Ancient Philosophy

Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle

Aristotle's Metaphysics

When reading any prominent philosopher, particularly Aristotle, it is essential to consider his work from two perspectives: in relation to his predecessors and in relation to his successors. In the first aspect, Aristotle's contributions are immense; in the second, his shortcomings are equally significant. However, it is more the responsibility of his successors than of Aristotle himself for these shortcomings. Aristotle lived at the end of a creative period in Greek thought, and it took nearly two thousand years after his death before the world produced a philosopher who might be regarded as approximately equal to him. By the end of this long period, Aristotle's authority had become almost as unquestionable as that of the Church, and this authority posed a considerable obstacle to progress in both science and philosophy. Since the early seventeenth century, nearly every serious advancement in intellectual progress has begun with an attack on some Aristotelian doctrine; this is true in the realm of logic even today. Yet it would be equally detrimental had any of his predecessors (perhaps with the exception of Democritus) attained comparable authority. To give him his due, we must start by forgetting his excessive posthumous fame and the equally excessive condemnation it provoked.

Aristotle was born around 384 B.C. in Stagira, Thrace. His father was a hereditary physician in the court of the Macedonian king. At the age of eighteen, Aristotle arrived in Athens and became a student of Plato. He remained at the Academy for about twenty years, until Plato's death in 347 B.C. Subsequently, he traveled for a time and married either the sister or niece of the tyrant Hermias (rumors suggested she was the daughter or concubine of Hermias, though both versions are contradicted by the fact that Hermias was a eunuch). In 343 B.C., Aristotle became the tutor of Alexander, who was then thirteen years old, and held this position until Alexander was declared of age by his father at sixteen and appointed regent during Philip's absence. Anything we would like to know about the relationship between Aristotle and Alexander remains elusive, especially as legends soon emerged on the subject. There are letters between them that are generally regarded as forgeries. Those who admire both Aristotle and Alexander suppose that the teacher influenced the student. Hegel argues that Alexander's career attests to the practical value of philosophy. In this regard, A. W. Benn states, “It would be unfortunate if philosophy had no better testimony in its favor than Alexander’s character… Proud, drunken, cruel, vindictive, and exceedingly superstitious, he embodied the vices of a tribal chieftain with the frenzy of an eastern despot.”

As for my view, while I agree with Benn about Alexander's character, I believe Alexander's actions were extraordinarily significant and beneficial, for without him the entire tradition of Hellenic civilization might have perished. Regarding the influence of Aristotle on him, we can only speculate on what seems most plausible. I presume, for my part, that Aristotle had little influence on Alexander. Alexander was an ambitious and passionate young man, had a strained relationship with his father, and seemingly paid little heed to instruction. Aristotle believed that the state should not have a hundred thousand citizens and preached a theory of the golden mean. His pupil would likely regard him as nothing more than an old, tedious pedant assigned to him by his father to restrain him from mischief. True, Alexander held a certain snobbish respect for Athenian civilization, but this respect was customary for all his dynasty, members of which sought to prove they were not barbarians. It resembles the sentiment of Russian aristocrats in the nineteenth century toward Paris. Thus, it cannot be attributed to Aristotle's influence. I see nothing in Alexander that could be traced back to Aristotle.

What is more surprising is that Alexander had such a weak influence on Aristotle that the latter, in his political theories, ignores the fact that the era of city-states has given way to the era of empires. I suspect that Aristotle, until the end of his life, thought of Alexander as a “lazy and headstrong youth who could never comprehend anything about philosophy.” The general interactions between these two great men appear to have been as barren as if they had lived in different worlds.

From 335 to 323 B.C. (Alexander died in 323 B.C.), Aristotle resided in Athens. During these twelve years, he established his school and wrote the majority of his works. Immediately following Alexander's death, the Athenians revolted and turned against his friends, including Aristotle, who was condemned for impiety but, unlike Socrates, fled to escape punishment. The following year (322), he died.

