Emily Kress

Aristotle claims that in making an animal, nature acts like a “good housekeeper” who “is accustomed to throw out nothing from which it is possible to make something useful” (744b16–17). How does nature act when it “make[s] something useful” in these cases – and does it differ from other ways it acts? I defend two main claims. The first is that Meteor. 4.2’s distinction between two sorts of ‘concoction’ processes offers an underappreciated source of evidence for answering this question. My second claim concerns the nature of those processes and the ends they realize. While they are both the ends of their respective types of concoction, they differ in that some essential (process-defining) features of the second end – but not the first – are supplied by what the capacities of the “underlying” patient (on which the agent acts) are for. The result is a distinction between two kinds of end-directed efficient causation.

Aristotle (in)famously claims that “femaleness” is “as it were a deformity”, though “natural” (GA 4.6, 775a15-6), and that women’s deliberative faculties are “without authority” (Pol. 1.13, 1260a14). How are these claims – one biological, one political – to be understood? How (if at all) do they fit together? And how can Aristotle make them while also holding – as he seems to – that females are somehow valuable? Deslauriers’ impressive new book takes on these questions. It defends two main theses. The first concerns Aristotle’s biological and political accounts of sexual difference and the questions they address. It is that while Aristotle does think females are inferior to males, in both domains, his project is nevertheless to figure out why it is better to have them around: to show why sexual difference is good. This allows Deslauriers to defend her second thesis: that there is a connection between those domains.

Here is a fact about humans: we use our senses to pick up on things around us and our intellect to understand whatever is out there to be understood. In Mind and World in Aristotle’s De Anima, Kelsey argues that this fact is, in Aristotle’s view, in need of an explanation. He finds one in De Anima 3.8’s suggestion that “intelligence [is] form of forms, and sensibility form of sensibilia” (432a2–3; quoted on p. 2). Roughly, his proposal is that our sensibility and intelligence “enter into the very idea” of their objects; they know them because they help make them what they are (20). This is an admirably adventurous thesis, and Kelsey’s arguments for it are likewise so. A particular strength, in fact, is the way the book brings out what is at stake philosophically in familiar and seemingly obscure doctrines alike. Two highlights, which I discuss below, are its discussions of how Aristotle’s engagement with his predecessors shapes his questions (and then makes it hard to answer them) and of how his account of perceptible qualities helps him meet this challenge. This book is therefore a significant contribution to scholarship on the De Anima (DA), and it will be of great value to scholars working on Aristotle’s philosophy of mind. Part of what makes it valuable, moreover, is how it encourages us to ask better questions about core Aristotelian doctrines: while some of Kelsey’s proposals (especially his account of per se causation, which I discuss below) are provocative, they are always productively so.

Devin Henry’s excellent book takes on Aristotle’s theory of substantial generation. Substantial generation is the sort of “unqualified” change in which a substance comes to be: it is what happens when Socrates comes to be, rather than when he grows a centimetre taller (1). Henry’s overarching argument is that “Aristotle employs a single model of generation throughout the corpus”: the hylomorphic model. This argument comes in two stages. Chapters 2-4 introduce the three principles of the hylomorphic model: matter, form, and efficient cause. Chapters 5-8 consider these principles in Aristotle’s account of animal generation. This discussion is framed by an introduction and two chapters that consider the wider context: Aristotle’s reaction to his intellectual inheritance and his cosmological perspective on generation. The result is a thoughtful, systematic account of Aristotle’s theory and the biological details that fill it out in practice. Its central moves are philosophically rich, well-argued, and responsive to a variety of texts. Indeed, a significant strength is its sustained attention to not only to the implications of the Physics and GC’s more abstract framework for our understanding of the biological details, but also the puzzles those details raise for the theoretical account. Moreover, its careful analysis and formulations of existing debates point up important questions.

I offer a fresh interpretation of the dialectical strategy of Physics 2.8’s arguments that things in nature happen for the sake of something. Whereas many recent interpreters have concluded that these arguments inevitably beg the question against Aristotle’s opponents, I argue that they constitute a careful attempt to build common ground with an opponent who rejects Aristotle’s basic worldview. This common ground, first articulated in the famous Winter Rain Argument, takes the form of an intriguing pattern of reasoning: that natural proceedings that happen in a given manner always or for the most part do not do so by chance.

