James Lesher

In his Treatise of Human Nature, Hume offers two definitions of ‘cause’. The first is framed in terms of the precedence and contiguity of objects. The second also mentions precedence and contiguity of objects but speaks also of the mind’s tendency on the appearance of the first object to form the idea of the second. Scholars disagree as to which constitutes Hume’s definition of cause properly speaking. Some hold that the ‘constant conjunction of objects’ version is Hume’s real definition, while others opt for the second, psychological version. I argue that Hume’s method of analysis holds that we explicate the meaning of words by tracing ideas back to their antecedent impressions. Since there are two different sets of antecedent impressions, one consisting of preceding and continuous objects and the other of such objects plus psychological determination, we must attribute to Hume the existence of two non-equivalent definitions of the term.

Diogenes Laertius reports that Xenophanes of Colophon said that τὰ πολλὰ ἥσσω νοῦ εἶναι— on one defensible translation: that ‘many things are weaker than mind.’ The remark has been interpreted in various ways, none of them entirely convincing. However, a review of the relevant fragments and ancient testimonia will provide the basis for a credible interpretation. Ultimately, it will emerge that the remark reflects Xenophanes’ understanding of the relationship between the divine mind and the cosmos.

Philosophical reflection on the conditions of knowledge did not begin in a cultural vacuum. Several centuries before the Ionian thinkers began their investigations, the Homeric bards had identified various factors that militate against a secure grasp of the truth. In the words of the ‘second invocation of the Muses’ in Iliad II: “you, goddesses, are present and know all things, whereas we mortals hear only a rumor and know nothing.” Similarly Archilochus: “Of such a sort, Glaucus, son of Leptines, is the mind of mortal man, whatever Zeus may bring him for the day, for he thinks such things as he meets with.” When one adds the truism that the scope of human experience pales in comparison with the synoptic view of events enjoyed by the gods, it follows that for most matters it is for the gods to know and mortals merely to conjecture. Traces of the older ‘poetic pessimism’ can be seen in the teachings of many of the first philosophers. Alcmaeon reaffirms that “while the gods enjoy clear and certain knowledge of all things, mortals must conjecture from signs” (B 1). Although Xenophanes encourages inquiry into a wide range of phenomena, he concludes that “No man has known nor will there be anyone who knows the clear and sure truth concerning the gods and what I say about all things” (B 34). And when philosophers begin to affirm a more optimistic view they often do so in terms that invite comparison with the older outlook. The chief truth Heraclitus claims to have discovered is the logos or ‘basic formula’ which holds everywhere and forever (B 1, 30, 80, and 90). Parmenides provides reason to think that human beings can discover the truth even about things located “far off” (B 4). And both Empedocles and Democritus contrast the inferior awareness of those “who think in terms of what they have met with” with the wisdom available to those who have heard and ponder their teachings (B 131). For these thinkers, separation in space and time—the old ‘locality problem’—no longer posed an impediment to knowledge.

This study forms a part of a larger investigation of the influence of the philosophy of Heraclitus of Ephesus on modern poetry. T. S. Eliot, to mention the best known of the many poets inspired by Heraclitus, selected two Heraclitus fragments (B 2 and B 60) as epigraphs for his “Burnt Norton”, the first of his Four Quartets. Eliot explained that he was drawn to the fragments because of their ‘ambiguity’ and ‘extraordinary poetic suggestiveness’. Similarly, in ‘This Solitude of Cataracts’, Wallace Stevens spoke of ‘the flecked river which kept flowing and never the same way twice’ and elsewhere noted the ‘inherently poetic quality’ of many Heraclitean sayings. To gain some sense of the nature and magnitude of Heraclitus’ legacy for modern poetry we must first explore his vision of ‘a fiery cosmos being kindled in measures and extinguished in measures’ and a river into which one cannot step twice.

