4 20 453 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1d45c90cbf6f4e6a54daba5a212d8124.mp4 7932f5c4f2094eb667ece8eb76da8fdd Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Moving Image A series of visual representations imparting an impression of motion when shown in succession. Examples include animations, movies, television programs, videos, zoetropes, or visual output from a simulation. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp4 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:02:16 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource “<em>The Concept of Irony, with Continual Reference to Socrates:"</em> Kierkegaard on the Infinity of Socratic Irony Description An account of the resource Video recording of a lecture delivered on September 23, 2022, by Mary Townsend as part of the Formal Lecture Series.<br /><br /><span>Ms. </span><span class="marksasqb3usa">Townsend</span><span> is an assistant professor of philosophy at St. John’s University in New York. She is the author of </span><i>The Woman Question in Plato’s Republic</i><span> (2017) and a graduate of Tulane University (PhD, 2015) and St. John’s College (BA, 2004).</span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Townsend, Mary Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2022-09-23 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: make a recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John’s College Greenfield Library; make a recording of my lecture available online; make typescript copies of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John’s College Greenfield Library; make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource moving image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp4 Subject The topic of the resource Kierkegaard, Søren, 1813-1855 Socrates Irony Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Townsend_Mary_2022-09-23_ac Alumni Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/71f5edf44878427a1391ee4fe3f9f708.pdf c25446cfc18c1695f957b6add93a871c PDF Text Text HISTORY AND THE LIBERAL ARTS ---~<----- BY )ACOBKLEIN ---~--- �HISTORY AND THE LIBERAL ARTS by Jacob Klein Friends and enemies of the St . John's Program, visitors to the College and many of its alumni often raise the question: why is History neglected in the St. John's curriculum? They point to the obvious contrast between the chronological order in which the ••Great Books" are re a d and the remarkable lack of historical awareness displayed by the students . The time has come , I think, to deal with this question e xte nsively . I p ropose to do tha t in this lecture. Let us reflect on the role and significance of History in a libe ral arts cirriculum. * * * * * * * * * The fir st , rather simple, statement that can be made is this : Man, having the ability to understand and being inquisitive by nature, wants to explore everything that he sees about him -- the various plants and animals, the stars and the clouds and the winds, the surface of the earth, the rivers and the forests and the stones and the deserts. Whethe r this p reoccupation stems from h is inunediate and urgent need, whether his inquisitive attitude is merely an extension of his concern to provide the necessities o f life for himself, whether it is the manifestation of his very nature or simply idle curiosity, need not be discussed at this point . Whatever the origins of this desire, man wants to find out, to figure out , to know. In this sense, then , man may be said to be inquisitive not only about what surrounds him, at the present time, but also about the future: he wants to know what is going to happen to him as well as to everything else around him. And finally he wants to know what happened in the past. Out of this latter desire, we may somewhat naively say, grows History, i.e., the exploration of the past, the finding of the pas t, the description of what has happened in the recent as well as in t he most remote past . Curiously enough, as you know, the Gr eek word historia means originally , exploration of any kind. Gradually it came to mean, even to the Greeks, the exploration of the past and the description or narration of past events. Thus we have History, i.e. , historical books: Herodotus, Thucydides, chronicles of all kinds, histories of Europe, America , India, of Guatemala , of the city of Annapolis, of the Universal Postal Union , of St. John ' s College, of the Imperial Palace in Peking . Such histories may be more or less correct . Descriptions of events must be checked as to their accuracy .with the help of all the evidence available: books, old records, letters, inscriptions, etc. Special skills in exploring and checking the evidence must be developed. Historical science and the methodology of historical science become a branch of knowledge; history can be taught and learned . Departments of History and archives �- 2 - are established. Historical journals come into being, dedicated to the improvement and enlargement of historical knowledge. All this circumscribes what may be called the domain of History. Is this, then , what History is? You sense immediately; this is not quite i t , this is not a sufficient description of History and what History means . First of all , there isaspecial emphasis in the pursuit of History which is lacking in other branches of learning. Take the science of geology , f o r e xample. However important and interesting its investigations and findings might be , this science does not make universal claims , it r estricts i t self to a definite domain . There is no such thing as a " geological approach " to any given problem . And y et there always seems to be an " historical approach" to almost any kind of problem in a lmost any field . Secondly , it is not quite correct to state that history is the des crip tion and narration of past events . Not e verything that is past is "historic" . That one of us here went to Washington or to San Francisco last week or some time ago does not necessar i ly belong to any history . It might , though . From a c e rtain point of view, with regard t o a n event we judge a s ignificant one , we can - - retrospctively -- recognize the importance of e v e nts whi ch lead to that significant one . Nobody, i n d eed , ever assumed that all events and happenings a r e equally important and significant and could become r ecorded in history books . Even Tolstoy who formulated the idea of an all- comprehensive history , based on integrat ion procedures i n the face o f i n finite series of minute e v ents, of historical infinite s imals, as it were, did that mere l y to reduce hi story thus understood to absurdity . All wri t ten and traditional h istory is based on a principle of s elect i on. This mean s that we must have -- a nd in fact do have -- some y ardstick to measure the significance and importance of events whatever history we may b e writing. It is not too difficul t to discern thes e yardsticks in Herodotus o r Tacitus o r Gib bon, f or example; more di f ficul t perhaps , b u t not impossible, to discover them in Thucydides. We can even venture t o s ay that in g eneral the yardstick is provided e i ther (a) by the consideration of the present state of affairs , the salient features of which want to be traced back to their origins , in a sort of genealogical procedure, or (b) b y the desire to derive a lesson for the future either from mistakes and failures or from exemp lary actions in the p ast, which desire leads to what has been called, since Polybius, pragmatic history. Sometimes both kinds o f yardsticks a re combi ned. I say that both the universality of the tendency to subject any theme to an historica l investigation and the selecting of events or facts to be dealt with historicall y -- help us to win a better unde rstanding of this hunian enterprise called History. This ent erpri s e does not seem to be grounde d in an inherent property of events o r facts that permits us t o arrange t h e m i n a seque nce, a n histori cal sequen c e , but seems rather to depend on a certain way of looking at things which stamps them i nto an historical pattern . One might be tempted to apply Kantian terminology to this phenomenon -- and people have actually done so --: there might be something of an historical a priori, a form of our think- �- 3 - ing that inescapably leads us to see things in an historical perspecti v e . Let us consider this for a moment. Let us beware though lest we indulge in an empt y , if easy , construction . As far as pragmatic history is concerned , the solution is based on our sense of moral virtues or our understanding of practical maxims of condu ct . Hub0:s versus Moderation , Tyranny versus Freedom, false hopes and foolish fears v ersus p rudence -- these are presented and p o i nted out to us i n the unfolding drama of historical successes or cata strophes . Here , then , the historical scene is merely the enlargement of our d aily life , providing us with grea t examples in large script . History in this sense i s founded on completely "unhist o rical" points of v iew . That is why t his kind of history wri ting does not constitute a specific domain l ike Phys ics or even Poetry. Note that Aristotle, the great systematizer of h uman knowledge, in t he face of such history -the only one he knew - - did not treat it as a pragmateia , a discipline in its own right . The same Aristotle who investigated , defined, elaborated on every conce i vable a r t and science : grammar, logic, physics, botany, zoo logy, astronomy, the ology , psychology, politics, eth i c s, rhetoric , poetry, did not e laborate on history , although he so oft en pre f aces his investigations with a review of the position s and opinions he l d in the pas t . I conclude: ther e is no histori cal a priori in pragmatic h is tory . The same h o lds true of the gene alogical t ype of hist ory , a lthough n ot in the same way . The very n otion of genealogy comprises n~t ion s of origin, source , development, more gene r al lly , the notion o f a temporal order. But t h ese notions are n ot stri c tly historical one s . They also determine oul. und ers t anding of b iological p h enomena , or mor e general l y , the phenome na of change . They are not constitutive categories of historical e xper ience . They are operative in any myth, they help to picture the growth and t he decay of i nstitutions, t he e xpans i on of domi nion and power'. b u t the emphasis is on the nat ure of those institutions arid the ove rwhelming character of that power . The base s of this typ e of hi s t ory, exemp l ified in Polybius and the Roman historians, a re still unhistorical, mostly l egal a nd political. But when we turn to that universal tendency to view things historica l ly, to use the h istorical approach in almost a ny field , the p icture changes. I t seems , indeed, as if h ere the form o f History s hapes the material under consideration so as to ma k e anything we look at assume hi storical c lot h ing, as if the very bas i s of our looking at things we re we hear i t so o f ten -- History itself . When, a mome nt ago, I d e nied that thi s was the case in pragmatic and genealogical history , I implicitly asswned , by way of contrast, the possibility of such a view. The question, then, is whether this h is torical way of l o oking at things is itself a necessary form of o u r understanding. One way of answering this quest ion would b e t o app l y the following test: can we approach and solv e this problem hi storical ly? �- 4 - The pragmatic and genealogical types of history are the only ones known in antiquity and the understanding of the nature of history corresponds to them. But a new understanding of history begins with the advent of Christianity . Let u s consider briefly in wh at it c onsis ts . I shal l use two outstanding examples: Augustine and Dante. Augustine, in the City of God (XV-XVIII) , gives a Worl d History based on a fundamental distinction. Mankind consists of two parts: there are those who live according to Man , i . e., in sin , and those who live according to God ; there are two communities , the c ity of men and the city of God. The l atter is in the making and after the Second Ad v ent will become the everlasting kingdom of God . The ear thly city will the n be destroyed and its inhabitants will join Satan . As long as this world exists , both cities are intertwined. Augustine distinguishes six ages : 1) from Adam to the De1uge ; 2) from Noah to Abraham ; 3) from Abraham to David (the "prophe tic age " ) ; 4) from Davi d to the Babylonian captivity ; 5) from the Babylonian captivity to Jesus Christ ; 6) f rom Jesus Christ to the end of this world . This universa l history is conceived mainly in terms of the Biblical account ; but the great oriental kingdoms , as we ll as Greece and the Roman Empire , have their place allocated in the gen eral flow . This i s not a "Phi losophy of History "; it is rather His tory itself , i. e ., the description of succeeding ages according to God ' s providential ordering of all events . The important thing for us to note is that historical succession itself, the fact of History , the fact that men's lives weave the History of the World, is not an accidental property of t hose lives but their very essence . Our and our fathers ' years have flowed through God's eternal To-day , says Augustine in the Confessions : "from this everpresent divine 'To-day ' the past generations of men received the measure and the mold of such being as they had; and sti ll othe rs shall flow away, and so receive the mold of their degree of being. " History, t hen , reflects the essential temporality of man , but reflects no less the eternal timeless pattern of his being . In following up the chain of historical events we do not select signif icant links. We follow God ' s providential plan. Our historical perspective is our view of an eternal order, just as the flow is our way of incomplete existence. For us to "exist" is identical with to "exist historically". But that, again , means that our existence spreads out in time the timeless pattern of God's wisdom. This is neither pragmatic nor genealogical history . It is, one might say, symbolic history . History presents the symbols that unfold in succession the eternal relations between creation , fall, redemption , and salvation. Let us turn to Dante . Here , again , we see a World History conceived in terms of God's timeless providential pattern . History is the sinister chronicle of man's fall pursued through all generations of men . The Greek and Roman worlds occupy a far more important place in this chronicle than that of Augustine. The horrors of Thebes more than those of Babylon indicate the complete abnegation of God's grace . It is not �- 5 - the contrast between the city of Men and the city of God which determines Dante's general view of historical events, but rather the contrast and intertwining of God's spiritual and God's secular order, of Church and Empire. The secular order, stenuning from God, reflects but is not identical with the spiritual order . Troy and its destruction are symbols of man's pride and man's fall . "And it happened at one period of time , " Dante writes in the Convivio, " that when David was born, Rome was born, that is to say, Aeneas then came from Troy to Italy .•• Evident enough, therefore , is the divine e lection of the Roman Empire by the birth of the Holy City (i.e., Rome), which was contemporaneous with the root of the race from which Mary sprang." The history of the world is here a kind of symbolic duplication of the spiritual history of man. It is by this very nature, as in Augustine , two-dimensional. Or , to put it in different words, the horiz~n of this kind of history, or better , of t his kind of historian , is dot historical. In this respect this kind of history is akin to the pragmatic and genealogical kinds . Here , again, it is worth noting : the primary liberal disciplines listed by Dante i n the Convivio and linked to the ten heavens of the world (the spheres of the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun , Mars, Jupiter , S aturn , and the sphere of the fixed stars , the primum mobile and the Empyrean Heaven) a r e Grammar , Logic , Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Geometry, Music, Astronomy , Physics and Metaphysics, Ethics, Theology. History is not one of them. When Machiavelli and Hobbes dethrone classical philosophy and revert to pragmatic history as the best teacher man can have in planning and conducting hi s life, they still cling to a two-dimensional h istory to build the i r own political philosophy . But now the scene changes : Vico's New Science marks a new beg inning. Like Machiavelli and Hobbes he defies all preceding philosophy . He bases his work on the fundamental (Leibnizian) distinction: the true and the certain . Wh a t is true is corruuon and therefore abstract . Wha t is certain is the par ticular, the individual, the concr ete. "Certum and commu:ne a r e opposed to e ach other." The philos ophers pursue what is common. They lack certainty . Only history (which includes philology) deals with the certain. The most certain for us is that which we ourselves have made, the facta, the facts . "The world of civil society has certainly been made by man; its principles are therefore to be found within the modifications of our own human mind. Whoever reflects on this cannot but marvel that the philosophers should have bent all their energies to the study of the world of nature, which, since God made it, He alone knows; and that they should have neglected the study of the world of nations or civil world, which, since man had made it, men could hope to know." Vi co sets out to fulfill this hope . This is the scope of his New Science. It is historical by definition. The historian looking at �- 6 - man-made worlds can understand their innermost core . He will t hus attain a more certain truth than the philosophers ever coul d : he will discover "the common nature of nations " or the "ideal eterna l history" of nations e stablished by divine providence . The New Science will thus be "a rational civil theology of divine provide n ce. " "S i n ce divine prov idence ha s omnipotence as minister, it dev elops its orders by means as easy as the natural customs of rnPn." This also me a ns that this science i s a " his tory of human ideas" &l ot a philosophical reflec t ion on ideas). There are recurrent cycles in the history of nation s that always comprise three stages : the divine , the heroic, the human . The p roper field of the h i storian is the c ustoms of men, their institutions , their laws, their writings, their p o et ry. In understanding them he under stands truth that is certain -- truthful certainty -- preci sely what the philosophers are unable to accomplish. At first it seems as if history in Vico's understanding pres erved its two-dimens ionality, since the objects o f his findings are the "universal and external orders establi shed by providence". But the se or,ders do not exist outside of time . Divine providence is not the provident ial plan of salv ation anymore. Vice's h i story is bent on finding the laws governing the human world i n contradistinction to the laws governing the wo rld of nature . Historical rea lity with i ts recurre n t stretches is one- dimensiona l. On the other hand, the histor ian c; l one is now the true philosopher . The methods of inte rpreta ti on and of philology he has to use constitute a~ organon comprising a xioms, def init ions and specifi c rules of infe rence . In other words : Vi co 's work competes with the work of Natural History, with t he work of Mathematical Phy s i cs . We have here a rather amazing historical fact before us . Le t u s remember . Towards the end of the 16th century a re-interpretation and recons ideration of the traditional, "class i cal", mathematical sciences led to the est2.blishment of Al gebra, a hitherto obscure ar.d "vulgar" d i sc i pline neglected by al l recognized ins titution s of learning, as the eighth Liberal Art Its progress coincides with the development of a new s ymbolic di sci~ line, understood as Un iversal Mathematics , a n e w and powerful instrume nt of human knowledge which is meant to rep l ace the traditional Aristotelian Organon . The science of nature becomes mathematical physics, begins to domin ate al l human understanding and gradually transforms the conditions of human life upon thi s earth. The only force opposing t his deve l opmen t i s Hi s tory with its claim to universality, f i rst attributed to i t by Vico and mai ntained with increased vigor to this moment. I t is significa nt, I think, t h at Vico's idea of an "ideal eternal h i story" i s a derivative of the idea of a Universal Mathematics, a s hadow, as it were, that the latter casts . As Unive rs a l Mathematics is to all speci f ic mathemati cal disciplines so is t h e "ideal eternal history" to all speci fi c histories of nation s. But this parallelism between Universal Mathematics and Universal History is to be understood in the light of the distinction between that which is " abstractly true " and t h at which is " concrete ly certain". Th e new s cie nce of Mathematical Physics leaves the natural experience of nature far behind: all that is concrete vanishes behind a scre en of mathematical symbols . Any teleology loses its meaning . The new science of History tries �- 7 - to restore the dignity of the concrete, fills the gap between the abstract symbolic understanding of nature and the immediate human experience of the world around us. It cannot dispense with the notions of means and ends . It is the distinction between the true and the certain which underlies the familiar and superficial distinction between Science and the Humanities. The latter are conceived as insepearable from History, can only be approached in historical perspective , come actually to life only in the medium of History. Since Vice, the idea of an eternal pattern of history , a vestige of the original Christian understanding, although occasionally forcefully advanced , has been generally abandoned. The emphasis is on the deve l opment of what has been called the historical sense . Three consequences follow . First , the fascination with the 'b therness" of the past : the discovery or reconstruction of cultures and civilizations "different" from ours , each with a different " sense of values " ascertainable in customs, institutions , works of art , architecture , literature, philosophy , religion. This very notion of an autonomous " c ulture " underlying the various manifestations of human activity can arise only within an historical horizon . Truth itself becomes a function of " cul ture" the existence of which appears a certain fact; "re lativity of values" becomes inevitably the concomitant of the historical perspective. Secondly, the sense of participating in the relentless historical flow makes observable trends the guide of our actions . The acceptance of events and doctrines that are supposed to follow the "historical trend" is one of the most potent causes for the predicament in which European nations have found themselves in recent decades. The impact of Marxism which goes unde r the name of historical materialism and the reaction to it derive their strength from the historical sense projected into the future . The Gallup Poll is one of the most r ecent and ridic ulous e xamples of this preoccupation with trends . Thirdly, a man understands himself completely as an historical being . "Histori city " becomes his very nature , but not in the sense that it reflects some timeless pattern. His Self disintegrates into a series of socially, and that means historically, conditioned reflexes. Historicity does not means Tradition. To see our selves as historical beings means to break the invisible traditional ties in which we live . At best, tradition then becomes a romantic notion, at worst, an academic phantom. If we consider the disciplines taught in our schools, it is easy to see that all natural sciences are patterened on the model of mathematical physics . The idea 0£ a universal ma'.:he1natics as the new organon of all science, however , dies away. On the other hand , all the disciplines within the realm of the humanities have become historical to the v ery core . The study of literature, philosophy , religion, music, and the fine arts , for e xample , is almost exclusively the study of the �- 8 - hi.s tory of li.terature, the history of philosophy, the history of religi.ons., the hisotry of music, the history of art. Field s o f study of a more practical applicability as, for example , languages, political science and economics , retain a certain autonomy . The theoretical dignity they may have , howeve r, is safeguarded only by his torical considerations or, for that matter, by methods borrowed from mathematical physics. I t seems, then , that Mathematical Physics and History divide betwee n the mse lves, in a fairl y exhaustive way , the r u le over the e ntire domain of huma n knowle dge. Does this permit us to consider them as two necessa ry ways and forms of our unders t anding? If this be so , Mathematical Physics and History would come clos e to being the two Liberal Arts of the modern age. A.ny liberal art s curriculum ough t then to conce ntrat e one these two great bodies of learning in ke eping with the tre nd of e vents and in p repar ing s tudents to follow i t f ur ther . At thi s point , we can pause and ref lect on the results we have reached . As to MAthemat ical Physics, the task b e fore us is clearly not the tracing of its hi~torical development. We hav e rather to understand the methods and the nature of t he concepts that have made this development possible. We have to understand t he specific use made of mathe matical symbols, the relat ion of mathematical deduction to veri f ying e xperiments , the relations between observations , hypotheses , theory and truth. That is indeed wha t we are try ing to do in our Mathematics Tutoria l s and in the Laboratory. And i f we do not do that full y and in the most satisfactory manner, we have to improve our ways. The danger we ·a r e running in this case is the very same that has threatened t he integrity of scientific understandi ng since the 17th century and which has barely begun to be warde d off in r ecent developments : the d anger to confuse the s ymbolic means of our understanding wi th reality itself. If we turn to History, we have f irst to r emember the ques tion which gave rise to the p rec eding historical account. The que stion was: is the historical way of looking at t hings a necessary form of our understanding? The answer - - in the per spective of History -- is in the negative: the universal historical app roach is itse lf a product of , and presumably nothing but a phase in, an historical development , which cannot claim any absolute validity, no matter how "natural" and familiar it seems to us at the pre sent moment . We have to recognize, moreover, the possibility of a dangerous confusion similar to t he one I have mentioned with regard to Mathematical Physics . The results of historical investigations based on specifi c historical concepts and methods of interpretation ought not to be confused with the real picture of a real past. Not to see t hat, means to surround us with a pseudo-historical horizon of almost mythical quality so as to make us talk glibly of "Greek culture ", "medieval times ", "Renaissance", the "Seventeenth Cen- �- 9 - tury", the "Age of Enlightenment", etc. Such pseudo-mythical notions are usually i.n the minds of people who recommend that we take into account the proper "historical background" whenever we read and discuss a Book. The assumption behind this recommendation is a rather naive one, to wit, that in the effort we make to understand a Book or a series of Books we could fall back on an objective and certain datum, the general culture in which the ideas expressed or propounded in those books are rooted and from which they derive their strength and intelligibility. We ought to see instead that the commonly accepted picture of an historical period is largely due to an interpretation of the content of books and other documents which presupposes in the first place the ability to deal with gramatical patterns, to discern rhetorical devices, to grasp ideas in all their implications. In point of fact, the main task of any historian is of necessity the interpretation of whatever data he may collect. The art of interpretation and all the other arts which minister to it depend on the understanding of the function of signs, of the complecity of symbolic expressions, and of the cogency of logical relations. To understand a text is not a simple matter . To arouse and to cultivate this understanding is one of the primary tasks of our Language Tutorials. More than anything else, more, certainly, than the historical sense fed so often on sheer ignorance, an improvement of our interpretative skills could help foster genuine historical research and writing. We may ultimately get to see that the problem of History is itself not an historical problem. It follows, then , that in pursuing these goals we should ignore history's claim to universality, ignore History itself, if you please, in order to devote our full attention to the development of all the arts of understanding and all imaginative devices man can call his own. It takes courage to pursue a rather narrow and steep path hardly visible from the highways of contemporary learning. But let us remember the inscription on the old seal of the College: No path is impassable to courage. The reward may be high. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 9 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource History and the Liberal Arts Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered June 5, 1953, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. The typescript was printed by the St. John's College Press and sold in the college's book store around 1965. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1953-06-05 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Education--Philosophy--History History--Study and teaching Education, Humanistic Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1965 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/50f23710ab61759c567a7fb8477afe9a.pdf f61d04b7862210970082476f1c0e3910 PDF Text Text ARISTOI'LE (An Int~oduction)* by Jacob Klein I Many, many years ago, I attended a series of lectures on Aristotle 1 s philosophy. The lecturer began his exposition as follows: "As regards Aristotle himself, as regards the circumstances and the course of his life, suffice it to say: life in philosophizing, and died"• most appropriate: Aristotle was born, spent his This beginning seemed to me !~ for Aristotle means to us, indeed, nothing but what we know of him, or fancy we know of him, as of a man engaged in that extrav@gant enterprise which, since Pythagoras (aecording to the tradition), has borne the name of "Philosophy". There is a difficulty, though. Whenever we try to understand what Aristotle is saying, we st11GD.ble upon something that we simply cannot ignore, and that is that his words bring up the words of another man who was his teacher and bore the name of Plato. There is no alternative: we have to face that peculiar circumstance in Aristotle's life. It is pretty certain that, at the age of 17 or 18, Aristotle joined the community founded by Plato outs~de the walls of Athens and called (from i t s geographical location) the Academy. He stayed there until Flato died, that is, for about 20 years (367 • 347). following 13 years he taught ~or In the a while in Asia Minor and was invited to tutor a young Macedonian prince who later became lmown as Alexander the Great. In 334 he returned to Athens and established, again outside the walls of the city, a spot of leisure, that is of study, called the LycetlDl. Not being a citizen of Athens, he could not own this place. He mer ely t aught there. About a year before he died, it pleased the *Enlarged version of a Formal Lecture delivered April 20, 1962 �- 2 - city of Athens to accuse him of impiety, that is, of undermining the city's life. Aristotle decided to leave Attica rather than stand trial. He is supposed to have said on that occasion that he did not want the Athenians to commit a crime against Philosophy for the second time. !!El£ Born in Stagira (Thrace) 384 (with approximate dates) Academy 367 - 347 '--· -----;----' 20 Lyceum Death 334 - 323 322 Abroad 347 - 334 '----,,.---·' 13 ·- -- y - - - ' 11 Now, if we look at what is known as The Works of Aristotle, we cannot help being amazed by both their bulk and their diversity. These works have come down to us in nearly the same condition in which they were edited by Andronicus of Rhodes in the first century B. c. There are all kinds of stories concerning the way they came to be edited. shall omit them. I We do know, at any rate, that this edition did not contain a series of other works attributed to Aristotle and not available to-day, except for the book entitled "The Athenian Constitution" the text of which was found in 1880. Above all, that edition did not contain - and was not supposed to contain - a series of genuine works Of l:ristotle, Dialogues, Epistles, and also compositions in verse, already published and well known in antiquity. fragments of them. We possess only a few As to the body of Aristotelian works available to us, it consists, beyond any doubt, of some of the material directly related to the lecturing and studying which went on at the Lyceum and presumably also at other places where Aristotle taught. Parts of that material are lectures or treatises composed with great care; but other parts are more or less loosely conjoined treatments of topical themes, �notes, perhaps mer~ compositions. There are, on the one hand, different and sometimes abstracts from, or comments on, more original irreconcilable versions of one and the same theme, and, on the other hand, identical passages re-occurring in different contexts. You have a sheet detailing the body of Aristotelian Teaching as it has come down to us since its publication by Andronicus of Rhodes. (Some of the listed works are of doubtful authenticity ••• ; some are incomplete ••• ) It seems not unimportant to note that all these writings, the listed ones as well as the lost ones, can hardly have been produced in the 11 years of the Lyceum period, during which short period, incidentally, Alexander succeeded in conquering a world. The writings con- cerning the classification, the physiology and anatomy of animals alone must have required many, many years of study and observation on the part of quite a few people. It is even doubtful whether the tremendous effort to which the extant Aristotelian writings as well as the titles of the lost ones testify can be thought of as confined within the limits of the 24 year period between 347 and 323. It seems more reasonable to conceive of that effort as having begun in the Academy period, long before Plato's death. We have indeed, some evidence to that effect. It is undeniable, furthermore, that Aristotle and those who assisted him in his work utilized studies made before Plnto's days. But it is still true that everything we read in that collcctio n of Aristotelian writings bears an unmistakable stamp: terms in which it is written. the language and the peculiar lfuB.tever the degree of incoherence or coherence in the body of Aristotelian writings, their language has always the same characteristic mould. And, what is more, the shadow of Plato is always perceivable in them. �As you undoubtedly know, classical scholarship, in the last 150 years, has concentrated on the task of finding the correct chronological sequence of the Platonic dialogues. brought to a more or less successful end. This task has indeed been Let us not forget, however: it is one thing to establish the chronological order of the dialogues and quite another to understand what they are about, what they repre• sent, what they say and do not say, and why they do so. To interpret the chronology of the dialogues as mirroring the development of Plato's own thinking - even under the assumption that such a development did actually occur - is a sign of considerable naivete or of no less considerable rashness. More recently, the attempt has been made to construetthc development of Aristotle's thinking and to distinguish a so-called "Platonic period" in Aristotle's life from a post-Platonic and finally an anti-Platonic phase. Granted that !1ristotle's thinking must have had a history, granted that what we call his philosophy did not spring out of him as Pallas il.thena did out of Zeus' forehead, the evidence presented by his work, fragments and all, is far from sufficient for establishing and delineating with any degree of accuracy such stages of his thought. Two things, however, are overwhelmingly clear: 1) the basic postulates of I ristotle's thinking are to be found in what we conceive to be Platonic - and Socratic - philosophizing; 2) there is an unshakable unwillingness on Aristotle's part to follow Plato's lead in certain crucial respects. It is safe to say, I think, that fristotle's relation to Plato is a supreme example of the true pupil-teacher relationship: the pupil's unswerving loyalty to his teacher manifests itself in the pupil's commitment to Truth, even if that commitment makes the pupil reject the teacher's teaching. Let us hear Aristotle �- 5 - himself on that subject. About to begin an investigation into what is meant when people talk about "The Good", Aristotle remarks that such an investigation is ''distasteful" to him because it involves "men dear to him" ( qdA.o t. avbp E g who introduced the doctrine of "ideas" (i;?x €Lbfl ), that is - to use the Latin term - the doctrine of "species", or - to use the equivalent English term - the doctrine of "looks". on to say: These men are Plato and his followers. Aristotle goes "But - for those pursuing philosophy, at least - it would seem that it is probably better and, to safeguard the truth, even necessary to go against the grain; for, beth one's friends~ the truth,, being dear to one, it is right and proper to give greater honour to truth". "friends" (cp O.o 1. The companions in the .Academy called themselves )• In an Elegy, a fragment of which has been pre- served, Aristotle speaks of an altar dedicated to "holy Friendship" and unmistakably refers to Plato (without naming him) as to a "man whom even to praise bad men have no right". Let us, then, keep in mind this exam.plary relation of Aristotle, the pupil, to Plato, the teacher, in trying to understand Aristotle's own way. II It would be ridiculous, you will agree, to try to encompass, in a lecture like this one, the sum total of Aristotle's philosophy. All I can do is to point to • I should rather say, to hint at • some of the fundamental features of this vast edifice. Let me first put up a somewhat simplified table of .Aristotle's main themes indicated by the following terms: �- 6 cpt10'LG 'td( L {; (nature) -t:w~ (life) cxv9pwn:o~ - 'tl!XVf} •. A.dyoG. (soul) -vou<; ( •••• ) (order) -xcfoµo<; {world) i (man) (art) ( •••• ) None of these terms is specifically "Aristotelian". They are Greek words commonly used in a somewhat confused and ambiguous way. In Aristotle they acquire - to a large degree - an uncommon and unambiguous significance. Let us look at them. Unavoidably, we have to begin with A.dyo£ • The principal and rt/ inext±guishable meaning of this word is speech. We mean by speech ( - you, and I, and everybody - ) a sequence of sounds uttered by somebody in such a way as to be understandable to others. The verb "to understand" refers primarily - if not uniquely - to speech. Hearing somebody speak, we may say: I understand what you are saying, We may, in fact, misunderstand, but even misunderstanding involves understanding. But ~ do we understand in hearing somebody speak? Not the sounds by themselves, the audible and articulated, low and high pitched noises issuing from somebody's mouth (or some machine, for that matter). We hear these noises. But hearing is not understan• dl.ng. That's why we do not understand speech in a foreign tongue. In a manner which, itself, is hardly or not at all understandable, the sounds carry with them - or embody - or represent - something else, precisely that which makes us understand, whenever we understand. This source and target of our understanding consists of units, to which single "words" correspond, as well as of combinations of those units, to which whole sequences of "words" correspond. The speaker and the hearer share - or, at least, intend to share - the understanding of those units and of those combinations of units. transposes what he ~ The speaker into sounding words and the hearer who under- �stands reverses that process in reaching back to the intended meaning. The intenc1.ed meaning is what the Greeks call "Ch VOf}"tdV, its single units are theVOf}"tcf (VOTJ"Cc.5Vbeing a verbal adjective Of VOELV ). Speech and Understanding are inseparable. Aoyor;, .neans inseparably both: speech and that which can be and is being understood,!!! speech. It is in man "nd through~ (~v8pwn:OG ) thnt>-.~o; manifests itself conspicuously, so much so that Aristotle is able to say: .man is a living being possessing speech, and that means possessing the ability to ~ders~ the spoken word ( ~cpov >-.oyov exov). But what does speech "bespeak"? The answer is: everything man is familiar with - the sky and the earth, the rivers and the sea, the living beings around him, on land, in water, in the air - the things he himself builds and produces as well ~s the tools and appurtenances that his arts and skills require to produce those things • and furthermore the lmowledge that guides his arts and skills, not only to satisfy his most elementary needs but also to establish customs and institutions in which his life flows from generation to generation, in m:i.sery or happiness, in friendship or enmity, in praise or bla111e, and to which customs and institutions he is attached beyond his most pressing wants. That's what his speech and his understanding are mostly about. I just said: n ••• are ~"· tfuat a loose way of speakingJ Speech and the understanding that goes into it and can be gotten out of it are not just "about" something. To be sure, we can choose a theme and talk about it, circumscribe it, beat about the bush. But what we say, however circuitously or confusedly or loosely, is said in words and sentences each of which conveys immediate meaning. The ~ cannot help moving in the medium of the immediately understandable. To be sure, words and sentences can be involuntarily or deliberately �-sambiguous. But they can be that only because they carry with them several distinct meanings which, separately, are clearly understood. To be sure, speech can be obscure. But it can be obscure only because the clarity of some of its parts impinges or seems to impinge upon the clarity of others. Speech, then, presents to the understanding of the listener what the speaker himself understands. but combinations of ~1l!tcf • It presents to the listener nothing In doing that, however, speech "bespeaks" all the things and all the properties of things that abound around us, all the special circumstances and situations in which we find ourselves. The question arises: do the \IOf}'t"d presented to us in speech stem from the speaker, whoever he might be, or do they stem from the things and circumstances spoken of? Does not any human speech translate the language of the things themselves? Let me turn for a moment to the way the things around us are referred to in more recent times, in the 17th century. words: "The Descartes: Harvey: ~ of Nature is written in mathematical characters". "The science contained in the great boo15 of the world". "The consulted". In Galileo's ~ of Nature lies open before us ~nd can be easily The phrase "book of Nature" is a metaphor, to be sure, but why was this metaphor chosen by so many authors? Is it not because Nature is here understood as something that can be read, read like a book, provided we know how to read it? What have we been doing ever since but reading and decoding the book of Nature? indeed imply a language which is nature's own? But does not that Francis Bacon was of the opinion that Nature is subtly secretive, full of riddles, Sphinxlike. But secrets can be revealed, riddles can be solved - in words. We persist, as you can read every day, in solving the "riddles of �- 9 - nature". In ancient times, the language of all that exists around us is taken mudh more directly (I was about to say: in a much more literal sense) as a spoken language, a language not written, yet visible, and if not visible, one to be guessed at. Human speech seems indeed to translate that visible or invisible language of things into the audible language of words. find just as the sound of human .s peech can be traced down to its ultimate components to which the letters of the alphabet correspond, things around us can be de-composed into their first rudinents, the "elements", the original letters of the language of things, as it were. Our speech, even our unguarded colloquial way of speakinc, may reveal to the attentive listener the hidden articulations of the language of things, Aristotle • no less than Plato - is always bent on fallowing- up casually spoken words. No doubt, speech can deliberately deceive us, distort and falsify the truth of thingso The fireworks of the Sophists, for example, - and there are always sophists around - make things anq relations of things assume a most unexpected, dazzling and puzzling aspect: suddenly apoear not to be what they are. things But who is doing the lying - if it be lying -, the sophists or the things themselves? A critique of speecht a critical inquisition into speaking and arguing has to be undertaken - as it was undertaken by Parmenides - by Prodicus - by Plato - by Aristotle. follows: The result of this critique can be stated as to speak does not always mean to make thinfS appear in their true light. For Aristotle, only one kind of speech, ~;,>,,&yob ~nocpa'\!­ 't (.X"b' the declaratory and revealing speecht translates or interprets the language of things. To be able to use this kind of speech requires a discipl!!.1..!:., the discipline of the >..dyoG • Everywhere in Aristotle's work one senses, to the annoyance of some and to the delight of others, �- 10 - the effectiveness of that discipline, the effectiveness of what we call the "Logic" of Aristotle. It is this emphasis on the >..dyo£, the A.dyo£ &'ltocpa v-r t xd~, which made Aristotle the great teacher through the centuries. this respect he is as much a ·pupil·· as a teacher. But in We have a significant passage in Plato's work which indicates that rather clear- ly. I mean the passare in the f~ where Plato makes Socrates meet Cebes' crucial objection concerning the deathlessness of the soul, Here, Socrates, after - silently - looking back into himself for quite a while, reaches - in speaking - far back into his own youth. He wanted very much, he reports, to find out, with regard to any single thing or occurrence, what was responsible for its coming into being, its passing away, its being the way it was. satisfactory answers. But he could not find any Nor could he learn thera from anybody else, not even from the great Anaxagoras. He had to abanc1on the way in which questions like the ones he was asking were dealt with in the various versions of the "inquiry into nature" or the "story of nature" ('JtEp\ cpl!crnwi; ten op 'a ) • He decided to embark upon a different journey, his second journey, his "next best try" ( bet5-rEpoi; TIA.oui; i'Jt\ 't~V 't~G a l-i; fob ~ rf'tflO't.V). This is the presentation he makes of his new endeavor. By looking directly at whatever presents itself in our familiar world, at things and their properties, at human affa irs ancl. actions, we run the risk of being blinded as people do who observe the sun during an eclipse if they do not l ook at its image on s ome w0tery surface. That nmy well have happened to thos e investigators of nature. To avoicl. being "blinded", Socrates thought he had to "take r efuge in spoken words" ( € (£ 'tO~ £ A.dyou i; xa-racpuydVL~~ in exchanging questions and answers with himself and wi th others, and in ~ search for the �- 11 - truth of thinr s • What Socrates implies is that the reasons for things being as they are and the truth about those thinfs are to be found in the spoken - or, for that matter; ~ilcnt - words and the \IOfJ'td they embody. That is not to say, Socrates warns, that the example of the sun, which can only be looked at through its image, is applicable here: if one compares a man who investigates things in words with one who investigates them directly, the former can hardly be said to be more concernecl with images than the latter. On the contrary, we surmise, it is the former who sees things as mere images or copies of genuine originals, ~a~ely of the VOfJ'td revealed to us in speech, in spite of the widespread opinion that "mere" words and their meanings at best mirror and usually do nothing but distort what we call "reality". "Reality" is an anglicized queer Latin term, the more adequate, if barbaric, English translation of which is "thinghood"• - It is safe to say, I think, that in one respect at least, . Aristotelian philosophy consists in the execution of that Socratic program. It is in speech, in searching for and finding adequate words, that the A.