Retrieving Aristotle in an Age of Crisis

David Roochnik

• Publisher: SUNY Press
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781438445205
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Ancient & Classical Philosophy

In 1935 Edmund Husserl delivered his now famous lecture "Philosophy and the Crisis of European Humanity, " in which he argued that the "misguided rationalism" of modern Western science, dominated by the model of mathematical physics, can tell us nothing about the "meaning" of our lives. Today Husserl's conviction that the West faces a crisis is no longer an abstraction. With the ever-present threat of nuclear explosion, the degradation of the oceans, and the possibility that climate change will wreak havoc on civilization itself, people from all walks of life are wondering what has gone so terribly wrong and what remedies might be available. In Retrieving Aristotle in an Age of Crisis, David Roochnik makes a lucid and powerful case that Aristotle offers a philosophical resource that even today can be of significant therapeutic value. Unlike the scientific revolutionaries of the seventeenth century, he insisted that both ordinary language and sense-perception play essential roles in the acquisition of knowledge. Centuries before Husserl, Aristotle was a phenomenologist who demanded that a successful theory remain faithful to human experience. His philosophy can thus provide precisely what modern European rationalism now so painfully lacks: an understanding and appreciation of the world in which human beings actually make their homes.

Chapter One

The Stars Are Eternal.

In On the Heavens, his cosmological treatise, Aristotle argues that the heavenly bodies (moon, planets, sun, and stars) revolve around the earth on fixed circular paths. They are made of stuff not found here on earth and are more “honorable” than, ontologically superior to, bodies found in the sub-lunar sphere. They are weightless and eternal. They are divine.

We take Aristotle's claims to be not merely wrong but laughably so. The sun, not the earth, is the center of our solar system, the planets do not move in circular orbits, matter is homogeneous, and stars have both weight and a history.

This chapter analyzes Aristotle's arguments on behalf of these claims. Not only that: it defends them.

I.1: There Are Only Three Dimensions.

Aristotle begins his study of the heavenly bodies by asserting that bodies, or physical entities in general, have three dimensions. A “continuous magnitude,” or an infinitely divisible measure of quantity, that is divisible in one way only is a line. A magnitude divisible in two ways, namely length and width, is a plane; in three ways—length, width, depth—a body. “There is no other magnitude or dimension besides these” (On the Heavens 268a9). Three-dimensional bodies are, therefore, the complete magnitude.

Proponents of today's “string theory” would disagree. For them there are as many as twenty-six dimensions. Others would count time as a fourth dimension. Contemporary topologists are free to work (algebraically) with as many dimensions as they like. But for Aristotle, there are only three. Of course, three-dimensionality is the way in which we experience bodies in everyday life. But Aristotle does more than simply rely on this commonsensical fact as support for his position. Instead, he offers the following argument defending it.

There is no dimension other than these [the three dimensions] since three are all and “in three ways” is the same as “in all ways.” For^#1 just as the Pythagoreans say, the all and all things have been determined by the three. For^#2 end (teleutê), middle (meson) and beginning (archê) hold the number of the all, and their number is three. Thus it is that we have taken this number from nature as one of her laws. Furthermore^#3 we use this number in the rituals performed in worship of the gods. And^#4 the way we name objects reveals this same point as well. For of two things or two people we say “both” and we do not say “all.” We first use this term when it comes to three. As has been said, we follow these practices because nature itself leads us in this way. (268a9–20)

Aristotle summons four reasons, flagged by my underlining and numeration, to demonstrate that “three are all,” a proposition that in turn is used to support the claim that physical bodies have three dimensions. The first (#1) summons a reputable belief (one that is endoxos) passed down by the Pythagoreans.¹ On its own, such a reference would hardly prove that “three are all” or even explain what this phrase means. Nonetheless, as discussed in the Introduction, a reputable belief is that which “seems true to everyone or to most people or to the wise, either to all of the wise or to most of the wise or to the best known and most reputable of the wise” (Topics, 100b21–22) and by itself carries some evidentiary force. Even if it is neither entirely right nor maximally clear, it will never be all wrong. It can thus be counted as some sort of epistemic clue (>IV).

Aristotle next supplies an independent conceptual argument on behalf of the claim that “three are all.” He asserts in #2 that a whole must have an end, middle, and beginning, and thus is triadic in structure. This is the key to understanding and appreciating Aristotle's argument and it is discussed in detail shortly (>I.2).