In ‘Hoi Rheontes’ (‘The Flowing Ones’), Alfred Lord Tennyson adopted the Heraclitean simile of the flowing river in support of philosophical relativism: (1) all things are changing all the time; therefore (2) nothing is, but is only in the process of appearing to be in some way; therefore (3) all beliefs are true. But the relativist doctrine refutes itself: it can only be true relatively to those who assert it. In his ‘In May’ the American poet Michael Collier rejected what he regarded as Tennyson’s endorsement of skepticism concerning the senses. According to Collier, Heraclitus sought to show how there is pleasure to be found in sense experience. In his ‘Gift of Heraclitus’ the prize-winning Mexican poet José Emilio Pacheco drew on a dozen or so Heraclitean ideas to fashion an existential reflection on the human condition. Unlike natural substances, human reality is characterized by reflection, change, and unfulfilled desire.

Gerard Manley Hopkins is best remembered for his celebratory 'nature sonnets'— 'Pied Beauty', 'God's Grandeur', and 'The Windhover'. Less than a year before his death, however, Hopkins drew on ideas associated with the ancient Greek thinker Heraclitus of Ephesus to express a darker view of nature. In 'That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrection’ Hopkins offers a vision of nature and human existence marked by dissolution and destruction. But the poet rejects that apocalyptic vision in favor of the Christian promise of salvation: ‘in a flash, at a trumpet crash/ I am all at once what Christ is…’ In articulating his dark vision of nature Hopkins followed Heraclitus’ fragment B 30: ‘this cosmos…a fire.’ However, Heraclitus’ cosmos ‘always was, is, and will be, an ever-living fire, kindled in measures and extinguished in measures.’ It was not, therefore, the one-way descent to destruction Hopkins described.

‘Cataracts’ in Stevens’ poems are falling waters—here a river flowing near a mountain. The ‘apostrophe that was not spoken’ may be an address that was not made, perhaps an unspoken affirmation of nature’s beauty. And the river that ‘is never the same twice’ can only be the flowing river Plato claimed Heraclitus used as a simile for all existing things: ‘Heraclitus says somewhere that everything gives way and nothing remains, and likening existing things to the flow of a river, he says that you cannot step twice into the same river’ (Cratylus, 402a). There are five respects in which ‘This Solitude of Cataracts’ displays affinities with Heraclitean ideas: its use of a river as a simile for human experience, the poet’s desire to express the real nature of things, rivers and mountains as polar opposites, the exploitation of ambiguities, and the use of particulars as emblematic of general truths.

Robinson Jeffers’ dark view of humankind is thought to owe much to Friedrich Nietzsche while his admiration for the beauty of nature has been compared to sentiments expressed by Lucretius in de rerum natura. In many respects, however, the philosopher who stands closest to Jeffers in both thought and personality is the ancient Greek thinker Heraclitus of Ephesus. Jeffers’ extended poem ‘The Double Axe’ makes no fewer than five clear references to Heraclitean ideas: (1) ‘Heraclitus’ Sibyl whose voice reached over ten thousand years’; (2) the opposites ‘winter and summer…rain the drought, and peace and war; (3) ‘the eternal fire-wheel; (4) ‘One existence, one music, one organism, one life, one God: star-fire and rock-strength, the sea’s cold flow/And man’s dark soul; and (5) ‘This divine outer universe is after all not at peace with itself, but full of violent strains and conflicts. The physical world is ruled by opposing tensions.’

In ‘Burnt Norton’, the first of his ‘four quartets’, Eliot selected two Heraclitus’ fragments as epigraphs. In quoting fragment B 60 (‘the way up and the way down are one and the same’) he was reminding his readers that entrance into a spiritual life calls for both engagement and withdrawal, for both descending and ascending. And in quoting B 2 he reaffirmed Heraclitus’ conviction that most people fail to recognize the truth even when it is directly presented to them. In his later Cocktail Party Eliot revisited these themes by converting a depiction of a failed social gathering into an exploration of forms of authenticity. He also exploited the dual nature of the Heraclitean daimôn—as external overseer and as the soul which lies within each person—to transform an account of a gathering of friends and strangers into an extended reflection on the conflicts lying within each human soul.

