Shiffman - Platonic Theōria PDF

The St.
John’s Review
Volume 56.1 (Fall 2014)
Editor
William Pastille
Editorial Board
Eva T. H. Brann
Frank Hunt
Joe Sachs
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Robert B. Williamson
Elliott Zuckerman
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Contents
Essays & Lectures
Momentary Morality and Extended Ethics ..................................1
Eva Brann
Enriching Liberal Education’s Defense in Universities
and Colleges: Liberal Arts, Innovation, and Technē ......................14
J. Scott Lee
Definition and Diairesis in Plato and Aristotle .................................47
Jon Lenkowski
The Stranger as a Socratic Philosopher: The Socratic Nature
of the Stranger’s Investigation of the Sophist................................65
Corinne Painter
The Concept of Measure and the Criterion of Sustainability ...........74
John D. Pappas
Platonic Theōria................................................................................95
Mark Shiffman
Poems
Two Villanelles ...............................................................................124
Kemmer Anderson
Two Poems......................................................................................126
Elliott Zuckerman
Momentary Morality
and Extended Ethics
Eva Brann
You have been reading and talking about virtue for quite a while
now; therefore, that is what your teachers asked me to talk about
to you. So I drew a hot bath (since the mind is freest when the body
is floating) and thought what might be most to the point, most help-
ful to you.
Should I review some theories about virtue, perhaps give you
my interpretation of Socrates’s or Aristotle's notions of virtue, per-
haps dwell on whether from reading Platonic dialogues we can tell
if Socrates and Plato thought the same and if Aristotle responds to
either of them? Or should I introduce you to Kantian morality, a
world apart from the ancients? Should I distinguish for you a vision
of virtue that looks to an ideal heaven beyond and longs for per-
fection from one that pays regard to the world right here and goes
for moderation? Should I explain to you that the Greek philoso-
phers tends toward ethics, toward developing personal qualities of
excellence, while the Judeo-Christian tradition tends toward moral-
ity, willingness to obey the laws of God and nature? Should I list
for you different doctrines of doing right, such as eudaemonism,
the teaching that happiness is the aim of virtue, or deontology, the
account of virtue as duty and the obligation to obey commands, of
which Kant is the most extreme representative? For while Socrates,
Plato, and Aristotle, whatever their differences, think that ethics
involves some sort of rightness in our feelings, emotions, and pas-
sions, Kant is clear that morality at its purest is a matter of reason
alone. Reason is in its essence universal: to think rationally is to
think unexceptionably, comprehensively. So to obey the commands
of reason is to suppress all merely natural inclinations, all purely
Eva Brann is a tutor and former Dean at St. John’s College in Annapolis,
Maryland. This lecture was delivered at the “Windows on the Good Life”
Course at Carlton College on 16 April 2014.
2 THE ST. JOHN’S REVIEW
idiosyncratic desires, and to intend only such actions as we would

want to be intended by everyone—or even to be seen as com-
manded by a law of nature. This is the notorious “categorical im-
perative”: “imperative” means “command” and “categorical”
means “without ifs and buts” (as when someone says to you “that's
a categorical no!”). You'll see in a moment why I've brought Kant-
ian morality into this talk.
One last thing I might be speaking about, and which in fact I
will talk of in a moment, is the word “virtue.” I'll argue that this
translation of the word the Greeks use, aretē, has its virtues, but
we should probably give it up, or at least use it with raised eye-
brows.
I now want to say why none of the above, except the last, ap-
pealed to me. I will tell you what seems to me the biggest trouble
with academic study, and so with most of our eduction. I call it
the problem of lost immediacy. This is what I mean: There are
books—and if your teachers chose well, they will be great ones—
that are full of substance. Then there are books and articles and
lectures about books. The great books (or texts of any sort) contain
opinions. The next level of books and articles also contain opin-
ions, but they are opinions about the original opinions, because
whoever interprets a primary text adds a perspective to it. Then
here we are, your teachers, and we’ve absorbed some of these
original opinions, as well as some of the opinions about them—
and we’ve acquired some opinions of our own on top of that. All
those levels of learning on our part can smother, drown out, your
immediate relation to the book. But even a powerful, first-rate
book—perhaps especially such a book—can also stand between
you and yourself. It intervenes in your thinking and can capture
it, so that you are content to think its thoughts and co-feel its feel-
ings, rather than being immediately present to yourself. Or worse,
it can put you off its possibly life-changing content because you
see no direct entrance to it.
Now I hasten to say that I pity people who have never been
taken over by a book or even by a teacher in that way—if, that is,
the being-taken-over is the beginning of an effort, a struggle, that
issues in a gradual emergence or a tumultuous bursting out of a
ESSAYS & LECTURES | BRANN 3
discovery that is truly your own. And I pity even more students
who have been turned off by a life-enhancing text because no one
helped them to make a direct connection with it.
A witty outside observer of my college used to tell the world
that our students arrive knowing nothing and leave knowing that
they know nothing. I hope it’s true, provided you keep in mind that
to know that you know nothing is knowing a lot. What he meant,
though, was that they had absorbed so many contradictory opinions
from reading so many deep books that they were in a state of ulti-
mate and utterconfusion. But in that he was surely mistaken. Such
riches may be oppressive and discombobulating for a while, but
that’s a state you work yourself out of into some clarity—clarity
about “who you are,” which is a formulaic way of saying “what
your thinking can accept and your feelings can embrace.”
Therefore I think that the second-best thing we teachers can
do for our students is to show how books can be, in a fancy term,
“appropriated,” made one’s own—and not just a few books of the
same sort, but many books of different sorts, different in genre,
different in opinion. The very best thing we can do, of course, is
to get students to read them well and talk about them to each other.
Doesn’t that broad appropriation, you might ask, imply eclec-
ticism, which is a sort of intellectual cherry-picking that disregards
the generality of a well thought-out theory, and—especially if it’s
an ethical or moral theory—its integration into a comprehensive
view of the ways things are? Well, yes, if ecleticism means indis-
criminately collecting low-hanging fruit from here and there, it will
be cherry-picking, extracting now contextless bits and pieces. But
no, if eclecticism has a basis in the very nature of things. In a mo-
ment I’ll explain this oracular pronouncement.
But first, there’s the word “virtue,” the supposed subject of my
talk. Let everyone talk as they wish, as long as they know what
they’re saying; but I wish we wouldn't use “virtue” as a translation
of that Greek word aretē—or at least that we would use it mostly
with raised eyebrows. To be sure, it has a nice argument in its
favor: “virtue” is related both to the Latin vis, force, and vir, man.
Virtue is the energy of a being that holds it together, and gives it
power, as when they say in stories: “All the virtue went out of
him.” Now as it happens, aretē is related to a Greek prefix ari-,

meaning “very much, forcefully so”; thus aretē is the potency in a
person or thing to be what it is supposed to be. (Some Greeks seem
to have seen a relation between aretē and Ares, the powerful war-
rior-god.) Moreover, the moral virtue most highly regarded by Ar-
istotle, courage, is literally called “manliness” (andreia) in Greek.
So it all fits together. On the other hand, “virtue,” in a use that goes
back to Shakespearean times and into the nineteenth century, was
a woman’s particular kind of manliness, namely, well-girded
chastity, her bodily and psychic inviolability. We have nothing left
but a smile for such passionless purity. More recently, the adjective
“virtual,” in its meaning of “inactual,” has come front-and-center
as an attribute of cyberspace: “virtual reality,” that is to say, “unreal
reality.” We ought to have a background awareness of the sphere
of connotations of our words, including their history. But, as far as
the contemporary connotations of the adjectival form of “virtue”
is concerned, I don’t think we want to go there.
This means, however, that for the moment I’m left without a
word for my subject. And this lack raises two really interesting
questions: Can we have a thought without a name? and Can we
think without words? Powerful contemporary writers claim that it
is impossible for two reasons: There can be no external proof that
thinking is going on without someone saying something thought-
ful: a furrowed brow is no evidence. In fact even our claim to be
thinking doesn’t prove that we are thinking. And more important,
to think is really to marshall meanings, and meanings are drifting
vapours unless they are attached to a word or given structure in a
sentence.
Here I beg to differ with these contemporary writers. I think
we all experience that sense of a disembodied meaning, of pre-ver-
bal thinking, that moves in our mind, sometimes like a gentle aro-
matic breeze over the mental plain, sometimes like a powerful push
of air pressure against a mental wall, rousing us to seek the right
term to catch it, the accurate language to describe it, the suitable
words to embody it.
So then, what is this mental presence that is called virtue, ef-
fectiveness, excellence, dutifulness, goodness? I am supposing
here that to have too many words is equivalent to having no cogent

idea. But that may be a mistake. The reason why there are numer-
ous translations for the Greek word you’ve thought about under
the term “virtue” may be that in fact it encompasses a number of
ways of being what is called broadly, and so a little bluntly, “good”;
there are many terms because there really are different ways of
being humanly good. This possibility of earthly variety kicks the
meaning they share, “goodness,” way upstairs, so to speak—up
into the highest reaches of thought. In the Republic, Socrates says
to the two very intelligent young men he is speaking with that he
can’t explain this Good to them in the brief space of one evening.
So I feel excused from even trying in this short hour.
On the other hand, I do want to make use of the notion that
there might be more than one way of being good—an idea that will
probably underwhelm you. It would not even have shocked people
who lived before the First World War, like your great-great-grand
parents—though for different reasons. Nowadays many people,
certainly among them the most articulate ones, believe that as long
as we are socially right-minded and we don’t discriminate among
our fellow humans for being what nature made them, we can be
fairly forgiving of a loose personal morality. So there is public and
private morality, one rigorous, the other relaxed. (Of course, these
are generalizations, which are never true of those in whose hearing
they are made.) Your ancestors, on the other hand, would have
tended to believe what Socrates sets out in the Republic, namely,
that members of different castes or classes belonging to one polit-
ical community have different characteristic excellences. More-
over, they knew quite well that, even within their class,
people—especially well-off men—lived quite comfortably within
a double moral framework. For example, men could maintain a re-
spectable but loveless marriage to one woman whom they publicly
honored, while at the same time engaging in a passionate but dis-
reputable attachment to a mistress who had only private privileges.
My own uncle lived that way. When he and his wife fled Germany
from the Nazis in 1939, his mistress was on the same train in a sep-
arate compartment.
Here is what I want to do now, killing two birds with one stone
(though I’m not so much for killing birds, especially not en masse).
My first aim is to take off on my own, so that my primary point
will not be so much to explain a theory found in a book—though,
as you’ll see, I’ll have to do that too in order to achieve my second
purpose. And that second purpose is to show how one might be
eclectic without being incoherent, how we might engage in pick-
ing-out parts of theories of goodness without producing a mere
self-pleasing miscellany, a tasty thought-goulash.
This second purpose might be of real use to you if you’re feel-
ing a little snowed by all the deep and sometimes difficult theories
you’ve studied this year. I mean to show that you can fashion an
opinion to live by through combining the most disparate concep-
tions. My first aim, however, is to think out something for myself
and articulate it before a sympathetic audience.
So now to it. One human being may indeed live with two
moralities, one public, one private, and this duplicity is not always
hypocritical; it may simply make life livable and prevent it from
becoming worse. Or, looking at it another way, there is a saying
that hypocrisy is the respect vice pays to virtue: I think it’s better
all around that there should be such respect, once humanly under-
standable and inevitable wrong-doing is on the scene. Again, com-
ing to our day, some people quite comfortably cheat on their taxes
and tell you that it’s a form of civic virtue to short-change a waste-
ful government, but they observe strict correctness when it comes
to matters of social justice. They too live in a dual moral frame.
But I want to introduce another, I think more fundamental, du-
ality: the pacing of time, or, more accurately, of psychic motion. If
you watch the stream of cars coming toward you on the opposite
side of a highway, and there is a good deal of traffic, you’ll notice
that the cars bunch up; they practically tailgate each other until the
density dissolves into long stretches of lighter flow. The world is
like that, and so are our lives; it and we are in sync. There’s an
earthquake, a tsunami, a storm, an eruption all at once after years
of nothing. A dreary winter has lasted for ever, suddenly it’s spring,
the forsythia is in bloom, the trees are bursting into leaf, and it’s
time for outdoor-idling, but there are summer jobs to be lined up,
final exams, parties, last-moment bonding, packing, all at once.
That’s outside, but it’s similar inside: There are undistinguished
times marked, very unremarkably, by routine and repetition; life

flows away and is canceled, collapses into one-and-any-day’s
schedule. Then suddenly time develops densities; all the momen-
tous moments happen together, for better or for worse. When it
rains, it pours, as the saying goes.
I should remind you here that the exhilarating heights and tear-
ful depths of time, or rather of eventfulness, separated by expanses
of flat dailiness—these closings-up and drawings-apart of happen-
ings—are a Western way of seeing the world and living in it. There
are teachings of the East that make a virtue of unbunching time, of
letting life flow evenly—every moment as charged with presence
as any other. Thus when I called this talk “Momentary Morality
and Extended Ethics,” I was thinking only of our half of the world.
So now I’ll explain what I mean by momentary morality. I’ve
been describing an experience of time and events that includes mo-
ments of crisis, either imposed on us by nature or manufactured
by us from sheer cussed, willful Westernness. Although krisis is a
Greek word meaning “separation” or “decision,” and so might just
betoken any branching in the flow of events, we generally don’t
mean something good by it. A crisis, as we use the word, is not so
much a branching as a stanching of the flow of events that makes
its elements pile up and then burst out, often in a kind of relieving
demolition of the status quo. Certainly the living pace we share,
consisting of stretches of eventless, quiet desperation or content-
ment, as the case may be, which are interspersed with somewhat
frantic eventfulness, practically guarantees that every high will be
at the expense of a low, as a hill is paid for by a hollow. I think that
I’ve told things the way they really are, but that I’ve left two ques-
tions (at least) quite unanswered: Are the highs higher than the
lows are low, that is, are there more great moments than sorry
ones? and What is the logic, or better, the ontology of these event-
pairings of high and low? Why is natural and human life subject
to these oppositions? By “ontology,” which signifies an “account
of being,” I mean the most fundamental explanation we can find
for the way things are, including psychology in the non-medical
sense: an account of the human soul.
But I want to use this notion of bunched time, of high moments
we may hope for and low ones we can expect, of events shaped in
time like wave packets connected by a flat line—unexamined

though the image be—to speak about the type of morality which I
call “momentary morality.” I mean those critical moments when
you’re up against the wall, when it’s too late to think things out,
when you need to be ready with an inner command to tell you what
to do—what you must do—at that very moment. The human con-
dition being what it is, what you must do will tend to be something
you don’t want to do, or rather, something you will want with every
fiber of your feelings not to do. If at that moment you waffle about
what you ought to do, or if you fail to do as you ought, you’ll never
forget that you were unprepared in a moral emergency or unstead-
fast in doing your duty. You will be diminished in your self-respect.
I’ve seen it written and heard it said that such moments of ex-
tremity reveal who a person really is. I don’t believe it. I think what
you do day-by-blessedly-ordinary-day is more apt to reveal, even
while it is shaping, who you are. But I do know that moral failure
in a crisis sticks with you: I know it from myself, I know it from a
tale one day told me, almost in passing, by a man I admired, and I
know it from fiction, especially Joseph Conrad’s novel Lord Jim
and Ernest Hemingway’s short story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.”
There is a theory of morality that seems to me tailored for mo-
ments of crisis and, consequently, inept in daily use. It is the Kant-
ian theory of the categorical imperative I mentioned earlier on. It
is, in the compass of my reading, the most powerful, coherent, in-
genious and, not incidentally, the most earnestly extremist theory
of human goodness ever devised. Like all great specific theory it
is embedded in a grand grounding of human consciousness. Kant
would turn, nay, whirl in his grave to hear me assign it to so par-
ticular a use, so momentary an occasion. But since I am convinced
that it is not possible to live well through the flats of life on Kantian
morality (though I lack time in this talk to explain why) and find
that even his own applications sometimes have repellent results, I
feel less abashed at saving the pieces, so to speak. Let me explain
as simply and briefly as I can how this morality might work in an
emergency, and that explanation itself will go a little ways toward
showing why one can’t live that way through extended time.
We have, Kant says, a faculty for freedom, namely, our will,
our free will. To be free means to take orders from no one but one-
self. Thus the free will commands itself. It gives itself its own law.
There must be law, Kant thinks, because if the will were lawless it
would be the opposite of free—call it capricious, wanton. Now the
will, Kant also thinks, is an aspect of reason, which has two sides.
One side is theoretical reason. This reason gives nature its laws
and then recognizes them as necessary. I will set this activity of
reason aside here—it’s what I mean by ripping his moral theory
out of the grand whole. The other side is practical reason; it gives
itself its laws and so knows itself as free. You can see that it is iden-
tical with the free will. The will—really myself as a free person—
should, of course, obey the command of its self-given law, its
imperative. As I said earlier, this imperative permits no ifs and buts,
admits no special cases, allows no individual exceptions, because
it is addressed to reason, and reason does not contradict its own
universal judgment, for then it would be self-contradictory. Above
all, it avoids the necessities, the unfree determinism, of lawful na-
ture. We human beings are in part natural, namely, in our inclina-
tions and desires. Our free will, our practical reason, has no truck
with the emotions and feelings that drive us. It chooses a course
entirely because it is right and not in the least because we feel good
about it; in fact, the more it hurts the better we know we are doing
our duty, doing purely as we ought. And we have a test to tell us
whether our decision is right, a test that expresses the essence of
reason: If I can universalize my particular motive for choosing an
action so as to turn it into a general law of human action or a con-
ceivable law of nature, then I am choosing as I ought. I am pre-
serving the purity of reason, namely its universality and its
avoidance of self-contradiction by exception-making.
Let me give a famous example by Kant himself. Suppose a
persecutor comes to my door and asks if his intended victim is
within. All my inclination is to deny it, to protect the fugitive. But
if I generalize my motive it assumes this form: Under humanitarian
pressure anyone may tell a lie. And then all trust in anyone’s dec-
larations collapses, for anyone can construe an exception. So you
must tell the truth, and you will have done your duty, come hell or
highwater or the murder of a fugitive. I’ve told this example be-
cause it seems to me to show how Kantian purity can turn into

moral catastrophe when life is fraught with daily danger. Just imag-
ine that you’re harboring a fugitive dissident in some totalitarian
state, and, as you well know they might, the secret police come
knocking at your door. Will you tell them the truth for the sake of
the self-consistency of reason? No, you will have recourse—if you
think you need it—to the very paralogical, paradoxical principle of
the white lie. And, in general, I think that this absolutist morality is
not only too inhumane, but also too joyless to be livable day by day.
But let there be that one life-changing moment when, torn from
the usually peaceful flux of ordinary life, you suddenly must de-
cide. The occasion might be a temptation to commit a minor trans-
gression in the world’s eyes, but one weighing heavily on your
conscience. Or it could be an unexpected call on your courage, un-
welcome but unavoidable, perhaps never patent to the world but
well enough known to yourself.
These are, I think, Kantian moments, spots of time when a
morality is wanted that disparages our inclinations and prompts us
to duty, that provides an effective on-the-spot test of what ought
to be done, to wit: What if everyone did what it has just crossed
my mind to do? That decisive moment’s morality is the kind which
commands without hedging.
But for most of us in this country these excruciating moments
that, when they do come, tend, to be sure, to come in multiples,
are blessedly sparse. The rational points on a mathematical line are
said to be dense, meaning that they leave no empty interval and
yet do not form a continuum (since the irrational points are miss-
ing). Such is the incident-line, the event-time of our ordinary daily
life, in which every little station has its happening; but though they
are all discrete, they are so closely packed together that they are
scarcely discernible. Our day has 86,400 seconds and our week
604,800 seconds, and we can calculate the number of seconds in
our month, our year, our decade, our lifetime. This flattish life-line
of instants, with the peaks and troughs it occasionally develops,
surely requires a different notion of goodness from the one that is
marked by excruciating, disruptive moments. As I called the latter
“momentary morality,” so I will call the former “extended ethics.”
Morality, remember, requires command-issuing universal law;

ethics, on the other hand, demands natural and acquired personal
qualities. Of the possible English alternatives to the term “virtue,”
I think that “excellence” best expresses the connotations the an-
cient users of the word aretē seem to have had in mind, even before
the philosophers got to discerning a comprehensive meaning.
Let me list those connotations of aretē, understood as excel-
lence, that I can think of: 1. effectiveness; 2. competition; 3. hap-
piness; 4. enumerability; 5. habituation. They all have to do with
the long runs of life, the flat stretches that may buckle into peaks
and valleys of glory and misery; they have little or nothing to do
with the up-against-the-wall decisions of a life fractured by a moral
emergency.
I’ve spoken of the notion of aretē as an effective, potent way
of being that betokens a soul honed to a fine edge, just as a well-
sharpened pruning knife is an efficient and perhaps somewhat dan-
gerous object. There is a competitive tone to aretē, just as to be
excellent means literally “to rise above,” as we say, “to be out-
standing.” The possessor of aretē glories in it, vaunts and flaunts
it, as do the Homeric heroes. A hero is high in self-esteem, in cur-
rent language. Furthermore, the aretai, the excellences that every-
one recognizes, can be counted off. Socrates regularly refers to
four cardinal ones: wisdom, justice, courage, and sound-minded-
ness. These excellences require the right sort of body and soul—
physical and psychic talent as we would say—but also practice,
habituation. It is in this last element that the difference between
Kantian morality and ethics, as I have delineated it, shows up most.
Personal qualities are confirmed in habituation, in being habitually
practiced, but the free will, the self-legislation of morality is es-
sentially at odds with habituation. For habit puts the natural laws
of psychology to work, and these are deterministic mechanisms.
In fact, habit as a mechanism is an inhibition on spontaneousness,
on freedom. What’s more, for Kant the will’s intention trumps
practical execution.
Indeed, all the points of the ethics of individual qualities are
contrasted with law-morality. The categorical imperative has, to
be sure, several forms, but it is basically one, a super-command-
ment that the free will issues and obeys, while the human excel-
lences are enumerably multiple. For although excellence as excel-
lence may be one super-quality, it needs to assume various
specifications, and these may even be at odds with each other. For
instance, courage and sound-mindedness (whose Greek term,
sophrosyne, is often translated as “moderation”) may pull in op-
posite directions. Certainly the competitive glorying of excellence
is unthinkable in a dutiful moralist, and the sharp-set potency and
effectiveness which goes with any excellence is absolutely out of
play for the moral mode. Once more, in Kant’s great works of
moral philosophy, the issue of execution, of how the passage from
decision to effective action is accomplished, which is so crucial a
juncture in ethics, is almost completely suppressed. Ethics is a way
of being objectively good in the world; the doing is almost every-
thing. Kantian morality is primarily concerned with being right
with oneself, subjectively good; the intention is everything, though
hard actions may, indeed should, follow. As Kant famously says:
There is nothing unqualifiedly good except a good will. Note that
he does not say “a good deed.”
It is with respect to my middle point, happiness, that the dif-
ference is greatest and that ethics seems to me a far more livable,
day-by-day useful theory. It is essential to moral intention that no
hint of nature-bound desire should taint the purity of duty done for
its own sake, meaning for the sake of self-rule; no psychic pleas-
ure-seeking mechanism should confuse the clarity of a command
obeyed for the sake of one's rational integrity, one’s rational con-
sistency. Ethics, on the other hand, cooperates with nature; al-
though it distinguishes between sound and corrupt pleasure,
between excess and moderation, it nevertheless regards pleasure,
in Aristotle’s words, as the bloom on our activity, and considers
happiness, whatever its definition, as the proper, indeed self-evi-
dent, human aim.
Recall that I have spoken about “extended ethics” as opposed
to “momentary morality” and distinguished the two theories of
human goodness by their relation to time, or rather, to eventuation.
Morality was for intense, abrupt, exigent, emergent moments of
up-against-the-wall decision making; ethics was for a looser,
smoother, less urgent, more subdued tenor of life. And indeed,

everything I’ve observed about ethics seems to me to fit this latter
temporal mode better: our natural longing for accessible daily
pleasure and sustainable long-term happiness in the world; our in-
nocent, or not-so-innocent, human-all-too-human eagerness for
admiration; our comfort in a being buoyed up by a tradition of
recognizably articulated excellencies; our time-consuming growth
into profitable habits and productive routines.
Above I calculated our line of life in myriads of instants al-
most too brief for detection (as distinct from discernible mo-
ments). Yet each had to be occupied and vacated, lived in and
through, for better or for worse. It seemed to me that this analogy
of life to a line, at once dense and pointillistic, recommended to
us a theory of goodness which allowed us to be all there as natural
beings, driven at every point of temporal existence by desire, fas-
tening on some moments for fulfillment, developing excellence
and glorying in it, engaging with the world in action and with our-
selves in thinking. But it also seemed that there were moments of
heightened urgency when we must oppose our pleasure-seeking
and happiness-enjoying nature and forget all the flourishing ex-
cellence promotes in order to obey the harsh self-command of
“you ought”—no ifs and buts.
My overarching purpose, however, was to persuade you that
your studies of ways to be humanly good can be appropriated
by you to fashion a way of your own, that they need not add up
to mutual canceling-out of theories and all-round confusion of
soul. In fact, I’m paying you a major compliment: I’m supposing
that you’re taking your learning seriously, not just, as the phrase
goes, “academically”—that you take your studies to heart as life-
shaping.
Enriching Liberal Education’s