~yo{; of things, the A.dyoG of nature ( cpuO't{; audible and capable of being understood. ) becomes That's what constitutes the characteristic mould of Aristotelian language I referred to earlier. It is an unfortumite, if perhaps not surprising, historical accident that Aristotle's vocabulary acquired immeasurable weight and a fetishlike character in its Latin rendering perpetuated in almost all modern tongues. It is perhaps no exaggeration to state that something like three quarters of all existing scientific and philosophic terminology is either determined by Aristotle's latinized vocabulary or .can be traced back to it. Quite a few ti.mes in the past a revulsion against �... 12 .. that gibberish set in, We witness some of it to-day, of .Aristotelian terms endures: But the impact our corimon daily language bears witness to that.• On the other hand, Aristotle's execution of the Socratic program entails at least five interrelated modifications of some of the crucial Socratic-Platonic postulates, In trying to speak about this other aspect of Aristotelian philosophy, I shall have to consider some of the other terms in the table I put up .• Ill Socrates, in the Phaedo decided, as he said, to take refuge in spoken worc1s in order to fi~1d that m ich is responsible for any single thing or occurrence coming into being, passing away, being the way it is, The phrase character of the 0 to be responsible for•••" describes the at'tta presented to our understanding in speech, '\>Of"J'tcf Aristotle firmly holds to this view, The V'OT)'tcf are the £ rt:if) , the species, the invisible looks, on which the existence of things depends, They provide us with true answers to the question: why do things come into being, why do they pass away, why are they as they are, But the way of their having that responsibility is, according to Aristotle, not made sufficiently clear by Plato and those who follow Plato. sense has a VOfl'tdv, an that a VOfl'tdV 1 an sists. € € tbOG being? rboG 11 is 11 ? In what What docs it mean to assert The Socratic w2y of questioning per- But Aristotle's answer brings the first decisive modification of the Socratic-Platonic view. Wh'1 t Aristotle has to say about his controversy concer ning the objects of mathematical scienc es is also applicable to his controversy concerning the will not deny thnt they ~ being" ( oµ, n:cp ' L i;ou- 7 E: Lb~ : "The dispute but will be about the manner of their € L va 1., , ' ' \. a}.,,)\a nep ' 1. 't'OU- 'tp01t?O.A The l)hrase �- 13 "manner of being" will be gradually clarified, I hope, as I proceed with this lecture. The manner of being of an e {cob is that it is al together "at work" (the Greek neuter adjective is ~vepydv), that is: ~.2!· ~work £.!ght Its being can, therefore, be characterized as Jvf!pyE La. not certain whether Aristotle coined this term. It is But whether he did or not, it belongs to him as intimately as our skin belongs to our body. The being-at-work of an £ ro0£makes it responsible for the work done. -How it is done, what that responsibility entails, . is a complex matter. For the work of the £ tbob is not done by the Et~6~1:he way our hnnds, for example, do their work (although Aristotle, on one occasion, compares the functioning of the soul to that of a hand). to come back to that point after a while. I shall have What is most noteworthy about "being-at-work'' is that there has to be something else, that namely which is being worked on. This other something has to be capable of being worked on, that is to say, its character must be that of a suitable material, as wood or timber is suitable material for the work a carpenter has to perform. The chara~eristic name of that suitable mat erial is uA.ti (actually derived from the Greek word for "wood"). Its manner of beinr: consists in nothing but in its ability to play that role. Its manner of beinr is ot!vaµ Lb • Nothing, I re- peat, nothing is ~"-fl except in relation to work it is subjected to, that is, in relation to an bricks. Iron is iron. ~vtpyE La. Wood is wood. Bricks are Wood can be called a material only with regard to some operntion to be performed on it, an operation that woulcl tranl!form it, say, into a table-. 'Where do we get an inkling of the work involving£ rcob and and their respective manners of being? ~"-ti The Aristotelian answer is: in the conspicuous phenomenon of generation~ of y~VE<1L~of "coming to �-14 - be"• I mean the phenomenon, ever present before our eyes, of produc- tion and re-production, of generation and re-generation. Men generate men, cats generate cats, birds generate birds, fishes generate fishes; there are always young ones playing about; and this quite independently of any possible evolution stretched out over an exceedingly lonr period of time. Flowers and grass appear in the Sprinr, disappear in the Winter, only to reappear the next Spring; trees bud, then blossom and grow fruit, and fruit produces seeds, and seeds grow again into plants; every morning the stm. rises, every year Spring is born anew; and even moisture con0enses into clouds which in turn produce water apain. That's what the word ylve0'1.~ becoming; the thinr,s which are implies: it means both coming.!.£ fener~ted are all things The old myths tell this story over and over genesis is the very soul of any myth. story of its genesis has to be told. of their genesis has to be told. subjects of any myth. ~gain. E!!. an<l !£ rn· In fact, To understand the world the To understand the gods the story Cosmogony and Theogony are the primary To understand properly any event in human life, or the character of a people, or a city, this event and this character has always to be related, it seems, to its mythical oririns. To tell the myth of something means to tell how this something came to be. An enterprise of this kind does not make much sense unless one relates everything ultimately to beginnings which make any genesis possible. These are precisely the mythical origins. these two elements: They contain, of necessity, the Male and the Female. And however distant the sobriety of Aristotle is from the exuberance of those ancient tales, still the same aspect of the world as a chain or as cycles of reneration dominates his thought. One great and prime exar.iple of generation is the generation of livint- beings, of animals. 1i.ristotle does not assume that all �- 15 .. generation requires the separate existence of the male and the female; he !mows that i11 some cases it is very difficult to attribute the role of the male or of the female to any part 0f the generating process. But on the whole, the male and the female are distinct. This, then, is how Aristotle describes the process of' reneration in those cases in which he thinks that the male animal emits semen. ''!tlther the male .!!£!: the female emits seI:Ien £!!to~~~' they both dep0sit together what they have to contribute .!!! ~ but female, because in the female there is the material (~X.fl ) out of llhich that which is beinr- fashioned is maO.e" • 01')µ1.oupyotfµevov san, a craftsmen, a (Aristotle uses the word , which means that which is worked on by an arti~f)µt.oupydb ) "• •• Hence, of necessity, in the female that parturition takes place. it is For the carpenter is close by his wood and the potter close by his clay, and, in general, the working on the material and the last motion which acts upon it is close by the material; for instnnce, housebuilding takes place at the houses which are beiilf built. These instances may help us to under- stanc how the male makes its contribution to generation; f or not every male einits semen, ano in the case of those which do, this semen is not a part of the embryo as it develops. In the same way, nothinr passes from the carpenter into the pieces of wood which are his material, and there is no part of the art of carpentry present in the object which is being fashioned; it is the visible shape and the f 0rm (~ µ.opq>lf xa\ 't~ er bO£ )which pass from the carpenter and which come to be in the material by means of the movement that fh i::; carpenter execates. It is his soul, wherein is the form (i;b etbo£), and his knowledge which move his hands or some -0ther part of his body in a particular way (different ways for different products and always the same way for �- 16 - any one product); his hands move his tools, and his tools move the material (~X.fl ). ~ ~ }!!milar way, Nature, acting in the male of semen-emitting animals, uses this semen as a tool, as something that, by virtt1e of being !!!, .!!£!:! ( 'VEpye t~ ), has movement; just as when art, the tools are in movement because the movement which belongs to objects are being produced by any art is, in a way, in them"• The embryology implied in this passage as well as throughout J~ristotle's work is faulty. We know much more about the mechanism of fertilization than he could have possibly (We should not forget, knO't.ll• though, how incomplete this our knowledge is.) But there are elements in this description which are quite inaependent of any embryology. Let me first restate what I have just quoted in a more technical way. The material factor o;f generation is represented by what the female contributes to the embryo. It is the ~hfl • The motion which works on that material is the motion of the semen that is emitted by the male animal, and its semen corresponds to the caroenter's tools. But what, in generation, corresponds to the table that the carpenter, as we say, hns in mind, and furthermore, to the purpose that determines the looks of the table? It is Nature, qn.fo· LS, on which the motions of the male animal and of its semen ultimately depend. It is cpt!crt.c; which provokes in the living being the urge to generate:epws, desire, overpowers the living being. And that is how life ( l'.;w1'f) is perpetuated for ever. This process shows the double aspect of what we call Nature, cp\!a LS (which term is derived from the verb q>'1w meaning beget, en• gender, generate): .I cpu~qnust 'I be under.stood as £t.l:>oc; It shares in both, in ~vf!pye La~ l>'5vaµt.G • u'\ ~as U/\fl • But it is of utmost importance to Aristotle - and to us who are trying to understand Aristotle's thought - that ! v~pyE La (and, therefore, any s t~o~) �- 17 - outweighs its correla'ie bt1vaµq;(and, therefore, any nificance, in rank, in manner of being. u"-11> in sig- Aristotl.e devotes an entire book (Book 0 of the Metaphysics) ahowin·g the "priority" of !vtpye La The famous clich~ question: over l)\1vaµ t.b. what comes first, the chicken or the egg? is no puzzle to Aristotle. The chicken - I should say more precisely, the rooster - very definitely comes first. But this "coming first" has nothing to do with any sequence of time. "Coming first" means to be 11 first" in weight, in dignity, in efficacy, - in the ladder and order of being. We shall see in a moment what ultiniate consequences Aristotle derives from this priority. Aristotle's emphasis on generation carries with it the second decisive modification of the Socratic-Platonic view. The 'I £ t.bo~ is perpetually "at work", is perpetually lv£pyS'Cf , without ever undergoing any change. It is efficacious _!!! the ever changing bodies of living beings, as it is effective in the motions of celestial bodies and also - but only analogously so - in the customs and institutions of men. No need, therefore, to assign to the e; rof) a "separate" existence, no need to characterize their manner of being as one of "separation''()(wp t.CJµds ). Their purity and eternity is not affected by all the changes they are responsible fer. duplicate the world. The things around us . th i ngs has "being", has , l a, OUO' . an is There is no need to ~' • ' a. C>O<J each one of those But each thing derives its being, its ofla(a , from the ~vtpye Let of its £ {bo~ • Each thing as has being only inasmuch/it is the manifestation of the its ., E \.OOG • I am because I am "man". Brown is because it is "£!!.!"• ~vlpye; t.a of The cat that belongs to Mrs • The tiger who, this year, April first, ate a man in India, is because he is "tiJ?er".. Much more important than the ~"-11' out of which I and the cat and the tiger are built, is, �• 18 - in each case, the e{bo~ that determines the growth of our bodies, that holds the body together as a unit, that makes us act the way we do. The priority of Jvipye La over b\fvaµ LG manifests itself con- spicuously in the preponderance of what is 0 at work" over what is being worked on, in the preponderance which, in the ways of Nature, the ., e LOO{; has over the u t>~T}. And let us not forget: e tt>oc;; presented to our understanding in speech, - -r:b it is the very e {cob i:b • IV If the world need not t 1-,us be duplicated, there is indeed another duplication, an unavoidable one, which - ultimately perhaps - threatens the integrity of /lristotle' s philosophizing, - the bifurcation of the direction in which the £ {boC- "works". For it is remarkablet most ., remarkable, I should say, that the role of the £ t.ooc;; in the process of generation is repeated in the process of understanding. '1 e L bOG The same which presides over the generation, the growth and the suste: ... nanee of living beings makes us sustenance. ill~ this !!eneration, growth and We, men, - and apparently in varying degrees all living beings - are able to perceive what is around us. We have the capacity, the ability, the faculty, the power, the bdvaµ t.G, of receiving information (as we say in typical Aristotelian fashion) about so much that surrounds us. Leaving aside our cousins, the animals, we men see and hear and sraell and taste and perceive by touch and furthermore understand and lmow quite a few things. and understand are ultinately the That which makes us perceive sll>TJ • Each of us as a µerce:lr ving and understanding beinp- is said to have a soul ( 1'>\)X11 ), the function - the proper work - the af!(f:IJ of which is not only to sustain our life but also to enable us to sense and to understand beyond what �.. 19 - is necessary for our living. The ability to sense, that is the ability to be affected bodily by bodies around us, is called the power of ') (or 'tb a\.0'8fJ'tLxc1v), the ability to be affected by the ala9dvecr0aL is called the power of voetv VOT}'tcf (or A \IOUG). With respect to what we perceive and ttnderstand, with respect to the a L0'9fl"td and , these powers have a manner of being similar to the manner ., of being the material, the u"-ri , of a thing has with respect to the ., E l.bO~ , the species, the invisible looks of that thing. Let me try to describe these philosophical jargon. ~owers by avoiding all latter-day Consider • and reflect upon - the phenomena of sensing and understanding with which we are all familiar. Put aside the picture of something, as we say, uin" us that we call "mind", a sort of closed container or box. What characterizes us inasmuch as we are able to perceive and to understand is our being awake. The state of wakefulness ( lypt1yopa q; ) has its degrees, as we all lmow. We can be drowsy and half-asleep. on around us. ·we can be inattentive to what goes But as long as we are not fully asleep we are awake, and we know that we are. (The fact that we might dream that we are awake does not refute that knowledge but confirms it. How else could sleep~) 'Ibis state and we distinguish wakefulness from dream even in manner of being is a state in which we are not closed up but .2E.!:!!• Wakefulness is openness, • the very openness of a huge open door. It is !!£!. a state of activity but rather a state of preparedness, of alertness. - \IOU£ .TI!!! .. or voe l. \I state or manner of being is co.mm.only called in Greek • It is a manner of being which corresponds to the ., manner of being of any material, any U~f}, and, like the latter, it is only conceivable in relation to what transforms it into a finished product. This transformation and information is brought about by we sense and by ~we understand. .!h!!! The transformation and information �- 20 - being completed, we are~ with what we perceive, understand, know. It is not we, in our state of wakefulness, who grasp, actively, something that is prepared to be grasped. On the contrary, we, in our state of preparedness, ar e being grasped, moulded, f or ned by what is at work, by the iv~ ~a Of the " £I.Of} , sometimes, nay, mostly, through the intermediary of our s ensinr power. In our sensing we are not one with the natural thing perceived but with what works on our sensing ., £LOO~ power, with what Aristotle calls, quite consistently, the Cit 0'0f}'tdV • The relation of the E to fl a'lcr0f]'trlto the £ t~ comparable to the relation of the sounds ~ V01'1 'tcf is in speech to what we The e'Co11 afo011'td constitute, one might say, the understand in speech. very l anguage of thi np,s tha t affects our wak inp souls. The process of understanding , the process of ga ining a n insirht is, in Aristotle's eyes, ~a proce ss of begetting and generating. The o\fvaµL£Of any "natural" material, a ny ~X.1"} qn.>0'1.xtf , is here repla ced hy the s oul's capability ~f being awa~e and of reeeiV:int;. This capability include s both the capability of sensh"lg (a l0'9dvecr9a L ) and the c apability of being informed by the VOf'}'tcf • 'We are commonly not aware of this capability as such, since it cannot subsist all by itself, cannot subsist without being worked on. The closest we can come to observing it is t o l ook into the eye s of very sm"lll children. This Aristot el ian understandinr of th e proc e ss of understa nding in our souls brinps Platonic view. a third decisive dcpnrture fr om the Socratic- Since sensing- , not unlike spee ch, ma ke s us the material worked on by the £ u1.01"} 1tAOU~ , it is i mportant to r ev ert to th e , the first j our ney tha t Socrat es, in the wa ~rs Pha~do, 1tpwrro~ clai ms to in which one is ma ster ed by the h av e given up. Ther e are t wo E tbfl VOfl'td : on e is the way of the °Adyo~ , the way of speak ing and understanding, the wa y of bringing together, in our understanding , the �- 21 - vo~~d presented to us in speech, the way of the syl-logismos; there is another, in which our teachers bring us face to face with the things to be understood. This latter way is called l'Itaywy~ • The term "induction" is an exact translation Of the Greek word but has come to mean something quite different. on our being affected, thro~gh thing, by .its e {~ob • 1 The efficacy of an ~'Itaywy~ rests the observable sensible features of a 1 ttaywy" does not necessarily require many ' and varied experiences or observations. Cne case might be sufficient. But a mere glance at the titles of all the Aristotelian (and pseudo• Aristotelian) writings shows how intent Aristotle must have been on engaging in protracted observations, on listing all kinds of observable phenomena and on collecting information from all possible sources. v This activity, however, is altogether auxiliary. It serves the great and awe-inspiring goal of giving a nearly complete account of the world as a whole. This may be reckoned as the fourth radical de• parture from the Socratic-Platonic view. For Plato, it seems, did not believe it possible to reach that goal, although the philosophical enterprise he was engaged in, in its extravagance and divine immoderation, indeed demands that our efforts to reach it never cease. Aristotle undertook to satisfy that demand once arrl for nll. Only a few after him made such an attempt. The term "world" or x~aµob - in Greek as well as in English - does not mean - and never meant - simply the swn tot al of all existing things. It means r ather the peculiar way in which diverse parts are suitably arranged to form~~£ or, as we say, a "universe". An account of the wholeness of all that is implies of necessity an account of the intrinsic order ( ~cf~ Lb ) which makes the whole a whole. An �- 22 - account of this kind is what is called, though not by Aristotle, a cosmo-logy. It seems that Aristotle's philosophizing culminates in, and rests on, a cosmology. You are all acquainted with some of its features. Within the huge sphere of the world (ridiculously small in modern terms) there is a tiny sphere - the sublunar sphere - encompassing the Earth. Not that the Earth is located at the midpoint of the world sphere, as if a mathematical point could determine any location within the world lll'ithout regard to the body involved. and the bulk of the Earth that cosmos is. det~rmine It is rather the globe where the middle region of the Beyond the sublunar dor.iain a number of concentric, contigu- ous, rigid, . and translucent spheres r each up to the limit of the world, to the sphere of the so-called fixed stars. Beyond that limit there is nothing, nay, not even nothing, not even "void". The world is, strictly speaking, nowhere. The cosmic spheres are in perpetual regular motion, around diverse axes and at different rates of speed. including the Sun and the Moon. Some of them carry the planets, The combined motions of these spheres are responsible for the appearance of all the irregular motions of the celestial bodies which we observe from the Earth. This "saving of the phenomena", as the traditional phrase has it, is the task of a math& matical discipline "most akin to philosophy", namely the science of the visible , yet eternal, bodi es, the science of &a-rpo}...oy(a , the science of the fix ed and wandering stars, Aristotle follows here in the footsteps of Eudoxus and Calippus, trying to improve upon their hypotheses without preswning to have the last word as far as the number, the sequence , and the motions of all th ese spb.eres are concerned. The-ir combination and co-ordination, which r emains to be decided upon by mathemat i cal astronomers, can be r epres ented - visi bly and t angibly - �- 23 - by a man•made model. The Lyceum seems to have possessed one. Yet what, in Aristotle's cosmology, is more important than the proper encasement and number of the spheres is its intimate link with the highest discipline Aristotle propounds and to which he occasionally assigns the name of "First Philosophy" ( ip~'tfl cp t.>..oO'ocp {e,0 • This is the discipline which considers not particular and definite bodies of any kind that "are" or might be, but which considers Being 2E. ( " O'V (i;b "- 'I... Cl1t~W~ ov or ~ OV fJT ., ) 0\1 • "Indeed", says Aristotle, 11 ~ ~ is being )? - that is, ~ is being·ness ( o~O' Ca )? - that is the question of ancient times and the question now and the question always and always the puzzle one faces"• "And so", he continues, "it is in- cuI!lbent upon us, too, to consider - above all and first of all and uniquely, as it were, - ~Being, taken in that sense, is"• It might not be inapproPriate to assign to this most fundamental discipline a name coined in the 18th century, the name of onto-logy. It deals with what is ultimately responsible for t11e coming into being, the persisting, as well as the passing away of any single t1·,ing. It is within its province, therefore, to deal with what is ultimately responsible for the being and the intrinsic order of the world as a whole. That is to say, this highest discipline has to account for the "Highest", the divine, and can, accordingly, be characterized by Aristotle as the l1t1.0''t't1µ11 or qn.>-..oaoqi(a eeo>-..oyut~, the knowledge or wisdom which consists in the comprehension of divinity. Thus Aristotle's cosmological and ontological (or theological) considerations converge at the level which marks the beginning of the bifurcation I mentioned earlier. It is the level of the ,, £ t. bfl • Their manner of being, as we have seen, is characterized by ~vipyet.a , by "being-at-work". It is indeed l "~PY£ftl that, for Aristotle, answers the eternal question concerning Being !! fil!Ch. Whenever we say �- 24 - that something is or exists we imply - without being always aware of this implication .. that it owes its being or existence to • It is temptinr to substitute for that Greek word the modern tern "energy". This substitution would not necessarily falsify the state- r.tent I just made but would make it somewhat misleading, For "energy" has either a strict meaning adequately rendered only by a variety of mathematical expressions • the physical dimensions of which will always be: (unit of mass) X (unit .o f distance)2 X (unit of timer 2 .. or a vague meaning associated with somethin.P like vigor, agcrcssiveness, vitality, We observe, though, that even for us to-day, both creanings of "energy", the strict one and the vague one, are tied to the notion or picture of work done or to be done, Tradition~lly the translations of ~v~pyel.a are mostly derivatives of the Latin verb~' to wit, "act", "action", "activity", "actuality", we say: Note how curious it is that "actually, Mr. Jones does not live in Washington" or "actually, the Earth is a plunet". We may substitute for the word "actually" phrases 1 ike "in fact", "in effect", "in truth", are eqdvalent to stating: that is so or is not so, 11 indeed". Such phrases considering that which truly is, this or It is still an Aristotelian way of speaking, although the ontological assertion that being-ness means 11 being•at- work" or being "active" remains hidden behind the screen of our colloquial use of weighty words. Aristotle merges cosmo-logy into onto-logy by distinguishing two aspects of the phenomenon of VOE tv , more precisely, by reaching beyond the meaning commonly attributed to "what is called \IOU c; (~ xa>-..otfµ€VO£ voub ). " Noe:l'v ' as I tried to say earlier, is the state of wakefulness, a state of preparedness and alertness, which, in relation to what we perceive, understand, know, plays the role of the �,.. 25 - material to be worked on. In that sense - voe: 1.\1 is "passive", is the state of being mastered by something ( ••• i;b voe: Lv 'JtcfO'XE 1. v 't ( ~ C1't t. \I ) , namely b~ the impact of various e: Lb fl • this sense is somehow the mere capability of becoming what is understood (ouvcfµ.e t. m~G lO''H 't~ VOT')'t?i ~ vo'.k;) and nothing on its NouG · becomes ~ own. g_ tr"!!!!! when it is ~with what is understood, £!!..£with the VOfl'tc! have done their work. , that is to say, when the E:LOT') Only then can the vou G be said to be wakefulness "at work", to be !ve:pye: {ct 'VOUG , only then is the vou G "at its own end", is it lvtEAEXE~ VOUG• But Aristotle's thought - anticipated to a degree by Anaxagoras and by Plato - goes one crucial step further: the very being of this accomplished \IOUG is nothing but ~ vf!pye: t.a , and conversely, Being-at-work ~ \IOUG, impartible ( &µ.e:pfiG ), indivisible ( &o t.a lp E'tOG), impassive \ ( &n:a9f1c; ), unchangeable ( &va~Cwi;o' eternal ( &•f b LOG). ), undying ( &0dva-co<;), It is eternally "at work", and it itself as Being-at-work is its own eternal life (~w'1 ) and its own eternal delight ( ~~ov11). It is deity ( (~ o~pavc1,)and Nature (fj: b 9e:dG )• The entire heaven q>tfCTL<;;) hang upon ( ~p'te:'ta1. ) this kind of "Capital beginning" ( &pxrf ) • Let us try to understand the full meaning of this solemn statement which echoes Anaxagoras' famous proposition about the vou~ "ordering everything and being responsible for everything" ( b LaxoO'µ.wv 'te: xa\ mfv"twv af 't'-OG). We have seen that the et brrvo11"td are responsible for the being of everything and for all the changes that occur in the world. Now, the priority of Being-at-work over the manner of being manifested in the capability of being worked on, the priority of lvtpye: La over btfvaµ q;, on which Aristotle insists so much, demands that a �- 26 - VOfj'tdv be not only something understandable ( buvcfµEL VOf)'tdv) but also something under st~ "in fact" ( VOf}'tOV l v£pye ~Cl- ) that it may be efficacious, may indeed be an a t't fo • so The VOfJ'td can play their generatiiig role only when they are one with the vaj°G "at work", one with the productive state of wakefulness, one with the 'YOO(; not.f}'tl.Kd~as Aristotle's ancient commentators name it (relying on Aristotle's own conjoining Of't~ at'tLOV and~ 'JCOLf)'t' 1.x~v). This identity of the »OUG and the VOT)'tdv , of the 1'ooGv and the voo'1µ£ vov - as well as of the accomplished state of lmowing (~ xa't' lv!!pye 1.av ~n:1.0't'l1µ.ri)and the known object ~o ln LO''tfJ'tdv or 'tO np<lyµa) -, characterizes a state of wakefulness which is not "empty" openness but complete "fullness". only where all that ~ be has ~~ This st ate prevails realized, where there is no place for mere "possibility", "capability", "ability", bt.fvaµLG , in other words, where no material to be still worked on is in any way involved. The divine VOUG - that is to say, the sum total of all £ Lbf] as comprehended by that vou G - is totally immaterial (aveu ~Aof)G ), or - since as ~vipye La it requires some material to be worked on - it can be said to be itself material for itself (vo1f0'£WG vd11a l.G). It is thus totally "separated" from every• thing else in the world and consequently outside of time, uncontaminated ( Aµ1.yf1G ), pure . ( xaSapdG)• understanding of the "separated" Strangely enough, in this VOUG - with all the it "contains" - Aristot/lep' seems to revert to the position of his teacher. VI First Philosophy or ontology is not confined to the consideration of 'VOUG as lvipyt La• It has to take into account not �- 27 - only the manner of being labelled bt1vaµ q; but also other manners of being and furthermore the different ways in which something can be said to be responsible for somethinE! else, .As far as this latter theme is concerned, Aristotle does not deviate from the Socratic-Platonic path, There are different meanings attached to the question "why?" and, correspondingly, there are different ways of answering that question. as it is? We might answer: ~ecause material, out of which it is made. ~.ll is this lectern ~ of the wood, the particular We might also say: because the particu_lar carpenter, the oaker, made it ttiis way. We might also say: because of the shape .2!: form the maker had in mind. We might finally say: because of the ~~ this thing is supposed to serve. However important and even indispensable the first three answers might be, it is not difficult to agree that the choice of the material (~ ~A.f) ) the shape or looks ( 'tO E!bo<;) of the thing, and the performance of the maker who initiated the transformation of the material into this lectern, - that all these depend on the purpose, the end for the sake of which the lectern has been made. It is that purpose which is decisively responsible for the lectern be~ as it is. its end ( 'tO 't'ftA.o<;), is its true "beginning" { Its purpose, &pxt1 ). - All those questions and answers are perhaps not possible with respect to every single thing or occurrence, but it is one of the most important tenets of Aristotelian - and Socratic-Platonic - philosophizing that, universally, the purpose - the goal - the end - the 't{A.o<; - provides the only satisfactory answer to the question "why". J~nd this holds especially for the world as a whole. There is a characteristic aspect of anything we call a purpose or a goal or an end, namely that it is an object of £.esire. The ~~A.o~ - in the making of a thing - in the contrivance of some device - in the �- 28 - establishment of an institution - in the action of a man - is responsible for all the changes it brings about, and yet it itself remains w1changeably, "immovably", what it is. efficacy the way an instrument does. It does not manifest its It attracts - but does not get involved in the concatenation of changes which it originates. Such is the efficacy of an e: IcoG , wherever Nature rules, - the generating ,. efficacy that the e: I. COG owes to its manner of being, which is Being.. at-work. An E {COG is "at work" ~! something striven ~' as an object . ,, l" of des1re, of ope:., LG • And that is also true for the di vine as the "container" of all the e: "l.bfl of the world. The whirling spheres of the world, including the last one, the one of the fixed stars, strive to become what the best of all, the vou G , beyond all time is: this desire of theirs holds them for ever in their never ending circular motions. Thus, for Aristotle, the eternity of the world in time is an inescapable consequence of the timeless ontological character of ~v~pye: 1.a , which the e:Lofl and the VOUG possess. As to the problem of manners of being other than that of &v~pye:t.a a .!if.!h departure from the Platonic view marks Aristotle's thinking. ! For Plato, it seems, being-ness is an e: 00£ of the highest rank, an e:fboG embracing the entir e family of e:Lof) "within" it: it is a "genus". Everything that is, inasmuch as it is, falls "under" it, as it were. 1fuenever we face "being" we face Being. ~ and th~~~ kind of For Aristotle, however, it is necessary to distinguish between "Being" in the strict and primary s ense of or degre es of t v!tpy•HCI and other manners Being related to the fornier "proportionally", xa"t' • It is precisely the difference in the kind~ !?.f.. ~latio!!_ to the primary aspect of beine;, that of t •dpylt ·,a , which justifies our &.va}..oylav speaking of ''manners of being"• As Aristotle says~ .,. . " Being is �- 29 - - spoken;'lb various senses, but in every case with so.me reference to -- . one capital beginning" ( ... "~ dv }..~yei;at. 7tOAX.axwb µit'v, &X.X.' ~Pxt1v . ~7tClV ~ µ1.av /\..). This holds not only for the manner of being which characterizes bt1vaµ Lb , but also for the various attributes of things, such as their motion, their color and warmth, their number and size, their health, benificence, and well-being. The 't'd~ t.~ , the hierarchy of the spheres with their specific ~v~pyet.al. is conceived as fallowing an "analogical" pattern, too. VII Where, then, is the place of ~ in this order of things? It is not too difficult to assess Aristotle's answer to this question. Man is said, on the one hand, to rank highest among the perfect, that is, viviparous, animals. produced everything for his sake. Nature is said to have J11ilong all the animals man is the only one with an erect nosture, "for his nature and his being are di vine". And yet, on the other hand, he is not the mo st important, not the best being in trye world, as becomes perfectly clear when we consider the celestial bodies which compose the cosmos. This somewhat ambiguous position of man is rooted in the insufficiency of man's wakefulness, in the "incompleteness" and "passivity" of his You~• Man is open to everything about him. Whenever this openness is filled with the ,, EI.bf) of the world he shares in the god-like mannerof being, in the lvtp~'l!I.of the divine voub • But this sharing is an intermittent one: ever so often man is overcome by fatigue, his wakefulness yields to sleep. to lie down. He has His divinity is but a passing shadow - as his very life is. Still, he has to make the best of it. Since he is not a solitary �- 30 - being but has to live with others of his kind, he establishes familiee rears children, acquires arts, learns and teaches, forms tribes, founds states, sets up institutions, rituals, customs and laws. he has to have ~pdv~aL<;, In doing that, has to exercise sovnd judgment in the con- duct of his affairs. Aristotle provides the justification and the guiding rules for all these specific human activities in his teaching and writing on matters of the Household, on Ethics and Politics, on Rhetoric and Poetry. diction of the Adyo~ All these subject-matters fall within the juris- , which is no attribute of divinity. Only to a few is given the happiness of a philosophical life, the immoderate, though intermittent, sharing in the tuneless ~vlpyeLa of the VOU~ • Let me, by way of conclusion, report toe preposterous, yet deeply significant, story told in ancient times about Aristotle's sleeping habits. When he went to bed, so the story goes, he used to hold in his hand a sphere of bronze - I presume the sphere representing the whole world -, while on the floor, close to the bed, beneath his extended hand, lay a pan. As soon as Aristotle would fall asleep, the sphere would slip off his hand, fall on that pan, and the ensuing noise would wake him up. and over again. This procedure was apparently repeated over Aristotle could have hardly survived such an ordeal for any length of time. claim to immortality. But no story could more aptly relate his �The Body of Aristotelian Teaching as it ' has come down to us since its publication by Andronicus of Rhodes in the 1st century B.c. Categories On Interpretation Prior Analytics, 2 books Posterior Analytics, 2 books Topics, 8 books Sophistic Refutations l The "Organon" .. ....... Physics, 8 books On the Heavens, 4 books On Coming to be and Passing away, 2 books On Phenomena high above, 4 books On the World On the Soul, 3 books On Sensation and Sensibles On Memory and Recollection On Sleep and Waking On Dreams On Prophecy in Sleep On Length and Shortness of Life On Youth and Age On Life and Death On Respiration On Breath Inquiries concerning Animals, 9 books Parts of Animals, 4 books Movement of Animals Gait of Animals Generation of Animals, 5 books ••••••••• On Colors On the Audible Physiognomies On Plants, 2 books ..... -· ... On Marvelous Things Heard Mechanics Problems, 38 books On Indivisible Lines Location and Names of Winds •••••••••• On Xenophanes, Zeno, Gorgias Metaphysics, 14 books .......... Nicomachean Ethics, 10 books Great Ethics, 2 books Eudemian Ethics, 7 books On Virtues and Vices Politics, 8 books The Crdering of Households, 2 books The Art of Rhetoric, 3 books Rhetoric to Alexander Peotics � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 30 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Aristotle (An Introduction) Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered April 20, 1962, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. The typescript is an enlarged version of the lecture that was delivered. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1962-04-20 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1962-04-20 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/55ac56b3728278d0c3413bba25927d9e.pdf 5bfccf97b6bd59faef975dd36abdb5c6 PDF Text Text fiBOUT PLAT0 1 S PHILEBL~§. A lecture given by Jacob Kl ein a t St. John's College May 20, 197·1 To speak about a Platonic dialogue, about a Platonic dialogue, means t o do violence to it. A sense of guil t will, be t herefore~ a continuous source of pain within me while I am speaking. But I cannot resist ths temptation to shed some light, some moonlight , as it were, on the P~ileb~. I hope you will forgive ma-- I cannot-- for sounding extremely pedantic, for speaking much longer than I should, end for making it sometimee very diff icult for you to follow. Let me state fi ve basi c points on which my talking about the Philebus will rest. First: a Platonic dial ogue is not a treatise or the text of a lectur e; it is not comparable in this respect t o a work of Aristotle or, for t hat matter , to any of Plotinus' Enneads as edited by Porphyry. A Platonic dialogue is usually a drama, a mime 9 i n which what happens cannot be separated from what is said and argued about. ,§.econdly : however s erious the purpose and the content of a Platon ic dial ogue , its seriousness is permeated by playfulnsss; indeed, as ~1e can read in t he sixth letter attributed to Plato , serious- ness and play a.re The comica l aspect of a Platonic d i a iog ua .§l;ste :r~· can never be completely disregarded. l.bl!:.9.1Y; no Platonic dialogue can be said to r epresent be called and ha s been called _:the "Platonic doctrine." (Soph. 254C ) ~1hat might The dlalcgue may well hint, though never 11 wi t h perfect clarity, " at gsnui t:21 a::d ulti mate thoughts of Pla to, the thinker. The S ae~, for example~ does that most certainly. · But an unimpeachable source provides us with more direc t inform~tion ever put down in wr itinga about Plato 1 s thinking t hat he himself Thi s source is Aristotle, who spent t wenty years at that place of leisure, the Academy, and heard what Plato hi mself sai d. I assume that we have to pay a ttention to Aristotle's r eports , never forgattin.9. that Aristotle has his E.!:!.!l way of describing other peoplesv thoughts, a peculiar t erminol ogy r o~ted in his �-2~Q. thinking and not ln the thinking of those other people s.bout luhom he reports. Fourthl_y: i n the las t t tt10 c enturies scholars; not all 1 but moat of them, have tried to understand the Platonic dialogues as belonging to different stages of a "development" in Plato's own thinking. Now, it is of course possible that Pl ato, in his l ong life, changed his views on many and perhaps even on moat important poi nts. follow a Platonic dialogue means to take it as it ~' But to as one whole~ i n which the i nterlocut ors play a definite and unique role and in which uihat is s~ and what is happening does not depend on anythlng that is said and is happening in any other dialogue. Before we could understand any "development" in Plato's thinking, it is i ncumbent on us to understand each dialogue in its £!:.1ill. terms. This understanding is not helped by assignirn} a dialogue to a certain period in Plato's Yet, in the case of the Philsbuet it will not be unimportant life. to t ake no t ice of the time this dialogue was written--no t in order to track some "deve lopmental " deviation i n Plato's thinkingj but merely t o establish whether certain statements in the dialogue may refer to somebodyvs conspicuous behavior within the Academy in Plato's later days. is And, happily enough, there i s general agreement that the a~ Phileb~e dialogue, although some of the reasons for this da ting might be questionable. [i.fthly: every word in a Platonic dialogue counts, and for some- body in the dialogue to remain silent may count even more. talking .~9.2l-!1 That's why a dialogue must necessarily r emain insuff icient . And now let us approach the Philebu~. The conversation takes place in Athens; we do not learn exactly where; it may be at a gymnastic school or at a wrestling school. 1.ofJ.9. What we read is a Eart of a conversation which begins s ome time in the afternoon. three i nterlocutors ; Socrates~ ~§t:i The~e are Protarchus, Philebus; many young men , half a dozen or a dozen per ha ps, are listening. Socrates is, well~ Sacrates--a man deuoteci ta inquiries and discussions and a friend �About Pl:~d;b' s .!:b.!1~9.L.f~ and lover of youth. Call:Las. Protarchua is the son of m well known Athenian, Philebue is nnt f<no1iln at all. He is one of t.ha fe1,t1 person~· ages in the Pl ato nic di alogues 3 like Calliclea, Diotima, Timaeus, invented by Plato; if they do not remain nameless~ like the Stranger from Elea and the Stranger from Athens, their names are appropriately coined. The name of Philebua indicates that he is a "lover of youth"--as Socrates (168) is. Philebus seems to be young, but slightly older than Protarchus and all the l is tening young men around them. The title of the dialogue as it has been handed down to us is Philebus. This title is never mentioned in the writings of Plato's contemporaries. Aristotle refers to what is times, mentioning Plato once. ~ in the dialogue at least eight There seems to be no reason , however, to doubt that the title qPhilebus" is genuine. Moreover, there is one good reason which speaks forcefully for its authenticity. dialogue contains did). .£.i.36~ The lines (I did not count them, but somebody Of these 2,369 lines only 23 are spoken by Philebus (those I counted). He raises his voice altogether only 14 t imese circumstances, who else but ~~ for the title cf the dialogue? Under these could have chosen the name of Philebus There will be more to say about this matter later on. The main question raised in the dialogue is: ~? What is the best human And this question has to cope primarily with the all-pervasive feeling of mocking us. ~~ common to all living beings--haunting, filling~ All of us--without exception--want to be pleased in thousands and thousands different ways: we Beek to lie down or to ait comfortably; we like hearing things that flatter us; we en joy good companyt witty words~ good drink and food; we delight in traveling 1 in going to the theater or to the movies, in looking at beautiful things; we love caresses, precious gifts, wild emotions; we loose ourselves wi th rapture in exerting ecstasies, and so on~ and so on. power~ in sexual s atisfaction 3 in A list of pleasures like the one I have just given is not to be found in the dialogue, but an infinite number of possible pleasures is implied in the arguments we are facing. �-4-- It is Philebus who looks at Pleasure as the highest good, who sees in Pleasure not only the best of human possessions, but the goal after which all liv:i.ng beings strive. ( if I Pleasure (17001''1) is the goddess he And quite a few of us, I think, follow him. worships. Secretes does not. Ha contends that there is something better and more desirabfe than pleasure, to wit, thoughtfulness in deciding how to act (t~ ~eovttv), the apprehending of what is intelligible only (~o vo~~v ) , !be power of memory ("to )At:f"Y~~IJ"') and that which is akin to these, right opiniQD_ (i~l« 1'e0~ ) and l!'ue calculations (JJ...,e;;"Ls Jioit..o-µo~ ); but Socrates carefully adds that these powers are better and more desirable than pleasure for those beings who are able to share in the.s e powers; only to beings who have this ability will these powers be profitable , now and in the future. This juxtaposition of both contentions, of that of Philebus and of that of Socrates, is made by Socrates very shortly after we begin reading. ( 11 A) "See, It is introduced by Socrates with the following words: then~ Protarchust what the assertion is which you are .!l£!£. to accept from Philebus, and what our assertion is, against which you are to argue, if you do not agree with it. of each of them?" logue. Shall we give a summary These words are the very first words of the dia- But what strikes us immediately is that they cannot be under- stood as indica ting the beginning of a conversation; they just continus what was said before; if they were the beginning of a conversation, the vocativa Tie~"&t(eXfl would be preceded by Z (Z lfe~f".txfjE, and not simply lleJr:Q{e~E); and the words "then" (cf~) and "now" (yl)yt) would not be used. Listen again: which you are~ true beginning. "See, ~t Protarchus, what the assertion is to accept from Philebus ••• " The dialogue has no Nor does it have a true ending. sentence we read spoken by Protarchus: This is the last "There is still a little left, Socrates; you will certainly not give up before we do, and I shall remind you of what remains. " We do not yet understand why the dialogue has no beginning and no ending. But we see (and this is important), �About Plato's .. Ebi:.!EJ~ ~ when we begin reading, that Protarchus hes to take over the thesis upheld by Philebus. More about th~t later. Enjoyment and thoughtfulness are the two banners that Protarchus and (111>) Socrates are respectively waving. The life of pleasure and the life of thoughtfulness face each other. But it becomes clear immediately that Socrates is considering some other life superior to both of them. He will keep reverting to this third life. It will finally be described in the last pages of the dialogue. What follows the juxtaposition of the two views, that of Philebus and Protarchus on the one hand and that of Socrates on the other, is Socrates' insistence that pleasure has many different aspects: (12C) "For, when you just simply hear her named, she is one thing, but surely she takes on all sorts of shapes which are, in a way, .!:In~ Socrates gives two simple, though significant, examples; each other." the pleasures of a licentious man are very different from those of a self-restrained man, who enjoys his very self-restraint; the pleasures of a fool are very different from those of a thoughtful man, who enjoys his very thoughtfulness. No, says Protarchus, the sources of pleasure may be different, may have an opposite character, but "how can pleasure help (120/E) being of ail things most like pleasure, that is, like itself." Yes, says Socrates, color and figure are what they are, but colors and figures can be very, very different and even, in the case of colors, most opposed to each other, like black and white. see how this could make him change his mind. third time~ Protarchus does not Socrates tries for the this time incisively, anticipating what will be said later in the dialogue. are pleasant. No argument, he says, disputes that pleasant things But Protarchus' contention, which upholds Philebus' conviction, implies that all pleasant things are g_ood. That's what is wrong. Pleasant things are for the most part bad and only some are good. But youj Protarchus, says Socrates, call all of them good, although you might be forced by the argument to agree that they are otherwise different. Protarchus tacitly admits that pleasures may be very different from each other, and even opposed to each other, but �sticks to his main poi nt t hat pleasure s , inas much as they are ~j are ahiays good . At this point Socrates goes back to his own contention, namely that 1b.?J:19htfulnsss (<f>eov~€tS) and ~! apprehen~ion of the i~elligi~~ (voos) are good. He adds to these--for the first time--knowledoe -- (i ~t ~~1pi) end predicts that many kinds of knowledge will come to the f ore, some among t hem unlike each other. Should it turn out that some are even opposed to each other, could he, Socrates , t hen cling to the poi nt that all knowledge is alike and--not unlike Pro t archus-11 save himself" in an absurdity? Protarchus is pleased that both, his assertion and that of Socrates, receive the same treatment and is now willing to grant that there are many different pl easures just as there are many diff erent knowledges (we have to note ths.t he does not mention oeposite pleasur es and knowledges). Socrates i s satisfied with Protarchus ' concession about the manynsss within knowledge and within pleasure and spsaks as follows: (148) no concealment~ "With thent Protarchus, of the differentiation within my good and within yours, but facing it squarely, let us be bold and see if per chance, on examination, it will tell us whether we should s ay t ha t the good is pleasure or t houghtfulness or some ot her ihird thing. 