Socrates speaks of justice in the city as having a certain power, and characterizes it as that which chiefly makes it good. Since the city’s being good amounts to its being just, wise, temperate, and courageous (cf. 427e6-12), its goodness must be a constitutive, not a causal, effect of justice. In a similar way, justice in the individual is chiefly responsible for making the soul good, and thereby the individual human being good.39 Socrates is making the same sort of point that Aristotle makes when he says that virtue “makes” its possessor good. It seems clear that these passages in Book IV are meant to address Glaucon’s demand to show “what justice is, and what power it has, just by itself, in the soul;” there are no other passages in the Republic that speak of the “power” of justice.40 When Socrates says that the power of justice is to make its possessor good, he clearly does not mean that the goodness of an individual or city is a causal effect of justice (as, e.g., increased strength is a causal effect of exercise); for the goodness of an individual or city consists in its possession of justice and the other virtues. The argument is that the goodness or excellence of an individual consists chiefly in each of the three parts of the soul doing its own work, and this state of the soul is justice. When Socrates says that justice makes its possessor good, he is using “makes” in a constitutive rather than causal sense.41 _________ 39 Notice that at 444c5-e2 Socrates first suggests that what health is in the body justice is in the soul, and then says that virtue is a kind of health and good condition of the soul. One might see this and the other passages quoted from Book IV as tying up a loose end from Book I: viz. the unsupported claim that justice is not only a virtue (cf. 354c1-2) but the virtue of the soul (335c1-5, 353e7-9). 40 At 588b6-8, Socrates speaks of the power of just and unjust action, but not of the power of justice as a state of the soul. 41 Even though Socrates’ conclusion that it is justice (more than anything else) that makes an individual good is not to be understood causally, it is still a claim with some bite; he is rejecting Thrasymachus’ claim that it is “complete” injustice rather than justice that

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We began this section by noting that Glaucon distinguishes between showing the power that justice has in the soul and showing how it is valuable for “its wages and consequences,” and asks Socrates to forgo the latter and concentrate on the former. He evidently wants Socrates to show how justice is valuable for itself by showing what effects it has on the soul of the just person. As we have seen, the effects in question are constitutive rather than causal. We might express more clearly what Glaucon is after with the question: What happens to the soul when one acquires justice, and how does this make it clear that justice is valuable simply for itself? We’ve noticed that at the end of Book IV Socrates takes himself to have given a satisfactory account of what justice is,42 and what it “does” to the soul of the just person. I will now try to show that Socrates regards this part of his argument as a demonstration of how justice is valuable for itself. This will support our claim that what is meant by justice’s being valuable for its own sake is its being intrinsically valuable. IX. Socrates’ Analogy between Justice and Health (444a4-445a4) Socrates does not of course say at the end of Book IV that he has shown that justice is valuable for itself; in fact, he does not say this at any point in his argument in the Republic. But there are two reasons for thinking that Socrates takes himself to have shown this at the end of Book IV. First, he claims that justice is a condition of the soul analogous to health in the body (in fact, he says at 444d13-e1 that, qua virtue, justice is “a certain health of the soul”), and since it was agreed that health is valuable for itself it would follow that justice is valuable in the same way. Second, Socrates points to intrinsic features of justice and health which are plausibly viewed as reasons for taking them to have value in themselves; in other words, he is here providing some support for the claim in Book II that health and justice are valuable for their own sake. In order to see this, let us look briefly at the relevant parts of the passage. After the long discussion of justice and the other virtues in the city and the soul, Socrates asks Glaucon if it is fair to say that they have discovered the nature of justice and injustice (444a4-6 and b1-c3). Glaucon’s agreement indicates that he is satisfied that his original demand to be shown _________ makes men good (and wise; cf. 348d1-e4, 349d3-4). And if it is agreed that the virtue of a thing is that which makes it good, i.e. a good specimen of its kind (cf. 350c4-d8), then Socrates is also rejecting Thrasymachus’ claim that justice is not a virtue. 42 We have a more complete account by the end of Book VII, since at that point we have a fuller understanding of what is involved in the rational part of the soul “doing its own work.”

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what justice and injustice are has been met (cf. 358b4-5). Socrates then points out that since it is now clear what justice and injustice are, it is also clear what it is to act justly and unjustly: just and unjust actions are to the soul what healthful and diseaseful things are to the body—just as healthful things produce health and diseaseful things disease, so just actions produce justice and unjust actions injustice (444c1-d1; cf.443e2-444a2).43 Just action is thus distinguished from justice understood as a state or condition of the soul,44 and it is defined by its relationship to that state: just actions are those that “produce” or “preserve” the state of the soul that has been identified as justice (444c8-d11, 443e4-6). And just as healthful actions produce health by establishing the body’s parts in a relationship of “ruling and being ruled in accordance with nature,” so just actions establish the parts of the soul in a relationship of ruling and being ruled that is in accordance with nature (444d3-11). And disease and injustice will be conditions in which the parts are related "contrary to nature." Socrates infers that justice, and virtue in general, must then be a kind of health and beauty and good condition of the soul, while vice will be disease and ugliness and weakness; and beautiful or noble pursuits (Ȝįȝո Ԛʍțijșİıȫμįijį) lead to virtue, ugly or base pursuits to vice (444d13-e5). After making these points about the nature of just and unjust action, their relationship to justice and injustice, and the nature of these states of the soul, Socrates poses the following question: It now remains for us, it seems, to inquire whether it is more profitable to act justly and engage in noble pursuits (Ȝįȝո Ԛʍțijșİıȫμįijį) and to be just whether one is known to be so or not, or to act unjustly and be unjust provided one doesn’t pay the penalty and become better as a result of punishment. (444e7-445a4)

By raising this question at this point, Socrates seems to imply that they are now in a position to answer it, if only provisionally. Glaucon’s response is that, given that justice and injustice are states of the sort described, and that just and unjust action are productive of the corresponding states, it is obvious that it is more profitable to act justly and be just; as he puts it, in the light of their findings the “question is ridiculous” (445a5-6). Socrates agrees that it is ridiculous (445b5), but says that they must go further in order to see “as clearly as possible that these things are true” (445b5-7). He evidently believes that they have reached a point at which they can conclude that acting justly and being just is more profitable than acting _________ 43 Cf. the similar point made in Crito 47c8-48a4 (at 47d8-9, ijȡ‫ ף‬ՙȗțıțȟȡ‫ ף‬and ijȡ‫ף‬ ȟȡIJ‫׭‬İȡȤȣ—should be translated as “the healthful” and “the diseaseful” rather than as “health” and “disease” [Grube, Fowler, etc.]; cf. Republic 444c8). 44 A ԥȠțȣ: 443e6; cf. 591b4, 592a3, 618d1, etc.

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unjustly and being unjust, but he also believes that they can and should provide a stronger basis for this conclusion.45 In saying that just actions are those that produce the state or condition of justice in the soul, Socrates is clearly viewing justice as a causal consequence of just action (just as health is a causal consequence of healthful things). And when he asks whether just actions are more profitable than unjust actions, he is asking about their causal consequences, i.e. about the relative value of the states produced by these actions.46 He believes that, given what has been said about these states, it should be clear which sort of action is more ‘profitable’, i.e. which state is preferable or more desirable. Just as health is a good and desirable state and disease the opposite, so justice is good and desirable and injustice the opposite; and therefore acting justly is more ‘profitable’ than acting unjustly. But what is it about justice that makes it good and desirable? It seems clear that the features mentioned in the preceding lines (444d3-e5) are intended to provide an answer. Justice is (i) a state of the soul in which its parts are related in accordance with nature (with regard to ruling and being ruled); (ii) it is a kind of health of the soul; (iii) it is also a kind of beauty and good condition of the soul. Simply by virtue of having these characteristics—leaving aside any beneficial consequences it might have—justice is seen to be a valuable, desirable state.47 The claim that justice is a kind of health of the soul is particularly important, for at the beginning of Book II Glaucon _________ 45 White argues that Socrates does not reach even a provisional conclusion at the end of Book IV; see White (1986), 34-41. However, as Kraut points out ([1992], 315, n.9]), Glaucon and Socrates clearly agree that justice is more profitable than injustice (i.e. just action is more profitable than unjust), and they must believe that they have some basis for this conclusion—which indeed they do, as we have seen. As we shall see, one way in which Books VIII-IX provide a stronger basis is by giving a clearer, more detailed description of what injustice is like and what it “does” to the soul of its possessor. The argument in Book IV is adequate to support its conclusion, but it is strengthened and deepened by parts of the arguments in Books VIII-IX. 46 Kraut claims that when “Plato asks at 444e7-445a4 whether justice is more profitable (lusitelei) than injustice, he is in effect asking whether the just person is happier”; see Kraut (1992), 332, n.7. Notice, however, that Socrates’ focus is on just and unjust actions, and he has just characterized such actions as those that produce the states of justice and injustice in the soul. Thus, in the context, Socrates’ question is naturally understood as: ‘Given that justice and injustice are psychic states of the sort we have just described, and that just and unjust actions are actions that produce these states, is it more profitable to act unjustly and be unjust or to act justly and be just?’ (445a1-3) The answer to this question might depend on whether the just person is happier, but this does not seem to be what Socrates is asking Glaucon to consider in giving his answer. 47 I thus agree with Annas that the argument in Books II-IV is aimed at showing how justice is “valuable for its own sake” in the sense that it has value which is not derived from any beneficial consequences, including happiness; see Annas (1981), 168-70; cf. 294, 314. For a discussion of intrinsic, ‘good-making’, features in Plato, see Bobonich (2002), 161-2.