Defense in Universities and Colleges:
Liberal Arts, Innovation, and Technē
J. Scott Lee
For a number of years, it has struck me that people who write

about a “liberal-arts education” rarely write directly about the
arts. They write about political, religious, and moral dispositions;
they write about the rise of the sciences; they write about cul-
tures; and recently, they write about the conditions of education.
Sometimes, they write about books and core texts within the tra-
dition of the liberal arts, but these books and their associated arts
are written about as exemplars of politics, morals, science, and
culture—rarely as exemplars of arts.
A recent spate of writings defending the humanities and hu-
manism, the college and the purpose of education—by Martha
Nussbaum, Tony Kronman, Andrew Delbanco, and Patrick De-
neen—all mention liberal-arts education. They defend the fine
or liberal arts, but none of these authors ground their defenses
of liberal-arts education in art per se.1 All these writers sense an
J. Scott Lee is the Executive Director of the Association for Core Texts
and Courses. An earlier version of this essay was presented at the Re-
search University and Liberal Arts College Conference, held at Notre
Dame University in Notre Dame, Indiana, 9-11 June 2013.
1. Andrew Delbanco hardily approves of Anthony Kronman’s great-

books curriculum for the ideas it raises, and he cites the artes liberales
ideal of education that Bruce Kimball has extensively documented as a
tradition of aristocratic European liberal learning that opens the mind.
But it is America’s “attempt to democratize” this tradition through its
collegiate educations that really interests him (College: What It Was,
Is, and Should Be [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012], 33.)
“Working to keep the ideal of democratic education alive,” Delbanco,
in an extensive analysis of the past and present social conditions of col-
ESSAYS & LECTURES | LEE 15
ebbing of liberal education correlated with the economic, scien-

tific, and technological conditions under which we live. Nearly
leges as institutions, ultimately locates the “universal value of a liberal

education” in the belief, derived from the nineteenth-century religious
college, that “no outward mark—wealth or poverty, high or low social
position, credentials or lack thereof—tells anything about the inward
condition of the soul” (171). He transmutes this belief, today, into a
liberal education whose “saving power” (171) that allows students to
“ignite in one another a sense of the possibilities of democratic com-
munity” through “the intellectual and imaginative enlargement [college]
makes possible” (172). He concludes, “we owe it to posterity to pre-
serve and protect this institution. Democracy depends on it.” (177).
Martha Nussbaum begins her “manifesto” in defense of the humanities
and arts with a crisis in which “the humanities and the arts are being
cut away in both primary/secondary and college/university education,
in virtually every nation in the world.” This entails “discarding of skills
that are needed to keep democracies alive.” In the survival of the hu-
manities and arts within educational institutions “the future of the
world’s democracies” is said to “hang in the balance” (Not for Profit:
Why Democracy Needs the Humanities. [Princeton: Princeton Univer-
sity Press, 2010], 1-2).
Notwithstanding a very serious concern with “ideals of freedom,”
Anthony Kronman is less focused on the links between democracy and
liberal education than on the links between the humanities and our cul-
ture (Education’s End: Why Our Colleges and Universities Have Given
Up on the Meaning of Life. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007).
He stresses particularly the humanities’ abandonment, within colleges
and universities, of the search for meaning in our individual lives, and
he warns against our scientific culture’s way of aggrandizing our tech-
nical powers without setting them within the limitations of human fini-
tude. The combination, he believes, yields a kind of spiritual desiccation.
Oddly similar to Kronman notwithstanding their published differences,
Patrick Deneen argues that since the Enlightenment, greatness seems
to rest in transformation, whereas before the rise of the New Sciences,
whose authors often belittled ancient books, greatness rested in a “pre-
dominant understanding” of cultivated endurance, and an acceptance
of the limits of human power, knowledge, and ambition. The modern
great books program contains many scientific, political and economic
works which support the idea of transformation. So Deneen asks, might
all find that the present responses of our institutions to these con-
ditions impede rather than aid the robust maintenance or devel-
opment of something like a liberal education. Most of their
arguments rely on research, though their positions on whether re-
search—scientific, bibliographic or otherwise—within a univer-
sity favors or harms undergraduate liberal education tends to
range Nussbaum on one side and Delbanco, Kronman, and De-
neen on the other. In contrast, each author attempts to revive tra-
ditions of the liberal arts by linking them to current conditions
of democracy, spiritual needs of cultures, or ethical understand-
ings of faith. All believe that the souls of our students and our
citizens are at stake, though of course they disagree about the
constitution of the soul and the education designed to nurture it.
A common concern among these authors is whether our cul-
tural assumption that we can transform almost anything, particu-
larly through the technology of science, is good for our souls and
good for liberal education. For Nussbaum, technology appears as
the attractive image of students in a lab—instead of pictures of
students “thinking”—that administrators use to lure students to
universities.2 Delbanco notes the advantage that the sciences have
over the humanities in public evaluations: technological land-
marks of progress, accompanied by an occasional historical or
philosophic “breakthrough.”3 For Kronman and Deneen, technol-
ogy is the differential gear which imparts varying force to science,
culture, and education. Further, Kronman and Deneen come very
close to each other in noting the meretricious effects upon our
character and our sense of limits that technological achievement
unleashes in the form of pleonexia. The humanities currently fail
to oppose it (Kronman), or worse, education encourages it through
there be an alternative way to think about the core texts of the ancient
to medieval Western tradition, ultimately as a way of restraining our
scientifically released pleonexia for mastering and transforming our
world? He suggests great books might be justified by recovering this
earlier understanding’s humility (“Against Great Books,” in First
Things [January 2013], 35.)
2. Nussbaum, Not for Profit, 133.
3. Delbanco, College, 95. Apparently, literature does not rise to “breakthroughs.”
a philosophy of transformation, of creating original knowledge

and innovations through research (Deneen).4
4. At one point, Kronman and Deneen come very close to saying—and
meaning—the same thing. Kronman’s case for the humanities in large
part rests on controlling technology through a recognition of human lim-
its: “We have a desire for control that can never be satisfied by any de-
gree of control we actually achieve. We always want more. . . . This is
the human condition, which is characterized by our subjection to fateful
limits that we can neither tolerate nor do without. . . . The most important
thing about technology is not what it does but what it aspires to do. . . .
Technology encourages us to believe that the abolition of fate should be
our goal. . . . Technology discourages the thought that our finitude is a
condition of the meaningfulness of our lives. . . . It makes the effort to
recall our limits and to reflect upon them seem less valuable and impor-
tant” (Kronman, Education’s End, 230-233). For Kronman, the research
ideal is, of course, partly justified in the sciences by the “fruit”—both in
discovery and in technology—that it produces: “The research ideal is
today the organizing principle of work in every academic discipline. . . .
In the natural sciences, the research ideal has proved remarkably fruitful.
The new discoveries that pour from our college and university laborato-
ries every year and the clear sense of progressive movement toward an
objective understanding of the structure and mechanisms of the natural
world testify to the productive fit between the natural sciences and the
modern research ideal.” Whereas in the humanities “understanding,” but
not a productive technology characterizes research results: “In the hu-
manities . . . the benefits of research are less uniform or certain” (ibid.,
130-133). Nevertheless “research in the humanities has produced results
of lasting value. It has added importantly to our understanding of the
historical, literary, artistic, and philosophical subjects with which the hu-
manities deal.” The demands for specialization and for teaching to that
specialization ought to be less insistently felt in the humanities: “What
must be resisted is the imperial sprawl of the research ideal, its expansive
tendency to fill every corner of each discipline in which it takes hold
and to color the expectations and judgments of teachers in these disci-
plines regarding what they do. Admittedly this is asking a lot. . . . But . . .
it is merely asking for a somewhat greater degree of humility on the
part of those in the humanities who first allegiance is to this ideal” (ibid.,
248-249).
For Deneen, the (current) point of a philosophy of education is not
to admire the world, or suffer its limits, but to change it, to transform it.
Finally, while all these authors seem to be convinced that the

products of arts are essential to any revival, and while they are
skilled fashioners of argument in areas where no single discipline
can claim precedence, the discussion of fine or liberal arts and
their products is not in terms of art, but in the terms of the polit-
ical, cultural, or religious end sought. For example, Nussbaum
devotes large portions of her book exploring arts and a whole
chapter to “Cultivating the Imagination: Literature and the Arts.”
To Deneen, it seems that since the Enlightenment, greatness seems to

rest in transformation. So he asks, might there be an alternative way to
think about and assign terms to the core texts of the Western tradition,
ultimately as a way of restraining our excesses in transforming our
world? He begins by accepting a stasis in the political, moral, religious,
and poetic inheritance of books that extends from the ancients through
the first stirrings of modernity: “Great books such as Paradise Lost
sought to inculcate a sense of limits, . . . we could look at a dominant
understanding of a long succession of great books from antiquity to the
Middle Ages . . . to conform human behavior and aspirations to the nat-
ural or created order” (“Against Great Books,” 35). By way of Baconian,
Cartesian, and Hobbesian repudiation of books, Deneen elaborates the ar-
gument the he feels undermines the “human limits” understanding by try-
ing to discriminate two kinds of liberty. The first, associated with great
books, is a “liberty . . . of hard-won self-control through the discipline of
virtue,” which often animates defenses of great books as materials in
preparing for citizenship. The second is a liberty with “the stress . . .
upon the research, creative activity, scholarly inquiry and the develop-
ment of new knowledge” (ibid., 37). The former constrains our desires,
the latter endlessly satisfies them through “the human project of mas-
tery.” The latter pursuits were justified by the arguments of Bacon,
Descartes, and Hobbes, reinforced by Dewey, which depended on the
idea “that a larger number of natural forces and objects [could be or]
have been transformed into instrumentalities of action” in the West than
in cultures which did not exploit the natural resources available through
scientific technology (ibid., 36). Deneen concludes that we do need to
teach these two competing notions of liberty through the great books,
but defenders should exchange the notion of “greatness” for a notion
of “humility” derived from the earlier works of the intellectual tradition
represented in the West (ibid., 38). Humility might, then, restrain our
excesses in regard to transformation.
In the latter, we learn that “in order to be stably linked to demo-

cratic values, [both the artistic cultivation of capacities for play
and empathy in a general way, and the treatment of particular cul-
tural blind spots] require a normative view of how human beings
ought to relate to one another . . . and, both therefore require se-
lectivity regarding the artworks used.”5 A catalog follows of the
failures of artworks, of “defective forms of ‘literature,” to culti-
vate the sympathy that Nussbaum desires. Undoubtedly, Kron-
man’s understanding of the search for meaning and his discussion
of civilizational “conversation” depends on art; Delbanco’s dis-
tinction between research and reading instances canonical works
from ancient to modern times; and Deneen’s argument is con-
cerned with a residuum of teachings that earlier great books leave
us. Yet, in these social-moral defenses, an entire line of argument
concerning the arts is, for the most part, relegated to an instru-
mental, supporting, or ancillary role in a discussion that might be
titled: “Social Conditions, Educational Institutions, and Individual
Capacities: Wither Liberal Education?”
I wish to suggest now that the ecology of liberal education
defense could be enriched by also focusing on the arts of liberal-
arts education. Then we will see what liberal education’s relation
to research, democracy, or culture might be when looked at
through the lens of the arts. Please note that my preceding re-
marks are not meant to imply the absence of artistic works in lib-
eral-arts programs, nor that some parts of those programs are not
structured by the arts. For example Yale’s Directed Studies pro-
gram has courses explicitly divided into three groups: Literature,
Philosophy, and Historical and Political Thought. Clearly litera-
ture is art. Columbia’s Core’s program has the Literature/Human-
ities and the Contemporary Civilization sequences, not to
mention the Music offerings. Again, no one doubts that this pro-
gram involves art. What I am interested in are the rationales and
justifications for programs using core texts that can be grounded
in the liberal arts.
Why is it important to develop a line of argument about arts
5. Nussbaum, Not for Profit, 108.

to the point where we might see them in the guise of an end, not
just a means, to liberal-arts education? Do you remember, about
forty or fifty years ago, if you aspired to a bachelor degree, you
chose either a bachelor of science or a bachelor of arts? No one
today questions whether a student possesses a science if she or he
earns a B.S. What art or arts, however, do our students possess if
they have earned a B.A.? So, if we claim to offer a liberal-arts ed-
ucation in undergraduate bachelor programs, it might not be amiss
to ask what arts are our students learning and we are teaching.
And asking such a question can enrich our view of liberal-arts ed-
ucation using core texts—whether of the Western tradition or not.
When educators of any stripe are seeking renewal, they often
resort to an examination of the past, so I thought the best place
to begin a search for a renewal of liberal-arts education might be
in a book by Bruce Kimball first published in 1986: Orators and
Philosophers: A History of the Idea of Liberal Education.6 The
book’s scholarship and judicious consideration of a vast number
of core texts, curricular materials, and the scholarly production
surrounding liberal education make this work a seminal contri-
bution to the history of liberal education. Kimball has paid much
more explicit attention to the artes liberales educational ideal,
especially in relation to the research ideal—or, as he styles it, the
liberal-free ideal—than any current author we have examined.
For our purposes he also reaches more thoroughly into the past.
With the important exception of an unstable accommodation in
a very few universities and colleges between these two ideals—
Chicago, Columbia, St. John’s College being the primary exam-
ples—his extended history gives little comfort to the conviction
that liberal-arts education, particularly in relation to democracy,
has much of a chance of revival in most of today’s universities
or colleges, precisely because of the success of the ideal of re-
search throughout academe, and its allied notion of freedom.
Kimball’s history, which extends from ancient Greece to late
6. Bruce Kimball, Orators and Philosophers: A History of the Idea of

Liberal Education (New York: Teachers College, 1986; rev. ed., New
York: College Entrance Examination Board, 1995).
twentieth-century America, reflects a two-fold tradition in edu-

cation. A rhetorical liberal tradition complains about disarray and
divisions of undergraduate education, while an epistemic, re-
search quarrel among the fields of science, social science, and
the humanities over “definitions of knowledge and culture” in-
fluences undergraduate education.7 These two educational tradi-
tions—the artes liberales ideal for citizenship and the liberal-free
ideal for specialization—compete in public, graduate, and under-
graduate contexts. To bring this competition down to earth at the
undergraduate level: Kimball finds “it is supremely difficult for
an undergraduate major . . . to coexist with a thorough [curricular]
commitment to citizenship, virtues, the republic, and the appro-
priation of the textual tradition of a community.”8 The reason is
that these two polarities, or ideals, are systematic: they entail dif-
ferent ends, characteristic qualities, and, ultimately, curricular ex-
pressions. Syntheses, accommodations, or blends of the two have
limited appeal and, typically, short lives. The artes liberales ac-
commodation is unstable partly because it cannot readily convince
academics that classics are necessary to a critical intellect, and partly
because its insistence upon exploring ancient texts “conflicts with
the liberal-free mind” in its desire to range where it will.9
To varying degrees, then, Kimball anticipates the ambiva-
lence that Kronman and Delbanco feel about reading great texts
at the undergraduate level with modern research in mind. Kimball
also anticipates Kronman and Deneen’s concern with the way in
which the rise of science has shaped our educational institutions
toward a research ideal and away from a reflective, character-
building liberal-arts education. And, in a strange twist of fate,
Kimball also recognizes the role of the liberal-free ideal in har-
nessing science and research to the democratic and market-based
national project of the United States. And in this he anticipates
Nussbaum’s and Delbanco’s attempts to have our educational in-
stitutions, committed as they are to the research ideal, serve the
7. Ibid., 286.
8. Ibid.
9. Ibid., 223, 225, 226.
national or international life of democracies—a role formerly re-

served for the artes liberales ideal.
In sum, historically and philosophically, with research and
disciplines firmly entrenched by the rise of science in the modern
university, all of these authors find themselves in a very difficult
position. They sense a pervasive cultural and ethical emptiness
related to the very institution of education to which their lives
are committed. They resist this emptiness by offering an alterna-
tive end to liberal education—call it democracy, humanity, or
faith—something other than research. Yet all supporters of liberal
education are faced with an institutional history that is well doc-
umented and that holds out little hope (but let us not say no hope)
of successfully wooing the disciplines and departments that mark
universities and colleges to the ends of liberal education.
Since all of these authors are interested in liberal education
and in renewing its institutional life, it is not a fault that they
should closely examine institutional histories of liberal education.
But the origins of liberal-arts education were not entirely institu-
tional. As I will argue shortly, before and even after the innova-
tive congregating of lecturers into medieval universities,
education in the liberal arts was often done outside an institu-
tional context. This “outside” development matters because in
one way or another almost all of our authors acknowledge insti-
tutional atrophy at various points in the history of liberal educa-
tion. And if, today, liberal-arts education is institutionally
“strangled” rather than atrophied, that is all the more reason to
examine sources outside academe, or sources within academe
that are not currently predominant in models of education, for in-
spiration in renewing liberal-arts education. In particular, the
transition from Aquinas to Bacon has as its backdrop the rise of
universities—but the actual stage was filled with liberal artists
outside of academia who were actively developing new educa-
tions, arts, and sciences. The work of these liberal artists may
provide us with generative—perhaps even transformative—mod-
els, grounded in the classics, that can contribute appreciably to
institutional revival of the liberal arts.
Through tracing the specific use of the words “liberal educa-

tion” and “liberal arts,” Kimball concludes that, as a historical
fact, liberal education based in a normative curriculum of the
seven liberal arts simply didn’t exist until the late Roman
Empire.10 Thus, the seven liberal arts, which eventually became
the trivium and quadrivium, circumscribe what Kimball takes
historically to be the instantiation of a liberal-arts curriculum.
Under Roman development, the general artes liberales educa-
tional ideal becomes firmly tied to “the goal of training the good
citizen to lead society,” as well as to the “prescription of values
and standards for character and conduct,” through this normative
curriculum.11 To cut a very complicated story short: this ideal and
its primus-inter-pares art was rhetorical, and the situation re-
mained so until the rise of the medieval university.12 That rise is
accompanied by the rise of philosophy as the organizing disci-
pline of university education. Kimball finds that when medieval
universities began to concentrate on theoretical matters or sys-
tematic matters of philosophy, a “philosophic” curriculum re-
placed an oratorical one.
This “revolution” and “transformation” is traced to “the
rediscovery and translation of the lost philosophical learning
of Greek antiquity, especially the corpus of Aristotle . . . [as
well as] Arabic, Jewish and other Greek writings on mathe-
matics and natural science.”13 But in Kimball’s analysis, the
philosophic takeover of the liberal-arts curriculum does not
give rise to a philosophic ideal associated with it that can be
described as a systematic ideal for liberal education. One
might have expected the liberal arts to have been strengthened
by four developments that occurred during this time: the new
relative importance of logic; the rise of “technical and
schematized artes”; the formation of “a curriculum of liberal
education dedicated to scientiae speculativae” within me-
dieval universities; and the innovation of grammatica specu-
10. Ibid., 3, 25, 29.
11. Ibid., 37.
12. Ibid., 31-33.
13. Ibid., 58, and 61.
lativa as an investigation of the universal grammar that “un-

derlies the different grammars of all languages.” On the con-
trary, the septem artes diminished in importance, largely
owing to Aquinas’s dictum that “the seven liberal arts do not
sufficiently divide theoretical philosophy” and the emergence
of new studies in graduate programs. All of this led to a dis-
tinct separation of the seven arts from philosophy within the
curriculum of new medieval universities.14 All of this leads
Kimball’s argument to an unstated conclusion: the liberal arts
were not being led by philosophy; they were slowly being triv-
ialized or supplanted by it. To push the unstated conclusion a
step further: despite many innovations in logic and grammar,
as well as in mathematics, the scientiae speculativae that sup-
planted the liberal arts were not really sciences in our modern
sense. So, to read backwards from Kimball’s Enlightenment
identification of the liberal-free ideal’s characteristics, the me-
dieval rediscovery of the ancients seems not to have been an
exercise in “freedom from a-priori strictures and standards”
nor “a critical skepticism” linked to “scientific method.”15
On the other hand, the humanists’ interest in oratorical
skills allowed the liberal arts to flourish successfully outside
the universities during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
Kimball finds, that beginning with Petrarch’s interest in Cic-
ero and Quintilian, the artes liberales ideal leads to a revival
and spread of enthusiasm for literature among the general pub-
lic, but a widespread revival of studying literary classics in
the curricula of universities did not take hold until the middle
of the fifteenth century.16
A similar historical development occurred in the emer-
gence of modern science, notwithstanding Newton’s appoint-
ment at Cambridge, the pursuit of philosophy in the name of
the New Science of Bacon, Descartes, Hobbes, and Spinoza
led to a blockade of natural philosophy from the curricula of
14. Ibid., 66 and 71.

15. Ibid., 120-121.
16. Ibid., 80.
universities. The philosophically based liberal-free ideal

emerges outside of the universities, relying for its support on
widespread Enlightenment attachment to freedom and ration-
ality. The ideal does not shape curricula until it combines with
the re-organization of German universities under the research
program in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.
That re-organization, in turn, leads to the destruction, in the
U.S., of the more or less uniform liberal-arts curricula by the
nineteenth century’s end.17 These historical threads, Kimball
shows, are the roots of the two ideals that lay claim to the title
of liberal education. Infrequent and mostly unstable accom-
modations between these two ideals, Kimball says, with a few
precedents in the nineteenth century, only happened in the
twentieth.18
Since the rhetorical ideal and its foundational art, rhetoric,
was excluded from universities in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries, while the philosophical, liberal-free ideal and its
new sciences were excluded from the sixteenth to nearly the
end of the eighteenth centuries, the faculties shaping univer-
sity curricula for long periods in the West have excluded one
or another version—or, at least, significant portion—of what
could be termed “liberal education.” So then, we might ask, in
these periods where did liberal arts and liberal education go?
Kimball recognizes that humanists outside the universities
were concerned, beyond politics, with the “development of
personality.” 19 In Bruni’s fourteenth-century letter to Lady
Battista Malatesta of Montefeltro on “the Study of Literature,”
this shift has importance to the ideal, the curriculum, and the
goal of education. Bruni is addressing a woman who must, of
course, “leave the rough-and-tumble of the forum entirely to
men.” What, then, is she studying for? This turns out to be
“human excellence,” which transcends the historical circum-
stances of political life: “There is, indeed, no lack of examples
of women renowned for literary study and eloquence that I
17. Ibid., 146.
18. Ibid., 151, 153, 186, 221.
19. Ibid., 78.
could mention to exhort you to excellence.” Here Bruni cites

Cornelia, Sappho, and Aspasia.20
The point of Bruni’s urging is to form a liberal education out-
side the university and the common expectations of men.21 In
consequence, Bruni does not recommend a technical study of
rhetoric, but rather a grammatical and broad “knowledge of sa-
cred letters” (54), philosophy, and poetry. What Bruni is doing is
explicitly substituting for the Ciceronian, highly developed, tech-
nical elaboration of rhetorical distinctions and artifices (no “prac-
tice of the commonplaces” nor study of “knotty quaestiones to
be untied”) the broader literatures of history, philosophy, and po-
etry, which are exercised in writing.22 While his treatise’s intel-
lectual roots lie in grammatical considerations of such authors as
Augustine and Isadore, Bruni is accomplishing a re-ordering of
liberal education that is new and innovative. It is neither directed
toward philosophy in the medieval sense, nor directed toward sal-
vation in the Christian sense, nor directed toward statecraft and
citizenship in the Roman sense. The character one achieves is that
of a fine artist.
Invention is the principal organizing part of Ciceronian, and
indeed Roman, rhetoric. Invention is the discovery or devising
of things, arguments or signs, to render a case probable or true
(De Inventione, I, vi, 9). As such, invention is embedded in the
artes liberales ideal. Commonplaces or topoi are central to in-
vention and (De Topica, I, ii 7; De Partitione Oratoria I, ii, 9;
xx, 68) one of principal technical features which dialectic shares
with rhetoric is the use of commonplaces or topoi.
These features of invention, discovery, and commonplaces,
ultimately, suggest ground of accommodation between Kim-
ball’s two ideals. Three works beyond Bruni may serve as ex-
amples. Machiavelli’s Prince, in its operational concerns, its
20. Leonardo Bruni. “The Student of Literature To Lady Battista Malat-

esta of Montefeltro,” in Humanist Educational Treatises, trans. Craig W.
Kallendorf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 47-63.
21. Ibid., 47-48.
22. Ibid., 53, 55.
focus on the problem of new states, and its topical organization

of how to analyze a state or ruler’s situation falls well within the
traditions of expedience and invention characteristic of the
rhetorical tradition. Galileo’s Starry Messenger is the application
of dialectical commonplaces derived from observation of nature.
The moon is examined first as whole, which is light, and then as
a whole which is dark; its parts are, then, divided into light and
dark, and its boundaries into continuous and discrete.23 The entire
treatise continues in similar fashion as it produces its four major
discoveries. Finally, Bacon, readily acknowledging in the New
Organon that current philosophy and arts are “use[ful] for sup-
plying matters for disputations or ornaments for discourse,” dis-
tinguishes between “methods [of] cultivation” of those matters
and “invention of knowledge” which he is engaged in develop-
ing.24 The sciences should be “methods for invention or directions
for new works.”25 Yet, much of his analysis is directed less toward
the experimental manipulation of phenomena, than the re-order-
ing of the mind, or “intellectual operations” by frameworks prop-
erly adapted to nature.26 The analysis of the blocks to scientific
progress, occupying the first book of the New Organon, is pre-
sented as a series of “aphorisms,” a dialectical term indicating
definitions or important distinctions. These aphorisms either
move toward properly orienting the mind or showing that current
systems of disputation, philosophy, and experience distract the
mind. Indeed, Bacon sounds something like Bruni, for he says
that, “my purpose [is not to ‘found a new sect of philosophy’ but]
to try whether I cannot . . . extend more widely the limits, of the
power and greatness of man.”27
By converting the principal part of rhetoric, invention, into its
23. Galileo Galilei. “The Starry Messenger,” in Discoveries and Opin-

ions of Galileo, trans. and ed. by Stillman Drake (New York: Double-
day, 1957), 21-58, esp. 31.
24. Francis Bacon, “New Organon,” in Selected Philosophical Works,
Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999), 63-206; 88, aphorism 8; 90.)
25. Ibid., 90, aphorism 8.
end, the aphorisms take on the character, not of persuasion or elo-

quence, but discovery. The “Interpretation of Nature” in Book II,
which is either to increase man’s powers over natures or to discover
the form of a nature, is carried on in aphorisms. And, in illustrating
discovery which is subsumed under the invention of knowledge,
Bacon outlines a procedure of collecting physical instances, instead
of opinions, forming tables of instances (of the presence or absence
of the nature in question), and, then, applying “induction”—that
is, separation, inclusions, and exclusions of the sought for nature
from other natures—based on the table of instances.28
Bacon criticized the arts and philosophies of his day as useless
in the production of knowledge. Galileo tired of “long and windy
debates.” Machiavelli pitted imaginary constructions of polities
and ideal descriptions of human behavior against the usefulness of
his treatise based in “realities.” Bruni not only found scholastic
subjects to be useless, but also clearly tried to provide a liberal ed-
ucation for a woman while wondering whether the standard rhetor-
ical arts educated men at all. I want to stress here that in the hands
of these authors the liberal arts were essential in challenging and
criticizing the learning that came before. Yet, however much all
these authors argued their separation from the past or their differ-
ences with current versions of education, none of their protests can
obscure the continuity of art that tied the past to the present. So the
transition from Aquinas to Bacon was actually a roadway paved
by innovation as individuals attempted to extend the liberal arts
into many different areas—including, apparently, areas universities
simply wouldn’t touch.
Now, Kimball acknowledges that the artes liberales ideal in-
corporates a critical skepticism, yet, in the end, he concludes that
this skepticism “misses the point of the scientific method: any con-
clusions inferred become new hypotheses and are always subject
to challenge and criticism.”29 So, let us ask: While the hypothesis
29. Kimball, Orators and Philosophers, 121, 172; see also 225-26. This
same objection is reformulated in Kimball’s characterization of the mu-
tual misunderstanding of each other’s position over the phrase “criti-
cism of life” that Huxley and Arnold both employed.
may well be essential to the science of a liberal-free ideal, is it the

hypothesis or, on the contrary, the continuous growth of knowledge
that is essential to the liberal-free ideal as a whole? Kimball was
not the first to conclude that the German research university
changed American institutions toward something like the liberal-
free ideal. And research—not hypotheses or laboratories per se—
is what changed higher education from within:
Visiting American graduate students and professors re-
turned from German universities enamored of the spe-
cialized scholarship, the commitment to speculative
research, and, above all, the atmosphere of freedom
they had seen in their host institutions. Particularly this
latter aspect—Lehrfreiheit (freedom to teach what one
wishes) and Lernfreiheit (freedom to study what one
wishes)—impressed the Americans. [The atmosphere
of freedom] was seen “to follow from the searching
function, the presumption that knowledge was not
fixed or final,” a presumption underlying all aspects of
the idealized German university that the Americans
took to be “dedicated to a search to widen the bounds
of knowledge rather than merely to preserve the store
of knowledge undiminished.”30
Thus, the question of whether hypotheses or the growth of
knowledge is essential to the liberal-free ideal is not without sig-
nificance. The former, representing science, tends to draw a firm
distinction between the humanities and the sciences; the latter,
representing the humanities, tends to admit that instances of sig-
nificant mutual influence shape education. The former tends to
restrict criticism to specialists. The latter tends to make criticism
and critical thought dependent on broad views of knowledge.
If in their artistic inventions Bruni, Machiavelli, Galileo, and
Bacon were using the liberal arts, then, they were “proving op-
posites.” But they were not simply constructing arguments op-
posed to works of the past. They were constructing extensions of
30. Kimball, Orators and Philosophers, 161, quoting Carl Diehl, Amer-
icans and German Scholarship: 1770-1870 (New Haven: Yale Univer-
sity Press, 1978).
the arts they knew, the liberal arts. They thought that they were
breaking with a past of instruction and knowledge in the liberal
arts; yet, because arts proceed by invention, not hypothesis, these
artists refashioned liberal-arts ends, principal parts, techniques,
and devices, and made them suitable for new discoveries of
knowledge, new feats of action, new methods of production, new
formations of character, and new explorations for expanding the
bounds of human inquiry. In other words, invention is the char-
acteristic response of the liberal arts to the project of continuing
the quest for knowledge. In our context, invention provided the
bridge between old and new knowledge, while it simultaneously
constructed both the distinction between past and future, and also
the distinction between the sciences and the humanities. Thus, in
the transition between Aquinas and Bacon, liberal-arts invention
provided as much continuity as discontinuity. The foundation for
an accommodation between the liberal-free ideal and the artes
liberales ideal appears, therefore, to be inherent in the develop-
ment of the New Philosophy or New Science, and, more deeply,
inherent in the liberal arts themselves.31
The complex interrelations among the liberal-arts projects
of Bruni, Machiavelli, Galileo, and Bacon suggest that the places
to look for liberal education not only include institutional cur-
ricula, but individual instances that evidence liberal learning or
31. In 2003, the Association of Core Texts and Courses began a three-
year NEH grant, “Bridging the Gap Between the Humanities and Sci-
ences.” The grant had three summer syllabi on “Motion and Natural
Law in the Physical and Political World,” “Life, Origins, Purposive-
nesss, and Transformations,” and “Technology, Art, Values, and the
Problems of Technoscience.” All three syllabi began with ancient Greek
texts; the first ended with texts of the seventeenth century; the others
ended with later texts. Teams from ten institutions—each composed of
one humanist, one scientist, and one administrator drawn from any dis-
cipline—attended the sessions and to their home institutions to devise
curricula and even teaching teams that “bridged the gap.” The whole
effort was inconceivable without a liberal-arts orientation. See
http://www.coretexts.org/projects-and-grants/neh-grant-bridging-the-
gap-between-the-humanities-and-sciences.
education. All of these authors were learning via the liberal arts;
only one of them was doing it in a university, and he found few
who embraced his extension of dialectical methods. No curricu-
lum for women existed until Bruni devised one for Lady Battista.
No widespread method of science existed until Bacon articulated
one. These examples of individuals practicing and acquiring lib-
eral education outside of an academic institution show that an
“artes liberales accommodation”—a synthesis of the artes lib-
erales and liberal-free ideals of education— not only might have
occurred earlier than we usually think, but also might have been
more persistent and coherent in educational history than seems
apparent.
All of our authors demonstrate an acute awareness of the
work of predecessors. Galileo is, of course, the patron saint of
scientists; and though Bacon may or may not capture the essence
of science, no one doubts he was advocating for what is recog-
nized as modern science by first reviewing works and knowl-
edge from the past. Thus, it was the liberal arts that first brought
us research in its nascent form, before it reached the universities.
Is there, then, an illustration of humanities research requiring
liberal education by an individual after research reaches the uni-
versities? An example is depicted by Henry Adams in his book,
The Education of Henry Adams.32 Adams was a man groomed
by lineage and by a stale antebellum, Harvard liberal-arts edu-
cation to become, later, one of America’s foremost specialized
historians of the nineteenth century at his alma mater, during the
very time that Harvard made the transition from a college to a
research university.33 Yet, the book’s first person narrative
shows that in the opening of his specialized historical study to
any source of knowledge or human achievement, an opening
which begins in the 1890’s well after his undergraduate educa-
tion and his life as a professor had ended, Adams exhibits some
of the finer uses of liberal-arts, core-text study. His service in
32. Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams in Adams: Democ-
racy, Esther, Mont Saint Michel and Chartres, The Education of Henry
Adams (New York: The Library of America, 1983), 715-1181.
33. Ibid., 777 and 993-997.
Great Britain during the American Civil War, followed by

comic revelations, some thirty years after the fact, by princi-
pals of the British government about their real motives in con-
sidering entering the war on behalf of the South in 1862,
convinced Adams that private experience, or even, a research
career devoted to historical analysis of American Presidencies,
was too small a scale for adequate judgment of the motives of
men—or, what was the same, “a chart of history.”34 This con-
viction was augmented, in part, by his friendship with John
Hay, the Secretary of State, who quickened Adams’s interest
in the international scale of human relations—the true locus,
Adams ultimately decides, that determines the motives of
human beings. Only as Adams moved from the local to the re-
mote, only as he took an interest in symbols, only as he began
to study seriously not only politics, but science, art, religious
thought, and their core monuments—at Chartres, in the theol-
ogy of Aquinas, in the dynamo, in the discoveries of Curie, in
the art of LaFarge—and added these to his store of diplomatic
and governmental knowledge—only then did he discover the
Education of Henry Adams.35
The education Adams garnered at the end of his life was a
preparation for a new theory, a new art, a new science—in this
case a theory of history. But let us make a quick induction using
all of the authors we have discussed. The proper use of educa-
tion, and particularly the liberal arts, is to render students capa-
ble of making available to themselves the world’s cultural
resources in order to construct a future. Adams’s employment
of cultural history as the means for his re-education suggests, as
do the works of our other authors, that no one should presuppose
education begins with firm, well-grounded disciplinary assump-
tions and then proceeds to the mastery of the discipline’s tools.
Actually, it seems to be quite the opposite: if we are to offer stu-
dents real education, then we are obliged to abandon the pre-
sumption of given disciplines and construct a curriculum in
34. Ibid., 1105.

