James Lesher

It is a commonplace in our histories of Greek philosophy that the first thinker to fashion deductive arguments was Parmenides of Elea. One corollary of this view is that Ionian philosophers before Parmenides provided no arguments in support of their views. In what follows I offer a critique of this dismissive characterization, focusing on the first thinker for whom we have a substantial body of evidence, Xenophanes of Colophon. Specifically, Xenophanes argued that retelling the old stories of divine strife and warfare was out of keeping with the qualities of cleanliness and purity considered essential to a proper symposium. He held also that the presence of fossilized remains at inland and mountainous locations was best explained by positing cycles of worldwide flooding and drought, and he linked many other phenomena with the presence of earth and/or water. He also distinguished between having direct perceptual access to events and knowing the clear and sure truth about them, and concluded that about far-off matters such as the gods and the nature of all things no man can know the certain truth. He held also that a series of contrasts between divine and human attributes followed from an initial assumption of divine greatness.

In fragment B 12 Anaxagoras asserted: ‘And [Mind] has every gnômê concerning everything and is strong to the greatest degree.’ The definitions of gnômê given in the standard Greek lexicon cover a wide range: ‘mark’, ‘token’, ‘intelligence’, ‘thought’, ‘judgment’, ‘understanding’, ‘attention’, ‘conscience’, ‘reason’, ‘will’, ‘disposition’, ‘inclination’, ‘purpose’, ‘initiative’, ‘opinion’, ‘verdict’, ‘decision’, ‘proposition’, ‘resolution’, ‘advice’, and ‘maxim’. Taking a clue from the assonance of ischei (has) with ischuei (is strong), it would be natural to take both parts of the assertion to be concerned with the extent of Mind’s strength, and this would suggest the translation: ‘for it holds every decision concerning everything and (thereby) has the greatest strength’. So understood, both parts of the assertion would be reinforcing Anaxagoras’ basic claim that Mind ‘rules over’ (kratein) everything. Thus, what Anaxagoras’ cosmic nous does is provide just the kind of intelligent oversight nous typically provides in early Greek poetry and philosophy.

I argue that these inconsistencies in wording and practice reflect the existence of two distinct Aristotelian views of inquiry, one peculiar to the Posterior Analytics and the other put forward in the Physics and practiced in the Physics and in other treatises. Although the two views overlap to some degree (e.g. both regard a rudimentary understanding of the subject as an essential first stage), the view of the syllogism as the workhorse of scientific investigation and the related view of inquiry as a search for the ‘missing middle terms’ turn out to be ideas peculiar to the Analytics. Conversely, the techniques of analysis and differentiation highlighted in the Physics account receive only cursory attention in the Analytics. However, when we consider the character of Aristotle’s own inquiries, on both scientific and philosophical topics, it becomes clear that it is the Physics rather than the Posterior Analytics that gives us Aristotle’s considered view the path to knowledge.

On some accounts, early reflection on the nature of human cognition focused on its physical or physiological causes (as, for example, when in fragment 105 Empedocles identifies thought with blood). On other accounts, there was an identifiable process of semantic development in which a number of perception-oriented terms for knowing (e.g. gignôskô, oida, noeô, and suniêmi) took on a more intellectual orientation. Although some find evidence of this transition in the poems of Solon and Archilochus, appreciation for a distinction between sensing and knowing is more plausibly credited to the Presocratic thinkers Heraclitus and Parmenides. It is unclear whether Heraclitus regarded sense perception as an essential first stage in acquiring knowledge (or an inherently inferior form of awareness), but the goddess in Parmenides’ poem unambiguously urges the youth to whom she speaks to set aside the testimony of eye and ear and instead ‘judge by reason’ the nature of what-is.

Western philosophy begins with Thales, Anaximander, and Anaximenes. Or so we are told by Aristotle and many members of the later doxographical tradition. But a good case can be made that several centuries before the Milesian thinkers began their investigations, the poets of archaic Greece reflected on the limits of human intelligence and concluded that no mortal being could know the full and certain truth. Homer belittled the mental capacities of ‘creatures of a day’ and a series of poets of the archaic period declared that mortals think only in terms of ‘what they meet with’ while failing to detect the larger cycles that make for success or failure. While Xenophanes embraced this pessimistic tradition, a number of early thinkers (Heraclitus, Parmenides, Empedocles, and Philolaus) expressed a more positive view of the powers of human intelligence, at least in those who heard and took to heart their novel philosophical teachings.

On a number of occasions in Plato’s dialogues Socrates appears to disavow all knowledge. At Apology 21d, for example, Socrates says of one of his interlocutors: ‘He, having no knowledge, thinks he knows something, while I, having none, don’t think I have any,’ On other occasions, however, Socrates does claim to know some things: ‘It is not a mere guess to say that knowledge and right opinion are different. There are few things I would claim to know, but that at least is among them, whatever else is’ (Meno 98b). Gregory Vlastos has sought to show that Socrates did not contradict himself but operated on the basis of two different senses of ‘know’: ‘know in the sense of having certainty’ and ‘know on the basis of elenctic examination.’ I argue against Vlastos’ interpretation and propose instead that Socrates claimed to know various things, but not the essential nature of virtue.

