A History of Ancient Philosophy

From the Beginning to Augustine

Karsten Friis Johansen, Henrik Rosenmeier

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2005
• ISBN:
  9781134798247
• Edition: 1
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Ancient History
• Index: History

Translated by Henrik Rosenmeier, A History of Ancient Philosophy charts the origins and development of ancient philosophical thought. For easy reference, the book is divided chronologically into six main parts. The sections are further divided into philosophers and philosophical movements:
*Pre-Socratic Philosophy, including mythology, the Pythagoreans and Parmenides
*The Great Century of Athens, including the Sophists and Socrates
*Plato, including The Republic, The Symposium and The Timaeus
*Aristotle, including The Physics, The Metaphysics and The Poetics
*Hellenistic Philosophy, including the Sceptics, the Stoics, the Epicureans and Cicero
*Late Antiquity, including Neoplatonism, Origen and St Augustine.
This comprehensive and meticulously documented book is structured to make ancient philosophical thought and ancient thinkers accessible. It contains:
*full references to primary sources
*detailed interpretations of key philosophical passages, including surveys of previous philosophical readings
*an overview of the development of ancient philosophical thought
*discussions of the relationships between philosophers and their ideas
*analyses of key philosophical concepts and ideologies including ontology, epistemology, logic, semantics, moral and political philosophy, theology and aesthetics
*explanations of Greek philosophical terminology.

PART I
PRESOCRATIC PHILOSOPHY

1
MYTH, POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY

Greek philosophy arose during the sixth century BC. Like us, the Greeks asked themselves how it all came about. Aristotle ties this to the problem of the nature of philosophy (Aristot. Met. 980 a 21 ff.). Philosophy builds on experience, though it is not experience. Experience deals with the particular, philosophy or science with the universal. The practical man—for example, the artisan—knows what he has to do in a given situation. The theoretician or philosopher knows the causes, for he not only knows that this or that is the case, he also knows why. Practical discoveries, Aristotle continues, are the first to appear in the development of mankind. It is not until the material needs have been met that it becomes possible for someone to devote himself to speculation. This happened in Egypt where the priesthood had enough time to study mathematics. Aristotle further notes that theoretical speculation is at all times more highly regarded, because its aim is not some practical application. In fact, theoretical knowledge, just as the life of a free man, has its purpose in itself.

These Aristotelian considerations about the philosophy of history and sociology of knowledge are telling, even though they are not, strictly speaking, dependent on his definition of the nature of philosophy. To Aristotle, as to Plato, philosophy comes about because men wonder and without prejudice try to come up with rational explanations. What existed before philosophy was what Aristotle called theology, which is to say, mythology. But mythological explanations are not rational (cf. 1000 a 5 ff.). If the philosopher abandons his belief in rationality and order, he must surrender to chaos and the dark night of the ‘theologians’ (1071 b 26; 1072 a 18).

Philosophy originated only in few locations—in Greece, India and China—and it came about much later than religion. Poetic and religious interpretations of life seem to be universal human endeavours. Religion provides an explanation. Just as is the case with philosophy, it does not take the world to be what it pretends to be; yet it does not provide some distant explanation of ‘given’ phenomena that are reducible to universal causes. At the same time as religion is an interpretation of life, it is a way of life. By living in a society and in relation to nature men live in a relationship with the divine, and this relationship is not to be explained but to be experienced and confirmed. This has been described as not being an objective relation to a ‘this’ but as a personal one to a Thou’.