35. Ibid., 1066ff and 1109ff.
which students may explore and conceive the foundations of dis-

ciplines for themselves.36
In constructing such curricula, there is an obvious need for lib-
eral-arts education to select core texts. This brings us back to sev-
eral arguments mentioned earlier: namely, that ancient, medieval,
and early modern moral teachings can be reduced to restraint; or
that a proper selection of texts can promote the correct democratic
values and skills; or that the limitlessness of technology is destroy-
ing our culture and character. Each of these serious arguments may
be true, but they simply don’t come close to expressing the fullness
that a liberal-arts education can offer. The liberal arts have never
been merely moral, ethical, political, and cultural. They are funda-
mentally inventive and transformative. We remember that Aeschy-
lus disapproved so much of the blood-bath at the end of the
Odyssey that he devised a tragic trilogy, the Oresteia, to celebrate
the creation of the jury trial, in which justice, and not merely re-
venge, could be felt by all. I recall the attempt in Plato’s Republic
to replace Homer with philosophy, and rhetoric with dialectic as
the basis of education—and, perhaps, of society. We remember Ar-
istotle writing—in a society that seemed unaware of human rights
in general, and of the right of expression in particular—a treatise
on art which defended its own governing principles. We recall that
the Aeneid not only artfully incorporates the two Homeric epics,
but also incorporates art into Aeneas’s education. In having Aeneas
gaze upon the artfully wrought wall of Carthage, and upon Vul-
can’s artfully wrought shield, and upon the artfully wrought belt
of Turnus, Virgil incorporates art into the education of his hero—
36. I mean to suggest that by continuously returning to the principal parts

of liberal arts—poetic and rhetorical invention, as well as dialectical dis-
covery—the liberal arts and their associated core texts played a significant
artistic role in developing the new philosophy or new science. In the same
way, they may continue to develop human innovation today. This argument
can be extended across civilizations backward in time, and forward toward
the present-day sciences, particularly in their use of the humanities and
liberal arts to explain themselves. Examples are: Darwin’s Origin of
Species; portions of Einstein’s The Meaning of Relativity; Skinner’s Be-
yond Freedom and Dignity; Feynman’s QED; Wilson’s Consilience.
an education into a vast enterprise beyond his ken—in a way that

neither Homer nor most of the Biblical writers employ. We recall
the importance of books—scriptures—to ancient Jews and Chris-
tians, not only in the canon that became the Bible, but in the re-
markable synthesis of writers and texts that Ezra seems to have
read to the people of Jerusalem as he united them after their second
exile. We remember from the opening “archaeology” of Thucy-
dides’s History of the Peloponnesian War the kind of works one
reads matters. And we recall the sharp contrast between the Athen-
ian virtues of Pericles’s “Funeral Oration” and the Judeo-Christian
virtues of Christ’s “Sermon on the Mount”—the importance of the
soul in each, together with the enormous differences of those souls
and their purposes. And we remember Augustine’s struggle with
the uses of the liberal arts and the wealth of pagan works his society
possessed as he came to be not only one of the greatest expositors
of the Bible, but also one of the chief agents who synthesized
Athens and Jerusalem into a single educated culture.
And so I think we arrive at a justification for great books or
core texts which is, perhaps, essential if our moral, cultural, polit-
ical, or religious perceptions of the past’s resources are to be made
available to us in a way that is promising and fruitful. Often we
read core texts from many disciplines to explore ideas as a way to
enlarge student experience. This is laudable, but in exploring great
ideas, it seems to me that we don’t want to lose the thread of our
own story—I mean the story of making books. This is the story
about writing books, about reading and contemplating them, and
about building educations around them. As I have suggested above,
the production of books is part of the larger story of made things,
the story of art, technē. Technē has been a chief source of change
in civilization almost since its inception, and if you want to learn
how and why culture, religion, literature, philosophy, morals, and
science change, you must read books of great depth and invention
across genres, disciplines, cultures, and eras.37 When we do present
37. By a book I mean any written work that comes down to us, and which,
of course, may be found in many different media—scrolls, velum, hyper-
text, and someday, I suspect, something like holographic-imaging ipods.
the story of making books—and, more broadly, the story of devel-

oping arts—and when we build an education around them, it is not
only our students who gain a powerful resource for building the
future. We, the educators, do so as well.
Specific liberal arts are instantiations of technē, that intellectual
virtue concerned with making something out of the world of the
variable, bringing something into existence that otherwise might
not be. And the essence of a liberal-arts education is the develop-
ment of artistry in relation to making—technē in relation to poiēsis.
Here we approach, at first, what are collectively known as the fine
arts. In a discussion of liberal education, literature has something
of a pride of place in any list of fine arts because of the early devel-
opment of the education fashioned by Isocrates and Cicero. Yet nei-
ther Isocrates nor Cicero best capture what freedom of artistry is
about, as Aristotle did in the final chapters of the Poetics. Through-
out the Poetics an argument builds that poetry is something more
philosophic—more general—than history, and that, indeed, its func-
tion is not to narrate or dramatize “the thing that has happened, but
a kind of thing that might happen, i.e., what is possible” [italics
mine] (1451a 36). The argument continues to the end with a defense
of poets and poetry against the challenges of philosophers, politi-
cians, and technical disciplinarians who in their systems and edu-
cational plans always tie art to the truth. Aristotle reminds us that
the standard of correctness “is not the same . . . in poetry (poiētikēs)
as in politics or, indeed, in any other art (technē).” Indeed, if, an
“error” in any art object was useful, if the poet meant to “describe
[a thing] in some incorrect way . . . [so that] it serves the end of po-
etry itself,” then objections by other disciplines about the product
or the artistry are really to no avail. This is even the case in moral
questions, for in the Poetics Aristotle’s interest in poetry is not
whether an action or character conforms to a specific ethical or po-
litical system, or models or cultivates a specific character in the au-
dience; his interest is in what to consider when answering whether
“something said or done in a poem is morally right or not.” That is,
he is concerned with “intrinsic qualities of the actual word or deed,”
as well as the agent, the purpose, the patient, the means, the time,
and the relations of the actions to greater or lesser goods or evils.
More generally, then, Aristotle’s Poetics is far less concerned with

constructions that use rhythm, language, and harmony as matters
of truth, than as matters of what might be: “If the poet’s description
be criticized as not true to fact, one may urge perhaps that the object
ought to be as described—an answer like that of Sophocles, who
said that he drew men as they ought to be” (1460b33-35).
In the Poetics, Aristotle takes poetry’s side by constructing a
dialectical defense. The defense depends on a criticism which in-
vestigates poetry in its own terms, that is, in the internal functioning
of its products. In this sense, when we come to consider the con-
struction of curricula of books, the Poetics, notwithstanding Aris-
totle’s statements about liberal education in his Politics, structures
a liberal-arts education and promotes the free character that it pro-
duces, for such an education is less a study of the truth, than of the
possibilities humans have invented and made for themselves.
The point is extendable to all books, as well as to literature and
artistry from any discipline. Thus, a similar point about the object
of a liberal education is suggested by Aristotle for “literary” con-
structions such as Bruni’s, Machiavelli’s, Galileo’s, and Bacon’s.
Aristotle makes a distinction in his Parts of Animals between “two
distinct kinds of proficiency”: “scientific knowledge” and “educa-
tional acquaintance” with any subject. Indeed, the mark of a “uni-
versal [i.e, general] education” is for the holder of such an education
to “to be able to form a fair offhand judgment as to the goodness or
badness of the method used by a professor in his exposition.” And
this acquired ability applies to “all or nearly all branches of knowl-
edge” (639a1-10). Subsequently, Aristotle constructs a dialectical
set of questions pertaining to characteristics of animals and the
processes which lead to the formation of those characteristics, as
well as a review of how earlier authors had treated both character-
istics and processes. And, indeed, he analogizes this treatment aris-
ing out of general education to analyses of art (640a25-33). In sum,
tracing the invention of fine arts or sciences or the characteristics
and foundations of such arts and sciences relies on a process of
“criticism” (kritikon) “quite independent of the question whether
the statements [in a work] be true or false” (639a14-15). What is at
stake educationally is knowledge of the available and variable
means of construction for any given art or science. This is what

freedom in artistry is. Education needs institutions and curricula in
which students can acquire the arts that make such constructions
available.
I have used Bruce Kimball’s distinctions between the artes lib-
erales and liberal-free ideals and traditions of education to suggest
that the accommodations in higher education during the late nine-
teenth and twentieth centuries may have stronger, longer, more con-
tinuous historical foundations than seem apparent from educational
documents and curricula created during the same period.
So far we have seen that the principal parts of the liberal arts—
rhetorical invention and dialectical discovery—played a significant
artistic role in developing the new philosophy or new science ideal.
Furthermore, we have seen that the long tradition of the liberal arts
is concerned with transformative arts, ideas, and culture. And, fi-
nally, we have seen that the free character of a liberal artist is not
only a propaedeutic for research, but also a source of invention and
imagination for the future.
Each of these considerations seems to have implications for the
future of the liberal arts in research universities and colleges. If it is
plausible that the liberal-arts accommodation—that is, recognizable
liberal-arts curricula, innovation, and a productive, but not stifling,
link to research—has stronger, systematic ties to education than
might be suspected, then we should see these ties in histories of in-
stitutions, as well as in analyses of the place of liberal-arts education
up to the current time.38 Kimball focuses on the liberal-arts influ-
38. Certainly, Kimball’s analysis that a artes liberales accommodation

had real intellectual impetus and some institutional steam by the end of
the nineteenth century is right. Indeed, I think Adams is an individual
instance. But because faculties in the early modern era used to exclude
either the artes liberales ideal or the research ideal, educational histo-
rians should not expect to find many instantiations of institutional artes
liberales accommodations until sufficient “steam” develops. Nonethe-
less, there was some inherent intellectual “inertia” for an accommoda-
tion much further back in history than the nineteenth century, and that
inertia, while not a driving force, is still significant for institutions even
at the beginning of the twenty-first century.
ences of a complex of three related universities and colleges—Co-

lumbia, Chicago, and St. John’s. Although he analyzes them quite
sympathetically and sensitively, he nevertheless regards them as
unsuccessful accommodations—not because their programs
foundered, but because their models failed to spread widely, and
when they did spread, they tended not to persist.
Let me take Chicago as my example in this regard, and discuss
the opinions of two key figures in its relation to core texts and lib-
eral arts: Richard McKeon and Leo Strauss.
Strauss first. To cut very short his very complex analysis of
liberal education: the history of Western culture is the history of
solving the problems of governance in a democracy, ultimately
by creating a democratic aristocracy of citizens educated in their
country’s and culture’s intellectual traditions of political science
and freedom. The current problems of governance involve pro-
viding wisdom to guide the technological and dehumanizing in-
fluences of modern science and systematic tyranny. The great
books stand as a bulwark in this fight: through them, citizens can
discuss what they should value. For researchers like Strauss, the
historical investigation he outlines is education: “education is in
a sense the subject matter of my teaching and research.” Political
science is the science of liberal education.39
For McKeon, the Chicago approach to general eduction—
which is to say, the university approach—is grounded in disci-
plines and relates them through broadening and widening arts,
methods, ideas, and even sciences. The innovation at Chicago
was not that professors were to survey ever wider swaths of sub-
jects. Nor was it that a professor was to give courses in highly
developed specialized methods that were then to be applied to
previously unsuspected areas of study. Rather, the innovation was
that, to broaden the context in faculty discussions of the so-called
humanities, “the methods employed and developed were the lib-
39. This admittedly truncated summary is derived from “Liberal Educa-

tion and Responsibility,” in Liberalism Ancient and Modern (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1995), 9-25, and “What Is Liberal Educa-
tion?”, ibid., 1-8.
eral arts.” Those discussions, using different liberal arts, were

necessarily interdisciplinary. In other words, they related one lib-
eral art to another, or one formulation of a discipline to another,
via the liberal arts. For McKeon, general education implied pur-
poseful interdisciplinary attempt to unify the fractured humanistic
subjects and departments through methodical (which is to say,
artful) inquiry—even when disciplines disagreed on what was
said about their subjects.40 The point of McKeon’s discussion of
the Chicago new college was that the design of the college, im-
plied by Hutchins’s stated design of the general education he out-
lined in the Higher Education in America, was to transform
graduate schools and the organization of their disciplines, even
their research, through general education.41 In these ways, McK-
eon’s education orders a free character, but the ordering is to
knowledge, not to wisdom, or prudence, or even citizenship. In
both cases, the liberal-free ideal was accommodated to the artes
liberales ideal in that the liberal arts were being used to invigor-
ate research and curricula, not the other way around.
The varieties of Chicago curricula and programs, the con-
ceptions of liberal education that arose out of the different di-
visions, and the faculty who met there and migrated elsewhere
created a pluralism of ideas about liberal-arts education through
great books or core texts. These different visions have generated
a plethora of liberal-arts developments in institutions around
the world. To point to just a few: Shimer College, Saint Mary’s
College of California, the University of Notre Dame’s Program
of Liberal Studies, Thomas Aquinas College, the University of
Dallas, the Erasmus Institute, the Liberal Arts College of Con-
cordia University in Montreal, the Chinese University of Hong
40. Richard McKeon, “Criticism and the Liberal Arts: The Chicago
School of Criticism” in Profession 1982, ed. Phyllis P. Franklin and
Richard I. Brod, (New York: Modern Language Association, 1982), 2-4.
41. I have argued this more thoroughly, both in a speech given at Marro-
quín University (see note 44 below), and in a speech delivered in the Pub-
lic Lecture Series at Shimer College: “Re-thinking Universities and
Hutchins: Faculty and Student Resistance to Core Text Curricula,” which
can be found on the web at http://j.mp/j-scott-lee-at-schimer-college.
Kong, and Boya College of Sun-Yatsen University are all of

them in some way closely or distantly intellectually, education-
ally, and personally related to the three institutions mentioned
above. All of these institutions have had self-reflective faculty
who have published materials on some aspect of liberal-arts ed-
ucation. One of them, The University of Dallas, developed a
great books program in literature unrelated to Chicago/Colum-
bia/St. John’s, and then welcomed Straussians to teach in their
core. All of them have different configurations of curricula, dif-
ferent internal organizations, different purposes for a baccalau-
reate, and different relations between general education and
research.42 The accommodationist ideal has, in fact, stimulated
42. Prior to arriving at Chicago, McKeon and Mortimer Adler were in-
volved together at Columbia with the professors who developed the Con-
temporary Civilization core sequence and, later, the Literature-Humanities
core sequence. Ultimately, each of these sequences replaced the depart-
mental offerings of general education courses that, in the early twentieth
century, had preceded the requirements for graduation from Columbia.
To this day, Columbia offers a bachelor’s degree without a major. Scott
Buchanan was involved in adult education spin-offs of Columbia in New
York City before he and Hutchins came to Chicago to develop liberal
education programs. Saint John’s College developed, partly, out of this
complex of institutions and personalities. St. John’s curriculum entirely
eschewed the departmental-disciplinary basis of the Chicago program,
while it retained the liberal arts, and it explicitly identified its program
with the great books and authors of the Western world. In 1953, Notre
Dame, in large part through the work of Otto Byrd, whose teachers in-
cluded Adler, McKeon, and Etienne Gilson (Otto Byrd, My Life as A
Great Bookie, [San Francisco : Ignatius Press, 1991], 46 ff. and 66ff.)
organized a three-year major called the Program of Liberal Studies on
the basis of disciplinary courses that stretch across all the fields found
at Chicago; but Notre Dame retained the idea of interdisciplinary reading
seminars that characterized St. John’s program. A 1941 article by Adler,
delivered to the American Catholic Philosophical Association’s Western
Division, on “The Order of Learning” (in The Moraga Quarterly [Au-
tumn 1941]: 3-25) sparked at first a short-lived attempt (1943-44) and
then the enduring establishment of classics-based liberal-arts education
programs at Saint Mary’s College of California; this ultimately resulted
the invention of institutions and innovative programs that are

enormously different. Rhodes College’s “Search” courses (for-
merly “Man” courses) and Yale University’s Directed Studies
Program illustrate innovations not depending on personal con-
in a St. John’s-like program for a major, alongside a four-semester great

books program taken by those who majored in a discipline. (See What
Is It To Educate Liberally? Essays by Faculty and Friends of St. Mary’s
College [St. Mary’s College: Office of the President, 1996], 1-28).
Though modified, both programs are still running. Shimer College
adopted one version of the Chicago-Hutchins, or “new college,” curricu-
lum, but it has no departments and, for the baccalaureate, only four gen-
eral concentrations, including one in science; it has carefully staged
integrative courses and requirements in every year of its curriculum.
Straussians graduated from Chicago and went, in particular, to the
University of Dallas. There, in conjunction with literary specialists who
formed a core sequence of genre studies unrelated to political science
that was conceived by Louise and Donald Cowan (who were in turn in-
fluenced by southern critics at Vanderbilt), the university faculty formed
a disciplinary core leading to majors that had no interdisciplinary courses
but was founded on great books. This new curriculum transformed the
education at that institution. The University of Dallas founded the only
graduate program explicitly using the Western Great Books, which offers
three PhDs in political science, philosophy, and literature. Its graduates
not only have staffed institutions across America, but also have helped
to re-organize the New England Political Association so that there is a
“core text/political philosophy” section of the Association’s annual meet-
ing that contributes more than a third of the papers at the meeting.
Meanwhile, at Columbia, William Theodore deBary rejected Adler’s
and Hutchin’s contention that great books education had to consist only
of books from the Western tradition. For over fifty years, and continuing
to this day, deBary has translated or collaborated in the translation of
Chinese texts, and has argued for the inclusion of these texts in some
courses of the Columbia core. Although his work took place during the
period when China has risen to threaten the U.S. while at the same time
destroying its own cultural traditions in the Great Leap Forward and the
Cultural Revolution, deBary’s work has no tinge of cultural superiority
about it, for it is not rooted in Greek education or Enlightenment political
philosophy as is Strauss’s. In so far as he is concerned with the core pro-
gram at Columbia, deBary wishes to “liberate the powers of the indi-
tact with the complex of institutions above, but emerging rather

from an awareness of problems and solutions in general educa-
tion.43
vidual by disciplining them” (Kimball, Orators and Philosophers, 4).

His work is part of a larger effort by the University Committee on Asia
and the Middle East to incorporate Chinese, Indian, and Islamic texts
into the core, as well as to develop sophisticated research programs. St.
John’s, motivated by its own experience in teaching great works, has
also developed at its Santa Fe campus a masters degree in Eastern Clas-
sics, reading and discussing Indian and Chinese texts. In 1978, Frederick
Kranz, a graduate of Columbia, along with Harvey Shulman and Geoff
Fidler, establish a three-year liberal-arts baccalaureate college founded
on the Western great books tradition at Concordia University in Mon-
treal. In the Far East, the Chinese University of Hong Kong, under the
direction of Cheung Chan Fai and Mei Yee Leung, recently developed
a two-course sequence in the humanities and sciences based on great
texts of the West and East, which owes part of its development both to
Chicago and to Columbia. This program provides a selection of general
education courses to fulfill the Chinese government’s mandate that
higher education institutions convert from the European, specialist,
three-year baccalaureate to the American, mixed, four-year baccalaure-
ate. This list of institutions shows almost all the related forms and affilia-
tions of the accommodated liberal-arts ideal as it is beginning to spread
from North America into the wider world. And yet this list hardly enumer-
ates the whole network of core text programs found worldwide, nor does
it describe the role of the liberal arts in actually shaping that network.
43.Michael Nelson, ed., Celebrating the Humanities: A Half-Century of
the Search Course at Rhodes College (Nashville: Vanderbilt University
Press, 1996), 3-31, begins with a post-World War I narrative of Charles
Diehl’s attempts to bring liberal education to Southwestern (now Rhodes)
College between the 1920s and 1950s. This program was based in Chris-
tian traditions, but with an awareness of the educational innovations at
Columbia, Chicago, and Vanderbilt. Justin Zaremby’s Directed Studies
and the Evolution of American General Education (New Haven: The
Whitney Humanities Center of Yale University, 2006), 32ff., says that
Maynard Mack, educated entirely at Yale, helped to devise and found the
program with Dean William Clyde DeVane. Mack was seeking to solve
the problems of “choice” that had arisen in general education, which were
the cause of the differences between Hutchins and Dewey.
To a large extent, the Association of Core Texts and Courses

(ACTC) is a result of these accommodations and innovations.44
There have been two chief vehicles for ACTC’s growth, both re-
lated to the liberal arts. The annual Conference is the first vehicle,
the Liberal Arts Institute, the second. As a pluralist, my goal as
director of ACTC has been to maintain cross-disciplinary, gen-
eral-education discussions notwithstanding higher education’s
habits of narrow disciplinarity. Part of what is at stake in having
such discussions is fairly obvious: faculty members get exposed
to ways of thought about their own disciplines that they will
44. A precursor to this paper was delivered as a speech entitled “Accom-

modating the Core Texts Tradition of Liberal Arts in Today’s Universi-
ties: History, ACTC, and Marroquín—An International Phenomenon,”
to the faculty of Marroquín University in Guatemala, in September of
2012. At this point in the text, the speech noted that “the Association
for Core Texts and Courses was co-founded by Stephen Zelnick and
myself in 1995 in order to bring together programs that used common
readings, taught in common courses, by shared faculty. The idea was
originally Zelnick’s, who was Director of Temple University’s Intellec-
tual Heritage Program—a two course sequence of texts from the sci-
ences, social sciences, and humanities stretching from ancient to
modern times required of every Temple undergraduate. He had discov-
ered that the wide variety of professional associations at the time did
not really address educational issues of these kinds of programs. As the
organization grew, it encouraged faculty and institutions to develop and
use their own core text programs in their own fashion for their own in-
stitutional missions. . . .
After the first organizing conference, under my direction, ACTC
conferences took on the following structure: originally, paper proposals
were organized into panels over two days with each session exclusively
devoted to one of four categories: Interdisciplinary Questions, Science,
Social Science, or the Arts & Humanities, accordingly characterized by
texts, problems, or disciplines discussed—but not by faculty presenters.
That is, if you were a humanist and wished to address Newton’s Prin-
cipia, that was fine. After about seven years, the membership voiced a
desire to have panels of the four categories appear in each session. Gen-
erally, this movement by the membership was an effort to allow con-
ferees to attend the fields, perhaps the disciplines, which they were most
comfortable with.”
rarely encounter at disciplinary conferences. Another part of what

is at stake is a little more subtle, though it can be found in almost
all the works I have discussed. Many core texts serve a dual role
in intellectual history: on the one hand, they help to found or ar-
ticulate a discipline; on the other hand, their ideas, deep-seated
attitudes, or basic techniques migrate across disciplines. This is
true in regard both to Eastern and Western texts. So, for both of
these reasons, the determination to keep discussing great texts at
ACTC conferences plays an essential role in maintaining the lib-
eral-arts orientation of the organization.
ACTC does not have a list of canonical texts that must be ad-
dressed in papers read at its conferences, though the “usual sus-
pects” among ancient and modern authors frequently appear on
its panel sessions. There is an insistence that every paper address
a core text for at least three quarters of a page in a five-page
paper.45 The treatment of the text is up to the conferee. But what
is most important is whether a given text within a proposal, or a
set of texts within a collection of proposals, will spark an ex-
change of ideas about the ideas themselves, and about the pro-
grams, the texts, the teaching, or other matters of liberal-arts
concern. This is a matter of perception, not a matter of doctrine,
established argument, or disciplinary governance. It is frankly re-
markable how many panels actually cohere quite well using texts
as the starting point for potential inquiry and discussion—
whether the panels are disciplinary or interdisciplinary in focus.
ACTC is filled with accomplished scholars and teachers, but
it exists to promote conversations about texts among faculty
members across institutions, programs, and disciplines. Here we
enter a fertile field deeply furrowed by a distinction Bruce Kim-
ball discusses at the beginning of Orators and Philosophers: the
distinction between ratio and oratio. Disciplinary conferences
45. ACTC has published to date ten selected, peer-reviewed proceed-
ings. Seven more are in various states of pre-publication. It also helped
to support the publication of Bruce Kimball’s The Liberal Arts Tradi-
tion: A Documentary History (Lanham, Maryland: University Press of
America, 2010), which made selections of core texts in the tradition
available to a wider public.
exist to offer extended versions of the ratio of a discipline—long

papers and complex panel sessions marked by highly specialized
arguments, and offering little actual time for serious questioning
and discussion. ACTC’s conferences exist for a quite different
reason. The first sentence of Aristotle’s Rhetoric is, “Rhetoric is
the counterpart of dialectic.” The Greek word translated here as
“counterpart” is antistrophē—as in the return dance of the chorus
that leads to their exit from the stage. This, of course, makes di-
alectic into the strophe, and this has important implications for
the relation of these two verbal arts. First, one needs to know
which direction one is headed in. This is not always easy to figure
out, given the nature of language and the closeness of the two
arts. Because the intention of the conferences is to produce seri-
ous discussion around the seminar table, the brevity of the papers
leaves the direction of the conversation open. Second, even if a
presenter’s argument is either mainly rhetorical or mainly dialec-
tical, the ensuing conversation will likely lead, at least, to reflec-
tions on what the argument would look like from the viewpoint
of the other art. Since there is no list of canonical works and no
standard set of disciplinary preconceptions that contain conver-
sations within pre-set boundaries, ACTC presenters are asked at
least to consider a rationale for why their text should be consid-
ered a world classic or a text of major cultural significance. If
this defense were being made to a disciplinary audience, it might
well be entirely dialectical, since the audience already agrees on
the basic outlines of what belongs within the discipline’s bound-
aries. But because the audience at ACTC’s conferences are inter-
disciplinary, such defenses must be at least partly rhetorical,
insofar as it is aimed at persuading listeners from many disci-
plines to consider a text for inclusion in a liberal-arts program.
Even here, however, such a defense would become dialectical if
it focuses on what the liberal arts, a discipline, a text, or an idea
contributes to our understanding of education.
At the close of Orators and Philosophers, Kimball makes a
well pointed observation: In the academy “there is rarely a recog-
nition that the means to accomplish the resuscitation of the com-
munity of learning lie in elevating and emphasizing the study of
expression, rhetoric, and the textual tradition of the community.