As is clear from the multiple references to knowledge in the proemium of fragment B1, Parmenides presented himself to his audiences as one who had achieved a profound insight into the nature of ‘what-is’. In support of this claim he conducted an elenchos or ‘testing’ of the ways of inquiry available for thinking, in the process revealing a set of sêmata or ‘signs’ indicating that what-is an eternal, indivisible, and unchanging plenum. In each of these respects, Parmenides was speaking the language of discovery heard elsewhere in early Greek poetry. Similarly, his claim that we can neither learn nor know about what-is-not (hence must not say or think ‘it is not’) was justified by the ordinary meaning of the ancient Greek verbs for learning and knowing. Strikingly, Parmenides’ revisionary metaphysics rested in large measure on a widely shared view of what can be learned, known, and made known to others.

Sophocles’ Oedipus the King is an extended meditation on the limits of human intelligence, or more precisely, on how a man renowned for the power of his intellect could fail to know the most important truths. One could argue, however, that Sophocles intended for his audiences to take away a second, narrower lesson: namely that divinely inspired seers such as Tiresias have a surer claim on truth than do those who, like Oedipus, seek to gain knowledge through their own efforts. Thus, the Oedipus can be seen as a defense of prophecy and a reaction against the complex of scientific and philosophical ideas known as “the 5th-century Enlightenment.” I offer some support for this reading of the Oedipus. I also argue that part of the cultural background of the Oedipus consisted of ideas about knowledge introduced into Greek thought by the outspoken critic of Greek popular religion, Xenophanes of Colophon

In recent years some scholars have sought to apply the techniques of modern analytic philosophy to Plato’s writings. This has involved recasting portions of the dialogues as concisely stated deductive arguments, exploring questions relating to validity as well as to truth, exposing contradictions and equivocations, and making explicit all essential assumptions. The rationale behind this approach, as Gregory Vlastos has explained, is that ‘By means of these techniques we may now better understand some of the problems Plato attempted to solve and we are, therefore, better equipped to assess the merits of his solutions.’ Even in Plato’s more literary dialogues it has proven useful to consider what views may have been established through the use of argument. The clearest instance is the Symposium where attention to details of setting and characterization combines with the presentation of philosophical arguments to produce an extraordinary account of love and its relation to beauty.

Plato refers frequently to the views held by the early Greek thinkers we today call ‘the Presocratics’, typically while lining up witnesses for or against a philosophical thesis. His characters speak approvingly of the doctrines of Parmenides and the Pythagoreans but repudiate in the strongest terms the teachings of ‘atheistic materialists’ such as the Milesian inquirers into nature we today regard as the founders of Western philosophy and science. The chief failings of the materialists lay in not acknowledging the priority of soul over matter and not believing that a cosmic intelligence has arranged all things for the best. On occasion, Plato states a view held by a thinker he has elsewhere criticized and he is not above borrowing the ideas of others without identifying his source. Thus, while Plato’s dialogues are an invaluable source of information for the views of earlier thinkers, his representations must be read with caution.

Xenophanes was a poet and rhapsode who lived in Greece during the late sixth and early fifth centuries BCE. Surviving fragments of his poetry touch on proper conduct at symposia, the measures of personal excellence, and aspects of his interactions with various notable individuals. Xenophanes also characterized various natural phenomena as products of a set of basic physical substances and processes. In a series of remarks concerning the stories about the gods told by Homer and Hesiod, the true nature of the divine, and the tendency of believers to conceive of the gods as like themselves, Xenophanes explored questions central to the philosophy of religion. This essay addresses four questions: (1) Did Xenophanes espouse monotheism? (2) On what basis did he repudiate anthropomorphism in religion? (3) Why did he reject the possibility of knowledge concerning divine matters? and (4) How did he understand the relationship between god and the cosmos?