In #3 Aristotle alludes to religious practices in which the triad figures prominently. He may be referring to the pouring of one libation to the gods, a second to the heroes, and a third to Zeus the savior. Whether he is or not cannot be determined because so many Greek religious rituals were triadically structured.² This prominence of the triad may be derived from a primitive division of the cosmos into sky above, earth below, and some in between that mediates or connects the two. Hesiod, for example, has the god Sky descend upon the goddess Earth in order to begin the process of generating the rest of the cosmos. In this case, nightfall could be construed as a connective tissue (as could rainfall). Many a myth, including one found in Plato's Symposium, treats human being as in between the immortal, found above, and the mortal, found below.³

Reason #4 refers to the fact that ordinary language, both Greek and English at least, testifies to the exceptional status of the three. If there are two apples on the table, and I tell you that I want them, you might ask, “Do you really want both?” You wouldn't ask, “Do you want all of them?” If my eyes hurt, and you ask me, “Which one hurts?” I will answer, “Both of them” rather than “All of them.” The word “all” is first used when I have at least three items to count. (That Greek verbs have, in addition to the singular and the plural, the dual further reinforces this point.) For Aristotle, this linguistic observation counts as another piece of evidence for, a reason to believe that, threeness determines allness.⁴

Differently stated, in a (nontechnical) sense three is the first “real” number. If there is but a single item clearly visible on the table, say a book, no one would ask the question, “How many books are on the table?” Instead, someone might ask, “What's that on the table?” One item is not counted, but recognized for what it is. Only when there are at least two items does the question “How many?” become relevant. This fact is reflected in the Greek word arithmos, which means “number” as well as “a count.” A count requires a plurality, a number of items or units. This is also why, in standard Greek arithmetic, two was taken to be the first number. (See Physics 220a27.) However, in order to determine that there are two books on the table, there must be some way of differentiating them. Either they are not by the same author, or even if they are two virtually identical copies of the same book, they are made from different pieces of paper and located in different places on the table. In short, if there is to be a two there must be a third; a differentiating principle. In this sense, three is the first “real” number.

Because reasons #3 and #4 seem to do no more than report bits of anthropological data, it is easy to formulate objections to them. Why, for example, should the fact that many religious rituals and practices are triadically structured play any role whatsoever in an argument about the nature of the nonhuman cosmos? This question resurfaces later in On the Heavens when Aristotle deploys a similar argumentative strategy. After having argued that the “first body,” the fifth element of which the stars and planets are made, is eternal and divine, and so more “honorable” than any found here on earth, he asserts that “all human beings have a conception of the gods and all, both barbarian and Greek, assign the highest place to the divine” (270b5–7). He cites this putative fact as a supplementary piece of evidence to confirm his theoretical analysis of the nature of the “first body.” Exactly as in #3, Aristotle marshals an anthropological datum—namely, that human beings regularly locate god upstairs—in the service of his scientific claim that the heavenly bodies above us are eternal. (Also see Metaphysics 1074b1–15.)

Aristotle seems to invest these sorts of anthropological data with the same sort of evidentiary value he finds in empirical observations. “By appealing to perception, this conclusion [that the heavenly bodies are eternal] follows in a manner sufficient in order to generate human conviction. For in all time past, according to the memory that has been passed down, no change has appeared (phainetai) to have taken place either in the whole of the outermost heaven or in any one of its proper parts” (270b13–15).⁵

In other words, according to the best record of empirical observations made by astronomers available at the time, nothing has changed in the heavens. Therefore, Aristotle reasons, the heavenly bodies must eternally move in the same orbit.

Aristotle's conjunction of these two strands of evidence—one citing the phenomena of religious belief and ordinary language and the other empirical observations of the heavens—tells much about how he argues, how he thinks, in general. As discussed in the Introduction, his theory aims to do justice to the phenomena, the way the world shows itself to us in ordinary experience. It is, in other words, “phenomenological.” The “phenomena,” however, must be construed broadly, for they include both empirical observations and the “reputable beliefs” (ta endoxa). They include, as Owen put it in a famous essay, the legomena, “the things said” or “linguistic usage” or “the conceptual structure revealed by language.” Or to cite Nussbaum, in addition to empirical observations, “Aristotle's phainomena must be understood to be our beliefs and interpretations, often as revealed in linguistic usage.”⁶ The world shows itself to us not only through our senses, but also in the way we talk and how we conduct ourselves in daily life.

Because his theorizing is characterized by this sort of hybrid argumentation, Aristotle seems subject to the charge of anthropocentrism—or, even worse, anthropomorphism—of exactly the sort Bacon and Spinoza criticized so harshly. Regardless of whether this charge is fair or not, Aristotle himself certainly would deny that he is projecting a human perspective onto a nonhuman screen. Instead, he claims quite the opposite: “we follow these practices because nature itself leads us in this way” (268a19–20). So, for example, the number three is privileged in human practices and language not because human beings favor it, but because we “have taken it from nature” (268a13). The ways in which we speak and perform our religious rituals are guided by the way things really are. In turn, such phenomena can provide evidence about the world as it really is.

Of course, it is necessary to explain why phenomena like ordinary language and religious practices have epistemic value. To prefigure the discussion whose elaboration constitutes a major chunk of Chapter Four, Aristotle believes that human beings by nature tend to get things right. As he puts it, “human beings are naturally and sufficiently disposed towards seeking the truth, and in most cases attain the truth” (Rhetoric 1355a15). We are “truthing” animals whose perceptual, cognitive, and linguistic apparatus are well suited to know the world. As such, it is entirely reasonable to pay attention to how we talk and act in order to figure out how things, including things like the planets and stars, really are.⁷

I.2: Threeness Determines Wholeness.