Yet the means are self-evident. A community is, after all, a group
of people who talk to each other and do it well. This view of com-
munity was dear to Socrates, no less than to Cicero.”46 This is
what ACTC promotes: the opportunity for faculty members,
through the liberal arts and its traditions across all disciplines, to
co-operate in discussing, planning, and implementing general-ed-
ucation curricula. It is very much interested in oratio, in the ex-
pression of thought, communicated to others, that concerns itself
with the available resources of intellectual traditions across dis-
ciplines and cultures, and with the invention of educational pro-
grams that transmit the arts of absorbing and using those
resources. Its continuing mission is to join with all those who share
these aims to promote the invention, enrichment, and development
of more core text, liberal-arts programs in universities and colleges
of the future.
46. Kimball, Orators and Philosophers, 240.

47
Definition and Diairesis

in Plato and Aristotle
Jon Lenkowski
The understanding of the essential definition that has come down

to us in modern times is traceable to Aristotle’s account of horis-
mos in Book II of the Posterior Analytics. That is, we understand,
as Aristotle did, that by defining something, we “capture” it in
such a way that the definition completely “encloses” what is de-
fined and delimits it from other things.
But common opinion—everyday understanding—makes a
much bolder claim, namely, that we only know something when
we have defined it and that, correspondingly, to define something
is to specify its nature, its essence, its whatness—to say, in other
words, what it is. Is this claim legitimate?
We know this question, “What is something?” to be peculiar
to Socrates; in fact we call it the Socratic question. To ask my
question about the legitimacy of common opinion’s claim, then,
in a somewhat different way: Was Socrates, in asking just this
very specific question, looking for a definition? Does the ques-
tion “What is something?” seek a definition? And, conversely,
does definition give us the “what is” of something, the “what is”
of the thing defined?
In Book II of the Posterior Analytics Aristotle says, “defini-
tion is thought to be [italics mine] of the ‘what is’.” (“Horismos
tou ti estin einai dokei.” [90b4]). And again: “Since definition is
said to be an account of the ‘what is’. . . .” (“Horismos d’epeidē
Jon Lenkowski is a tutor emeritus at St. John’s College in Annapolis.

This essay was presented as a lecture at St. John’s College and else-
where. The author is especially indebted to Seth Benardete, Stewart
Umphrey, Peter Widulski, and Robert Williamson who were kind
enough to read one or another version of the essay over the years and
offer helpful advice.
legetai einai logos tou ti esti. . . ” [93b29]. Italics in translation

from the Greek are the author’s.) But if definition is not only
thought to give the “what is” of something, but also really does
give it, then there ought to be no difficulty at all in answering the
“what is” question. Yet finding an adequate answer to this question
particularly is just what the dialogues present as the most difficult
of tasks. And this may indicate that a “definition” is not, after all,
what the question is asking for.
What exactly is it that definition attempts and what does it
actually accomplish? What exactly is it that definition gains for
us? What exactly is it that we do when we “define” something?
Precisely what is it that we know (or think we know) when we
possess the definition of something? An examination of this clus-
ter of questions ought to show that “definition” must fail to meet
whatever demand the “what is” question is making upon us.
A horismos is the result of a horizein, a “bounding” or limit-
ing. A horismos is thus that within which the defined is contained;
it is the outline of the thing. But in so limiting, the horismos “de-
limits,” or sets off, the defined from other things. Thus it is that
horismos is translated by “definition” (Latin definitio): a “de-fin-
ing” is literally a de-limiting. Does delimiting give us the “what
is”? To answer this question we must first turn from Aristotle to
Plato; for horismos understood as a delimiting derives directly
from the Platonic “division” (diairesis). Diairesis is a dividing
with begins with some rather comprehensive class (genos) and
ends in a horismos, which is also a class, though a very limited
one. Sophist 219a-221c provides an example of such a division:
Here Theaetetus and the Eleatic Stranger are preparing to hunt
down the sophist, to discover what the sophist is. The Stranger
has a “method” for the hunt (namely, division), but he thinks that,
before hunting something as difficult as the sophist (they have
him only in name at the outset [218c]), they ought to practice this
method by first hunting something “easier”; and he proposes “the
angler” as their practice quarry. Fig. 1 is a schematic presentation
of the steps that hunt and capture the angler by division.
As the scheme shows, it takes nine divisions to capture the
quarry. It should also be noticed that in the fourth division there is
ESSAYS & LECTURES | LENKOWSKI 49
Art (Techne)
Productive Acquisitive
2
By Capture or
By Exchange
Coercion
(Openly) (In secret)

Disputation/Fighting Hunting
Of Lifeless Of Living Things

Things (specifically
animals)
5
Of Land Of Fluid
Animals Animals
6
Of Winged Animals Of Water-bound
(Fowling) Animals (Fishing)
By Enclosures By Striking
At Night Daytime
(Fire-hunting) (Barb-
hunting)
With Spears: Proceeding With Hooks: Proceeding

Downward from Above Upward from Below
(Tridentry) (Angling)
Fig. 1: Division of the Angler

an abrupt shift from procedure to object sought, and that in the

seventh division there is an abrupt shift back to procedure.
Should we be troubled by the fact that no justification at all is
given for these two shifts? There may indeed be other peculiari-
ties about this and the other examples of presented by the dia-
logues. We will return to some of these peculiarities in a short
while.
It is the diairesis that progressively tightens the enclosure;
the horismos is the final enclosure, the enclosure brought to its
tightest possible state—this being determined both by the starting
point and by the manner in which the division was executed.
Four dialogues give accounts of diairesis: 1. Phaedrus 264e-
266b; 2. Sophist 219a-221c (id. 221d, ff. and 264c ff.); 3. States-
man 258b, ff.; 4. Philebus 16c-17a. Sophist and Statesman
provide by far the lengthiest illustrations, but Phaedrus and
Philebus give the most succinct generalized accounts.1 There are,
in the dialogues, two prescriptions for division: 1. to divide ac-
cording to eide, according to the “natural joints” (kat’arthra), try-
1. There are numerous studies of diaresis. The following have been con-
sulted in writing this essay: A.C.Lloyd, “Plato’s Description of Divi-
sion” in Studies in Plato’s Metaphysics, ed. R.E.Allen (New York:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965), 219-230. Seth Benardete, “Plato
Sophist 223bl-7” in Phronesis 5 (1960): 129-139. Seth Benardete,
“Eidos and Diaeresis in Plato’s Statesman” in Philologus 107: 3/4
(1963) 193-226. Jakob Klein, “On Precision” in Lectures and Essays,
ed. Robert Williamson and Elliott Zuckerman (Annapolis: St. John’s
College Press, 1985), 289-308. Jakob Klein, Plato’s Trilogy (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1977), Parts 2 and 4. Julius Stenzel, Stu-
dien zur Entwicklung der platonischen Dialektik (Leipzig: Teubner,
1931), especially ch. 4-8. Julius Stenzel, Zahl und Gestalt bei Platon
und Aristoteles (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1959),
especially ch. 2-4, 6. J. B. Skemp, Plato’s Statesman (London: Rout-
ledge & Kegan Paul, 1952), 66-82. G.E.R. Lloyd, Polarity and Analogy
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), 148-161. Francis M.
Cornford, Plato’s Theory of Knowledge (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill,
1957), 184-187. Reginald Hackforth, Plato’s Phaedrus (Indianapolis:
Bobbs-Merrill, n.d.), 131-137. Reginald Hackforth, Plato’s Examination
of Pleasure (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1970, repr.) 20-24.
ing not to break any part (Phaedrus 265e1-3); 2. to cut “through

the middle” (dia meson), which is the safest way, and the way
more likely to find ideai (Statesman 262b6-7, e3; 265a4-5).
In the Prior Analytics (46a-b) and in the Posterior Analytics
(91b ff.), Aristotle presents an objection to the use of diairesis in
demonstration, on the grounds that diairesis does not give the ti
ēn einai of something, but really gives two exclusive alternatives
(that is, an exclusive disjunction); those who use it as a method
of proof, however, do not treat this as a disjunction but, discard-
ing one side of the division, they really assume already what they
think they are in the process of proving. But, though he criticizes
diairesis as a method of proof or demonstration, he nevertheless
allows that it can be useful in reaching a horismos—as long as
the division is made, at each stage, into opposites which have no
intermediates (an ēi antikeimena hōn mē esti metaxu [Posterior
Analytics 97a21-22]), for this would be the only way to assure
the exhaustion of the genus. The divisions as actually carried out
by example in the dialogues, however, do not remain true to these
prescriptions. This not only suggests a disparity between the pre-
scriptions as “ideals” and the concrete application of this
“method,” but, even more important, it calls into question the
prescriptions themselves.2
As for Phaedrus’s prescriptions, where are the “natural
joints”? Would it be possible to determine these with any cer-
tainty? Or would such a determination of these “natural joints”
be itself already a dividing? Would it be itself already having per-
formed the division? And then what would be the prescription
for this division? To begin with some genus and divide it into its
“natural joints” would, moreover, seem to presuppose a prior
knowledge of the genus and of its internal differentiation. But
then what would the division itself accomplish?
2. See Lloyd, Polarity and Analogy, 149-150. On the impreciseness of
the divisions in the Statesman, see Skemp, Plato’s Statesman, 71-72
and Benardete, “Eidos and Diaeresis in Plato’s Statesman,” 196 ff. On
the impreciseness of the division in the Sophist, see Benardete, “Plato
Sophist 223bl-7.” On the impreciseness of diairesis in general, see
Klein, “On precision,” 295-302.
As for Statesman’s prescription, how could you ever be cer-

tain that you had “cut through the middle”? At Sophist 220a6-8,
for example, is the division of animal into land-animal and fluid-
animal (neustikon) made “through the middle” of animal? How
indeed could we be sure that we had cut through the middle? Can
we be certain that such a cut would not be into a “greater” and a
“lesser”? How could we know where the “middle” is? There are
innumerable ways of dividing the class animal into two. What
bearings do we have for determining which—if any—of these
cuts through the middle? Of all the possible ways of dividing an-
imal into two, what tells us to divide according to the particular
division between land-animal and fluid-animal? Would this di-
vision even be possible, unless we were directed to do so by the
very object of our search—that is, unless our procedure were
guided already from the outset by the object we are seeking? But
if we already know this, then what does the division accomplish?
Furthermore—supposing one could do it—why should division
cut through the middle in the first place? Is it so certain that this
is the most advisable and the safest procedure?
As for Aristotle’s prescription, how could we be certain that
we had made an exhaustive and exclusive dichotomy at each step
in the division? In order to do this, wouldn’t we have to know al-
ready the genus and its inner differentiation? And then what
would the division accomplish?
In the Sophist something curious happens. In hunting down
the sophist, the initial division had been made in terms of hunt-
ing—and yet this category comes to be abandoned completely,
for the sophist comes to be understood ultimately in terms of
image-making (eikastikē), and not at all in terms of hunting. In
the Statesman too, one of the divisions is made in terms of nur-
turing herds—yet this is abandoned, and the statesman comes to
be understood in terms of weaving. But why doesn’t where we
end up reflect where we began? What has happened to the rigor
of method here? Why are we being led so unambiguously to see
3. Skemp, Plato’s Statesman, 67 ff., claims (correctly, I believe) that
Statesman’s account of diairesis is really the Platonic criticism of it as
a “method.” Klein, “On Precision,” 301-302, suggests that the excesses
the defects in this “method” called diairesis?3

All of these questions remain unanswered, both in the pre-
scriptive and in the illustrative accounts of diairesis. This makes
the procedure questionable, even suspect. And it makes us ask
exactly what it is that diairesis does do. And if this “ procedure”
starts to look like a spurious one, then we have to ask why it is
put forth in the dialogues at all.
In an attempt to answer this question, let me rehearse what
happens in the early divisions made by the Stranger and Theaete-
tus in the Sophist.
In tracking the sophist-as-salesman (223b9-224e5), the
sophist suddenly shows up as a “maker of soul-goods” (224d7),
thereby collapsing the original distinction (219a8-c9) between
acquisition and making—between those arts which gather and
those which make.4 Earlier, in tracking the sophist-as-hunter
(221c5-223b7), the sophist suddenly shows up as a “hunter-for-
pay” (222d7), whereby he has slid over into the class of salesman,
from which hunting had been originally distinguished. Thus the
sophist constantly switches classes, indicating that the divisions
made by this so-called “method” were not precisely made.
In thus sliding over into the class of salesman, moreover, he
is not forced completely out of the class of hunting; he is now in
two classes previously distinguished as exclusive of one another,
but is not completely either of them. The Stranger says that the
sophist’s art is a “many-sided” one (223cl-2). And within the sell-
ing art itself, he turns up in three distinct classes: 1. as a mer-
chandiser of soul-goods; 2. as a retailer of soul-goods made by
others; and 3. as a retailer of soul-goods made by himself
(224d11-e3). The sophist subsequently shows up in three more
divisions, in terms of 1. the art of contesting or disputing (agōnis-
tikē [225a-226a]), 2. the art of discriminating or distinguishing
(diakritikē [226c-231b]), and 3. the art of image-making (eikastikē
and deficiencies of diairesis in Statesman are possibly correctible by

appeal to and reliance on paradeigmata, “examples.” Cf. Benardete,
“Eidos and Diaeresis,” 194 ff.
4. Cf. the schematic presentation in Fig. 1 above.
[235b ff.]), and he is accordingly given three more definitions,

none of which encloses him fully.
From the outset, the Stranger and Theaetetus are in search of
the sophist, though they don’t even know what kind of being he is.
It turns out, of course, that he is many kinds—but this they only
come to learn during their search. At the very beginning (218b8
ff.) they had the sophist in name only—that is, he was contentless.
This would suggest that the “what” of the sophist is the product of
the method used in pursuing him. Is it possible that what he is is
generated by the Stranger’s procedure?5 Thus at 221c4-5 the
Stranger is fully confident that the very same procedure used in
defining the angler is applicable to the pursuit of the sophist as
well.6 But how can he be so sure of this in advance—unless he
holds the grand belief that his method is an absolutely comprehen-
sive and universal one, applicable to, and yet completely independ-
ent of, every possible subject matter?
Such a claim is a rather extraordinary one. It is also a claim to
which we are all too easily drawn. The immediate attraction it holds
for us is natural enough, for it is a claim that appears to us to rescue
us from our own finitude—a claim that holds out to us the promise
of omniscience. Everything is knowable; we have only to take
whatever happens to come along and plug it into our “method,”
our “operation,” our “machine.” To possess this method is to pos-
sess a magical shortcut that relieves us of the tiresome task of hav-
ing to make judgments, in each instance, about what mode of
investigation is most suitable to the object in question. It is the de-
nial that differences among objects matter at all; and it is, correla-
tively, the claim that knowledge is utterly uniform, that all things
whatsoever are knowable in exactly the same way. It is a magical
shortcut that allows us to forget such troublesome questions and
5. See Philebus 16d1 ff. Socrates begins his account of diairesis by say-
ing: “aei mian idean peri pantos hekastotē themenous zētein—heurē-
sein gar enousan” (“we must always suppose that there is for
everything one idea and must look for it—for we will find it”). What
guarantees its being there? Does the procedure itself guarantee this?
6. See Benardete’s account of this in “Plato Sophist 223bl-7,” passim.
gives us a certain command over anything and everything—a sort

of technologization of knowledge. It appeals to a certain hubris
within us. In a rather different context of speaking, it might be said
that it is the temptation to sin—that it appeals to a lust of the spirit,
a lust for knowledge which is at once a lust for power.
To the extent, then, that diairesis is being put forward as such
a claim to universal method, its presentation in the dialogues could
be viewed as an attempt to exhibit the defects of any such preten-
sion to a “method” that is independent of, and yet applicable to,
every possible subject matter. This would go some distance toward
explaining why our attention is being continually drawn to ways
in which the diairesis fails.
But this is only one side of the story. It has to be true to say
that it is the Stranger’s procedure that generates the “what” of the
sophist, for the particular classes he shows up in—the particular
designations he takes on—are the results of the ways in which the
Stranger carries out the divisions. But this can’t be the whole truth,
because the sophist is continually collapsing the class-distinctions
they make, and he is constantly defying their attempt to enclose
him in a single horismos. So, in some important sense, what the
sophist is, is independent of their activity upon him. From this point
of view it could still be said that the procedure produces the “what,”
but only in the sense that, as a result of it, the sophist now for the
first time explicitly acquires determinations he has always had im-
plicitly. Correlatively, it would mean that we are now for the first
time making explicit, as a series of articulate determinations of the
object, our own pre-thematic familiarity with that object. And this
pre-thematic familiarity is something we must have—else we could
never have made this an object of our interest and investigation in
the first place. If we continue to think in this direction, we might
be inclined to revise somewhat our view of what diairesis is sup-
posed to accomplish: Perhaps it’s not (or not completely) the grand
pretension to a universal method that generates its own objects, but
rather a procedure of explication that articulates explicitly what we
already—however dimly—“know.” It might be called a procedure
of “unfolding”—an explicit unfolding of what we already “know”
about the object in a quite pre-thematic way.
This view of diairesis is supported by a further consideration:

The first division in the Sophist begins with the entire class of art
(technē [219a]). The first division in the Statesman starts one step
higher than that, namely, with the entire class of knowledge (epis-
temē [258e]). Why, in each case, does the dividing begin just
here? That is, what determines the initial comprehensive class
from which the dividing will take its start—unless it is that we
already know in some sense the object of our search, and unless
this object itself guides the division which is supposed to discover
it? Why, in the pursuit of the sophist, is the sophist placed at the
outset into the limited—albeit large—class of technē—unless this
were so? If diairesis were to be genuinely a process of discovery,
wouldn’t it be necessary for it to begin, not with technē, but with
the most comprehensive class—“the All” (to pan) or “Being” (to
on)? But, after all, no diairesis begins in that way; it is in fact
doubtful that from such a beginning any dividing could ever
begin.7 How could one begin to divide to on or to pan? But even
if it could be done, the very first step one would take from that
beginning would surely betray the guidance given already be-
forehand by the object sought.
Does diairesis, understood in this way, give us the “what is”
of the sophist? Certainly not in the sense of acquiring for us
something we didn’t have before. Here the procedure called “di-
vision” does not produce the “what is”; rather it is thoroughly
guided and directed, both at the very outset and at every single
step of the way, by a knowledge of the “what is” that we already
do—and must—possess. But then the activity of dividing until
one reaches a “definition” can no longer have any significance
as a more or less technical “method” of inquiry designed to give
us new information, to make us knowers where we were not
knowers before. But isn’t this why we always held definition in
such high regard?
7. On the impossibility of doing this, see Klein, “On Precision,” 297-

298. Aristotle gives the reason in Posterior Analytics II, 92b14: “ou gar
genos to on” (“for being is not a genus.”) Helpful on this point is Martin
Heidegger, Sein und Zeit (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1963), 3.
There is something more. At 241b9-c4 the Stranger and

Theaetetus are wondering why they’re having such difficulty cap-
turing their quarry and are now facing up to the possibility that
the “what” of the sophist might be infinite (aperantōn [241c1]).
If the sophist is infinite, then he is indifferently anything. But this
is at odds with how the activity of dividing operates upon him:
the diairesis cannot help but articulate him into specific, de-lim-
ited classes; the determinations he takes on are de-limitations,
de-finitions. In other words, the division is imposing limits on a
being whose own nature is to be unlimited. This explains why
the Stranger and Theaetetus are baffled at 241b9-c4: whatever
they say about the sophist can never be wholly false, and yet it
must always fail to enclose him completely. So the “what is” of
something and the procedure that is supposed to reveal it look
incommensurate. And wouldn’t this be the case with any object
one sets out to define? That is, any such object first comes to
sight as some unity—though with certain determinations, a cer-
tain number of them. But to speak of the object in terms of just
one or another of these determinations—as diairesis does—limits
the object to just that—delimiting it from those other determina-
tions. It also fails to tell us precisely how the various determina-
tions are related to one another in the object—and really related
in the very being of the object itself, rather than related by our
logical scheme. Even an exhaustive list of these determinations,
by the way, does the very same thing: it must remain forever
merely a list, merely a piecemeal representation of what first
came to sight as a unitary “what.”
So here we seem to be left with the possibility that even if
diairesis were a means of articulation, guided beforehand by the
object sought, even then it would always be essentially defective;
for its piecemeal, limited result would always be disproportionate
with its object.
Can we not, then, rehabilitate diairesis? We can, but only by
moving away from the view that it is intended to be a formal tech-
nique which must be learned and practiced according to a set of
rules, a formal technique (not unlike a logical organon) that we
ought to employ in order to actually acquire knowledge. Indeed
such “rules”—the “prescriptions” given in the dialogues and by

Aristotle—look inexact, spurious, unlearnable, impossible to fol-
low with any sort of precision. Could this be why our attention
is being constantly drawn to arbitrary moves, to gaps, break-
downs and failures in the actual practice of diairesis? That the
dialogues lead us in this way, then, could very well mean that
they are actually attempting to warn us, to show us that if diaire-
sis is understood to be such a formal technique that is both learn-
able and teachable, that in and of itself transforms us into
knowers, then it is fools’ gold.
What, then, is diairesis? Here it seems to me that, of the four
accounts provided by the dialogues, that given at Phaedrus 265d-
266 b is the most helpful.8 Socrates speaks there of a pair of ac-
tivities, “bringing together” and “dividing” (sunagōgē and
diairesis [266b5]), characterized in the following way: 1. “Bring-
ing a scattered many into a single idea, seeing it all together [ital-
ics mine], that, defining, one might make clear each thing he
wishes to teach about” (eis mian te idean sunorōnta agein ta pol-
lachē diesparmena, hin hekaston horizomenos dēlon poiēi, peri
hou anaei didaskein ethelēi); 2. “Dividing [these ‘ones’] once
again, according to eidē, according to natural joints” (to palin
kat’ eidē dunasthai temnein, kat’ arthra [265el-2]).
What, then, are these two related procedures? There is a pas-
sage in Book VII of the Republic which, I believe, suggests an
answer to this question:
In the context of a discussion of that higher education which
would produce philosopher-kings, calculation (logistikē, logis-
8. To center on the Phaedrus as the key account depends, of course, on

the interpretation that follows. It is not a position taken by all commen-
tators. I have no quarrel with those whose particular interests lead them
to emphasize one of the other accounts. A.C. Lloyd, for instance, in
“Plato’s Description of Division”, centers on the Philebus because he
thinks he can explain, by appealing to the geometrical practice of di-
viding a continuous line, why the account in the Philebus is given in
terms of the opposition between the One and the Infinite. I would only
quarrel with those who view diairesis as a bona fide logical-zetetic
organon along the lines indicated above.
mos)—that art which ostensibly operates on number—is intro-

duced as something that leads directly to intellection and—since
it would be the art of “turning the soul around” (psuchēs pe-
riagōgē [521c6])—as something that prepares one for philoso-
phy. But calculation is said not to appear at first as an “art” at all,
but rather as a “trivial” or “lowly” thing (phaulon [522c4]) that
simply distinguishes the “one” and the “two” (522c5 and 524b5).
More particularly it is said that calculation is originally “sum-
moned” (parakalein), called into operation, along with noēsis
and dianoia, by the presence of contradictory sensations (524a-
b). This explains why calculation is called something “trivial” or
“lowly”: it is the original, most rudimentary, appearance of
human thinking. In other words, what shows up at a higher level
as an “art” is really present already as a most rudimentary feature
of human thought, viz., the activity of bringing together, com-
paring and distinguishing. Calculation brings together and dis-
tinguishes, brings together and separates; the logistical “arts” of
addition and subtraction are higher-level expressions of these ut-
terly natural activities of thought and have their origins in them.9
I would I suggest, then, that the two related “procedures” of
sunagōgē and diairesis are originarily “summoned” in just the
same way, and that the presentation of them in the Phaedrus is
essentially and primarily an account of this originary summoning.
Sunagōgē and diairesis are, I suggest, the account of what we in
fact do—what thinking does—in thematizing something, in iso-
lating it and making it thematic. That is, these “procedures” are
simply ways of talking about what we’ve already done—what
our understanding does—automatically, simply by nature, to get
its bearings, namely, 1. recognize the “sameness” of a many, and
2. recognize the differences inherent in that sameness. The first
moment is a “seeing all together”(the word is sunorōnta)—that
9. This relationship between theoretical acts and conceptual objects, on
the one hand, and certain features of pre-theoretical, pre-conceptual ex-
perience, on the other hand, has been studied and worked out exten-
sively by Edmund Husserl. See especially his Erfahrung und Urteil
(Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 1972) and Formale und Transzenden-
tale Logik (Halle: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1929).
is, the recognizing of a single “looks” (idea); the second moment

is a “dividing according to eidē, according to the ‘natural
joints’”—that is, the recognizing of essential differences within
that single “looks.” The first moment is said to “bring a many
into a one”, to “see it all together”, to “make it clear”, to “define”
it. Here the “defining” has to mean “de-fining” it from other such
single “looks.” It de-fines it, isolates it, constitutes it as a single
determinate “whole.” The second moment differentiates this sin-
gle whole internally. The sunagōge is probably not simply re-
versed in the diairesis. The differences ignored or sublated in
bringing together the many into a one are probably not those “nat-
ural joints” at which the diairetic divisions are subsequently
made—which would mean that the two activities do not corre-
spond exactly. That is, the sunagōge might very well be under-
stood to bring the infinitely many particulars into a unitary whole;
but the diairesis must be understood as the differentiation of this
unitary whole into finite eidetic parts. At Phaedrus 238a3 ff., for
instance, it is said of hubris that it is “many-membered and many-
sorted” (polumeles kai polueides), and that the name of any par-
ticular hubris is taken from whatever (sub-)idea predominates.
And wouldn’t this also be true, for example, of virtue as a whole?
The horismos, then, must be understood as a “de-fining,” a
“de-limiting,” an isolating. In the mere recognition of what is to
be defined, moreover, the thing is already isolated. Thus the ex-
plicit activity of defining simply duplicates our initial recogni-
tion; it doesn’t essentially add anything, but only shows us what
we’ve already done in recognizing the thing. The explicit activity
of defining does not, in any essential way, give us a “what is” as
an answer that we didn’t have before; it only makes our pre-the-
matic familiarity with the thing for the first time explicit for us.
Furthermore, insofar as a definition only de-limits, it only isolates
something from other things. And that means: it does not tell us
what the thing is “by itself” (kath’auto), in its own innerness—
but isn’t that precisely what the “what is” question asks for?10
10. As Sophist 248-255 shows, the “what is” of any being is, of course,
both kath’ auto and pros heteron at the same time, and is perhaps both
In still another way “definition” shows itself to fall short of