The second half of the 20th century may fairly be considered a golden age for the study of ancient philosophy. This period witnessed the creation of four English-language journals for specialists and two professional societies. Throughout this period there were numerous regional and national conferences, reading groups, NEH-sponsored summer seminars and institutes on various aspects of ancient thought, successful graduate programs in ancient philosophy at a sizable number of American universities, and a steady supply of jobs for specialists in the field. Seminal studies by Gregory Vlastos and G.E.L. Owen stimulated broad interest in ancient Greek philosophy by showing how the methods and issues explored by ancient thinkers were relevant to contemporary philosophical debates. On a less happy note, in recent years some influential analytic philosophers have discounted the value of work in the history of philosophy, and public funding for philosophy, along with other humanities fields, has declined sharply.

A satisfactory accounting of the current state of classical studies, at least in an American setting, requires consideration of the vitality of the connections between classics—understood as the study of the ancient civilizations of Greece and Rome as revealed in their languages, literature, art, architecture, and political institutions— and the disciplines of history, philosophy, literary criticism, political science, religious studies, archaeology, and art history. I argue that the relationship between classics and philosophy, at least in the context of American higher education, is marred by a significant degree of parochialism—as classicists deprecate the value of philosophical analysis, and as philosophers fail to avail themselves of the linguistic and literary expertise typically possessed by the professional classicist. To address these problems, I propose instituting approaches to research and teaching that foster an appreciation of expertise across disciplinary boundaries—team-taught or interdisciplinary courses and multi-disciplinary graduate seminars, conferences, and workshops.

Jean Delville was a central participant in the Symbolist movement in France and Belgium at the turn of the twentieth century. His monumental work, L’ Ecole de Platon, made its first public appearance at the 1898 Salon d’Art Idealiste in Brussels. Although two contemporary critics showered it with praise, the work has puzzled many viewers. Why, for example, does the central figure (one assumes Plato) bear a striking resemblance to Jesus as he is traditionally depicted? Why are those gathered around Plato (one assumes his students) shown nude or semi-nude, and in this particular arrangement? And how do the unusual colors, flora, and fauna contribute to the message Delville was seeking to convey? I argue that insights into the work can be gained by connecting it with a set of doctrines that go back to the Renaissance philosopher and translator Marsilio Ficino, and beyond Ficino, to the third-century philosopher Plotinus.

Diogenes Laertius reports (in his Lives of Eminent Philosophers ix 19) that Xenophanes of Colophon stated that ta polla hêssô nou (in some sense, ‘that the many give way to mind’). After reviewing four alternative but unsatisfactory ways of understanding the remark I argue that it is best understood as ‘the multitude of things (i.e. the cosmos) gives way to—is mastered by—the (divine) mind.’ When understood in this way the remark establishes Xenophanes as one of the earliest Greek thinkers to hold that events throughout the cosmos take place under the control of a supremely powerful divine intelligence.

This book provides a text, translation, and commentary on the forty-five fragments attributed to the ancient Greek poet and philosopher Xenophanes of Colophon. Part 1 contains almost all of the fragments credited to Xenophanes in the edition by Diels and Kranz. Part 2 consists of four interpretive commentaries on the fragments grouped by subject matter: On Men and Morals, On the Divine, On Nature, and on Human Understanding. Part 3 provides English translations of the collection of ancient testimonia and imitations included in Diels-Kranz. Also included are listings of ancient sources and authorities and three indexes. The aim of this work is to provide the basic information needed in order to assess Xenophanes' achievements as a philosopher. The author defends the view that Xenophanes was a central figure in the intellectual revolution which marks the beginning of Western philosophy and science.

As Reginald Allen has observed, ‘the afterlife and influence of Plato’s Symposium is nearly as broad as the breadth of humane letters in the West.’ I argue here that the dialogue’s appeal can be traced back to six features: (1) the high degree of artistry with which Plato organized the speeches in honor of the god Eros; (2) the symposium format which allows for the presentation of competing intellectual traditions and contrasting personalities; (3) the provision of a philosophical framework through which to understand the process through which the soul ascends from a physical to a spiritual realm: (4) the identification of a distinctively intellectual and spiritual kind of interpersonal relationship later known as ‘Platonic love’: (5) the presentation of a memorable portrait of Socrates in Alcibiades’ speech; and (6) an insightful account of the role played by passionate desire across a wide range of human activities.