As a philosopher, Aristotle differed markedly from all his predecessors. He was the first to write as a professor; his treatises are systematic, his arguments divided into categories, and he is a professional teacher rather than an inspired prophet. His works are characterized by a critical nature, meticulousness, and prose style, devoid of any trace of Bacchic enthusiasm. The orphic elements of Plato are diluted in Aristotle and mixed with a substantial dose of common sense; where Aristotle appears as a Platonist, it is evident that his natural temperament is subordinated to the teaching that is the subject of his study. He is not marked by passion or deep religious feeling. The errors of his predecessors were noble mistakes of youth, characterized by attempts to reach the impossible; his errors are the mistakes of maturity, from which one can no longer free oneself from habitual prejudices. His greatest strengths lie in detailed description and critique; he struggles with grand constructs due to a lack of fundamental clarity and titanic fervor.

It is challenging to determine from what point to begin the explanation of Aristotle's metaphysics, but perhaps the best starting point is his critique of the theory of ideas and his own alternative doctrine of universals. Against the ideas, he presents a series of compelling arguments, most of which can already be found in Plato's "Parmenides." The strongest argument is the "third man" argument: if a man is a man because he resembles the ideal man, then there must be an even more ideal man of whom both the ordinary man and the ideal man are reflections. Socrates is simultaneously a man and an animal, raising the question of whether the ideal man is an ideal animal; if so, there must be as many ideal animals as there are species of animals. There is no need to continue. Aristotle clearly demonstrated that when a series of individuals share a common predicate, this cannot stem from their relation to something of the same kind as themselves, but rather in relation to something more ideal. This can be considered largely proven, but Aristotle's own theory is far from clear. It is this lack of clarity that made possible the medieval debate between nominalists and realists.

Aristotle's metaphysics can be roughly described as diluted common-sense views of Plato. He is difficult to understand because it is not easy to connect Plato's views with common sense. When we attempt to grasp Aristotle, at times we think he expresses the ordinary views of a person unversed in philosophy, while at other times he seems to be presenting Platonism with a new vocabulary. It is impossible to overly emphasize any single passage because it may be corrected or altered in some later excerpt. Generally, the easiest way to understand Aristotle's theory of universals and his theory of matter and form is first to outline the theory of common sense, which constitutes half of his views, and then to consider the Platonic modifications to which he subjects it.

To a certain extent, the theory of universals is quite simple. In language, there are proper names and adjectives. Proper names refer to "things" or "persons," each of which is a unique thing or person to which the given name applies. The Sun, the Moon, France, Napoleon are singular in their kind; there are no examples of things to which these names apply. On the other hand, words like "cat," "dog," and "human" are applied to many different things. The problem of universals concerns the meanings of such words, as well as adjectives like "white," "hard," "round," and so on. Aristotle states: “... I call that common which can by nature be said of many, and that singular which cannot...”

What is designated by a proper name is termed "substance," while what is indicated by an adjective or class name, such as "mortal" or "human," is referred to as a "universal." Substance is "this." However, a universal is "such" — it points to the kind of thing rather than to a specific individual. A universal is not a substance because it is not "this." (Plato's heavenly bed would be "this" for those capable of perceiving it; this is a matter on which Aristotle disagrees with Plato.) "It seems impossible," Aristotle states, "that any universal term can be the name of a substance. For... the substance of each thing is what is unique to it, which does not belong to anything else; yet a universal is common, as it is said to pertain to more than one thing." The essence of the matter is that a universal cannot exist by itself but only within individual things.

At first glance, Aristotle's theory appears quite simple. Suppose I say, "There exists such a thing as football." Most people would consider this remark a truism. Yet if I were to conclude that football could exist without individuals playing it, people would rightly deem my statement nonsensical. Similarly, it is acknowledged that there is such a thing as fatherhood, but only because there are fathers; sweetness exists, but only insofar as there are sweet things; and redness is recognized, but solely because there are red things. This dependency is regarded as non-reciprocal: individuals playing football would exist even if they never played football; things that are usually sweet can turn bitter; and my face, which is generally red, can become pale without ceasing to be my face. Thus, we arrive at the conclusion that what is implied by an adjective relies for its existence on what is implied by a proper name, but not vice versa. I believe this is what Aristotle intended. His theory on this matter, like many others, is a pedantically expressed prejudice of common sense.