giving us the “what is” of what is being defined. At Statesman
267c the Stranger states the result of the first division: States-
manship is said to be the “art of herding human beings” (an-
thrōponomikē [cf. 266e]). This definition might be said to be a
fine example of further dividing a genus by the addition of a spe-
cific difference: here the genus would be nomeutikē—the art of
herding; and the specific difference would be anthrōpōn—of hu-
mans specifically. But—apart from the word—is there really such
an art? This “art” has come about (or has been conjured up) sim-
ply by combining the two words anthrōpos and nomeutikē—an
easy enough task. But we shouldn’t be fooled by the word. To
make verbal “wholes” by just putting words together does not af-
fect by one jot whether or not there are such wholes really. Actual
wholes cannot be generated by simply combining words to form
verbal “wholes.”
The flip-side of this problem would be the problem of
whether, and to what extent, it is possible to reflect accurately in
an account of a whole, the “wholeness” of that whole. This prob-
lem is mentioned very briefly by Aristotle in Metaphysics Z
(1037b12-14; 25-28). Some being (a “this,” a tode ti ) first ap-
pears to us as a unity, a whole, and yet its formulation in speech
has parts. The difficulty then is to determine whether the formu-
lational parts correspond to the real parts in the being itself. While
Aristotle seems to treat this matter merely aporetically, and thus
to leave it an open question, the rhetoric of the passage suggests
otherwise.
The “what is” question, as it comes up in the dialogues, al-
ways asks about wholes such as virtue, knowledge, and so forth.
And at first glance it may look as though definition in terms of
genus and specific difference solves the problem of grasping a
whole. But it does not reflect the “wholeness” of a whole, for it
only adds the specific difference to the genus. That is, it might
look like an attempt to integrate the comprehensive character of
inseparably, even in thought; it does seem a formidable difficulty to

isolate the kath’auto aspect in speech.
the genus with its precise manifestation (namely, the specific dif-
ference). But the relation of Part to Whole is not one of addition.
Aristotle’s understanding of definition in terms of genus-plus-
specific difference (Posterior Analytics B 96b27-97b13) exhibits
unambiguously its roots in diairesis. And even if we were to con-
strue this in a somewhat softer way as an articulation or explica-
tion rather than an addition in the literal sense, there would still
remain the problem of exactly how this articulation is related to
the unity, the wholeness, of what is being defined. Definition in
terms of genus plus specific difference does not adequately ad-
dress this problem of how to reflect the wholeness of a whole in
speech (and perhaps in thought as well); it does, however, reveal
this problem to us in a quite vivid way.
Throughout the Posterior Analytics, Aristotle’s treatment of
horismos is always addressed to particulars: 1. to events and at-
tributes (92a33-96a19); and 2. to beings (96a24 ff.). And to focus
on these as the primary objects of definition accords with com-
mon sense: we encounter something for the first time and, be-
cause we don’t have a precise understanding of it, we ask what it
is. But to define such a particular would be simply to specify the
class to which it belongs—and this must already presuppose our
understanding of those class-concepts. This would not, in any
case, give us the “what is” of that particular, not in the sense of
giving us that precise understanding that we didn’t previously
have. If we begin by asking it what it is, and then go on to define
it in the way I’ve just described, we have not answered the “what
is” question, but have simply pushed the question back a step;
for, in referring it to a certain class, we’d then have to pose the
very same question to that class-concept.
But what about these class-concepts themselves, as eidetic
wholes? Couldn’t we just as easily give definitions of these?
These are, after all, the “whatnesses” of things—and so the
thought of defining them might seem to hold out the promise of
finally being able to unify definition and the “what is” question.
But what would such a definition look like? Wouldn’t it too have
to refer this eidetic whole to yet others? The definition of eidē
then, would seem to presuppose yet other eidē as “tools” or “prin-

ciples” in the procedure of defining. And this means that, through
definition alone, we’d never get the “what is”—not even of these
eidetic wholes.
At the end of the Posterior Analytics, Aristotle addresses
himself to the question of how we know first principles (archai
or prōtai archai), and he shows that knowledge of these comes,
not through definition or demonstration, but only—and in an
originary way—through intellection (nous). The reason, of
course, is that both demonstration and definition have to start
somewhere, need starting points (archai). Or, stated otherwise,
all discursive, dianoetic activity of thought presupposes and rests
on nous, on an original noēsis, since thinking discourses from
something and about something. At 93b23 he had established that
the “ what is”—the ti esti—is itself an archē; and at 92b37-40
he had established that knowledge of the “what is” cannot be ac-
quired through definition. In other words, to define something is
not to answer the “what is” question; rather, the “what is” must
itself be presupposed as an archē by any act of defining. The abil-
ity to define as such presupposes these whatnesses, these eidetic
wholes, as its archai—its starting points or first principles.
There is something further. To have defined is to have de-lim-
ited and enclosed something in such a way that it is now presented
to us in marked relief. What we are presented with as the result of
definition is what, from the point of view of a “properly” executed
process of division, came to be called the infima species, or, to
use a more Greek expression, the atomic eidos, the “indivisible
looks.” This would be the horismos, the definition, the enclosure
brought to its tightest possible state. Would this be the ti esti, the
“what is”? No. But it would be that of which we could now for
the first time ask this question: What is its “what is”?
This requires some elaboration: Definition does indeed give
us the “what is,” but not in the sense we had anticipated: to arrive,
through definition, at to ti esti—the “what is”—is to arrive, not
at an answer, but at a question. The substantivized form of that
question—to ti esti—should not for an instant lead us to think
that it has ceased to be a question: to treat the “what is” as a sub-

stantive—to ti esti11—means that the question as a question is
being substantivized. The implication of this is far-reaching, for
it means that the “what is” of something is a question, is a prob-
lem; and therefore to know the “what is” of something—to know
an eidetic whole—is to know aporetically, to be in possession,
not of an answer, but of a problem.
The result of definition is the ti esti—not as an answer, but
as a question. More forcefully stated: The “what is” question, as
a question, is what stands at the end of the entire activity of defin-
ing. It is the proper telos of definition. The ti esti is the archē of
definition in the most profound sense: it is the archē-archōn; it
stands at the beginning of definition as its necessary starting-
point; it shows up as the end-result of definition; and it rules over
and guides the activity of defining throughout, from beginning
to end. This means that to have defined something is not itself an
end, is not to have reached one’s natural goal. To have defined is
to be brought face to face with the “what is” question and, as
such, has been barely a start. Rather than being an end, definition
is merely the condition for a new and quite different beginning:
To define is to provide oneself with the possibility of philosophy.
11. Cf. inter alia Posterior Analytics II, 92a35, 92b39.

65
The Stranger as a Socratic Philosopher:

The Socratic Nature of the Stranger’s
Investigation of the Sophist1
Corinne Painter
Much of the secondary literature on Plato’s Sophist considers the
Stranger to be a non-Socratic philosopher, and regards his appear-
ance in the dialogues as a sign that Plato had moved on from his
fascination with Socrates to develop a more “mature” way of phi-
losophizing.2 This essay will argue, on the contrary, that the in-
vestigation led by the Stranger in the Sophist demonstrates an
essentially Socratic philosophical stance. In order to do this, I will
consider carefully some dramatic evidence in the Sophist that al-
lows us to notice a philosophical “transformation” in the Stranger.
My consideration focuses upon the Stranger’s rejection of the Par-
menidean way of philosophizing followed by his acceptance of the
Socratic way of practicing philosophy. This is revealed most deci-
sively by the Stranger’s willingness to pursue truth and justice at
the expense of overturning the practices of his philosophical train-
ing, and, secondarily, by his genuine concern with showing that
Socrates is not guilty of sophistry.
Corinne Painter is a Professor in the Humanities Department at Washte-

naw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
1. I would like to thank Joe Sachs for his generous communications with
me about Plato’s Sophist and other Platonic works. His insights have
added greatly to my interpretation and understanding of Plato’s thought.
2. There are far too many accounts to list here; but see, for example, Stan-
ley Rosen, Plato’s Sophist: The Drama of the Original and Image (South
Bend, Indiana: St. Augustine’s Press, 1999). Just as Rosen argues in his
text, most of the accounts in the literature that treat this issue view the
Stranger as non-Socratic and advance the position that he represents at
least a change, or perhaps even a progression, in Plato’s thinking away
from, for instance, emphasis on the Socratic elenchus, to a more devel-
oped, mature philosophical practice that emphasizes dialectic.
Surprisingly, although there has been almost no discussion

in the literature about the Stranger’s philosophical development
in the course of his examination of the Sophist, it is neither dif-
ficult to notice nor unimportant to acknowledge the Stranger’s
philosophical “movement” away from Parmenides’s way of phi-
losophy towards a different way. Indeed, on several occasions,
the Stranger doffs his Parmenidean cloak and dons Socratic cloth-
ing, a transformation that converts him into a “true” philosopher,
understood as one who attempts to make images in speech of that
which is authentically compelling—that is, the good—which is
therefore of ethical significance.
It is not incidental to the dialogue that Socrates instigates the
discussion by asking the Stranger to “do the favor” (217c) of ac-
counting for the sophist, nor that the Stranger agrees only at
Socrates’s request, after having previously turned down a similar
request made by Theodorus. This shows that the Stranger is more
concerned with satisfying Socrates’s desire to account for the
sophist than Theodorus’s. And this suggests, in turn, that something
about Socrates’s request is more compelling than Theodorus’s.
What is urgent about Socrates’s request would seem to be his pres-
ent circumstance, namely, his having been accused of crimes
against the polis that include practicing sophistry. Socrates’s own
life situation gives rise to his concern to account properly for
sophistry and distinguish it from philosophy; it is almost certain
that this personal involvement confers on his request an urgency
that simply is not present in Theodorus’s merely theoretical inter-
est. Importantly, the urgency is an ethical one, inasmuch as it is
one that is “related to what truly and ultimately matters,”3 which
in this case arises from Socrates’s “specific human predicament.”4
Since Parmenides’s “style” of philosophizing “requires a stud-
3. Adriaan Peperzak, System and History in Philosophy: On the Unity of

Thought and Time, Text and Explanation, Solitude and Dialogue, Rhetoric
and Truth in the Practice of Philosophy and its History, (New York: State
University of New York Press, 1986), 13.
4. Drew Hyland, Finitude and Transcendence in the Platonic Dialogues
(New York: State University of New York Press, 1995), 176.
ESSAYS & LECTURES | PAINTER 67
ied indifference to its topics,”5 there are hints to be found as early

as the dialogue’s beginning that the Stranger might be willing to
reject his Parmenidean training in order to do the favor of account-
ing properly for the sophist. Indeed, if we believe that “indifference
seems to be the only reaction one cannot have to a philosophic
question, if one is aware of it at all,”6 then the Stranger’s willing-
ness to undergo the difficult and complicated investigation of the
sophist only at Socrates’s request indicates that he takes Socrates’s
question to be one that is asked philosophically. For, because
Socrates’s question originates in a desire to know about something
that is at stake in his life, it therefore deserves serious and sustained
philosophical attention and energy.
Nevertheless, the Stranger does not begin his investigation as
Socrates usually does, namely, with an elenchus. This is probably
why very few scholars see a close connection between the Stranger’s
way of philosophizing and Socrates’s way. Except for the emphasis
that the Stranger places on agreement among the interlocutors—
which mirrors Socrates’s insistence on mutual agreement in the
course of dialectical investigations—he initially conducts his in-
vestigation after the fashion of his philosophical father, Par-
menides, who claims, in marked contrast to Socrates, that the
“philosophic discipline requires purging ourselves of any motive
to care about any one thing more than another.”7 Before he gets to
his sixth attempt to account for the sophist, the Stranger tries to
track the sophist by employing the method of division by kinds,
according to which a given hunting ground must be cut always into
two and only two opposing divisions, until, at last, a long and log-
ically descriptive title of the intended prey results. Prior to his sixth
division, then, the Stranger proceeds as Parmenides taught him: by
proposing further and further opposing, and thus exhaustive, divi-
sions that allow him eventually to uncover the sophist in as many
different guises as there are different starting points. As the
5. Joe Sachs, “What is a What-is Question?” The St. John’s Review 44.1
(1993): 46.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid., 43.
Stranger explicitly states, in practicing this logical method there is

no room for caring any more or less for the divisions that are made,
since the method “honors all equally” (227b2), nor is there room
for evaluating the divisions in any “extra-logical sense”—for in-
stance, by an appeal to one’s sense of justice or honor. For, as long
as the divisions are made properly—exhaustively and beginning
from appropriate starting points—the accounts ultimately obtained
will be logically infallible.
With his sixth attempt at finding the sophist, however, the
Stranger employs the method of division in a significantly modi-
fied manner, namely, by no longer insisting on pure logic that does
not “care” for its results and does not “trust” the desire to do justice
to the matter under examination. The point of departure for the
sixth division is peculiar in that it begins with what might be called
an “unauthorized division” of expertise into a third subclass, which
goes beyond the authorized two divisions of division by kinds.
Since the sixth account of the sophist is spurred by the Stranger’s
assessment that the first five accounts failed to capture adequately
the sophist’s essence, and since it is impossible to judge the differ-
ing accounts critically on the basis of logic alone, the Stranger’s
unauthorized beginning seems to be grounded in his extra-logical
sense that, even though the various accounts hold up to logical
scrutiny, they fail to do true justice to the sophist’s complex nature.
This indicates that the Stranger genuinely cares about keeping the
philosopher and the sophist distinct; for “someone who does not
care about the thing in question cannot see the point of suspending
his prejudices.”8 In this case, the prejudices that need to be sus-
pended are the Stranger’s initial commitment to proceed purely
logically, without any special concern for his divisions, and his
Parmenidean philosophical training.
The Stranger’s decision to go against the rule of his own
method arises from two causes. First, his efforts so far have made
him think that the sophist is so complex and slippery a character
that he evaded the first five attempts to capture him—a judgment,
as we can see, that can be attained only after appealing to an extra-
logical standard. Second, he genuinely desires to understand how
8. Sachs, 46.
the philosopher can be misperceived as a sophist, and thus, more

specifically, how it is possible for Socrates to be falsely accused
of being a sophist. Once the Stranger sees that the first five guises
of the sophist do not present engaging images of the philosopher,
and consequently, that they do not address the possibility of con-
fusing the sophist and the philosopher, he is compelled to divide
expertise into an unorthodox third part, so that he can construct an
account that may be sufficient to deal with the apparent proximity
between philosopher and sophist. Put very simply, insofar as the
division of expertise introduced in the sixth account of sophistry,
namely, soul-cleansing refutation (230d-e),9 turns out to be an ac-
count of what Socrates does, it provides the necessary link between
Socrates and sophistry that accounts for his being falsely accused
of sophistry. In this way, it provides the Stranger with the oppor-
tunity to scrutinize the proposed association between Socrates and
sophistry that seems to be responsible for driving the discussion.
It is at this point in the dialogue that the Stranger gives a crit-
ical evaluation of the sixth account that goes beyond revealing his
motivations and intentions, and tells us about the role he plays in
the dialogue. As the three translators of a fine edition of the Sophist
say in the introduction to their translation, the sixth account “curi-
ously reveals the sophist as a cross-examiner of empty sham wis-
dom and therefore as entangled with the philosophic nature.
Sophist and philosopher appear to be interwoven.”10 This, I think,
compels us to think of Socrates rather than of a sophist, especially
since the Stranger says “he’s afraid to say” that the men he’s de-
scribed in this way are “sophists” since he does not want “to confer
on them too great an honor” (231a1-3). So I believe, unlike many,
perhaps even most, scholarly commentators, including Rosen, that
the Stranger’s critical assessment of the sixth account points ulti-
mately to his likely desire to want to defend Socrates from the
9. The sixth account of the sophist, like all the others, contains much more
detail than needs to be addressed here. For a helpful discussion see:
Corinne Painter, “In Defense of Socrates,” Epoche 9.2 (2005): 317-333.
10. Plato’s Sophist: The Professor of Wisdom, translated, with introduc-
tion and glossary, by Eva Brann, Peter Kalkavage, and Eric Salem (New-
buryport, MA: Focus Publishing, 1996), 10.
charges of sophistry that have been brought against him. I admit

that this remark only explicitly states that the sixth account does
not accurately describe sophists because the activity it elucidates
is too honorable to be one in which sophists engage. But at the
same time, it at least implicitly points us in the direction of
Socrates, since the activity it describes is characteristic of him.
Hence, the Stranger’s implicit association of Socrates with an
honorable activity, together with his willingness to investigate the
sophist only at Socrates’s request appear to point in the direction
of a desire to defend Socrates against the charges leveled at him.
If we add to this the Stranger’s agreement with Socrates that the
philosopher often appears to be something he is not, including a
sophist (216c4-d5), the inference is even stronger. Moreover, if the
contrary motive were to be put forth—that the Stranger really
wants to prosecute Socrates on behalf of the youth of Athens,
whom he supposedly corrupted—this motive too would reflect a
concern with a matter of great political and ethical import. Thus,
even in this case, the Stranger turns out to be a philosopher in the
following Socratic sense: he understands his philosophical inquiry
into the nature of the sophist to be intimately bound up with a mat-
ter of practical, ethical significance.
This conviction can be reinforced in several ways. First, the
Stranger eventually rejects his earlier claim that the interlocutors
are not allowed to pass judgment on their accounts by assessing
any of the arts they describe as more honorable or worthy than any
others (227a10-b8). The evidence for this is his willingness to go
against this “rule” of his own method and his related willingness
to discard the wholly “neutral,” Parmenidean attitude. For when
he admits his distaste for describing the sophist as one who engages
in soul-cleansing refutation (231a1-3), the Stranger gives up his
commitment to honor the generals’ art of hunting and the art of
louse-catching equally (227b8-11). In this way, he abandons his
Parmenidean neutrality and recognizes that he will have to take a
new path: if he is to keep sophistry and philosophy distinct, he
must let his genuine, ethical concern over the sixth account of the
sophist guide the rest of his investigation. Indeed, at this point in
the discussion the Stranger realizes that his “technical” procedure
for hunting down the sophist will not allow him to fulfill his prom-
ise of accounting for the sophist in such a way that the philosopher
can no longer be mistaken for him, and the Stranger’s expression
of dismay at having discovered five different accounts of the
sophist shows this:
[I]sn’t it clear that when a person experiences this with

respect to some expertise, he’s not able to see what all
these studies have in view—and that’s why he calls
their possessor by many names instead of one? . . . So
let us avoid experiencing this in our own search be-
cause of laziness (232a1-b2).
Accordingly, we have reason to believe that the Stranger no longer

trusts his initially preferred method of division by kinds to com-
plete the investigation. Moreover, this strengthens the impression
that he is prepared to proceed differently, which, again, suggests
that he genuinely cares about the matter at issue—namely, keeping
the philosopher and the sophist distinct.
In fact, the Stranger seems to care so much about distinguish-
ing the philosopher and the sophist that he is willing to suspend all
of his “safe opinions,” all of his “previous prejudices,”11 in order
to do the favor that he promised. Indeed, the Stranger’s worry, par-
ticularly over the sixth definition, indicates his recognition that di-
vision by kinds, although it may be well suited to mapping out
relationships of subordination between genera and species, is not
well suited for the task of distinguishing the sophist from the
philosopher. In acknowledging that this task cannot be completed
on the basis of division by kinds alone, the Stranger lets his “out-
rage . . . as a human being”12 compel him to conduct the remainder
of his search for the sophist in another way. This new way, while
still rigorous and careful, seems to the Stranger to be more com-
patible with the important political and ethical nature of the task,
and at the same time, it allows him to “trust his own desire to do
justice.”13 In allowing the investigation to follow another path, as
11. Sachs, 46.

12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
Joe Sachs claims, the Stranger abandons the safe and familiar Par-
menidean philosophizing, with its indifferent, dispassionate, and
entirely logical modus operandi,14 and “crosses over from the safe
domain of logic to something called philosophy.”15
Later in the dialogue, the Stranger even makes an explicitly
critical remark about the technique of division by kinds that is quite
scornful: “to attempt to separate off everything from everything is
in other respects discordant, and what’s more, it belongs to a man
who is altogether unmusical and unphilosophical” (259d8-e1, em-
phasis mine). If we add to this his claim that the one who knows
how to practice the art of division and collection properly is the
one “who philosophizes purely and justly” (253e4-5, emphases
mine), as well as his rather Socratic words of encouragement to
Theaetetus, asking him, for example, to be brave and not to lose
heart (261b5-6), it is quite clear that the Stranger now comports
himself Socratically. All in all, this not only strengthens the notion
that the Stranger’s motivation in the Sophist is more likely con-
nected to a desire to defend Socrates than to a desire to prosecute
him, but it also suggests that he has become “like”—perhaps even
a good image of—a Socratic philosopher.
Finally, there is yet another way in which the Stranger shows
the mark of a Socratic—which is to say, genuine—philosopher,
namely, his eagerness not to assume that he knows what he does
not know. Indeed, the Stranger seems to appreciate very well that
while all of his accounts of the sophist, including the seventh and
final one, capture some significant aspects of the sophist’s decep-
tive nature, none of them can say the final word about this slippery
creature (268d5). Like Socrates, the Stranger is very careful not to
conflate the images he makes in speech with the originals to which
they point. In other words, the Stranger’s humble acknowledgment
that his logos about the sophist necessarily points beyond itself to-
wards an eidos that it cannot articulate adequately seems to mirror
Socrates’s repeated admonitions that all our words are at once both
themselves and not themselves, insofar as they always point be-
14. Sachs, 41.

15. Sachs, 43.
yond themselves to the eide, that is, to the invisible looks that make
them intelligible.
In sum, the investigation led by the Stranger in the Sophist
demonstrates a specifically Socratic philosophical character, and
in the course of attempting to define the sophist, the Stranger shows
that Socrates is not guilty of sophistry. The philosophical conver-
sion undergone by the Stranger—from Parmenides’s way of phi-
losophizing to Socrates’s way—indicates that he recognizes the
superiority of “extra-logical” philosophizing that is rooted in a
sense of ethics. This is revealed by the Stranger’s admission that
the sixth definition of sophistry as “soul cleansing refutation” is
disturbing because it describes an activity that is too honorable to
be connected with sophistry. Since this definition was arrived at
by a non-Parmenidean, Socratic way of philosophizing, it identifies
the Socratic way with virtue, and defends Socrates against the dis-
honorable charges associated with sophistry. In this way, the
Stranger vindicates Socrates while at the same time he becomes
very much “like” him.
The Concept of Measure and the

Criterion of Sustainability
John D. Pappas
The classical concept of measure, which is akin to moderation

and balance, has been specified arithmetically in architecture and
the arts. But in law, politics, the social sciences, and the behav-
ioral sciences, measure is a fuzzy concept. A rational definition
of measure in human behavior would curb the impulsive human
tendency to excess, and might thus hedge humanity against the
effects of hubris, which has historically led societies, states, and
even empires to disaster.
When people lose a sense of measure, they also lose touch
with reality. And because there is no settled definition of measure
in practical matters, it is difficult for leaders and policymakers to
see limits begin transgressed in time to avert danger.
The purpose of this essay is to suggest that, in the absence
of a definition of measure, we may instead apply the criterion of
sustainability to detect hubristic aberrations from measure early
enough to curb their ill effects.
1. The universal concept of measure
The concept of measure or mean was the cornerstone of classical
civilization. Measure (metron in Greek1) is akin to the Confucian
Middle Way (zhōng yōng) and the Buddhist Middle Path (majjhimā
paṭipadā). It pertains to aesthetic symmetry and functional harmony
in human interaction with the social and natural environment.
John D. Pappas is legal and economic adviser at AGM Law Firm. He

studied law at Athens University and economics at Columbia University.
1. The English word measure derives from the Latin mensura, which in
turn derives from verb metiri, which is related to the Greek word metron.
This is the etymological root of meter, metro–, –metric, etc., and a compo-
nent of symmetry and its derivatives (symmetric, asymmetry, and so on.)
ESSAYS & LECTURES | PAPPAS 75
In the arts and particularly in architecture, measure has been

expressed in particular mathematical forms. For example, the
golden ratio, φ (=1.6180339…),2 which Euclid called extreme
and mean ratio, is a well-known mathematical definition of geo-
metric measure:
A straight line is said to have been cut in extreme
and mean ratio when, as the whole line is to the
greater segment, so is the greater to the less. (Akron
kai meson logon eutheia tetmēsthai legetai, hotan
ēi hōs hē holē pros to meizon tmēma, houtōs to
meizon pros to helatton.) (Euclid, Elements, Book
6, Definition 3.)
Even before Euclid showed how to calculate the φ-ratio,
Phidias (c. 480–430 BC) had created a diachronic manifestation
of aesthetic measure in geometry and architecture by “curving”
Fig.1: The Golden Section in the Facade of the Parthenon
2. φ, the asymptotic limit of the Fibonacci sequence Fn+1 / Fn , “has inspired

thinkers of all disciplines like no other number in the history of mathemat-
ics.” Mario Livio, The Golden Ratio: The Story of Phi, the World’s Most
Astonishing Number (New York: Broadway Books, 2002), 6.
that ratio into marble (Fig. 1).3 The Parthenon seems to be cir-
cumscribed conceptually by a Fibonacci-type sequence of golden
rectangles: each rectangle has a length that is the product of its
width and φ, while its width is the length of its predecessor rec-
tangle. The aesthetic effect of the golden rectangle is summarized
by Joe Sachs in this way:
What are the right proportions for the entrance to a tem-
ple? . . . The rectangle formed by the columns is wider
than it is high. How much wider? Enough so that it will
not look squashed together, but not so much that it would
become stringy looking. Let your imagination squeeze
and stretch it to see what goes wrong, and then notice
that to get it right again you have to bring it back to a
certain very definite shape. This is the golden rectangle.
It has been produced spontaneously by artists, architects,
and carpenters of any and every time and place.4
But long before Phidias and Euclid, the concept of measure
had been a focal theme in ancient Greek civilization, as is shown
by the frequent recurrence of that concept in Homer’s Odyssey
(for instance, in Bk. 2, l. 230, Bk. 5, l. 9, Bk. 7, l. 310, Bk. 14, l.
434, Bk. 15, l. 68, Bk. 17, l. 321, Bk. 21, l. 294, and Bk. 22, l.
46)—although Homer uses the word aisima rather than metron.
For example, in Bk. 7, l. 310, Alcinous addresses Odysseus with
the same phrase that Menelaus uses in Bk. 15, l. 71 when speak-
ing to Telemachus: “measure is always optimal” (ameinō d’
aisima panta).
In Homeric vocabulary, aisima is related to Aisa, the Greek
3. In 1909, the American mathematician Mark Barr gave the golden

ratio the lower-case Greek letter phi (φ), the first letter in Phidias’s
name, to honor the classical sculptor and architect. (Theodore Andrea
Cook, The Curves of Life [London: Constable, 1914; reprinted inNew
York: Dover Publications, 1979], 420). The capital letter Φ is often used
to symbolize the inverse of φ, i.e. Φ = 1 / φ = Ο.6180339. . . .
4. Joe Sachs, “Measure, Moderation, and the Mean,” The St. John’s Re-
view 46.2 (2002): 7. This article is available on the web here:
http://www.sjc.edu/files/1713/9657/8097/sjc_review_vol46_no2.pdf
goddess who personifies human destiny. So Homer’s idea of

measure implicitly includes the notions of allotted share, portion,
lot, or term of life, in accordance with the subject’s destiny—that
is, in line with his idiosyncrasies, social constraints, and natural
limits. Moreover, Homer was probably the first to try to describe
measure in human social interaction. In 15.68-74, he suggested
a subjectivist view of social measure by metaphorically depicting
social relations among people as interactions between hosts and
their guests:
Telemachus, I will not keep you here for long when you
are eager to depart:I would even blame another man who,
as host, is either too fond of his guest or too rude to him:
measure is always optimal. Being too quick to send a
guest on his way when he doesn’t want to leave is just as
bad as holding him back when he wants to depart. One
must treat a guest well as long as he is in the house and
let him go promptly when he wants to leave.
(Tēlemach’, ou ti s’ egō ge polun chronon enthad’ eruxō
iemenon nostoio: nemessōmai de kai allōi
andri xeinodokōi, hos k’ exocha men phileēisin,
exocha d’ echthairēisin· ameinō d’ aisima panta.
Ison toi kakon esth’, hos t’ ouk ehtelonta neesthai
xeinon epotrunei kai hos essumenon katerukei.
chrē xeinon paeonta philein, ethelonta de pempein.)
To a considerable degree, Homer’s masterpiece is a poetic
account of four intertwined concepts: 1. human measure; 2.
hubris, that is, extreme aberration away from measure, like the
Massacre at Troy, or like Odysseus’s defiance of nature in the
form of his defiance of the gods, or like the abusive behavior of
Penelope’s suitors during Odysseus’s absence; 3. atē, the goddess
that personifies mischief, delusion and folly, which are states of
mind that accelerate the decline of a hubristic subject; and 4.
nemesis, the goddess that personifies justice and reinstitutes the
balance of social order.
Long before Homer, these concepts were symbolized in the
myth of Icarus. Icarus attempted to escape Minoan Crete by fly-
ing in the air on waxed and feathered wings, but he overrated his
capabilities and underrated the forces of nature. He ignored the
advice of his father Daedalus to “fly the middle course” between

