Ancient Philosophy

Pre-Socratics

Parmenides

The Greeks were not inclined toward moderation in either their theories or their practices. Heraclitus asserted that everything changes, while Parmenides countered that nothing changes. A native of Elea, located in Southern Italy, Parmenides flourished in the first half of the 5th century BCE. According to Plato, Socrates, in his youth—reportedly around 450 BCE—engaged in a dialogue with Parmenides, then a venerable old man, and derived much insight from this conversation. Whether this dialogue actually took place remains uncertain, but it is evident that Plato was profoundly influenced by Parmenides' teachings. Southern Italian and Sicilian philosophers tended toward mysticism and religion, in contrast to their Ionian counterparts, who generally exhibited a scientific and skeptical approach. However, through the influence of Pythagoras, mathematics thrived in Greater Greece more than in Ionia, though it was entangled with mysticism at the time. Parmenides was influenced by Pythagoras, yet the strength of this influence is only a matter of speculation. The historical significance of Parmenides lies in his formulation of a mode of metaphysical argumentation that can be found, in one form or another, in most subsequent metaphysicians, including Hegel. It is often said that Parmenides invented logic, but in truth, he devised metaphysics grounded in logic.

Parmenides' doctrine is articulated in his poem, "On Nature." He considers the senses to be deceptive and views the multitude of sensory phenomena as mere illusion. The only true being is the infinite and indivisible "One." Unlike Heraclitus, who perceived unity in opposites, Parmenides posited that no opposites exist. For instance, he likely believed that "cold" simply denotes "not hot," and "dark" signifies "not light." The "One" was conceived by Parmenides not as we understand God; he apparently envisioned it as material and extended, for he refers to it as a sphere. However, the One cannot be divided, as it is wholly present everywhere.

Parmenides divides his teachings into two parts, which he aptly names "the way of truth" and "the way of opinion." We need not delve into the latter. The most essential elements of his doctrine regarding "the way of truth" can be summarized as follows:

One, continuous... How and from where did it grow? From non-being? This I cannot permit you to express or conceive, for it cannot be expressed or conceived: "Not being"... How could what is [the existent now] ever be? How could it have been in the past [or "become"]? If it "was" [or "became"], then it is not, just as if it [merely] awaits to be. Thus, birth has vanished and death has slipped away. ... The same—thinking and that which is thought of, For without the existent, of which it is expressed, You cannot find thinking. For there is nothing and will be nothing Except the existent...

The essence of this argument is as follows: when you think, you think of something; when you use any name, it must denote something. Consequently, both thinking and speech require objects beyond themselves. Since you can think of or speak about an object at any time, everything that can be thought or expressed must always exist. Therefore, change cannot occur, as it implies that things come into being or perish.

In philosophy, this is the first instance of broad argumentation linking thought and language to the world at large. This argument cannot, of course, be deemed conclusive; however, it is worth examining what kernel of truth it contains.

We can present this argument in the following manner: if language is not merely nonsensical, then words must signify something. Generally, they must denote not only other words but also something that exists independently of whether we speak of it or not. Suppose we speak of George Washington. If there were no historical figure bearing that name, it would (evidently) be meaningless, and any sentences containing that name would also be devoid of meaning. According to Parmenides' assertion, George Washington not only must have existed in the past but, in some sense, must exist in the present, as we can still meaningfully employ that name. This seems patently false, but how do we circumvent this argument?

Let us take an imaginary character, for instance, Hamlet. Consider the statement: "Hamlet was the Prince of Denmark." In a certain sense, this is true, yet not in a direct historical sense. The true assertion would be: "Shakespeare says that Hamlet was the Prince of Denmark," or more clearly: "Shakespeare says there was a prince of Denmark by the name of Hamlet." Here, nothing remains imaginary: Shakespeare, Denmark, and the sound "Hamlet"—all are real. However, the sound "Hamlet" is not, in fact, a genuine name, for no one ever truly bore the name Hamlet. If one were to claim that "Hamlet" is the name of an imaginary person, it would be, strictly speaking, incorrect; one should rather say, "It is imagined that 'Hamlet' is the name of a real person."

Hamlet is an imaginary character; unicorns are an imaginary species of animal. Some statements containing the word "unicorn" are true, while others are false, but in any case, not directly so. Consider the assertions: "A unicorn has one horn" and "A cow has two horns." To prove the latter, one must look at a cow, for it suffices not merely to state that some books say cows have two horns. However, proof that "unicorns have one horn" can only be found in books, and in fact, a more accurate position would be: "In certain books, it is asserted that there are animals with one horn called 'unicorns.'" All statements about unicorns are, in truth, statements about the word "unicorn," just as all statements about Hamlet pertain to the word "Hamlet."