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mentioned health as a good that is valuable for itself as well as for its consequences. If it is now agreed that justice is a kind of health, then it too must be a good that is valuable for itself. There is no mention in this passage of any goods produced by justice: just action is good insofar as it produces the state of the soul which is identified as justice, but Socrates does not cite any beneficial consequences of possessing this state. 48 Justice must have value since it is agreed that the actions that produce it are ‘profitable’. And since nothing has been said about valuable effects produced by this state, the value in question must reside in the nature of justice itself. In other words, justice must have value in itself, apart from any beneficial consequences that it may produce. The argument at the end of Book IV actually meets two challenges posed by Glaucon and Adeimantus. In their speeches, they take up Thrasymachus’ claim that injustice is “more profitable” than justice, and it is clear that they mean that unjust action is more profitable (360c8-d2, 364a5-6, 367c1-5; cf. 344c6-8, 348b9-c1). The argument at the end of Book IV counters this claim by drawing a connection between just and unjust action and the effects of such action on the soul of the agent: since just action produces a condition or state analogous to health while unjust action produces the opposite effect, just action is more profitable.49 Thus the argument meets the challenge to show that justice, understood as just action, is more profitable than injustice, and at the same time demonstrates that justice, understood as a state of the soul, is valuable for its own sake. As we will see, the same pattern of argument—showing the greater ‘profitability’ of just action by focusing on the effects of just and unjust action on the soul—reappears in the final section of Book IX.50 _________ 48 At 444e7-445a4, Socrates asks “whether it is profitable to act justly, engage in noble pursuits, and be just.” “Being just” might be understood as a variant for “acting justly,” or it might refer to the possession of justice in the soul. If it is understood in the second way, it might seem that Socrates is asking whether justice, as a state of the soul, is productive of goods; in this case, the question would be puzzling in that nothing has been said so far about goods produced by this state. But Socrates might also be asking whether, considering the state just by itself, one is better off possessing it than not possessing it (see above, pp.1415). But it seems more likely that Socrates is using “being just” (ıՂȟįț İȔȜįțȡȟ, 445a2) as a variant for acting justly; for as we shall see, the final section of Book IX (588b-592b) is a reprise and elaboration of the argument at the end of Book IV, and the question there is clearly about action: whether acting justly is more profitable than acting unjustly (see especially 588b1-589b7). 49 Socrates makes a similar point in the Gorgias when he explains why it is worse to commit than to suffer injustice it by pointing to the effects of unjust action on the soul of the agent (474c4-479e9; cf. Crito 47c5-48a4). 50 See above, n.20.

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X. The Structure of Socrates’ argument in Books II-IX I have tried to show how Socrates’ argument at the end of Book IV is designed to satisfy Glaucon’s demand to show what justice and injustice are and that justice is valuable for itself, i.e. that it is valuable apart from any consequences. If it is true that Socrates views happiness as a consequence of justice, then we would naturally expect his argument for the superior happiness of the just life to be distinct from his account of how justice is valuable for itself. So if the argument at the end of Book IV is designed to show that justice is valuable for itself, it should involve no appeal to happiness. As we have seen, Socrates makes no explicit appeal to happiness or to any valuable consequences of justice in his concluding arguments in Book IV.51 The arguments in VIII-IX, on the other hand, are clearly aimed at showing that the just person has a happier and more pleasant life than the unjust person. It seems reasonable to suppose, then, that Socrates’ argument has two parts: in Books II-IV he gives an account of the origin and nature of justice and injustice, and shows that justice is valuable for itself and that just action is more profitable than unjust action; then in VIII-IX he argues for the superior happiness and pleasantness of the just life, and this argument shows that justice is valuable for certain consequences that do not depend on reputation. I believe that Socrates’ argument does have two main parts, but, as we shall see, the parts are not so neatly separated from each other. For a better understanding of how Socrates’ argument is structured, it will be helpful to consider Glaucon’s defense of injustice in Book II. He tells Socrates he is going to make as strong a case as he can for the unjust life, and in doing so “I will show you the way in which I want to hear you praise justice and denounce injustice” (358d3-6). Glaucon’s praise of injustice is thus supposed to provide a pattern for how he wants Socrates to praise justice. His speech consists of three parts. He first gives an account of the origin and nature of justice, which shows that it is not pursued as something desirable in itself (358e1-359b5). He then argues, using the tale of the ring of Gyges, that injustice is desirable and is avoided only because of our lack of power to get away with it, and that all who act justly do so “unwillingly” (359b6-360d7).52 And finally he contrasts the lives of the just and the unjust, and argues that a “perfectly unjust person” has a better and happier life than a “perfectly just person” (360e1-362c8). Glaucon’s contention that those who act justly do so “unwillingly” seems designed to support _________ 51 He does appeal, as we noticed, to justice as a valuable consequence of just action, but not to any valuable consequences of justice understood as a state of the soul. 52 It’s interesting to note that this is the antithesis of Socrates’ claim that all unjust action is involuntary: see Gorgias 509e2-7; cf. Protagoras 345d8-e4.

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the claim of the first argument that justice is not something desired for itself: he argues that no one would pursue justice if one had the power to get away with injustice—i.e. justice is pursued as the lesser of two evils.53 So there are actually two main parts of Glaucon’s praise of injustice: first, an account of the origin and nature of justice and injustice which is supposed to show that justice is not desirable for itself; and second, an examination of the lives of a “perfectly unjust” and a “perfectly just” person which reveals that the life of the former is “better and happier” than that of the latter (358c4-6, 361d2-3, 362c6-8). If Socrates’ defense of justice follows the pattern of Glaucon’s defense of injustice, we would expect him to begin with an account of the origin and nature of justice and injustice and show that justice is valuable for itself while injustice is the opposite; he would then go on to consider the lives of the “perfectly just” and the “perfectly unjust” person, and show that the life of the former is better and happier. Socrates’ argument to the end of Book IV seems to correspond to the first part of Glaucon’s defense: he gives an account of the origin and nature of justice and injustice, and, as we have seen, argues that justice is valuable for itself (and that it is more ‘profitable’ to act justly than unjustly). Throughout the discussion of justice and injustice in Book IV there is no mention of a perfectly just or unjust person, and no discussion of what the life of a just person is like.54 Socrates’ focus in this first stage of his argument is on showing how the soul is made up of three parts, and that justice and injustice should be understood as naturally correct and incorrect relationships among those parts. Later, in Books VIII-IX, the focus eventually shifts to the comparison of _________ 53 Cf. 359b1-4 with b6-c6; also 359a7-b11 with 360c5-8. It is worth noting that throughout these arguments Glaucon understands justice in terms of certain patterns of behavior—what is sometimes called “conventional” or “vulgar” justice; cf. Sachs (1963). But when he initially asks Socrates to show “the power that justice has within the soul,” he seems to be thinking of it as something found within the soul; cf. Adeimantus’ reference to “what justice does within the soul of its possessor” (366e5-6)—justice which is possessed and found within one’s soul is clearly something different from the just actions which one performs. In presenting the case against justice being valuable for itself, the brothers understand “justice” as just action (as Thrasymachus does); but when they ask Socrates to show how justice is valuable for itself (358b4-7, 366d5-e9, 367b2-6), they envision justice as something within the soul. 54 In the opening pages of Book IV, Adeimantus accuses Socrates of having deprived the Guardians of all the goods that make for a happy life (419a1-420b7). Socrates does not, at this point, attempt to show that the Guardians will in fact have a happy life; he says that “by continuing along the same path, we will discover what should be said” about their happiness (420b3-4)—i.e. a discussion of the kind of life the Guardians will lead and the nature of their happiness will come in due course; nothing more is said about their life or happiness in the remainder of IV. Socrates first returns to the kind of life enjoyed by the Guardians, and their happiness, in Book V (465d-466c).