The relation of man to god is confirmed at the festival that ensures that the gods still sustain natural order and that the world will not fall back into chaos and the power of the demons. At the festival gods and men meet each other, and the protodrama is presented and repeated in which the gods—by annihilating the demonic powers—secured or created an orderly world. This occurs by cultic and ritual acts, by sacrifice, and by means of the language of the festival, the myth that relates the beginning of the world (Greek: arch ), ‘that time’, which is both primordial time and the present which in the feast recreates the first drama. Cult, rite, and myth are the basic elements of primitive religion, in the religions of the Mediterranean and thereby in Greek religion as well. And these elements continued to live until the advent of Christianity. In Athens, Delphi, and throughout the Greek world the festival drama endured, even though poets and philosophers by and by spoke about god, the world and man in quite a different language. It was only slowly that the old, traditional religion came to be thought of as empty ceremony. The fact that the old religion had so much vitality is connected with its dependence on institutionalized practice, on action, and on its not containing a systematized theology. Greek religion is free of dogma. The myth is an account which early came to balance subtly on the borderline between faith and fable. It is not an authorized, intellectual, religious verity. Therefore a Greek poet or thinker was able to have his own personal, sublime view of god and at the same time he could with the clearest conscience in the world participate in the cultic festival—the cult can continue to be the traditional expression of that which a community of men has in common and which thought cannot grasp. But if religion is not revealed theology, the cult is precisely a social affair: to omit sacrifices is therefore the same as disavowal of the community of both god and state.

Greek religion is polytheistic. This does not mean that the mythological host of closely related gods, each with his own official area of responsibility, provide an adequate picture. A god resides in a sanctuary, be it Zeus, Apollo, or Athena, but remains first and foremost ‘the god’, yet also a god who protects a special area of life and permits the worship of a related god—often in the same sanctuary. But only a rationalizing mythology will attempt to specify the tasks of the individual gods. The god is—to use an awkward modern expression—a personification, which means that he is both a person and a power. Probably this is why proclaimed atheists are so rare in the Greek world. To deny the existence of Aphrodite, for example, would be absurd, for it would be tantamount to denying the existence of the erotic.

The basic elements of Greek religion that have been sketched in the preceding correspond with what is known about other religions in the Mediterranean area. But the common features allow for many possible variations, and there are many latent lines of development. The great exception is, of course, the development of the Jewish religion. To the Jews there is only one God, Jahve; He speaks to His people through the prophets; as we are told in Genesis, He created heaven and earth out of nothing by an act of will, but He is Himself transcendent, beyond created nature.

Otherwise in Egypt and Babylonia. In Amenhotep IV’s (Achenaton’s) famous hymn to the sun (fourteenth century BC) the sun and the god are one, and in the ritual Babylonian poem of creation Enuma elish (second millennium BC) both the world and the gods are created from the primordial waters, the male Apsu and the female Tiamat.

In Egypt the king was the god’s representative, and in both Egypt and Babylonia the priesthood had powerful social and political positions. Under such circumstances it was possible to develop and refine mythical thinking. Yet major departures would hardly have been possible.

In the Greek world, on the other hand, no powerful priesthood evolved, nor did an official mythology. This provided opportunities as probably nowhere else for a development and change of the ancient mythical way of thinking. Mythical thought is poetical, and if the tie between myth and cult is loosened, poetry can arise in its own right. This happened with Homer. The Iliad and the Odyssey are epic works of poetry in which the well- and deliberately-composed story is the superior consideration—superior to religion as well. In Homer the gods live in the Olympic skies, are eternal, happy and ‘easy-living’, but also angry, cunning, in discord and with human virtues and vices on a grand scale. In the universe of the epic it is first and foremost the task of the gods to participate in the action—the battles of Troy, the return of Ulysses. They rarely show themselves to men, but the poet allows his auditors to look over his shoulder so that we can see what the gods are up to and why things happen as they do. Thereby the gods get each his own face, but undeniably become a little less divine. This is not to say that Homer is irreligious, but only that an epic poet does not write theology. Nevertheless, the Homeric Pantheon was to occupy a significant place in the minds of the Greeks. All Greeks knew Homer, and the connection between the old festive religion and the Homeric Pantheon is a unique Greek phenomenon. Through Homer other religious ideas were transmitted as well: the ancient thought of water as the progenitor of everything— in Homer the river Okeanos, which floats around the world (Hom. Il. XIV 200; 244; cf. Enuma elish) and the thought of fate—moira or aisa—the lot that is accorded every man at birth (cf. Il. XX 127; Od. VII 196). Yet, at the same time, it is not a named god, but the Divinity or the guardian genius (ho daim n) who guides the steps of man (cf. XI 61). The epic poet communicates and reshapes the religion he lives in; but he does not systematize it.