11 It is the second time that Socrates reverts to the poss i bilit y that something third may be th e bes t cf human poss ess ions. He pro- ceeds by strengthening this statement by an assertion whi ch has a wide, wide range. This is one·of the transitions in which the dialogue abounds (Parenthetical remark: in the 2nd century A.O. Galen wrote a treatise enti tled ''On the transitions i n the Philebus, " which is unfortunately not extant ). f ac:ing. let me s ay a f ew words a bout the transi t:ton we are now �-1- Up to this point the talk was about things most familiar to all of us, about pleasure and about thoughtfulness and about knowledge, this last word taken in its colloquial and vague sense. about our lives in this our world. The talk was concerned What Socrates is undertaking now is to lift the conversation to a level of all-embracing universality, disregarding pleasure and knowledge altogether . He will come back to them after a short while and then launch out to an even higher level. Why does he do that? The answer is: to find the ultimate sources of what is so close to us and usually unquestioned by us. The dialogue seeks to link the most common to the most uncommon and fundamental. To find the link will require a great deal of vigor on Socrates' part. The manyness within pleasure and within knowledge leads Socrates to re( 14C) mind Protarchus of the "astounding" assertions that "many are one" that "one is many." and There is nothing par ticularly surprising and diffi- cult about these assertions if they refer to visible and tangible things, which come into being and perish. A man, for example, is also many, because he has many members and parts. intelligibles, the £ l'ott on~, but he is But when we consider of things, the "invisible looks," which can be encountered only in speech (f>I Ao~ ti ) , and each one of which is one and unique, the "ona and many" problem becomes extremely perplexing (Socrates me ntions four of the intelligibles: the One young Beauty~ man~ the _Qne Go.2.£). the ~Man, the One Ox, That's where the trouble sets in. Any says Socrates, challenging those present, any young man, once he has tasted the flavor of that perplexity and thinks he has found a treasure of wisdom, does net spare anyone, neither himself, nor his parents, nor any human being, who can hear him, and joyfully sets every possible argument in motion, confounding everybody. (16A) Protarchus feels hit. "Do you not see 9 Socrates," he says, "how many we are and that we are all young men? Are you not afraid that we shall join with Philebus and at- tack you, if you revile us?" But Socrates' challenge works. Protarchus wants Socrates to find a better road than was used up to now and to lead them on. Socrates retorts that there is a better road , which he alwa~1s loved, �which is easy to point out, but very difficult to follow. Whatever human art has discovered had been brought to light through it. Socrates' description of this batter road marks a new transition in the dialogue. Socrates calls this same Prometheus r~ad tog~ther a "gift of gods to men," which we owe to with some gleaming fire (let me remind you: Prometheus stole the fire he ga\1e to men)~ The ancients, who were better than we and lived nearer the gods, says Socrates with deadpan seriousnessi have handed down to us the tradition that all the things which are ever said to exist are sprung from.Q.o.[ and MailY and have, I "' P ) inherent in their nature, Limit (lft;fd..J) and Infinitude (oUTE'-ft..<Jl • JI We shall come back to this point in a little while. What Socrates emphasizes now is that we must , in every case, look for .si!le e 'f Jos (he uses the word t J~... hare) and next for two,, if there be t1JJO, and if not, for 1hree or some other .J]JJ!nber; and we must treat each of these <:J~J"., ir'l the same way, that is~ subdivide each of them~ until 11 we can see that the original one is not just one and many and infinite, ( ·1 60) but also 12.9~ farewe ll ta the it is." Then we may bid farewell to infinity, bid Lf€et of infinity . Protarchus wants Socrates to clarify what he has said. No wonder! Socrates provides this clarification by pointing to the letters of the alphabet. The sound which we emit through our mou'\::.h can be called one, yet it is infinite in diversity. A god or a godlike man, as an Egyptian story tells, observed, however 9 that there are distinct vowel sounds, semi-vowel sounds and consonants- -in Greek 7 vowels, OY $OY\ta..,'l;.f 3 semi=vowelsA(~je,~)~ and 14 consonants~ more exactly 10y if we include I \ the rough breathing sound h and exclude the 5 double consonants. This means that be tween the oneness and the infinitude of s ound there are definite numbers of sounds. One has to know all of them to possess the arl of reading and writing. Socrates !!llllPhasi~ the !J.1£!!ber~ of sounds and letters. But this example of the al phabet and the example cf the numbers of musical intervals, which Socrates also gives j are �AboL1t P.lat o 1 s f,11,i];_eig!L§_ meant to let Protarchus and Philsbus and us understand that t here are numbers in the realm of the (560-E) 't'[.., . Lab::ir in the dialogue Socrates will clearly distinguish between numbers of unequal units , that is, numbers of sensible things, and pure mathematical numbers of units, that is, of units which do not differ at all from each other. But (sse esp. we learn from Aristotle that Plato also spoke of eidetic number s , of ~· XIV, numbers of units which are themselves nothing but ~fd~ 3, 1090·e. find them means tc embark upon that better, but difficult road. • To try to 32 ff.) Protarchus and Philsbus do not under stand what is going on. especially does not see theme of lLlhat the ~' Philebus which Socrates has i n jected into the discussion, has to do with the alternative of pleasure and t houghtfulness, which was in question. Socra tes reminds him that t hey were wondering how each of them , pleasure as well as thought( 18E) ful ness, was one and many, and whether "each of them possessed a number before becoming infinite, " that is to say, whether there were ~I t of Gt~~ pleasure as well as of thoughtfulness, which then are dispersed among beings that continually come into being and perish and that live their li ves in pleasure and thought. Protarchus is perturbed. He understands what Socrates i s after. He cannot find an answer to the question. He wants Philebus to answer it. And he formulates the question as follows; "I think Socrates is asking (198) us whether there are or are not and of what sort they (198) does not utter a wo1-d. true, son of Cal l ies." a ~ e, f; ri.., of pleasure t how many there are and the same of thoughtfulness." Philebus But Socrates remarks: "What. you e.ay is most He underscores the importance cf this fact by addressing Protarchus ceremonially as son of Callias. Protarchus is intent on bringing the discussion about pleasure and thoughtfulness to a satisfactory end. Socrates promis~ was reached. This We learn from what he says that that he would stay on and not go home before this end ptomis~ must have been given, we have to assume , during the discussion which preceded what we read in the di alogue, and we should not forget that. Protarchus demands that Socrates s top per- plexing him and the other young men and decide either to divide him- �self pleasure and knowledg e i nto t.heir .;1'ii1 E£ t o let th,st go, if there bs some other way to solve the matte r s at iss ue among them. Socrates is willing to do the latter, end this marks a new t ransition in the dialogt1e. Socrates claims playfully that some god has just reminded him of some talk about pleasure and thoughtfulness, which he heard when he was dreami ng or perhaps when hs was awake. What he heard saying was that neither pl easure nor thoug htfulnes s was t he good, but some t hird thing, differe nt from both and be t ter than both. that Socr a tes himself had in t imated t his the ~ time. We remember , cf cour se , twi c~ . If this could be clearl y shown He doe s i t new for now~ s ays Socrates, pleasure would not be the victor and it would no longer be necessary to divide pleasure into its 'l"J., . And Socrates adds that, while the discussion proceedsj this will become still What f oll ows leads to thr ee insights: cle a r~~. 1) i t is the l ot of the Good and only of the Good to be s elf-suff icient; 2) if we take the l i fe of plea- sure and the t ho ughtful life separately, so that t he li f e of pl easure is totally divested of any thought, any knowledge, any opi nion, any memory, and the thoughtful life, on the other hand, totally untouched by any pleasure, both lives--in this bare fo rm--cannot be conceived as self-sufficient, as desi ra bl e and as good; 3) only a l ife made up of a mixture of pleasure and th oughtfulne ss and sharing in both will be the kind cf life everybody would choose.- Lat me remark t ha t Socra t es and al s o Protarc hue list under the power s associated wi th thoughtf ulness t he power of a pprehending the intell ig iblas,va~s, which in common parlance may s imply mean sood sense . role for quite a wh ile. This term will now play a central Socrates concludes: it has bsen sufficiently shown that Philebus' goddess, Pleasure, cannot be considered identical (22C) with the good. Thereupon Ph ilebus raises his voice: "nor is your va~s th e good, Socra tes ; it will be open to the same ob jections. " (22C-D ) hear Socrates' :reactiom ''!ti you s Let us perhaps, Philebus ; but not s o the �·-1 ·1- ,.. !£.Y..e vovL, which is also ~l.rJ...~J th at one, I guess, is different. I do not as yet claim for the vo~s the prize of victory over the combined life, but we must look and see tJJhat is to be done about the §_§!cond prize." Socrates goes on, still speaking to Philebus: (220} put forward a claim, one that vous "Each of us might perhaps is ,E_ssponsible for this combined life, is its cause, the other that pleasure is: and thus neither of these two would be the good, but one or the other of them might be re- [Of the combined lify." Then, turning to Protarchus, Socrates claims he might keep up his fight against Philebus in garded as the .£.~~ an even stronger way and might contend "that in this mixed life it is vo~f that is more akin and more similar than pleasure to that, what- ever it may bet which makes that life both desirable and good." As to pleasure, he adds, "it is farther behind than the third place, if J!OC ( l l E.) ~ yous is at all to be trusted at present." The emphasis in this passage is clearly on the terms vcv S and "cause" (oc~ri.ov). What remains unclear is the sense in which the term "cause" is to be taken and the rank to be attributed ul timately to the voDs • And let us not for a moment forget Socrates' own vovr. Socrates suggests that it might be better to leave pleasure and not to pain her by testing her i n the most precise lllay and thus proving her in the wrong . Protarchus disagrees. Socrates asks whether Protarchus disagrees because he, Socrates, spoke of 2aini119. pleasure. second time that pain is mentioned in the dialogue. It is the It is done jokingly. Pain was mentioned for t he first time when Socrates dealt with the thoughtful life, totally untouched by pleasure. was this: (210/E) and The way he put it then "would anyone be willing to live possessing thoughtfulness vov5 and knowledge and perfect memory of all things, but having no share, great or small, in pleasure, or in ee.in, for that matter, but being utterly unaffected by eve rything of that sort?" The question, which is supposed to be negated, when put in this farm1 actually involves a difficulty: one ~ould perhaps be willing to accept a thought- ful pleasureless life, which does not involve us in any pain. The third time pain will be mentioned is going to show pain as a close companion of pleasure and as a real evil. Protarcihus says he i~ not �~·12- shocked by Socrates' phrase "paining pleasure," but rather by Socr ates' apparent attempt to stop talking about pleasure altoge ther and because (238) Socrates does not seem to understand "that not one of us will let you go yet until you have brought the argument about these matters to an end." This is the second time Socrates is warned about leaving too early. Whew, Socrates exclaims, and predicts that a .long and difficult discussion lies ahead of them. To fight the battle of the '/OUS for the second prize requires new weapons in addition to those already used. A new beginning has to be made, and this wili mean a new transition in the dialogue . Let us be on our guard in making this beginning, says Socrates, and we should ind eed pay attention to these words. Secretes suggests that everything tha t now exists in the world be distributed in a twofold, or rather in a threefold way. The results of this distribution are very different from each other. . W They are called by Soc~ates, indiscriminately I and unpreciselyt~ti~ or rev~, which I shall translate by the word "tribes," The first two have been mentioned before as a kind of Promethean gift: the ''limitless" (ro ~7it:,fo"1) and the "limit" (r~ The third is the mix ture of these two into one. literally, as we shall see in a moment: now Socrates adds: n/e°'S ). This is not to be taken let us be on our guard. And "But I cut a considerably ridiculous figure, I (230) think, when I attempt a separation into tribes and an enumeration." (230) Protarchus wonders why. needed besides." Socrates: "It seems to me, a fourth tribe is It turns out that Socrates means the cause of the commixture of those first two. And Protarchus, who is eager to supply even a fifth, namely the power of separation, is told in affable words that this fifth is not needed now, but that if it be needed later, he should excuse Socra tes for going after it. The mentioning of Protarchus' proposal and the way of handling it cast a doubt on the necessity of the �.£.~· fourth tribe, the The:r.e might be something strange and even ridiculous indeed about that. We should be on cur guard. ,,, ' Let us consider one of the first tu10 tribes, namely r:o The following English translations are all adequate: etffEleo'/. the limitless, the endless, the boundless, the unlimited, the infinite, the innumerable, And we must not forget the homonym the indefinite, the indeterminate . ( 17E) :"''foS , meaning the inexperienced one, upon which word Plato does not fail to pun. ... I As to the second tribe, co ffG(!«f, the "limit," it becomes almost immediately apparent that, although Socrates keeps using this term, he ,,also SUbstituteS for it the phrase "that Which has limit, II G~ov, that is to say, the "limited." Protarchus and the other young men as well as we are somewhat confused. gate how each of them~ 'C"O n€efl<.J Socrates-proposes to investi- the "limitless" and the "limited," are both "one and many"; for he contends that each one of them is split up and scat(24A) tered into many. again: He starts with the "limitless," warning Protarchus "Whet I ask you to consider is difficult and debatable." Hare are special cases of this tribe~ parts of its manyness: "hotter and colder," "quicker and slo111er, 11 "greater and smaller," "exceedingly o<l and slightly, 11 "excessive and lacking." In each of them there is "the more as well as the less" JCrt:c. constantly ' J,bt<>.>.ov ,.. ,, (t"o _ "ft " ~ 'J-C-'f:o~). and never stationary--in sharp contrast to what .§_~vancins is determined by a fixed number, by just "that much": s number advances, it cease¢ to exist. • the expression i-" Each of them is A , ~JI.\ o 11 i"G 1<"' \ ~ VJ if such a What captures our attention is r; r: o Y • This expression is meant to gather together the tribe of the "limitless" and to put upon it the (25A} seal of a single nature. It is used six times in the passage we are now considering and once more much later on. is omitted. ~ the particle -Cf.. This omission focuses our attention on the use of this particle in all the other cases. are all in the dual. The verbs related to this expression And Socrates summarizes pointedly: 11 by this �- 14(240) argument the hotter and its ,Qppostt_!! become together limitless. 11 The "limitles~' is a pair. The expression "the more as well as the lass, 11 as the seal of a single nature, seals a ,E~~U·..~Y..· And this duality remains completely indeterminate. The "limitless" is an indeterminate pairq But what abou,t the "limit," on the one hand, and the "limited," that "which has limit," on the other? Lat us take the "limited" first. It is, as Socrates quite clearly states, contrary to "the more as well as (25A/B) the less"; it is the egual, and egualiU, the double, and any number in firm relation to another number or a measure in firm (250/E) ~lation to ano- ther measure, that is, everything which "puts an end to the variability between the opposites and makes them proportionable and harmonious by the introduction of number." We understand that what Socrates means by this tribe of the "limited" is what we read in the 5~ Book of Euclid 1 s Elements. This book is in all probability either a perhaps somewhat condensed copy of an original f.l.rist. Met. XII, 8jl073 b 1"lff. P!oclus, in Eucl. Cornm. (Teubner) pp.67,2ff Arist. £]_st. I,9, 991a14ff. i\!ic. Ethe X,2,11'72 b 9ff. work of Eudoxus or imitates this work. Who is Eudoxus? He was born in Cnidus, on the shores of Asia Minor, came to Athens and stayed at Plato's Academy for a while. He was an astronomer, a mathematician, and a geographer; he firmly established the doctrine of ratios and proportions, including those of numerically incommensurable magnitudes; he tried to "mix" the E: (/ti. , as understood by Plato, with all the sensible things 9 and--what is most important to us--he declared plsastire to be the supreme 9,.'2.,0d• Philebus. But pleasure was not his goddess, as she is for Eudoxus, as Aristotle reports, "seamed to be a man of excep- tional temperance, and hence he was thought to uphold this view not because he was a lover of pleasure, but because it seemed to him that it was so in truth." Socrates, as we see in the dialogue, disagrees. The tribe of the "limited" then consists of ratios. The tribe of the �About Plato 's -15- (260) scattered n11mitles s, 11 of the ~,r ~f11€H eov1 ~ £Ql1film~. in .Hs inf5.ni ta manyness found its unity in the esal of "the more and its cppcsite, 1' that is, in "the more as well as the less." Th e tribe of the "limited," the manyness of determinate ratios, has not yet found its unity. (258) This unity was only postulated, was only, as Socrates says, "referred to." ;i / was indeed a direct "reference" to the "limit" itself ( titS wo And Socrates concludes: (260) There .., 11"r!i(!clf ) • "The limit did not contain a multitude nor did we feel a difficulty that it might not be £l..D2. by nature." It is at this point that we might turn to Aristotle's reports about Plato's unwritten words t o conf irm what we found in the dialogue and to win greater clarity. b 987. '2628 In the Plato: 5th chapter of the 1st book of the ~aphysi.£,~ Aristotle says of "it is peculiar ta him [.f.e. Plat_g7 to pos±t a duality instead of the single Limitless, and to make the Limitless consist of and the Small• 111 In the 3rd book of the Phys~cs ~ 1 the Great 111hsre Aristotle dis- cusses t he liJifil(!rn' "' at great length, we read in the 4th chapter again: 203a15 11 For Plato there are two Infinites, •the Great and t he Small.'" We see thus confirmed what we read in the Philebus, except that Aristotle, in his own way 1, usas the words "great 11 and "small" without their comparative (cf. 37C and) forms. He keeps using these words, in speaking about Plato , at many other places. But, what is more important, in Books XIII and XIV of the Metaehysic:s Aristotle mentions several times two he puts it, out of which, according to Pl ato, 11 11 elements, 11 as numbers" are derived. We have to understand that Aristotle has in mi nd "eidetic numbers , " assemblages of '~ 141 • <('»I C' These ttim sources are the "indeterminate dyad" I 'C/ (ff] ii'l.C1ftl'.n::o5 G1votS') and the "one" (i:q ~Y'). minate pair of the of the L imitl e s s~ P hil~ in the 11 We recognize the indeter- i ndeterminate dyad," the duality "the more as wel l as the less." But we see now that what was named the 1'limi t 11 in the Philebus can also be named "the One ." What Aristotle calls the "elements" can be called the ultimate sou:r:~ �-16- of everything, that which has the fi~ rank bot.h as be~ and ~CJ....£.,£Wers. That is what is meant by ~'~l'X>-7 ~ in common parlance as well as in most thoughtful speech. We should not assume, I think, that Plata h&.d a definitely fixed name for each of these iie:<{'M{. The terms }Pe Good, the One, the Precis~, th~..§..~~, tpe Li~it, and perhaps the Whole are all suited to one of the :Ce)(~:, depending on ' X'1/ , the cont.ext i.n which they are used. As to the names of the second tXf the "indeterminate Dyad," "the more as well as the less, 11 and the Other (which also implies a duality) seem all of them no less suitable. In the Philebus Socrates, in putting a seal on the tribe of the >/. Of..'TT(f;(t!_ov , makes its intrinsic character perfectly cleai. But the character of I' the 114f(;~S, the "limit , 11 remains obscured. as Now lat us take up the third and of the "Limit." tribe~ the "mixture" of the "Limitles s" What does "mixing" here mean? two :Z{X,6}(.~r the "Limitless~" the 11 5.ndsterminate dyad," and the "Limit," the "One," exert their power on each other. described as follows. It means that the Wha t happens then may be The "indeterminate dyad" duplicates the "One," that is to say, produces two entities , two E~J~ , duplicates each of # Nr these E 1,./''1 --we may also say "divides" each of these E tQ7 --and keeps Me~.XIII,7~ an duplicating-~we have to assume, up to a certain point. In Aristotle's reports the "indeterminate dyad" is explicitly characterized as a daub~ ling power" (dvoJTcn/s). I t is the ultimate source of definite manyness, 1082 a 15 and of "numbers," in the realm of the B, 1083b36 the earlier passage, when Socrates first introduced t he Promethean gift t:.f'57 as well as in Oll:r world. In of "infinitude" and of "limit" and urged that in every case a definite >I£ number of f:t o'1 had to be found (Bthe alphabet helping him to clarify this point), there was hardly a discernible hint that the "Limitless" with its doubl.ing power is responsible for the _mul tipl.i£lli of >tr th~ Etol:f You will remember that in this context the "limitless," the infinite, l!las ultimately dismiss ed. Not so in the world in which we live. What happens here is this: the "Limit," the "One," transforms the "indet erminate dyad 11 .into a £ill~.Fmj~ one, that is to say , Q �-1'1- About Plato's .P.hll.~ transforms the two constantly and indeterminately changing terms of ths dyad into two stationary and determinate ones and keeps doing this, illJ produce st in other wordst a mtJltituds~ of~· (3-S' DJ Socrates can call the manyness of ratios "the offspring of the limit." That's l1Jhy We understand now what confused Protarchua and us u.rhen Socrates sub- stituted "that which has limit," the "limited," for the 11 limit 11 itself. The "limited," the assemblage of ratios, is already a part of the mixture, of the third tribe. (26A} But it represents a mixtur e or rather mix- tures of a spacial kind, mathematicilpartnar ships that can give to parts of the world we live in a certain rightness 9 ~smoue the excess and indefiniteness, and pr oduce balance and right measure. Such mathematical partnerships engender, for example, health, establish the entire _genuine art of !I!Y~' bring about the temperate_.§eason~ and all the bounties of our world, beauty and strength of the body and all the beauties of the soul. (.2 ~ £) . And Socratest addressing Philebus directly and speaking about ' ~ that proper partnership (@t 8~ JC@(. '1"'1 Y~f'L) Of mathematl.cal ratios, has this to say~ "for this goddess, my beautiful Philebus, beholding the (268-C) wanton violence and universal wickedness which prevailed 9 since there was no limit of pleasures or cf excess in , order (VtJ,,t.GttS , "" ~ IC.«t t'"~5tS) them~ in which there is limito us; I say 1 on the contrary, she kept us sa.fs." (26C) established law and You say she exhausted Socrates addresses Phllebus 9 but we cannot help thinking of Eudoxus. Philebus remains completely silent. "How does this appear Socrates turns to Protarchus: to you Protarchus?" And Protarchus answers~ "It is very much how I feel, Socrates.'' Let us conclude: mixture. the common power of the two > I otef«~ determines the Sometimes the community of this power is lacking. Socrates turns now to the fourth tribe, the £!Use. You will remember that Socrates seemed somewhat reluctant to add this fourth to ths first three. And indeed, is there any need for H7 The common power of ths �About P1 at o 1 s .E.hi~1'?.l!!!. -18- "Limitless" and the "Limit" appeared as the of what it engendered in this mixture. E~use of the mixt..ure and Listen now to Socrates' words: (278/C) "Should I sound a false note if I called the fourth the £.OUse of the mixture and generation?" And listen to wha t Socrates one moment earlier says with regard to all the first three tribes: (278) "That which fabricates all these, the cause, we call the fourth, as it has been sufficiently shown to be distinct from the others." > That has not been shown at all! / How can ultimate sources, «f X""'' , be caused by something else? If that were so, the first two tribes, the "Limitless" and the "Limit," would not be what they are. The exploration of this fourth tribe, the "cause," is left e_endi11q, and Socrates makes a new transition which helps him to turn backwards. What was the purpose, he asks, of coming to the pcint they have reached? They were trying to find out whether the second prize belonged to pleasure or to thoughtfulness (<;etv1ns). They had posited, Socrates reminds Protarchus and us , that the mixed life was the victor. We can see now, he con t inues, to which tribe it belongs, namely to the third tr i be, formed by the mixture of all that is "limitless" and all that is (2. 7 J)} "bound by t he limit. 11 And now Socrates asks Philebus to which of the three tribes his life of ummixed pleasure ,belongs. this: have pleasure and Eai.rr a limit or are they among the things which admit "the mor e as well as the less"? (27E) Philebus' answer is: "Yes, among those which admi t the more; for pleasure would not be all the good, if it were not limi t less in multitude and in the (28A) The full question is replies: 'more~'" "nor would e_ain, Philebus, be all the evil. 11 Socrates d~yly This is how pain is introduced in t he discussion for the third time, and this time decisively. For Socrates adds he would grant Philebus that both, pleasure and pain, are in the tribe of the Limitless. only pleasure, .!!.Q1 pain . We note Philebus meant Socrates' addition is decisive. �-19- About Plato's Pleasure and pain are a limitless pair. E.blJl!E..l:!.~ One of the consequences of this 't finding ia that there are no ,,J~ of pleasu~e, in the strict sense o f this word. We remember that Socrates had intimated that the discussion would show in a clearer way why it would not be necessary to divide pleasure into its 6rt1. Socrates will use this term later on in dis- cussing pleasure, but it will not have to be taken in its strict sense. The next question Socrates asks Protarchus and Philebus is: tribe thoughtfulness, knowledge and (28A) (288) shall be assigned without "For I think that our risk is not a small one in finding or not finding the right answer to what is being asked now." Philabus: "You exalt your own god, Socrates, you do." Socrates: And you your goddess, my fi'.i:end. But the question calls for an answer, impiety, Socrates explains: all the sama. 11 Protarchus intervenes and urges Philebus to answer. Whereupon Philebus says: (288) vous to what my place?" This is the look back for a ".Qi!L.vou not, Protarchus, choose to reply in ~ time Philebus raises his voice. Let us moment~ At the beginning of our reading we learn that Protarchus will defend Philebus' thesis of pleasure, because Philebus himself, as Protarchus says, "has grown tired" (the Greek word is ~J.71£[eVf&<.6, a pun on the word ~ff~<fov). Philebus has an opportunity to reg~et that he spoke up again and calls upon his own goddess to witness that h~ does regret. When the "one and many" question comes up, Protarchus remarks: "It is perhaps best for the inquirer not to disturb Philebus ( 15C) in his sweet repose." And now he will be silent all the time, even [tacit re- when pleasure, his goddess, is thoroughly discussed. What is he doing ference t o all this time? Just listenicg? the prov er b: A little later PtJ l<lV(:;l"I l<oC !j~l>' 6~ lltf.µ.oovJ Protarchus has some difficulty in answering Socrates' last question, namely to what tribe knowledge and voGs should be assigned, and asks Socrates to answer this question himself . Socrates is willing. He (28C) declares : 11 \i.lhat you enjoin me to do is not difficult," and he repeats: "It is easy." (28C) Let us be ~n our guard. All wise men agree, and thereby really exalt themselves, says Socrates, that and earth. Socrates adds: \lovs is king of heaven "Perhaps they are right. 11 �About Plato 1 s E,hilebJ:!.S -20·- What follows is indeed an easy 9 but not too convincing "cosmological" account \!Jhich ends with the statement that the four tribes which was called (30E) again, "of all." answer." (30E) "~aUJ!.~ And Socrates adds: Protarchue: veru,.S belongs to that of of all. n Notice, please ~ "nowi; you have at last our "Yes, and a very sufficient one; and yet you answered without my noticing it." Socrates: "Ves, Pratarchuss for sometimes £!.ayins provides rest from serious pursuit. ir We understand: the "cosmological" account, which makes the voG$ the cause of all the other tribes, was a playful account. is the "divine vov; " We are not sure whether this Yovt mentioned before. And let us not forget that, within the confines of human life, the best voGs could obtain was the second prize. Socrates concludes this entire discussion of the four tribes by point,.. ing to ~ovs and to pleasure. He does not mention anything pertaining (31A) to "limit" and to the "mixture." Let us r&nernber, he says, "that vo-;;s was akin to cause and belonged roughly speaking (<rk~J~v) to this tribe and that pleasure was itself limitless and belonged to the tribe which, in and by itself, ~not and never will ha~ either beginning or middle or end." Wa must add that this holds also for pain. As we have seen, the dialogue , too, has neither a beginning nor an end, and for that matter, no middle. The graph of a Platonic dialogue usually-not always--looks like this: But the graph of the Philebus looks like this : --- �-21 ... The dialogue itself, taken as a drama, in wtdch we, the readers or listeners, are involved, seems to resemble pleasure and pain. it does that, it must be pleasurable and painful. If We will have to But we need not wait to register the most important wait and see ••• ~ result of the preceding discussion. All the pleasures and pains, small or great, which pervade our lives, reflect in their duality an ultimate source, one of the ~eXD(.,t , namely the "indeterminate dyad." It is thus that some of our most familiar and common experiences are tied to one of the highest points human reflection can reach. Socrates now abandons this high A new transition is made. been considered so far. and turns to a much lower one. l~vel Only about a third of the dialogue has I shall be able to proceed much faster from The next task is to see, says Socrates, where each of them, that is, Yo~j and pleasure, can be found and by means of what affection both (318) come into being, whenever they come into bein~. Note, please, that ,. the vovf mentioned here is said to come into being and cannot, therefore, be understood as the ~ternal ,... divine vovt . Socrates takes pleasure first, and immediately adds that it is impossible to examine pleasure sufficiently apart from pain. Socratesv contention is that pain and pleasure emerge in the combined tribe, the one, we remember, where the "limitless" and the "limit" join together and form a mathematical partnership conducive to balance and right measure. (310) When this balance is broken in us, living beings, "a disruption of nature and a generation of pain also take place at the same time." ''If, on the other hand, balance is being restored and is returning to its own nature, pleasure is generated." The process of destruction is pain, and the process of restoration is pleasure. When we are being emptied, we are becoming hungry and pained; when we are filling up again through eating, we are pleased. And the same can be said of thirst. It is shown later that it is �-22 ... !!£.i the body that hungers oI· thirsts or has any sL1ch the body cannot, therefore, be pained or pleased. belong to the .!£!:ll, and to the soul only. affectlon, that Pleasure and pain But sometimes, or rather often enough, as in the case of hunger and thirst, the p9dy is involved. Whenever this is the case, we face ontkind of pleasure and pain. Another kind of pleasure and pain does not involve the body at all. It arises within the soul itself as the sweet and cheering .b_oee of pleasant things to come and as the fearful and woeful expectati.Q!l of painful things to come. Both, the pleasant and the painful expectations originate within the soul in memory. Socrates proceeds to give a circumstantial description of this origin by passing from perception to memory, to forgetfulness, to recollection, and finally to desire. But he ands this passage by reverting to pleasure and pain volve the body. which in- He points to a man who is empty and suffers pain, but who, because of his memory, hopes to be filled again and enjoys (368) this hope. "At such a time, then, a man, or any other living being, has both pain and joy at once." If, however, an empty man is without hope of being filled, a twofold feeling of pain arises in him. stress is on the duality of pleasure and pain. The The possibility of a twofold pain and--although this is not mentioned--of a twofold pleasure emphasizes the duality even more. Let us not forget its ultim- ate sourqa. Looked at in this passage is also a life in which there is no feeling of pleasure or pain at all, but only thoughtfulness and VOVf. Such a life had been considered much earlier in the dialogue and had been rejected as totally undesirabia, lacking self-sufficiency and, there(338) fore, goodness. Now Socrates calls it "the most divine life." tarchus chimes in: Pro- "Certainly it is not likely that gods feel either joy or its opposite." And Socrates agrees: for either is unseemly for them." "No, it is very unlikely; Socrates adds that they may consider .... this point later on, if it would help the argument; they might give yous �credit for it in contending for the second prize. We shall be watching . A new transition takes placaa (39E40C) What follows can bs subdivided into three parts, and the title that can be given to all of them is "On false pleasures. " This is what happens in .E~t't 'l.,n.e.: Protarchus is unwilling to agree that pleasures and pains could be false; he accepts the possibility of false opinions, but rejects the possibility of false fears, false expectations, and false pleasures; a lengthy discussion follows which culminates in the assertion that a just, pious and good man, 11 a 11 fr i end of the gods, 11 has "true pleasures," while an "unjust and thoroughly bad man" can only haus "fals e pleasures," which imitate the "true pleasures" to the point of r i dicule; and the same can be said of pains. This, now, is what happens in £.§_rt two: we are reminded that pleasure and pain are a limitless pair tied to "the more as well as the less"; any one who feels pleasure in any way always really feels pleasure; but these pleasures may be felt as present pleasures and also as beJ ~!.l pleasures to in the future; the latter ones may be false because they may not come into being as expected, not as great and intense as expected; and when, in our feelings, we are trying to compare pleasures with pleasures, or pains with pains, or pleasures ~!th pains, we may reach entirely fals! results, because of the limitless and indeterminate character of both, pleasure and pain. The thircLear't of this passage does not concern false pleasures directly, but r ather pleasures falsely understood or falsely judged. The theme of pleasure and pain is a common topic in Plat o's own tims, widely discussed by outstanding men. One of the opinions about pleasure, re- jected by Socrates, is that freedom from pain is identified with pleasure. For some men this opinion amounts to the firm denial of the existence of pleasures altogether. For them that what Philebus (44C-D) and his friends call pleasures are merely escapes from pain. men are men 11 of harsh judgments." These Socrates does not mention any names, but it is highly probable that Antisthenea is one of these men. �Antisl:.henea is ii:'epLtted to have said: "should I ever meet Aphrodite,. I would strangle h::1:r.· w.ith my own ha nds. 11 I have condensed this passage of the dialogue to the utmost. But you understand that it challenges the conviction of Philebus radicallyo Lat us look at him again. listening? He has not said a word. We know , he had grown tired. Is ha re ally Has not his sweet repose mentioned by Protarchus a long time ago transformed itself .into sound sleep? And ~Elfil!t sound, dreamless sleep, l!Je should observe 9 excludes any feeling of pleasure and pain, brings about, in other words, a condition of the 11 most divine life, n ye t a .condition not compatible with Philebus' own aspirations. Yes, there he lies, the beautiful Philebus, with closed eyes and closed ears, while Socrates continues the inquiry, imposed upon him by Philebua, Protarchus, and the other young msn. A subtle transition is brought to pass inasmuch as Socrates takes those men "of harsh judgments" with whom he disagrees as alli es. He is going to describe more accurately what pleasure means to these men, who oppose it or deny its existence. Ws have already seen that pain and j oy can be felt at the same time. The point is now emphasized: pain and pleasure do not only constitute an indeterminate pair, but they also~ with each other. This is again shown by Socrates in a tripartite way. ~mixtures of pleasure and pain a:re those in which both pleasure and pain, involve the body, as, for example, 46A) }.tchi.D..9. and ~stchir:)£,, which Prcta~chus tends to consider a "mixed 47C) evil." ~mixtures are those in which the body and the soul con~ tribute the opposite elements~ "each adding pain or pleasure to the other's pleasure and pain," as, for sxample--we have heard that before-a man suffers from thirstt is pained by his bodily emptiness, but rejoices in his hope to be filled, a hope entertained only by his soul. The third kind of mixture is the mast important; it is the one in which the soul and only the soul is i nvolved. Socrates gives as sx- amplea of pains belonging to this third kind: anger 9 fear, longing, �About Plato's mourning, love, jealousy, envy; and he asks: (47E) them full of ineffable pleasures?" Eh!1-.2..~ "shall we not find He then refars--in....,EDe SJfillte~ only--to anger and to mournings and longings in order to show the mixture Of pain arid of pleasure in them. Pratarchus f ully agrees. Socrates' next question is: "And you remember, too, how people, (48A) at tra~dies, enjoy the spectacle and at the same time weee,.?" "Yes, certainly," says Protarchus. Whereupon Socrates asks: "And the condition of our souls at comedies--do you know that there, too, (48A) there is a mixture of pain and pleasure?" Protarchus' answer is: "I do not quite understand." Socrates confirms that it is not eas~ to understand such a condition under such cfrcumatancsa, and Protarchus, on hie part, confirms that it is not easy for him. It is not easy for us either. This is the short beginning of the discussion about the third kind of (508) mixture af pleasure and pain 9 which involves only the soul. And now, surprisingly, Socrates launches into a Jengthy explanation of what happens to spectators at comedies. It takes no less than four pages, and ends with Socrates' contention that pain is mixed with pleasure-not only for spectators in the theater, where tragedies and comedies are performed--but also "in all the tragedy and comedy of life." Today, we are prone to call any horrible or simply sad event a "tragedy" and a funny one a "comedy." But that was not done in ancient timeso The expression "tragedy and comedy of life" in the dialogue is highly unusual and even paradoxical. It is almost unique; a somewhat similar phrase referring to tragedy, ll£i to comedy, can be found only in Plato's ~· Why is this expression used in the Philebus? Let us hsar what Socrates sayse Ha takes up .§!.nvi first. Envy is a pain cf the soul, but we also see an envious man rejoicing in tha evils that befall those close to him. Thus envy is both pain and pleasure. ridiculous. Socrates than takes up the The ridiculous is in the main the consequence of a dis- �position in the human soul which contradi cts the famous inscription at D~lphi. A ridiculous man is a man who does not know himself. folly of not knowing oneself can have thr ee aspects: being~ than one Thi s 1) the conceit of is; 2) the conceit of bsing more .~utiful than one is; 3) the conceit of being more virtuous than one is, especially .!!!J.ser than one is ( JoJoC'tn:P{rx). most nurnerou~. This third kind of conceit. is the Now, wa tend to laugh at men t hus conceited. cases muet be distingui shed here. But t wo Those whc are laughed at may be strong and able to r evenge themselves, and a r e then p owe rful~ and hateful; far folly i n the powerful is hateful and bass. terrible, Or they are weak and unable to r evenge themselves, and then they are truly ridiculous. When we l augh at the follies of such men, who may be our friends, we feel pleasure. But to feel pleasure at the follies of our f riends is what envy brings about, s i nce it is envy that makes us rejoice in the evils that befall these our f riends, and envy i s painf ul . Therefore, when we laugh at what is ridiculous i n our friends, we .!l!!ii pleasure and pain. It is not quite clear how all this explains what happens at comedies, although Protarchue appears to be satisfied . Socrates adds that all that was said by him so far concerned only envy, mourning, and anger (he omits 101.1ging,, which was also mentioned by him in that one sentence he uttered before passing on to tragedies and comedies). And now , Socrates declares, he need not go fuxther and Protarchus ought t o accept the asser tion that there are plenty of mixtures of pain and of pleasure. But now something extraordinary happens that s heds more light on the t heme of comedy . You will remember tha t the young man, who surround Socrates, extracted from him the promise not to go home before bringing the discussion about pleas ure and thoughtf ulness to a satisfactory end. And you will also remember that Protarchus, later on, remi nded Socrates of this �-27... promise and assured him that not one of the young men would let him go before the end of the discussion was reached. Socrate~ (500) says now: midnight come? let me off." words? "Tell me then: Listen to what will you let me off, or will you let I think only a few words are needed to induce you to How strange! Why on earth does Socrates utter these Is this the Socrates, who is known for his never abating eager- ness to discuss things? Has he grown tired like Philebus? Or is it that envy has entered not only the ~o ~of , but also the stage, the "comedy of life" presented in the dialogue? Incredible as it might (cf. Apol"" seem, Socrates appears to be envious seeing Philebus asleep, "divinely" .£'lY. 40C-E) asleep, without pleasure and pain. Does that not mean that Socrates is .e_ained by this envy and yet also pleased by the ridiculous aspect of Philebus' sleep, which manifests the latter's "conceit of wisdom," the Jof oC"<:J<p[ot of friend Philebus? But what about ~' who read or hear the words of the dialogue and are the spectators of this "comedy of life"? Well, we are puzzled and £leased by realizing that Socrates of all people is envious at this moment, and we are also Qained by witnessing what happens to him. We might refuse to accept that this is what is going on at this moment, but this refusal would only mean that we expect to be pained and pleased, it we accepted it. Yes, the dialogue is pleasurable and painful deed >1 (tPy't), in addi- tion to dealing with pleasure and pain in speech ()I.OJ'::')• And is there any need to mention the pain and the pleasure one feels in reading, or listening to, the dialogue in all its deliberately complex and inordinate convolution? We understand now, I think, why the title of the dialogue is Philebus. Socrates proceeds, of course. He takes up now--and this is a new transition--the pure pleasures--that is, pleasures unmixed with pain. Socrates lists five kinds of such pleasures, four of them conveyed to us by our (lSflsPs, ~ involving that which cannot be sensed. The firet four kinds of pure pleasure have their source in beautiful figures, in beautiful colors, in clear sounds and in many odors. The beautiful figures are !l£i beautiful living beings or paintings, but-- �-28- (51C) "says the argument 0 --a straight line drawn with the help of a ruler, a circular line drawn with the help of a compass, plane figures drawn with the help of these same tools, and solid figures constructed with (53A-B) the help of suitable instruments. The beautiful co~ are pure colors, in which there is no trace of any other color, are those that sand forth a single pure tone . Clear §.2~ The pleasures which these figures, colors, and sounds generate are pure pleasures, unmixed with pain. As to the pleasures of smell, they are, as Socrates playfully says, "lemdivine." The last kind of pure pleasure-and this is deeply serious--is that which has its source in the known or the knowable, accessible to human beings without hunger for learn(52A) ing and without pangs of such hunger. What Socrates means is .£9.!:!,- le~s 9 the dssi:re to know, as we feel it in the pursuit of knowledge. This pleasure of contemplation is felt by exceedingly few. templatioo (8€1.Jf(rs,), which is !lE.i preceded by The transition now made leads to a passage that again has three (53C) parts, of which again the third is the most important. The first part extends in soma way the realm of pure pleasures by the statement that what characterizes such pleasures is due measure. The second part makes us understand that the pure pleasures are, because of their purity, also ~ pleasures. In the third--the longest--part Socrates refutes 11 certain ingenious paople" while accepting one of their premises. These "ingenious people" are reduced a little later to~ man, and t here is hardly any doubt that this man is Aristippus, His prsmiss 9 which Socrates accepts, is that pleasure consists in a erocess o.f._~enerati9.!}_ and has no stable bei!J.£. What is rejected by Socrates is that such a process in itself is a good, To refute this assertion Socrates proposes to consider the relation that the process of .£2!!!i...!29. into being (J~Yl,ts) has to .E.