In his monumental work Das Gastmahl des Platon (1869) the artist Anselm Feuerbach depicted the scene in Plato’s Symposium in which a drunken Alcibiades, accompanied by a band of revelers, enters the dining chamber of the house of the poet Agathon. We have reason to attribute three aims to the artist: (1) to recreate a famous scene from ancient Greek literature, making extensive use of recent archaeological discoveries in southern Italy; (2) through the depiction of a senate and dignified Agathon, to convey a sense of the nobility of the ancient Greeks; and (3) to express in visual terms the contrast of reason with desire. As he set out to accomplish these objectives Feuerbach displayed considerable indifference to the details in Plato’s depiction. Thus, what Das Gastmahl offers us is less Plato’s symposium and more Feuerbach’s symposium, a visually striking but in several respects unfaithful recreation of the Platonic original.

A ‘pious pessimism’ pervaded much of archaic Greek poetry: ‘It is for the gods to know and men merely to opine’ was the prevailing sentiment. However, in the late 6th century a set of independent-minded individuals began to move away from the older pessimism to embrace a more optimistic and secular outlook. In various ways they maintained that mere mortals could, if they were prepared to undertake the appropriate inquiries, achieve a clear and sure understanding of the entire cosmos. Heraclitus and Parmenides offered the most detailed lines of investigation, but both Pythagoras and Empedocles presented themselves as savants able and willing to impart their wisdom to all those prepared to listen to and embrace their teachings. Among the most important elements in this transition were the concepts of phusis or the essential nature of a th’ing, and the logos or rational account in which that nature could be formulated.

In fragment B 1 Heraclitus claims to have achieved a profound insight into the nature of things: ‘distinguishing each thing in accordance with its nature and explaining how it is.’ In a number of similarly cryptic remarks, he offers a series of clues to the nature of that insight. It is properly spoken of as noos or wisdom rather than as learning from experience (B 17, 28a, 40, 45, 54, 104, 107, 123). It consists of xunesis or understanding what is common (B 2, 80, 89, 103) and requires paying attention (B 86, 118, 112) to how things opposed to one another are actually in agreement (B 8, 10, 12, 80, 88). In making these cryptic remarks Heraclitus was seeking to make his audience aware of the possibility that they might achieve a deep insight into the nature of the cosmos and their place within the larger scheme of things.

A course on the afterlife of Plato’s Symposium can accomplish two worthwhile objectives. It can afford students an opportunity to study a philosophical and literary masterpiece, and it can introduce them to some of the main currents in modern European culture. One recent iteration of such a course addressed six questions: (1) Why might Plato have chosen to write a dialogue about a ‘drinking party’? (2) Why did Plato present multiple speeches on the nature of Eros? (3) Why have some philosophers found fault with Socrates’ view of Eros? (4) How was this view embraced by the Neoplatonic thinkers Proclus and Plotinus? (5) How did Ficino’s de Amore bring the notion of a ‘Platonic Love’ to a series of European poets and artists? and (6) How did the view of love put forward in the Symposium inspire English poets from Ben Johnson and Sir Philip Sidney to Keats and Shelley?

Interdisciplinary or team-taught courses pose special challenges and make special demands on the instructors. Yet they also offer special opportunities for learning—for instructor and student alike. This paper describes one such course taught at the University of Maryland by a historian (Kenneth Holum), an art historian (Elisabeth Pemberton), and a philosopher (James Lesher), focused on the art, politics, and philosophical environment of 5th-century Athens. Three themes emerged over the course of the semester: the centrality of the family in Athenian society, the emergence of the individual as a new focus of interest in art and society, human nature as a new subject of study, and the phenomenon of cross-fertilization or ‘bi-sociation’ as the ideas developed in one field were adapted for use in other disciplines. For all their special burdens and challenges, courses such as this one can provide an opportunity to explore philosophical theorizing from a new perspective.