It is a commonplace in our histories of early Greek thought that philosophical reflection began in the final decades of the 6th century BC when Thales and his Milesian associates launched their inquiries into various natural phenomena. The historians Goody and Watt argue that this sort of thinking could have begun only when alphabetic literacy was fairly widespread. I offer a critique of the Goody and Watt thesis and provide as a counter example various portions of the Homeric poems that merit classification as reflection on the nature of human knowledge and intelligence. The Odyssey in particular features a series of encounters between gods and men who perceive but fail to recognize each other. The contrast between the perceived and the known, the gap between the obvious appearance and the more subtle reality, becomes the space in which human intelligence can either assert itself or come to grief.

‘Of Ephesus’ begins with a series of vivid impressions of a wild and free nature—vineyards rolling across the landscape, an untrammeled sky, a runaway donkey, flaming pinecones, roosters, and colorful kites and flags. Fire in some form (wildfires, the sun, flames, torches, lightning, sunlight) is the hallmark of a dynamic reality. The reference to ‘St. Heraclitus’ supports this interpretation: Elytis, like Heraclitus, seeks to alert his audience to the possible existence of a higher realm of being. So he fashions a series of striking juxtapositions intended to disrupt our ordinary experience of the world and to spark a vision of an alternative reality. In the process he draws on Heraclitus’ doctrine of the unity of the opposites, on the conception of fire as the basic power that rules the cosmos, and on the conviction that beyond the world we know through ordinary sense experience lies a second, higher reality.

Arthur Danto claims that knowing that S is not a property of some individual knower M but a relation between M and some object O in the world, where O is what makes S true. For if knowledge were a property of M it would be possible to determine whether M knew simply by examining M, which is typically not the case (i.e. unless S happens to be about M). I argue that Danto errs in: (1) claiming that we can determine whether or not some assertion S is true only by observing the truth conditions for S; (2) claiming that we cannot determine whether s is true by examining M; and (3) claiming that since the statement that M knows that S ‘says something about both M and the world’ it must assert a relation between M and the world.

In an early poem, "Year's End", Jorge Luis Borges takes the turning of the year as an occasion to consider how "something in us" endures, despite the fact that we are products of "infinite random possibilities" and "droplets in the stream of Heraclitus": It is not the emblematic detail of replacing a two with a three, nor that barren metaphor that brings together a time that dies and another coming up nor yet the rounding out of some astronomical process that stuns and undermines the altiplano1 of this night, and compels us to keep listening for those twelve irreparable tollings of a bell. The true cause is a vague, pervasive apprehension of Time's enigma; a certain awe before the miracle that in spite of...

Malcolm Wilson begins his account of Aristotle’s philosophy of science by identifying a difficulty inherent in Aristotle’s general approach to understanding the nature of scientific thought: if we assume, with Aristotle, that the premises of a scientific demonstration must contain only terms predicable of a subject essentially (or per se) and ‘as such’ (or qua a particular kind of being), we risk being committed to a view of the sciences as a set of narrowly focused and unrelated areas of inquiry—as a ‘chaotic heap of disciplines’. Wilson contends that Aristotle succeeded in avoiding this difficulty by identifying four ways in which one science could be linked with another: either by subordination, analogy, ‘focality’, or ‘cumulation’. It seems clear that these principles figured in various aspects of Aristotle’s thought, and that each has the unifying capacity Wilson credits to it. What is less clear is how far Aristotle’s support for each principle rested on its capacity to solve the particular problem Wilson identifies.

In his Posterior Analytics Aristotle confronted a problem that threatened his vision of scientific knowledge as an axiomatic system: if scientific knowledge is demonstrative in character, and if the axioms of a science cannot themselves be demonstrated, then the most basic of all scientific principles will remain unknown. In the famous concluding chapter of this work (II 19), he claimed to solve this problem by distinguishing two kinds of knowledge: we cannot have epistêmê of the first principles, but we can have nous of them. This ‘solution’ has struck many students of his thought as hopelessly ad hoc and unpersuasive. And nowhere is Aristotle less persuasive than when he appeals to a faculty of intuition or a priori insight which arrives on the scene precisely when it is most needed. I defend Aristotle’s account by showing how nous is not properly characterized as a faculty of intuition which operates independently of sense experience. Rather, nous is a kind of knowledge that is available to us whenever our mind advances from the perception of particular individuals to grasp the relevant universal concept or general principle

Many of the poems of Louis MacNeice display a knowledge of the philosophical theories he studied during his undergraduate years in Oxford. In his ‘Variation on Heraclitus’ and in several other poems, MacNeice alludes to the ‘doctrine of flux’ Plato attributed to the Greek thinker Heraclitus of Ephesus. In ‘Plurality’, his most extended exploration of the conflict between the life-affirming doctrine of flux and a life-suppressing monism, MacNeice embraces the reality of change and rejects the monism he credits to the philosopher Parmenides of Elea: ‘World is not like that, world is full of blind/ Gulfs across the flat, jags against the mind/ Swollen or diminished according to the dice/ Foaming, never finished, never the same twice.’ Although his understanding of the teachings of Heraclitus and Parmenides was controversial, it provided MacNeice with a framework within which to reflect on the conditions essential to living a free and productive life.

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.