&o.a (oJoc'Or). The question is: which one of the two is for the sake of the other? Protarchus re-phrases the question as follows: do ships exist for the sake of �Abcnit Plato 1 s PhilE!,bJ;!.!! shipbuilding or is shipbuilding for the sake of ships? Protarchus knows the answer to this question, of course, but Socrates gives the answer in an all-comprising form: (54C) for the sake of some ~ for the sake of being." "every inst.ance of _generation is or other, and ~ generation Now, the being for the sake of which the process of generation takes place is "of the order of the good," while the process of generation itself is !!21 of that order. Therefore, says Socrates, we must be grateful to him who pointed out that there is only a generation, but no being of pleasure. He makes a l aughing- stock of all those who find their highest end in pleasure and know that pleasure is nothing but a process of generation. highest end is not of the order of the good. (SSA) For their Protarchus concludes: "It is a great absurdity, as it appears, Socrates, to tell us that pleasure is a good." ... There is a new transition, in which courage, self-restraint and vov$ are mentioned and which begins to move the dialogue upwards. is now to consider vovs The task and knowledge carefully and to find out what is by nature filirest in them. We expect that their truest parts will be joined with the truest parts of pleasure in the desired mixed life. Two kinds of knowledge are distinguished. One is necessary to produce things, the other serves education and nurture . the "know how" of the producing arts a division is to be made. Some of The productive knowledge, is taken up first, and here again th~se arts are acquired by practice and toil, aided by guessing, and lack precision. They do not use sufficiently the arts of counting, measuring, and weighing. This holds, Socrates says , for music, as it is commonly practiced, for medicine, agriculture, piloting, and generalship. But in the arts of building, shipbuilding, and housebuilding, for example, there is much more precision, because measuring and the use of ingenious instruments play a much greater role in them . It is at this point that Socrates divides the arts of counting and of measuring (not, however, that of weighing) into two kinds. Some counting refers to visible and tangible units, which are all unequal; but there is also counting of units �P.bou.t Plato's that do not differ at all from each other. Ph!J.E~~ This kind of counting is the basis of the true art of numbering, of true "arithmetic." The art of measuring may also refer either to visible and tangible things or to entities that cannot be sensed. To measure, and to deal with, the latter entities means to be engaged in "geometry," not for the purpose of production and trade, but for the purpose of knowing. And this holds also for the careful study of ratios and proportions. These true arts of numbering and measuring serve education and nur- We eee that there is a kind of knowledge purer than another, as one pleasure is Qurer than another. This purity of knowledge brings abou t much greater clarity and precision and much more truth. ture. But there is, beyond that pure mathematical knowledge, the power of dialectic. It deals with Being, True being, with that which always immutablY. is. Protarchus remembers at this point the claim of Gorgias that the art of persuasion, the rhetorical art, surpasses all other arts. Socrates replies that he was not thinking of the art that sur- passes all others by being the "greatest," the "best," and the "most useful" to men; he was thinking of the art or the knowledge which is most concerned about clearne~, .e..recision, and thg most true, however little and of little use it might be. Socrates asks Protarchus to look neither at the usefulness nor at the reputation of the various sciences, but to consider whether there is a power in our souls which is in love with Truth and does everything for the sake of Truth. Would this power possess thoughtfulness (~eoiHJCi'<.f) and greatest purity? vovs in the Protarchus concedes that this must be so. To be in love with Truth does not mean to possess it or to contemplate it. It means to pursue it, to try to find it, indefatigably, unre- mittingly; to pursue it means to submit to the power of discourse, a power that is able to discover in the spoken or silent words that which make speaking and thinking ultimately possible, namely the unchange- able and, thereby, ~ beings. But, ae Socrates points out, the many �·~3 1"" existing arts end the men engaged in them do not submit to the power of discourse, but are satisfied with their opinions. If a man sees fit to investigate nature, he spends his life in studying this world of ours--that is to say, tries to find out how it came into being, how By doing t hat, that man toils to discover transient productions of the present, the futur e and the past, not what unchangeably always is . And Socr ates asks: 11 How can we gain anything gable about things which have [lO s t ability whatsoever?" The argument compels us thus to see that the stable, pure, and true, can only be found i n what is eternally the same without change or mixture or , Socrates surprisingly adds, "in what i s most akin ta it." He may mean the moving , but never changing celestial bodies. it is acted upon and how it acts itself. (598) (59C) This passage which deals with t he peated reference to vcu f most. ~ and This reference is the pure s~ knowledge ends with the re- 4' ft~ v'!llLS , ttihich have to be honored ~ transition in the dialogue to the passage of t he dialogue. This last passage is about t he most fulness and pleasure are mixed. desi~able life , in which thought- Socr ates undertakes now to make t his mixture with the help of Protarchus . We expected and still expect tha t the .eure plaasu:i:·ss and the QUrest kno1JJledge wi.ll be joined in this mixture. Before the mixing begins , Socrates reminds Protarchus and us of what had been said before. Philsbus had claimed that pleasure was the true goal of every living being and that these two wor ds, "good" and "pleasant, 11 mean the same thing. calirned that 11 Socratsst on the other hand, gaod" and "pleasant" mean d.i.ffersnt t hings and that the share of thoughtfulness in the good is greater than pleasure's. They had agreed , Socrates continues, that any living being , in whom t he �About Plato's £.hilebus good is present always, altogether, and in all ways, has no further need of anything, but is perfectly self-s ufficient; but that neither a lifa of pleasure unmixed with thoughtfulness nor a thoughtful life unmixed with pleasure was a desirable life. Directly related to the task of making the mixture is the t as k of winning a clear understanding of the good in the well mixed l ife, .£!:. (61A) at least an outline of it, so as to be better able to find out J?.e. what in the well mixed life the second prize should be assigned. remember that Socrates had raised the question before. We At that time the possible recipients of the s econd prize were va~s and pleasure. Note that in this last passage of the dialogue vovs has not been mentioned so far. This is now what Socrates eays jovially and playfully just before he begins to make the mixture: "Lat us make t he mixture, Protarchus, (518/C) with a proper prayer to the gods, Dionysus or Hephaestus, or whoever ha be who presides over the mixing." Dionysus leads on revellers and presides over orgies; he stands here for pleasure. is known for his thoughtful and sober craftsmanship. tinues: (6 1C) Hephaestus Socrates con- "We are like wine pourers, and beside us are fountains-- that of pleasure may be likened to a fount of honey, and the sober, winelesa fount of thoughtfulness to one of pure, health-giving water of which we must do our best to mix as well as possible." The first question is: should Socrates and Protarchus mix sure with all thoughtfulness? be safe. ill plea- Socrates observes that this would not It would bs better to mix first that pleasure which was more truly pleasure with that knowledge which wa.a m9st true and .J2!9Ci~. Protarchus agrees. But Socrates is not satisfied. ~ let ua assume , he says, a man who is thought ful about justice itself·-that is, about the ~!/os of justice, and is guided in his reasoning about �everything that. t n .:ly_ :ts by his app:t ehenslon of the intE1lligible ~ by his VOEtV , (it ia the fil'st t.ime that passage of the dialogue). vovs is mentioned in this last If this man is fully cognizant of the mathematical circle and the all-embr acing celestial sphere, but is ignorant of our human sphere and J:iJ:!..man circles, w.ill this man have sufficient knowledge? No, says Protarchus, it would be ritii~ulous "Do you mean," Socrates asks, "that the unstable and impure art of the untrue rule and circle is to be put with the other arts into the mixture? '' Yes, says Protarchus, that is necessary, if any man is ever ta find his way home. Socrates and Protarchus go farther. They put music, which they said a while ago was full of guesswork and lacked purity, and all the deficient kinds of knowledge mingling with the pure into the mixture. for a man to be concerned only with divine knowledge. (628) Then Socrates turns to the pleasures. Here again the pure and true pleasures are not the only ones to be put into the mixture. For the first and only time in the dialogue Socrates mentions "necessary plea(62E) sures," by which he means pleasures connected with the satisfaction of vital needs~ arises: and adds thsmto the pure ones. And the further question is it not advantageous and harmless to let all pleasures be a part of the mixture, just as it was harmless and adv antageous to let ~ the arts and all knowledge be such a part? Whereupon Socrates says: "there is no use in asking us, Protarchus; we must ask the 53 ( A/B) pleasures themselves and the different kinds of thoughtfulness about one another." (638) That's what Socrates does. He asks first the pleasures: "would you choose to dwell with the whole of thoughtfulness or with none at all?" And Socrates lets them answer that for any tribe to be soli- tary and unalloyed is neither possible nor profitable; ''we think the best to live with is the knowledge of all other things and, so far as (638/C) is possible, the perfect knowledge of ourselves." it is Socrates whom we hear speaking. Let us not forget, It is highly doubtful whether the pleasures can speak--and can have any knowledge of themselves. �And now Socrates turns to thoughtfulness and Vovs.(!t is the second time that vo~s ie mentioned in this last passage of the dialogue). Socrates asks then whether they want the greatest and most intense pleasures to dwell with them in addition to the true and pure pleasures. And Socrates replies for them--that is, for thoughtfulness and that the true and pure pleasures are almost their own~ Yous , and also those which are united to health and self-restraint and all those which are handmaids of virtue; they should be added to the mixture; as to the pleasures which madden the souls of men, which are the companions of folly and of all the other vices , it would be senseless to mix them with the Yo vs . This is the third time that voCs is mentioned in the passage, while thoughtfulness (~e~v,~cs), which was also addressed by Socrates, is left out. ... vaus (64A) When Socrates has finished replying in the name of both ' and 4tt<>t17(l'£$, he says to Protarchus: this reply which the vo~s has now made for itself and memory and right opinion is thoughtful and sensible?" so." Which vo~s "Shall we not say that is this vo~j ? And Protarchus says: "Very much Ia it t he "divine voGs " that Soc- rates contrasted wit h his 6wn in his reply to Philebus a long time ago? No, it is Socrates who was speaking guided by his own It is !JE.i the vo:is vov$. that the "easy" cosmological account found to be "the cause of all" and that the sagas, in exalting themselves, declare to be "king of heaven and earth." It is not the fourth tribe of the Promethean gift, which Socrates introduced, fearing to appear ridiculous by doing that . i~ure Soc:r.ates' own vo vs is responsible for the kind of mix- he makes to produce the life which combines thoughtfulness and pleasure , is the cause of this l ife. It is neither the cause of the commixture of the "limitless" and of the "limit, 11 nor the cause of these first two tribes of the Promethean gift. What does the original introduction of the voCr as the "cause of all" and the subsequent somewhat veiled rejection of this vovS mean? I �-35- think it means a subtle mocking of Plato's great pupil Aristotle~ Aristotle's thoughts must certainly have been familiar to Plato in (Cods)< Mar·cianus) his lata years. A passage in an ancient manuscript ~ that informs us about Aristotle's life, hints at lively controversies between Plato .... and Aristotle. Plato appears to have nicknamed Ar.istotle o" vovs and to have once said, when Aristotle was not present at a meeting: "The vo~s is absent; dullness reigns in the lecture room." know that the investigation of the different meanings of (~~~~~ ) and of the divine vous works. We do ~ plays a decisive role in Aristotle's What the dialogue intimates is that vo;J,J is above all a .b.!:!- man posssssi onf and that Socrates is the embodiment of this vo~s o Socrates compl etes the mi><ture by pointing to the necessity that trutJJ. must be a part of it, and then asks what is the most precious in it and the £.~ief cau~ for this mixed l ife to be most lovable. The answer is: due measure and JE.9.£.0rtion which bring a.b out beauty and excellence. body is ignorant of this. We should more properly~ No- howe\/er , consider these three 9 beau~~ truth~ due measure , as the components of the goodWe sea , first: vo~s ness of the mixture. pleasure; secondly: is more akin to t r uth than not hing could be found mor e immoderate than plea- sure and nothing is more in harmony with due measure t han voCs and v oCs has a greater share in beauty than knowledge ; and thirdly : pleasure . And now, finally , Socrates gives a list of the bsst human possessions fiE.tl something like Measurep Due in their proper order. Measure~ Propriety, and like ever ything which must be considered of the same order. ~cQ!J.fllJ!_ comes what is well proportioned, beautiful, has been completed and i s suffi ciant 9 and all that belongs to that very family. (668) Socrates continues: insist on yov~ "As to the thit.9.- -this is my prophesy--if you I' and <Pe a ..; '1 n~ , you will not wander far from the truth . " I s vavs relegated to the third place? No, it is elevated to the �-36- proper rank, if you consider the role the t.r!fili played in the entire Foutth.'l;.v come the different kinds of knowledge, the arts, dialogue. the true opinions; and f:lfthll, the painless pure pleasures of the soul, some of which accompany and some of llihich--as we ~CL~ have ssen-- accompany £2..rce_g~ (observe that knowledge was not mentioned before among the pure pleasures, presumably because the . gurs4ll of knowledge involves the desi~ in which pain and pleasure are mixed)o to know, involves There is no sixth place, says He reminds us that neither Socrates , quoting Orpheus. ~ G(><.J$ , voCs nor plea- sure is the good itself , since both are devoid of self-sufficiency . But within the mixed life , which is the victor , vous has now been given the second prize , while pleasure--as Socrates' own voCf had predicted a long time ago--is farther behind than the third place . Note that this holds even for pure pleasure and that the satisfaction of vital needs is not mentioned at all . Pleasure is fifth . We should be. aware that, according to the tradition 9 the people called "Pytha- goreans" associated the goddess Aphrodite Lilith the number five. The list given by Socrates is strangely unprecise and inordinate . It is indeed only an The >I rJ.rf'(:-1..[?oll , outliD~ of the good in the most desirable life. the "limitless , " the "indeterminate," reigns, though not supremely , in the dialogue . I shall not koep you until midnight. a discussion ••• Good night! But there will be � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 36 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource About Plato's Philebus Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered May 20, 1971, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1971-05-20 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Plato. Philebus Socrates Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1971-05-20 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/3e04866a39f2d793f9d0cb2bccf6ea24.pdf ff90d4fa870513a86015aeb3686c89ed PDF Text Text * Plato' s Ion This lecture is, as you know, about Plato's dialogue entitled !gn. My main purpose is to show how, I think, a Platonic dialogue ought to be read. The lecture will have two parts. The first will present to you what happens in the dialogues in the second part I shall try to describe the wider frame into which what happens in the dialogue fits. Socrates meets Ion in A.thens. We are inclined to think that Socrates is known to us, to some extent at least, but we might be mistaken. As to Ion, his home is Ephesus, an Ionian city on the shores of Asia Minor. He is well known as • rhapsode. He tells Socrates that ' he has just arrived from Epidaurus, where he attended - as a rhapsode the festival in honor of Asclepius, the healing god. What is a rh&psode? A rhapsode (literally1 a stitcher of verses) is a man who, at appropriate occasions, recites, or better, declaims poetry majestically and touchingly. Socrates wonders whether the Epidaurians honor the healing god with a contest of rhapsodes also, and Ion confirms this, adding that everything else that belongs to the art over which the Muses preside is involved. We suspect that Socrates wonders what relatinn the declaiming of poetry has to healing. Socrates - a.rd we learn that Ion won the first prize in that rhapsodic contest, and Socrates urges him to achieve the same result in Athens at the Panathenaean festival celebrated in honor of' Athena, the goddess not only of war, but also - among other things - of health. Ion confidently expects this to happen. Socrates begins his challenge. 5308 He says1 "I have been often, yes, jealous of you rhapsodes, Ion, because of your art", The English word / .. art", which I have just used, translates the Greek word itXV'J • I ·i mplied in Ion!.s use of the word µ,avu'lf<-1 * It was • the art over which the Muses A lecture given by Jacob Klein et St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland, October 1, 1972 �-2- preside. Today, we mean by "art" something highly admired and respected, attributed to "creativity" or to "genius" or, at least, to talent, but also something that is taught to children in school. A similar ambiguity characterizes the word I ·r:~.~V? , as we shall see in a mOlllent, wt what is much more emphasized in it than in the English word "art" is laiowledge, the skill, the "laiow-how••, inv.o lved in any making, producing, and behaving that men engage in. In continuing his speech Socrates uses ./ the word 1:~ Y.V'7 for the second time, right away. sources ot his jealousy• He exposes the the r{'>;'V~ of the rhapsode, Socrates says, teaohes him how to adorn his body so that he should look as beautiful as possible, and it also imposes upon the rh&psode the necessity of passing all his time with the works of many good poets and especially with those of Homer, the best and divinest poet of all of them, so that he would know Hom.er' s thought tull well and not only his words. · For, as Socrates suggests, there couldn't be a good rhapsode, if he did not understand what the poet says1 the rhapsode should be an expounder of the poet's thought to those who listen to him1 and it is impossible to be a good expounder. if one does not know~ the poet .says. It is all this that makes Socrates jealous. Ion agrees with Socrates. This matter of expounding, says Ion, is certainly the most laborious part of his artr and he thinks:·;that he can speak about Homer better and provide more and better thoughts about H0111er than anybody else. 5JOD "Good news, Iont" exclaims Socrates. He understands Ion's words to mean that Ion will not grudge hiDl an exhibition of this power. And Ion stresses that it is indeed worth while hearing how well he has adornell Hom.er, so much so, that he deserves to be crowned with a golden crown by the lovers of Homer. In mentioning his "adorning•• of Homer, Ion uses the very word Socrates used with reference to the rhapsode's body. �-3- It turns out that Socrates is not yet ready to listen to Ion's exhibition. Instead he begins to question Ion, a.nd this questioning leads to most comical and, at the same time, most serious results. The first question is whether Ion is so marvellously skillful about Homer only or also about other poets. Homer only, and that is sufficient. Ion's reply is• about Ion agrees that there are things about which Homer and Hesiod, for example, both say the samei in such cases, Ion asserts, he would of course expound equally well both Homer's and Hesiod's words. But what happens, Socrates inquires, if the two poets do not agree, as, for example, about the "art of divination''? Who then would expound better what the two poets say, Ion or one of the ~ood seers? Ion's answer iss one of the seers. We have to note that the first and onlr example chosen by Socrates to illustrate possible disagreement among the two poets, n.amely the "art rl:<l,)7 of divination". that is, the / / called µdVilk1J, shows clearly the ,, r . ambiguity of the word r~ XI/~ • Does the seer, the_ ftri.VllS , possess •ny knowledge about his seeing, prophesying, divining? divination at his disposal? Is the "know-how" of Would he be a !!!!!!: if it were? The next point of Socrates is that Homer and all the other eoets spoke about the s111Y1e things, about war, about the mutual tntercourse of men, about the gods in their intercourse with e~oh other and with men, about the heavens and Hades, about the origin of gods and heroes. Socrates does not say whether the poets agreed or disagreed in speaking about these things. It is Ion who makes the point that the other poets did not treat these things the way Homer did. He asserts that they did it in a far worse way. We remember that Socrates, too, called Homer the .b est and divinest of all the poets. But now Socrates turns to Ion's �-4- ability to distinguish between go~ and bad ways of speaking about If the talk is abou.t numbers, who will be able to distin- something. guish between the good and the bad speakers? The answer is, Ion has to agree, a man who possesses the art of numbering, the ''arithmetical art" I ) .JI .I the TG,~t/17 «flrlf-7Tll('l, that is to say, the "know-how" of counting and or handling numbers. And if the talk is .about wholesome food, the man who will be able to distinguish between the good and the bad speakers is a doctor, that is a man who possesses the art of healing (the / ) 'ltX.TflK~ ) • i{>(Y17 In . summing up, Socrates can now state that, whenever many people talk about the same thing, one and the same man will know who speaks well and who speaks badly. We have to surmise that Socrates means that this man possesses the appropriate knowledge, the appropriate Ti'XV'? • And Socrates concludes that, since Homer and the other poets speak about the same thi~gs and Ion knows who among all of these poets speaks well and who speaks in a worse way, he must be marvellously skillful And knowledgeable about all these poets, that is, cf. we understand, must have the suitable 5388 be called the rhapsodic art. -r/xv 7 1 which in this case ought to Socrates, we rema:mber, had. spoken of this .I rexl/7 at the beginning of the conversation. Ion cannot help accepting Socrates' conclusion and is thereby led , X ,~.\to wonder why he ''simply" drops into & doze when he hears some body disHJ.,.· pun on cuss poets other than Homer and wakes up and pays close attention and off~ &1txvws has plenty to say himself onl_y when Homer is mentioned. Socrates claims 532C to know the answer. "This is not difficult to guess", he says; and he states explicitly that Ion is clearly unable to speak on Homer ~ / ' ., . / art and knowledge (-r~xv';J KcxL e1TldT'7fJ-2 ) , for if he were able to do it with art, that is knowingly, he would be able to speak about fil the other poets as well. We have indeed to suppose, Socrates says, that �-s/ the whole in question here is the art of poetry ( TTol'}Hk"'] ) , and to speak about it knowingly means to .!m2! it as a whole, that is, to know what all the poets said and meant. Socrates asks Ion whether this is so. All that Ion has to say in answer to this rather puzzling question 532C is "Yes", Socrates is not certain whether Ion understands his point, / to wit, that whatever the art, the Te'X.V) , may be, once it is given as a whole, the way to look at its parts is always the same. Socrates will expound this, therefore, at some length by giving quite a few 532D examples. But before doing that he asks Iona "are you in need of hearing from me what I mean?" And Ion replies that he isa c~rtainly ••for I enjoy listening to you sages". Whereupon Socrates remarks 1 "surely it is you rhapsodes and actors, and the men whose poems you chant, who are sager whereas I speak nothing but the plain truth, as a sim:ple layman might". And he adds that what he means is indeed a trivial commonplace, not arrived at by rules of art, rut within reach or everyone. Here are the examples. There is the whole art of painting. It is - impossible to find a man capable of deelaring which paintings of one .'• painter are good or bad and totally incapable of judging the works any other painter. ~f The sa..'!lle holds of the art of seul.:eture, of flute-playing, of harp-playing, of singing to the harp, and of the art of rhapsody. With these examples Socrates changes his point somewhat 1 the skillful and knowledgeable speaker is not only able to distinguish between the good and the bad artists but also between the good and the bad works of any one of those artists. Could there be a man, for instance, who would be able to talk with understanding about a number of rhapsodes but would be unable to say what Ion of Ephesus does .!tl1 and what he does badly? Ion is com.palled to accept Socrates' points but. this makes the �-6- experience he has of himself completely incomprehensible to himt he excels all men in speaking on Homer, everybody is in agreement about that (let us not forget1 he just won the first pr1£e 1n Epidaurus), but he cannot speak well on the other poets. How comel It is up to Socrates, Ion says, to see what that means. Socrates retorts that he a lengthy speech. ~ ~ see what it means and launches into he says and the way he says it make this SJ>'9ech the central event in the drama which the dialogue presents. Socrates first repeats what he had said before about Ion's ability to speak well on HOll!ler and Homer onlyt this ability is not due to a knowledge that Ion possesses. addition to that statement1 to any But Socrates now supplies a positive this ability of Ion stems from a "divine power11 1 and Socrates provides a vivid image work. r/x_y·7 , or this power and of its It is like the power in the "magnetic'' stone, so called, namely "magnetic," by Euripides, the poet. This power not only makes the stone attract iron rings but also infuses itself into these rings so that they can attract other rings and thus form sometimes a long chain of iron rings suspended one from another1 the power in all of th~m stems from that one 0 magnetic" stone. - The "magnetic" power helps us to under"" stand the power of the Muses which makes some men spellbound and spreads through th8Jll to other men so as to hold them all in a chain. It is thus that all good Eoets indite all their beautiful epic or lyrical poems not because they are guided by a T~\/'7 , by some knowledge, but because they are spellbound and possessed by a Muse, just as the Corybantian worshippers and the b&cehants are frantic and possessed and not in their senses. The poets tell us, they do, that (I quote) 5J4B "they bring us songs from honeyed fountains, culling them out of the �-7- gardens and dells of the Muses - like the bees, and winging the air as these do. And what they tell is true 0 • I keep quoting& "for a poet is a light and winged and sacred thing, and is unable ever to indite, to be a poet, until he is spellbound and out of his senses, and his wits are no longer in him". - Socrates sums upa poets compose and utter so many and so beautiful things about hhe deeds of men - as Ion does about Homer - 5J4C / / not by art (by T~X\/7 ) but by a 1'divine allotment 11 ( / fJt:irf JLOlfrt) 1 it is thus that eaoh poet is able to compose well only that kind of poetry to which the verse. 9.U!'!, ~ has stirred him, but is not good 1.t any other kind of Indeed, if the poets knew by rules of art how to speak well on thing, they would know how to speak on !!!• .A.t this point Socrates' speech grows in intensity and straightforwardness. I quotes "That is why the god takes away the wits or these men and uses them as his ministers, just as he does with soothsayers and godly seers, in order that we who J4C-D hear them may know that it when they are out or is~ they who utter these priceless words, tbeir wits, but that it is the god himself' who speaks and addresses us through them 0 • And to confirm this, Socrates · finally cites the case of a most mediocre poet, who had.never composed a single poem that deserved any mention at all and then produced a hymn which is 1n everyone•s mouth, a song that ts - as this man says 5340 himself - "simply.. 11 sornetbi.ng found by the Muses'•. The god apparently intended him to be a sign that beautiful poems are not human or the work of men, but divine and the work of gods, and that the poets are merely the expounders of the gods, according as each is possessed by one of 53.5A them. And Socrates asksa "or do you not think that I speak the truth, Ion?'! 5J.5A 11 By Zeus 0 , Ion exclaims, "I do". And he explains• 11 You do touch �-amy soul with your words, Socrates, and it does seem to me that the good poets expound to us what comes from the gods". Whereupon Socrates adds with Ion's approval - that the rhapsodes expound the poets' words and are thus expounders of expounders. Let us reflect on what has happened. We do remember that, just a while ago, Socrates called himself a "simple layman" who utters nothing but the plain truth. We might have Socrates' dissembling ways. ~led Yet we do assume that Socrates speaks the But is his long speech a truthful speech? How can he truth. that beautiful poems are the work of gods? claim hearing this, thinking of or the poets is a true clailll? How aan he ~ ~ that this It is certainly not something that could be characterized as plain truth. Is not his speech, which reaches ppetic heights and touches not only Ion's soul, but also .2!!!: souls, dictated by a Muse? himself? Or rather, isn't Socrates playing. the ~~~e Indeed, Let us have a closer look at Socrates' speeoh. Ion's rhapsodic art is mentioned at the beginning of the speech, once more briefly in the middle of the speech, and is then taken up again only at the final exchange of quesV.1.ons and answers between Socrates and Ion.. Socrates puts at the top of the ladd~r tne divine power, the Muse or the gods one rung below - the poet, the good poets two rungs below - the rhapsodes three rungs below - the audience, the people who listen to the rhapsode, all of them spellbound. the poets, the good poets. The bulk of the speech deals with But these poets are grouped together with the soothsayers And seers (the fA1X V16(.S), whose non-existent If: x.V 7 / / was mentioned earlier as the one Homer and Hesiod allegedly disagreed about. In composing their poems, the speech asserts, the poets are out �-9- of their senses, and so are the rhapsodes when they declaim those poems. And this is what Ion, spellbound and possessed by the Muse, that is, by .· Socrates, wholeheartedly accepts. It is hardly possible not to be amused by the double ohange which has occurred in the dialogue, by that of the Muse into the usimple-minded" Socrates and by that of Socrates into the "m.agnetio" Muse. Socrates now proceeds to check whether what he described in his speech, and was agreed to by Ion. actually occurs When Ion deolaims Homer's verses. Is Ion, Socrates asks. in his senses or is he carried out of him.self when he declaims verses which move his audiences does not his soul, possessed by a god, find herself among the very things he describe~? And Ion reports how his eyes are filled with tears when he relates • tale of woe, and how his hair throbs when he speaks of horrors. st~nds on end and his heart Ion agrees that at such moments he is out of his senses1 as Socrates puts it, Ion weees although not robbed of his precious attire ard his golden crowns and he is panic-stricken in the presence of more than twenty thousand friendly people, none of whom is stripping or injuring him. Does Ion know, Soorates then -~quires, that the rhapsodes make the spectators 1.n their audience feel the vary si;me way. He knows it very well, Ion replies. Let me quote a "Ji'or I have to pay the closest attention to thems since, if I set them crying, I shall 535E laup;h myself because of the money I take, but if !_hey laugh, l MJ"Self shall cry because of the money I lose"• We sees the spell has been brokens Ion now asserts that he is ,!l21 out of his senses when he declaims and weeps and acts as if panic-strioken1 neither the Socratean Muse nor any other Muse possesses him. The contrast between Ion's previous assertion and the words he now uses is as great as it is comical. That does not mean that Ion has ohanged.1 it means that Ion has now �-10- revealed what kind or man he as rhapsode truly is. Socrates' ques- tioning and the Muse Socrates was playing have . brought this about. The point we have reached lies at the very middle of the dialogue. Socrates can now abandon the guise of the Muse. We see him indeed repeat what he had said before in his lengthy speech, bit what he says now is much shorter and not "poetic" at &11. He describes the chain reaching from the god or the Muse down to the ~udience, but he now adds to the rings mentioned before other rings attached obliguely to the chains they represent choral dancers and masters and under-masters of the dance. It is indeed not straightforwardness but obliguity that characterizes the new speech. Socrates puns on the term "is possessed" / 5)6B ( 1<~1e'.~t;TOl'l ) and equates it, term "is held" ( ;/ D(f1fX.l ) • in view of the image of the rings, with the Most of the rhapsodes are possessed and held by Homer, as Ion 1s. And the main point is again that Ion says what he 536C says not by art or knowledge ( o~ Ti~V!J . / / o{JJ efTlrS"r'')/i';J ) but by "divine > /\. '- allotment and possessic;>n" ( OeL'{ /.lOlflf t<Cll f(JXTDKWX~ ), Ion is not moved now by Socrates' speech, On the contrary, he does not believe that Socrates could convince him that he, Ion, is possessed and mad when he praises Homer. Ref.ring him speak about Homer, Socrates would not believe that himself. But Socrates again postpones listening to Ion's exhibition, He begins questioning Ion again. Can Ion speak well .about things in Homer of which Ion happens not to have any knowledge? A.bout the art of chariot-driving, for example? It is the charioteer and nobody else who will know best whether Homer is right or not when he speaks about this art, and Ion has to agree. Ion bannot but assent again to Soor,tea• statement that the ability to know about one definite kind or work has been assigned to 537C (and Socrates inserts in a rather stran@e way1 !!!?!:! of the arts assigned "by the god")• �-11- What we know by the art of piloting we cannot know by the art or healing, what we know by the art of hea.ling we cannot know by the art of carpantry, and so on. - Socrates him.self begins quoting from the Iliad and the Od:vsse_!. He does it four times, three times inaccurately and only once accurately. Ion has to agree that it is not for the rhapsode to discern whether Homer speaks correctly or not, bit tor the doctor in the first case, for the fisherman in the second case, for the seer in the (We should not forget, third and fourth cases. seer's 11 art" is not a / T~"X..tf~ by the way, that the at all.) Socrates then invites Ion to pick out passages from Homer, the rightness or wrongness of which rhapsOde alone should be able to discern. he do? - th.at this holds of th~ Ion claims - what else could ill. passages. Socrates reminqs him of the passages they just went through and which the rhapsode was incompetent to judge. imply. Ion cannot help excluding these passages and the arts they Pressed by Socrates to tell what arts the rhapsode will be competent to judge, Ion assigns to the rhapsode the vast knowledge ot things which it is fitting for a .!!!!n to say, and of those which it is fitting for a woman to say, and again of those for a slave, and of those for a freeman, and of those for him who has to obey, and of those for him who is in command. But it turns out, as Ion has to admit, that the .pilot will know better than the rhapsode what the captain of a stormtossed vessel should say and that the doctor will know better than the rhapsode what he who takes care of a sick man ought to say. If a slave is a cowherd, it is not the rhapsode who will know better what t .o say . about cattle tending. And if a woman is a spinning-wo!!!!rh it is ~ the rhapsode who will know better what to say about the working of wool. But what about a man who is a general exhorting hi....! !!!!!!? What .man should say, Ion immediately declares, the rhapsode ~ a !!lll know. And �-12 ... when Socrates asks him whether he is knowledgeable about generalship as a general or as a rhapsode, we hear Ion state that he does not perceive any difference here. He explicitly says that the rhapsodic art and the art of generalship are .2!'!! art, not two. It follows that anyone who is a good rhapsode is also a good general, but Ion cannot admit that any- one who is a good general is also a good rhapsod.e. He probably assumes - and rightly so - that some generals are not good at exhorting their men. Since Ion considers himself the best rhapsode in Greece, be is also, in his own eyes, the best general in Greece, and Ion adds that he learned to be that from Homer. For a short while the highly amusing question is debated why the Athenians have not chosen Ion to be their general. Socrates then reproaches Ion for not telling in what his knowledge of Homer consists and tor finally escaping in the guise of a general so as to avoid displaying his wisdom. concerning Homer. If Ion is an artist, that is. a man who knows, and deceives Socrates by not telling him -what he knows, he is wicked. If Ion is not a.n artist - · bi.1t speaks f'u.lly and finely about Homer by divine allotment, possessed by Homer, and without any knowledge, he is not doing anything wrong. the choioe1 542A to be dishonest or to be divine. Here then is Ion (I quote)a "the difference is great, SocratesJ for it is far 11cbler to be called divine". And Socrates closes the dialogue by assigning this nobler title to Iona he is to be known as a divine &nd not an artful, that is knowing, praiser of Homer. You realize, I am sure, the utterly comic oharaoter of the . dialogue and the disparagement of what in this dialogue Socrates calls / the 8£lrt . j-Lt/i: fc< 1 the "divine allotment". But you also realize that the mocking of the rhapsode is meant to cast doubt, above all, on the poets, whose works the rhapsodes declaim. And this i~ a serious and �-13- difficult matter, to Which I shall devote the second part of this lecture, In Plato's Ph&edrus we hear Socrates describe the 244Af/. gr~atest blessings as derived from these four kinds of rr1&dness s the prophetic, the ca'!'" In this connection the expression thartic, the poetic, and the eretic. 0 divineallotment" .is used again. The third kind of madness, the poetic, comes about when one is possessed by the Muses. I quotet "he who with- out the madness of the Muses comes to the doors of poetry, confident ) / 245! that he will be a good poet by art (EK T€XY'7S' ), meets with no suooeH, and the poetry of the sane man vanishes into nothingness before that of the madmen". D~es that mean that the Socrates of the Phaedrua is serious about "divine allotment"? The answer to this queUton depenis . , on our understandin~ of "madness'' (mania, in Greek1 µ.,rxV l fX.) as this word is used in the Phaedrus. · It is first mentioned in. the description of the first kind of madne.s s, the prophetic one. The men· of old who invented names, we read in the text, thought that madness .was neither shameful nor disgraceful. 244C I quotes "otherwise they would not have con- nected the very worl. "mania" with the noblest of' arts, that which fore'!'" . . . tells the future, 'qr calling it the manic art ( ~Vti<1) • No, they gave this name thinking that "mania", when it comes by divine allotment, is a noble thing, rut nowadays people call it the mantie art tastelessly inserting a Socrates is dissembling& <piXIJTl/(4), ! into the word, 'mantic' instead of' 'uni.a'". the so-called mantic art is, to begin with, not I an art, not a T<fXV?-1 , and ·it is not the alleged insertion of the letter T into the word "manic" which is to be oondem.neds it is the soothsayers, the seers themselves, who - on the whole, I repeat, on the whole • are contemptible and ridiculous, as Plato often enough implies or even ·explicitly states in his dialogues. to these see"rs is an em.pty fraud. The "divine allotment" dispensed But there are exceptions, and �-14He~ Socrates is one of them. prophesy sometimes. Right here, in the Phaedrus, about to begin his recantation, his palinode about divine madness to def'end the lover, he says1 243:: "I-am, yes, a seer (a pa."vur> •. not a very good one, but - as poor writers might say - it is just sufficient f'or what I need".t,t Socrates is again dissembling, ot course& his pro- phetic power is clairvoyaneer it can be attributed to "divine allotment,~' but it is ~madness. In that same palinode of the Phaedrus, Socrates, summarizing what he said before about the erotic kind of madness, describes the lover as one who, when he sees the beautitul here, on earth, remembers the ~ beauty, feels his wings growing and would like to fly away, but cannotr like a bird he 249D-E1 ,, v ~Tt0<:'1 €Xll , "'S' ftol.V~f g~zes upward and neglects .the things below1 and thus, Socrates says, this fourth ldrd of madness is imputed to the lover. That is to· say1 lu1.K£(~EVDS looks like madness because loving means. we the state a true lover is in are usually insufficiently ·aware of what Can this .be said also of the state a good poet You remember what Socrates says in the .2.!!! definite kind of ~ 12!1• is in? the ability to know about has been assigned to each of the arts, and I mentioned that Socrates explicitly and rather strangely inserts that this assignment is made ''by the words? The answer ise god."~" Why does Socrates insert these he inserts them to hint at the wide range of meanin{l'.s in the expression "divine allotment • " This expression might be used farcically as in the ease of the rhapsode Ion, it might be . . I applied w1 th seriousness to the knowledge inherent in any T! )(V,and ,, w1 th even deeper seriousness' alhhough &mbiguously' to the work of l of love. The question we face is1 elJ.f• in what sense is it applied tg a work of poetr:y? In what sense is a good poet •1m.ad 0 ? Let me be bold, very bold, and try to answer that question by speaking about Homer's Iliad, thus running the risk of becoming a rhapsodic expourd.er, �-15- Disregarding the more or less superficial division into books and even allowing for all kinds of tampering with, and dialocations1 ot, the original song, there is no denying that the decisive events are crowded into the last third of the Iliad. significance certainly do occur• In the first half events of great the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles which leads to Achilles' withdrawing from the fights the death and the wounding of many warriorsa the Diomedean terrorJ the wounding or two gods: the encounter of Diomedes and Glaucuss the peaceful scenes in Troys the unsuccessful. embassy to Achillesr inoonelusive duels among men and wonderfully treacherous actions on the part or the gods. All these events contribute in varying degrees to the unfolding of the plot. (For there!! a plot in the Iliad.) In the main, however, the battle is swaying back and forth all the time until finally the Trojans reach the ships of the Achaeans. During all . that time Achilles sits in his tent, sulking, and only occasionally watching the fight. The pivotai event, the death of Patroclus, which changes, which reverses everything, occurs very late in the poem.. It is as if the poem took an exceedingly long breath to reach that point and afterwards rushed with breathtaking speed to its end. This is the more remarkable since the entire period of time the poem encompasses is one of 49 days and Patroolus• death occurs on the 26th day, that is, very nearly in the middle of that period. There are two events - among many others - which I have not mentioned at all. Yet it is ' these two events that seem to be the two foci from which all light dispersed througqout the poem stems, " The first takes place when Tbetis, :Uhilles• mother, goes up to Zeus to ask for his hel p on behalf of her son, reminding Zeus of the help he once received from her. She wants Zeus to turn the scales of �-16- the war, to let the Trojans have the upper hand until finally, in the hour of the Achaeans' greatest ee pe~il, Achilles, and only Achilles, might able to save them from certain defeat, lead them to victory, and thus regain lli honor, which he allegedly lost through Agamemnon's action. It I,511- is then said1 "But Zeus, the cloud-·gatherer, said nothing at all to her 512 I •nd sat in silence :for a long while ( &7V)". An awful silencel Thetis repeats her plea. At last, Zeus consents and nods, a sign of an irrevocable decision. Olympus shakes. Thetis departs, apparently satisfied that she has accomplished her mission. XIII II, Has she? The second. event occurs attar Patroclus• death, while the battle 165...229 for Patroclus' body rages before the ships between Hector and the Aiantes and while Thetis is on her way to get new arms for her son from Hephaestus. Hera sends Iris to Achilles to urge him to intervene in the struggle for Patroclus' body. Since Achilles has no arms at this juncture, he is asked by Iris to do nothing but to show himself to the Trojans, to frighten them by his mere appearance. Achilles, "dear 203 to Zeus", obeys and does more than what Hera through Iris asked him to do. Pallas Athene, who is nearby, does her share: she casts the tas- seled aegis around his shoulders and she sets a crown in hhe guise of a golden cloud about his head, and from it issues a blazing flame. Thus he appears - alone, separated from the other Achaeans - in the sight of the foe, a flaming torch. But not only does he appear, he shouts, three times, a terrible shout, clearly heard - and":from afar Pallas 217-18 Athene uttered her voice". Trojans. Unspeakable confusion and terror seizes the Patroclus• body is saved. What kind of shout is this. Is it one of triumph? Or threat? Is it an ordinary war cry, raised toa very high pitch? It is certainly not �-17(V,859,86J) like the bellowing of the wounded Ares. The verb used to describe ) , that shout has a range of meanings. One of them is "crying out of ttJ(Xi.> (XVIII,228) grief~' Iris? Why does Achilles shout now, though not urged to do so by Certainly, to frighten the Trojans, to make tham desist from Patroclus' body. But can this shouting fail to express the un- speakable pain that fills his heart, the pain which had just brought his mother to him from the depth of the sea? rible sight to beholdt Here indeed is a ter- a man raised to his highest glory by Pallas Athene, wearing the aegis, crowned by names, truly god-like - and this same man crushed by grief, miserable in his awareness of having himself brought the immensity of this grief upon himself. DIII,222 apotheosis of Achilles is the seal of his doom. The And it is his voice, his brazen voice, his terrible shouting, which brings terror to the foe, that expresses his misery and his doom. Pallas Athene's voice seems but a weak echo of that of Achilles or is even completely drowned out by the latter's intensity. But are not these two events, the long silence of Zeus and the shouting of Achilles, related? Does not Achilles' shout sonorously echo Zeus' silence? not guess now why Zeus retilained silent for & Can we long while? Surely, he had to take account. of the susceptibilities of his wife, as any husband would - a~ in his marital relations Zeus is no exception.-.. but is it only Hera whom he was silently thinking about? Must he not have been concerned about the whimsical nature of Achilles' plight and Thetis' plea? And, on the other hand, how could he have refused to satisfy Thetis in whose debt he was? Is it not right then and ther~ that Zeus decided, in wisdom and sadness, irrevocably too, to accede �-18to Thetis' demand, to give honor and ~lory to Achilles, but to do that in a manner which neither Thetis nor Achilles expected? Patroclus should be ~ He decided that and - what is more- that his beloved son, Sa!l?edon, should be slain by Patroclus to balance the loss Achilles will suffer by the loss he, Zeus, himself will suffer. There will be a moment when Zeus will hesitate about Sarpedon's death, but Hera will persuade him to let Sarpedon perish. While the tide of the battle is t~ce, VIII,4761 Y:-1,64-7 being reversed, Patroclus' approaching death is announced by Zeus XI ,604, the steps which lead to it are carefully pointed out. Achilles will 790-804 XVIII, 79-82 get what he wants, but at the price of the greatest loss--the loss of his beloved friend, of his other self. In the hour of his triumph he will be the most miserable of men. The coincidence of triumph and misery characterizes a situation as tragic, in the strict sense of this much abused word. XVIII,328 Achilles grasps Zeus' intent. "Not all the thoughts of men does Zeus fttlfill" 1 as Homer had said before, commenting on Achilles' prayer xvr,250 He says him.selfs befo~e the slaying of Patroclus1 "One thing the father granted him, the other he denied.~ 11, Zeus denied him the safe return of Patroclus while granting him glory. Achilles' suffering at the moment of his triumph is Achilles' own. matbhad by anything on Olympus. It cannot be It is as much the prerogative mortal as it is the attribute of a hero. of a This is one of the reasons-- perhaps ih! reason---why we are deeply moved while reading, or listening to, the Iliad. And this means that we are, at the same time, pleased and pained beyond words. We were asting in what sense is the good poet .,mad,t as Plato makes Socrates claim. in the Phaedrus. Was Homer "mad" when he indi;{tad the Iliad? Does not the highly articulated sequence of events in the Iliad depend on the poet's familiarity with human frailty and human �-10- strength and on his masterly skill in presenting them, which skill is but an expression of the knowledge or the rules of art, of the poetic I T6X,V'7 , he possesses? But should not. on the other hand, the uniqueness of what is presented to us be understood as or ~ontaneous:;z .:e.,roduce~ som.ethin~ ~ by the poet, beyond anything he might. otherI tQ.se know, and, therefore, as the result indeed of a peculiar "madness"? It is difficult to deny, I think, that both, sane sobriety and mad exuberance, mark the work of the good poet. This duality, merging into oneness, is hard. to grasp. It makes Socrates speak of "divine allotment" in a serious and yet again ambiguous way. And what I said appli.es, of course, not only to the Iliad, but to all kinds of poetic works. We 22 understand that without the knowledge inherent in the poetic rt.