the foam of the sea and the heat of the sun, so that his wings
would neither be soaked nor burned. Icarus soared hubristically
upward toward the sun, which soon melted the wax off his wings,
so that he fell into the sea to his death.
But Homer was the true philosophical pioneer in regard to
the notion of measure. Through his poetic imagery, he laid out a
solid philosophical base concerning the delicate relations be-
tween measure, hubris, folly, and justice. This became the foun-
dation for the elaborate work of the philosophers and the
tragedians of the pre-classical and classical periods. For instance,
Homer’s concept of measure was later picked up by Cleobulus
of Rhodes (died ca. 560 BC), one of the Seven Sages of ancient
Greece, in his most celebrated maxim “measure is best” (metron
ariston). And a later philosopher, Protagoras of Abdera (c. 490-420
BC), understood measure in Homer’s subjectivist terms, as is shown
by a quotation that appears in Plato’s Theaetetus (170d–e):
Man [is] the measure of all useful things.
(Pantōn chrēmatōn metron anthrōpos.)
This statement was later quoted, almost ipsissima verba, by
Sextus Empiricus in his Adversus Mathematicos (7.60)]:
[Protagoras said that] man is the measure of all useful
things, that is, in regard to things that exist, how they are,
and in regard to things that do not exist, how they are not.
([Protagoras eipe] pantōn chrēmatōn metron anthrōpon
einai, tōn men ontōn hōs estin, tōn de ouk ontōn hōs ouk
estin.)
Protagoras’s statement is gender-neutral because he refers
to human beings in general rather than men in particular (an-
thrōpos means “human being” in Greek). Moreover the exact
meaning of the statement (which is as much utilitarian as it is
subjectivist) has been lost in both English and Modern Greek
translations. In all translations I am aware of, chrēmatōn has
been erroneously translated as things (in English) or prag-
matōn (in Modern Greek). As result, an overly anthropocentric
sense has been imputed to Protagoras’s statement, as though it
meant “man is the measure of everything in the universe.” But

in ancient Greek, chrēmata did not signify everything in the
universe, but only things needed or used by humans on earth:
the noun is related to the verb chrēsthai, meaning “to need” or
“to use.” As an example of the sense, Aristotle gives the fol-
lowing definition in his Nichomachean Ethics (1119b26): “By
chrēmata we mean all things whose value is measured by
money.” (Chrēmata legomen panta hosōn hē axia nomismati
metreitai.)
So in the Protagorean subjectivist context, measure is under-
stood as a concept related to human attributes. But somewhat ear-
lier, Heraclitus (ca. 535–475 BC) had proceeded a step further.
He understood measure as a natural phenomenon, or even as the
foundational principle of the universe.
Heraclitus theorized that hubris5 entails inexorable divine
retribution, which is personified by the remorseless goddess
Nemesis. The name of that goddess is related to the Greek verb
nemein, meaning “to distribute appropriately,” which also gives
us the Greek word nomos, meaning “custom” or “law” (as in the
words economy and astronomy). Infractions by mortals against
other mortals (that is, hubris) disturb the “naturally right” pro-
portion that is due to them according to each one’s destiny or
moira. In this context, hubris is either a human activity or a nat-
ural phenomenon that takes place beyond or without measure (as
5. The concept of hubris or hybris was introduced into academic liter-

ature by Friedrich Nietzsche in his incomplete treatise Philosophy in
the Tragic Age of the Greeks (1873). He explicitly connects it with Her-
aclitus. “That dangerous word hybris is indeed the touchstone for every
Heraclitan. Here he must show whether he has understood or failed to
recognize his master.” (Friedrich Nietzsche, Philosophy in the Tragic
Age of the Greeks, trans. Mariann Cowan (Washington, D.C.: Regnery
Publishing, 1962), 61. In English, the term hubris means excessive
pride, or insolent self-confidence, or haughtiness. However few modern
English speakers are aware that authors of the Greek classical period
apply the term in a much more restrictive way. The popular English
saying “the sky is the limit” would seem quite hubristic to classical
Greek authors.
in hybrid, hybridize, hybridization). Such events thus diverge-

from the primary or teleological course of nature; then vengeful
Nemesis intervenes as the just balancer who reinstitutes the nat-
ural order. establishing a new state of equilibrium. Consequently,
from a Heraclitian perspective of the world, nature tends toward
biodiverse harmony through a dynamic equilibrium process that
hinders any single creature or species from growing to such an
extent that it eventually crowds out all other creatures or species
in nature.
[Heraclitus’s] unified, ordered world of balanced change
is also a world in which the “laws” or norms of justice
prevail. . . . “Justice [Nemesis] will catch up with fabri-
cators of falsehoods and those who bear witness to them”
(fragment 28b). More generally, such norms can be de-
scribed as “divine law” in nature, a law that is “common”
or universal in its accessibility and applicability: “those
who [would] speak with insight must base themselves
firmly on that which is common to all, as city does upon
its law—and much more firmly! For all human laws are
nourished by one [law], the divine [law]” fragment 114).
But the justice that is cosmic law is the justice of disrup-
tion and revolution, of war and violence, not that of balm
and healing. “One must realize,” he says, “that war is
common and justice strife, and that all things come to be
through strife and are [so] ordained.” . . . [A]ll change,
however violent, be it the macrochanges of nature and
the outer cosmos or war among states, or civic strife, or
the battles that rage in the human heart, can be seen as
integral parts of the law or [divine] “plan” that “steers all
things” producing, through change, that higher unity
which is the cosmos.6
Such a cosmic perspective of measure is a recurring theme
in the Koran, where measure is presented as the prime attribute
6. T. M. Robinson, Heraclitus: Fragments, trans. and ed. T. M. Robin-

son (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987), 185. Note also that
in fragment 43 Heraclitus says, “there is a greater need to extinguish
hybris than there is a blazing fire” (ibid., 33).
of God’s wisdom and omnipotence:7

HE to Whom belongs the Kingdom of the heavens and
the earth. And HE has taken unto Himself no son, and
has no partner in the Kingdom, and HE has created
everything, and has ordained for it its proper measure
(Al-Furqan, 25:3).
And Who sent down out of heaven water in measure; and
We revived thereby a land that was dead; even so you
shall be brought forth (Az-Zukhruf, 43:11).
And whosoever puts his trust in God, He shall suffice
him. God attains his purpose. God has appointed a meas-
ure for everything (At-Talaq, 65:3).
Obviously, the Koran’s reference to rainfall as a manifesta-
tion of divine measure is in line with the diachronic Heraclitian
concept of cosmic measure: Rainfall may vary in space-time, as
regards to intensity and duration, but is neither too much (to the
extent that all life on earth is flooded off to total extinction) nor
too little (to the extent that no life on earth can be sustained).
Nevertheless, local floods or droughts may occasionally “steer
things” in a local natural environment toward a new dynamic bal-
ance of “that higher unity which is the cosmos.”
A historical example of the applicability of the Heraclitian
perspective of measure is the attempt of Artabanus to avert the
Persians from expanding their empire to Europe. Specifically, he
gave the following strategic advice to Xerxes, who was preparing
to invade Greece:8
Do you see how God does not allow the bigger animals
to become insolently visible, as it is them that He strikes
7. In the following translations, italics are mine. The first example is

from The Holy Qur’an: Arabic Text and English Translation, ed. and
trans. Maulawi Sher Ali (Islamabad: Islam International, 2004), 412.
The second and third examples are from A. J. Arberry, The Koran In-
terpreted: A Translation (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), 199
and 284.
8. Herodotus, Histories, 7.10e.
with his lightning rather than the smaller ones that never
insult Him? Do you also see how He throws his bolts al-
ways against the tallest buildings and the tallest trees?
Because God likes to draw back anything that stands out.
Likewise even a mighty army may be discomfited by a
small army, whenever God in His wrath exposes the for-
mer to fear[feelings of terror] or storm [natural disasters]
through which they perish in a way unworthy of them.
Because God allows no one to consider himself great,
except Himself.
(Horais ta huperechonta zōia hōs keraunoi ho theos oude
eai phantazesthai, ta de smikra ouden min knizei· horais
de hōs es oikēmata ta megista aiei kai dendrea ta toiauta
aposkēptei ta belea· phileei gar ho theos ta huperechonta
panta kolouein. houtō de kai stratos pollos hypo oligou
diaphtheiretai kata toionde· epean sphi ho theos ph-
thonēsas phobon embalēi ē brontēn, di’ ōn ephtharēsan
anaxiōs heōutōn. ou gar eai phroneein mega ho theos
allon ē heōuton.)
Xerxes made the devastating hubristic mistake of ignoring

Artabanus’s Heraclitean advice, because he was under the spell
of Atē. The typical pairing of hubris and nemesis, which appears
in many tragedies such as Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex, Aeschylus’s
Agamemnon, and Euripides’s Hippolytus, is almost always asso-
ciated with the Homeric goddess Atē, as epitomized in Sopho-
cles’s choral passage from Antigone, 621–625):
Evil seems good, sooner than later, to him whose mind
God leads on to [mischief under the control of] Atē. And
so he manages only for the briefest time without Atē.
(To kakon dokein pot’ esthlon
tōid’ emmen hotōi phrenas
theos agei pros atan.
prassei d’ oligiston chronon ektos atas.)
In sum, Atē instills confusion in the mind of every subject
of hubristic behavior, and she thus personifies self-destructive
syndromes like defensive avoidance, overvigilance, reactivity,
and denial. These are ruinous states of mind that have led many
economies, armies, states, and empires to disaster or even to col-

lapse.
2. The Aristotelian mean
In light of the grave consequences of hubris, the critical importance
of defining measure comes to the fore. If measure is not defined
conclusively, then humans may not be able to detect and avoid cat-
astrophic hubristic aberrations from it. The future of every state
would then be precarious, because its leaders would be ignorant
of, or confused about, effective and sustainable policies, which are
conditional on measured behavior and balanced organization.
These considerations haunted Aristotle, who lived during the
decline of classical Greece and the rise of Macedonian hegemony.
Plato, the teacher of Aristotle, had witnessed the collapse of Athen-
ian democracy in the hubristic Peloponnesian war (431–404 BC).
This war among Greek city-states demonstrated that, although the
Greeks had prevailed militarily during the Persian invasions of
490-479BC, the Persians prevailed culturally. During the Persian
wars, the Greeks had been exposed to, and became well acquainted
with, Asian materialistic values and hegemonic aspirations. To the
extent that these values infected Greek society, they ultimately ru-
ined most of Greece. To a great extent, the Persians made up for
their losses on the battlefield by defeating Homer, Heraclitus, and
the tragedians in the political arena of vanity and ambition. After
the Persian wars, victorious Athenians lost their post-Homeric
sense of measure, and consequently lost their touch with reality.
One indication of this is that the Athenians considered their mas-
sacre of the inhabitants of Melos in 416 BC as a justifiable act of
strategic pragmatism;9 they had become incapable of viewing their
horrendous, hubristic crime as the act of genocidal barbarism it
was—for which crime they would ultimately suffer the retribution
required by cosmic Justice (Nemesis), as prescribed by Heraclitus.
9. Thucydides, Histories, 5.84–111, which recounts the dialogue be-

tween the Athenians and the besieged Melians. The Athenians asserted
the so-called right of the strongest, which they associated with pragma-
tism as follows (5.89):
At the time, it must have been obvious to Aristotle that Greece

started its self-destructive decline of going beyond measure as soon
as the independent city-states formed interdependentt confedera-
tions and expansionary alliances that battled one another over a
hubristic and unrealistic prize—politico-economic dominance over
all of Greece and even beyond. This was clearly an emulation of
the Asian paradigm. It is quite characteristic of the classical period
that the Parthenon was built with the worst of intentions: Pericles
wanted to project the cultural and material power of a hegemonic
Athens. It was only through the artistic genius of Phidias that
Athens erected a wonderous, diachronic manifestation of measure
(that is, of beauty, balance and harmony) instead of a monstrous
monument to vanity and ambition.
In an attempt to check the demise of classical Greek civilza-
tion, Aristotle tried to make clear philosophically the basic attrib-
utes, the moral qualities, and the political principles that are
symbolized by the architecture and sculpture of the Parthenon. He
was actually trying to revive the Apollonian spirit of the Battle of
Marathon, where two opposite value systems collided for the first
time in history—the materialistic value system of Asia and the ide-
alistic value system of pre-classical Greece, the former aiming at
power, the latter at virtue. This conflict of values is in the epigram
at the battlefield of Marathon, said to be by Simonides of Ceos (ca.
556–468 BC):10
The Athenians, fighting as the vanguard of all Greece,
deprived the gold-bearing Persians of their power.
(Hellēnōn promachountes Athēnaioi Marathōni, chru-
sophorōn Mēdōn estoresan dunamin.)
Right, as the world goes, is only in question between equals in

power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer
what they must.
(Dikaia men en to anthrōpeiōi logōi apo tēs isēs anankēs krine-
tai, dunata de hoi prouchontes prassousi kai hoi astheneis
xunchōrousin.)
10. John H. Molyneux, Simonides: A Historical Study (Wauconda, Illi-
nois: Bolchazy–Caducci, 1992), 150.
Aristotle’s difficulty pertained to the materialism of his time.

The Greeks, corrupted by Asian influences, had lost their sense
of measure, and were carried away by the desire for affluence
and power. The loss of an intuitive sense cannot be easily resti-
tuted. So Aristotle attempted to call the Greeks back to measure
and hubris by appealing to the mind rather than the soul, through
reasoning rather than intuition—that is, through logic rather than
aesthetics. More specifically, Aristotle did not approach measure
merely as a self-evident condition that presents itself openly in
natural beauty. For example, he did not argue that the massacre
at Melos was a hubristic act because it was savagely messy and
unnaturally ugly. Instead he tried to define measure and hubris
explicitly and thus demonstrate to the Greeks that every act of
barbarism is hubristic because it is extremely beyond measure.
To Aristotle, extreme actions are temporary and self-destructive,
while measured activities are sustainable and constructive. In that
context, Aristotle’s rational approach to measure tried to appeal
to the Greeks’ instinct of self-preservation, rather than to their
degraded sense of aesthetics.
Aristotle’s logical approach to measure was ingenious and
realistic in the post-Socratic era of cultural decline, when Greeks
were increasingly flirting with extremes like ostentatious con-
sumption, abusive power, and the persecution—or even execu-
tion—of men of virtue. But Aristotle faced a conceptual problem.
A non-controversial, logically defined concept of measure in
human affairs may well be an impossibility. One indication of
this is the fact that the golden ratio φ is an irrational number that
defies mathematical precision:
What is the ratio of [the temple’s] width to its height? I
can tell you exactly what it is, but not in numbers. I can
also tell it to you in numbers, but not exactly. It is ap-
proximately 61.8 units wide and 38.2 units high. That
will get you in the ballpark and your eye will then adjust
it to make the ratio exact, but it can be proven that no
pair of numbers, to any finite precision, can accurately
express this ratio, which is that formed by cutting a line
so that the whole has to its larger part the same ratio that
the larger part has to the smaller. We know many things

by measuring, and our usual way of measuring is with
numbers, but in this case numbers are too crude an in-
strument by which to know something our eyes know at
a glance.11
And if measure in quantitative geometric dimensions defies
mathematical precision, then how much more difficult is the task
of devising an accurate definition of measure in qualitative
human affairs?
Aristotle wisely did not conceive of a comprehensive defini-
tion of measure, nor did he attempt to define measured behavior
in human affairs, because an imprecise definition would be con-
troversial, and thus of limited practical use in policy making. In
contrast to Plato’s idealistic quest for an absolute value system, Ar-
istotle formulated a pragmatic and relative definition of measure.
He approached the concept of measure through successive logical
approximations that involved real-life examples, metaphors, and
implicit analogies.
Aristotle conceived of measure as a subjective mean between
two opposite extremes, one of deficiency (elleipsis) and the other
of excess (hyperbolē) with respect to a desired goal. For example,
courage (andreia) holds a mean position between one’s own feel-
ings of fear (phobos) and overconfidence (tharsos). Such a mean
is usually closer to one extreme than the other, depending on in-
ternal trend (idiosyncrasy) and external circumstances (environ-
ment), and consequently is not one and the same for everyone:12
Therefore of everything that is continuous and divisible,
it is possible to take the larger part, or the smaller part,
or an equal part, and these parts may be larger, smaller,
and equal either with respect to the object itself or rela-
tive to us; the equal part being a mean between excess
and deficiency. By the mean of the object I denote a point
11. Sachs, “Measure, Moderation, and the Mean,” 7-8.

12. Nicomachean Ethics 1106a25–35. Translations of the Ethics are by
W. D. Ross (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1908) and H. Rackham (Cam-
bridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1934) and edited by the author.
equally distant from either extreme, which is one and the

same for everybody; by the mean relative to us, that
amount which is neither too much nor too little, and this
is not one and the same for everybody. For example, if
10 is considered many and 2 few, then 6 is considered
the mean with respect to the object, because it exceeds
and is exceeded by an equal amount and is the interme-
diate according to arithmetical proportion. But we cannot
derive the mean relative to us by this [arithmetical]
method.
(En panti dē sunechei kai diairetōi esti labein to men
pleion to d’ elatton to d’ ison, kai tauta ē kat’ auto to
pragma ē pros hēmas:to d’ ison meson ti huperbolēs kai
elleipseōs. Legō de tou men pragmatos meson to ison
apechon aph’ hekaterou tōn akrōn, hoper estin hen kai
to auto pasin, pros hēmas de ho mēte pleonaei mēte
elleipei: touto d’ ouch hen, oude tauton pasin. Hoion ei
ta deka polla ta de duo oliga, ta hex mesa lambanousi
kata to pragma: isōi gar huperechei te kai huperchetai:
touto de meson esti kata tēn arithmētikēn analogian. To
de pros hēmas ouch houtō lēpteon.)
Aristotle here sets out two distinct types of mean, a lesser
and a greater. The lesser type, the mean with respect to the object,
is like a mere arithmetic average, static and objective. The greater
type, the mean relative to us, which is really the sort of measure
that applies to human thought and action, is dynamic and fluctu-
ating. It is rarely midway between opposing extremes. Nor is it
the same for different people, because it is perceived subjectively.
Nor does it remain the same, because it can evolve with changes
of interal states and external conditions.
One example of this fluctuation might be the changing meas-
ure of courage required by the Greeks in the Persian and Pelo-
ponnesian wars. The Greeks needed an exceptionally high degree
of courage—that is, extreme fearlessness—when they were fight-
ing for their very existence against the Persian invaders. In the
Peloponnesian War, however, a less intense degree of courage—
much closer to fearfulness—might have served them better, be-
cause it might have prevented them from waging that civil war
in the first place, or, at least, might have induced them to put an
end to the madness of that war earlier than they finally did. This
shows that an adequate definition of measure in human affairs
must be subjective at an individual level, cultural at a macro-so-
cial level, and always relative to changing external circum-
stances. Such a definition would have to be dynamic rather than
static, as Aristotle himself hinted by the reference to continuity
and divisibility at the opening of the above passage.
3. Sustainability
According to Aristotle, policies that are effective at present,
and thus seem to be implemented according to measure, should
still be considered hubristic if their desired effects are unsustain-
able in the foreseeable future. In this context, Aristotle uses the
metaphor of the lifetime of a single individual, as shown in the
following passages from the Ethics:
For [happiness] requires, as we said, not only complete
virtue but also a complete lifetime. Indeed, many
changes and vicissitudes of all sorts occur in one’s life-
time, and the most prosperous man may fall into great
misfortunes in old age, as is told of Priam in the Trojan
epic; and no one calls happy a man who has experienced
such misfortunes and has passed away miserably
(1100a4-9).
(Dei gar, hōsper eipomen, kai aretēs teleias kai biou
teleiou. Pollai gar metabolai ginontai kai pantoiai tuchai
kata ton bion, kai endechetai ton malist’ euthēnounta
megalais sumphorais peripesein epi gērōs, kathaper en
tois Trōikois peri Priamou mutheuetai: ton de toiautais
chrēsamenon tuchais kai teleutēsanta athliōs oudeis eu-
daimonizei.)
Therefore what would prohibit us from saying that he is
happy who is active in accordance with complete virtue
and is sufficiently equipped with external goods, not for
some chance period but throughout his complete life-
time? Or must we add “and who is destined to live thus
and die accordingly”? Because the future is hidden from
us, and we consider happiness as a teleological goal,
something utterly and absolutely complete. And if this is

so, we shall pronounce happy those among the living in
whom these conditions are, and are to be, fulfilled—and
[we’ll call them] happy human beings (1101a14-20).
(Ti oun kōluei legein eudaimona ton kat’ aretēn teleian
energounta kai tois ektos agathois hikanōs kechorēgē-
menon mē ton tuchonta chronon alla teleion bion; ē pros-
theteon kai biōsomenon houtō kai teleutēsonta kata
logon; epeidē to mellon aphanes hēmis estin, tēn eudai-
monian de telos kai teleion tithemen pantēi pantōs. ei d’
houtō, makarious eroumen tōn zōntōn hios huparchei kai
huparxei ta lechthenta, makarious d’ anthrōpous.)
The implied analogy is obvious: The lifetime of an individual
may span three to four generations (say, 60–80 years), while the
historical course of a city-state normally spans many more gen-
erations (say, several centuries). A man should be considered
happy only if he lives a measured life during his entire lifetime,
away from the pitfalls of extreme misfortune and misery. Like-
wise a city-state should be considered successful only if it applies
measured policies with effects that are sustainable in an intergen-
erational historical period.
On the basis of this analogy, a definition of measure in indi-
vidual behavior and political organization must satisfy the axiom
of sustainability, which is the criterion for discerning between
actual measure, which is sustainable, and illusory measure,
which is unsustainable. For example, the shared confusion of
Fig. 2: Unsustainable Aesthetic Mess in Contemporary Athens

contemporary Greeks about the difference between real develop-

ment and illusory development is manifested by the city they
have built all around the Parthenon in the post-WWII era: Athens
is one of the ugliest and most polluted capital cities in Europe
(Fig. 2). Of course, there are many terribly polluted cities in the
world, but Athens is unique. The city surrounds the Parthenon
chaotically, as if the surrealistic pandemonium of the former
threatens to engulf the Apollonian harmony of the latter. For six
consecutive decades (1949–2009), while the contemporary
Greeks were building their grotesque city, they thought they were
developing their economy in accordance with measure. After all,
they did provide work and housing for millions of Greek peasants
who emigrated from their villages to the new, “modern” Athens.
During that period, under the spell of Atē, most Greeks were in-
capable of seeing what was obvious to sight—namely, the visual
actuality that their city is a heap of aesthetic hubris lying all
around the Parthenon. As a consequence, they were unable to
take corrective action in time. Only recently, under the specter
of Nemesis, did the Greeks start to re-evaluate their perception
of progress. Now at last, Athenians can see that their city, and the
hubristic model of economic development that underlies it, have
been unsustainable all along.13
This manifestation of Athenian hubris around the Parthenon
is symptomatic of the world’s industrial hubris in regard to planet
earth. Contemporary Athens was built as a gargantuan labor city
that would allegedly provide an ample supply of cheap labor to
heavy industry nearby, at Eleusis, the former site of the Eleusin-
ian Mysteries. At a global level, unbounded materialistic expan-
sion has crowded out the Apollonian tradition. The echo of the
idealistic values of the victors in the Battle of Marathon is be-
coming increasingly attenuated in the era of so-called globaliza-
tion. Unlimited economic growth on a planet with limited
13. Nicos Souliotis, “Cultural Economy, Sovereign Debt Crisis and the Im-
portance of Local Contexts: The Case of Athens,” CITIES: The International
Journal of Urban Policy and Planning 33 (2013): 61–68.
resources is not merely unsustainable. It is irrational.

