Ancient Philosophy After Aristotle

Cynics and Skeptics

The attitude of individuals of outstanding intellect toward their contemporary society has varied greatly throughout different eras. In some fortunate times, they found themselves in relative harmony with their surroundings, certainly suggesting reforms where they deemed necessary, yet with little confidence that these suggestions would be embraced. They sympathized with the world they lived in, even if it remained unreformed. In other periods, they were revolutionaries, believing that radical changes were essential, yet expecting that—at least partially due to their advocacy—such changes would soon be realized. Then there were times when they despaired of the world around them, feeling that, though they knew what was needed, there was no hope of achieving it. This sentiment easily evolved into a deeper despair that viewed earthly life as fundamentally flawed, with hope resting only in an afterlife or some mystical transformation.

There have been eras when all these perspectives were shared by various contemporaries. Consider the early 19th century: Goethe was content, Bentham a reformist, Shelley a revolutionary, and Leopardi a pessimist. However, in most cases, a predominant mood prevailed among the major thinkers of a time. In Elizabethan England and the 18th century, intellectuals were generally satisfied with the status quo; in France around 1750, they became revolutionaries; and in Germany after 1813, they were nationalists.

During the church's dominance, from the 5th to the 15th century, there was a distinct conflict between what was believed in theory and what was felt in practice. In theory, the world was a vale of tears, a preparation filled with suffering for the world to come. Yet in practice, the writers—most of whom were clergy—could not help but feel joy at the sight of the Church as a state. They had opportunities for extensive activities that they considered beneficial. As a result, they shared the mindset of the ruling class, rather than that of those who felt themselves exiles in a foreign world. This was part of the curious dualism characteristic of the Middle Ages—a dualism stemming from the fact that the Church, though based on belief in the afterlife, was the most important institution in the present world. The psychological preparation for embracing Christianity’s teachings about the afterlife began during the Hellenistic period, associated with the decline of city-states. By the time of Aristotle, Greek philosophers, while they might complain about various misfortunes, were not generally consumed by world-weariness or political impotence. Occasionally, they might belong to a defeated party, but if so, their defeat was due to the contingencies of conflict, not to the inevitable powerlessness of the wise. Even those, like Pythagoras and Plato, who at times condemned the external world and sought refuge in mysticism, had practical plans to transform the ruling classes into saints and sages.

When political power shifted to the Macedonians, Greek philosophers naturally withdrew from politics, focusing more on problems of individual virtue or salvation. They no longer asked, "How can people create a good state?" but instead, "How can people be virtuous in a corrupt world, or happy in a world of suffering?" The change, admittedly, was one of degree—such questions had been asked before—but the shift was real. Apart from a brief period during the Roman era of Stoicism, the worldview of serious thinkers became increasingly subjective and individualistic, until Christianity eventually preached personal salvation, sparking missionary zeal and the formation of the Church. Until that moment, there was no institution to which a philosopher could wholeheartedly devote himself, and thus no outlet for his legitimate thirst for power. This is why the philosophers of the Hellenistic period were, as human beings, more limited than those who lived when the city-states could still inspire loyalty. They continued to think because they could not help but think, but they rarely hoped that their ideas would bear fruit in the practical world.

Around the time of Alexander, four philosophical schools were founded. Two of the most famous—Stoicism and Epicureanism—will be discussed in subsequent chapters; here, we will examine the schools of the Cynics and the Skeptics.

The first of these schools traces its origins through its founder, Diogenes, to Antisthenes, a disciple of Socrates who was about twenty years older than Plato. Antisthenes was a remarkable figure and, in some ways, resembled Tolstoy. Until Socrates' death, he lived within the aristocratic circle of his fellow disciples and showed no signs of unorthodoxy. But something—whether the defeat of Athens, the death of Socrates, or disgust with philosophical sophistry—caused him, later in life, to scorn the things he had once valued. He desired nothing but simple virtue. He aligned himself with the working class, dressing like them and preaching in the streets and marketplaces in language accessible to the uneducated. He considered refined philosophy useless, believing that all that can be known is within reach of the common man. He embraced the idea of a "return to nature" and pursued this belief with relentless consistency. There should be no government, no private property, no marriage, and no established religion. If not Antisthenes himself, then certainly his followers condemned slavery. He was not an ascetic in the strict sense, but he despised luxury and all aspirations for artificial pleasures. "I would rather go mad than be admired," he said.