~v1 • without serious thought, the poetic "madness" becomes ridiculous, be the madman a rhapsode like Ion or a man who claims, who not knowing what poetry requires. !_~nt,! to.be a poet, Hence the never ceasing flow of so-called poetry and the pretentious, "rhapsodic" way of speaking· about "art", · prevailing at almost all times and especially today. It might be useful to remind ourselves at this point of the way Dante, the poet, spoke about poetry. In his Latin treatise D! vul_gari eloguentia (in English• pn vernaculat,.,11.oguen.$?!) Dante asserts that true poetry must rest on these three pillars• alertness of mind (strenuitas ingenii), steadfastness in the practice of the art (assiduitas artis) and fam1.11arity with the sciences (hs.bitus soientiarum) • Only poetry thus endowed and equipped can serve as nourishment to the human soul. And I quote t "Let therefore those who, innocent of art and know- ledge, and trusting to genius alone, rush forwp.~ upon the highest sub- jects, which must be sung in the highest style, be confounded in their folly and let them refrain from such presumption". �-20- There is another aspect of poetry, all-important to Plato, I have not touched on so far. The deeply serious background of the !2!1 can- not be sufficiently gauged, if we do not consider the role epic and tragic poetry plays in the education and nurture of the young. Homer's and Hesiod's verses, well-known aQi quoted again and again, must have had a . deep impact on the~ of the young, not only in Plato's time, Plato's concern is the nature of this impact and its relation to our understanding of what is truly noble and unmistakably true. That's why Plato lets Socrates censure the poets wittingly and harshly, e~pecially in the second, third, and tenth book of the Republic. What is appropriate to the gods in their intercourse with each other and with men, what should be ~aised and blame<;l in the actions of men, how of speeches ought to be done I the narration of events and the reporting all this beoomes part and pa1..cel of the criticism of poetic lore.-No less important to Plato is the "mixture" of pleasure experience in coping ~th this "mixture" implies. am pa.in which we tragic poetry. I invite you to consider what Plato• s .fh.:iJ:2bu.s might. be of some help. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 20 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Plato's Ion Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered October 1, 1972, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1972-10-01 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Plato. Ion Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1972-10-01 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d1d5066e472bcf4ffa738d7bf42f9e6e.pdf 2b8d88f6bffe58c931ccb9b2a581c399 PDF Text Text February 23, 1973 Jacob JC.lain SPEEOl 1 US S'l'RBRG'l'R AND iTS 11BAKNESSES �-1- To undertake to •peak about speech means to anbark upon an end.leas Yet there are strict limits that I have~ observe and to·be task. aware of: limits of time, of redundancy, of attentiveness on your part. I shall have to focus your attention on what people moatly concerned about speech have said. 'rhe•e were t:he people whom we c&ll.: f'l,:,..tf.••• the "lovers of wiSdom" amonq the Greeks. But.I shall also have to-appeal to an ·underatandinq of what usually happens to speech, to an understancUng which those people do not se• to have had. I shall be as brief as possible, and I hope you wil.l not mind my careful.-- nay-, my pedantic use of English and Greek words. !S!!. of what (Parenthetical rmarka I am goinq to aay I have mid -------- before in lectures and in print, but·not all of it.) Let me beqin by quoting from Plato 1 B di&l.ogue entitled'Phaado. Thia dialogue pretends to de.acribe what happened durinq the very lut day of Socrates. Attentive reading show• that the content of the dialogue· is mythical, but that the mythical frame.allows ua to :became· aware of what Plato understood to be Socratu 1 unique and evuvhelming At a crucial point of the dialogue (95 E ff.) Socrates~ ~t. after ailently looking back into himself for quite a· while; reaches - in apeakillCJ far back into his own youth. He wanted very much, he reports, to find out, with z:egard to any sinqle thing or occurrence, what was responsible for its coming into being, its passing away; its being the way it waa1 . . - .. · but he could not find any satiafactory anawra. Nor could he learn anything from anybody else, not even· from the great Anaxagoras. ·.He bad to abandon the.way in which questions like: these were dealt with in the various ~ersions of the "inquiry into nature• (71fC c , c~r•tt•). ,ur•"'s Be decided to aabark upon a different journey, a "second journey", which means, he decided to take to the oars, since the wind bad failed. Thia is the praaentation he makes of hi• new endeavor. �-2By looking directly at whatever presents itself in our familiar world, at things ~d their properties, at hl;JDl&n affairs and actions, we run the risk ofbeinq, blinded, aa people do when they observe the sun durinq an eclipse, if they do not.look at its image on some watery surface. '!'hat may well have .happened to those investigators of nature. 'l'o avoid being blinded, Socrates thought he had to "have recourse to spoken words" (Els co::,.s ~.;>"us 1t•o•11r1t'.,)· and "see in them the truth of whatever is" (99 E). In the dialogue entitled Philebus, Plato again makes Socrates refer to men engaged in the study of nature (59 A-C): these men want to under- stand how this world of ours came into being,. how it is acted upon and how it acts itself, that is to say, they are trying to di~cover transient productions of the present, the future and the always is. <o% "o:i /L111.>.t,,~61tl i.5vt1CJ-L'S - 57 B), in exchanqinq questions and answers wit.h oneself and with. others. power what unchangeably To discover the immutable it is necessary to rely on the power of discourse the past,~ The power of discourse is inherent·in human speech, this ma:cvel, let me say, this greatest marvel perhaps under the sun. " The Greek noun >.~rus and the Greek verbAfx~1." have a vast range of meanings. They may refer to reckoning, accountinq, measuring, relating, qatherinq, picking.up (let us not forget the English words "col.!!£!" and "•e.!!EE.", derived from >.EyEtv). But, above all, they refer to !IJ?!akinq, discoursinq, arquinq, discussinq, reasoning. That's how we have to understand Artstotle's statement <Politics 1,2, 1253 a 10): , , )oro"··• . .uoYov ,, {J II «v twTof l~H - ~ rw"' f':''-'"' , "man alone amonq livinq beings possesses speech", and that implies: to understand the spoken word, to man alone possesses the ability und~rstand articulated speech. �-3- We mean by speech - eveeybody meaila by it - a sequence of sounds uttered· by somebody in such a way-as to be understandable to others. The verb "to understand" refers primarily, thouqh not uniquely, to speech.· saying". Hea~inq somebody speak, ·we may says "I understand.what you are We may, in fact, miaunderstand, but even misunderstanding involves understanding. speak? But ~do we understand in hearing somebody Not the sounds in themselves, the audible low and hiqh pitched noises issuing from somebody's mouth (or some machine, for that matter). We ·.!!!!.!'., these noises, but hearinq is not understandinq. · That is why we do not understand speech in a foreign tongue. In a manner 'Which, itself, is hardly or not at all widerstandable, the sounds carry 1itith them - or embodf. or represent - somethinq.else, makes us understand, ~enever we understand. p~ecisely that which This source and target of our understanding consists of units to which single wards correspond as well as of combinations of units to which sequences of words correspond. The speaker and the hearer share - or, at least, intend to •hare the understandinq of those units and of ·those combinations of units. The speaker transposes what he means into·souridinq words variably intoned, and the hearer.who understands reverses that process in reachinq back to the intended meaning. The intended meaning is what the Greeks ~ , being a. verbal· adjective of call.ad ro' yo17roy(vd.,rov "to receive the intelligible"). there are two kinds: Amonq " vo~'"' which means the intelligible units, the . ,,,. 1i10.,~•, Eiome are intelligible by themselves, some help us to receive those first ones, help us to understand what is.being said. Speech and understanding are inseparable • .AC:j-of means inseparably both speech and that which can be and is being understood .!!!_ speech. It is �-4- in !!!!!! and, to repeat, only throuqh !!!!. that conspicuously. >.:ros manife~ts itself Neither birds nor porpoises nor seals haye Ao'tl"', though. they are able to "communicate" with each other and even with human beings. We all remanber, I think, a phrase that Homer. uses so often when describing b\Dan speech, the phrase "wi~qed words" ·Whence this imaqe? t f•~« 11'rfp0~tl~ ) • In most cases the phrase occurs when a personaqe, a qod or a man, addresses another single personage, a qod or a man. Occasionally it is also used when someone speaks to a group or a of people. words". er~ Minstrels in Homer are never said to utter or sing "winqed Now, words are not called "winged" to indicate their aoaring or .lofty quality. The .imilge seems rather to imply that words, Aft.er escaping "the fence of the teeth", as Homer puts·it, are guided swiftly, and therefore surely, to.their destination, the ears and the soul and the·unc!erstandinCj of the addressee. crowd of men than a-single man. It is more difficult to reach a Exertions of a special kind are then required. What is speech "about"? About everythinq man is familiar with - the sky and the earth, the rivers and the sea, the living beings around him, on land, in water, in the air, the things he himself builds and produces, as well as the tools and appurtenances that his arts·and skills _require to produce those thinqs, and furthennore, the knowle~ge that quides his arts and skills, not only to satisfy his ~st elementary needs, but also to establish customs and institutions in from generation to generation, in happiness or ~hich mis~ry, his life flows in friendship or f!nlllity, in praise or blame, and to which customs and institutions he is attached· beyond his most pressing wants. and his und:eratanding are mostly about. That is what his speech �-sWhat we say, however circuitously or confusedly or loosely, is said in words and sentences, each of which conveys immediate meaning. 'Ap 1,,5 The cannot help moving in the medium of the immediately understandable. But words and sentences can also be involuntarily or deliberately ambiguous. We can play on words. Plato's dialogues, for example, are replete with puns •. However, ambiguities and puns are only possible, because words and sentences carry with them several distinct meanings . . which, separately, are clearly understood. obscure. To be sure, speech can be But it can be obscure only because the clarity of BOllle of its parts impinges, or seems to impinge, on the clarity of others. Speech, then, presents .to the understanding of the listener what the speaker him•elf understands. It presents to the listener nothing , but combinations ofvo 1 r«, of intelligibles. In doing that, however, speech speaks about, all the things and all the properties of things that around us, all the abound we find ourselves. ~pecial circumstances and situations in which The question arises: do thevo,r..;, the intelligibles, presented to us in speech, have their foundation in themselves, or do they stem from the things and circumstances spoken about? human $peech . tra~slate Does not the language, the r>i;;tr1111t, of- the things th•selves? . . Let me turn for a moment to the way things and events around us have been and are being referred·to. In Galileo's words: of Nature is written in mathematical characters". 0 The science contained in the great~ ,.The book Descartes said: of the world ••• ". Harvey said: "The book of Nature 1.iea open before us and can be easily consulted". The ph~ase "book of Natureu is a metaphor used lonq before the seven- teenth century, but why was this particular metaphor ever chosen? �-6- rs it n6t because Nat11%'.e is understood a$ something that can be read like a book, provided w. know how to read it? imply a language that is Nature's own? But ~foes not that indeed Francis Bacon was of the opinion. that Nature is subtly secretive, full of riddles, Sphinx-like. secrets can be revealed, riddles can be solved in words. don't we, in solving· the "riddles of nature". of all that exists around us ~s But We persist, In ancient times the order taken much more-directly as a language, a lanquage not heard and not written, yet visible, and i f not visible, one to be guessed at. Human speech seems indeed to translate that vi_sible ()r invisibie language of. things into the audible language of words~ And just as the sounds of human speech can be trac~ down to their ultimate canponents to which the letters of the alphabet correspond, things_ around us can be decomposed into their first rudiments - the "elements" - the original letters of the language of things, as.it were. Our speech, even our unguarded colloquial way of speaking, may reveal to the attentive listener the hidden articulations of the language of things. Aristotle, no less than Plato, was constantly ·following up casually spoken words. It seems that Heraclitus, the "obscure", used the word "logos" in reference to the language of things. from the fragments in question~ First: Let me quote "Of the Logos, which is as I describe it, men always pr0ve to be uncomprehending, both before they have heard it and when once they have heard it. For although all things bappen acco·rding to this Logos, men are like .people of .!!2. experience, even when they experience such sayings and def;ds as I explain, when rdistinguish each thing according to its nature and declare how it iSJ but all the other men fail to notice what they do after they �-7- wake up, just as they iorqet what they do when asleep". Then this: "therefore it is necessary to follow.what is common; but althouqh the Loqos is common, the many live as thouqh they had Then this: their~ thouqhts". "Listeninq not to me, but to the Loqos, it is 'tfise to aqree that all things are one". And finally, to supplement the last fragment: "Out of all things ;.. one, and out of one - all thinqs 11 • The Pres0cratic Philosophers, 1957, pp. 187-188 1 191.) (Kirk and Raven, The Loqos makes us understand, if we follow Heraclitus, what the things themselves are saying, brightly and darkly, in tune and out of tune. Speaking and understandinq what ie being said involves thinking, involves what the Greeks called lu1voco... Let us hear what Plato has to say about thB relation of speakinq to thinking. In t)le dialoque entitled The Sophist, in which Plato makes the Stranqer from Elea. converse with the young mathematician Theaetetus, the Stranger remarks (263 E): 11 • • • thought(lu~vo~OL') and speech (.A6p>l) are the same, only that the former - that is,1,:vo,o. ~. which is. a silent inner conversation of the soul with itself, has been given the special name of thought". Thinking, -as Plato understands it, is not tied to what the moderns mean by the "stream of consciousness". It can be imagined as a·discontinuous, not always regular, stepping forward, and stepping aside, and stepping backward and forw~d again, what. speech, too, usually does. to note1 that for Plato, and for Plato and speech is ~a complete one~ ~·· It is necessary this identity of thou9ht facing the highest, all-comprehending intelliqi,.bles, thought is not able to transpose itself into suitable l«:>rds. In the seventh letter attributed to Plato we read the phrase �... a- '· "the weakness ·of spoken words" (ro A T't.JY ii >.ol..," :J, i 343 A 1) , and .the itl(ifJfVES - dialoc;iUe entitled The Sophist.itself. shows this wealtness rather clearly, aa we shall see in a IDOll\ent. ·-Moreover, -.peech and thinking can both deceive ua; diaccinnect.our steps, an!.'l·thus distor-t and falsify the truth of things. -·The firework of the sophists, for example, - and there are always sophists around - ·make things and relat.ions of thinqs assume a most-unexpected, dazzlinq,-and.puzzl,.ing aspect: not t6 'be what they are. things suddenly appear But who isdoinq the iying, if it be lying, the sophists.or the thinqs themselves? A critique of speech and of thinking, a critical inquisition into speaking, thinking and arquing has to be undertaken - as it was undertaken by men. as diverse as Parmenides, Prodicus, Plato, Aria·totle. The res'l;llt of· this critique can...be stated as follows: to speak doe_s not always mean to make thi~qs (' ~ appear in. their true light. ) Por Aristotle only one kin(J of speech, o >.v1a$ 011r~•«t1r c , . t(Of , the declar- atoi-Y and revealinq speech; and the thinking which belongs to it, translate and present the lanquageof thi:nqs •. To be able to use this kind of speech requires a discipline, the discipline of the >.~ 1 aj. _ Everywhere in Aristotle's work, one senses-, .to 1;:he annoyance of SOll\e and to the delight of others1 the effectiveness of that discipline, the effectiveness of what!!: ·call ·{and the author hilaself does Aristotl-e. (Cf. on Interp-reta1;:ion s, ~call) the "logic" of 17 a 81 4, .17. a 21 ~, 17 a 251 Posterior· Analytics ··I 2, 7 2. a 11.) Given th• ever-present possibility of declaratory and revealing speech, Aristotle need not, and does· not, set limits to the power of tlte logos. For Plato, however, as spoken words cannot transcend. I have mentioned, there are limits that This becomes quite clear in the dialogue �_,_ •ntitllld SEliZlil• !n it 8ocrat•• til'•t invents fantaatically funny "ety- 110lo9ie•" ot word•, etJ11Qlo9ie1 of proper •• ot taaiU.p d••Lgn•tion• vtven to th•n Qontriv11 ratllar ~layfully n••• of hero•• and god• ••well th• W•Y• men behave and think. (422 I ff.) to de1cribe the letters and ' •Yllf.b.i•1 o:f anv wocd •• providing an "illitation•, a IA"f"'11A-"" (423 Af•••• Thi• a 11 11 Socrates , , B1 430 437 -'J of th• very beinw (o..in•) of what i9 1uppoaed to be "imitated". ta:f,.t,.t~on 11 i• •1•o 1aid by ·Socratea - said more accurately - to be 4i1cla•au:•", • 11 rw•lation 11 , a F4J.""}"• (425 A,B, 433 B,D, 435 A,B) of the rtnally the ••••rtion i• made that even "revealing" thil\I in qu••t:t.on. wofd' •Y nll be int•rPl'•tlld •• not foatering our underata.6Un9. - One has ----- to agree, ·••Y• Socrat••• that thing• which are can be learned and aougr.t for 11 111ucih better th:r:ou~h th•••elv•• thiU\ throUIJh names" (439 B). anly po11:lbl• ii what trulz !!. 11 not 8ubjact to change, aa Heraclitus alaill1, but i1 .!.p}!t!l;?il' what it ii.. th• Reraclitean1 ~ And that is Whether thia is 110 or whether what uny other• aay i• true, iB a q1,1eation difficult to 4eci4•, but "no aa.n ot •en•• can help himaelf and his own 110ul on ·nu•• 11 f440 C) • •PP~ relying The power of th• apoken word is thus a limited one, acaordi119 tQ Plato, Which tu.l •• they by •ke• hi1 dialoguaa as troublellOIDe and as wonder- to be. Let •• try to •how yau thia by referring to.. a,nd quoting frcm, the d14l.ogu.e entitl.ed 'lb! Sofh.i•t~ Thi• dialogue is the central piece of a trilogy, naely the trilogy of the dialogue• entitled Theaei:etua, The Sophist, and 'l'h! Bt!f:t••u. The converaationa and events whi.ch are presented in these ra.t.111•1 ax-e 1uppoa.S to talte place at the very ti.Jlle the suit against Socrates ha• it• beglnninq - aa you can read at the ve:ry end of the first piece of the triloCJY. We find in the aecond and the third di.aloque, namely in The Sophist �-10- (d1.dte;~?•S) and in The State8111An, an abundance of so-called "divisions" which, in The Sophist, are supposed to be the means to establish what a "sophist" .!.!.• Opposed to the "divisions" are the "collections" (~vv#l..r1.Jt•d>, and let me quote what, in the dialoque entitled Phaedrus, Socrates has to say a.bout these "divisions" and "collections" to that lovable younq man, Phaedrus: "Now I myself, Phaedrus, am a lover of these divisions and collections as aids to speech and I thought~ and if think any other man is able to see things that can naturally be collected into one and divided into many, him I follow after and walk in his fon~steps as if he were a qod (this is a playful and ambiguous r¢'f~~pce to. a I line in the fifth book of the Odxssey}. And whether the name I give to those who can do this is right or wrong, god knows, but them hitherto dialecticians" (Phaedrus 266 B-C). I have called Now, the first five "divisions" in the dialogue entitled The soph1st cio not reach their goal, except in one very peculiar case. I said, ~a "sophist" is. from Elea performs these The goal is to est ablish, as In this dialogue a nameless Stranger dialectic~! exercises wit:h the help of young Theaetetus, whose looks resemble those of Socrates (Theaetetus 143 E). Of Theaetetus we also know , from the dialogue that bears his name as well as from other sources, that he was a powerful mathematician, especially interested in incolllllensurable magnitudes and multitudes. Books X and XIII of Euclid's Elements are based, in part at least, on his work. In the dialogue entitled The Sophist young Theaetetus is shown to distinguish and to count well, so well, indeed, that he he1ps us to understand what the Eleatic Stranger, alone, by himself, could not make us understand. Let us see. �-11- There are·five "diviaiona11 in the beginning.of the dialogue, meant to catch the 11 sophiat 11 • After they have been made they are counted up by the Stranger and Thaaetetus inthefollowing way: "Stranger: First, if I was found not mi•taken, he (that is, the ·11 sophiat 11] illll to be a paid hunter after the younq and wealthy. 'l'heaetetus: Strangers. Secondly a aort of merchant in articles of the soul. Theaetetua: Vary much so. Stranqar: Yes. knowl~ for And thirdly, did he not turn up as retailer (IC-W,.Aot) of these same articles of knowledge? Yes, and fourthly we found he was a aeller of his own Theaetetus: ' production!'J , (tft1SQ'Ml,1),. . ·Strangers I have to interrupt this quoting You r•ember well" (231 D). to check whether Theaetetus .!!!?.!!. remember well •. By qoing back, we see that the ·stranqer had previously summarized (224 D-E) the third diviaion in these.111110rds: . "And that part of acquisitive art which proceed• bt exchange and by ea.le in , ~ , ways (l/1""'•rtt111a) aa mere retail trade (lt11...A11tn) or as the. sale of one's own production fllk••11l11e:v), ·so lonq as it belongs to. the fam.ily of merchandisinq in knowledqe, that part you will apparently always call sophistry". Theaetetus had then answered: "Necesaarily so, for I have to follow the argument, the , A•r•I". Theaetetua reimembers well: he remembers that retail trade and ~the sale of one'• own 2roduction ., , had been mentioned, but he forgot, !!_e_f!?_ri.ot, the word ¥••r•t"•{in ~.ways), and this makes him add to the third description a new one, which he calls the fourth. !2!;hr· his rememberinq !!!!!, his forqettinq have remarkable consequences. In the counting up of the "divisions" the fourth becomes the fifth, and the fifth, which is the one that reaches its qoal, namely the correct de•cription of the work perforaed �-12- by a quasi-aophiat, naaely by Socrates himself, - this fifth "division" becallea the ailtth. six is the first "perfect" Let ua not fox-qets nwlber, and only a •perfect" number is fit to be applied to Socrates' work. But, moreover, the foqetfulness of Theaetetus compels us to " pay special attention to th• word which he forqot, to the word.o,,..fart:(lt..1>-, ) or more exactly to the wordlpcfw (both) and to its cognates. We become aware that this word ;is used-over and over aqain in the dialoque. Here is just one example. remarks at one point Speakinq of the "sophist", the Stranger (226 A): "Do you see the truth of the statement that this beast ia many-sided and, as the saying is, not to be cauqht with one hand? Theaetetusz Then we must catch him with.botii • The aiqnificance of this word "both" becomes fully apparefrt: when the Stranger and Theaetetus focus their attention and "Rest" (~'r.;flJ). I shall quote You say that Change and Rest are Theaetetus: "Change" again (250 A-C): entir~ly , (Kuh15<S) "Stranqer: opposed to each other? How could I say anything else? say that both and each of than equally Stranqer: on !!!..• Stranger: And yet you Theaetetus: Yes, I do. And in admittinq that they are, are you saying that both and each of them are chanq"ing? ·Theaetetus: No, nol Stranger: Then, perhaps, by sayinq that both a.re, you mean they are bQth at rest? 'fheaet•tus: How could I? Stranger: Then you put before you Being (r~ ~) aa a third1 as aomethinq beside these, inasmuch as you think Rest and Change are embraced by it1 and since you· comprehend and observe that these comnme with Being, are you saying that they both ·Tbeaetetwu ~? We truly happen to divine that Being is something third, when we say that Change and Rest~· Stranqer: Then Beinq is not �~13- .~·Chge Theaetetus1 and ·~.together, so i.t ••••· but llOIUlthi.ng else, ·&fferent frcm thm. Accordinq to its own nature, th.en, Strangers Being is neither at rest !!2!. changinq. G"~t-cfc:vl "• value. Theaetetua a M-hm Un Greek a The laat atat•ent of, the Stranger cannot be taken at face And.Theaetetu• imalediately afteEWards recognizes that it is totally ilftposaibl• for Being to he neither at rest nor changinq. The root of the difficulty, of the perplexity in which we, who listen to this conversation, ·find ourselvea is that, in the case of Being, Change and Reat, our human speech, tha l.l1os, i• failinq. It im failing , v when it triea to speak about auch greatest "looks" fi'~l''rw. ~il'7--254C2-3), that , 18, such all•CQll.Prehending vo•7t«. . Being and Rast ((rcG'tf) appear to be three # fro ov >, , Change ("'""'''s > Ef/'1, three "invisible looks", e , «, while in truth Change an,d Rest are "each one" ('l<"tlfo'I e:v> and "both :I! I rl two". (it#•or:t1tl/. 01.1u). "' Both together they constitute Being (ro" DV). Thia means that, accoriing to Plato, Beinq must· be understood as the eidetic Two. The eidetic Two ia not a mathanatical number of tm in- divisible and undistinguishable monads, among infinitely many INCh mathematical. twos. Nor is it two visible, divisible and unequal things, two houses or two d09a or two apples, for example. The eidetic Two is a unique dyad of two .unique E~'J?, of two "invisible look•", namely of Change and Rest. And ju•t •• they both together, and only ~ together, are the ,1'[of, the "look", the "invisible look" Being, llO the Stranger from Elea and Theaetetua can only both toqether deal with the question of Being. to Theaetetus (239 C): That's why the Stranqer says at one point "let us bid farewell. to you and to me". He means that neither he alone nor Theaetetus alone can acCCJmpliah the taak, �-14- but that they can do it only both t:ogether. .. , ' But this they can do "not ;, with complete clarity" (~"I tfllltf':J q"«+?"'''f - 254 C 6), because they are speakinq about it. · It is thus t:Mt a weakness of speech is revealed· in the dialogue entitled ·The sophist. · ·sut this dialogue alao shows why there ~ be falsehood uttered in speech, Why speech can state what is There iS r however I to likelihood. a wide ~ true. Bp8Cti'ulll Of the !!!!_-~1 ranqing from falsehood Thia is the background of the dialogue entitled Timaeus, IUJd I would like to qiote a passage from this dialoque to make you experience the playful and saddeninq ambiguity of this passaqe. It deals with the human mouth.· It claims that it. was .fashipned "for ends both necetiaary and most good"; ·"as an entrance with a view to what is· necessary and as an outlet with a view to what is most good". quoting (75 i>-B) r I keep For all that enters in and supplies food to the 11 body is,neceaaa.ryrwhile the stream.of speech·which flows out and ministers to thoughtf ulnesa is of all atreams the most beautiful and moat good". Can we forget how much &Vil, how much falsehood, how much tri"fling, ·how much nonsense a<lso flow& out? must be added.I No, we cannot.· But this in all those cases I just mentioned speech does not minister to thoughtfulness, to , . <;eov'1'°'S. Let me now turn to a character of speech to which the ancients .ppu:ently did pay only, llC~ attention. A ·moat r.arkable sim;i.larity .obtains between words, apoken words of' live speech, and money, - money, that is1 available in coins and bills. · Both are precious, both circulate freely, coins and bills from hand to hancl, words frcim mouth to mouth. The imprints on cains and bills are .qraduall.y erased, effaced, r.uhbed �-15- off, just as the meanings of words aean to become fuzzy, blurred and empty with the pa.1taa9e of time. as there is in money. There is even counterfeiting in lan9'U8.9'e Human speech can and does deteriorate to an extent which renders it obnoxio~s, makes it unable to reach anyone, deprives it totally of wings. It was Edmund Husserl who·, in modern ·times, pointed to this inevitable deterioration of hulllari speech~ According to him the signifying power of a word has, by its· very nature, the tendency to lose its revealing character. The more we become accustomed to wrds, the less we perceive their original and precise significance: f~cial a· kind of super- and vague· understanding is the necessary result of the increasing familiarity wi-th spoken -.and written - words;. ni.ficance is· still Yet that original sig- there, in every word, somehow at the bottom of our speakinq and our ~forqotten", u~erstancling, meaning conveyed by our speech might be. mt still however vague the The original "evidence" has .faded away, but has· not disappeared completely. It need not be "awakened" even, it underlies our mutual understanding in a "sedimented" form. "Sedimentation is always somehow forgetfulness" (Die Frage nach dem Ursprung der Geometrie ala intentional-historisches Problem, first published by Eugen Fink in "Revue internationale de philosophie", I, 2, 1939, p.212). And this kind of forgetfulness accqmpanies, of necessity. according to Husserl, the deve1·op:nent and growth of any science. (The text about the "origin of geometry". ·appears also - in a· slightly changed form - as the 3rd Appendix to Walter Biemel's edition of the Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology HUsserliana, Vol. VI, 1962 - and as the 6th Appendix to David Carr's �-16- Northwe•t~n tranalation of the •erisia" - Univeraity·Preas, 1970. The sentence "sedimentation is always somehow forqetfulness 11 is omitted in Bi...l's and Carr's versiQns. I. assume, however, that this sentence is based. on Husserl's own vo.rds, uttered in conversations with Fink.) .To be sure, the evidence .can be "reactivated0 oriq~nal , and indeed is.reactivated at definite· tim... ·Thia interlacement.of the original significance and of its "sedimentation" constitutes, we read in HUsserl's late.work, th• true charactei- of •history" (Ibid., p. 220). From that poJ,nt of view there is onJ.y· 2!!!_1egitimate fopa of history: tha history of hwlan thought. from Philosophy. History, inthia understanding, cannot be separated Husserl's own philosophy, aa it deyelo~ in its latest phase (1935-1937), is ·a· most raarkable att•pt to restore the integrity of knowledge, of lt;,,trr11''1' threatened· by the all-pervading tendency of "sedimentation". ·It has remained an attaapt. But it may help us,. in any,event, to understand the character of·speech, the character of ~e spoken word. .It may help us to cautious in our speaking and listening. When we hear --or read ... words ·intended to convey opinions about tlµngs, about ~ they are and !!2!, they are, it is amazing to observe their almost. total dependence .on the Latin rendering of crucial Greek, and·especia1ly Aristotelean, terms used in searching or reve&ling speech or,_ as.we say, in •philosophical" discourse. The adoption of this Latin rendering by modern western lanquages usually involve• a radical chanl]e and certainly a "sedimentation" of the very meaning of the tenis in question. We hear a qr~t deal about pollution today - the pollution of air, water, and land, which burdens our lives. . about the pollu~ion But.we hear rarely of our language, which burdens our understanding. �-17- OQr daily. language, not to mention the •elevated" ianguage of inquiry and exposition, ia pemeated and pol;l.uted by diatorted.teriu in paeudoLatin or even paeudo~reek onea all the tilllea quiae. Don't we use words like-the following "actual", "dynamic", •potentialities"·, •matter", "aubatance", "theory", "inform•tion", "energy", "category", "l09ical", "formal", "abstract"? w~t we ilow strange and how discouraging-I mean by thaaa words? I we know could. extend this list quite a bit, but I should like to add only theae six terms1 "conc•pt~", Do "idea1•,· 11 aaaence", "reality", "individual", and_ - horribile dictu -. "mind•.- This tendency of. "-.dimentation" of human apeech finds, it i9 true, its counterpart in the tendency to reactivate its oriq;Lnal aignificance. Beyond that, i~ may happen that huinan speech reachaa level• previoualy not experienced at alls they may increaae its viqor, lift its signifying power to new heighta, elevate it truly. Responsible for thia are moatly - and rarely enough, to be sure - written words. New words or new combinations of worda can be "coined", as we so aptly and. significantly say. At deciaive points in his dialoques Plato resorts to this kind of coininga in the dialogue entitled The Republic, for example, but. mollt. not.ably in the dialogue entitled The Statesman. (We are aware, of course, that Plato's dialogues-, althouqh presenting lively sp0ken words, are the result of uniquely careful inditing and writing.) Story-writer• engage - aometim.ea - in this kind of inventive writing, as Joyce and Faulkner did. The moat illlportant cases. of newly articulated written speech, however, are found in declaratory work•·which intend to convey knowledge, derived froa questioning that is profound and deeply Hrioua. Such 'WOrka are those o~ Aristotle, of He<Jel who raises Ariatotle to new levels, and of Heidegger who opposes Aristotle radically. �-1a'1'heir peculiar way of apeakinq aheda new light on thinga, on their zoota, their relations, their very being •. We :have to notes none of t.he8e author• have written work• that are eaaily translatable, - and thia cannot he otherwise. Let me be fair to people of the Latin tongue· and, by way of conclusion quote Virgil, the poet. In a letter: to a friend Virgil says that he giv• birth to verses in the manner of bears and according to their custom (parere •• veraua modo a·tque ritu ursino) , that is to say, that be pz'Oduces his verses the way the mother bear handles her newly born cubaa shape. . .aiduoualy and peraiatently llhe licks th• into their proper Such aniduoua work, perfozaed on the written word and undertaken to·uaure the right articulation of a compoaad whole, can anci does reatore and preserve the integrity of human speech. It is thus that the written word repays i ta eterna·l debt to the spoken word. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 18 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Speech: Its Strength and Its Weaknesses Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on February 23, 1973, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-02-23 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Oral interpretation Language and languages Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1973-02-23 Relation A related resource <a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/7847" title="Audio recording">Audio recording</a> Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a07206d7674d0a659b9d5cba73b1bbaf.mp4 b4087987691c40aa114bd196d3308567 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:07:10 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource On Parts and Wholes in Living Things: Harvey, Descartes, and the Heartbeat Description An account of the resource Video recording of a lecture delivered on August 25, 2023, by Suzy Paalman as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Ms. Paalman describes her lecture: "William Harvey and René Descartes famously disagreed in their accounts of what the heart is doing as it gives its characteristic beat. Both authors recognize that the heart alternates between squeezing and opening up. Harvey posits that the beat occurs as the heart squeezes closed while Descartes believes the beat happens as the heart opens up. Both have access to similar observations. How is it that they come to opposite conclusions? I’ll discuss how their differing views of how to think about living things likely play a role in this disagreement. I'll examine what we have learned since their time about how the heart beats. Finally, given what we’ve learned, I'll ask the question: What can we say about the nature of living things?" Ms. Paalman's lecture is the first formal lecture of the academic year. Previously referred to as the Dean's Lecture, this lecture is now called the Christopher B. Nelson Lecture. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Paalman, Susan R. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2023-09-25 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Permission has been given to make this available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Heart beat Descartes, René, 1596-1650 Harvey, William, 1578-1657 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Paalman_Susan_2023-08-25_ac Christopher B. Nelson Lecture Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c3e6a7bbb9255c371202a702448fb48f.mp3 ec289b819046893bf146fcf4f143b196 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:56:38 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Frederick Douglass on Force and Persuasion Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on November 21, 1997, by Steven Crockett as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Crockett, Steven Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997-11-21 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audio recording of my lecture available online. Make typescript copies of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Douglass, Frederick, 1818-1895 Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865 Oratory Antislavery movements Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Crocket_Steven_1997-11-21_ac Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/537f96923e9a47ca5c1400553c5bd447.mp3 ccee2ab93cf46890b51fb849e4f85c31 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:55:34 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Finding Perspective and Staying in One’s Room: Thoughts on Several of Pascal’s <em>Pensées</em> and Latour’s <em>Repentant Magdalene</em> Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on September 9, 2005, by Thomas May as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource May, Thomas Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2005-09-09 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audio recording of my lecture available online. Make typescript copies of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Pascal, Blaise, 1623-1662. Pensées La Tour, Georges du Mesnil de, 1593-1652. Repentant Magdalene. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context May_Thomas_2005-09-09_ac Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/04be00ccb2c249ddf71040dad58d2320.pdf 6326f830d605aa03fd1d5b7fafddb5e5 PDF Text Text Being a Book I A book is a small, hard, rectangular object, whose pages are bound along one edge into fixed covers and numbered consecutively. This description of a book is not mine. I borrow it from a lecture by tutor Eva Brann, who borrowed it from an essay by the novelist Paul Scott, who borrowed it from a talk on the BBC.1 It is better borrowed, I think, than improved upon, at least in clarity. Once Scott is done with it, this hard rectangular object has become “a canvass that doesn’t exist.” In other words, “a formless, almost indefinable area of consciousness.” In still other words, “the area of contact for the meeting of minds, the clash, the confrontation of wills and visions, and of physical and intellectual impressions of reality—the writer’s and the reader’s.”2 Miss Brann is briefer but no less extravagant about the book’s metamorphosis. In her words it becomes “a special kind of body made to be inhabited by a curious kind of frozen but fusible soul, a body fit to mediate its own peculiar life.”3 I will not attempt my own metaphysics of a book tonight. But I do want to ask why a book admits of metaphysics, and perhaps even requires it. What makes the being of a book elusive when the book itself is so easy to grasp? We can pull one off a shelf, as if it belonged to the furniture of the world; yet when we open it up and begin to read we are carried somewhere else, as if the book were otherworldly. In one sense it may have remained a small, hard, rectangular object, with pages bound into covers and numbered consecutively. But all this has vanished in another sense. And what has taken its place, as the book being held is now being read, is difficult to describe. Nor is this the only difficulty. Consider what becomes of the book being read if read, say, for seminar. Just before the seminar begins there seem to be many books on the table. Yet once the opening question is asked it is as if there is only 1 Scott’s borrowing of the description appears in “The Architecture of the Arts: The Novel (1967)” in My Appointment with the Muse: Essays, 1961–75, ed. Shelly C. Reese (Heinemann: London, 1986), 78. Scott credits the description to Bernard Bergonzi. Brann’s borrowing appears in “What is a Book?” St. John’s Review XLI, no. 1 (1991–2): 78. (Note: the Review sources this to a lecture given in September 1991, but a reprint of the lecture itself dates it August 30 of that year.) A version of it is also currently available on the website of the Imaginative Conservative. 2 Scott, 80 3 Brann, 88. 1 �one book on the table. And in the conversation that follows, with a movement of its own that yet involves the text, perhaps the very idea of a book on the table is best given up. But given up for what? What happens to a book at this college every Monday and Thursday night? Behind this question I have both a hunch and a hypothesis. The hunch is that St. John’s is less committed to books, even the greatest books, than to the being of a book—any book. Put a different way: there is no Canon of Great Books at the College that we read each in turn; there is only the book in front of us, whatever it may be and wherever it may lead. I will come back to this hunch later in the lecture. But I begin with the hypothesis: The being of a book becomes elusive once the book contains words and in some sense is composed of them. I say “in some sense” because how words compose a book will become the question of the lecture. But that there are words in a book at all seems already a source of elusiveness. If we could erase its words, making the book blank, then it might be but a kind of rectangle. We could count the number of books in seminar the way we might count the number of chairs and leave it at that. The trouble starts when the words go unerased: the book’s pages left full of print, giving a reader something to do. Even the words on its cover, announcing the title and author, are enough to complicate what a book is. No longer just a book, it is now the copy of a book, in something like the way the chairs in seminar are copies of a model. We are all sitting in a Johnnie chair, with Homer’s Iliad in front of us, even before the opening question is asked. Yet it would seem strange to say we were all sitting in the same Johnnie chair, as if there were only one chair in the room. So why is it not so strange to say we all have Homer’s Iliad in front of us, as if there were only one book in the room? Especially once the opening question is asked and more words from inside the book are read out loud? The answer, again, seems to be the words, making one book out of every copy in the room. And at least this much happens to a book every seminar night: a rectangle made of pages becomes a more elusive thing made of words. II How elusive is exemplified by the Iliad. Once upon a time the work existed only in song, and was first written down not in pages but on a scroll. In ironic recollection of this perhaps some of us prepared for seminar using an e-book or audiobook on the sly, getting through the work without turning a single actual page. 2 �Then there is the question of translation. All of us, even tutors, likely read the Iliad for seminar in translation. The copies in the seminar room are mostly translations, each made of its own words throughout. In one the Iliad begins: “Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus and its devastation. . . .” In another: “Rage—Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles, murderous, doomed. . . .” In still another: “Goddess, sing of the cataclysmic wrath of Peleus’ son Achilles. . . .”4 These three beginnings, three of many, proceed word-by-word to their respective ends; yet they are all taken up in our conversation about the Iliad as if they were the Iliad. But what in that case is the Iliad? Or any book in translation? It would seem to be certain words in a certain order, without having to be only these words in this order. The same book might be made of different words in a different order. But how? How can a book be made of words in more than one way? Perhaps we should insist, against this question, that translations of a book are merely translations. They are translations, that is, of some original text, composed of those words in that order. The first word of Homer’s Iliad, then, is not “sing” or “rage” or “Goddess,” nor indeed any word in English, no matter how well-chosen. The first word is μῆνιν, as we learn soon enough in the language tutorial. We also likely learn how some translations of a text are more literal than others—translations that sound like translations—and even learn to prefer them when the language of the original is out of reach. A good translation puts the original in reach, which is a different thing from replacing it. And translations, then, can be made of words in many ways, but the original only in one. Even so, is this original what we mean, what we ought to mean, by the book? Or can a book still exist, and even thrive, in translation? The question put this way can sound almost rhetorical, as if books flourished in translation as a matter of course—across our Program’s reading list. Where would we be if the translation of a book could never become the book? And in calling it a “translation” we distinguish it not simply from some original text, but from any paraphrase of that text. We distinguish it, that is, from any series of words merely about the text. The series we deem a translation, even if it differs from the text, has somehow become the text. Or at least become as close to the text, as joined to the text, as “at one” with the text, as words that differ from the text allow. In translations, then, we confront just how elusive the being of a book can be. We also encounter one way—to recall my hunch—that St. John’s is committed to 4 The first is from the Lattimore translation, the second from the Fagles, and the third from the recent Emily Wilson translation. 3 �this being, in its commitment to translations as books. Our copy of the Iliad can have the name of a translator on its cover; yet the author, we believe, remains Homer. The word “μῆνιν” can be replaced by “sing”; yet the book, we believe, is still Homer’s Iliad rather than becoming Lattimore’s. A book, so our Program claims, can be made of words in many ways, even if first made in one. The word “first” in this formulation could also be questioned if we take a different view of good translations. On this view, translations should not sound like translations, lest they put the original forever out of reach. For the original presumably sounds original. Not that we could know what words in what order would compose the Iliad, say, in English, if this were Homer’s native tongue. But we could guess, I think, that this Iliad would not sound like a literal translation from the Greek. And this suggests that good translations sound original. If so, then it seems a book can be made of words in many ways, where every such way is like the first. III Yet even this much elusiveness in a book can seem a special matter of translation. Consider the seminar night in several weeks, just after spring vacation, when juniors will walk in the room and put their copies of Jane Austen on the table. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. These words in this order will begin the book in every copy, followed by the same words in the same order until the end. What could be elusive about that? The pagination might differ from copy to copy, but there seems nothing to trouble us in the words. And the words are enough to make every copy identical. In this case, where none of the copies are translations, it seems that a book is made of words in only one way. But I think we can question even this. We can ask how a book is made of words even in one way, given something that just happened in my lecture. I quoted the first sentence of Pride and Prejudice. The quotation, too, is made of those words in that order. So what is the one way the sentence in the book is made of them? Or if this sentence depends on the rest of the book, let the quotation be as long as the book, made of all those words in just that order. What is the one way the book is made of them, to distinguish it from its quotation? Why is a quotation of the book not the book? 4 �There are two reasons, I think, to consider this question more significant than it might seem at first. One harks back to my hunch about St. John’s, and its commitment to the being of a book. The commitment, in this context, is to the way that any book escapes its own quotation. For where would we be if the quotation of a book could ever become the book? For us, the difference between unquoted words and quoted ones is the difference between the texts we read and the texts we don’t. In the latter texts—call them secondary texts—the books we might read are merely quoted. So read them we do, to see for ourselves what they say. For us, therefore, the quotation of a book is definitively not the book. Yet why this is so is also hard to say—a second reason to think the question significant. The question even becomes paradoxical if we frame it in light of our commitment to books in translation. For what is it about a book that allows it to become its translation but never its quotation? What prevents the book from being made of the same words in the same order, if it can be made of different words in a different order? To make this question easier on myself, I revert to the form it took at first: why is a quotation of the book not the book? Even in this form I find the question hard to answer; I make three attempts in the rest of this lecture before giving up. Attempt number one. A quotation of the book is not the book because the words in the quotation are borrowed from the book, while the words of the book belong to it. So much do they belong that if words are taken from the book without quotation we consider it an act of theft. This is another way we credit the book with being original: a source for the quotation like the source for any translation. Yet unlike translations, and the way they can seem original, quotations seem derivative. Quotation marks announce as much, as do the other ways we have— like indentation—to frame the quotation as derivative. Erase the frame and let the words go unquoted; it is now as if we have a copy of the text itself. And perhaps in this we find the one way a book is made of its words. The words can go unquoted in the book because they are original to the book. They have their origin in the book. They come from the book. But something in this answer has gone awry. For how can words come from a book if it is made of them, and therefore comes from them? The words in a book must come from somewhere else if the book is to be made at all. And in one respect this somewhere else is prosaic. A book is made of words that separately come from the dictionary and together from the rules of grammar. In another 5 �respect—at least for books that transcend the prosaic—the somewhere else is a mystery. If we believe the first line of the Iliad, the words in such books come from a goddess—and only after pleading. Even the greatest book has to beg for its words when none are good enough to borrow or steal. To seem original is to be inspired. And while it might take a muse to write such a book, to print the book only takes a typesetter. The somewhere else in this direction is less a mystery and more a certainty. A series of words becomes a sequence of symbols: the letters of the alphabet and a handful of punctuation marks. What is possible in a book is thus reduced from something uncountable in words to thirty symbols or so. And this reduction effectively determines what the book can be in advance. If we count the symbols, assigning to each a different number, we have a way of counting their sequence in the book; and can translate the book into a number. There is no printable book that is not, in this sense, already a number. And one of them is a copy of Pride and Prejudice. So while in another direction its words come from who knows where, in this direction its words come from a counting number. There is nothing original left for the book to be, despite how it seems. But what then explains how it seems? The quotation of a book still looks made of borrowed words and the book made of words that belong. And this sense of belonging, again, is especially strong at St. John’s. Let the words in all our books come from somewhere else; they still go into the books unquoted, as if there the words had found their home, and could only pay visits to other books in quotation. In this sense, we might say that the quotation of a book always belongs to a different book. But why? Or again: what makes the quotation of a book not the book? Here is my second attempt to answer the question. If we read a book to see for ourselves what it says, perhaps what it says can never be quoted. There is another use of quotation to suggest as much. To begin with a simple example, compare the following sentences: 1. Annapolis is the capital of Maryland. 2. Annapolis is nine letters long. In the second sentence, a copy-editor would want me to put quotation marks around “Annapolis,” 2. “Annapolis” is nine letters long, 6 �to distinguish the name of the city, which is nine letters long, from the city, which is not nine letters long. But quoting a word, in that case, is not a way of saying the word; it is rather a way to speak of the word. This use of quotation is not limited to single words. We can, for example, put all the words from the first sentence between quotation marks, “Annapolis is the capital of Maryland” and now speak of the sentence rather than say it. Since the sentence is six words long, we can say that of it: 3. “Annapolis is the capital of Maryland” is six words long. Or in a less contrived example, I might speak of the sentence as something that amused me when I heard one of my daughters say it: 4. “Annapolis is the capital of Maryland,” my five-year old explained, as if she were a tour-guide during our walk downtown. Or to move from the invented to the actual in a last example, consider the first use of quotation in Pride and Prejudice: 5. “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?” Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. Austen quotes the question but not the reply, artfully turning the reply into a kind of comment on the question, leaving the impression of a knowing husband and unknowing wife. None of these examples involves the quotation of one text in another text, but the abstraction from speech in textual quotation is arguably the same. The quoted words are never said, only spoken of. Perhaps the clearest example of the effect at St. John’s is in a seminar paper too full of quotations. The quoted passages start to look like filler, saying nothing, even when the unquoted passages are central to the book, saying everything. Another example of the effect is in the typical Friday Night lecture that includes quotations. It is tempting to put the quotations on a handout, or even on a screen—as if a quotation were meant to be seen rather than said. In light of this account, we can revisit Pride and Prejudice and distinguish the book from its quotation definitively. Consider the first sentence again. 7 �It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. In the book, those words in that order are not just a sentence but an utterance. In quotation, however, the sentence is separated from the utterance, allowing us to carry the sentence out of the book. There is no difference, then, between quoting the first sentence and calling it the first sentence: in neither case is the sentence said; it is only spoken of. Similarly, there is no difference between quoting every sentence in the book and calling the book by its title: the title is another way, if briefer way, to speak of every sentence in turn. Only in the book is every sentence in turn not spoken of but said, in an act of narration rather than quotation. We can generalize this difference to encompass any book. The quotation of a book is not the book in the same way the title of a book is not the book. In both, the book has yet to speak. This is why we have to read the book to see what it says. This is also why a book can become its translation but never its quotation. The one way a book is made of its words is in being made of words that can speak. These might become different words that can speak—the goal of any good translation—but quotation renders the words speechless. Yet something in this answer too has gone awry. For one thing, it is hard not to read quoted words as spoken words, especially in a narrative like the novel. Consider again the first use of quotation from Pride and Prejudice, but lengthened to include the quoted words of Mr. Bennet—as if he were finally forced to speak in reply to his importunate wife: “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?” Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.” Mr. Bennet made no answer. “Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently. “You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” This was invitation enough. Not only do the quoted words seem to speak, they seem to speak in the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. It is as if quotation made speech possible in a written text. 8 �This is underlined by the final line of narration—“this was invitation enough.” For this is an invitation to speak but in the form of quotation: wife replying to husband as husband has replied to wife. To speak in reply, moreover, is to speak of what was said. At least in conversation, then, to speak of what was said is not an abstraction from speech; it is a condition of speech. The abstraction from speech in this example rather lies in the unquoted words of narration. For in what sense is the narrator invited to speak? Who is the narrator, and where, to speak of what either spouse has said? At what place or time, for that matter, and by whom, are the unquoted words in a book ever said? It seems they need no speaker to say them; they need only be written down and read. But in that case perhaps the unquoted words in a book are never said. A book would then be made of words that can never speak, in being liberated, once inside the book, from every circumstance of speech. Consider, too, how if the words in a book could speak—literally speak—there would be no point in learning to read. Every book would be an audiobook as soon as we opened it. It is because the opened book is silent that reading becomes a need. And learning it, for most of us, is not like learning to speak. The task is difficult enough to need schooling and important enough to seem liberating. In these respects, learning to read is arguably the first form a liberal education takes. It may even be the only form, if a liberal education is made of books. But books, in turn, are made of words that have to be read to be heard. In this sense, at least, a book does seem made of unspoken words. We might identify these words with the silence on the St. John’s campus as a seminar book is being read, before it can be discussed. In discussion, by contrast, the book is not read but quoted. This again suggests something gone awry, even backwards, in my second attempt to distinguish quotation from book. For quotation now looks like a kind of speech, leaving the book in a kind of silence. But what kind of silence? And distinguished from what kind of speech? Or again: what makes the quotation of a book not the book? We come to my third attempt to answer the question. This time I return to where I began the lecture: A book is a small, hard, rectangular object, whose pages are bound along one edge into fixed covers and numbered consecutively. Words go unmentioned in this description of a book, as if it were blank. Yet the book is not blank: its pages are numbered consecutively. It is as if a book were 9 �made of numbers rather than words. But is it not made of words—my hypothesis all along? Perhaps not. Consider what a book can become in the act of quotation: “Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” Mr. Harrell, where are you quoting from? Oh. This is Hume. His Treatise. Page 266. Mr. Harrell, I don’t have your edition. Oh. Let’s see. I’m quoting from Book 2, Part 3, Section 3; the secondto-last sentence of paragraph . . . 4. Something like this happens every time we quote from a book in seminar. We take words out of the book to form the quotation, and what is left in the book is their location. In this sense, a book does seem made of numbers. The quotation, in turn, is not made of numbers. It is made of only words—the words that quotation has dislocated from the book. Could this be why the quotation of a book is not the book? The quotation is made of words, while the book is made of numbers. This answer to the question is more plausible, I think, than it might sound at first. For one thing, it makes sense of a book’s silence, in the unspoken but countable order of its words. For another thing, reading is arguably an act of counting. What else explains the puzzling thing that happens in every seminar? Sooner or later someone will read words from the book out loud. And while the rest of us could just look up and listen, many of us do not. We try to find the words in the book and read them for ourselves, even as they are being read to us by someone else. And the numbers in a book get us only so far. Page 266; or for those with a different edition: Book 2, Part 3, Section 3, Paragraph 4—the numbers allow us to reach the page of the words, even the paragraph. But to get any closer, we have to stop counting by number and start counting by letter. Yet what is counting by letter but reading the words the letters form? And once we reach the words being quoted, counting by letter means reading those words for ourselves. A book would then be made of numbers even when made of words. Could this be the one way a book is made of its words? It is made of words we count—those words in that order, from a first word to a last. As much as I like this answer, it too arguably goes awry by having lost the plot. True, the letters printed in a book may come in countable order to form the words, just as the words come in countable order to form the sentences; as 10 �do the sentences to form the paragraphs, the sections, the chapters—and finally, the book. Nonetheless, when we read all those words in just that order, it is not to count them but to understand them. Or at least try to understand them; for it is possible not to understand them, or to misunderstand them, prompting us to read them again. But we read them again to understand them better. We even have a word—interpretation—for the act of understanding that reading involves. The two are so close that “reading” has become almost a synonym for “interpretation.” In this sense, reading a book elicits a reading of the book. And reading a book at St. John’s means having a reading of the book to talk about. Or even readings, plural—the one way, perhaps, there remain many books on the seminar table. Here is how we put it in our Statement of the Program: The books speak to us in more than one way. In raising the persisting questions, they lend themselves to different interpretations that reveal a variety of independent yet complementary meanings.5 Notice too, on this account, how the books are able to speak. A speaking book, even if we take it metaphorically, suggests something else gone awry in my answer, where it was the quotation that speaks, leaving the book in a kind of silence. But is there any difference between silence and speech when it comes to understanding the book? Those words in that order remain the same, written or spoken. And our understanding of them might well be improved if someone else is doing the reading, allowing us to close the book and truly listen to what it says. What else explains why we call the audiobook a book, and even use it to get our seminar readings done? Or how we fell in love with certain books as children, even before we learned to read? But where does this leave us, then, with the book’s quotation? Perhaps it is not really different from the book, after all. At least if by “quotation,” we mean anything in the book that can be read out loud, and more or less understood. Let our act of quotation remove all of this from the book. What is left for the book to be? Perhaps nothing. IV Even if there were something, I am not, given the time, about to make a fourth attempt to distinguish the quotation of a book from the book. It is also true that 5 Statement of the St. John’s College Program, 2. The current statement is available on the St. John’s College website. 11 �the quotation of a book, like its translation, can seem like a special case. What could be elusive about a book if we leave it unquoted, as well as untranslated? Think again of those copies of Jane Austen that juniors will put on their seminar table in several weeks, every copy having the same words in the same order. In this identity, it seems we can tell the one way a book is made of its words, from a first word to a last, before this way gets obscured by the book’s translation or quotation. Even so, there is also the book’s interpretation, which is not a special case. It happens as soon as we read the book, and make any sense of what it says. And we can ask what reading does to the book. In one sense, clearly nothing; the words remain unchanged. This is why we can predict that every copy of Austen will be identical, and why we can call it a copy of Austen, as if the words of Pride and Prejudice belonged to the writer of the book. But in another sense, reading the book does something to it—something so radical that Pride and Prejudice will soon belong to its readers among the juniors. And copies on the seminar table—at least the copies not borrowed from the library—will likely bear the marks of this ownership, even before the conversation starts. Certain sentences underlined; a whole paragraph bracketed; a page-number circled; the page itself bookmarked. Then the marks in the margins: a question mark, a check mark, an exclamation point; even a word or phrase written out, a whole sentence crowded in, possibly several at the page’s top or bottom. On a blank page in the front or back, we might even find an outline. To this legible extent, we could say that reading the book thickens the book, at least by every reader with a pen in hand. But this is only prelude to how reading the book lengthens the book, once the opening question is asked. For at that point, we each put our reading of the book into words of our own. And unlike the words of the writer, which come in order from first to last, there is no such order from first to last in the words of the reader. Not that the outcome is chaos; the outcome is conversation. And after that, perhaps an essay on the book, followed by more conversation in the oral. But this, then, is another way that the reader’s words differ from the writer’s: for the writer has the last word in a way that the reader never will. The book is lengthened by the reader to some indefinite point. We could even call it an infinite point—at least for any book about which there is always more to write, more to say, more to think. And with a book like Pride and Prejudice, we can make the difference in length precise. The words of the writer make this book about twelve hours long, using the average running time of an audiobook. But the book has been lengthened, since its publication date, by the words of every 12 �reader, to make it two hundred and ten years long—and counting. If we accept this difference in length as real—and I only have time enough left in the lecture to run with it—then it looks as if a book is always made of its words in two ways rather than one. One way is by the writer, whose words make the book a finite thing. But the other way is by the reader, whose words make the book an infinite thing. This difference seems to hold even if the reader remains silent. For what happens, exactly, when we pull the book off a shelf, open it up, and begin to read? Are we carried somewhere else—my earlier way of putting it? Or are we glued to a chair with our nose in the book—which is how it would look to anyone else? And what of the book itself? Does it remain a small, hard, rectangular object, with pages bound into covers? Or does it become like a canvass that doesn’t exist? The dichotomy in these questions is essentially between the finite and the infinite. Or if you prefer: between the bound and the unbound. And the difference is made by the words. Do they bind the book to its pages, and the reader in turn? Or do they free the book from its pages, and the reader in turn? Suppose the answer is “yes” to both. Could this be how the words of a book make its being elusive—to recall my hypothesis? The elusive, in this case, would involve a contradiction in the words, and the way they limit the book at the same time they liberate the book. My hypothesis, put this way, also allows me to recast my hunch. Perhaps St. John’s is committed to the contradiction in a book—the contradiction, more exactly, that is a book. If so, there ought to be signs of how we live in the contradiction. Here are two, I think. One is the conversation of a seminar, which at our college replaces the lecture given by a professor nearly everywhere else. What makes this kind of conversation possible? What is it about a book that can prompt a discussion of what it means, in place of any account? One thing—to recall a claim I quoted from our Statement—is that the books speak to us in more than one way. We seem to rely on this in seminar. For what if a book could only say the same thing to every reader in the room? The conversation would be at best a quoting of the book back and forth. But consider a second claim we make in our Statement—a claim that seems to contradict the first—to explain the point of seminar: The books can only repeat what they have to say, without furnishing the clarifications that we desire. To overcome this limitation is the goal of the St. John’s seminar.6 6 Statement, 2. 13 �We also seem to rely on this in seminar. For what if a book could only say a different thing to every reader in the room? The conversation would be at best a trading of translations by sight. It can only be a conversation, then, if the book says the same thing to every reader in the room at the same time it says a different thing to every reader in the room. And we live in this contradiction every Monday and Thursday night. But not only those nights. For a second sign of our life in contradiction comes from the book itself. This replaces the lecture of a professor even before the conversation begins. We read the book to see for ourselves what it says, with no need to hear it from anyone else. So peculiar is our commitment to the book in this respect that there exists in nearly every book we read an introduction we skip. But what makes this kind of reading possible? What is it about a book that can prompt a discovery of what it means, in place of any account? If we are not to read such an account, then it seems the book has to answer the question of what it means—completely. Yet if we are not to write such an account, then it seems the book has to raise the question of what it means—perpetually. Perhaps this explains the difference between the writer’s words and the reader’s. In the answer of what is meant, there is a last word in the writing of the book. But in the question of what is meant, there is no last word in the reading of the book. And when we are not living in this contradiction through conversation about the book, we are living in it through the book itself. V Or so the idea I have been running with would suggest of our commitment, if a book is always made of its words in two ways at once. There is no time left for me to question this final part of my lecture. But I do have time, I think, to question the whole of it—by way of conclusion. For have I really said anything about the being of a book? A book, that is, rather than a text? What is the difference, for example, between the books we read for seminar and the manuals we use for tutorial or laboratory? One answer is that the books are great—great in a way that our manuals, being manuals, will never attain. But if my hunch is right, calling our books “great” is no real answer. What then is the answer? There is perhaps only one place in my lecture where I address books in their being as books: at the beginning, in fourth-hand words. A book is a small, hard, rectangular object, whose pages are bound along one edge into fixed covers and numbered consecutively. 14 �Much of this description could apply a manual—or for that matter a senior essay. They are somewhat small and rectangular; and they can be at least as hard as a book in paperback. The pages are numbered consecutively; and we can bind them along one edge with rings, or a spiral, or staples. But the pages, thus bound, are not fixed in covers. In this respect, one page remains separated from the next. In particular, the last page is separated from the first, by all the pages in between. Not so with a book. The last page forms a cover with the first, to contain all the words in between. In this respect, the first and last page are one rather than two. In practice, from the use of signatures, this only holds for the front and back cover of a book. But we can use these covers to imagine the perfectly-bound book, where the first page forms a cover with the last, the second with the second-to-last, the third with the third-to-last, and so on. Perhaps you can see where I am going. The book is like any text insofar as the first page leads to the last; and this makes it finite. But in a book, and only a book, the last page leads to the first; and this makes it infinite. It starts to look as if the binding of a book allows the being of a book to be embodied. This being may remain elusive, even contradictory, if the book is finite and infinite at once. But the way a book is bound seems to allow the infinite to emerge from the finite. When we read the book once, as if it were finite, we are invited by the book to read it again, making the finite infinite. It is as if books were built to be read again, bound to be unbound. In one sense, “books to be read again” can sound like a platitude, especially if we think the books in question are great. Those books are obviously built to be read again. But even here I think the platitude is really a paradox. Let the books be great—at a school where books are not simply what we read, but how we learn and come to know. It may still make sense that we can read a book once, then read it again. But what could it mean to learn something once, and then—as if we unlearned it—learn it again? Or know something once, and then—as if we forgot it—know it again? Even the greatest book we read on this question, Plato’s Meno, leaves the answer—recollection—at the level of myth. Could being a book make it the truth? Daniel Harrell St. John’s College, Annapolis Friday Night Lecture February 23, 2024. 15 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 15 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Being a Book Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on February 23, 2024, by Daniel Harrell as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Mr. Harrell describes his lecture: "When the so-called New Program was established at St. John’s College in 1937, conversation was to play no essential role—at least if you believe the first statement of the program, written by Scott Buchanan. Where you would expect the word 'conversation' you find 'instruction' instead, as in this brief description of the seminar: Meetings of seminar groups will occur twice a week with any additional meetings that special circumstances or difficulties may indicate. There will be two instructors in charge, and the instruction will make use of a wide range of devices from explication de texte to analysis of intellectual content and the dialectical treatment of critical opinion. When I read this description, I like to think that the importance of conversation to our endeavor emerged over time: a matter of discovery rather than dictate. Has something similar happened with the importance of books to our endeavor? We have always stated this importance in terms of what makes certain books great; but what makes them books, I have come to think, is even more central to our experience of reading them, discussing them, and learning from them. Perhaps there is no way to dictate by 'great' how we come to find ourselves in these books, just as there was no way to dictate by 'instruction' how we came to find ourselves in a conversation about these books. But what makes books books? What does it mean to be a book? This is the question of my lecture. And my hope—despite the St. John’s frame I use here—is that the lecture will be of interest to any reader of books, even if it fails, by my lights, to make full sense of a book." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Harrell, Daniel Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2024-02-23 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audio recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Books Definition (Philosophy) Meaning (Philosophy) St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.) Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Harrell_Daniel_2024-02-23 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/918955aa969820ba91330685ca00088a.mp3 da58b213e69eeab5c7b5a8b7e1ecc7c3 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:02:44 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Discovery of Entropy, 1824-1865 Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on August 31, 2001, by Adam Schulman as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Schulman, Adam Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2001-08-31 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audio recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Carnot, Sadi, 1796-1832. Réflexions sur la puissance motrice du feu. Clausius, R. (Rudolf), 1822-1888. Ueber die bewegende Kraft der Wärme. Entropy Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Schulman_Adam_2001-08-31_ac Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8b0eba4bd35d8dacf11dfeae6cb34143.pdf 966a18c6d1654b00b9ce9da7682bebc3 PDF Text Text CELLS AND GENES ARE PARTS OF ANIMALS: ARISTOTLE IN THE LATE 2QTH CENTURY James N. Jarvis, M.D., SJC '75 (Annapolis) Assistant Professor of Pediatrics Wayne State University School of Medicine Detroit, MI 1 �ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE LEC1'URE 09/16/M CELLS AND GENES ARE PARTS OF ANIMALS: ARISTOTLE IN THE LATE 20TH CENTURY Ms. Braun, members of the St. John's faculty, fellow-members of the St. John's community. It is a pleasure to be your guest this evening and to return to the campus where my intellectual and spiritual life was nurtured for four years. I must begin by reassuring Mr. Michael Dink that I really do have a talk planned this evening and that this is not just an elaborately-organized scheme for me to get a bully-pulpit to regale yet. another generation of St. Johnnies about events that occurred on a nearby softball field just under 20 years ago. Let me also assure those who think that the words •... mental lapse .. ." and "Michael Dink" can't be spoken in the same sentence that the full telling of this story will occur (yet again) during my class's 20th reunion a little more than a year from now. This lecture has been incubating for more than eight years, since, in fact, my first introduction to biomedical science in Paul Levine's laboratory at Washington University in St. Louis. Until then, my exposure to medical research, even in medical school, had been more bookish than practical and my own view of how hypotheses are generated and tested was, I think, limited. Since that time, I have had the great privilege of participating in a first-hand way in the investigation of living matter and how it works. My primary interest in this activity has been a practical one: I have accepted the Baconian premise that understanding how the body functions or operates under normal conditions is the key to understanding what happens when it doesn't function or doesn't function well. I have, in effect, taken a rather narrow and what might otherwise be called mechanistic approach to living matter. More precisely, I have become interested in how cells, genes, and proteins work (this distinction between the understanding the whole and the parts, and understanding how something works versus other kinds of understanding, will be explored further in this lecture). Thus, this lecture will have something of a narrow focus. Please don't expect insights of a profound nature, either about living matter or about Aristotle. I am fully aware that there are individuals in this audience (probably sophomores, who have read just enough Aristotle to be menacing) who may even be expecting me to finish this lecture by telling you what "life", or living matter is. Please accept my humble apologies for not providing this and offering, instead, some thoughts about the study of living things and Aristotle's contributions to that study. During the course of this lecture I will share some of my insights into Aristotle's The Parts of Animals, and I will also tell you a little bit about how to clone a gene. In the process of doing so, it is my intention to awaken you to the incredible beauty and complexity of living things and enhance your respect for Aristotle's understanding of them. While engaged in this wonderful challenge of understanding the working of nature and its relation to health and disease, I have been struck by the vocabulary of biological scientists, my friends and colleagues. Although they themselves may not recognize it, it seems to me that the language of biology is different from the language of other sciences, certainly different from the languages of geology, physics, and chemistry, three disciplines I follow at a distance as an interested amateur (largely through my perusal of the weekly journal, Science). What is more, that language, the language of modem biological science, reminds me of an older scientific language, a language of a discipline that my friend and mentor Leon Kass calls natural philosophy as a reminder of its pre·Baconian origins. This language of biology, I submit, still uses important concepts which have been central to the study of biology since they were articulated in The Parts of Animals. What I will try to point out to you this evening is how those concepts articulated by Aristotle more than 2,000 years ago are still used in modem cell and molecular biology, and I will try to convince you (as I continue to try to convince my colleagues) that the use of these concepts is appropriate and, I think, necessary. I will this evening argue that not only is the language of modern biology still essentially "Aristotelian," but that our approach to understanding 2 �living matter and how it works differs little from the paradigm presented in the opening paragraphs of Parts of Animals. I will, furthermore, try to convince you that "good" and "bad" biological science rests, to a large extent, upon the investigator's ability to see .the world of living things through Aristotle's eyes. a should point out that I am not using the words "good" and "bad" here in a moral sense. What I mean by "good science" is a shorthand for investigation that would be publishable in peer-reviewed medical or scientific journals: experiments and conclusions that would be accepted by other knowledgeable people in the investigator's field. Whether there is morally "good" and "bad" science, and whether Aristotle's system of the investigation would recognize such, is a question I will not address here but might be raised in the question period when I am finished these remarks). I clearly cannot talk about all of The Parts of Animals this evening, so I have and will restrict my observations to the opening chapter of the first book, in which Aristotle presents the terms and format for the ensuing discussion. I think that this is really the richest part of the book, because, at risk of stealing my own thunder, I believe that the genius of Aristotle is not his own particular observations about animals and the functions of their parts. Many or most of his observations have not subsequently been found either verifiable or generalizable. Rather, Aristotle's brilliance, at least in the field of biology, rests in his having provided the framework for all future discussions about living matter. I will share an anecdote that introduces some of the points that I will be making in the rest of this talk. I was visiting a colleague at the University of Michigan Medical Center in nearby Ann Arbor last winter, and, like a polite and interested scientist, I asked her how her work was going. She beamed and proudly answered, "Great! I think I've found a function for my gene." This is a response that perhaps only another cell or molecular biologist could understand or appreciate. Suffice it to say that, while the modern revolution in molecular biology and medicine has given us tremendous power to clone and sequence genes from every species of living matter, including human beings, those of us engaged in this sort of endeavor are actually looking for something more than a genomic or complementary DNA library and a gene sequence. What my colleague was telling me, I think, was that she had finished the 20th century part of her work (discovering; cloning, and sequencing a gene), but that her work was seriously deficient until she had done the Aristotelian part. She understood that a gene sequence in itself is a rather paltry contribution to science and very unlikely to be published in a prestigious journal or by itself provide the basis for a grant application to the National Institutes of Health without a context for that gene sequence. That is, even after having intimate knowledge of the structure of a gene and the related DNA sequences that control its transcription to RNA and protein, there is something more that needs to be explored and considered before even one's fellow-scientists will consider the work either compelling or complete. Let us look in more detail at the type of work that my friend had done and try to define, in Aristotle's terms, what more needed to be done. Anyone who has taken a high-school level biology course or is reasonably well-versed with the lay press is aware that living things possess within their cells the information required to replicate either identical copies of themselves or semi-allogenic copies which contain genetic material from another member of the same or a nearly-related species (we call these copies "offspring", and, for the human species, they are called "children"). However, although the discovery of deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) as the source of genetic information and the unravelling of its marvelous code has assuredly contributed in an enormous way to our understanding of genetics and reproductive physiology, an equal impact bas come in our ability to explore in a detailed fashion the functioning of cells and how the expression of particular genes is controlled in particular cell types. Thus, specific cells in specific tissues are capable of being studied in intricate detail and this, in turn, has allowed us tremendous insight into how these cells and tissues function. It is this level of study, sometimes subsumed under the heading, •eeu and Molecular Biology," that provides the core for much of modem medical research. 3 �If you examine appropriately-stained human tissue under a light microscope, it is very clear that what you are viewing consists of an ordered arrangement, and that different-appearing cell types contribute to this pattern. In fact, the absence of pattern and the appearance or predominance of a single cell type, the pattern observed in tissue sections of malignant tumors, appears obviously pathological. Similarly, within these cells, a semblance of pattern emerges, different for each cell type, with some common patterns for all cells. DNA is largely confined to the nucleus, while RNA and the structures for protein biosynthesis can be found in the cytoplasm. These observations, which have been accepted for many years, suggest that, although every cell of a given organism contains the same genetic material as every other cell, in multicellular organisms (and especially complex organisms like vertebrates), every gene is not expressed in every cell of every tissue. That is, the different cell types and specialized functions of specific cells (for example, insulin secretion by what are know as islet cells of the pancreas) demonstrate or indicate that the transcription of encoded DNA into a messenger RNA template and subsequently into protein occurs differently in the cell types, and sometimes differently depending upon the tissue in which a given cell type might be found. This has lead to the hypothesis that certain cells and tissues express genes that are not expressed in other cells or tissues, and that our understanding of the functioning of such cells or tissues in health and disease might be aided considerably by our knowledge of the genes expressed exclusively in these tissues and the factors that control their expression. The discovery of gene sequences expressed only in specific tissues is undertaken by the construction by what are called gene libraries. This was the process that my colleague in Ann Arbor was engaged in when I visited her last winter, and because the process by which this is accomplished is relevant to the discussion that follows, I will share some of that with you. I apologize in advance for the somewhat technical nature of this exposition, realizing that I am about to provide you with something that is almost certain to squelch fruitful discussion at St. John's: factual information. Please bear with me, however, because I believe your understanding of the process through which data is generated in the modem biological sciences will help you to understand what I have to say about understanding this data from Aristotle's point of view. I should also say that I believe the process itself would have been interesting to Aristotle, and that I believe that it's the sort of thing he himself would have delighted in had he had the means to do it. The construction of gene libraries from specific cell or tissue types begins again with the "First Law" of modern biology: that DNA contains information that encodes specific protein sequences, and that the protein is synthesized from a template molecule of RNA, whose synthesis serves as the intermediary step. You will recall (again, please forgive my pedantry) that proteins are composed of smaller building blocks called amino acids. Each amino acid is specified within the DNA molecule by a three base-pair sequence called a codon. The DNA code is somewhat "degenerate", as the currently-used jargon has it, in that some of the amino acids are specified by more than one codon. In the normal sequence, a gene is activated by the binding of certain proteins to a region of DNA called the promotor, which results in the transcription of an RNA molecule whose sequence is complementary to that of the DNA template (remembering the Second Law of modem biological science: adenine pairs with thymine [or, in an RNA molecule, with uracil] and guanine with cytosine ). The newly-synthesized RNA molecule is processed further in the cell cytoplasm and used as a template for the biosynthesis of a new protein. Because of the complementarity of DNA or RNA, gene libraries can be constructed from either, those using DNA referred to as genomic libraries (containing all the genes of the specific species from which they were obtained and therefore identical whether the starting tissue was brain or skin) and those starting with RNA being designated "complementary DNA libraries," as they begin with a RNA which is then synthesized in vitro to a complementary strand of DNA Complementary DNA libraries contain only the gene sequences are expressed in the tissue or cells from which they were obtained The next steps in cloning involve the digestion of the DNA into smaller fragments that can be analyzed 4 �in a practical way, and the insertion of the fragments into a host (usually a virus) that will allow its insertion into a cell (at this stage, usually, a bacterium) that will propagate and produce multiple copies of the gene fragments. This is. necessary in order to have an adequate amount of DNA to manipulate and analyze. After millions of copies of each gene are produced, the gene fragments can be isolated from the bacteria, which grow as colonies on agar plates. Selection of the specific colonies which contain the genes or genes of interest can be accomplished by examining products secreted by the bacteria or by techniques which rely upon the binding of related DNA sequences to the DNA within the bacterial plasmids. The bacteria containing the genes of interest can then be selectively grown, the plasmids containing the cloned DNA isolated from the rest of the bacterial DNA, and the sequence and structure of the cloned genes ascertained (the techniques used to sequence DNA are in themselves rather interesting but not within the purview of a talk like this one). Using complementary DNA libraries, unique genes expressed in specific tissues in response to specific stimuli or at specific times in development can be identified, isolated, and their sequence determined I want you to note that up to this point all we have is a gene sequence, a structure, a very minute part of an animal (or plant). Furthermore, although there is some marvelous technical wizardry involved in obtaining this sequence, the process through which the sequence is obtained is more or less mechanical and, with some exceptions, more or less the same no matter what cell type, tissue, or even species the scientist is working with. This is the equivalent, more or less, of doing what Aristotle describes in lines 15-18 of the first chapter: taking a lion, or ox, or human being and describing the parts in infinite detail. No attempt is made (yet) of relating the minute DNA sequences to commonly-expressed cell, tissue, or organism functions. The reason for this relates, in part, to the method through which genes are isolated and cloned. It should be clear from how I have described the method of cloning and sequencing that the manipulation of DNA required for this process involves the almost complete separation of that particular gene or DNA sequence from the context in which it is normally found However, it is just that context that is crucial to our understanding of the role of that gene within the cell and, subsequently, its role in the function of that particular tissue or organism. The rest of the process, the activity that makes cloning and sequencing truly interesting, involves the understanding of how the protein encoded by that gene functions or what it does (which is why my colleague was so excited about having a function for her gene). To put it another way, one seeks the telos for that gene. Until that is found, the mere gene or protein, sequence is singularly uninteresting to either the natural philosopher or the molecular biologist. To put it in language that my peers might understand, it would be very difficult to publish a gene sequence by itself without a context for that sequence which suggests a functional. role for that gene in a cell or tissue or in a particular biological process. My knowledge of that function might be limited or vague, but publishable molecular work invariably contains and requires a context without which the gene sequence is neither useful nor enlightening. So what does all this have to do with Aristotle? Because this is early in the year, I think I should say a few things about the reading of Aristotle to the freshman, who should be engrossed in and captivated by Homer at this time and have probably had little no exposure to Aristotle's scientific books. In this way I will also reveal some of the prejudices that I have brought to this book as I read and reread it over the past 8 years. I was once told that a key to reading Aristotle is the understanding that many of his books seem to be written as answers for which the reader must supply the question. I have found this insight very useful. Furthermore when reading The Parts of Animal.s, I have found it helpful to pause after every sentence or two and ask, "As opposed to what?" We are fortunate that Aristotle sometimes gives us alternative explanations or possibilities, but I think that one appreciates the genius of Aristotle only after considering the explanations or alternative ideas that he has rejected without his having belabored the point in writing Oest the freshmen should be misguided, let me quickly point out that Aristotle is not above belaboring points). To begin this discussion, we have to confront, first and foremost, our archnemesis. I believe that understanding The Parts of Animal.a requires some insight into the alternative point of view about 5 �living things, which Aristotle attributes to Empedocles. I feel unfortunate that most of what I know about Empedocles comes from Aristotle, and I think that we at St. John's, especially, have to be cautious in judging a philosopher's thought simply on the basis of what somewhat else says about him. I certainly would not want to judge Aristotle's system of natural science on the basis of what is said about him in modern science textbooks, for example. However, be that as it may, whether fairly or unfairly, Empedocles is used as representative of a school of thought that suggests that the coming· to-be of living things has occurred by chance, that their formation has occurred haphazardly, and that the compelling force in this process is necessity, in Greek, anangke. For example, the process of the formation of the backbone, Empedocles is said to argue, occurs by necessity, a consequence of the fetus becoming twisted in the uterus. This approach is one that, on the surface, seems attractive to modern scientists. It is certainly consistent with classical physics and mechanics and the so-called scientific ideal exemplified in Newtonian physics. When I was a junior here at St. John's, I remember reading a quote by French biologist Andre Lwoff attempting to support a role for Empedoclean necessity in biological science: "The machine is built for doing precisely what it does. We may admire it, but we should not lose our heads. If the living system did not perform its task, it would not exist. We simply have to learn how it performs its task. "1 This same mechanistic approach seems to have been what Claude Bernard had in mind when he stated that: "...a created organism is a machine that necessarily2 works by virtue of the physico-chemical properties of its constituent elements. "3 At a certain level, this seems to remain a deeply-cherished belief or prejudice of modern scientists, who, even after the demise of classical physics in the early 20th century seem to yearn for a world more like Newton's than Einstein's. However, when I confront this belief, as I often do when I encounter other colleagues, particularly those who work exclusively in the laboratory rather than at the bedside, I recall the words of Marcel Proust: "Error is more obstinate than faith and does not examine the grounds of its belief." I do believe that in biology and experimental medicine, the Newtonian/Cartesian model is erroneous, or at least incomplete. The ·problem with this approach, is, ironically, a practical one: it simply doesn't work. It may very well be. true that the coming-to-be of living matter occurred as an accident in the "primordial soup" billions of years ago, requiring neither the direction of a beneficent deity or even directedness from the impersonal forces of nature. It may very well be that what transpired was 1 Quoted from The Cell Carl Swanson. Prentice-Hall, Inc., Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 3rd Ed., 1969, p.7. 