However, imparting precision to this theory is no easy task. It is taken for granted that football could not exist without players, yet football can very well exist independently of any particular player. It is also assumed without proof that any person may exist without playing football, but they nonetheless cannot exist without doing something. The quality of redness cannot exist without some subject, but it can exist without any particular subject; similarly, any subject cannot exist without some quality, but can exist without any specific quality. Thus, the supposed foundation for distinguishing between things and qualities appears illusory.

The true basis for such a distinction is, in fact, linguistic: it derives from syntax. There are proper names, adjectives, and relational words. We can say: "John is wise, James is foolish, John surpasses James." Here, "John" and "James" are proper names, "wise" and "foolish" are adjectives, and "surpasses" represents a relational word. Since the time of Aristotle, metaphysicians have interpreted these syntactic differences metaphysically: John and James are substances, wisdom and foolishness are universals. (Relational words have often been ignored or misinterpreted.) It is likely that, with appropriate effort, one might discern that metaphysical differences have some relation to these syntactic differences, but if this is the case, reaching such a conclusion would require a lengthy process, which would include the creation of an artificial philosophical language. This language would not contain names like "John" and "James," or adjectives like "wise" and "foolish"; all words from ordinary languages would be subjected to analysis and replaced with terms bearing less complex meanings. Until this work is accomplished, the question of particulars and universals cannot be adequately addressed. And when we finally reach a level at which it becomes possible to discuss it, we shall find that the issue we are contemplating is entirely different from the one we initially envisioned.

If, therefore, I have not succeeded in clarifying Aristotle's theory of universals, it is because it (as I assert) is not clear. However, this theory is certainly a step forward from the theory of ideas and is indeed connected to a genuine and very important problem.

Another term that plays a significant role for Aristotle and his scholastic successors is "essence." It is by no means synonymous with "universals." Your "essence" is that which you are "by virtue of your nature." One might say that these are your properties that you cannot lose without ceasing to be yourself. Not only individual things but also kinds possess essence. The definition of a kind must mention its essence. I shall return to the concept of "essence" in relation to Aristotle's logic. For now, I will simply note that "essence" seems to me a nonsensical concept, lacking precision.

The next point in Aristotle's metaphysics is the distinction between "form" and "matter." (One must recognize that "matter," in the sense of being opposed to "form," is distinct from "matter" as opposed to "mind.")

Once again, there exists a sound basis for Aristotle's theory, yet here, more than in the case of universals, significant modifications in the Platonic spirit come into play. We may start with a marble statue; here, marble is the matter, while the outline imparted to the marble by the sculptor is the form. Or let us take the examples provided by Aristotle. If a man makes a bronze ball, bronze is the matter and sphericity is the form; in the case of a still sea, water is the matter, and smoothness is the form. Thus far, everything is straightforward.

Aristotle further states that through form, matter becomes a particular thing, and this is the substance of that thing. Apparently, Aristotle implies simple common sense: "a thing" must be limited, and its boundary constitutes its form. Let us take, for example, a quantity of water; one can separate a part of it from the rest by enclosing it in a vessel, and then that part becomes a "thing." But until that part is separated from the remaining homogeneous mass, it is not a "thing." A statue is a "thing," and the marble from which it is made has, in some sense, not changed since it was part of a block or part of the quarry's contents. Naturally, we should not say that it is the form that imparts substantiality, but this arises because the atomic hypothesis has taken root in our imagination. Each atom, however, if it is a "thing," is so by virtue of being distinguished from other atoms and having, in some sense, a "form."

Now we come to a new assertion, which at first glance seems difficult to comprehend. The soul, we are told, is the form of the body. It is clear that here "form" does not refer to outline. I shall return to this meaning later, wherein the soul is the form of the body; for now, I will merely note that within Aristotle's system, the soul is that which makes the body one thing, possessing a unity of purpose and the characteristic features we associate with the word "organism." The purpose of the eye is to see, but it cannot see if it is detached from its body. In truth, it is the soul that sees.

It seems evident, then, that “form” is that which imparts unity to some part of matter, and that this unity is usually, if not always, teleological. Yet “form” proves to be significantly more than this, and this greater aspect is quite challenging to comprehend.