But it is also possible to proceed from myth to mythology, to what might be called a quasirational interpretation of life. An example has been mentioned from Babylonian culture of mythological poetry that is still tied to the cult and thereby expresses an ‘official’ view. On Greek soil, Hesiod (probably c.700 BC) gave shape to his own personal mythology in the poem the Theogony (the Origin of the Gods).

Of the genesis of the world he writes:

Verily first of all did Chaos come into being, and then broad-bosomed Gaia [earth], a firm seat of all things for ever, and misty Tartaros in a recess of broad-wayed earth, and Eros, who is fairest among immortal gods, looser of limbs, and subdues in their breasts the mind and thoughtful counsel of all gods and all men. Out of Chaos, Erebos and black Night came into being; and from Night, again, came Aither and Day, whom she conceived and bore after mingling in love with Erebos. And earth first of all brought forth starry Ouranos [sky], equal to herself, to cover her completely round about, to be a firm seat for the blessed gods for ever. Then she brought forth tall mountains, lovely haunts of the divine nymphs who dwell in the woody mountains. She also gave birth to the unharvested sea, seething with its swell, Pontos, without delightful love; and then having lain with Ouranos she bore deep-eddying Okeanos.

(Hes. Theog. 116 ff.; trans. G.S.Kirk)

Subsequently the gods enter the world, father and son, until the coming of Zeus and his descendants who defeated the Titans, the enemies of the gods.

There are many rational elements in these lines. The question posed is what came first —Chaos, the chasm, which in its indefiniteness makes it impossible to ask what was before ‘first’. Then appear the two principal regions of the world: earth (Gaia) and the underworld (Tartaros) and Eros, the power that makes creation and procreation possible. Next the darkness of the underworld (Erebos) and Night are born, and they beget their contrast, the day and pure air (Aither). Thereafter the world—as we know it—appears gradually: heaven or the vault of heaven (Ouranos), the mountains, the sea (Pontos), and the primordial river (Okeanos).

This is different from Genesis where God created the world. There is no distinction between gods, nature, and power; and earth, underworld, Eros, day and night are ‘concepts’ or rather ‘persons’ of the same order. Yet things are orderly nevertheless. There is not only a rational before and after; there is also a causal explanation voiced by the sexual language and cosmic procreation. The world is explained through its beginning and birth (cosmogony), and the birth of the world explains the nature of the world.

So much for the rational. But there is an equally important non-rational aspect. Hesiod’s mythological explanation of the world is irrational in so far as he cannot be contradicted. He is not disposed to argue for or against. His words are their own authority, which finds its poetic expression in its not being Hesiod who speaks, but the Muses through Hesiod—just as the Muse speaks through Homer.

It is never the case that one mode of thinking suddenly is succeeded by another. Hesiod had his successors in his role as mythological systematist, for example Pherecydes from Syros (sixth century BC), a contemporary of the oldest philosophers. But he was influential considerably later than the sixth century. Like Homer, Hesiod became an integral part of Greek education—not only as a poet one could consider in aesthetic terms, but as a teacher to whose message one had to respond.