Parts of Animals II.10 makes a new beginning in Aristotle’s study of animals. In it, Aristotle proposes to “now speak as if we are once more at an origin, beginning first with those things that are primary” (655b28-9). This is the start of his account of the non-uniform parts of blooded animals: parts such as eyes, noses, mouths, etc., as opposed to uniform parts like blood and flesh. PA II.10 proposes a new strategy for studying these parts: “one ought to speak about the human kind first” (656a10). Beginning “first” with the “primary” things thus amounts to beginning with humans (655b28-9). Why does Aristotle think this strategy is appropriate for his project? One answer is that it reflects a fundamental anthropocentrism. Lloyd, for instance, has raised the possibility that the basic assumptions that guide Aristotle’s biology may to some extent reflect the anthropocentrism of his culture, where the relation of humans to animals was “a preoccupation of popular beliefs”. In this paper, I develop an interpretation that both builds on and challenges this suggestion. I do so by investigating how Aristotle thinks this strategy works in theory and in practice: his justifications for adopting it and its interaction with his scientific commitments. I argue that Aristotle adopts it in part because he thinks that humans are such that his scientific concepts apply to them in a particularly clear way. (This too is a form of anthropocentrism: one that might be resisted by arguing that humans are not the best illustrations of these concepts—that Aristotle ought to look elsewhere for models with the features he desires.) More specifically, Aristotle holds that starting with humans helps establish the causal explanations of the parts of other animals, particularly when they are recalcitrant. What makes humans suitable for this role is a special teleological relation between their parts and the ends they serve: in humans, he supposes, this connection is particularly tight (in a way I explain below). Consequently, Aristotle thinks he can use humans to illuminate which sorts of features tend to be for the sake of which ends, and then extend the results of this inquiry to the parts of the other animals.

Aristotle claims that just as a builder uses ‘tools’ to build a house, so too the soul ‘use[s] heat and coldness as tools’ to build an animal (Generation of Animals 740b25–34). I consider two questions about this claim: (1) what sorts of things does the soul use, and what is it for things like them to be organized? and (2) what philosophical work does this sort of organization do in Aristotle’s account of animal generation? I argue that the soul needs flexible intermediate agents, that it organizes them in a way that exploits their flexibility, and that this is due to the demands of a complex, multi-stage process directed at a single end.

In Physics 2.4–6, Aristotle offers an account of things that happen “by luck” (ἀπὸ τύχης) and “spontaneously” (ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου). Many of these things are what we might think of as “lucky breaks”: cases where things go well for us, even though we don’t expect them to. In Physics 2.5, Aristotle illustrates this idea with the case of a man who goes to the market for some reason unrelated to collecting a debt he is owed (197a17–8). While he is there, this man just so happens to run into his debtor and get his money back—which is what he “wanted” all along (196a4). This case has a number of features that have proved puzzling. Most notably, Aristotle seems to think that while “it happened accidentally to him to come and to do this for the sake of getting the money”, nevertheless the man “did not come for the sake of this”—though he “would have” (196b34–6). What must such a proceeding be like to be described in these ways? Physics 2.4–6 makes several important moves towards answering this question. One of them—among the earliest and seemingly a foundational one—is the claim that “for the sake of something are as many things as could be done by thought and by nature” (196b21–2). The aim of this paper is to identify the role that this claim plays in Aristotle’s account of spontaneous proceedings. It defends two main claims. First, Aristotle’s suggestion that spontaneous proceedings could be done by nature and by thought is the product of a more general strategy. His approach is to sketch an intuitive pattern of explanation for proceedings that happen for the sake of something in the ordinary—non-spontaneous—way, and then to try to extend that model to the case of things that do so spontaneously, preserving as much of it as possible. Applying this strategy reveals that whereas nature and thought in fact function as efficient causes of ordinary proceedings that are for the sake of something, this cannot be the case in spontaneous ones. Instead, nature and thought could function as their causes. Second, I argue that Aristotle’s implementation of this strategy is rooted in his account of causation and especially Physics 2.3’s list of “modes” (τρόποι) of causes. When he claims that spontaneous proceedings “could” be done by nature and by thought, he is saying that nature (in natural cases) and thought (in practical ones) are their efficient causes in capacity. In the practical case, spontaneous proceedings are caused by agents who have certain capacities, connected with their desires and abilities. In the right circumstances, these agents would actively exercise those capacities in acting for the sake of a given end.

Aristotle contrasts standard animal generation with ‘spontaneous generation’, which happens when some material putrefies and gives rise to a new organism. This paper addresses two interrelated puzzles about spontaneous generation. First, is it of the same ‘fundamental kind’ of causal process as standard generation? Second, is it ‘spontaneous’, as understood in Physics 2.4–6: rare, accidentally caused, and among things that are for the sake of something? I argue that both puzzles turn on the same questions about the process types involved. I show that the type putrefaction plays a more important role in spontaneous generation than has been recognized so far. Because putrefaction does not play this role in standard generation, the two processes are of different ‘fundamental’ kinds. Moreover, spontaneous generation happens rarely in that it is rare for processes of putrefaction to happen in such a way that they can also be described in terms of concoction.

In his Treatise of Human Nature, Hume defines a belief as "a lively idea related to or associated with a present impression".1 He offers variations on this definition throughout the work, writing, for instance, that "belief is a more vivid and intense conception of an idea, proceeding from its relation to a present impression" and that his "general position" is "that an opinion or belief is nothing but a strong and lively idea deriv'd from a present impression related to it". Lest his readers misunderstand, Hume endeavours to clarify these notions of "vivacity" and "liveliness" by appealing to a cluster of other notions, such...