2 My italics 3 Claude Bernard, An Introducti.on to the Study of Experimental Medicine, trans. Henry Copley Green. New York: Dover Books, 1957, p. 93. 6 �inevitable based on the laws that govern large molecules that we now call "organic" and the chemistry of carbon and nitrogen. That does not negate the fact that what has come to be is organized matter, and that our understanding of that matter requires our understanding of that organization and the relationship between structure and function. As Aristotle points out, the Empedoclean view falls short because of its lack of logos. It does not provide a framework which makes the phenomena understandable. Aristotle follows this by gleefully pointing out that Empedocles, too "... being led and guided by Truth itself, stumbles upon this.. ."' and is required to recant and retract, admitting, for example that bone is more than its elements per se, but that there is a logos (which, in this context, I believe might be translated "understandable feature" or "... understandable features ... ") that requires several layers of explanation for us to discern. Thus, while the mechanistic language borrowed by modern biologists from classical physics might sometimes be used in the biological sciences, that is not the common language and certainly not the language used in published research. Let me add that this is not because, in their heart of hearts, modern biologists don't wish to have a language reminiscent of classical physics. Indeed, one of the prejudices common among biological researchers is that the laws of biological science (dealing, as they do, with the macroscopic world) are or will be shown to be more like classical mechanics, with orderly phenomena of cause and affect occurring in ti.me, than like the topsy-turvy world of quantum physics and relativity. They have learned however, that the language of classical physics and mechanics has limited practical usefulness in modern biological research. I will here therefore submit that there are several critical concepts in Aristotle's biology that remain in common use in modern biological science (although in a somewhat disguised form), that remain crucial to how we understand living matter. I will spend the rest of my time examining two of these concepts in more detail. They are telos and anangke. My list is intentionally limited to these two, but before I proceed I should state that a complete understanding of Aristotle's biological works and their relevance to modern biology should also include a deeper discussion of cause and all its layers of meaning. Similarly, eidos is clearly a unifying concept in Aristotle's physics and metaphysics and any discussion of his natural works that does not address this concept is incomplete. However, both of these topics are by themselves suitable lecture material and I have decided to avoid them in this discussion. I envy the sophomores, however, who will able to immerse themselves in Aristotle's Physics later this year and will have, therefore, a rich and ample opportunity to think about these issues. There is, among modern scientists, perhaps no more greatly-misunderstood concept that of telos as Aristotle understood it. Indeed, "teleologic" thinking is often apologized for in "serious" research seminars and can subject its user to a measure of skepticism (if not scorn) by other investigators. This is, of course, due to a misunderstanding of the concept of telos. We are, in this instance, partly at the mercy of St. Thomas Aquinas, who brilliantly engrafted Aristotelian thought (physical and metaphysical) into Christian theology. Thus, the Christian view of a beneficent Deity ordering Nature to His own (sometimes inscrutable 5 but unquestionably _beneficent) ends has clearly influenced, or tainted, the reading of Aristotle ever since. No such world view informs the Parts of Animals or the concept of telos as used in Aristotle's works in the natural sciences. As used in the Parts of Animals, telos is intended to describe the predictable culmination of natural processes. A robin's egg predictably hatches a robin. A seed predictably grows into a plant. Thus, the end of the egg is the mature robin; the end of the seed is either growth or the mature plant. These ends exist without either striving on the part of the organisms or intervention from the deity. They do, however, provide the foundation for our 4 Aristotle, Parts of Animals, trans. AL Peck. Cambridge, MA; Harvard University Press, 1983. 5 " ••• where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?" Job 7 �understanding of the egg or the seed, their logos, as Aristotle says. 6 Furthermore, while they c8n be thought of separately, telos and necessity (anangke) are clearly co-existent and inter-related, just as matter and form are. If an egg is to grow into a mature robin (its telos) it must, of necessity, have certain characteristics which will protect it during gestation (e.g., a hard shell). None of this sort of thinking, which is central to Aristotle's way of looking at living things, is completely foreign to cell biology or experimental medicine. In the example of our gene sequence, the telos of the gene is twofold: the transmission of genetic information to progeny and the encoding of information required to synthesize a protein, which, in turn, has its own its own telos. The second part of the molecular biology in which my friend in Ann Arbor was engaged required that she put her gene back into context, both literally and mentally, to discern the function of the protein encoded by the gene and factors regulating its expression in different cells. In my own career I was blessed to work with an outstanding molecular scientist (Dr. John Atkinson, now chair of the Department of Medicine at Washington University in St. Louis) who was singularly unapologetic for his use of teleologic language and thinking. From Dr. Atkinson I learned how serious scientific problems can be approached in a practical and illuminating way if the Aristotelian concept of telos is applied creatively. Indeed, posing questions in cell biology that start with telos is often the best way to start an inquiry into structure and mechanism, form and function. In this sense, telos remains the prior or primary concept in much of cell biology, just as in Aristotle's biology. 7 Let me provide some examples. In both cell and molecular biology, the discovery of new genes and/or structures, or the finding that a certain gene or protein is unexpectedly expressed in a certain cell or tissue, is one of the exciting and rewarding events in the life of any investigator. However, insight into the significance of such a finding is often provided only by an understanding of its telos. Scientists refer to this work and thoughtprocess as the elucidation of the function of the new gene or protein. This is nothing more or less than an understanding of its telos and it is considered to be an essential part of the understanding of new genes and proteins. They provide, I submit, the only means by which their biological significance can be discerned, or, if I may speak in Aristotle's terms, the telos provides rational ground, or logos, for the subsequent inquiry. That other scientists agree with my assessment of the importance of this process is measured by my friend's excitement at finding a "...function for her gene." What my colleague was asserting was the importance of the Aristotelian concept of telos in modern biology. A question that Dr. Atkinson often used to ask at the beginning of his work was, ''Why would this cell express this protein (or gene)?" Or, "Why would this cell express this protein (or gene) under these conditions?". I learned by watching an experienced scientist begin his work this way that a tremendous amount of experimental biology can be undertaken if such questions are asked and allowed to provide the rationale for a series of well-designed experiments. Thus, the concept of telos provides not only a theoretical framework which allows a scientist to understand the meaning of certain phenomena produced in the laboratory, but it also provides a valuable starting point for further investigations. In this very real sense, telos is the practical and logical starting point for the investigation, as Aristotle has pointed out. 8 Necessity (anangke), is another concept that is used in modern biological research with some of the same breadth of meaning as in Aristotle's biological works. Christianized Aristotelianism has attempted 6 Parts of Animals I, i, 639b 15-17. 7 Parts of Animals I, ~ 639b, 15. 8 Parts of Animals II (1) 646a25 - 646b5 8 �to elevate telos above necessity, maintaining that God's will and the mechanisms by which His world operates are separable in fact and in thought. This allows, among other things, provision for Jaws of nature to be suspended for the benefit of the Church, as Edward Gibbon stated. While this is a convenient world view for the structuring of a politically-powerful church on earth, it had devastating effects on the understanding of living creatures, and allowed the evolution of the concept of vitalism that so seriously stymied biological thinking in Europe into the nineteenth century should also point out that it made theology tough, too. The distinction between God's foreknowledge versus foreordination, Grace versus Free Will, etc. are innate, I believe, in this dualistic approach to Nature and Nature's God). This distinct separation of telos from anangke is clearly excluded from Aristotle's natural works, and The Parts of Animal.sin particular. Rather, anangke and telos go hand in hand, and provide a basis for the understanding of one-another. Thus, while telos is primary for Aristotle, in that it provides the framework through which biological processes are understood (again, the logos), it is also clear that both the coming-to-be and the maintenance of living things obeys the laws of anangke in the physical and logical way that Aristotle understood this term. a I have mentioned before the wistful engagement of classical (Newtonian) physics and modem biology, an engagement that is ever-prolonged while the wedding is continually postponed. I believe that there is still a yearning among many biologists to believe that, because living things adhere to the Jaws of chemistry and physics (or, more correctly, that novel laws of chemistry and physics are not required to understand either the coming-to-be or the functioning of living matter), that all of the biological sciences will be eventually be focused on understanding laws of absolute necessity which are the direct descendants and consequences of the original Big Bang. However, in many cases, this concept of absolute necessity (because "A" happened, "B" absolutely must happen) is only one of the ways in which the concept of necessity is used in biological science and medicine. Furthermore, such logical thinking is seldom the starting point in the practical world of modern medical research. Rather, modem biologists, working with concepts of structure and function (telos, if you will), are more often fruitful when they operate in the world of what may called "...conditional necessity." That is, the argument that if "A" is to be formed, then other things must also occur. For example, if health is to be produced, then certain actions are necessi~ted by the physician or the healer. This may still seem somewhat abstract, so let me use an example from my own experiences at Washington University. The complement system is a series of proteins that provide one of the important defenses of higher organisms against invading micro-organisms. However, unlike other parts of the immune system, complement proteins do not, in themselves, discriminate "self' from "non-self." Once activated, there is nothing in the biochemistry of these proteins that precludes their amplifying on and destroying host cell or tissues instead of the invading viruses or bacteria. This discovery that the complement system is non-specific was made simultaneously in St. Louis and San Diego and much of this early work was done by my mentor, Paul Levine. These discoveries led to the hypothesis that if the biochemistry of the complement proteins is such that they can activate even on host cells, then by necessity there must be some mechanism through which host cells can deactivate them. This is a very Aristotelian approach, and it was the beginning of a series of investigations, carried out in St. Louis, Baltimore, and Cleveland, that elucidated a new family of cell-surface proteins with a common genetic structure. These proteins were shown on mammalian cells but not on bacteria or viruses (at least not under normal circumstances) and were shown to deactivate complement on host cells exactly as would be predicted. An understanding of these proteins and how they function has provided new insight into rheumatic diseases such as rheumatoid arthritis and systemic lupus, as well as some understanding of how cells of the immune system are destroyed during the course of HIV infection (the latter is work from my oWn laboratory). Thus, the concept of necessity, as used in its broader, "Aristotelian" sense, provided the foundation not just for a theoretical approach to mammalian cells but for practical advances in the science of immunology. This is not to say that so-called "absolute" necessity is not used in modern biology. We know, for 9 �example, that if the pH or hydrogen ion concentration of the intracellular fluid drops below a certain "physiologic" range, that certain predictable consequences will occur to in the efficiency with which intracellular enzymes will function. We know that, eventually, prolonged lowering of intracellular pH will eventually have profound disturbance of cellular energy metabolism and eventually lead to cell death. However, in these cases, the concept of absolute necessity is still informed by the concept that the enzymes in question do, in fact, have functions that relate to their roles in cellular processes. The dysfunction of the enzymes is made more intelligible by the understanding that they are involved in a process that we call intracellular metabolism. In the absence of this understanding, we have hydrogen ions and a denatured polypeptide that can no longer catalyze the transfer of electrons. Even the most ardent Newtonian would concede that such an understanding is incomplete. These two concepts, telos and anangke, are ubiquitous in modern biology and appear to be tmavoidable. They provide the core of work appearing in peer-reviewed journals as well as an important aspect of any grant application to agencies such as the National Institutes of Health. They remain in use, as I have said, not because, in the deepest hearts, modern experimental biologists are enamored of Aristotle, but because they are unavoidable. Furthermore, they have been shown to be practically useful, especially when linked to the modern techniques of cell and molecular biology. The admission that these concepts are essential to the biological sciences is different from saying that unusual laws of chemistry and physics are required to understand living things. What I am saying, and what Aristotle has said, is that these concepts provide the framework through which the laws of chemistry and physics can be understood in living matter. I hope I have provided you, in this very brief way, with some insight into how certain ideas articulated in Aristotle's Parts of Animals remain in use in modern experimental medicine. Furthermore, I hope that I have convinced you that these ideas are not just part of a theoretical framework, but that they provide a very practical starting point for the process of modern biological research. Let me also say that I believe that if Aristotle were alive today, he would find very little in modern laboratory research that is in direct conflict with his approach to living things as articulated in the Parts of Animals. Let me close by saying a word about what modern experimental medicine has not borrowed from Aristotle and something about how this may limit, or at least define, our understanding of living things. Of all the concepts in modern biology, evolution is the one most clearly foreign to Aristotle's biology. To Aristotle, the species were permanent, more or less immutable, and eternal. To the modern biologist, species are what's left. over aft.er a process called natural selection. In its most extreme case, evolution is so totally lacking in either direction or permanence that, ultimately, the theory of natural selection is just as appropriately described as "... survival of the survivors... " rather than "... survival of the fittest." Eidos (species) and telos are conspicuously absent from modern evolutionary theory. It is thus hard to fmd common ground between evolutionary biologists and Aristotle. The two world views are clearly not compatible. However, in modern experimental medicine, the concept of evolution is, ironically, partly-informed by the concept of telos. For example, the existence of certain structures or proteins in lower animals (for example, fish) and humans is oft.en used an argument for their physiological importance. That is, structures or proteins highly-conserved through evolution are considered significant. For example, the fact that fish have complement proteins is used as an argument for the importance of this primordial wing of the immune system. To put it another way, the telos of a structure is considered vital to the extent that it is conserved in evolution. Thus, even with modem evolutionary theory as an overlay, experimental medicine still derives tremendous power from essentially-Aristotelian ideas. Another aspect of Aristotle's biology that is lacking in modem experimental medicine is its scope. By this I mean that Aristotle's physics and metaphysics are essentially inseparable, and that they are part of a system of thought that addresses human beings and their relationship to the world around them. 10 �While the world of clinical medicine may t.ake a person into many parts of the world of man and display some of the best and worst of human life, the world of experimental medicine is, in the end, neatly circwnscribed. People engaged in medical research are, in the end, focused on understanding how things work. The final goal of this is, of course, to fmd out what's happening when something doesn't work (that is, when someone is ill) so that remedies can be found. The answers given to the questions raised by modern biologists will, therefore, reflect the form in which the question was asked. That is, our answers will always only tell us how something works, not what it is or what our relationship to it should be. We are, in essence, like the Lilliputians, who could dismantle Gulliver's watch and could understood its mechanism perfectly, but were unaware of its purpose (believing, as they did, that it was the god that he worshipped). I will close as I began, with an anecdote, or actually, two anecdotes. Let me t.ake you, on a cool sunny November afternoon, into the delivery room of an upstate New York hospital, where I, a third-year medical student, am spending my first afternoon in labor and delivery. I want you to see a wet, blue infant who t.akes her first gasp, utters her first cry, and begins to wiggle and squirm, her cries becoming more vigorous with each passing second I want to see the beaming father and mother as they hold their first-born daughter, call her by her name, and put their cheeks against her soft pink skin. I also want to t.ake you into the pediatric intensive care unit on a frosty November evening. I will t.ake you to the bed of an eight-year-old boy dying of infectious complications of AIDS. I will tell you that this boy was the only child, the adopted son of an otherwise childless couple, and that I had come to respect this couple's sorrow and struggle as one of the most profoundly sad and noble chapters I had witnessed in my career. When the time came to accept that we had nothing left to offer but the prolongation of suffering, when decisions were made to remove noxious tubes and hardware, when I watched this child gasp his last breaths in the arms of his tearful parents, I understood the profound ignorance of doctors, biologists, philosophers, and clergy. My experiences at the bedside, and with birth and death in particular, have taught me that there is a great deal about life that I cannot explain. I fully understand that the method of inquiry that I have inherited by Bernard, Bacon, and Descartes was not designed to probe into the more compelling questions that raised by my experiences as a physician. Thus, while my own career remains focussed in the understanding of the human body and how it works, I remain profoundly humbled at how inadequate even a complete understanding at that level would be. For all of our knowledge and our attempts at knowledge, we... "...are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night." 11 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Cells and Genes Are Parts of Animals: Aristotle in the Late 20th Century Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on September 16, 1994, by James N. Jarvis as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jarvis, James N. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1994-09-16 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle. De partibus animalium Cytology Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Jarvis 1994 Alumni Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d29e9c045e69232e417d175ef3c2ae97.mp3 16b4f5a1c38055e7818b841ad72ee3cc Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:10:07 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Argument Not Less But More Heroic: Milton's Advent'rous Song in <em>Paradise Lost</em> Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on February 11, 2005, by Thomas May as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource May, Thomas Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2005-02-11 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Milton, John, 1608-1674. Paradise lost Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_May_Thomas_2005-02-11_ac Relation A related resource <a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/7992" title="Typescript">Typescript</a> Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9015330832e8d67aa65f26afc82cee15.mp3 4f0325be5b889c1623f2e5be8e5249f5 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiocassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:09:39 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Hegel's <em>Phenomenology of Spirit</em> and the Great Tradition Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on October 15, 2004, by Henry Higuera as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Higuera, Henry, 1954- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2004-10-15 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 1770-1831. Phänomenologie des Geistes Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Higuera_Henry_2004-10-15_ac Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d51774e56db52a6741f3349cbec6061f.mp3 e35eddd5e905b19402b69708a47f80c4 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiocassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:52:34 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Song and Dance and Faith and Prayer: The Case of J. S. Bach's Magnificat Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on February 9, 1996 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ruhm von Oppen, Beate Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1996-02-09 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Bach, Johann Sebastian, 1685-1750 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Ruhm_von_Oppen_Beate_1996-02-09_ac Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f64eefb7fdef7464186b1d0eb11f962d.mp3 579185b92b6980ec2eed8d080d8a352e Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiocassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 02:56:32 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource On Copernicus Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on December 6, 1967, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1967-12-06 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804. Ethics Copernicus, Nicolaus, 1473-1543 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Tape_280 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/4b66f1041cd4fd7bab235b3dde2401a0.pdf 35a39324dd02691d7a1242b60140c7b7 PDF Text Text Must Eudai.monism Mean the Euthanasia of AJ..1. ...._....... __ _ Kant's Rigorism and the Mora1ity of Happiness by Daniel Kolb St. John's Col1ege, Annapolis In the Metaphysics of Morals, the last of Kant's major ethical works, he offers the following estimation eudaimonian ethics. "If eudaimonism (the principle of happiness) is set up as the basic principle [of ethics] ... , the result is the euthanasia (easy death) of all morals." [MM 378/183) 1 An ethical doctrine is eudaimonian, in Kant's terms, if it treats acting virtuously as source of happiness or contentment. This special kind of happiness, which Kant also calls 'moral happiness' and opposes to 'empirical happiness,' is, he tells us, a "self-contradictory absurdity." [:MM 377/182) Kant's use of the Greek term 'eudaimonian' to characterize this mistake is not accidental. He means to direct our attention to the doctrines of certain ancient philosophers closely associated with it, most notably Aristotle and the Stoics. At first blush, Kant's rejection eudaimonism seems strange. He begins his first mature work on ethics with the unambiguous endorsement of the idea of a virtuous will is the central, indeed the only, concern of the ethical life. "There is no possibility of thinking of anything at all in the world, or even out of it, which The key to references to Kant's works is found at the end of the text. 1 1 �2 can be regarded as good without qualification [that is, as morally good,] except a good will." [G 393/7] In the midst of the growing tribes of utilitarians, sentimentalists, and rational egoists who populate the landscape of modern ethical thought, Kant's call to focus on virtue for virtue's sake seems to belong to a different time. Indeed one might easily suspect that Kant will encourage us to look to the doctrines of those ancient philosophers who share his view that moral virtue perfects the person who possesses it. Like Kant, the ancient eudaimonists insist that virtue is only virtue if it is exercised for its own sake, not as a means to some other goal. Yet, it is precisely these philosophers Kant conderr~s. In tonight's lecture I will explore Kant's ethics with a view to understanding why Kant thinks he must reject any form of eudaimonism. I shall begin by examining an aspect of Kant's ethics that is usually ignored and which is generally disparged when it is noticed. This is what Kant calls 'rigorism.' I shall argue that rigorism, p r operly understood, is an essential aspect of Kant's ethics. By exploring the roots of Kant's rigorism, I hope to make clear that Kant's ethics is deeply teleological in its orientation, and that his treatment of duty cannot be understood apart from his doctrine of virtue. It is in his doctrine of virtue that we find his reasons for rejecting eudaimonian ethics. Virtue requires purity of motivation, and philosophers such as the Stoics and Aristotle who teach us to think that virtue is essentially related �3 to happiness threaten the purity of the motives of the virtuous agent and thereby undermine the practice of virtue itself. RI GORI SM Kant's clearest endorsement of rigorism is found in the opening sections of Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone. It is of the greatest consequence to ethics in general to avoid admitting, so long as possible, of anything morally intermediate, whether in action ... or in human characters; for with such ambiguity all maxims are in danger of forfeiting their precision and stability. Those who are partial to this strict mode of thinking are called rigorists (a name which is intended to carry reproach, but which actually praises) . . . [R 22/18] The rigorist is not someone who adheres unwaveringly to principles of duty, e.g., someone who tells the truth even when doing so will cause a great sacrifice of non-moral goods. Rather, rigorists are persons inclined to view every action or state of character as morally significant, that is, as either good or evil with no moral middle ground. The scope of Kant's rigorism is not limited only to actions and traits of character. It also applies to the moral evaluation of the entire character of a person. Neither can a man be morally good in some ways and at the same time morally evil in others. His being good in one way means he has incorporated the moral law into his maxim; were he, therefore at the same time evil in another way, while his maxim would be universal as based on the moral law of obedience to duty, which is essentially single and universal, it would be at the same time only particular; but this is a contradiction. [R 24-25/20] �4 Persons are either good or evil in the foundation of their moral character. Opposed to rigorists are what Kant calls latitudinarians. Latitudinarians threaten to undermine morality by marking off categories of action or traits of character as intermediate between good and evil and as therefore falling outside of the scope of morality. Kant identifies two types of latitudinarians: indifferentists and syncretists. Indifferentists are philosophers who maintain that human beings are by nature indifferent to virtue and vice. No ancients fall into this category. [R 25/20 note] Kant seems to have in mind here modern advocates of natural rights such as Hobbes, Pufendorf, Grotius, and Locke. According to Hobbes, there is no justice or injustice in the natural condition of men. Morality consists of a set of human agreements which we make and keep because it is in our interest to do so. Locke differs from Hobbes in that he believes that there are eternal moral laws which ought to guide our behavior. But lacking human agreements to enforce these laws, and, ultimately, a divine judge to assure their perfect application, we do not have a sufficient motive to obey them. A marginal note of Locke's expresses this well. Men have a natural tendency to what delights and from what pains them. This universal observation has been established beyond doubt. But that the soul has such a tendency to what is morally �5 good and from what is morally evil has not fallen under my observation, and therefore I deny it. 2 For the indifferentists, moral activity has nothing to do with the perfection of the agent. Rather, the guiding light in our adherence to any moral principle is self-interest which leads us to avoid conflicts which would and render our own individual, private pursuit of pleasure impossible. Without constraints on selfinterest, individuals would not have any reasonable assurance of their ability to survive and pursue even part of their private agenda. Thus even agents who are completely motivated by selfinterest will be led to conform to a moral principles because by doing so they can carve out a space in which they are able to pursue their own private interest without restraint. 3 By syncretists, on the other hand, Kant seems to have in mind primarily, advocates of moral sense, Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and 2 Cited by John Passmore, Duckworth, 1972), p.159 The Perfectibility of Man (London: Leibniz is sharply critical of this idea the compatibility of what he calls 'internal corruption' and 'external virtue'. "While it is possible that someone, by hope or fear, will repress wicked thoughts, so that they do not harm ... nevertheless he will never succeed in making them useful. Therefore, whoever is not well intentioned will often sin, at least by omission .... Thus [Pufendorf's] hypothesis about a soul which is internally corrupt and outwardly innocent is not very safe and not very probable." Political Writings (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), p.69 Those of you who have read Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov will remember Ivan's claim that he would protect his father's li fe whil e re t a ining the 'right' to wis h f or h is murde r. He ends up not only wishing for his father's murder but also acting to facilitate it. 3 �6 Hume. {Kant lectured with enthusiasm on the these moral theories of these philosophers in the mid 1760's - about 20 years before he finally formulated his mature ethical views. He was still trying to incorporate major elements of moral sense theory in his ethics as late as 1775.} These philosophers maintain that virtuous behavior is motivated by a unique set of feelings which direct us to goals different from those of immediate self-interest. I quote here from Francis Hutcheson's The Original of Our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue. The author of nature has much better furnished us for a virtuous conduct than our moralists seem to imagine, by almost as quick and powerful instructions as we have for the preservation of our bodies. He has given us strong affections to be the springs of each virtuous action and made virtue a lovely form that we might easily distinguish it from its contrary, and be happy in the pursuit of it. 4 The beauty of virtuous actions stems from the fact that they are be neficent, that is, they tend to the public good or the goods of other individuals even when they conflict with self-interest. However, these motives are often competing with other interested motives, and there can be no assurance that the motive of virtue will be sufficiently strong to win out over other motives opposing it. Moral sense theorists, at least Hume and Hutcheson, endorse the practice of finding ways to combine appeals to the moral sense with appeals to self-interest. From Mor al Philosophy from Montaign e to Kant, J.B. Schneewind editor (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), Vol. II, p.506. 4 �7 Beneficent actions tend to the public good; it is therefore good and kind to give all possible additional motives to them, and to excite men who have some weak degrees of good affection to promote the public good more vigorously by motives of self-interest ... 5 In the end, we have a we cannot tell and perhaps do not care which motive, love of virtue or self-interest is primary. In the Critique of Practical Reason Kant expresses his distaste for this kind of theory. (W]e find ourselves in a syncretistic age, when a certain shallow and dishonest coalition between contradictory principles is devised because it is more acceptable to a public which is satisfied to know a little about everything and at bottom nothing ... (CprV 24/23] MORAL WORTH In order to see why Kant objects to the morality of actions in which self-interest or natural feelings of beneficence lead us to do the right thing, let us turn to Kant's argument from the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. In the much discussed examples from the first section of the Groundwork Kant contrasts actions that are simply in accord with duty with actions that are performed out of a sense of duty. A shopkeeper acts from the motive of his own calculated self-interest. He performs the morally required action and charges his customer an honest price. But he acts for a ''selfish purpose" rather than from a sense of duty. his second example a naturally beneficent man, one whom Kant 5 Schneewind, Vol. II, p.512. In �8 characterizes as a 'friend of mankind', acts in accord with his duty to help those less fortunate than himself. Even though he acts without vanity or selfish purpose and is motivated by a genuine concern for the happiness of another, his act does not spring from a sense of duty and, therefore, according to Kant, it lacks moral worth. Kant identifies three problems with motives of the selfinterested shopkeeper and the friend of humanity. First, their motives do not lead to moral actions in a universal manner, that is, under all conditions and in all circumstances. If his calculations of market forces and social pressures no longer constrain him, the shopkeeper who acts out of self-interest will fail to act in accordance with his duty. There is no necessary connection between his self-interest and honesty. In the case of the friend of humanity, feelings such as beneficence may lead him to perform actions which are even contrary to those morally prescribed. The beneficent person may, out of sympathetic feelings, protect the guilty from punishment, supply drugs to a suffering drug addict, kill someone to end suffering, or help a terrified criminal escape legal detection. If you have read Crime and Punishment place yourself behind the pawnbrokress' door with Raskolnikov when he is on the brink of being discovered after his murders and s ee where your sympa thy lies . Or read the concluding scenes of Of Mice and Men in which George kills Lennie and then �9 lies about his act and its motives. Sympathy is with the escaping criminal and the beneficent lying murderer. The second problem Kant finds with motives of self-interest and beneficence is that it is a matter of chance that we find ourselves endowed with these motives. They are subject to arbitrary alteration. The sympathetic person's feelings may change. He is affected by the ingratitude of his beneficiaries or by a change in his circumstances and the feelings of sympathy weaken to the point where they are no longer sufficient to move him. Shakespeare's Timon of Athens presents us with just such a man. Timon's generous benevolence is transformed into raging misanthropy by the ingratitude of those around him. These problems point to Kant's third, and deeper, reason for thinking that motives other than duty for duty's sake have no true moral worth. Persons acting from self-interest or beneficence really have different ends in view from those acting from a sense of duty. The shopkeeper motivated only by self-interest, or the sympathetic person motivated only by feelings of benevolence, act without regard for duty. The person who acts from a sense of duty acts out of respect for the moral law. His end includes, at a minimum, the component that he will not violate the moral law. For Kant, human being are more than natural beings governed by sentiments. In so far as we are parts of nature, we find ourselves subject to various feelings and inclinations that are caused in us �10 independently of our wills. As rational . beings, however, we find ourselves set apart from nature. Everything in nature acts according to laws. Only a rational being has the power to act according to the idea of laws, that is according to principles; that is to say only a rational being has a will. [G 412, my translation] Human agents are able to distance themselves from the immediate promptings of nature, consider other possibilities, order and rank incentives. That is, they can think about how they are going to act and give reasons for their choices. In calling our motives 'maxims' or 'ideas of laws' Kant means to emphasize the fact that human action contains rational reflection on both the ends of action and the motives for pursuing .them. Actions which appear the same externally can be motivated by very different maxims. A shopkeeper must rank self-interest and honesty in his maxim. If he ranks self-interest above honesty, his honest dealing with his customers depends on his perception that it will promote his selfinterest. His motive is very different from the shopkeeper whose honesty is not dependent entirely his self-interest. The shopkeeper who values honesty more highly than self-interest will act honestly from a principle, that is the idea of the good of honesty, even when he can see no benefit for himself from honest dealing. A rational agent whose reason is not just instrumental, but is pract i c a l i n t h e Ka nti a n sens e c a n as k why h e is d o ing what he is doing; that is, he capable of conscious self-examination of his �11 motives. For Kant, practical reason does not just deliberate about means; it is also active in evaluating ends. Kant's forbiddingly titled "Categorical Imperative," in its initial formulation, really commands no more of rational agents than that they choose ends for good reasons, that is, reasons which command the assent of any rational being. For example, for the self-interested shopkeeper to say that his action is a good one, he must be able to say that it is good for people to value self-interest over honesty. The enterprise of shop keeping, however, depends on customers and suppliers keeping their promises, honoring contracts, and respecting ownership. These conditions of shop keeping would be impossible if everyone was to value self-interest over honesty. Hence it is inconsistent for the shop keeper to will self-interest over honesty. In willing his self-interest over honesty he is inconsistent in the same way a thief who wants others to respect his ill gotten gain is inconsistent. "That's my money; I stole it." The moral agent who respects his reason giving capacity refuses to allow his reason to be reduced to the status of a mere instrument serving for the procurement of ends prompted by his desires. Retaining rational control of the ends of his action is the goal that a self-respecting rational agent sets for himself. Kant summarizes this line of argument in discussing the 'respect humanity' version of the categorical imperative. �12 Rational nature is distinguished from the rest of nature by the fact that it sets itself an end. This end would be the matter of every good will. But in the idea of an absolutely good will ... complete abstraction must be made from every end that has come about as an effect .... And so the end must be conceived not as an end to be effected, but as an independently existing end. Hence it must be conceived only negatively, i.e., as an end which should never be acted against and therefore as one which in all willing must never be regarded merely as means but must always be esteemed at the same time as an end. [G 437/42) We act against humanity when we treat the rational capacity that makes us persons, as a mere means to be used in procuring any goals. This amounts to no more than saying that the ultimate end of any rational being's mode of action must respect its integrity as a rational being. It is neither possible nor desirable to eliminate pathologically conditioned incentives directed towards an indefinite variety of ends - food, drink, friends, knowledge, etc.; but these can be tested for permissibility and overridden if they fail the test. It is a consequence of this account that Kant's rigorism holds fo r act i on . No actions can be morally neutral. Consider an agent whose maxim ranks self-interest or immediate inclination of benevolence above respect for duty. The agent is then treating the satisfaction of these incentives as unconditional goods. While this might produce permissible actions occasionally, or even in particularly fortuitous circumstances, throughout a lifetime, the maxim of the agent lacks recognition of the primacy o f the moral law a nd expresses a willingness even to violat e the moral law should it be necessary in the pursuit of its object. While such an �13 action may be legally permissible, it has a morally unacceptable motive. [CprR 62/64] In their maxims agents either recognize respect for the moral law as a necessary condition for the permissibility of actions, or they do not. If acts include this recognition as part of their motive, they are morally good and can be willed universally. If motives do not include respect for the moral law, they cannot be willed universally and the actions they prompt are morally evil. An action which is not one or the other is impossible. A morally indifferent action ... would be one resulting from natural laws, and hence standing in no relation whatsoever to the moral law, which is the law of freedom; for such action is not a morally significant fact at all. . . [R 23/18, note) In other words, an 'action' which is morally indifferent is not really an action at all. It is rather a natural event governed by natural necessity. HAPPINESS AND MORAL LIFE As so far characterized, Kant's rigorism might seem fairly benign. While it recognizes an overriding duty to adopt a certain point of view when evaluating actions, it might turn out that most actions considered by most agents are in the permissible category. It need not be not an overly onerous intrusion into most lives. Furthermore, it is not yet clear why Kant's rigoristic exclusion of a moral middle ground between good and evil applies to character of �14 the agent considered as a whole. Why could it not be the case that one is respectful of the moral law in areas of life dealing with property and honesty but falls short when it comes to sensual pleasures such as food and drink? Why does Kant think that we cannot be good in some ways and bad in others, virtuous at some times and vicious at others? In order to begin answering these questions let us turn to Kant's account of the place of the pursuit of happiness in a moral life. This is, perhaps, best illustrated in the genetic account of the development of moral consciousness found in a number of works short essays on history and the Critique of Judgment - written in the period between the Groundwork the Religion. The story Kant tells about the development of moral consciousness in human agents (and for which he acknowledges his debt to Rousseau [SBHH 116/54]) goes something like this. As animals human beings find themselves wi th a host of natural inclinations. The rational capacity of human beings complicates the way in which we respond to these inclinations. The technical rationality of human beings enables them to develop arts and sciences. Competition and jealousy among people leads to greater reliance on craft and less on nature in the satisfaction of desire. As a consequence people are able to pursue a wider variety of ends than could be prompted by mere instinct. They f ind themselves confronted with a range of options which are not mutually �15 compatible and must make choices requiring rational consideration. This in turn requires the discipline of desires, freeing them from their immediate responses to the impulses of nature. It is a characteristic of reason that it will with the aid of imagination cook up desires for things for which there is not only no natural urge, but even an urge to avoid; at the outset these desires go by the name of greediness, and from them arise a whole swarm of unnecessary, indeed even unnatural, propensities that go by the name of voluptuousness. [SBHH 111/51] Worry about the future satisfaction of as yet unfelt desires, desire for honor and esteem of others, and the corresponding vices of avarice and envy as well as a taste for beauty and higher learning are the result of this expanding circle of desires. The agent must now use his reason to impose order on the mess it has helped to create. Reason does not yet function morally. does not dictate what ends ought to be pursued. It Rather, it attempts to form a coherent idea of order out of the ends suggested by desire. The object of this idea is what we mean by 'happiness.' The concep t of happiness is not one that man abstracts (s ay ) from his instincts and hence gets from himself as an animal. Rather, it is a mere idea: the idea of a state of his, an idea to which