Hesiod also had long-lasting influence in another way. His cosmogony and theogony were continued by the mystical-religious movement, Orphism, but in a new context. As has become clear, Greek religion had several faces, and the world of the Pantheon did not consist exclusively of noble super-human figures spicing their blessed lives with Homeric family fights. Occupying a special position in the Pantheon was Demeter, the goddess of fertility, whose cult in Eleusis became a mystery cult for the initiated. And Dionysus had his own very special place among the gods. He was the god of wine, but above all of the irrational in man, of chaotic feelings and uncontrolled instincts, the wish for death, and the yearning for unification with the divine. Dionysus also had his own secret cult for the initiated—apparently an ecstatic cult without fixed rituals, unlike Demeter’s mysteries at Eleusis. The worship of Dionysus was a clear contrast to the typical cultic religion and to the Homeric Pantheon, and it is no mere accidental stroke of genius when Nietzsche speaks of the Apollonian and the Dionysian as opposite poles in the Greek attitude to life. The Greeks themselves felt the contrast, and probably wise religious politics were behind the introduction of the cult of Dionysus in Apollo’s shrine at Delphi.

Greek mysticism was no more of a private matter than was official religion, and the mystic conduct of life was channelled into congregations, the mystery cults. Yet the purpose was the redemption of the individual. It is difficult to distinguish between the various mystical-religious currents. Worship of Dionysus was, for example, integrated in Orphism, so named after the mythical singer Orpheus who journeyed to the Underworld in order to conquer Death. But soon Orphism also became connected with Pythagoreanism, which is why this particular movement has been especially important with respect to the history of philosophy. Orphism probably arose in the sixth century and must be considered as a manifestation of general religious protest. There are but few early —indirect—sources (the poet Pindar, for example), and the Orphic literature that has survived, which sought to systematize the movement’s world of thought, is late. Because of its ideas about the origin of the world and of the gods, it has ties back in time to Hesiod; but among other things speculations about a ‘cosmic egg’ (cf. Aristoph. Av. 693 ff.) suggest that there was a wish to amplify the analogy between cosmogony and the birth of a living being. More important, though, is the connection with the worship of Dionysus, for it is by its interpretation of man’s relation to the divine that Orphism is clearly opposed to traditional religious views. Orphism is an individualistic and dualistic religion of redemption for the initiated. Man is an individual composed of good and evil. The human soul is not—as to the mind of the ordinary Greek—tied to his body and this world. The soul, the real man, is a stranger visiting the body—Plato reports the Orphic creed that the body is a prison, and Euripides asks—probably inspired by Orphism— whether that which we call death is life and life death (Plat. Crat. 400 C; Eur. frg. 833 Nauck). Life is a punishment for misdeeds in a former existence, but man has a hope of happiness in the beyond. By spiritual and bodily purification the soul may posthumously achieve salvation and be united with the godhead. In an Orphic text from the fourth century we are told about him who has escaped the circuitous transmigration of the soul: ‘Happy and blessed. You shall become a God instead of a mortal’ (Orph. frg. 32 C Kern). From a philosophical point of view, it is the Orphic understanding of the soul and its life after death that is of special interest. Seen in its social context, Orphism is one among many religions of salvation with a special appeal to those who are unsuccessful in this life.

In fact the new religious currents also reflect profound changes in the structure of Greek society in the sixth century. Already in the eighth century, Greek colonies were founded as off-shoots from the mother states throughout the Mediterranean. But in the sixth century these developments accelerated—economically, socially, and politically. Money economy replaced natural economy. In a number of city states trade and crafts became more important, but the typical city state—the polis—continued to be a city with adjacent agrarian areas. The increasing amount of trade did, however, result in new farming practices: cultivation of grain crops was replaced by the planting of vineyards and olive trees, and thus a city state was no longer able to supply its own foodstuffs. The deeply rooted Greek ideal of the city state as an autonomous unit had to be realized in a new way, and the lack of economic stability led to considerable social upheavals. The need for cheap labour led to an increase in the number of slaves, and in the classic Greek city state the free (but rarely idle) citizen’s existence was dependent on slavery—often the number of slaves exceeded the number of citizens. But the balance between the social classes shifted in another way as well. The owners of capital—the nouveaux riches— outranked the old rural nobility and the smallholder. Naturally all this had political consequences. Sparta, which continued to be an agrarian state, preserved its ancient aristocratic government—the oligarchy. But the development in Athens was in many respects typical for the new city states. First a political compromise was attempted in order to correct social shortcomings (Solon). Next the social losers allied themselves with a powerful family (the Pisistratides), and one-man rule—tyranny—was established. Towards the end of the century this led to another reaction whereby tyranny was succeeded by democracy, the form of government in which the political and judicial powers are invested in the male citizens. There is some inner logic in the transition from oligarchy to tyranny, from tyranny to democracy, and this sequence of events lies behind later Greek theory of state, although it was considered in moral rather than social categories (Plato and Aristotle).