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the lives of the just and the unjust.55 Socrates compares the life of his philosopher-rulers with that of the tyrant, who is the embodiment of perfect injustice, and judges the one to be happiest and the other to be most miserable (580a9-c8). However, as we noticed earlier, at the end of Book IV Socrates urges his interlocutors to forge ahead in their discussion in order “to see as clearly as possible” that what they have agreed to is in fact true (445b5-7). He then turns to an examination of the four defective constitutions (and types of soul), which is interrupted at the beginning of Book V and then resumed at the beginning of VIII. The clear implication is that the discussion of the defective constitutions and souls in VIII-IX will provide further support for the conclusion reached at the end of IV. But how, exactly, does the later discussion provide support for the conclusion that it is more ‘profitable’ to act justly than unjustly because of the effects of each on the soul? Socrates mentions at the end of IV that there appears to be just one form of goodness, but four forms of badness that are worthy of consideration; and there are five corresponding types of constitution and soul (445c1-d1). The good and just constitution and soul have already been described;56 the next task is to examine the four defective constitutions and souls (445d3-449a5). So their position at the end of Book IV is that, although they have an adequate account of the good and just soul, the account of the vicious and unjust soul needs further elaboration. Given the sort of psychic state that justice is, and the fact that this state is fostered by _________ 55 As we mentioned in the preceding note, Socrates first broaches the subject of the kind of life, and the happiness, enjoyed by the Guardians in Book V, at 465d-466c. (Glaucon, in his answer to Socrates’ question at the end of IV—whether just or unjust action is more profitable—says that life is not worth living for the unjust; 445a5-b4. However Socrates, up to this point, has said nothing about the life of the unjust, and this is perhaps why he replies that more needs to be said in order to establish that this is the case.) After describing the kind of life that Auxiliaries and Guardians (in the strict sense) will lead, he claims that it will be a happier life than that of Olympic victors (465d2-e3). Socrates makes it clear that he is here thinking of the kind of life and happiness that is characteristic of the Auxiliaries (466a8-b2); nothing has yet been said about the sort of life led by the philosopher-kings. At the beginning of Book VI, he mentions the lives of the just and unjust, and says that much more needs to be said in order to see how they differ from each other (484a5-b1). Then, in Book VII, he describes the supremely happy life of study and contemplation led by the philosopher-kings—who, as we shall see, are his exemplars of perfect justice; see, e.g., 518b1-2, 519c5-6, 519d8-9, 520e4-521b2; cf. 540b5-c2. Finally, in Book IX, as the discussion turns to the tyrant, the perfectly unjust man, there are frequent references to the kind of life he leads: 571a1-3, 572c6-d3, 573c11-12, 574e2-575a7, 578b11-c7, 579c4-d2; and in the two ‘pleasure’ arguments, the issue is the ranking of lives in terms of their pleasantness: 581c8-582a2, 583a1-5, 587b8-11, 587d12-588a10. 56 Though an even better constitution and soul will come to light in V-VII: see 543c4544a1.

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just action, it is clear that just action is profitable; but in order to be sure that it is more profitable than unjust action, Socrates needs to provide a fuller account of injustice by describing the four types of unjust soul. And one of the main tasks of VIII-IX is of course to provide such an account. The first part of Socrates’ argument, then, extends beyond Book IV. The argument at the end of IV establishes that justice is valuable for itself and that just action is therefore profitable, but the proof that just action is more profitable than unjust action is not complete until the four forms of injustice have been described in VIII-IX. The second part of the argument, which is aimed at showing the superior happiness and pleasantness of the life of the perfectly just man (or woman, 540c5-7) actually begins in Books V-VII. In Book V, Socrates for the first time refers back to Glaucon’s comparison of the lives of the perfectly just and unjust in regard to happiness and misery (472b3-d2). When we reach the end of IV we have an account of justice and of a just man (444a4-6; cf. 449a1-2), and this account is apparently adequate for the purpose of showing that justice is valuable for its own sake. But we do not yet have a basis for forming a conception of a perfectly just person. This is pretty clearly implied by a passage at the beginning of Book VIII. Socrates asks Glaucon to remind him of where they were at the point at which they “turned aside from their path” (in Book V) and took on the discussion of philosophy and the education of the philosopher-kings. But since we have completed this discussion, let us recall the point at which we turned aside from our original path and ended up here, so that we can continue from where we left off. That isn’t difficult, for, much the same as now, you were talking as if you had completed the description of the city. You said that you would class both the city you described and the man who is like it as good, even though, as it seems, you had a still finer city and man to tell us about. (543c4-544a1; cf. 449a1-2)

Glaucon’s response implies that Books V-VII give a description of an even better man and city than we had before us at the end of IV; and since they are better, they must be more just.57 The main additional element, of _________ 57 Some might argue that Plato does not allow for degrees of justice. For in order to be just, the rational part of one’s soul must perform its function of ruling, and to do this properly it must possess knowledge of the Form of the Good. So only philosophers who have achieved this knowledge will count as just for Plato; see, e.g., Cross and Woozley (1964), 126; Cooper (1977); Bobonich (2002), 42-5. This is an issue I cannot discuss here, but it’s worth noting that Socrates’ references to a “perfectly” just man (472c4-8; cf. 580b8-c3) seem to imply the possibility of a person who is just but falls short of “perfect” justice; see also 619c6-d1. For a recent defense of the view that non-philosophers can partake of genuine virtue, see Kamtekar (1998).

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course, is the account of philosophy and of the sort of knowledge that the philosopher-kings must possess. If it is true that perfect justice requires philosophy, then Socrates is justified in appealing to the superior pleasures of philosophy in arguing that the life of the perfectly just person is happier and more pleasant than the life of the perfectly unjust person (580c4588a10). Books V-VII provide half of what is needed for the comparison of lives: they give us an account of the perfectly just person and some idea of what his or her life is like.58 Books VIII-IX (to 580d) give us the second half: an account of the perfectly unjust tyrant and the sort of life he leads. Books V-VII are often said to be a digression from the argument for justice in II-IV and VIII-IX. However, these books together with VIII-IX make up a single, unified response to Glaucon’s challenge to show that the life of the perfectly just person is better and happier than the life of the perfectly unjust person.59 In the first part of his argument—which spills over into Books VIII and IX (to 580d)—Socrates focuses on the souls of the just and the unjust; he tries to meet Glaucon’s demand to show what justice and injustice do to the souls of their possessors such that they are, respectively, good and bad in themselves (358b4-6; cf. 366e5-9, 367b2-5). The second part of the argument focuses on the lives of the just and the unjust—or rather, in accordance with Glaucon’s request, on the lives of the perfectly just and the perfectly unjust. In determining which person is happier, Socrates considers primarily the kind of life that each leads.60 He first argues that the life of the perfectly just person is happiest and the life of the perfectly unjust is most miserable, and then adds two arguments for the superior pleasantness of the perfectly just person’s life.61 Socrates seems to indicate that these _________ 58 59

See the passages cited above, n.55. Cf. 502d4-e2, where Socrates implies that his original intention was to leave out an important part of the argument by turning to the defective constitutions immediately after the argument at the end of Book IV; see also 449c2-5, where Adeimantus claims that Socrates is attempting to skip over an important section of the argument (cf. also 484a4). And in any case, the verb which Socrates uses at 543c5, ԚȜijȢȒʍȧ, does not seem to have as one of its meanings to “digress” in the sense of “to turn aside from the main subject.” It therefore seems better to translate ʍȪȚıȟ İı‫ף‬Ȣȡ ԚȠıijȢįʍȪμıȚį in 543c5 as “the point at which we turned aside,” rather than as “the point on which we entered on the digression” (Shorey), or “the point at which we began the digression” (Grube/Reeve). 60 The account of the origin and nature of tyrannical soul is given in 571a1-573c12, and the description of the tyrant’s life is in 573d1-580a7. That ı՘İįțμȡȟȔį refers to a kind of life or activity is familiar from Book I (353e10-354a2) and the Socratic dialogues: see above, n.21. 61 The relationship between the two ‘pleasure’ arguments and the preceding argument for the superior happiness of the just life is puzzling: should they be seen as additional arguments for the conclusion of the first argument (cf. 580c9-d1) or as independent arguments (cf. 589c1-4, and Kraut [1992], 313-4)? While I cannot pursue the issue here, I am attracted