The form of any thing, we are told, is its essence and primary substance. Forms are substantial, although universals are not. When a man crafts a bronze sphere, both the matter and the form already exist, and all he does consists merely in uniting them. The man does not create the form, just as he does not create the bronze. Not everything possesses matter; there exist eternal things that have no matter, except for those that move through space. Things accrue reality by acquiring form; matter without form is merely potentiality.

The view that forms are substances existing independently of the matter in which they manifest seems to render Aristotle vulnerable to his own arguments against Platonic Ideas. He understands form as something entirely distinct from universals, yet it bears many characteristic similarities to them. We are told that form is more real than matter; it represents a recollection of the singular reality of ideas. The change Aristotle introduces into Plato's metaphysics seems, in fact, less than he wishes to present. This perspective is adopted by Zeller, who remarks on this matter of substance and form: “The ultimate explanation for the lack of clarity on this issue in Aristotle should, however, be sought in the fact that he himself has only partially, as we shall see later, liberated himself from the Platonic tendency to hypostatize ideas. Just as ’Ideas’ for Plato, so too ’Forms’ for Aristotle had their own metaphysical existence, which conditions all particular things. And although Aristotle astutely traced the development of ideas from experience, it is equally true that these ideas, especially where they are furthest removed from experience and immediate perception, ultimately transform from a logical product of human thought into a direct premonition of a supersensible world and into an object, in this sense, of intellectual intuition.”

I do not know what response Aristotle might find to this critique. The only reply I can conceive would consist in asserting that two things could not share the same form. If a person makes two copper spheres (for example), then each sphere has its own particular sphericality, which is substantial and distinct and represents an instance of the universal “sphericality,” but is not identical to it. I do not believe that the language of the passages I have quoted entirely supports such an interpretation. Moreover, it is open to the objection that this singular sphericality, according to Aristotle’s views, would be unknowable, whereas the essence of Aristotle’s metaphysics consists in the notion that the more forms there are and the less matter, the more knowable things become. This aligns with his other views since a form can be embodied in many singular things. Were he to claim that there are as many forms exemplifying sphericality as there are spherical things, he would effectuate quite radical changes in his philosophy. For instance, his view that form is identical to its essence is incompatible with the proposed solution.

Aristotle's doctrine of matter and form is linked to the distinction between potentiality and actuality. Bare matter is conceived as the potentiality of form; every change consists in what we should call “evolution” in the sense that after the change, a given thing possesses more form than before. The thing that has more form is considered to be more “actual.” God is pure form and pure actuality, hence in Him no changes can occur. It will become evident that this theory is optimistic and teleological: the universe and all that it contains continually develops towards something better than it was before.

The notion of potentiality is convenient in certain respects, provided that it is employed in such a way that we can translate our assertions into a form in which this notion is absent. “A block of marble is a potential statue” means that “from the block of marble, a statue is created through appropriate actions.” However, when potentiality is used as a fundamental and irreducible concept, it invariably conceals confusion in thought. The use of this notion by Aristotle represents one of the negative aspects of his system.

Aristotle's theology is intriguing and closely intertwined with his broader metaphysics; in fact, “theology” is one of the names Aristotle applies to what we call “metaphysics” (the book we know by this title was not named as such by him).

Aristotle states that there are three kinds of substances: those that are perceived by the senses and are transient, others that are sensory but eternal, and finally, those that are neither sensory nor transient. The first class includes plants and animals, the second comprises celestial bodies (with respect to which Aristotle believed they undergo no changes other than movement), and the third encompasses the rational soul in humans, as well as God.

The fundamental argument for God is the “First Cause”: there must be something that initiates motion, and this something must itself be unmoving and eternal, substance and actuality. However, as Aristotle posits, desires and thoughts can cause motion; they initiate movement while themselves remaining unmoved (much like a billiard ball). Thus, God produces movement by being loved, whereas every other cause of motion acts while itself in motion. God is pure thought because thought is the best. “And indeed life is truly inherent in Him, for the activity of the mind is life, and God is activity; and His activity, as it is in itself, is the best and eternal life. We therefore say that God is the eternal, best living being, so that He possesses life and continuous and eternal existence, and this is indeed God.”