It is too late for the Athenians, because their aesthetic blind-
ness has already brought upon them the current retribution of
socio-economic Nemesis. The pressing question now is whether
it is too late for humanity as well, in view of the climatic Nemesis
that seems is appearing on the horizon. Aberrations from measure
cannot survive the forces of nature for long. Nemesis always in-
tervenes, sooner or later, to restore beauty, harmony and balance,
which are all associated with sustainability.14
Even in judicial practice and strategic analysis, the concepts
of measure and justice are sometimes associated with the notion
of sustainability.15 For example, akin to the concept of measure
is the legal principle of reciprocity or lex talionis (legal equiva-
lence, as in “equivalent retaliation”), as well as the popular say-
ing “tit for tat.” They trace their origins to the Biblical scripture
“an eye for an eye”16 and the Babylonian legal code, enacted in
1772 BC by Hammurabi, the sixth king of Babylon. Ham-
murabi’s code included no provision for extenuating circum-
stances to modify a prescribed punishment. According to
Aristotle though, proportionate reciprocity with qualification that
takes account of circumstances, that is, retribution with measure,
14. Patricia Grant, “An Aristotelian Approach to Sustainable Business,”

Corporate Governance 11.1 (2008): 4–14.
15. Stefan Baumgärtner and Martin Quaas, “What is Sustainability Eco-
nomics?” University of Lüneburg Working Paper Series in Economics,
138 (2009): 3, available at http://hdl.handle.net/10419/30222: “The vi-
sion of sustainability aims at justice in the domain of human-nature re-
lationships and in view of the long-term and inherently uncertain future.
This includes three specific relationships . . . : (i) justice between hu-
mans of different generations (intergenerational justice), (ii) justice be-
tween different humans of the present generation (intragenerational”
justice), and (iii) justice between humans and nature (physiocentric
ethics).”
16. The Biblical commandment “an eye for an eye” is literally “an eye
under an eye” (Leviticus 24:19–21; Exodus 21:22–25; Deuteronomy
19:16–21).
is the sort of justice that safeguards the sustainability of the city-

state (Ethics, 1132b33-35):
this sort of justice does hold men together: reciprocity in
accordance with a proportion and not on the basis of pre-
cisely equal return. For it is by proportionate requital that
the city-state holds together.
(Sunechei to toiouton dikaion, to antipeponthos kat’
analogian kai mē kat’ hisotēta. Tōi antipoiein gar ana-
logon summenei hē polis.)
The principle of just retribution is the conceptual basis of
measured response, which is a highly effective strategy in game
theory in the iterated prisoner’s dilemma.17 But under extraordi-
nary circumstances, a policy of reciprocity may be too rigid and
ineffective if it does not satisfy the axiom of sustainability. For
instance, the Treaty of Versailles in 1919 imposed war reparations
beyond measure upon Germany after World War I. Those retribu-
tive payments were unsustainable. As consequence, the German
economy was soon ruined, and ultimately its political system col-
lapsed in 1933. After the war, during the military occupation of
Germany (1945-1949), retaliative justice was of little use to the
Allies when they had to decide how to respond sustainably to the
Holocaust. The proper response could not be to visit another
Holocaust on the Germans. Instead, sustainability took center
stage in shaping U.S. policies with respect to Germany, as shown
in the fifth paragraph of the Joint Chiefs of Staff directive 1067,
issued to General Eisenhower in April 1945: “The principal Al-
lied objective is to prevent Germany from ever again becoming
a threat to the peace of the world [italics mine].”
In particular, German reparations to the Allies were rather
moderate and non-monetary, such as technology transfers from
Germany to the U.S. and Russia,18 or capital equipment transfers
17. Anatol Rappoport and Albert M. Chammah, Prisoner’s Dilemma

(Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1965).
18. John Gimbel, Science, Technology, and Reparations: Exploitation
and Plunder in Postwar Germany (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
1990), 171.
to France and Russia—primarily from dismantled German mili-

tary factories and heavy industry.19 Aiming at sustainability, the
Western Allies implemented an imaginative mix of policies, in-
cluding: immediate apprehension of war criminals for punish-
ment, control over German education, disarmament and
demilitarization, a federal form of government for post-WWII
Germany, now to be called the Federal Republic of Germany
(FRG), participation of the FRG in supranational organizations,
like OEEC and later OECD, integration of the German economy
into an orderly and prosperous Europe, generous restructuring of
the foreign debt of the FRG by about 50% in 1953,20 a reparations
agreement between the FRG and Israel with respect to the Holo-
caust, internationalization of the FRG’s entire Armed Forces
under NATO command, and ever-continuing stationing of units
of the U.S. Armed Forces in Germany as forward enablers.
With respect to sustainability, the treatment of defeated Ger-
many by the Allies was a measured policy, and because of this it
has endured and has served the cause of peace in Europe for
many decades. In the wake of the tragedy of World War II, the
greatest war in human history, moderation and sustainability
were the two principles that guided Europe safely, in measure,
on the path of Aristotelian catharsis.21
4. Conclusion
For millennia, from the age of Homer to the present, philosophy
has failed to provide a comprehensive definition of measure with
19. Norman M. Naimark, The Russians in Germany: A history of the
Soviet Zone of occupation 1945-1949. (Cambridge, MA : Harvard Uni-
versity Press, 1995), 206.
20. Timothy W. Guinnane, “Financial Vergangenheitsbewaeltigung: The
1953 London Debt Agreement,” Yale University Economic Growth
Center Research Paper Series 880 (New Haven: Yale University, 2004),
22 and 24–25. Available at http://ssrn.com/ abstract=493802
21. As first noted by Aristotle (Poetics, 1449b28), the characteristic at-
tribute of tragedy in the theater is that “through pity and fear it effects
relief (catharsis) to these and similar emotions” (di’ eleou kai phobou
perainousa tēn tōn toioutōn pathēmatōn katharsin).
respect to human behavior. If measure is “due proportion,” then

what exactly is “due”? And if it is a “subjective mean” between
two extremes, one of deficiency and the other of excess, closer
to one extreme than the other, then how much closer? So far, no
magic number (like φ) or undisputed formula has been conceived
for defining measure in human behavior and economics .
This indeterminacy in the concept of measure, coupled with
the human impulsive tendency to excess, has made many indi-
viduals, societies, and states prone to hubristic aberrations from
measure. And as soon as people lose their sense of measure, they
also lose their touch with reality.22 But even if they lose that
sense, they might still be able to detect such aberrations by using
the criterion of sustainability.
In this respect, rational analysis of sustainability is a second-
best and time-consuming methodological tool when compared to
instantaneous aesthetic appraisal of human activity with respect
to beauty, balance, and harmony. The Nazis would not have
needed a rational analysis of their genocidal hubris if they only
could have seen the ugliness, the monstrosity, and the barbarity
of their concentration camps. They might then have returned to
their senses by themselves, in time. Similarly, open-minded res-
idents of Athens, Detroit, or Shanghai, might not have needed an
elaborate analysis of sustainability if they could have seen for
themselves what is instantly clear to the eye, namely, the dead
end of hubristic economic development.
But for those who are short-sighted or blind with regard to
measure, the Aristotelian criterion of sustainability might well be
enlightening.23
22. Do humans really have a sense of measure? The answer to this ques-
tion is a part of a discussion that includes the question of the best human
life. This inquiry demands philosophic reflection, but such reflection
would not be possible if one could not, in the first place, simply see its
form (Sachs, “Measure, Moderation, and the Mean,” 22).
23. Indicators and measures of sustainability derived from the Canadian
Report of the Alberta Round Table on Environment and Economy (1993)
are listed at www.iisd.org/educate/learn/measures.htm.
95
Platonic Theōria
Mark Shiffman
Plato’s dialogues incite us to think about both the words we use

and the phenomena we are trying to understand by means of
those words. In some cases the relationship between word and
phenomena provides the explicit theme of the dialogue, as in the
case of justice (dikaiosunē) in the Republic or knowledge
(epistēmē) in the Theaetetus. There are other themes, however,
that remain implicit and revolve around words that require us to
think more generally about the relationship of words and phe-
nomena—for example, speech (logos) or wonder (thaumazein).
The latter class would include theōria, which we tend to translate
as “contemplation” and which seems to suggest a more direct,
less word-bound relationship to the phenomena, a kind of insight
the dialogues seek to foster but cannot encapsulate in words.
But of course theōria is a word, and a peculiar one. Do we
understand this word, and do we understand the phenomena it
bespeaks? Let us ask a question the dialogues never directly raise:
What is theōria? To what does the word refer, or toward what
does it gesture? To reflect on this question, we must reflect on
how the word theōria is used in the dialogues. When we do, we
will notice several things: 1) the language of theōria (including
the related verb theōrein and noun theōros) has meanings in
Greek before Plato, and the dialogues use these words in ways
related to but departing from their previous uses; 2) there is no
simply identifiable single meaning of theōria in the dialogues;
3) outside of the Laws, in which Socrates does not appear, the
only character who uses “theoric” language in these innovatively
varied ways is (with a single exception) Socrates; and 4) his use
of this language varies in relation to the demands of the particular
Mark Shiffman is Associate Professor in the Department of Humanities

at Villanova University.
interlocutor and conversation. The question then becomes: How

should we understand what Plato depicts Socrates as doing by
means of the language of theōria?
I: The Range of “Theoric” Terms
In a century in which the meanings of theōria and theōrein be-
come quite flexible, they reach their maximum flexibility in the
Platonic dialogues. In the attested uses we have from the 540’s
to the 420’s (from Theognis, Aeschylus, and Herodotus to Aristo-
phanes, Euripides, and Lysias) we find a group of meanings for
words of the theōr- root which we may call “traditional,” in the
sense that they are clearly distinguishable in the early authors and
continue in a relatively ossified use through later ones:
1. theōros: a delegate to consult the Oracle
(later: theōria as a delegation and theōrein as
participating in a delegation)
2. theōria: a sacred festival involving games or performances
theōrein: attending or being a spectator at such festivals
(later: theōros as festival-delegate, theōria as festival-delegation)
3. theōros: observer of an unusual spectacle
theōria: the spectacle or its observation (usually as “sightseeing”)
theōrein: observing such a spectacle
These ordinary denotations of the words share certain character-
istics: the viewer travels away from his customary setting and
enters into an attentiveness that differs from his everyday attitude
toward familiar beings.
From the 420s to the 320s, in Thucydides, Xenophon, Plato,
Isocrates, and Aristotle, these words receive metaphorical exten-
sions of meaning that differ with each author, but share a common
character.1 By evoking physical and psychic displacement and
1. Thucydides 3.23.4.4 and 4.93.1.5. Xenophon, Anabasis 1.2.16 and

2.4.25–6; Hellenica 4.5.6; Cyropaideia 4.3.3; Memorabilia 4.8.7; Sympo-
sium 7.3. Isocrates Busiris 46, To Nicocles 35.6, Antidosis 277.1–4, Evagoras
29.3, 73.9, 76.5, and Epistle 6.12.10, On the Peace 74.5, Nicocles or the
Cyprians 17.5–7, and Panathenaicus 21.7, 39.2–40.4 and 222.6.
ESSAYS & LECTURES | SHIFFMAN 97
the absorbing spectacles constitutive of traditional theōria, each

author highlights experiences in which we are drawn out of our
everyday mode of attentiveness into the presence of something
exceptional. The story of Aristotle’s innovations in theoric lan-
guage (besides requiring a prior account of Plato’s) is vast and
complex. Whereas the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae gives roughly
125 instances up to the fourth century of words with the theōr-
root in authors other than Aristotle (54 of which occur in Plato),
in the Aristotelian corpus it locates nearly 700, only a handful of
which bear traditional senses. What we can say is that theōria in
the sense of attention to noetic objects and Aristotle’s coinage of
the adjective theōrētikos (especially as used to describe a way of
life) achieved remarkable success in subsequent philosophical
usage and became new ossified terms. After Aristotle, innovation
in theoric language effectively comes to an end.2
Plato exhibits the greatest variety of innovative denotations
of theoric terms. 22 instances bear traditional senses. In the other
32 cases we find extensions beyond the traditional circle of mean-
ings that we may classify according to the following benchmarks:
1. Adaptation of traditional sense to imagined social/political
context (Laws 12, 950d–952d)
2. Traditional theoric settings, nontraditional acts of attention
(Laws 650a7, 815b4; Lysis 206e9)
3. Observation of other persons for the sake of judging them (Laws
772a1, 781c4; Gorgias 523e4)
4. Observation of nonhuman entities for the sake of judging them
(Laws 663c4; Philebus 42b3; Theaetetus 177e2)
5. Observation of particulars for the sake of recognizing a general
pattern (Laws 695c6; Philebus 53d9; Phaedo 99d6)
6. Beholding beautiful/noble things without (apparent) ulterior end
(Symposium 210d4; Gorgias 474d8–9; Phaedrus 276b4, 276d5;
2. Subtle and interesting changes take place in the Greek Church

Fathers’ writings about the relationship between prayer and knowl-
edge, but these are best understood as modifications of the specif-
ically Aristotelian sense of the words.
Republic 529b3, 601a2 and a7, 606b1, 607d1)

7. Beholding transcendent beings or forms
(Phaedrus 247c1, d4; Republic 486a8, 511c6, 517d5;
Phaedo 65e2, 109e8 [ambiguously])
All these varied extensions of the range of theoric language in

Plato involve attention to particular beings, whether identified as
specifically as certain individual persons or as generically as “just
things,” “beautiful/noble things,” or “pleasures and pains.” The
beholding of transcendent beings that comes to be associated with
the philosophic sense of the words constitutes a quite deliberate
extension of meaning, always used in relation to other senses of
the words theōria and theōrein in the same dialogues.
This “contemplative” sense, then, is only one of a broad
spectrum of senses in Plato, by no means more common than oth-
ers (6 or 7 instances out of 54), and not the only distinctly Pla-
tonic extension of the meaning of these words (since headings 4
through 6 above are distinctly Platonic innovations as well). With
this in mind, let us examine the three dialogues–Phaedrus,
Phaedo, and Republic–in which these words seem to denote or
suggest transcendent vision of eternal truth, which is both the
maximum metaphorical extension of their traditional sense and
the sense of the word most distinctively associated with Plato and
his characterization of the philosophic experience.
II: The Phaedrus
In Phaedrus, a dialogue which concerns artful composition, in-
novative senses of the verb theōrein appear in two nearly sym-
metric pairs (247c1, d4 and 276b4, d5). The first two cases occur
within the Palinode’s description of the soul’s journey to the outer
cosmos and the region of the true beings. The word theōrein is
not, however, predicated of human souls, but only of those of the
gods. Since the horses of their chariots are well-behaved, the gods
(or their souls) can stand erect at the edge of the heavens and
gaze untroubled at the truth beyond (247b6–d4). The soul of the
man capable of following the gods to the limit is troubled by its
horses and at best only able to scarcely have a look (248a4).3 This
whole festive procession of the gods going to a remarkable spec-
tacle with their clients in train recalls the festival-going type of
traditional theōrein.4 Socrates appropriately applies this word to
the gods in contradistinction to the human souls because of their
focused attention given to the thing seen, a dimension of tradi-
tional theōrein carried over into all the innovative uses. The gods
gaze steadily, while the human souls look only with a divided at-
tention, most of it elsewhere.5 Transcendent theōrein is beyond
the power of the human soul even in the proximity to eternal be-
ings imagined in the Palinode, and thus a fortiori to the embodied
soul in this life.
The other two instances of theōrein in this dialogue, by con-
trast, have as their objects beautiful but ephemeral products of
human artifice. In discussing the appropriate way to engage in
writing, Socrates likens the author to a farmer. The latter is seri-
ous about the crop from which he derives sustenance and profit;
he would not plant these seeds in a forcing garden for the pleasure
of ephemeral gazing, but would only engage in such planting in
play or for the sake of a festival (276b1–5). So too, the writer
who is serious about the just, beautiful, and good will write only
as a recreation, delightedly gazing on his delicate productions
without expecting anything else to come of them, unless a spur
to memory in old age, and perhaps an aid to those pursuing the
same paths of inquiry (276d1–5).
3. While 247d2-4 seems to leave open the possibility that a human soul,
“insofar as it has a care for receiving what befits it,” can also experience
theōria, the strong contrast of gods and humans at 248a1 appears to min-
imize if not eliminate this possibility.
4. At the City Dionysia, for example, Athenians were divided into tribes
while proceeding to and sitting in the theater, and each tribe was repre-
sented by one general pouring libations and one judge of the competi-
tions (see Sara Monoson Plato’s Democratic Entanglements: Athenian
Politics and the Practice of Philosophy [Princeton, NJ: Princeton Uni-
versity Press, 2000], 92–96).
5. Accordingly, at 278c Socrates insists that only a god could be wise,
while men can at best be lovers of wisdom.
The key to understanding the relationship between these two

pairs of instances lies in the character of Phaedrus, whose world
is bounded by his love of speeches. At the outset of the dialogue,
Socrates finds Phaedrus on his way out of the city to commit to
memory a speech of Lysias that has particularly impressed him.
The lewd insinuation of Socrates’s reference to the scroll of
Lysias’s speech Phaedrus clutches in his left hand under his cloak
(228d6–7) suggests the fruitlessness of his love of the written
word. This suggestion associates him both with the farmer who
puts his efforts into non-nourishing hothouse plants and with the
intemperate lovers of the Palinode, whose bodily gratification of
eros prevents the nourishing stream of beauty from flowing to
the wings of the soul that, if grown, would lift them up to their
true heavenly nourishment (251a–b).
The implicit critique of Phaedrus as one distracted from true
nourishment by love of speeches receives its most pointed ex-
pression immediately after the Palinode. In the face of Socrates’s
lyrical account of true beauty and its benefits to the soul, Phae-
drus distinctly manifests his fixation on artificial beauty by pro-
fessing his admiration for the beauty of the speech only insofar
as it raises a formidable challenge to the skills of Lysias (257c2);
he is impervious to the inspiration of its imaginative content as
it applies to his own soul. Socrates responds to Phaedrus’s im-
passibility by implicitly comparing him to the cicadas, who were
once men who became so mad for music that they ceased to care
about food and drink. Plato has Socrates warn Phaedrus (and the
reader) not to be bewitched by literary artistry into a self-oblivi-
ous aestheticism that would distract us from caring about our own
souls in relation to the truth–or in Socrates’s words, about where
we are coming from and where we are going (227a1) and whether
our soul is monstrous or not (230a).6
Socrates, by contrast, professes himself a lover of the living
speech of dialectic (266b3–4). Thus, in the agricultural analogy,
6. The initial indication of Phaedrus’ self–oblivion is that, entranced by

the prospect of conning Lysias’s speech, he in fact does not know where
he is coming from or going to. He claims to be coming from Lysias, when
he stands parallel to the farmer who plants a serious crop. In the

same breath, he claims that when he finds a man naturally able
to make dialectical divisions and groupings, he follows him like
a god (266b5–7). Thus, in the realm of speeches, he is the equiv-
alent of the Palinode’s true lover, whose reverence for the godlike
beloved enables him to follow in the train of the god in the cir-
cuits of the heavens (251a1–7) and thus to attain in small measure
the true nourishment of the soul. Like the vision of the beautiful
beloved chastely endured, the practice of dialectic helps the soul
regain something of the nourishing vision of the intelligibles.
It seems then that in each half of the dialogue Socrates uses
theōrein to denote the highest kind of delight: in the cosmos of
the Palinode, this is the delight of unperturbed gazing on the full-
ness of truth and being; in Phaedrus’s world, the same place is
occupied by the undisturbed delight in masterful speeches. The
reversal of its valence from the first pair of instances to the sec-
ond–from lyrically celebrated height of the soul’s destiny to crit-
ically exposed squandering of the soul’s best labors–emphasizes
the opposite tendencies of Phaedrus’s hedonistic and effete love
of speeches and Socrates’s love of dialectic. Socrates first uses
theōrein to express the ideal, however unreachable by humans,
that may be imagined as polestar and spur to the philosophic en-
terprise. He then uses it to express the idle and fruitless delight
in beautiful speeches that makes an idol of man’s power to pro-
duce beauty, and so obscures the natural connection between
beauty and truth.
At the same time, Plato also dramatizes the problematic char-
acter of dialectic, which occupies an ambiguous status between
these two poles of theōrein. If dialectic is a process of grouping
and dividing according to classes, and these classes are necessar-
ily delineated by man, what can guarantee that they bring us in
the direction of the divine theōrein, if the reference point of that
divine experience itself, as a steady vision of all truth, is beyond
he is in fact being spiritually drawn to him by his love for his speechwrit-
ing prowess; and the countryside walk he is heading toward on the advice
of his physician friend is in fact a flight from the threat of ill health (227a).
the sure reach of man? May these delineations not turn into be-
witching and calcified products of our speech? That is a phenom-
enon dialectic must continually confront and seek to overcome,
supported by partial intuitions of the natural and intelligible
whole but without sure and final knowledge of it.
III: The Phaedo
In Plato’s Phaedo, we find theoric language again associated with
the aims and practice of dialectic and the problem of self-obliv-
ion. The words theōria and theōrein occur in the dialogue three
times each: theōria thrice in the traditional sense of an official
delegation to Delos (in the conversation between Phaedo and
Echecrates that frames the narrated dialogue), and theōrein in un-
traditional senses within the dialogue itself, in response to the
unfolding of the philosophical drama.
Socrates’s interlocutors, Simmias and Cebes, are associates
of the Pythagorean Philolaus (61d), who prioritizes the mathe-
matical, musical and cosmological aspects of Pythagorean teach-
ing over its “religious” (cultic and ritual) aspects.7 Accordingly,
Simmias and Cebes are devoted to investigation of nature, and
treat the question of the soul’s immortality with skepticism, pro-
fessing uncertainty regarding the rationale for the Pythagorean
prohibition of suicide.
Socrates develops his explanation of philosophy as prepara-
tion for death by conversing with the two Pythagoreans in the
cultic idiom underemphasized in their branch of the tradition. He
speaks of philosophy as a kind of purification of the soul from
the influence of the body, thus suggesting a strong dualism of the
kind necessarily implied by the Pythagorean claim that bodies
and souls are two different things that can be sundered and re-
joined in reincarnation.
In the context of this explanation the verb theōrein first oc-
curs, when Socrates introduces the question of the “just itself,”
7. See Walter Burkert, Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism

(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972), pp.176–208, 277,
298, 480.
(along with the beautiful and good, greatness, health and

strength). He asks:
Is that which is truest in them seen [theōreitai]
through the body, or is it like this: whoever of us best
and most precisely prepares himself to think about
each thing he investigates will come closest to know-
ing each thing? (65e1-4)
At first reading, the question might seem to be, “Do we theōrein
these things through the body, or rather through thinking?”
Strictly speaking, however, the verb theōrein applies only (and
interrogatively) to the hypothetical sense-activity of the body.
The weight of Pythagorean doctrine might however lead one to
construe it as applying also to the activity of the intellect in which
the purifying preparation culminates–especially as Socrates in-
vokes the language of purification characteristic of the Orphic
mysteries, with their revelations of extraordinary knowledge to
the initiates (65e6, 69d).8 Socrates’s grammatical ellipsis thus
suggests (without itself necessarily reproducing) the Pythagorean
tendency to understand soul and its phenomena by analogy to
body, as a body-like, localizable and separable thing. It is left for
the reader to wonder whether the proper cognition of what is
truest is best characterized as theōrein.
The Pythagorean and Orphic cultic mysteries explicitly pro-
fess that the purification of the soul is accompanied by a privi-
leged and salvific knowledge. Soul is understood above all as
pure intellect, while passions, which perturb the purity of the in-
tellect, are understood as bodily. This perspective governs the en-
tire first half of the dialogue; the first three “proofs” of
immortality depend upon the identification of soul with pure in-
tellect. Only in the second half of the dialogue does the soul as
principle of life enter into the reasoning.
This implicit cultic-Pythagorean identification of soul as pure
intellect, unrelated to but entangled with body, is reproduced in
an obscured form in rationalist Pythagoreanism, insofar as the
latter is wholly devoted to pure intellectual attainments. Thus
while the older Pythagorean tradition occupies its adherents with
8. “Orphism and Pythagoreanism were almost inextricably intertwined

in the fifth century” (Burkert 1972, 39).
transformation of the soul in a self-attentive discipline of life, the

newer strand, devoted to scientific knowledge, leaves in obscurity
the concrete interplay of soul and body in the passions, engen-
dering forgetfulness of the soul and lack of self-knowledge.
Socrates’s turn to the discussion of misology that occupies
the second half of the dialogue seems incited (at least in part) by
his recognition that Cebes is afflicted by this self-oblivion. When
Socrates addresses the relationship between types of soul and the
lives and destinies belonging to them (81e–84b), Cebes, hitherto
so quick to follow Socrates’s meaning, has difficulty understand-
ing at almost every turn. His hesitations suggest the following
deficiencies of awareness: he has not thought about the variety
of kinds of soul (81e); he has no sense of the relative happiness
of virtuous, nonintellectual citizens (82b); he has no definite con-
ception of that from which philosophy offers the soul liberation
(82d); he has paid little attention to the drama of the soul’s pas-
sions in response to the freedom offered by philosophy, especially
the influence passions have on the intellect (83c); and he has no
concrete notion of the dynamics by which the soul becomes riv-
eted to the influence of the body (83d). In short, he understands
soul only in schematic terms of the opposition of body and intel-
lect, and not through firsthand attentiveness to the complexity of
its real possibilities for order and disorder.
After some silent reflections (perhaps on these shortcomings
of Cebes), Socrates brings into the foreground the influence of
passions on thought, in three ways.
First, in rejecting the common interpretation of the swan’s
song as a lament, Socrates appeals to the regularity of natural
phenomena–observing that no other bird sings when it is anxious
or fearful–in a way that is surely welcome to his hearers. But he
also points out that the intellectual failure of humans to note this
regularity and apply it to the swan is due to a passion, namely
fear of death, which they mistakenly project onto the swan (84e–
85a).
Second, sensing the depressing effect on the hearers of the
objections by Simmias and Cebes to the immortality thesis,
Socrates warns against misology (89d–90d). Misology arises
when one has the repeated experience of accepting the truth of

arguments uncritically and then seeing them fall prey to criti-
cism—probably an experience familiar to these rationalist
Pythagoreans, especially with regard to the school’s doctrines re-
garding the soul, and especially to Cebes, the more obstinate
critic.9 Socrates warns that we are prone to grow disillusioned
with argument as such, rather than blame our own weakness as
arguers. He shows himself a keen observer of souls, one who un-
derstands their aspirations and disappointments and how these
influence their interpretation of reason itself.
Third, Socrates offers himself as an example of the influence
of passion on the soul’s engagement in reasoning (91a). He
claims to be worried that, under the influence of fear of death, he
is approaching the argument about immortality in the spirit of
those who merely want to win a case. He confesses to pleonexia
and philonikia, grasping after more than his due and infatuation
with victory, and thus exhibits the critical self-knowledge he
seeks to engender.
By articulating these pitfalls of the intellect brought about by
passions, Socrates makes manifest a middle ground upon which
the two influence one another, the true ground on which purifi-
cation of the soul must take place. What he exemplifies is not an
objectivity of pure intellection insulating itself from all that is
foreign to its purity, but rather a self-critical awareness of the mu-
tual influence of reason and passion that will allow a proper vig-
ilance of the soul’s activity in pursuit of understanding, both in
oneself and in others. In this understanding, passion does not be-
long entirely to the body or to the soul; but the understanding of
passion and its relationship to thought belongs integrally to the
soul’s self-understanding. Soul is not a being like other beings of
9. Simmias shows himself willing to be convinced of doctrines he already

believes by the first argument that offers itself, though he is always happy to
hear more (73b). The suicide prohibition, which is connected with the whole
complex of Pythagorean doctrines about the soul, had been communicated
to Simmias and Cebes by Philolaus and others (presumably Pythagoreans),
but apparently without sufficient supporting argumentation (61e).
which we render account, first because it is the soul that must

render that account, and second because we can only render ac-
count of soul itself by means of self-knowledge. This difference
is not dualistic, like that between two comparable beings we
might account for in the world known by soul, but is a difference
that keeps the relationship between such different modes of being
as puzzling as it ought to be.
As a result of his inattention to the phenomena of soul, Cebes
fails both to attain self-knowledge and to distinguish the soul
from other kinds of being. His last argument against immortality
compares body and soul to a man and a cloak (88a-b). Even if a
soul outlasts a body, might it not eventually wear down through
successive incarnations? Thus soul appears as something affected
the way bodies are in its dealings with bodies. Beings are all on
one level; what appears as a body-soul dualism is really a kind
of monism of the ontological imagination. The attempt to account
for all beings in the same terms (in the case of Pythagoreans,
through number) leads to the overzealous hopes that end in mis-
ology.
Thus, in his attempt to counter the threat of misology,
Socrates proposes what he calls his “second sailing,” a discipline
of conversation that allows the eidetic determination of a thing
to appear in its distinctness.10 As eidetic, it is distinct in status
from its embodiments; as a determination, it is distinct from other
eidetic determinations. In this context Socrates uses the verb
theōrein (99d6) once again in relation to those things he “never
stops saying, both at other times and in the earlier speech”
10. To be precise, the second sailing seems to refer to one or more of sev-
eral things. The first, on the procedural level, is the so–called “method of
hypothesis.” The second is the result of Socrates’s applying that procedure
to the problem of the aitios, namely the resort to “participation in forms”
as the best explanation for why things are as they are. Cebes and Simmias
assent to this result (102a1), and it, rather than the procedural principle,
informs the subsequent discussion. It may also refer to the implied turn to
“the human things,” to the soul’s self–understanding as the necessary start-
ing point for all philosophizing. It is beyond the scope of this essay to at-
tempt to clarify the relationship among these three meanings.
(100b1–2), namely that the beautiful and good and great them-
selves with respect to themselves “are something.”11 That is, he
refers explicitly back to the very discussion in which he previ-
ously used the verb theōrein.
In that earlier discussion, it seemed that, in keeping with the
mystery-structure, the process of purification by “looking at each
thing with thought alone” served as preparation for seeing the
“itself with respect to itself” as a culmination. Here, however, the
reverse is clearly the case. Socrates finds it safest to begin from
these things (100b5) if he is to think properly about them so as
to make progress toward the truth. It is the identification of what
belongs to the thing discussed wholly with respect to its own de-
termination that provides Socrates and his interlocutor with an
initial clarity of communication, upon which basis they can pro-
ceed to further clarification of the question at hand.12 They are
not likely to arrive at a grand cosmic vision as Socrates had once
hoped, and as the earlier discussion of the “in-itself,” also pur-
sued in the spirit of the “first sailing,” may have suggested.
Accordingly, Socrates here uses theōrein to refer, not to the
culmination of the soul’s journey of inquiry, but rather to a wholly
natural, though out of the ordinary, kind of seeing. He speaks of
those “looking at (theōrountes) and investigating (skopoumenoi)
the eclipsing sun,” which he compares to investigating the causes
of natural things by looking at the natural things themselves. The
result of both is a kind of blindness. By contrast, when he speaks
of seeking the truth of beings in speeches, he talks only of “in-
vestigating” (skopein, 99e5–6); and to reinforce this implicit con-
11. Ti einai, here as also at 65d5.