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three arguments complete his case for the superiority of the life of the just person.62 And yet there is one more argument in the final pages of Book IX (588b1-592b6)—the argument in which Socrates offers the striking comparison of the parts of the soul to a human being, a lion, and a manyheaded beast. The relation of this argument to the preceding arguments has been a puzzle for commentators. Is it a fourth argument for the superiority of the just person’s life? This doesn’t seem plausible for a couple of reasons: first, although Socrates designates the preceding argument as “the third” (583b1-7), he does not describe this one as a fourth, or as an argument to be added to the preceding three; second, and more importantly, the passage does not contain a comparison of lives. An important clue for understanding how this final section of Book IX relates to the overall argument is the way in which it begins: Socrates tells Glaucon that now that they have reached this point in the argument, he wants to take up once again the claim that “acting unjustly is profitable to the man who is consummately unjust but is thought to be just.” He proposes that they engage in dialogue with the claim’s proponent since they have come to agreement on the “power” of acting justly and unjustly (588b1-8). The question to be discussed is thus whether just or unjust action is more profitable—the same question that was raised in the final section of Book IV.63 Now if we were to view this argument as a continuation of the preceding arguments in VIII-IX, we would expect Socrates to ex_________ to White’s suggestion that Book IX is deliberately ambivalent on the relationship between happiness and pleasure; see White (1984), 416. 62 At the end of the first ‘pleasure’ argument, at 583b1-7, Socrates says that they have gained two victories for the just man over the unjust, and announces that he will now present a third argument which will be the crowning blow. Then, at the end of this argument (588a7-10), he says that if, in respect to pleasure, the just man’s life defeats the tyrant’s by so great a margin (“729 times more pleasant”), then its victory in respect to elegance, beauty, and virtue must be beyond measure. Socrates is thus claiming that in all the different respects in which one might compare and rank lives—happiness, pleasure, elegance, beauty, and virtue—the philosopher-king’s life far outstrips the life of the tyrant; and thus it seems that he has completed his case for the superiority of the perfectly just person’s life. 63 Cf. 444e7-445a4 (see Irwin [1977], 245-6). Unfortunately, the fact that Socrates’ question specifically concerns just and unjust action is hidden from readers of standard English translations of this passage (588b1-592b6), which render ԐİțȜı‫ה‬ȟ and ijր İȔȜįțį ʍȢȑijijıțȟ more often as “injustice” and “justice” (instead of “acting unjustly” and “acting justly”): see, e.g., the translations by Shorey and Grube/Reeve (Bloom’s translation is more accurate). These translations might be appropriate in many contexts, since, as we’ve seen, common usage made no distinction between justice as a state of the soul and just action. But it is clear that in this passage Socrates carefully restricts himself to words designating just and unjust actions; see, e.g., 588b3, b7, e3-4, 589a5-7, b7-c3, 591a5-6, a10-b1. At no point in the passage does Socrates use the nouns, İțȜįțȡIJȫȟș or ԐİțȜȔį, in connection with profitability (he uses İțȜįțȡIJȫȟș at 591b5 to designate the state of the soul that results from just action).

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plain the “power” of just and unjust action by showing how the one enhances the quality of one’s life while the other has the opposite effect. However, he proceeds to explain their power in the way that he does at the end of Book IV—by appealing to the states or conditions of the soul that result from each kind of action. He first sketches his comparison of the three parts of the soul to the human being, the lion, and the many-headed beast, and then argues that one who claims that it is profitable to act unjustly is asserting that it profits a man to weaken the human being within, and to make the lion and the beast the masters of his soul; the eventual result of such action is the enslavement of the best and “most divine” part of our nature to the lower, inferior parts (588e3-589a5, 589d5-590a2). The champion of just action, on the other hand, recommends doing that which liberates and empowers the human being within us, enabling it to take proper care of the lower parts and ensure harmony and mutual friendship among the three parts (589a6-b6).64 And if one has acted unjustly, it is more profitable to submit to punishment than to get off scot-free because of the beneficial effects of punishment on the soul. How can we affirm or argue that it is more profitable to do something unjust or intemperate or base, even if one thereby gains greater wealth or power, given that it makes one more vicious? There is no way. And how can we say that it is more profitable for the one who has acted unjustly to escape detection and not pay the penalty? Doesn’t the one who escapes detection become even more vicious, while the one who does not escape and is punished has the bestial part [of his soul] soothed and tamed and the tame part liberated, and the whole soul, being restored to its best nature, acquires a more precious state (ijμțȧijȒȢįȟ ԥȠțȟ) by acquiring temperance and justice with sound judgment than the body does by acquiring strength and beauty with health, to the extent that the soul is more precious than the body. That is certainly true. (591a5-b8)

Thus just (and temperate) action is more profitable because of the state of the soul that it produces and preserves. The emphasis throughout 588b592b is on showing that just and virtuous action is beneficial and unjust and vicious action the opposite because of the psychic states produced by each, i.e. justice and virtue in general in the one case, injustice and vice in the other. The passage is clearly a reprise and elaboration of the argument at the end of Book IV. Just as in that argument, Socrates here makes no mention of happiness; instead of urging that we should acquire justice and _________ 64 These passages introduce some important ideas not found in the parallel argument at the end of Book IV: e.g., that our humanity is tied to our possession of reason, and that we are free agents only when reason is in control of the other parts of the soul.

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virtue because of the kind of life they enable us to lead, he says that we should structure our life so as to acquire and maintain these states of the soul (591c1-592a4; cf. 618d5-e4). Just action is profitable simply insofar as it produces justice—a psychic state in which the naturally best part rules over the naturally inferior parts. The argument presupposes that this state is valuable or “precious” just for its own sake. We have seen that there are two distinct themes in Socrates’ defense of justice: the intrinsic value of justice and the superior happiness of the just life. Since the intrinsic value of justice pertains to a certain state within the soul, while happiness consists in the kind of life and activities that naturally flow from that state, showing that justice is intrinsically valuable must be different from showing that the just person has a happier life. If happiness is not part of the intrinsic value of justice, then it must be one of its valuable consequences. And if Socrates has met Adeimantus’ demand to “praise justice itself and not its appearance,” he has shown that happiness is a consequence of justice itself, and does not depend on how the just person appears to others. While Socrates’ defense of justice consists of two main arguments, his presentation of the arguments is not neatly separated into two sections of the dialogue. The arguments overlap to some extent, and the argument for the intrinsic value of justice is presented at the beginning and end of the overall argument. One can distinguish three main stages in the overall argument. I. Books II-IV: (i) the account of the origin and nature of justice and injustice; (ii) the demonstration of the intrinsic value of justice and of the superior ‘profitability’ of just action. II. Books V-IX (to 588b): (i) additional support for the superior profitabil-

ity of just action is provided through a description of the forms of injustice as states of the soul; (ii) the comparison of the lives of the philosopherking and the tyrant (exemplars of perfect justice and injustice respectively), and arguments for the superior happiness and pleasantness of the former. III. Book IX (588b-592b): reprise and completion of the argument at the end of Book IV for the intrinsic value of justice and the superior profitability of just action. By returning to the theme of the intrinsic value of justice at the end of his