“Thus, from what has been said, it is clear that there exists an eternal, unmoving substance distinct from perceptible things; it is also shown that this substance cannot possess any magnitude, for it is devoid of parts and indivisible... on the other hand, it is also shown that this substance is not subject to anything and is immutable, for all other movements are subsequent to spatial movement.”

God lacks the attributes of Christian Providence, for His perfection would be diminished were He to think of anything other than what is perfect, that is, of Himself. “Therefore, the mind thinks itself, if only it is superior, and its thinking is the thinking of thinking.” We must conclude that God is unaware of the existence of our sublunary world. Aristotle, like Spinoza, asserts that while humans must love God, it is impossible for God to love humans.

God cannot be defined as the "unmoved mover." On the contrary, astronomical considerations lead to the conclusion that there are 47 or 55 unmoved movers. There is no ambiguity in their relationship to God; indeed, a natural interpretation would suggest that there are 47 or 55 gods. Following one of the passages concerning God, Aristotle states: "But whether there is one such substance or more, and how many precisely, this question should not be passed over in silence..." and immediately proceeds to the argument leading to 47 or 55 unmoved movers.

The notion of the unmoved mover is difficult to grasp. The modern mind tends to assume that a cause of change must itself be preceded by a change, and if the universe had always been perfectly immobile, it must remain so eternally. To understand Aristotle's intention, we must consider what he says about causes. According to him, there are four types of causes: material, formal, efficient, and final causes. Let us return to the sculptor who creates a statue. The material cause of the statue is the marble, the formal cause is the essence of the statue that is to be produced, the efficient cause is the contact of the chisel with the marble, and the final cause is the goal that the sculptor envisions. In modern terminology, the word "cause" would be limited to the efficient cause. The unmoved mover can be regarded as the final cause: it provides the purpose for the change that essentially embodies an evolution toward achieving resemblance to God.

I have mentioned that Aristotle was not deeply religious by temperament, but this is only partially accurate. One might reasonably interpret one aspect of his religion in the following manner: God exists eternally as pure thought, happiness, complete self-fulfillment without any unrealized goals. The sensory world, in contrast, is imperfect, yet it possesses life, desire, imperfect thought, and striving. All living beings, to a greater or lesser extent, are aware of God, and they are drawn to action by admiration and love for Him. Thus, God serves as the final cause of all activity. Change consists in imparting form to matter, but where sensory things are concerned, there always remains a substrate of matter. One God consists of form without matter. The world continuously evolves toward a greater degree of form, gradually becoming more like God. Yet this process cannot be completed, as it is impossible to eliminate matter entirely. This is a religion of progress and evolution because the unmoved perfection of God influences the world solely through the love that finite beings experience for Him. Plato exhibited a propensity for mathematics, while Aristotle favored biology; this accounts for the differences in their religious outlook. However, it would be overly simplistic to view Aristotle's religion from this one-sided perspective; he also shared the Greeks' admiration for unmoved perfection and, like them, preferred contemplation to action. Aristotle's theory of the soul illustrates this aspect of his philosophy.

The question of whether Aristotle taught any form of the immortality of the soul has been hotly debated by his commentators. Averroes, who responded negatively to this question, had followers in Christian lands, the most extreme of whom were labeled Epicureans and encountered by Dante in hell. In reality, Aristotle's theory is quite complex and easily lends itself to misinterpretation. In his work "On the Soul," Aristotle considers the soul as intimately linked to the body and ridicules the Pythagorean theory of the transmigration of souls. The soul appears to perish along with the body: "Thus, the soul is inseparable from the body..." Yet he immediately adds: "It is also clear that no part of it is separable..." The body and soul are related as matter and form: the soul must be a substance in the sense of the form of the material body, which possesses potential life within it. But substance is actuality, and thus the soul is the actuality of the body, as described above. The soul is substance in the sense that it corresponds to a specific description of the essence of a thing. This means that it is the "true essence" of the body, as characterized above. The soul represents the first degree of actuality of a natural body, which has potential life within it. The described body is an organized body. To ask whether the soul and body are one is as senseless as asking whether wax and the image on it are one. The only psychic capacity that plants possess is nutrition. The soul is the final cause of the body.