Antisthenes' fame was eclipsed by that of his pupil, Diogenes. Diogenes was a young man from Sinope on the Euxine Sea, whom Antisthenes disliked from the outset. Diogenes was the son of a money-changer of questionable repute, imprisoned for debasing coinage. Antisthenes tried to drive the youth away, but Diogenes paid no heed. Even when Antisthenes beat him with a stick, Diogenes refused to move. He sought "wisdom," and believed that Antisthenes was obligated to impart it. His life's goal was to do as his father had—"debase the currency"—but on a much larger scale. He wanted to debase the whole "currency" of the world. Any accepted stamp was false, a lie. People with the stamp of generals and kings, things stamped with honor and wisdom, happiness and wealth—all these were base metals with a counterfeit inscription.

Diogenes decided to live like a dog, and thus was called "Cynic," which means "dog-like." He rejected all conventions—religious, social, and material. He is said to have lived in a barrel, though Gilbert Murray assures us this was actually a large jar used for burials in ancient times. He survived on alms, like an Indian fakir, and professed brotherhood not only with all humanity but also with animals. Diogenes became a figure of legend even during his lifetime. The well-known story of Alexander visiting him and asking if he wanted any favor is illustrative; Diogenes’ reply was simply, “Don’t block my sunlight.”

Diogenes’ teaching was not "cynical" in the modern sense—quite the opposite. He passionately sought "virtue," which he claimed was worth more than all worldly goods. He sought moral freedom through liberation from desire: be indifferent to the gifts of fortune, and you will be free from fear. In this regard, his doctrine was later adopted by the Stoics, though they did not follow him in rejecting the refinements of civilization. Diogenes believed that Prometheus was justly punished for bringing to humanity the arts that led to the complexity and artificiality of modern life. In this, he resembles followers of Daoism, Rousseau, and Tolstoy, though he was more consistent in his views than they.

Although a contemporary of Aristotle, Diogenes’ doctrine belongs to the Hellenistic age. Aristotle was the last Greek philosopher whose outlook was cheerful; after him, all philosophers, in one form or another, preached an escape from life. The world is bad, so let us learn to be independent of it. External goods are fleeting; they are gifts of fortune, not rewards for our efforts. Only subjective goods—virtue or contentment gained through humility—are lasting, and thus only they hold value for the wise. Diogenes himself was a man of great energy, but his doctrine, like all doctrines of the Hellenistic era, appealed to those who were weary, whose disillusionment had killed their natural vitality. It was certainly not designed to foster art, science, governance, or any other useful activity, except for protest against the powerful evils of the world.

It is intriguing to observe what became of the Cynic philosophy once it gained widespread popularity. By the early third century BCE, the Cynics were fashionable, particularly in Alexandria. They published brief sermons on how easily one could live without material goods, how one could be truly happy with the simplest food, how it could be warm in winter even without expensive clothing (which, in Egypt, was quite true), and how foolish it was to feel attached to one’s homeland or grieve when one’s children or friends died. "The death of my son or wife," said Teles, one of these popularizing Cynics, "is not a reason for me to neglect myself, still alive, and cease looking after my property."

From this point onward, it becomes difficult to feel any sympathy for a life of simplicity that has been rendered too simplistic. One wonders: who enjoyed these sermons? Was it the wealthy, eager to think that the sufferings of the poor were imaginary? Or was it the impoverished, who wished to despise the successful merchant? Or perhaps it was sycophantic hangers-on, who had convinced themselves that the charity they lived on was of little consequence? Teles tells the rich man, "You give generously, and I receive bravely, without groveling, without ever losing my dignity or complaining." A very convenient doctrine!

Popular Cynicism did not teach a renunciation of the world’s goods but rather a kind of indifference toward them. As for those who borrowed, Cynicism made every effort to downplay their obligations toward the lender. One can see how the words "cynical" and "cynic" acquired their modern meaning.

The best of Cynic teachings passed on to Stoicism—an incomparably fuller, more refined, and complete philosophical system.