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overall argument, Socrates seems to emphasize the primacy of this value of justice.65 XI. Was Plato a Eudaimonist? I will conclude by pointing out an interesting implication of Socrates’ view of the value of justice as I have presented it. It is a commonplace among students of ancient moral theory that all of the important ancient theorists, from Socrates down through the Stoics and Epicureans, subscribe to eudaimonism, i.e. they treat happiness or eudaimonia as the end or supreme good and argue that we should pursue the virtues because of their contribution to this end. A number of scholars have claimed that, for Plato and Aristotle in particular, things that have value for human beings derive their value from their contribution to happiness. However, if what I have argued is right, both Plato and Aristotle hold that justice and virtue have value in themselves, independent of their contribution to happiness. In the case of Aristotle, even though he does not hold that the virtues derive their value exclusively from their contribution to eudaimonia, I believe it is still appropriate to describe him as a eudaimonist because he holds that happiness is the supreme good, and that the chief reason for pursuing the virtues is their contribution to this good. It is not clear, however, whether Plato would agree with Aristotle in calling eudaimonia the highest or supreme good—he never speaks, as Aristotle does, of happiness as the greatest good achievable by human beings.66 In fact, he states in several places in the Republic that justice is the greatest good that we can possess.67 It is also interesting to note that Adeimantus, towards the end of _________ 65 66

Cf. also the point mentioned in n.20, above. The following passage in the Symposium is sometimes cited as evidence that Plato agrees with Aristotle in holding that happiness is the ultimate end of action and highest good: “For it is through the possession of good things that the happy are happy, and there is no further need to ask a man who wishes to be happy why he wishes this—the answer seems to have reached an end” (204e1-205a3). The point that Diotima is making is that if you continue asking someone why they want such and such, when they reach the answer “happiness” they have reached a stopping point—we cannot then ask “Why do you want to be happy?” Happiness is, then, a final ‘satisfier’ of desire. It may also be a final end of action, but it need not be: one might hold that virtue is the highest good and that it ought to be the ultimate end of our actions (cf. n.30, above), even if it is not the final ‘satisfier’ of our desires. 67 See 366e7-9, 612b2-3; cf. 591a10-592a4, where Socrates says that all of our choices should be made, not with a view to happiness, but with a view to the virtuous state of our soul. (The “greatest good” without qualification would be the Form of the Good; it is of course a greater good than justice (504d3-8), but it is evidently not a good that we can possess in any straightforward sense.)

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his speech, attributes to Socrates the view that justice is valuable for its consequences, but much more for its own sake (367c5-7). If happiness is a consequence of justice, then the implication is that the intrinsic value of justice is greater than its value as contributor to happiness. It would seem to follow that the primary reason for being a just person is the value of justice in and of itself; the fact that a just person is happier than an unjust person is a secondary consideration—at least for the just person.68 Perhaps there is room for doubt as to whether Plato was after all a eudaimonist.69 UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

_________ 68 Bearing in mind the fact that Socrates’ argument in Books II-IX is one long ‘protreptic’ discourse—i.e. an attempt to persuade those who are not yet firmly convinced of the value of justice and virtue (cf. 357a4-b3)—may help to clarify the role of happiness in the argument; cf. Euthydemus 278c5-283b3. 69 The penultimate version of this paper was given at Dartmouth College in May, 2004; I am grateful to Margaret Graver, Jim Murphy, Michael Pakaluk, Christie Thomas, and James Wiberding, for their stimulating comments and questions, and especially to my commentator, Lee Franklin, and the anonymous referee for the Proceedings. I also wish to thank Tom Brickhouse, Mark Gifford, Randy Jensen, and Charles Young for very helpful written comments on an earlier version of the paper.

COMMENTARY ON DEVEREUX LEE FRANKLIN

Professor Devereux’s paper challenges entrenched ways of reading the Republic, and thinking about Plato’s moral theory. Starting from the final argument of bk. I, and a close examination of the challenges presented in bk. II, Devereux presents a new reading of the argument of the Republic as a whole. On this reading, Plato distinguishes the intrinsic value of Justice from the value it has as a source of happiness, presenting the former in the arguments of bk. IV, and the latter in bk. IX. This view, developed through meticulous attention to numerous controversial passages, has a surprising consequence. Because the intrinsic value of justice is distinct from, and greater than, the value it has as a source of happiness, Plato is not a eudaimonist after all. In these remarks, I will focus on an issue that is central to Devereux’s argument, and deserving of further consideration. From the function argument of bk. I, Devereux derives the claim that happiness is an activity which is a consequence of Justice, a state. (Rep. I, 352d8-354a11) From this he concludes that if Justice is valuable for itself, then its intrinsic value must be distinct from the value it has in virtue of the happiness it produces. This inference rests on the assumption that the intrinsic value of an entity is distinct from the value it has in virtue of any of its consequences. But the range of things we speak of as consequences is broad and diverse; there are as many different kinds of consequence as there are kinds of cause. In light of this diversity, we cannot take for granted that an entity’s intrinsic value will differ from the value it holds in virtue of its consequences. I hope to show that there is at least one kind of entity whose intrinsic value is identical with the value it has in virtue of its consequences, and that Plato presents Justice as precisely such an entity in the Republic. It will help to situate my discussion in the context of Socrates’ response to Glaucon and Adeimantus. Glaucon asks Socrates to put aside the consequences of Justice, and praise Justice for itself. (Rep. II, 358b4-7) According to Devereux,1 Adeimantus then interprets Glaucon to have prohibited Socrates from praising Justice for the benefits it brings through reputation, but to allow a defense of Justice based in its intrinsic value and the

_________ 1

280-285.

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value it has through its direct consequences. It has been argued, however, that Glaucon and Adeimantus—following Thrasymachus—conceive of Justice primarily as a set or pattern of actions.2 If this is right, then the kind of consequences Glaucon and Adeimantus imagine Justice to have is limited to the kind of consequences actions have. This may explain, in part, why Glaucon and Adeimantus equate praising Justice without regard to its consequences with praising Justice without regard to the consequences that come through reputation. Given that just actions generally seem to benefit others directly,3 the only benefits Glaucon and Adeimantus imagine just actions to have for the agent are those brought about indirectly, i.e. through reputation. Since their conception of Justice incorrectly restricts what may be considered a consequence of Justice, we should be wary of taking Glaucon and Adeimantus’ challenge to establish the framework for Socrates’ evaluation of Justice. In his defense of Justice, Socrates introduces not merely a new conception of just actions, but a new way of understanding Justice altogether, as a state of the soul rather than a pattern of actions. (Rep. IV, 443c9 ff., esp. 443e4-444a2) In so doing, Socrates introduces new possibilities for what may count as a consequence of Justice, including, most notably, the very actions previously thought to constitute Justice. In order to see how Justice is related to these actions as its consequences, and how it is valued as a result, we must look first to Socrates’ account of Justice. Socrates’ account of Justice comes after the dense and intricate argument by which the soul is shown to have three parts. (Rep. IV, 436a8441c7) The strategy of this partitioning, and the character of the psychic parts that result, are controversial. Nevertheless, there is consensus that the parts of the soul are, broadly speaking, sources of motivation, desire, and action.4 This is confirmed by the way psychic parts are first introduced in the Republic as a subject for investigation. After completing his

_________ 2 See (Sachs 1963, 36-38), (Annas 1982, 21-23, 157-159). Devereux acknowledges this, 296 n.51, but points out that when Glaucon and Adeimantus present their challenge directly to Socrates, they speak of it as something in the soul. At best, this shows that Glaucon and Adeimantus are confused about Justice. In particular, it does not show that they conceive of Justice clearly as a state of the soul which is related to the actions they typically call just. Lacking such clarity, Glaucon and Adeimantus cannot envision the specific way in which Justice, as a state, is related to just activity and a just life. 3 This view is expressed in Glaucon’s account of the nature and origins of Justice, (Rep. II, 358e3-359b5) and in Adeimantus’ survey of common notions concerning the difficulty of just actions. (Rep. II, 363e5-b2) 4 See, e.g. (Cooper 1984, 120-121), (Irwin 1977, 191-195), (Bobonich 2002, 219-220). For a contrasting reading, see (Shields 2001, 144-148).