In this book, Aristotle distinguishes between "soul" and "intellect," placing "intellect" above "soul" and considering it less connected to the body. After discussing the relationship between the soul and body, he states: "As for the intellect, being a certain substance, it seems to arise within [the soul] and is not destroyed." And again: "Regarding the intellect and the capacity for understanding, there is still no obviousness, but it seems that they are of a different kind of soul, and that only these capacities can exist separately, as the eternal exists separately from the transient. As for the other parts of the soul, it is evident from what has been said that they cannot be separated from each other, contrary to the assertions of some." Intellect comprises that part of man which understands mathematics and philosophy; its objects are timeless, and thus it is itself regarded as timeless. The soul is that which moves the body and perceives sensory objects; it is characterized by the following powers: nutritive, perceptive, rational, and appetitive. However, the intellect possesses a higher function of thought that is unrelated to the body or the organs of sense. Hence, the intellect may be immortal, even if the rest of the soul cannot.

To grasp Aristotle's theory of the soul, we must recall that the soul is the "form" of the body and that spatial contour is one kind of "form." What do the soul and contour have in common? I believe their commonality lies in their ability to impart unity to a quantity of matter: a part of a block of marble that will later become a statue is not yet separated from the rest of the marble; it is not yet a "thing" and lacks any unity. Once the sculptor has crafted the statue, it possesses the unity derived from its contour. The essential characteristic of the soul, which qualifies it as the "form" of the body, is that it renders the body an organic whole, having purposes as a unity. An individual organ has goals that lie outside itself; a detached eye cannot see. Thus, many things can be termed as subjects that pertain to some animal or plant as a whole, which cannot be said of any of their parts. In this sense, organization or form grants substantiality. It is precisely what bestows substantiality upon a plant or animal that Aristotle refers to as its "soul." However, "intellect" is something else, less closely associated with the body; it may indeed be a part of the soul, but it is possessed by only a small minority of living beings. The intellect, as contemplation, cannot be the cause of motion, for it never thinks of what is possible and never articulates what must be avoided or what should be pursued.

A similar theory, albeit with slightly altered terminology, is articulated in the "Nicomachean Ethics." One part of the soul is irrational, while the other is rational. The irrational part of the soul is dual: the vegetative, which exists in all living things, even plants, and the appetitive, which exists in all animals. The life of the rational soul consists in contemplation, which is the fullest happiness of man, albeit not entirely attainable: "Such a life would be, perhaps, superior to that which is appropriate to man, for thus he would live not by virtue of being man, but because there is something divine within him; and as this divine part differs from man, composed of different parts, so the activity associated with it differs from the activity associated with any other virtue. And if the intellect is divine in relation to man, then the life that is subordinate to the intellect is divine in comparison to human life."

No, one need not heed the admonitions to “man, understand the human” and “mortal, the mortal”; rather, one must elevate oneself to the realm of immortality as much as possible, striving to live a life that aligns with the highest aspect of one’s being. Indeed, if this is but a small part in terms of volume, its power and value far surpass all else.

From these excerpts, it appears that individuality—the very essence that distinguishes one person from another—is bound to the body and the irrational soul, while the rational soul, or intellect, is divine and impersonal. One person may have a fondness for oysters, while another prefers pineapples; such preferences create distinctions among them. However, when they contemplate the multiplication table—provided they are thinking correctly—there is no difference between them. The irrational divides us, while the rational unites. Thus, the immortality of the mind, or reason, does not signify the personal immortality of individuals but rather their participation in the immortality of God. There is no reason to believe that Aristotle held a view of personal immortality akin to that taught by Plato and later by Christianity. Aristotle believed merely that, in virtue of their rationality, humans partake of the divine, which is immortal. A person may enhance the divine element within their nature, and this pursuit is the greatest virtue. Yet, if one were to achieve complete success in this endeavor, they would cease to exist as a distinct individual. This interpretation is likely not only the only possible understanding of Aristotle’s words but, I believe, also the most natural interpretation of them.