Jay R. Elliott

Stanley Cavell’s approach to film is distinguished by his insistence on a deep connection between the recurring preoccupations of certain classical Hollywood genres, on the one hand, and the philosophical problem of other minds skepticism, on the other. In his groundbreaking 1981 book Pursuits of Happiness, Cavell argued that a series of films he dubbed “comedies of remarriage” represent profound and original sources of thought about the conditions in which one can come to know the subjectivity of another. According to Cavell, these films demonstrate how this knowledge is achieved, not through an abstract intellectual argument, but through a certain mode of living together: a practice of marriage that Cavell calls, following John Milton, a “meet and happy conversation.” In this chapter, I focus on Cavell’s attempt, in his 1996 book Contesting Tears, to elaborate a “companion genre” to the remarriage comedies, one that he terms “the melodrama of the unknown woman.” This later work is remarkably ambitious in its attempt to bring the themes of Cavell’s earlier writings on film into a closer conversation with some of the characteristic concerns of feminism, especially the structural injustice built into traditional forms of marriage. Through his renewed openness to doubt about whether marriage can constitute a scene of genuine acknowledgment between men and women, the Cavell of Contesting Tears presents a profound challenge to his own earlier work. For all of its ambitions, however, Contesting Tears has the air of an unfulfilled promise: it has neither found a comfortable place in Cavell’s oeuvre nor been warmly received by the feminist thinkers he hoped to engage. I aim to celebrate the ambitions of Contesting Tears, to explain why the project failed and to draw a series of lessons from its failure for how we should inherit Cavell’s approach to aesthetic understanding.

Dans ses écrits biologiques et éthiques, Aristote affirme explicitement que les animaux non humains sont capables d’action volontaire. Mais d’autres aspects de son traitement du volontaire dans ces mêmes écrits semblent contredire cette affirmation et impliquer que le volontaire nécessite une faculté rationnelle spécifiquement humaine. Les lecteurs d’Aristote ont proposé diverses solutions à ce problème. Un premier groupe dit qu’Aristote définit le volontaire uniquement en termes de capacités que nous partageons avec les autres animaux. D’autres proposent que le volontaire au sens propre soit uniquement humain, et qu’Aristote attribue le volontaire aux autres animaux seulement par métaphore. Un troisième groupe soutient qu’Aristote distingue implicitement le volontaire, que nous partageons avec les autres animaux, et la responsabilité morale, qui n’appartient qu’aux êtres rationnels. Je propose une alternative à ces approches habituelles. Je démontre que le volontaire chez Aristote fonctionne comme un genre, divisé en espèces rationnelle et non rationnelle.

In Nicomachean Ethics III.5, Aristotle argues that virtue and vice are “up to us and voluntary.” Readers have long struggled to make sense of Aristotle’s arguments in this chapter and to explain how they cohere with the rest of his ethical project. Among the most influential lines of complaint is that the argument of III.5 appears to contradict his emphasis elsewhere on the power of upbringing to shape character, beginning in childhood. Scholars have developed two main interpretive approaches to III.5, which I label “libertarian” and “compatibilist.” I argue that neither approach succeeds in removing the appearance of contradiction. I develop an alternative interpretation that reveals the coherence of Aristotle’s commitments, showing that for him the voluntariness of character and the power of upbringing are in reality two sides of the same philosophical coin. Both are grounded in his fundamental idea that virtue and vice are acquired by practice.

For Plato and Aristotle, arete (traditionally translated as "virtue") was the essential object of human admiration and striving, and even the key to happiness. Their work continues to inspire reflection on fundamental questions of ethics and politics today, as the fourteen new essays collected here demonstrate. Contributors: Lidia Palumbo, Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides, Ryan M. Brown, Jay R. Elliott, Guilherme Domingues da Motta, Federico Casella, Jonathan A. Buttaci, George Harvey, Mark Ralkowski, Gary S. Beck, Paula Gottlieb, Giulio di Basilio, Audrey L. Anton, and Elena Bartolini.

Scholars have long debated how exactly Aristotle thinks that agents acquire the distinctivearchai(“principles” or “starting‐points”) that govern their practical reasoning. The debate has traditionally been dominated by anti‐intellectualists, who hold that for Aristotle all agents acquire theirarchaisolely through a process of habituation in the nonrational soul. Their traditional opponents, the intellectualists, focus their argument on the case of the virtuous person, arguing that in Aristotle’s view virtuous agents acquire theirarchaithrough a process of reasoning. I intervene in this debate in two main ways: first, I press a heretofore underappreciated objection against anti‐intellectualism, that it is inconsistent with Aristotle’s account ofakrasia; and second, I urge that all sides in the debate would benefit from more sustained attention to Aristotle’s nonvirtuous character types. In the final section, I suggest that proper consideration of the full breadth of Aristotle’s account of character points in the direction of a new approach that I call “character pluralism,” according to which Aristotle’s moral psychology does not involve a single conception of psychic structure or moral development that is equally applicable to all character types.

Did Plato see something that Aristotle missed? According to a familiar narrative, Plato regarded literature as dangerous to the aims of philosophy, and he accordingly exiled the poets from his ideal republic. By contrast, Aristotle is supposed to have reconciled literature and philosophy, not only through his appreciative account of epic and tragedy in the Poetics but also through his invocations of literary examples at crucial junctures elsewhere in his corpus, for example his use of the Trojan legend of Priam in the Nicomachean Ethics.

Contemporary philosophers and psychologists seek the roots of ethically sound forms of behavior, including altruism and a sense of fairness, in the basic structure of cooperative action. I argue that recent work on cooperation in both philosophy and psychology has been hampered by what I call “the mutualistic paradigm.” The mutualistic paradigm treats one kind of cooperative situation—what I call a “mutualistic situation”—as paradigmatic of cooperation in general. In mutualistic situations, such as the primeval stag hunt described by Brian Skyrms, every partner in a cooperative action has to do his part in order for the action as a whole to succeed. But many familiar cooperative situations—for example, serving on an academic committee—do not have this structure. Contemporary philosophers and psychologists are right that thinking about cooperation can shed light on how and why ethically sound behavior happens in human beings. But the deep connections between ethics and cooperation only come into view once we have a richer conception of our capacities for cooperation than the mutualistic paradigm provides