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account of the city and its virtues, Socrates returns to the individual. If Justice is to be the same in the individual as in the city, then the soul must be shown to contain the same forms or parts (ijո į՘ijո ijį‫ף‬ijį ıՀİș) as were found in the city. (Rep. IV, 435b1-c2) To that end, Socrates argues that since the characteristics of the city can have no source other than its individual citizens, the individual soul must have within it the same forms and characteristics (ıՀİș ijı Ȝįվ ԰Țș) as were found in the city. (Rep. IV, 435e1-436a3) That is, the individual soul must have an element that loves learning, one that is spirited, and one that loves money and physical pleasures. This does not mean, however, that these are distinct elements in the soul; there might be one element in us which is responsible for all of these inclinations and activities. Socrates’ next question is whether we do each of these things with the same part of ourselves, or with different parts (ij‫׮‬ į՘ij‫ ׮‬ijȡփij‫ ׫‬ԥȜįIJijį ʍȢչijijȡμıȟ ԰ ijȢțIJվȟ ȡ՞IJțȟ Ԕȝȝȡ Ԕȝȝ‫)׫‬: “do we learn with one part, get angry with another, and with some third part desire the pleasures of food, drink, sex, and the others that are closely akin to them?”5 (Rep. IV, 436a8-b3) This question, which initiates the partitioning argument, introduces parts of the soul as dynamic elements, elements by which we do (ʍȢչijijȡμıȟ) certain things. In the argument that follows, Socrates moves from the concurrence of conflicting desires, to distinct psychic parts as the sources of those desires. A desire to avoid drink is said to arise from calculation (ԚȜ ȝȡȗțIJμȡ‫ף‬, Rep. IV, 439d1), which leads Socrates to designate reason as the part by which we calculate. A desire for drink arises through sufferings and sicknesses (İțո ʍįȚșμչijȧȟ ijı Ȝįվ ȟȡIJșμչijȧȟ, Rep. IV, 439d2); Socrates’ introduces appetite as the part by which we lust, hunger and thirst. Finally, spirit is introduced as the part by which we get angry. In each case, the psychic part is introduced as the element by which we do something or other. (֧ ȝȡȗտȘıijįț..., ֧ ԚȢּ ijı Ȝįվ ʍıțȟ‫ ׇ‬Ȝįվ İțȦ‫ׇ‬..., ‫ ׮‬ȚȤμȡփμıȚį..., Rep. IV, 439c5, c6-7, e3) In fact, we are told little else about the parts of the soul in this discussion. They are of course distinguished by their orientations—by the kinds of desires and actions they tend to produce—but this is merely a specification of their generic description as the sources of desires and actions. At this point in the Republic, the parts of the soul are understood dynamically, that is, strictly in terms of what they do.6

_________ 5 Unless otherwise noted, translations are from (Cooper, 1997). 6 This is not the only aspect of Plato’s tripartite psychology in the

Republic, for there are also epistemological differences between the three parts. See especially 602c4-603b2. However, the role of psychic parts as sources of desires is much more heavily emphasized in bk. IV, and thus most pertinent to the account of Justice that follows.

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It may seem that a dynamic account of psychic parts conflicts with the description of Justice as a state (ԥȠțȣ) of the soul. (443e6) But the two are compatible. The state of a single psychic part is a stable disposition to generate desires according to a certain pattern. A greedy appetite, say, is one which tends to generate frequent and powerful desires for money. The state of the tripartite soul altogether is its overall desiderative and motivational dispositions. This conception of a psychic state is confirmed in Socrates’ survey of unjust constitutions. An oligarchic psyche, for instance, combines a powerful disposition towards frugal desires and actions, with a weaker one for certain indulgences. (Rep. VIII, 553a3-555b1) Thus, even a state of the soul is dynamic in nature since it is a dispositional state, a state which by definition generates a complex pattern of desires and actions. In his account of the intrinsic value of Justice, Devereux stresses that Socrates makes reference to no consequences of Justice; even just actions are treated not as the products of Justice, but as its producers. 7 This feature of Socrates’ account supports Devereux’s claim that in bk. IV Socrates is praising Justice in its own right, and not at all for its consequences. As we’ve seen, the consequences of Justice are built into the conception of psychic parts as sources of desire and action. If Justice is a state of such parts, then Justice is by definition the source of a certain pattern of desire and action. In fact, the relationship between the state of Justice and the actions it produces is noted in the account of Justice. In the crowning statement, Socrates says that the just individual, by ordering the three parts of the soul, “[puts] his own house in order…and emerges as a perfect unity of diverse elements, self-disciplined and in harmony with himself. Only then, does he act.” (ȡ՝ijȧ İռ ʍȢչijijıțȟ ԰İș, Rep. IV, 443c9-e2) Here, a specific manner of action is presented as the direct product of the harmonious state of Justice.8 In addition, Socrates earlier praised Justice as the power that produces men and cities of a certain kinds. (ijռȟ İփȟįμțȟ Ա ijȡւȣ ijȡțȡփijȡȤȣ ԔȟİȢįȣ ijı ʍįȢջȥıijįț Ȝįվ ʍցȝıțȣ, 443b4-5) This praise comes immediately after a brief description of the actions we can expect from those whose souls are ordered by Justice. (442d10-443b2) The reference of ijȡțȡփijȡȤȣ is to individuals who act in the way Socrates has just described. It is significant, finally, that Socrates describes Justice as a du-

_________ 7 8

283-296. One might object that the emphasis of Socrates’ description here is that the Just person conceives of Just actions as those that preserve the harmonious state of the soul. This may be so, but it does not remove the fact that Socrates’ account describes a certain kind of action, along with a certain conception of that action, as resulting from a state of the soul.

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namis or power. In bk. V, Socrates outlines the way one must define such an entity, saying, “In a capacity, I see no color, or shape, or any other of those many things which I look to when distinguishing (İțȡȢտȘȡμįț) one thing from another for myself.” (Rep. V, 477c6-9, my translation) Instead, the account of a dunamis must consider only “what it is set over and what it does.” (Rep. V, 477d1) If Justice is a dunamis, then our account must make reference only to what it is set over and what it does. In bk. IV, this is exactly how Socrates’ account frames Justice: in terms of the desires and actions it produces Socrates’ praise of Justice should be read in this light. To say that Justice is the good, beautiful, and healthy state of the soul is to say that it is the good, beautiful, and healthy arrangement of motivational dispositions. It is the state in which we act well, i.e. with the right motivations and for the right reasons. In this way, Socrates’ praise of Justice in bk. IV bears out the intuitions of the function argument. According to that argument, the excellence (ԐȢıijս) of anything that has a function is precisely the state in which it performs its function well. (Rep. I, 353b2-4, c5-7) For example, the excellence of an axe just is the state in which it chops well. There is nothing more to being a good axe. Similarly, the excellence of a soul is precisely the state in which it rules, deliberates, and lives well. (Rep. I, 353d3-7) What makes Justice the good and healthy state of the soul is that the motivational dispositions embodied in it generate good deliberation, ruling, and living. There is nothing more to being a good human soul.9 For this reason, I am happy to follow Devereux in talking about Justice as a constitutive good,10 with one important qualification. Justice, like any other excellence, does not make its possessor good period. Rather it makes it a good instance of a kind, i.e. a good rational agent. The excellence of an item is nothing other than the state in which it performs its function well.11 For this reason, we cannot separate the intrinsic

_________ 9 This does not mean that there is nothing more to say about the state which embodies these dispositions. For Plato, a stable disposition to act in the best way must be grounded by knowledge. (See Rep. IV, 443e6-7, VII, 519b7-c4) Furthermore, since knowledge is taken to be both valuable and pleasurable, the role of knowledge in the state of Justice may complicate the intrinsic value of Justice. (See Rep. VII, 517c7-d2, 519c4-6, IX 585a8-e5) But it is not obvious that this conflicts with Justice’s intrinsic value as the dunamis for proper rational action. If the intrinsic value of Justice is the value it has just because of what it is by itself, and more than one thing may be said in articulation of what Justice is by itself—e.g., that it involves knowledge, that it is a capacity for right action, that it is the best state of the soul—then perhaps Justice can be intrinsically valuable in many ways. 10 289-291. 11 Socrates’ remarks suggest that there is an excellence for all and only those items which have functions: “So then, does it seem to you that there is also an excellence for pre-

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value of that state from its value as the source of good performance. In the case of an axe, there is no distinction between the value of its excellence as an axe, and the value of its capacity for good chopping; the excellence and the capacity are one and the same thing. If the soul has a function, then the same should be true of it. The intrinsic value of Justice as the excellent state of the soul is identical with its value as the source or capacity for deliberating, ruling, and living well. According to Socrates’ remarks in the function argument, it seems that good deliberating, ruling and living simply are doing well, i.e. happiness.12 (Rep. I, 353e2-354a2) Consequently, the intrinsic value of Justice is identical with its value as the source happiness. Devereux’s reading rests on the following claim: the intrinsic value of an entity cannot coincide with the value it has through its consequences. Thus, if happiness is a consequence of Justice, and Justice is intrinsically valuable, then the intrinsic value of Justice must be independent of its contribution to happiness. But at least one kind of entity—a dunamis—is defined in terms of what its consequences. If Justice is a dunamis, we cannot separate what the state is from what it does. Nor, for the same reason, can we separate the value of Justice for being what it is, from the value of Justice for doing what it does. Justice is valuable for itself because it makes us happy. THE UNIVERSITY AT ALBANY, SUNY