Back to the argument in On the Heavens: bodies have only three dimensions because “end, middle and beginning hold the number of the all, and their number is three.” To begin elaboration, consider the following definitions Aristotle offers of the “all” and the “whole”:

1. “‘Whole’ (holon) means ‘that from which no part of that which is said to be by nature a whole is missing” (Metaphysics 1023b26).
2. “That of which nothing is outside is complete (teleion) and whole. For we define a ‘whole’ thus: as that from which nothing is absent” (Physics 207a9–11).
3. “‘All’ (pan) means ‘a quantity that has a beginning, middle and termination point (eschaton) but whose positions make no difference.’ If position does make a difference, then it is a whole” (Metaphysics 1024a1–3).

A “whole” is an ordered unity of parts, whereas an “all” is an unordered collection or sum of parts. Aristotle's terminology vacillates between these three texts and On the Heavens. In the latter, pan, translated as “all,” actually means “whole” in the sense given in the Metaphysics and Physics (and which is the only concern of this section).⁸

These definitions illuminate what Aristotle means when he says, to paraphrase, that the number of the whole is three; or that threeness determines wholeness; or that wholes are by nature triadic. Because it is an ordered unity of parts, a whole has a beginning and an end, and something in between. So, for example, the word “BAT” is a whole. It is not an “all” because the position of the elements does matter. The word “BAT” cannot be captured by a simple list of its letters, for the letters B, A, and T can be combined in more than one way. “TAB” is not the same as “BAT.” For “BAT” to be what it is, its three letters must be in their proper order. A whole is more than “all” of its parts because it has a formal structure, an intelligible ordering of its parts. The spelling of “BAT” begins with the letter B and continues in proper sequence until T. Then the end has been reached, and the word is complete. “BAT” stands available for inspection as a whole.⁹

To approach this same point from a different angle: in the Physics, Aristotle says, “The whole and the complete (teleion) are either entirely the same or of kindred nature.” The whole is “complete” because its telos, its end, goal, or purpose, has been achieved and “nothing is complete that does not have a telos.” This implies, as Aristotle next states, that “the telos is a limit (peras)” (207a13–15). For if something can be completed then it is limited; after beginning and traversing what is in-between, an end is reached. Recall that in On the Heavens Aristotle says that the three-dimensional body is the “complete” (teleion: 268a22) magnitude. With it the counting of the dimensions reaches its end.

Another sense of teleion requires brief mention. In the Metaphysics, Aristotle assigns it two meanings. The first is essentially the same as that of the “whole:” it is that “outside of which it is impossible to find one of its parts” (1021b12–13). The second is “that which is in accord with excellence and the good cannot be exceeded in its kind. For example, a perfect doctor or a perfect flutist are those who, according to the form of the excellence that belongs to them, lack nothing” (1021b15–17). Here teleion is translated as “perfect,” which in English has the same ambiguity as the Greek; it means both “complete” or “without omission” and “most excellent” (>II.8). In some sense, then, three-dimensional bodies, as the complete or teleion magnitude, are better than lines or planes.

Aristotle argues that because “three are all and ‘in three ways’ is the same as ‘in all ways’”—in other words, because threeness determines the wholeness—there are only three dimensions. Three, in other words, is privileged, for it is the number of completeness. On the one hand, this is a just silly bit of numerology. Three is not special. It's just another number. To glorify it as Aristotle (following the Pythagoreans) does is to invest it with qualities that belong not to it, but to a prejudice held by (some) human beings. On the other hand, if Aristotelian cosmology is construed as phenomenological and is thus required to remain faithful to ordinary experience, a possible line of defense is opened up. For our experience is indeed constituted by the triadic nature of wholeness. Consider the following examples.

1. The topological whole. When we open our eyes and walk forward, what is in front of us appears as a triangulated whole. There is what is to the left of us, the right of us, and in front of us. When we stop walking and remain in one place, we can look upward to what is above, downward to what is below, and straight ahead to what is level with ourselves. Finally, there is front, back, and center. In sum, our experience of occupying a place in the physical world is triangulated, and is so in three different ways. In Aristotelian terms, there are six “parts and forms,” six “divisions” or “directions,” of place: up, down, left, right, front, back (Physics 208b12).

It is reasonably easy to explain why we experience the world this way. Like other animals, we are bilaterally symmetrical, and vision is thus bifocal. We have left and right eyes, as well as hands, legs, and so forth, and we divide our visual field directi...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Acknowledgments
• A Note to the Reader
• Prologue
• Introduction: Why Aristotle Matters.
• Chapter One: The Stars Are Eternal.
• Chapter Two: Nature Is Purpose.
• Chapter Three: Being Is Good.
• Chapter Four: Truth Is Easy.
• Chapter Five: The Theoretical Life Is Divine.
• Chapter Six: Enough Is Enough.
• Epilogue
• Notes
• Bibliography