The social and political changes led, of course, not only to new religious movements but also to a new moral and intellectual focus and to reflection about norms that formerly more or less had been taken for granted. In the present chapter myth, poetry, and philosophy are dealt with as separate modes of interpreting existence. In the sixth century not only poetry, but philosophy as well, became emancipated without being severed suddenly from religion. In literature one poet after another comes forth and speaks in his own name. In lyrical poetry Sappho, for example, voices her own wholly personal feelings; her own mental states, her experience of love and nature are worlds unto themselves. But other poets—for example, Solon, Theognis, and Simonides—presented problems for debate. In Homer’s idealized world the hero’s moral obligations and privileges are consonant with his social status as a matter of course. But Homer is also able to distance himself from his ethics of nobility, and, for example, in the development of Achilles’ character he reveals new norms. And in a world in which the norms have changed, justice or happiness are no longer concepts that are immediately given by things and society as they are. They call for reflection and the question of a higher justice. Here there are, to be sure, also connective lines back—to Hesiod, for example. But Solon and Theognis are typical of the sixth century. They speak from personal experience, but they do so with the authority of the wise man—Solon as the acknowledged sage and Theognis as the worldly wise critic. Their mode of expression depends on the gnome, which is to say the general apophthegmatic rule of life couched in imperatives or categorically. We know such concise rules of life from the maxims that are attributed to the ‘Seven Wise’, among whom Solon belonged, and whom the Greeks considered the forerunners of philosophy— maxims such as ‘nothing to excess’, ‘know thyself, and ‘let not your tongue precede your reason’. An example from Solon shows the combination of worldly wisdom and general reflection. First he prays to the gods for riches and honour and for his remaining a friend to his friends and foe to his foes. Then he proceeds:

I do indeed want to have money, but to come by it unlawfully I will not allow, for the punishment for that will come afterwards in any case. The wealth granted by the Gods becomes man’s enduring possession from cornerstone to ridgepole. But that which man strives for by hubris does not come in an orderly way. It follows only reluctantly, led by the deeds of injustice and mingled with ruinous infatuation.

(Solon frg. 1, 7 ff. Diehl)

One can juxtapose this serene conservative confidence in justice as being what it was with Theognis’ protest:

How can it be just, King of the Gods, that the man who refrains from injustice and neither transgresses nor breaks his word, but is just, still does not reap the rewards of justice?—How then can other mortals, looking towards him, have respect for the Gods?

(Theogn. 743 ff.)

If one goes forward in time, one finds argumentation and debate. In a poem quoted by Plato in the Protagoras, Simonides (who died in 468 BC) debates with the old sage Pittacus: Pittacus said that it is difficult to be truly noble, but I say that only the gods can have that privilege.

Such poems can be considered from many points of view. They can, of course, be read purely aesthetically—but that was not the intention. They may be read as expressions of social struggles of the time. They may also be said to deal with moral philosophy. It is suggestive that in older days the philosopher’s task was to speak of the nature of the world. But it was in the poet’s domain to speak of what is good and evil, justice and injustice, and hence it may seem somewhat arbitrary when current histories of philosophy ignore the older poets.

Next to the poetry in which the sage speaks as an individual stands another Greek poetic ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Preface
• Introduction
• Part I: Presocratic Philosophy
• Part II: The Great Century of Athens
• Part III: Plato
• Part IV: Aristotle
• Part V: Hellenistic Philosophy
• Part VI: Late Antiquity
• Abbreviations General
• Bibliography