_________ cisely those things to which a function has been given?” (ȡ՘Ȝȡ‫ף‬ȟ Ȝįվ ԐȢıijռ İȡȜı‫ ה‬IJȡț ıՂȟįț ԛȜչIJij‫֧ ׫‬ʍıȢ Ȝįվ ԤȢȗȡȟ ijț ʍȢȡIJijջijįȜijįț; Rep. I, 353b2-4, my translation) 12 We needn’t read Socrates’ inference in this way. He says only that one who lives well will be blessed and happy. (Rep. I, 354a1-2). As Devereux points out, there is precedent for taking happiness to be identical with doing well. See 273, n.19

DEVEREUX/FRANKLIN BIBLIOGRAPHY Ackrill, J.L. “Aristotle on Eudaimonia.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A.O. Rorty (Berkeley, 1980), 15-33. Annas, J. 1981. An Introduction to Plato’s Republic. Oxford. Bobonich, C. 2002. Plato’s Utopia Recast. Oxford. Cooper, J.M. 1977. “The Psychology of Justice in Plato.” American Philosophical Quarterly 14, 151-7. Cooper, J.M. 1999. Reason and Emotion. Princteon. Cooper, J.M. (ed.) 1997. Plato, Complete Works. Indianapolis. Cooper, J.M. 1984. Plato’s Theory of Human Motivation. In Cooper (2001): 118-137. Cross, R.C. & Woozley, A.D. 1966. Plato’s Republic: A Philosophical Commentary. London. Devereux, D.T. 1981. “Aristotle on the Essence of Happiness.” In Studies in Aristotle, ed. D.J. O’Meara (Washington, D.C., 1981), 247-60. Foster, M.B. 1937. “A Mistake of Plato’s in the Republic.” Mind 46, 386-93. _______ 1938. “A Mistake of Plato’s in the Republic: A Rejoinder to Mr. Mabbott.” Mind, 47, 226-32. Gauthier, R.A. & Jolif, J.Y. 1970. L’Éthique à Nicomaque. Louvain/Paris. Hardie, W.F.R. 1965. “The Final Good in Aristotle’s Ethics.” Philosophy 40, 277-95. Irwin, T. 1977. Plato’s Moral Theory. Cambridge. _______ 1985. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, translated by Terence Irwin. Indianapolis. _______ 1988. Aristotle’s First Principles. Oxford. _______ 1995. Plato’s Ethics. Oxford. Kamtekar, R. 1998. “Imperfect Virtue.” Ancient Philosophy 18, 315-39. Kirwan, C.A. 1965. “Glaucon’s Challenge.” Phronesis 10, 162-73. Korsgaard, C. 1983. “Kinds of Goodness.” The Philosophical Review 92, 169-97. Kraut, R. 1989. Aristotle on the Human Good. Princeton. _______ 1992. “The Defense of Justice in Plato’s Republic.” In The Cambridge Companion to Plato, ed. R Kraut (Cambridge, 1992), 311-37. Mabbott, J.D. 1937. “Is Plato’s Republic Utilitarian?” Mind 46, 468-74. _______ 1971. “Is Plato’s Republic Utilitarian?” (a revised version of [1937]) In Plato II: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. G. Vlastos (Notre Dame, 1971), 5765. Reeve, C.D.C. 1963. Philosopher-Kings: The Argument of Plato’s Republic. Princeton. Sachs, D. 1963. “A Fallacy in Plato’s Republic.” The Philosophical Review 72, 14158. Shields, C. Simple Souls. In Wagner (ed.): 137-56. Urmson, J.O. 1988. Aristotle’s Ethics. Oxford. Vlastos, G. (ed.) 1971. Plato II. New York. Wagner, E. (ed.) 2001. Essays on Plato’s Psychology. Lexington. White, N.P. 1984. “The Classification of Goods in Plato’s Republic.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 22, 393-421. _______ 1986. “The Ruler’s Choice.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 68, 2246.

ABOUT OUR CONTRIBUTORS

Marcelo D. Boeri is Professor of Ancient Philosophy at Universidad de los Andes (Chile). He did his graduate work at University of Buenos Aires and got a Ph.D. in philosophy at University of El Salvador (Buenos Aires, Argentina). He has been visiting researcher at Georgetown University and Junior Fellow at the Center for Hellenic Studies. His books include a Spanish translation and commentary on Aristotle's Physics books I-II and VII-VIII (Buenos Aires 1993 and 2003, respectively), Epicuro. Sobre el placer y la felicidad (Santiago 1997), and Los estoicos antiguos. Sobre la virtud y la felicidad (Santiago 2003). He has published articles (in Spanish, German, and English) on Aristotle and Stoicism. He is currently working on topics of moral psychology and epistemology in Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics. Tad Brennan is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Northwestern University. He was educated at Reed College and Princeton. He has taught at King’s College, London, Willamette University, and Yale. His first book was Ethics and Epistemology in Sextus Empiricus. He then produced a two-volume translation of Simplicius’ Commentary on Epictetus’ Encheiridion with Charles Brittain of Cornell. His next book, The Stoic Life: Emotions, Duties, and Fate, will be published by Oxford in 2005. He is currently working on an introduction to Plato’s Republic for Cambridge, and a complete translation of Epictetus, again with Charles Brittain, for Cambridge. John J. Cleary is Professor of Philosophy at Boston College, and senior lecturer in Philosophy at NUI, Maynooth (Ireland). He received his B.A. and M.A. from University College, Dublin, and his Ph.D. from Boston University in 1982. He was director of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy from 1984 to 1988, and is the founding general editor of this series of proceedings. He has published extensively on ancient philosophy, including a monograph on Aristotle and Mathematics (Leiden, 1995). Currently he is studying the role of paideia in ancient political thought.

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Ursula Coope is Lecturer in Philosophy at Birkbeck College, London. She studied at Oxford, UC Berkeley and Princeton. Her book, Time for Aristotle, which is on Aristotle’s account of time in the Physics, is forthcoming from OUP. Daniel Devereux is Professor of Philosophy and Director of the Honors Program at the University of Virginia. He received his Ph.D. from the University of Chicago. His major publications include “Separation and Immanence in Plato’s Theory of Forms” (Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, 1994), “Plato’s Metaphysics” (in The Blackwell Guide to Ancient Philosophy, 2003), and “The Unity of Virtues” (in The Blackwell Companion to the Philosophy of Plato, forthcoming). He was also the associate editor of the Encyclopedia of Classical Philosophy (Greenwood, 1997). He is currently working on a book, The Development of Plato’s Ethics, and a variety of topics in Platonic and Aristotelian metaphysics. Lee Franklin is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University at Albany (SUNY). He was educated at Yale University and the Ohio State University. He writes mainly about Plato’s theory of knowledge and learning, including the Theory of Recollection, and is currently working on the relationship between dialectic and the method of hypothesis in Plato’s middle period. Gary M. Gurtler, S.J., is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Boston College. He was educated at St. John Fisher College, at Fordham University, and at the Weston School of Theology. He has published on ancient philosophy, with special attention to Neoplatonism, including a book Plotinus: The Experience of Unity (1988). Most recently, his article “The Activity of Happiness in Aristotle’s Ethics” appeared in The Review of Metaphysics (June, 2003). Currently, he is continuing research on alienation and otherness in the psychology of Plotinus. Mary-Hannah Jones is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Wesleyan University. She was received her Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania. She is the author of a number of essays in ancient philosophy, including “Moral Education and Moral Degeneration in Plato’s Republic.”