Skepticism, as a doctrine of these schools, was first proclaimed by Pyrrho, who served in Alexander’s army and accompanied his campaign as far as India. Apparently, this journey satisfied his interest in travel, and he spent the rest of his life in his hometown of Elis, where he died in 275 BCE. There was little new in his teaching, save for the systematization and articulation of older doubts. Skepticism about the senses had already concerned Greek philosophers at an early stage; the only exception being those who, like Parmenides and Plato, denied the cognitive value of perceptions and turned this denial into a convenient pretext for intellectual dogmatism. The Sophists, especially Protagoras and Gorgias, found in the uncertainty and apparent contradictions of sense perceptions a path to subjectivism, akin to that of Hume.

Pyrrho, who wisely refrained from writing any books, seemed to add moral and logical skepticism to skepticism about the senses. It is said he maintained that there could never be a rational reason to prefer one course of action over another. In practice, this meant one should follow the customs of whatever country one lived in. A modern adherent to this doctrine might attend church on Sundays and perform all the prescribed kneeling, though without the religious belief presumed to inspire these actions. The ancient skeptics performed all the pagan rituals, and some even became priests. Their skepticism convinced them that such behavior could not be proven wrong, while common sense (which survived their philosophy) assured them that it was convenient.

Naturally, skepticism appealed to many who were not philosophically inclined. People saw the differences between the schools and the bitterness of their disputes and concluded that all alike claimed knowledge that was, in fact, unattainable. Skepticism was a comfort to the idle, showing that the ignorant were just as wise as the learned scholars. For those who by nature craved revelation, it might have seemed unsatisfactory, but, like every doctrine of the Hellenistic period, it recommended itself as an antidote to all anxieties. Why worry about the future? It is entirely uncertain. You may as well enjoy the present: "What will be in the future is still unknown." For this reason, skepticism gained considerable success among the masses.

It is worth noting that skepticism, as a philosophy, is not simply doubt but what might be called dogmatic doubt. A scientist might say, "I think things are such and such, but I’m not certain." A person driven by intellectual curiosity might say, "I don’t know what it is, but I hope to find out." The philosophical skeptic, however, declares, "No one knows, and no one ever can know." It is this element of dogmatism that makes the system vulnerable. Of course, the skeptics denied that they were dogmatically asserting the impossibility of knowledge, but their denials were not particularly convincing.

Pyrrho’s disciple, Timon, however, advanced some intellectual arguments that, from the perspective of Greek logic, were very difficult to refute. The only logic the Greeks allowed was deductive, and all deduction had to proceed, as with Euclid, from general principles regarded as self-evident. Timon denied the possibility of finding such principles; hence, everything would have to be proven by something else, and all proofs would either contain a vicious circle or form an infinite chain of reasoning with no beginning. In either case, nothing could be proven. This argument, as we see, strikes at the root of Aristotle's philosophy, which dominated the Middle Ages.

Some forms of skepticism defended today by people who are by no means consistent skeptics never even occurred to the ancient skeptics. They did not doubt the existence of appearances, nor did they question judgments that, in their view, expressed only what we directly know about appearances. Most of Timon’s works have been lost, but two surviving fragments illustrate this point. In one, he states, "The appearance always carries certainty." In another, he says, "That this honey is sweet, I refuse to affirm; that it appears sweet, I fully concede." A modern skeptic would point out that this appearance is merely a happening and is neither true nor false; what is true or false must be a statement, and no statement can be so closely tied to an appearance as to exclude the possibility of being false. For this reason, he would say that the statement "the honey appears sweet" is only highly probable, not absolutely certain.

In some respects, Timon’s teaching closely resembles Hume’s doctrine: he asserted that something never observed, such as atoms, cannot be deduced with sufficient justification, but when two phenomena are frequently observed together, one may be inferred from the other.

Timon spent his later years in Athens and died there in 235 BCE. With his death, the Pyrrhonian school, as a school, came to an end. However, his doctrine, somewhat altered, was taken up—strangely enough—by the Academy, which represented the traditions of Plato’s philosophy.