he tries to make that state adequate under merely empirical conditions. (J 430/317. See also, SBHH 113-4/52.] The idea of happiness, "the greatest sum of what is agreeable in life," [J 208/50] represents a good, but one which is merely subjective, since its organizing principle is dictated by arbitrary individual preference. �16 When happiness is pursued as an unconditioned good it leads to incoherence. This is because happiness pursued as an unconditioned end is unattainable. Even if we restricted the concept of happiness to the true natural needs shared by our entire species, or if instead we maximized man's skill for accomplishing the purposes he imagines, he would still never reach what he means by happiness, and reach what is in fact his own ultimate natural purpose ... : for it is not his nature to stop possessing and enjoying at some point and be satisfied. [J 430/318] In more realistic circumstances where we do have unnatural desires and have only moderate skill in satisfying them, the pursuit of happiness results in a condition even less adequate to the idea of happiness. If the value that life has for us is assessed merely in terms of what we enjoy (i.e. happiness, the natural purpose of the sum of our inclinations), then the answer is easy: the value falls below zero. [J 434 note/321) When happiness is pursued as an unconditioned good it also leads to conflict with others because it fails to harmonize efforts of different individuals. Given the subjective nature of the idea of happiness, such conflict is inevitable. [CprR 28/27-28) The conflict among individuals leads to greater disorder, fears, frustrations, and new desires for power .. The pursuit of happiness as an unconditioned good leads to its opposite of its goal. [IUH 20-21/32] I want to emphasize two points that emerge from Kant's story about the sad fate of human agency dominated by the idea of unconditioned happiness. First, Kant illustrates the the �17 systematic function of reason in its practical affairs. All human end setting is mediated by rational conceptions of ends and selfawareness of the agent. In human agents reason transforms what Kant calls our ''crude'' predispositions from an animal-like instinctual form of end setting into a distinctly human capacity. All human end setting involves the use of 'ideas.' Even in the pursuit of non-moral ends, reason has more than a purely instrumental role to play. Second, in pursuing happiness unconditionally we are driven to recognize the futility of happiness as the final goal of human action\ In this recognition, however, we discover our independence from the desire for happiness. This in turn leads to the idea of an end which can successfully introduce systematic order into our practical pursuits and successfully harmonize them with those of others. [SBHH 114/52) This is the idea of the moral law~ In his genetic accounts of the development of hurnan moral capacities Kant does little more than hint at how a systematic moral idea of life might emerge from the failure of the idea of happiness to provide a coherent guide to action. [SBHH 114-5/52-53] His formal account of the relationship between happiness and the moral law, however, fits exactly as the end of this process. By subjecting the desire for happiness to the condition that it be pursued in accordance with the moral law, happiness first becomes a true good and not just an object of arbitrary preference. love cannot be rejected. Self- According to Kant, it is "natural and �18 active in us even prior to the moral law." [CprR 73/76] When self- love allows its claims to be mediated by the moral law, however, they can be willed universally; and it is then called "rational self-love." [CprR 73/76] By recognizing the necessity of considering the happiness of others and willing my happiness only when it harmonizes with that of humanity in general, willing my own happiness has the form of law and is objectively good. Let the material content [of my maxim] be ... my own happiness. If I attribute this to everyone, as in fact I may attribute it to all finite beings, it can become an objective practical law only if I include within it the happiness of others. Therefore, the law that we should further the happiness of others arises not from the presupposition that this law is an object of everyone's choice, but from the fact that the form of universality which reason requires as a condition for giving the maxim of self-love the objective validity of law, is itself the determining ground of the will. [CprR 34/35) If I am willing to subject the claims of self-love to the form of the moral law, I have a virtuous disposition and my happiness becomes a legitimate goal. If I limit the requirements of the moral law in order to accommodate my pursuit of happiness, theD I have a vicious disposition. MORAL LAW AND FUNDAMENTAL DISPOSITIONS As a agent endowed with practical reason, then, each of us is confronted with two competing principles of systematic order and must choose between them. The whole of each agent's moral life can be ordered e i t he r by the demands of self-love or by respect f or the moral law. �19 The disposition, i.e., the ultimate subjective ground for the adoption of maxims, can be one and only one and applies to the whole use of freedom. [R 25/20; see also MM 410/210-11] Both principles, happiness and obedience to the moral law, are original and indispensable. The choice of what Kant calls a ''supreme maxim" (R 31/26] determines which principle will be subordinate to which. Either the pursuit of happiness is subordinated to the moral law or the moral law is acknowledged only when it does not interfere with the pursuit of happiness. Kant's argument for the claim that the whole agency of a moral agent must be governed by a single maxim or principle is based on his insistence that human actors do have systematic conceptions of themselves as agents, and these conceptions include an estimation of the relative merits an agent assigns to moral incentives. We have the capacity to think about our lives as wholes, rather than as random sequences of unconnected actions. We do not shift arbitrarily from one set of motives and values to another. If such a shift does occur, it needs to be explained either by means of a deeper continuous value, or by means of a change in the basic disposition of the agent and the adoption or rejection of a basic maxim. In either case there is a basic maxim at work. If an agent refuses to relate his maxims to each other and is willing to allow a high degree of incoherence in his agency, he has adopted a maxim of moral indifference. The only other possibility, Kant notes, ZL/17-18, note] is that he acts on natural impulse. But Kant [R �20 rejects this because he assumes that human agents are free, rational beings and can take an interest the coherence of their maxims if they choose to do so. What is lacking in the morally shiftless agent is not a systematic conception of his own agency. Rather it is the disposition to respect the moral law in his systematic conception of his agency. Kant's argument concerning the 'supreme principle' of virtue in the Metaphysics of Morals reflects this argument. The supreme principle of virtue is that one should adopt the moral law and the promotion of humanity as the basic principle of all agency; this amounts to the same thing as adopting a fundamentally good disposition. Kant notes that this principle can be deduced from its possibility. The basic principle of the doctrine of virtue ... cannot be proved, but it can be given a deduction from pure practical .reason. What, in relation to himself and others, can be an end is an end for pure practical reason. For practical reason is the capacity for ends generally and for it to be indifferent to ends, that is, to take no interest in them, would be a contradiction ... [~ll~ 395/198, emphasis Kant's] Since reason can take an interest in the content of our maxims and the fundamental disposition of our character, it must take such an interest. Failure to do so reflects a culpable lack of virtue. RIGORISM AND MORAL PERFECTION The a dopt ion of the f undament a l ma xim of moral goodness is only the beginning of the story of what is required of the virtuous �21 agent. But the adoption of a fundamentally good maxim is, however, always the beginning. Moral regeneration for Kant must always stem first from the choice of fundamental maxim and only secondarily from the reformation of habits. [R 48; MM 409] The original choice of a fundamental disposition reforms the "cast of mind and the grounding of the character." [R 43] In doing so, it orients the character toward the ideal of moral perfection in which all aspects of the agent's character and actions are in complete harmony with the commitment to the supremacy of the moral law. Now it is our duty as men to elevate ourselves to this ideal of moral perfection, that is, to the archetype of the moral disposition in all of its purity. [R 61/54] The duty to moral perfection follows from the basic maxim of moral goodness. To choose the end is also to will the means. The individual who is good in his fundamental disposition must also will that the elements of his character and passions do not present obstacles which tempt him away from or make him inattentive to duty. The duty to moral perfection does not allow any accommodation to inclination. Kant calls the duty to elevate oneself to moral perfection "narrow and perfect" in its quality. [MM 446/241] In non-Kantian terms, this means that it is a duty which, like repaying a debt, has only a single path to its completion, and it should be completely accomplished. In practice the duty to moral perfection must be treated as "wide and imperfect" because of the �22 overwhelmingly imperfect condition of human beings. There is simply so much work to do in bringing our empirical natures into harmony with the idea of moral perfection that we cannot do it all at once. The choice to adopt the basic maxim of moral goodness is made in the context of a will which also has what Kant calls the 'propensity to evil in human nature' and which has already made claims on our characters. [R 29-32/23-29] [I]n the moral development of the predisposition to good implanted in us, we cannot start from an innocence natural to us but must begin with the assumption of a wickedness of will in adopting maxims contrary to the original moral predisposition; and since this propensity [to evil] is inexstirpable, we must begin with incessant counter action against it. [R 46] We can never eliminate the propensity to evil. No matter successful one is in reforming his character, there is always the possibility of slipping into a fundamentally evil disposition. The best we can hope for in the struggle against evil in us is that we make continual progress. The person who has adopted the basic disposition of moral goodness confronts two major obstacles to its realization in practice. Much like the characters at the bottom of the mountain in Dante's Purgatory, their souls have the·right fundamental orientation, but they need to undergo a cleansing. According to Kant what needs to be cleansed are conditions he identifies as 'frailty' and 'impurity'. when Frailty is the condition that results �23 I adopt the good into the maxim of my will, but this good which objectively in its ideal conception ... is an irresistible incentive, is subjectively ... when the maxim is followed the weaker. [R 29/25] The frail agent does not incorporate an immoral maxim into his fundamental disposition. Rather, he is overwhelmed by impulses, such as when a generally well disposed individual is momentarily overcome by anger or by passion, e.g. when an alcoholic who has sworn off drunkenness, has no idea how to resist the passion for drink. The will is frail when it has adopted the fundamental maxim of moral goodness, but confronts irresistible obstacles to its achievement. Kant's initial description of frailty makes it seem not so much a quality of a human will failing as a case of the will encountering the limits of its capabilities. If the incentives that lead us to act against the moral law are truly irresistible, the acts are really beyond our control and should more properly be considered events than actions. A disposition which requires moral self-condemnation for events beyond the agent's control seems more like pathological psychosis than a moral imperative. Looked at more closely, however, Kant is concerned here with barriers to moral perfection which originate in the will itself. Virtue is ... the moral strength of a man's will in fulfilling his duty ... but because this constraint is to be irresistible, strength is required, in a degree that we can assess only by the magnitude of the obstacles that a man himself furnishes through his inclinations. The vices, the brood of dispositions opposing the law, are the monsters he has to fight. [MM 405/206] �24 We 'furnish' ourselves with incentives that lead us to act contrary to the moral law, and these are to some degree alterable. Likewise, our defenses against these or weakened by our own practice. inc~ntives can be strengthened The will which is overcome by incentives contrary to duty may have virtue in its fundamental orientation, but it lacks virtue in the narrow sense in which it is opposed to specific vices. The struggle against frailty requires a wide range of strategies. We must avoid adversity, pain, and want to the degree to which that is possible if these present us with overwhelming temptations. [MM 388/192-3) We must also, however, seek out adversity when it will strengthen the will against immoral incentives. With regard to the principle of a vigorous, spirited and valiant practice of virtue, the cultivation of virtue, that is moral ascetics, takes as its motto the Stoic saying: Accustom yourself to put up with the misfortunes of life and to do without its superfluous pleasures .... This is a kind of reqimen ... for keeping a man healthy. [rvIM 485/273, emphasis Kant's] Kant calls this 'ethical gymnastics'. Ethical gymnastics ... consists only in combatting natural impulses sufficiently to be able to master them when a situation comes up in which they threaten morality ... [MM 485/274] In assessing progress against frailty Kant's rigorism requires that we accept nothing less than perfection. This means that we must measure ourselves not against our own past performance, our pr e sent abilit i e s, or t he condition o f othe r people. Rather i t must be measured only by perfect conformity with the moral law. �25 Ethical duties [that is, duties of virtue] must not be determined in accordance with the capacity to fulfill the law ... On the contrary, man's moral capacity must be estimated by the law, which commands categorically and so in accordance with our rational knowledge of what man ought to be in keeping with the idea of humanity, not in accordance with the empirical knowledge we have of men as they are. [MM 404-5/205/6) Since the struggle against human frailty is never over, at least not in this life, the basic moral disposition of the agent must be estimated in terms of effort to make progress against weakness rather than in absolute terms of moral strength. [MM 409/209] The condition of impurity, like frailty, is a condition of the will which is compatible with a fundamentally good disposition. The impure will allows incentives other than pure respect for the moral law to be incorporated into its basic maxim. Rather than treating the moral law as the fundamental incentive to permissible action, the impure will incorporates other incentives such as selfinterest, pride, or hope for eternal salvation into his basic maxim. In condemning impurity, Kant cannot mean to conderrw the presence of incentives other than respect for the moral law. Many incentives other than respect for the moral law are compatible with a fundamentally good disposition. The problem with the impure will is that it places these incentives on an equal footing with the moral law. Since these motives will conflict, at least in principle, with the moral law, the person with an impure will becomes confused and corrupted. [G 411/22] This corruption is a large part natural propensity to evil. By this Kant does not mean �26 that incentives other than the moral law are intrinsically evil. Rather it is the tendency of the will to confuse the proper ordering of the incentives in its maxims. This tendency cannot be completely overcome, it can only be combated. corrupted condition. We begin in a The fundamental disposition of the agent must be judged not in terms of its purity or impurity in absolute terms, but rather in terms of its willingness to combat the condition of impurity which is always present to some degree. The method Kant recommends for fighting impurity is scrupulous examination of conscience. Indeed the "First Command of All Duties to Oneself" is to gain moral self-knowledge. Impartiality in appraising oneself in comparison with the law, and sincerity in acknowledging to oneself one's inner moral worth or lack of worth are duties to oneself that follow directly from this first command of self-knowledge. [MM 441-442/236] Sincere pursuit of self-knowledge helps to undermine a number of vices, not the least of which is egotistical self-esteem of the person convinced of the goodness of his own heart. The b as ic disposition of the will is never immediately manifest in our experience of even ourselves as agents. It can only be inferred from the more limited intentions we have in particular actions and projects. Yet even with regard to these, Kant notoriously maintains, we are never certain and are subject to a great deal of self-deception in interpreting the moral worth of our acts. The depths of the human heart are unfathomable. Who knows himse lf well enough to say, when he feels the incentive to fulfill his duty, whether it proceeds entirely from the representation of th~ �27 law or whether there are not many other sensible impulses contributing to it that look to one's advantage ... and that in other circumstances, could just as well serve vice. [MM 447/241) Examination of conscience must, therefore, always recognize the possibility that lawful actions are motivated by an impure will and work to guard against it. Persons lacking self-knowledge may frequently mistake impure motives for virtue. Very often he mistakes his own weakness, which counsels him against the venture of a misdeed, for virtue .. . ; and how many people who have lived long and guiltless lives may not be merely fortunate in having escaped so many temptations? In the case of any deed it remains hidden from the agent himself how much pure moral content there has been in his disposition. [MM 392-3/196] To the outside observer, and perhaps even to the agent himself, an impure will may seem no different than that of the purely dutiful agent. The greedy shopkeeper may always act in accord with duty and may be smugly self-satisfied on account of his conformity to the law. By contrast the frail individual who often acts against duty may have a much greater purity of will. He may feel the full force of his transgres sions , have a firm re solve to reform, and take steps for his improvement. Yet, to the external observer he seems much worse than the agent with the impure will who happens to act in legal conformi ty with duty. The agent with an impure will is, ne ve rthe l e ss, in the more da ngerous condition because he is much closer to slipping over into a fundamentally evil disposition. Ka nt's rigoristic approach to character, then, allows him to make subt l e and nuanced judgments about va riations in and types of vice and virtue. By distinguishi ng between the fundamental �28 disposition of the agent and his state of progress .in incorporating the ideal of moral perfection into his character, Kant is led to some rather surprising conclusions for a rigorist, who, it seems should divide everyone into sheep and goats. For example, he maintains that one should never attempt to make a final estimation of the basic moral worth of oneself or others. A tendency to moral self-condemnation and disgust with the evil state of one's character suggests a degree of respect for the moral law and may indicate a fundamentally good disposition. In judging others we can never acquire enough information to determine the true state of their basic disposition. Another surprising conclusion is his recognition that the frail character who acts against prescribed duties may have a fundamentally good disposition, while the impure age nt may act in accord with duty but be fundamentally evil in his disposition. KANT'S CRITICISM OF EUDAIMONISM How does all of this help us understand Kant's condemnation of eudaimonian ethics? Let us put his c r iticism before us . I quote here from the Metaphysics of Morals. When a thoughtful man has overcome incentives to vice and is aware of having done his often bitter duty, he finds himself in a state that could well be called happiness, a state of contentment and peace of soul in which virtue is its own reward. Now a eudaimonist says: This de light, this ha ppi ness is r e ally the mot i ve for acting virt uously. The concept of dut y does not de t e rmine his will directly. He is moved to do his duty only by means of the happiness he anticipates .... [T]here is a contradiction in this �29 reasoning. For on the one hand he ought to fulfill his duty without asking what effect this will have on his happiness, and so on moral grounds; but on the other hand he can recognize that something is his duty only when he can count on gaining happiness by doing it, and so in accordance with a sensibly dependent principle, which is the direct opposite of the moral principle. [MM 377-378/183) While the eudaimonist pursues a course of action that is in accord with virtue, as here characterized he is moved primarily by the happiness he anticipates will result from his action. He understands the nature of duty for its own sake; but his motive is so mixed with consequent satisfaction that he cannot even recognize his dUty unless he can count on it. He will act in accord with duty, but his motive is fundamentally impure. Kant's condemnation of eudaimonian ethics certainly does flow from the core of his moral theory. If we see his criticism as directed at modern eudaimonians, the people who we earlier saw Kant characterizes as latitudinarians, it also seems well considered. These philosophers do base morality on sensibly conditioned motives and argue that without such motives we would be unable to recognize or do our duty. Hume, in the closing pages of the Treatise, certainly sounds like just the sort of eudaimonist Kant has in mind. [W]ho can think any advantages of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the social virtues, when he considers not only his character with regard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely dependent upon his strict observance �30 of them; and a mind will never be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its part to mankind and society. 6 It is not difficult to understand Kant's negative reaction to the kind of duplicity he sees here. For Hurne, as for any moral sense advocate, ethics is based on an empirical impulse of benevolence that may or may not be stronger than conflicting motives of selfinterest. Trying to bolster this tenuous basis for ethical life with appeals to contentment and self-satisfaction merely adds one more empirical and contingent motive to the mix. Yet, Kant's condemnation of eudaimonian ethics does not does not seem fair or accurate when applied to the ancient philosophers whom he also seems to have in mind, namely, Aristotle and the Stoics. For both Aristotle and the Stoics, virtuous activity must be undertaken for the sake of the virtuous activity itself without regard to external goods the individual might acquire by being virtuous. One need not look far in their works to find passages asserting the necessity of being virtuous even at the expense of the sacrifice of all goods Kant associates with happiness. I quote here from the Nichomachean Ethics, Book III. [In] the case of courage ... death and wounds will be painful to the brave man and against his will, but he will face them because it is noble to do so and base not to do so . And the more he is possessed of virtue in its entirety and the happier he is, the more he will be pained at the thought of death; for life is best worth living for such a man, and he is knowingly losing the greatest goods, and this is painful. But he is none the less brave, and 6 Treatise of Human Nature, L.A. Selby-Bigge, ed., p.620. �31 perhaps all the more so, because he chooses noble deeds of war at that cost. 7 The virtuous activity that Aristotle considers essential to eudaimonia is not motivated by a desire for happiness as a consequence of virtuous actions. The virtuous man must choose virtue for its own sake. He is possessed of eudaimonia to a higher degree precisely because he is able to sacrifice goods external to the exercise of his virtue in order to exercise that virtue more perfectly. The Stoics, likewise, consider concern for anything external to the exercise of virtue for is own sake to be an impediment to virtue. Only one who has achieved a state of complete apathy to goods external to virtue is really acting virtuously. Indeed, the Stoics do maintain that this leads to a state of tranquillity, but the state of tranquillity is a result of living in harmony with one's true rational nature. Although stoic rhetoric on this point is at times confusing, desire for tranquility cannot be the primary motive for virtuous action if the action is really virtuous. Hence, it seems that what Aristotle and the Stoics mean by 'eudaimonia' is very different from what· Kant means by 'happiness.' Eudaimonia essentially involves the pursuit of virtue. For Aristotle, practicing moral virtue for its own sake is an intrinsic part of eudaimonia. 7 For the Stoics, it is the whole of eudaimonia. Nichomachean Ethics, David Ross tr., Book III ch. 9. �32 The happiness Kant speaks of is distinct from and consequent upon the exercise of virtue. For Kant, there is no intrinsic happiness in the exercise of virtue and there is no necessary connection between happiness we might have and the exercise of virtue. Is Kant then just wrong in his blanket condemnation of eudaimonian ethics? Does his criticism, at least in the case of the ancients, simply rest on a linguistic confusion, taking the ancient idea of eudaimonia for his own idea of happiness? not. I think I believe Kant is right to be suspicious of ancient doctrines of eudaimonia, if not quite for the same reason he rejects the modern eudaimonists. Central to the idea of ancient eudaimonian ethics is the belief that desire can be cultivated in such a way that reason and desire really share the same goals. In the man of perfect virtue, reason and desire are in perfect harmony with each other. Kant rejects this not only because he thinks it is a false conception of desire, but he also sees in it a threat to his rigoristic account of moral virtue. The mixture of reason and desire in the eudaimonist's ideal of virtue Kant perceives as a threat to the purity of virtue. It is useful in this light to consider Kant's criticism from the Metaphysics of Morals of Aristotle's account of virtue as a mean between extremes. [T)he well known principle (Aristotle's) that locates virtue in the [Note)* ... What distinguishes mean between two vices is false.* �33 avarice (as a vice) from thrift (as a virtue) is not that avarice carries thrift too far but that avarice has an entirely different principle (maxim), that of putting the end of economizing not in enjoyment of one's means, but merely in the possession of them, while denying oneself any enjoyment from them. In the same way, the vice of prodigality is not to be sought in excessive enjoyment of one's means but in the bad maxim which makes the use of one's means the sole end, without regard for preserving them. [MM 404/205, text and note] As Kant puts it elsewhere, if proper thrift is a mean between avarice and prodigality, one would pass through the virtue in moving from one vice to the other. being. a little less vicious. One could be virtuous by simply [MM 432/228] While Kant's condemnation of Aristotle's doctrine of the mean is certainly hasty in that he ignores the role of practical wisdom in the choice of the mean, the point he is making is clear enough. either vicious or they are not. Maxims are The path from vice to virtue requires first and foremost the conversion of the character from an evil maxim to a good one. Habituation of desires is valuable in enabling an agent to overcome his frailty and build strength that is necessary for consistently acting on a moral maxim. If his actions are not based on the proper maxim, however no amount of habituation to the mean will make the action virtuous. Thi s criticism of the doctrine of the mean suggests a deep and unbridgeable chasm between Kant and Aristotle. For Kant, the end that Aristotle proposes for moral life, the perfect harmonization of inclination and reason, is neither possible nor desirable. For Aristotle desire is a fundamentally different animal than it is for �34 Kant. Desires points us at a something good. That something is desirable tells us something about its intrinsic value. Untutored desire my attach to a good in the wrong context or to the wrong degree, but desire itself has an affinity with reason in that it indicates something about the true value of objects to which it attaches. Thus Aristotle can say [W]e must none the less suppose that in the soul too there is something beside the rational principle, resisting and opposing it ... Now even this seems to have a share in the rational principle ... ; at any rate in the continent man it obeys the rational principle-and presumably in the temperate and brave man it is still more obedient; for in him it speaks, on all matters, with the same voice as the rational principle. [NE I.13] Desire is capable of education in the Aristotelian scheme of things; it makes sense to talk of "those who desire and act in accordance with a rational principle ... " [NE I.3] In the case of the virtuous man, the good is indicated to him both by his desires and by his reason. The completeness of his virtue is indicated by the pleasure he takes in virtuous actions. [N]ot only is a horse pleasant to the lover of horses, and a spectacle pleasant to the lover of sights, but also in the same way just acts are pleasant to the lover of justice and in general virtuous acts are pleasant to the lover of virtue. Now for most men their pleasures are in conflict with one another because they are not by nature pleasant, but the lovers of the noble find pleasant things that are by nature pleasant; and virtuous actions are such, so that these are pleasant for such men as well as in their own nature. [NE I.8] Because desire participates in the rational principle the two faculties can come to share the same goals, take pleasure in the same things, and speak with one voice. �35 Like Aristotle, the Stoics find a strong natural affinity between reason and desire. The Stoics, of course, reject Aristotle's doctrine of the mean. They opt instead for the extremes of complete elimination of desires directed at goods external to the will and complete attachment of desire to the one true good internal to the will itself, namely correct willing and rational control of life. But the Stoics share with Aristotle the beliefs that desire is always directed at what is good and aversion at what is bad and that desires participate in the rational faculty. Inde$d, they often speak as if desire is nothing more than a confused way of thinking and as if desires are really judgments concerning the value of objects. Epictetus tells us, Remember that what is insulting is not the person who abuses you or hits you, but the judgment about them that they are insulting. So when someone irritates you be aware that what irritates you is your own belief. Most importantly, therefore, try not to be carried away by appearance, since if you gain time and delay you will control yourself more easily. [Encheiridion, Aphorism 20; see also Seneca, On Anger, II.1-3} To desire something is to judge it good. something is to judge it bad. To have an aversion to Since they are really forms of judgment, desires can be educated by philosophical moral guidance which reveals the true value of the object of desire. If reflection reveals an object of desire not to be a true good, the will is naturally led to detach itself from the desired object. The true good for the Stoic is to be found in the perfection of the act of willing itself and his virtue is an inner attitude that is �36 indifferent to the consequences of actions. It is, however, passionately attached to the good of the will itself, that is, maintaining control over the faculty of choice and acting in harmony with the agents true rational nature. 8 Kant will have none of this. For him reason and desire have very different objects. A desire to be dutiful is a contradiction in terms. The main task of moral development is the separation and purification of reason from desires. As his reflection on ethics develops Kant does devote a great deal of attention to the need to habituate the empirical components of our characters to strengthen emotions and feelings that can assist and to weaken desires and emotions that can hinder the performance of duty. But he rejects the idea that desires can have a share in or participate in the rational faculty. Desire is always subject to arbitrary factors of individual preference and is always empirically conditioned. The Stoics were notorious for their doctrine that 'externals' can add nothing to the happiness of the virtuous person. 11 ' But look you, ' 11 it is objected, 'is not the wise man happier if he has lived longer, if no pain has distracted him, than if he had always had to wrestle with misfortune?' 'Tell me [,' responds Seneca,] 'is he better or more honorable? If not, then neither is happier.' [ Seneca, "On the Happy Life, 11 The Stoic Philosophy of Seneca, Moses Hadas, ed., p.244; see also Epictetus, Discourses, 3.11, or Cicero, De Finibus, III.17-21] For extensive treatments of the relationship between reason and desire in the Stoics, see Nancy Sherman, Making a Necessity of Virtue, (New York: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1997), Ch. 3; J.B. Schneewind , "Kant and Stoic Ethics ," in Aris totle , Kant, and th e Stoics, S. Engstrom and J. Whiting editors, (New York: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1996), pp.285-301. 8 �37 Only experience can teach us what brings joy. Only the natural drives for food, drink, sex, rest, and movement, and (as our natural predispositions develop) for honor, for enlarging our knowledge, and so forth can tell each of us, and each only in his particular way, in what he will find these joys .... [MM 215/43) The arbitrary and personal nature of desire means that it can never tell us anything about the true value of the objects to which it is attached. Desire can never be educated. It can only be controlled. While Kant does admit that the cultivation of the taste for the arts and sciences may heighten sensitivity to our higher moral purpose, he views it as just as likely to corrupt the will by engendering false pride and vanity incompatible with duty. If duty and desire cannot have the same objects as their goals, the very idea of loving virtue is an impossibility. True virtue requires complete separation of motives of duty from motives based in the desires. The process of the acquisition of virtue requires distillation of the motive of duty, separating it from impurities. It is a process that requires no unique philosophical knowledge or special learning. [W]e do not in the make it attend, as do we show neither honest and good or least try to teach reason anything new but only Socrates did, to its own principle - and thereby science nor philosophy is needed in order to be even wise and virtuous. [G 404/16) Rather than pointing us toward the simple unadorned principle of moral duty, eudaimonists direct us to ideals which mix duty for duty's sake with other elements. The problem with the ancient eudaimonist, then, is not that he advocates a goal that is completely wrong or directly opposed to �38 duty. Rather, he places before us a moral ideal which cannot but foster an impure will. The impurity in question, however, is not a simple garden variety impurity in which the will is led to hedge and trim adherence to duty for duty's sake to accommodate easily understood passions and desires. It is rather an intellectual's perversion of . duty in which impurity is painted in a deceptively attractive light. The product of this deception Kant terms 'moral fanaticism,' a vice engendered, he tells us by novelists and sentimental educators as well as the strictest of all philosophers, the Stoics. [CprV 86/88-89) In the following passage Kant contrasts the disposition of the moral fanatic with that of the dutiful agent. The moral condition which he (the dutiful agent] can always be in is virtue, that is, moral disposition in conflict [with desire], and not holiness in the supposed possession of perfect purity of the intentions of the will. The mind is disposed to nothing but blatant moral fanaticism and e xaggerated self-conceit by exhortation to action as noble, sublime, magnanimous. By it people are led to the illusion that the determining ground of action is not duty, i.e., respect for the moral law whose yoke must be borne whether it is liked or not (though it is only a mild yoke, as imposed by reason) . This law always humbles them when they follow (obey) it , but by this kind of exhortation they come to think those actions are e xpected of them not because of duty but only because of their own bare merit. [CprR 84-5/87) The moral f anatic is like ly to forget the condition of moral degeneracy from which he has progressed, he will probably fail to correctly examine his own moral condition, and neglect to guard aga ins t the r eal threats to his virtue . One of the fe w us eful things that the moral philosopher can do for the ordinary moral �39 agent is warn him about the temptations of moral fanaticism. Because it is an intellectual's pipe dream, it needs a philosopher to diagnose it correctly. [I]t is indeed an important article for morality to warn us emphatically against such empty and fanciful desires, which are of ten nourished by novels and sometimes also by mystical presentations, similar to novels, of superhuman perfections and fanatical bliss. But such empty desires and longings, which expand the heart and make it weak, have an effect on the mind. They make it languish by depleting its powers, showing well enough how the mind is repeatedly strained by [these] ideas in trying to bring their objects into being. With each effort the mind sinks back into consciousness of its own impotence. 9 If a moral agent is seduced into believing he possesses the virtue advocated by the moral fanatic he will inevitably overestimate his own virtue. On the other hand, if he accepts the ideal of the fanatic, but honestly evaluates his own inability to make progress towards it, he will be discouraged. The goal he has adopted is not just stern and difficult; it cannot even begin to be approximated. Finding no way to it, he is liable to despair about the efficacy of moral effort. What then would Kant have us do? Other than avoiding novelists, sentimental educators, and eupaimonists, (and we do seem to spend a lot of time in the company of these characters here at St. John's) Kant would have us see that the conflict between duty and inclination is not just insurmountable, it is providential. 9 First Introduction to the Critique of Judgment, Academy edition of Kant's work, Vol. 20, p.231 note, my translation. It �40 is a creative tension without which we could not come to understand the nature of our moral purpose. Consciousness of duty is born of the awareness of the tension between duty and desire. Finite moral agents like us with one foot in the world of the sense and the other in the intelligible world of reason can flourish only with the recognition of the tension between the two and the claims of each. The aesthetic character of virtue is not that of beauty or harmony. Virtuous acts are not beautiful; they are sublime. They contain the subjugation of the finite and conditioned value of desire and its objects to the unconditional and infinite value of respect for the moral law. If Kant is right in this, then he is also right to see attempts to bridge the gap between reason and desire as destructive of the very core of moral agency. The illusion that better life awaits us in the happy land beyond our present divided moral condition is not only mistaken, it is potentially lethal to morality itself. In closing let me suggest that what I have done here is no more than scratch the surface to expose some of the major differences between Kant and the ancients. In order to adequately evaluate Kant's criticism much more needs to be done. At minimum the differences between Kant, Aristotle, and the Stoics on the nature of practical reason and its relation to desires will have to explored. Thorny issues such as why Arist otle says that practical reason is primarily involved in deliberation about means not ends �41 and while Kant holds exactly the reverse to be the case need to be explored. This will have, however, to wait until a later ocassion. Key to Citations References to Kant's works embedded in the text are as follows: CPR Critique of Pure Reason, Norman Kemp Smith translator. London: St. Martin's Press, 1929 . References are given in the standard 'A', first edition and 'B', second edition. CprR Critique of Practical Reason, Lewis White Beck translator. Indianapolis: Bobbs Merrill Press, 1956. First number of the citation is from Volume V of the Academy edition of Kant's work, second number is from English translation. G Grounding of the Metaphysics of Morals, James Ellington translator. Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 1981. [Volume IV of Academy edition/English translation.) IUH The Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Intent, in Perpetual Peace and other Essays. [Volume VIII of the Academy edition/ English translation.) J Critiaue of Judgment, Werner Pluhar translator. Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 1987. [Volume V of the Academy edition/English translation.] MM The Metaphysics of Morals, Mary Gregor translator. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991. [Volume VI of the Academy edition/English translation.] SBHH Speculative Beginning of Human History, in Perpetual Peace and Other Essays, Ted Humphrey translator. Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 1983. (Volume VIII of the Academy edition/English translation.] R ~R=e=l=i~o~i~o~n"'--w~1=·=t=h=i=n~t=h=e""-'L=1=·m==i~t~s--"o~f=-=R~e=a==s=o=n-"-'A=l~o~n~e, Theodore Greene and Hoyt Hudson translators. New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1960. [Volume VI of the Academy edition/ English translation.) �41 and while Kant holds exactly the reverse to be the case need to be explored. This will have, however, to wait until a later ocassion. Key to Citations References to Kant's works embedded in the text are as follows: CPR Critique of Pure Reason, Norman Kemp Smith translator. London: St. Martin's Press, 1929. References are given in the standard 'A', first edition and 'B', second edition. CprR Critique of Practical Reason, Lewis White Beck translator. Indianapolis: Bobbs Merrill Press, 1956. First number of the citation is from Volume V of the Academy edition of Kant's work, second number is from English translation. G Grounding of the Metaphysics of Morals, James Ellington translator. Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 1981. [Volume IV of Academy edition/English translation.] IUH The Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Intent, in Perpetual Peace and other Essays. [Volume VIII of the Academy edition/ English translation.] J Critique of Judgment, Werner Pluhar translator. Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 1987. [Volume V of the Academy edition/English translation.] MM The Metaphysics of Morals, Mary Gregor translator. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991. [Volume VI of the Academy edition/English translation.] SBHH Speculative Beginning of Human History, in Peroetual Peace and Other Essays, Ted Humphrey translator. Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 1983. [Volume VIII of the Academy edition/English translation.] R "'"R=e=l=i...,g...,i,,_,o..,,n~w:.:..1=·=t=h=i..,,n...._..t.....h=e=--L=i=·rn=i=t=s-""'oC::f'--"-R"""'e=a=s""'o""'n:..:....:A:..::.=l=o=n=e, Theodore Greene and Hoyt Hudson translators. New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1960. [Volume VI of the Academy edition/ English translation.] � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 42 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Must Eudaimonism Mean the Euthanasia of All Morals: Kant's Rigorism and the Morality of Happiness Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on April 20, 2001, by Daniel Kolb as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kolb, Daniel Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2001-04-20 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804. Ethics Aristotle. Ethics Happiness--Moral and ethical aspects Stoics Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Kolb 2001 Relation A related resource <a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/7871">Audio recording</a> Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/25ac0c7d0e280df2121eeb5dc8f3407c.mp3 c61fdfd42819b6ffefffbe83bf2a204a Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiocassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:01:39 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Must Eudaimonism Mean the Euthanasia of All Morals: Kant's Rigorism and the Morality of Happiness Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on April 20, 2001, by Daniel Kolb as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kolb, Daniel Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2001-04-20 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804. Ethics Aristotle. Ethics Happiness--Moral and ethical aspects Stoics Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Kolb_Daniel_2001-04-20_ac Relation A related resource <a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/7871">Typescript</a> Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/fe597e28a2e9110e99fe1c2edc8fc89e.mp3 c7449405b8bda4e595eacfa15ceba1be Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiocassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:04:34 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource In Defense of Cicero Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on October 31, 2008, by Walter Nicgorski as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Dr. Nicgorski describes his lecture: "The tradition of criticism of Cicero as a thinker consists in charges that his rhetorical interests and oratorical excellence intrude on his philosophical work, that he is more the patriot than the philosopher, that a busy life of political activism led him to be philosophically eclectic and superficial, and that his character, especially his ambition and pride, make him unworthy to be a philosophical guide in a search for a life-directing wisdom. This lecture, by attending to certain topics and passages in the writings of Cicero, looks to him to provide his own defense. The body of the lecture explores his Socratic orientation reaching to his very skepticism, his regard for Plato including his remarkable way of reading The Republic, his apparent elevation of political action and statesmanship over the life of philosophy, and his teaching on the virtues and natural law. What emerges from this partial and selective examination of his philosophical writings is, at the least, a prima facie case for a further, more careful and fuller engagement with his thinking." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Nicgorski, Walter Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2008-10-31 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Cicero, Marcus Tullius Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Nicgorski_Walter_2008-10-31_ac Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f1114f00c3e173aea36cfe4a34eb7b7e.mp3 d64e9ee49393593a8fa8f17160f69aa8 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audio cassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:54:00 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Circles of Sorrow: Dialectic and Grief in <em>Go Down Moses</em> Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on November 16, 2001, by Lael Gold as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Gold, Lael Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2001-11-16 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John’s College permission to: make a recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John’s College Greenfield Library; make typescript copies of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John’s College Greenfield Library; make a recording of my lecture available online; make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Faulkner, William, 1897-1962. Go down, Moses. Keats, John, 1795-1821. Ode on a Grecian urn. Bible--In literature Allusion in literature Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Gold_Lael_2001-11-16_ac Alumni Friday night lecture