ABOUT OUR CONTRIBUTORS

315

Aryeh Kosman was educated at The University of California at Berkeley, at Hebrew University, and at Harvard University. He has taught at various institutions in the United States and has been at Haverford College since 1962, where he is John Whitehead Professor of Philosophy. He is the author of a number of essays in the history of philosophy, primarily on Plato and Aristotle. Maria Miller taught Biology at Barnard College, Columbia University, was Research Biologist in Neuropsychology at the US Food and Drug Administration, and has published extensively in this field. She was educated in Munich, received a Ph.D. from CUNY, and has pursued philosophical studies throughout her career as a scientist. She also has worked and published together with her husband on the philosophical and political issues concerning the health care system (Options for Health and Health Care. 1981) and written an analytic commentary to Kant’s Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science in connection with their translation of an investigation of the Preface to this work (Kant’s Theory of Natural Science. 1994). Currently she is writing together with her husband on Aristotle and Heidegger. Alfred Miller currently teaches ancient and modern philosophy at the Catholic University of America. He received an M.D. at Harvard as well as an M.S. in the history of science. His Ph.D. in philosophy is from the University of Hamburg on the Aristotelian foundations of natural science. He has taught health policy and sociology at the Mt. Sinai School of Medicine and CUNY as well as the Uniformed Services Medical School while serving in the US Public Health Service. He has published widely in those fields. His major works published together with his wife are mentioned below. At present they are working collaboratively on a book relating Aristotle’s Metaphysics and biological works to contemporary biological problems and have articles in preparation as the basis for the larger work. Nickolas Pappas is Associate Professor of Philosophy at City College and the Graduate Center of CUNY. He studied at Harvard University. He has published articles on Plato, Aristotle, Nietzsche, and topics in aesthetics; and also the Routledge Guidebook to Plato and the Republic

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(1995; second edition 2003). His new book, The Nietzsche Disapppointment, is due out in 2005 (Rowman & Littlefield). John Sallis is currently Edwin Erle Sparks Professor of Philosophy at The Pennsylvania State University. He is the author of numerous books, including the following, devoted entirely to ancient philosophy: Being and Logos: Reading the Platonic Dialogues (third edition, 1996), Chorology: On Beginning in Plato’s “Timaeus” (1999), and Platonic Legacies (2004). Susan Sauvé Meyer received the Ph.D. in Philosophy at Cornell University in 1987 and taught at Harvard University from 1987-1994 before joining the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania, where she is now Associate Professor of Philosophy. Her major publications include “Aristotle, Teleology, and Reduction” (The Philosophical Review 101, (1992), 791-825) and Aristotle on Moral Responsibility (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1993). Her current work focuses on Greek and Roman ethics, and she is the author of the forthcoming book, Ancient Ethics (Routledge). Iakovos Vasiliou is Associate Professor of Philosophy at the Graduate Center/Brooklyn College, City University of New York. He received his B.A. from Cornell University and his Ph.D. from the University of Pittsburgh. He has published articles on Plato’s and Aristotle’s ethics and epistemology, as well as on other topics. He is currently completing a book, Aiming at Virtue: Moral Knowledge in Plato.

INDEX Ackrill, J.L., 76, 269, 271 Alesse, F., 111, 121, 133 Andersen, P.B., 5 Andronicus, 2 Annas, J., 112, 266, 287, 294, 307 Anscombe, E., 114 Apostle, H.G., 55, 88 Aristotle, 1-18, 20-22, 25-28, 30, 3236, 38-39, 41-43, 46-47, 49-50, 54-57, 60-63, 65-67, 69, 72-74, 76-96, 97104, 110-114, 121-125, 127-132, 139141, 142-144, 146-150, 155, 165, 194, 196, 201-219, 220-221, 222-226, 233, 239, 257, 266-275, 283, 285, 289, 291, 304 Arnim von, H., 110 Balme, D.M., 102 Beyarin, D., 153 Blair, G.A., 74 Bobonich, C., 230, 234, 240, 294, 299, 307 Bonitz, H., 3 Brennan, T., 130, 133 Brickhouse, T.C., 114, 115, 118 Brinkmann, K., 13 Broadie, S., 130 Campbell, D.T., 5 Cannon, W.B., 30, 88 Carone, G.R., 112 Cartwright, N., 218 Charles, D., 206, 212, 214, 216 Charlton, W., 88 Chrysippus, 133, 136-137, 141 Cleary, J., 1, 22, 74, 101, 121 Clement, 110 Code, A., 26 Cooper, J.M., 299, 307-308 Cross, R.C., 267, 286, 299 Delbrück, M., 97

Devereux, D., 272 Diels, H., 159 Diogenes Laertius, 112, 196 Empedocles, 103 Epictetus, 113, 129, 132, 137139, 141 Ferber, R., 112 Frede, M., 126, 134, 202 Fortenbaugh, W.W., 127 Foster, M.B., 265, 267, 280 Gadamer, H-G., 24, 36, 114 Gauthier, R-A., 130, 273 Gerson, L., 136, 140 Gill, C., 112, 126, 129 Gill, M.L., 206 Görler, W., 135 Gosling, J., 129, 146 Gould, S.J., 104 Hamlyn, D.W., 55, 64 Hankinson, R.J., 134 Hardie, W.F.R., 271 Heidegger, M., 15, 79 Heinaman, R., 103, 216 Heraclitus, 186-187, 191, 198 Hesiod, 280, 286 Hicks, R.D., 55, 64 Homer, 186-187, 198, 200, 280, 286 Hussey, E., 204, 212, 220 Ioppolo, A.M., 126, 133-134 Inwood, B., 126-127, 129, 134, 136 Irwin, T., 112, 234, 266, 269-270, 276, 280, 285, 289-290, 301, 307 Jolif, J.Y., 130, 273 Joyce, R., 129

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INDEX OF NAMES

Kahn, C.H., 112-113, 116 Kamtekar, R., 299 Kant, I., 17, 36 Karns, L., 244 Kirwan, C.A., 266, 280, 283, 289-290 Klosko, G., 240 Korsgaard, C., 266 Kosman, L.A., 17, 55 Kranz, W., 159 Kraut, R., 244, 247-248, 271-272, 294, 300 Kuhn, T., 3, 37 Kullmann, W., 97 Labarrière, J.J., 126 Lang, H., 222 Lennox, J.G., 102 Long, A., 110-111, 110-111, 126, 138 Mabbott, J.D., 265-266, 276, 289 Menn, S., 244 Mill, J.S., 217-218 Miller, A.E. and Miller, M.G., 36, 78 Moravcsik, J., 26 Murdoch, D., 16 Nüsslein-Volhard, C., 83 Owens, J., 2 Pakaluk, M., 244, 250, 257 Pappas, N., 235 Penner, T., 76 Plaass, P., 36 Plato, 22, 25-27, 37, 94, 101, 103, 109-121, 123, 125, 127, 129-130, 133134, 140, 142, 144, 153-154, 156, 159-162, 164-168, 169, 171, 173-174, 193, 194-197, 200, 201, 223, 225-226, 229-234, 236, 239-240, 243, 244-251, 253-258, 260-262, 265-267, 272-273, 275, 285, 294, 300, 304-305, 306, 308, 310 Plutarch, 112, 125-126, 129, 133-136

Protagoras, 177, 183-186, 188, 195, 199-200 Rawls, J., 154, 245, 248, 261 Reeve, C.D.C., 234, 240, 266, 276, 286, 300-301 Robinson, R., 121 Ross, W.D., 2-3, 55, 64, 88 Rudebusch, G., 146 Sachs, D., 267, 297, 307 Sacks, J., 153 Sandbach, F.H., 111 Santas, G.X., 112 Sauvé Meyer, S., 236 Schwegler A., 3 Sedley, D., 110 Sherman, N., 132 Shields, C., 9, 49, 103, 307 Simplicius, 159, 167 Smith, N.D., 114, 115, 118 Socrates, 30, 109-125, 127, 131133, 140, 142-149, 155-158, 160163, 169-173, 177-193, 196-199, 229-243, 250-253, 255, 258-259, 265, 273-305, 306-311 Sokolowski, R., 96 Sorabji, R., 126, 133 Stobaeus, 110, 112, 118, 125-126, 128-130, 133-136, 141 Striker, G., 244, 257 Taylor, C., 146 Thales, 178-180, 190-191, 196197, 200 Thomas Aquinas, 3 Tieleman, T., 135 Urmson, J.O., 269 Vigo, A.G., 140 Vlastos, G., 112, 117 White, N.P., 266-267, 273, 275, 286, 294, 301 Wians, W., 13

INDEX OF NAMES

Woolf, R., 244 Zeller, E., 3 Zekl, H.G., 81

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