The man who accomplished this remarkable philosophical revolution was Arcesilaus, a contemporary of Timon, who died as an old man around 240 BCE. What most people took from Plato was belief in a supersensory intellectual world and the superiority of the immortal soul over the mortal body. But Plato was multifaceted, and in some respects, he can be seen as a philosopher who taught skepticism. The Platonic Socrates declares that he knows nothing; we usually take this as irony, but it could also be taken quite seriously. Many of the dialogues contain no positive conclusions and seem designed to leave the reader in a state of doubt. Some, such as the second half of Parmenides, seem to serve no other purpose than to show that each side of any question can be argued with equal plausibility. Plato’s dialectic is better seen as an end in itself rather than a means to an end, and viewed in this way, it can indeed support skepticism.

It seems Arcesilaus interpreted the teaching of the man whose follower he still claimed to be in this manner. He removed Plato’s head, but at least the body remained authentic.

The method taught by Arcesilaus might well be recommended, had it not paralyzed the young men who studied under him. Arcesilaus affirmed no propositions but refuted any thesis put forward by his students. At times, he would himself present two contradictory statements and proceed to demonstrate how persuasively one could argue in favor of each. A sufficiently energetic student might have developed skill and the ability to avoid false conclusions; in reality, no one seems to have learned anything other than cleverness and indifference to the truth. So great was the influence of Arcesilaus that the Academy remained infused with the spirit of skepticism for nearly two hundred years.

In the midst of this skeptical period, an amusing incident occurred. Carneades, a worthy successor of Arcesilaus as head of the Academy, was one of three philosophers sent by Athens on a diplomatic mission to Rome in 156 B.C. He saw no reason why his title of ambassador should prevent him from seizing such a happy opportunity and announced that he would deliver a series of lectures in Rome. The young men, who at that time sought to imitate Greek manners and immerse themselves in Greek culture, flocked in crowds to hear him. In his first lecture, he expounded the views of Aristotle and Plato on justice, and the lecture proved to be immensely instructive. In his second lecture, however, he set about refuting all that he had said in the first—not to reach opposite conclusions, but merely to show that any conclusion could be contested. Plato's Socrates had declared that committing injustice is a greater evil for the perpetrator than for the one who suffers from it. Carneades, in his second lecture, treated this assertion with disdain. Great states, he pointed out, had become great through unjust acts of aggression against weaker neighbors; in Rome, this could hardly be denied. In a shipwreck, you might save your life at the expense of a weaker person, and you would be a fool not to do so. “Women and children first!” was not, evidently, a principle conducive to self-preservation, in his view. What would you do if you were fleeing from a victorious enemy and had lost your horse but found a wounded comrade on horseback? If you were prudent, you would pull him off and seize the horse, no matter what justice might dictate. This not very edifying reasoning, coming from a professed follower of Plato, is striking, but it seems to have pleased the modern-minded Roman youths.

There was, however, one man it did not please—Cato the Elder. He embodied a stern, unyielding, and coarse moral code, with which Rome had crushed Carthage. From youth to old age, he lived simply: rising early, performing hard physical labor, eating only coarse food, and never wearing clothes that cost more than a hundred pence. In matters of state, he was scrupulously honest, avoiding all bribery, corruption, and plunder. He demanded of other Romans the same virtues he practiced himself, asserting that accusing and prosecuting the wicked was the noblest task for an honest man. As far as he could, he upheld the old Roman severity of conduct:

“Cato even expelled from the Senate a man deemed worthy of being consul, Manilius, for the offense of having embraced his wife in broad daylight before his daughter. Cato remarked that he only embraced his own wife during a thunderstorm.”

While in power, he put an end to luxury and feasts. He made his wife nurse not only her own children but also the children of his slaves, so that, being raised on the same milk, they might grow to love his children. When his slaves grew too old to work, he ruthlessly sold them. He insisted that his slaves either work or sleep at all times. He encouraged discord among his slaves because he “could not bear to see them as friends.” When a slave made a serious mistake, Cato would summon his other slaves and compel them to sentence the guilty one to death; he would carry out the sentence personally, in the presence of the survivors.

The contrast between Cato and Carneades was complete: one cruel from a morality too strict and too traditional, the other base from a morality too lax and too infected with the social decay of the Hellenistic world.