It is evident that, in most instances, we are not speaking about words, but about what those words signify. This brings us back to Parmenides' argument that if a word can be meaningfully used, it must denote something rather than nothing, and consequently, what is denoted by the word must, in a certain sense, exist.

What, then, should we say about George Washington? Apparently, we have only two alternatives: one is to assert that he still exists, the other is to say that when we use the words "George Washington," we are not actually referring to the person who bore that name. Both alternatives seem paradoxical, but the latter is less so, and I shall attempt to show in what sense it is true.

Parmenides believes that words have a constant meaning. This is, in fact, the foundation of his argument, which he regards as indisputable. However, while a dictionary or encyclopedia provides us with what might be called the official or socially sanctioned meaning of a word, no two individuals ascribe the same content to a given word in their minds.

George Washington himself might have used his name and the word "I" as synonyms. He could have perceived his own thoughts and movements of his body, and thus could attribute a fuller meaning to his name than anyone else. In his presence, friends might observe the movements of his body and guess his thoughts; for them, the name "George Washington" still signified something concrete, given in their personal experience. After his death, they would have had to replace perceptions with memories, which implies changes in the mental processes associated with the use of his name. For us, who never knew him, the mental processes again differ. We might think of his portrait and tell ourselves, "Yes, that is the very man." We might think of "the first president of the United States." If we are very ignorant, he may merely be "the man named 'George Washington'" to us. Whatever this name conveys to us, it is still not the man himself, since we never knew him, but rather something present at that moment in memory, feeling, or thought. This illustrates the fallacy of Parmenides' argument.

The constant change in the meanings of words is obscured by the fact that, in general, this change does not affect the truth or falsity of the propositions in which the words are used. If you take any true statement containing the name "George Washington," it will generally remain true when you replace that name with the phrase "the first president of the United States." There are exceptions to this rule. Before Washington's election, a person might say, "I hope that George Washington will be the first president of the United States," but he would not say, "I hope that the first president of the United States will be the first president of the United States," unless he were burning with an extraordinary passion for the law of identity. Nevertheless, it is easy to formulate a rule for excluding these exceptional cases, and in those that remain, we can replace the words "George Washington" with any descriptive phrase applicable solely to him. It is only through such phrases that we can know about him what we know.

Parmenides argues that since we can now know what is commonly considered the past, it cannot, in fact, be past, but must, in a certain sense, exist even now. From this, he concludes that there is no such thing as change. This argument is overcome by what we have said about George Washington. It may be asserted that, in a certain sense, we do not have knowledge of the past. When we recall something, the memories occur in the present and are not identical to the object of remembrance. Yet memory provides a description of a past event, and for most practical purposes, there is no need to distinguish between the description and what it describes.

Overall, this argument demonstrates how easily metaphysical conclusions can be drawn from language and that the only means to avoid such false arguments should be a broader logical and psychological exploration of language than that which most metaphysicians have undertaken.

However, I believe that if Parmenides could rise from the dead and read what has just been said about him, he would find it rather superficial. "How do you know," he would say, "that your assertions about George Washington pertain to the past? According to your own reasoning, direct reference is only possible to things that exist in the present. For example, your memories occur in the present, not at the time you think of when you remember. If memory is considered a source of knowledge, then the past must be before consciousness in the present and, in a certain sense, must still exist."

I will not now attempt to refute this argument, as it would require a discussion of the problem of memory—a subject of great complexity. I have introduced this argument here to remind the reader that philosophical theories, if they are significant, can generally be reborn in a new form after having been dismissed in their original version. Refutations are rarely definitive; in most cases, they signify only the beginning of further refinements.

Subsequent philosophy, including that of the most recent era, has inherited from Parmenides not the doctrine of the impossibility of all change—which was too incredible a paradox—but the teaching of the indestructibility of substance. The term "substance" is not yet employed by his immediate successors, but the corresponding concept is already present in their reasoning. Substance began to be understood as the persistent subject of various predicates. In this sense, it has been and remains for over two thousand years one of the main concepts in philosophy, psychology, physics, and theology. I shall elaborate on this further below. For now, I simply wish to note that this concept was introduced to pay homage to Parmenides' arguments while simultaneously not contradicting evident facts.