“Only Cato was displeased with this craze for rhetoric, fearing that young men, once engaged in it, would prefer the glory of eloquence to that of military and civic achievements… Appearing before the Senate, he reminded the senators that a delegation, composed of men who could pander to any whim, had been idle in their city for far too long. A decision regarding this delegation should be made quickly, he urged, so that the envoys might return to their schools and teach Greek children there, while Roman youths should obey only the laws and the elders, as before.”

Cato did not act out of personal animosity toward Carneades, as some claim, but because he generally disregarded philosophy and mocked the study of Greek art.

In Cato's view, the Athenians were an inferior breed, lacking law. It did not matter that they had degenerated due to the empty sophistry of their learned men; what mattered was that Roman youth should remain puritanical, imperialist, ruthless, and foolish. However, Cato did not succeed; the Romans later retained many of his vices while adopting some of Carneades' as well.

The next head of the Academy after Carneades (from 180 B.C. to 110 B.C.) was a Carthaginian whose real name was Hasdrubal, though in his dealings with the Greeks, he preferred to call himself Clitomachus. Unlike Carneades, who confined himself to lecturing, Clitomachus authored more than four hundred books, some in the Phoenician language. His principles seemed to align with those of Carneades. In some respects, they were useful. These two skeptics opposed belief in divinity, magic, and astrology, which were gaining ground. They also developed a constructive doctrine concerning degrees of probability, holding that although our sense of certainty can never be justified, some things appear truer than others. Probability must guide our actions in practice, for prudence demands that we act according to the most probable of available hypotheses. Most modern philosophers would agree with this view. Unfortunately, the books advocating it are lost, and it is difficult to reconstruct the doctrine from the few hints that remain.

After Clitomachus, the Academy ceased to be "skeptical," and from the time of Antiochus, who died in 69 B.C., its doctrines became practically indistinguishable from those of the Stoics for centuries.

Skepticism, however, did not disappear. It was revived by Aenesidemus, a native of Crete from Knossos, where, for all we know, two thousand years earlier there may have been skeptics amusing the decadent court with doubts about the divinity of the "mistress of animals." The dates of Aenesidemus’ birth and death are unknown. He rejected the doctrines of probability espoused by Carneades and returned to the earliest forms of skepticism. His influence was considerable; his follower was the poet Lucian in the second century A.D., and slightly later, Sextus Empiricus, the only ancient skeptic philosopher whose works have survived. For example, there is a brief treatise, “Arguments Against the Belief in God,” translated by Edwin Bevan in his Later Greek Religion (pp. 52—56). Bevan notes that Sextus Empiricus, as Clitomachus reported, likely borrowed this treatise from Carneades.

The treatise begins by explaining that skeptics are orthodox in their conduct: “We skeptics follow the path that the world follows in practice, though we hold no opinions about it. We speak of the gods as though they exist and even worship them, but we express no belief and avoid the rashness of dogmatists.”

He goes on to argue that people disagree about the nature of God; for instance, some believe He is corporeal, others that He is incorporeal. Since we have no experience of Him, we cannot know His attributes. The existence of God is not self-evident and, therefore, requires proof. There are several convoluted reasons why such proof is impossible. Finally, he addresses the problem of evil and concludes:

“…those who confidently assert that God exists may be driven to impiety. For if they say that He cares for everything, they must admit that God is the cause of evil, but if they say He cares for some things or for nothing, they must acknowledge Him to be either envious or weak, which is, as it seems, the hallmark of impious men.”

Skepticism, though it continued to influence certain cultured individuals until around the 3rd century CE, stood in stark contrast to the prevailing tendencies of an era increasingly turning toward dogmatic religion and doctrines of salvation. While skepticism was potent enough to sow dissatisfaction with the state religions among the educated, it lacked any positive intellectual framework that could replace them. Beginning with the Renaissance, theological skepticism among most of its proponents was replaced by an enthusiastic faith in science; but in ancient times, such an addition was, unfortunately, absent. Without directly addressing the skeptics' arguments, the ancient world simply turned away from them. With the discrediting of the Olympian gods, the path was cleared for the invasion of Eastern religions, which competed in superstition until the triumph of Christianity.