12. This, for Gadamer, is the crucial difference between the Socratic ap-
proach to philosophizing and what is typically desired by the interlocutors
(including the readers): “In the final analysis, our wanting to think of the
participation of existent things in being as a relationship of existent things
to each other always involves us in a false concretion. Instead we would
do better to acknowledge from the start that this participation is the point
of departure for all meaningful talk of the idea and of the universal” (“The
Proofs of Immortality in Plato’s Phaedo,” in Dialogue and Dialectic: Eight
hermeneutical Studies of Plato, tr. P. Christopher Smith (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1986), pp.124-5 (emphasis mine).
trast, he immediately and emphatically rejects a too strict analogy

between his visual image and the phenomena of investigation in
speeches (99e6–100a3). Theōrein here names an activity of the
bodily senses that quite clearly should not serve as a model for
the activity of the inquiring mind.
Socrates delivers this account, which rejects understanding
natural things in terms of generation, in response to Cebes’s nat-
uralistic notion of the dissolution of soul—a problem which, ac-
cording to Socrates, would require “a thorough examination of
the cause of generation and destruction” (95e9). Socrates implic-
itly warns Cebes that his mode of inquiry will produce only blind-
ness and disappointment. By means of the second sailing,
Socrates and Cebes make some progress in clarifying the ques-
tion starting out from agreement about what is strictly proper to
soul. Ultimately, however, Cebes fails to adhere to this discipline.
He makes the mistake, which Socrates does not explicitly correct,
of deducing the soul’s inability to suffer corruption from its
deathlessness (106d).
As Socrates implies in his somewhat evasive response to
Cebes’s confident assertion, one might properly say that soul is
deathless by virtue of its eidetic determination, since the presence
of soul in a thing necessarily entails the presence of life. Soul as
an object of the intellect can also be strictly considered not liable
to corruption by virtue of its eidetic status as such, to which the
question of corruption would be simply irrelevant. Neither prem-
ise enables us to conclude anything about the perdurance of ac-
tual living souls.
In applying a determination of the eidos of soul as such to
the level of instantiation (i.e. equating deathlessness of soul as
soul with incorruptibility of any given soul), Cebes exhibits what
Aristotle will later identify as a characteristic flaw of Pythagorean
metaphysics: By making number the being of things, Pythagore-
anism fails to distinguish numbers, as intelligibles without qual-
ities, from the sensible entities they are supposed to compose.13
13. Metaphysics 1090a31–b2. Compare Gadamer, p.112: “Plato . . . is not

simply Pythagorean. On the contrary, he explicitly distinguishes the noetic
Thus, even within the structure of the cosmos apprehended by

soul, Pythagoreanism fails to discern the eidetic determinations
through which alone the soul can attempt an adequate grasp of
beings.14
In the face of the recalcitrance of this basic Pythagorean prin-
ciple, Socrates turns to a myth, in which he uses theōrein for the
last time. He acknowledges the argument’s inconclusiveness and
encourages Simmias and Cebes to push the dialectical inquiry
further back, to examine more clearly the primary hypotheses in
spite of their inclination to trust in them. Only if they do this suf-
ficiently will they follow the logos as much as humanly possible
(107b). The myth, that is to say, enters on the heels of an ac-
knowledgment that the dialectic has been inadequately achieved
because of the ultimate hypotheses from which Simmias and
Cebes seem unable to break free, and it seems intended to address
this state of affairs.
In this most thoroughly corporeal of Socrates’s eschatologi-
cal myths, the “higher world” is not an eidetic world or a place
of souls, but a literally higher and more perfect region of the
earth, whose stones are less liable to corruption and whose people
live longer (by both of which Cebes has characterized soul).15
These purer and higher regions are imaginable precisely through
world of numbers and mathematical relationships from what is given in the

reality of concrete appearances.” (Thus also Burkert, pp. 31 and 480.) More-
over, the Pythagoreans load numbers with all sorts of noetic determi-
nations, without recognizing that the noetic forms must provide the
ontological ground for these distinctions, such that number cannot be
the most fundamental determination of beings (unless they are seen as
more fundamental determinants of the ideas themselves, as may be the
case in the Platonic “unwritten doctrines”). Thus the Pythagoreans oc-
clude the distinction between the aesthetic and the noetic.
14. If the question remains open whether the soul’s requirement of ei-
detic determinations for understanding the world is to be attributed to
the soul or to the world, this is only to say that the Socratic approach
keeps the relationship of soul to world as puzzling as it ought to be as
well.
15. Stones: 110e2–5. People: 111b1–3.
proportionality: as air is to water in visual clarity and purity, so

the ether in the upper regions is to air (if not more so), and the
senses and wisdom of the inhabitants exceed ours in the same
ratio (111b). There the geometrically structured beauties of na-
ture, the precious stones, are in plain sight, not hidden under the
rough ground as here (11a1–2). This higher world seems to body
forth the main features of the Pythagorean ontological imagina-
tion of reality.
In this context Socrates speaks of the hypothetical case of
someone from our impure part of the earth rising up to catch sight
of the outer, purer surface. If his nature were up to the task of
holding himself aloft gazing (theōrousa), he would see the true
heaven and light and earth (109e5–8). Here theōrein (in a fairly
traditional sense of traveling afar to see extraordinary sights) does
express an image of the goal of Pythagorean inquiry, namely the
vision of the purified natural and visible things. The suggestion
that one might achieve this by growing wings (109e3) reminds
us of the Palinode of the Phaedrus, but thereby reinforces the
contrast that here we are speaking emphatically of an imagined
bodily journey. That the geographical context of the image sug-
gests flight above the Mediterranean (especially in light of the
pervasive imagery of the Theseus story in the dialogue16) also
calls to mind Icarus, a fitting image of the calamitous misology
attendant upon the excessive hopes of Pythagorean rationalism.
The crucial detail for understanding the role of the myth in
relation to the underlying concerns of the dialogue would seem
to be the remark that among those dead vouchsafed transport to
the higher regions (who seem to meet their fates in their bodily
condition), only the ones purified by philosophy go on to live
without bodies in even higher dwelling places whose beauty it is
“not easy to make manifest” (114c5). The true philosophical pu-
rification, the art of dialectic conducted in light of the soul’s pur-
suit of self-knowledge, is not visible or discernible through
proportion; it can only be distinctly known from the inside. The
intermediately higher world seems to translate the dangers of the
Pythagorean aspiration into spatial terms and to put it into per-
spective in relation to the indescribable fate of the philosopher.
16. Cf. Jacob Klein, “Plato’s Phaedo,” in Lectures and Essays (Annapo-
lis: St. John’s College Press, 1985), 375-393
It is not those who make their dwelling in the land of mathemat-

ical purity who ascend to fundamental philosophical insight, but
rather the dialectical philosopher who starts out on the rough
ground of our world and aims beyond the vision of a mathema-
tized nature to the eidetic principles of being.
The three instances of theōrein are thus associated with three
kinds of purification. The dualistic approach to philosophy seeks
to purify the mind by ignoring the body, thinking it will culminate
in theōrein of the true beings; but this hypothetical theōrein is
conceived as belonging to a body-like soul on the analogy of bod-
ily perception. The second sailing seeks to purify the logos by
means of fidelity to the eidos in the light of the pursuit of self-
knowledge; it distinguishes itself from the blindness-inducing
theōrein of natural phenomena. The monistic myth imagines a
purification of the visible things themselves by placing them in
higher, purer physical conditions, and depicts theōrein of these
perfected natural beings as the inevitably frustrating, misology-
inducing goal of Pythagorean thought.
This consistent emphasis on purification harks back to the
uses of theōria in the initial conversation that frames the dia-
logue.17 In three consecutive sentences (58b2, b5, c1), Phaedo
says the following about the theōria to Delos that delays
Socrates’s execution:
1. It has been performed annually by the Athenians since they
vowed it to Apollo if he should save Theseus.
2. They must remain pure from executions while it is gone, and un-
cooperative winds sometimes considerably delay its sailing.
3. It begins when the priest of Apollo lays the wreath on the prow
of the ship.
Perhaps the mentions of Apollo in the first and third sentences
about the theōria to Delos provide a key to the parallel. Apollo
is a god of ritual purification and of vision, which correspond re-
17. As Burkert (p.474) notes, the “significance of 3 in purification ritual

was emphasized by Aristotle” in On the Heavens 268a14.
spectively to the dualistic and monistic aspects of Pythagore-

anism. Moreover, Pythagoras himself seems to have been iden-
tified by his early followers with the “Hyperborean Apollo.”18
Whatever we make of these two instances, the central use
here presents a clearer parallel to the central use of theōrein: the
theōria to Delos is delayed by the sort of conditions that might
(but in this case apparently do not) lead one to resort to a “second
sailing.” We learn at the beginning of the narrated conversation
that Socrates, during the period of his confinement that corre-
sponds to this lag, practices his own different kind of devotion
to Apollo, one that combines the soul’s self-knowledge with the
pursuit of communication through eidetic precision: He is not
sure he clearly understood the injunction in his dreams to make
music, fearing that his own passion for philosophy may have led
him to construe the class of “music” too narrowly (60e–61b).
Though superficially an abandonment of philosophy, the purifi-
cation he carries out through poetry reflects the purification of
the second sailing and of Socratic self-knowledge: it too is chosen
as the “safer” course (61a8, 100d8).
IV: The Republic
In the Phaedrus, theōrein denotes, first, a steady attention to the
vision of complete and eternal truth available to gods alone and,
second, a non-serious delight in products of man’s art. In the
Phaedo, it flirts with expressing a human vision of eternal truth,
but then suggests that this excessive expectation is characteristic
of a false philosophy. It becomes all the more striking, then, to
find theōria used twice in the Republic to refer explicitly to a
kind of intellectual vision of eternal and divine truth available to
human beings. In Book VI, Socrates describes the philosopher
as enjoying theōria “of all time and all being” (486a8).19 In the
allegory of ascent from the cave to the sunlit regions, he remarks
that it should be no surprise if the philosopher, coming into the
darkness from “divine contemplations” (apo theiōn theōriōn,
517d4–5), cuts a ridiculous figure when forced to deal with shad-
18. Alternatively, he was thought to be the son of Apollo (Burkert,

pp.141–146, 149, 168).
19. Quotations are from Allan Bloom’s translation of The Republic
(New York: Basic Books, 1968), unless otherwise noted.
owy human affairs.

If we look to Socrates’s relationship to his interlocutors to
explain this anomaly, we note that, of the twelve instances of the-
oric language in the Republic, all but one appear in conversation
with Glaucon, even though he is Socrates’s explicit interlocutor
in only a little over half the conversation.20 We note as well that
Glaucon exhibits the single use of theōrein in the whole corpus
by any character other than Socrates or the Athenian Stranger
(517d5).
The association of theoric language with Glaucon begins, in
fact, in the opening scene: he and Socrates go together to the Pi-
raeus to see the festival of Bendis, and when they have attended
and watched (theōrēsantes), they start back to town (327b1). Al-
though Socrates applies the participle to both himself and Glau-
con, the motives he identifies are only his own: he wanted to see
how they would conduct the novel festival (327a2–3). Socrates’s
judgment, that both Athenians and Thracians conducted them-
selves with equal propriety (a4–5), reveals a philosophic moti-
vation of his theōrein that will be a central facet of his discussion
of the best city: a desire to see how different peoples with differ-
ent laws and educations conduct themselves, especially toward
the gods. The motives of Glaucon remain a question for us. Plato
thus invites us to pay attention to two phenomena in relation to
one another: the motives of theōrein and the psychology of Glau-
con.
The dramatic intervention of Glaucon also provokes the first
instance of theōrein within the conversation. Mocking the city of
rustic simplicity Socrates has described to Adeimantus as a city
fit only for pigs, Glaucon insists that a city fit for men requires
refinements, adornments and relishes. Socrates responds: “Now
the true city is in my opinion the one we just described–a healthy
city, as it were. But, if you want to, let’s look at [theōrēsōmen] a
feverish city, too” (372e8). The feverish city becomes an object
20. The exception is in the discussion of regimes in Book Eight

(556c10), where Socrates speaks of rich and poor citizens of an oli-
garchy mixing together at festivals (kata theōrias) or on campaigns.
This sole use of theoric language in speech addressed to Adeimantus is
a strictly traditional use, which underscores the nontraditional uses in
Socrates’s exchanges with Glaucon.
of attention when Glaucon’s unexamined passions introduce a

new dimension of motivation into the inquiry. The question of
justice began with Socrates’s perplexity about what exactly it is,
a perplexity arising from a specific contradiction: according to
Cephalus’s conception of justice, certain actions appear to be
both just and not just (331c). With the intervention of Thrasy-
machus, the focus shifts from the resolution of perplexity to con-
troversy over the choiceworthiness of justice and of different
ways of life. The theōrein of the feverish city must satisfy not
only the practical need to choose a way of life and the intellectual
need to resolve perplexity, but also the demands of certain un-
questioned appetites.
The subsequent instances of theoric language fall into three
types, corresponding to these intertwined dimensions of the mo-
tivation of the inquiry. In the discussion of the auxiliaries’ early
education, theōrein is used within the framework of pursuing a
chosen way of life. In the discussion of the philosophical nature
and its education, Socrates gradually disentangles the philoso-
pher’s motive to resolve perplexity from the ruler’s motive to
maintain a certain way of life for himself and his city. In the dis-
cussion of imitation and dramatic poetry in Book Ten, Socrates
reveals the hidden action of unacknowledged appetites in the
theōrein of the spectator of dramatic poetry. This gradual process
of disentanglement reveals both the advantages and limitations
of Glaucon as an interlocutor in this inquiry.
1. Practical/Productive Theōrein. The next two instances of

theōrein occur within the discussion of whether the children of
the city destined for the warrior class should watch the older war-
riors conducting battle. Socrates, arguing that they should, speaks
of an analogous need of potters’ apprenticed sons to learn the art
by watching their fathers at work (467a4, c2).
This kind of theōrein has four moments: 1) the projection of
a possibility for oneself of being and doing; 2) the desire to ap-
propriate a characteristic (power, skill, virtue) needed to fulfill
that possibility; 3) observation of that characteristic in action in
order to grasp its archē; 4) the emergence into view of the archē.
The watching for and seeing the emergence of the archē that is
theōrein proper is guided by a projection of one’s potential self
toward which one’s aspirations are directed, which is to say by
the desirability of a way of life. The paradigm to which one’s at-

tention is directed is an acting human being.21
2. Theōria and Philosophical Perplexity. When the noun theōria

appears for the first time (486a8), in the context of the fitness of
the philosopher for rule, it too, like practical/productive theōrein,
results in a principle that informs action. Because of the philoso-
pher’s contemplation of all time and being, he will think little of
human life and not fear death: he will be neither petty nor cow-
ardly. Again, an activity of attention leads to the attainment of a
virtue.
In the philosopher’s case, however, the principle of action is
not the thing looked for in the contemplation, but an incidental
result of it. His theōria leads to virtue not as a result of emulating
another philosopher, but because all his love is directed to the
objects of his attention rather than to objects that incite vice (cf.
500b-c). The education of the philosopher-king requires such ab-
sence of emulation, since he will only be fit to rule if he does not
aspire to rule. The more detailed discussion of this education,
however, brings to light a divergence between the motivational
structure of the philosopher as king and of the philosopher as
philosopher.
The philosopher’s desire to know is initially aroused by a
perplexity arising from contradictory appearances (523a–524d).
He is drawn toward theōria for the sake of resolving this perplex-
ity. As the allegory of the cave dramatizes, however, the prisoner
released from the power of opinion does not know where he is
going; only as he progresses stage by stage can he have any no-
tion of the condition into which he is being drawn (515c–516b).
Perplexity comes upon us, and we do not know where it will lead
us, or whether its resolution will provide us with anything of in-
strumental or edifying use. Perplexity of the sort that motivated
Socrates’s initial question about justice in Book One is brought
to light in Book Seven as a motivation internally distinct from
that of practical/productive appropriation, and as distinctly philo-
sophical.
The city attempts to bring it about, by means of planned per-
plexity, that the philosopher approaches the “true forms” as an
21. This, incidentally, is the case for every use of theōrein by Isocrates.
appropriating artist, so as to return to the city to reproduce images

of them. The preference for “divine theōria” over human affairs,
however, initially the philosopher’s qualification for office, soon
appears as a source of his awkwardness in dealing with the phan-
toms of the shadowy world to which other men’s attention is con-
fined (517d5). This shift of theōria from a source of harmony
between the philosopher-king’s two roles to a source of conflict
is highlighted by Glaucon’s dramatic objection to the requirement
that the philosophers, for whom “a better life is possible” (519d),
leave their divine theōria and return to the cave to rule. A closer
look at his understanding of why this contemplative life is better
(and his singular use of the verb theōrein) reveals his promise
and limitations as interlocutor.
3. The Ascent and Peripeteia of Glaucon. The course of the dis-

cussion of poetic censorship reveals that Glaucon is much more
sensitive than Adeimantus to the subtle effects on the soul of the
productions of the Muses. Adeimantus treats poetry as a source
of overt lessons and maxims, questioning what effect the opin-
ions about justice enunciated by characters or narrators will have
on the opinions of those who hear them and are persuaded of their
truth; he is thus a fitting interlocutor while Socrates focuses on
explicit opinions communicated about gods (377e–383c). When
the focus shifts to effects of the less conscious process of imita-
tion, Adeimantus is out of his depth (392d), and even more when
it comes to the influence of music on the soul. At this point Glau-
con, who has had a musical education (398e) and shows a clear
understanding of how different musical modes communicate dif-
ferent dispositions of soul (399a–b) and can insinuate grace into
it (401b–d), takes over as interlocutor.22
Theōrein, in both its earlier practical/productive and its later
dramatic/poetic uses in the dialogue, expresses just the sort of
aesthetic internalization to which Glaucon is especially attuned.
One observes attractive features of another soul or its artful prod-
ucts, so as to incorporate them into one’s own soul and make it
similarly fine. Accordingly, Glaucon understands all lovers of
spectacles—that is, all who engage in theōrein in the traditional
sense in which it is used in the opening scene of the dialogue—
22. As Socrates remarks, Glaucon remembers this discussion quite pre-
cisely much later in the dialogue (522a).
to be lovers of learning (475d). If he expresses some contempt

for those who show themselves especially eager for such learn-
ing, it is not because of their understanding of what learning is,
but because of their lack of discrimination in the objects of their
attention and internalization. It is in response to this understand-
ing of observing-as-learning that Socrates first introduces the vi-
sual characterization of philosophical learning (475e), and not
long after that he begins to speak of philosophical theōria (486a).
Socrates thus begins where Glaucon begins: with a concep-
tion of learning as internalization of the finest things through ob-
servation, so as to produce a soul as fine as a fine statue.23 By
supposing that the philosopher actually achieves theōria of things
finer than any Glaucon had imagined in his feverish city, Socrates
is able to use theoric language as a stepping stone from aesthetic
education to the understanding of philosophy as knowledge of
ignorance. By presenting the motivational structure of philosoph-
ical theōria as different from that of the theōrein of appropriation,
Socrates opens a path toward a distinctly philosophical under-
standing of education as dialectical questioning, determined by
the relationship of perplexity between the philosopher and the
thing to be known, and modest about the possibility of attaining
definitive knowledge. In the course of following that path, Glau-
con the lover of dramatic poetry is caught in a classic plot of il-
lusion of good fortune followed by reversal of fortune.
Glaucon’s recapitulation of the Divided Line at the end of
Book Six (511c–d), which Socrates pronounces “most adequate”
(511d), appears to represent one of the great successes of Socratic
teaching in Plato’s dialogues. Socrates has apparently succeeded
in communicating to a non-philosopher the structure of being and
intelligibility that orients the philosophical pursuit of knowledge.
Following in the footsteps of Socrates’s use of theōria to describe
the philosopher’s apprehension of the objects of his attention,
Glaucon sums up:
23. Glaucon imagines the fine soul on the analogy of a finely sculpted
statue (540c). When Socrates wants him to imagine the superior ex-
cellence of the philosophic soul, he claims that the soul as we experi-
ence it is as disfigured by foreign accretions as Glaucus–statues
(611d–612a). To “see” it in its purity requires engaging in philosophy
and experiencing in oneself the soul’s attempt to liken itself to the
knowable (611e).
I understand . . . that you wish to distinguish that part of

what is and is intelligible contemplated by the knowledge
of dialectic [tēs tou dialegesthai epistēmēs . . . theōrou-
menon] as being clearer than that part contemplated by
what are called the arts. (511c)
In the educational drama, Glaucon here and in the Allegory of
the Cave seems to have reached the high point of his fortunes. In
Book Seven, however, Glaucon and the language of theōrein suf-
fer a revealing fall.
After the explanation of the Cave allegory and the recogni-
tion by Glaucon that the life of the liberated philosopher is a bet-
ter one than the political life, the remainder of Book Seven is
devoted to the discussion between Socrates and Glaucon about
how such philosophers “will come into being and how one will
lead them up to the light” (521c). The would-be philosopher must
be assigned studies that “summon the intellect to the activity of
investigation” (523b). Since, however, these philosophers are
also warriors, their studies must also be useful for the conduct of
war (521d). The mathematical disciplines are chosen to fulfill
this double imperative of practical utility and intellectual awak-
ening; but as the argument progresses, the tension within this du-
ality brings to light an impediment to Glaucon’s grasp of the
activity of the philosopher.
Through the discussion of several branches of mathematics,
Glaucon remains intent on detailing their practical benefits for
the warrior (526d). After Socrates several times insists on their
importance for turning the soul toward “what is always” (526d–
527b), Glaucon tries to make amends:
And on the basis of the reproach you just made me
for my vulgar praise of astronomy, Socrates, now I
shall praise it in the way that you approach it. In my
opinion it’s plain to everyone that astronomy compels
the soul to see [horān] what’s above and leads it there
away from the things here. (528e6–529a2)
This time, Socrates responds with obvious sarcasm:
In my opinion . . . it’s no ignoble [ouk agennōs] concep-
tion you have for yourself of what the study of the things
above is. Even if a man were to learn something by tilting
his head back and looking [theōmenos] at decorations on

a ceiling, you would probably believe he contemplates
[theōrein] with his intellect and not his eyes. . . . I, for
my part, am unable to hold that any study makes a soul
look upward other than the one that concerns what is and
is invisible. (529a9–b5)
The implication that Glaucon fails to distinguish properly be-
tween visual and intellectual attentiveness seems odd given that
Glaucon admitted and followed the initial distinction in the di-
vided line between visible and intelligible objects (507b11), and
affirmed Socrates’s inclusion of the heavens in the visible
(509d5), and thus casts doubt on how well he understood what
he was saying. Socrates’s response suggests further that Glaucon
mistakenly thinks that his standard of praise is the same as that
of Socrates. For Socrates, the contrast between higher and lower
is one between what unchangingly and invisibly is and what par-
takes of change and is sensible; this corresponds to the difference
between perfect and imperfect intelligibility. The dignity of the
object of attention (and hence the act of contemplation correspon-
ding to it) depends on how intelligible it is.
For Glaucon, on the other hand, the dignity of the object of
attention seems to depend on the magnificence it imparts to the
soul. Glaucon seems to want above all to hold Socrates to his
original promise that the philosophic preoccupation will produce
virtues. The consideration of the stars, like Socrates’s “theōria
of all time and being,” may suggest to him a noble unconcern
for the petty cares that consume men, revealing an aristocratic
dimension of Glaucon’s understanding of paideia as the culti-
vation of a soul superior to vulgar and frivolous concerns. He
can only appreciate from the outside the excellent soul of the
virtuous philosopher-king, or the superior existence of the
philosopher freed from vulgar opinion and ignorance because
he has taken possession of the most exalted objects of sight.
Thus the irony in Socrates’s rebuke is complex: when he says
Glaucon’s conception is “not ignoble” (ouk agennōs, literally
“not non-wellborn” [529a9]), he is backhandedly pointing to its
aristocratic weakness. The aristocrat may have contempt for the
ethics of the marketplace, but he still expects a payoff from his
leisurely pursuits in some acquisition recognizable by and valu-
able to others of his kind.
Glaucon accepts the justice of Socrates’s rebuke, but now

finds himself somewhat at a loss to specify what their study aims
at; he asks vaguely how astronomy should be studied “in a way
that’s helpful for what we are talking about” (ōphelimōs pros ha
legomen) (529c). He has to acknowledge that he needs to be led
by Socrates to alter his understanding of education to encompass
what Socrates means by “the invisible and intelligible” (530b).
He is no longer the passionate hero fulfilling his ambition to en-
compass all the best and highest things in his theōrein. Emblem-
atic of this change in fortune is the immediately ensuing
discussion of music, in which the study so dear to Glaucon,
whose highest task had been engendering the graceful soul, now
serves to lead the student up to problems and inquiry into causes
(531c). The pursuit of the perfectly formed soul has unobtrusively
given way to the cultivation of a dialectical way of being; but at
the end of the discussion of dialectic, when Socrates lays down
the need for a synoptic integration of earlier studies, to Glaucon’s
mind the benefit of this is still that they will stick fast as an ac-
quisition, whereas Socrates is primarily concerned with revealing
who is dialectical (537c).
Having revealed the impediments in Glaucon’s soul to the
achievement of this philosophical transformation, and after an
extensive elucidation of the varieties of disordered souls in Books
Eight and Nine, Socrates returns to the dangers of poetry in Book
Ten. There he brings to light certain harmful effects of poetic in-
ternalization that Glaucon needs to understand if he is to attend
adequately to his own soul.
4. Dramatic/Poetic Theōrein. While the practical/productive
theōrein in Book Five involves a conscious self-projection, in
Book Ten the theōrein that belongs to the enjoyment of poetry
seems at first to be something engaged in simply for its own sake.
Socrates, however, reveals that it involves an unconscious self-
projection, one that may be at odds with one’s conscious choice
of proper objects of imitation and aspiration.
In this discussion, Socrates uses theōrein four times. In each
case it refers to an attentiveness to works of art that constitutes a
distraction from true knowledge. Socrates first assaults the tra-
ditional aura of grandeur belonging to the poet by arguing his im-
potence to lead men to truth, and then argues that the poet tends
to corrupt the soul precisely through his power to fascinate us.
The poet claims to be an interpreter of the divine, but

Socrates places a middleman between the poet and the god,
namely, the craftsman who makes imitations of the god-made
form, which are in turn imitated by the poet. If we look to the
idea that governed the craftsman’s production, we can look in the
direction of the idea produced by the god. The poet, on the other
hand, enchants us with words. Just as absorption (theōrein) in
colors and shapes leads to being easily fooled by paintings
(601a1–2), so an analogous absorption (theōrein) in words and
speech leads to taking the poet’s falsehoods for truth (601a7–9).
The contemplation the poet offers us is not a theophany but a
screen between us and the divine.
Next, Socrates exposes the danger of a seemingly innocent
absorption in the passions of others that poetry represents:
What is by nature best in us . . . relaxes its guard over
this mournful part because it sees [theōroun] another’s
sufferings, and it isn’t shameful for it, if some other
man who claims to be good laments out of season, to
praise and pity him; rather it believes that it gains the
pleasure and wouldn’t permit itself to be deprived of
it by despising the whole poem. (606a7–b5)
The theōrein encouraged by the poets is not merely deceptive; it
generates disorder in the soul, along with a deceptive self-obliv-
ion on the part of the one disordered by them. Insofar as it leads
to this unrecognized dissonance, poetry is the foe of philosophy,
which seeks self-knowledge and preservation of the right order
in oneself.
In the final instance of theōrein in the dialogue, Socrates in-
vites Glaucon to admit that he himself is subject to the witchcraft
of the poets:
“Aren’t you too, my friend, charmed by [poetry], es-
pecially when you contemplate [theōrēs] it through
the medium of Homer?”
“Very much so.”(607c8–d2)
Glaucon depends on images for understanding.24 His unnecessary
desires for fine living are responsible for introducing the poets
24. 533a; cf. 440d, 506d.

into the city in speech (372a–373c). His narrative of Gyges

(359d–360d), his tragic description of the terrible fate of the just
man who seems unjust (361e–362a), and his epic threat of the at-
tack Socrates will be liable to for insisting on the rule of philoso-
phers (473e–474a) all reveal a dramatic imagination, and suggest
that the poets have insinuated their magic into his soul—a magic
that smuggles into the soul a subconscious proto-tyrannical self-
projection by reinforcing and legitimating the unlawful desires
normally repressed in pursuit of one’s conscious self-projection.
Socrates reveals that the contest between the tyrant and the
philosopher, which Glaucon judged as an external question in
Book Nine, exists within Glaucon’s own soul, and the souls of
all who enjoy poetry. He has revealed hidden motives in Glau-
con’s love of poetry and spectacle, culminating a process that
began with the first use of theōrein in the dialogue’s opening
scene, and may thereby have opened for Glaucon a much-needed
path to self-knowledge.
In the Republic, then, theōrein in its “nonphilosophical” uses
refers primarily to two ways in which we form our souls through
observation of others and imitation of them. While we con-
sciously imitate the conduct of those who exhibit characteristics
we would like to possess, we often unconsciously allow poets to
lodge within our souls the desire to imitate the figures presented
to us in poetry. In both cases we internalize models of conduct
and understandings of what it is to be human that shape our souls.
In order to make the “examined life” available and attractive
as an alternative, Socrates has to compete with the images of man
fostered by the city and the poets by presenting a fictional image
of man, the philosopher king, who fulfills the dearest ambitions
of both civic action and education in the finest things. He is, as
it were, the theoric conduit that channels civic and aesthetic as-
pirations into the philosophic desire to understand. But he and
his theōria are only capable of engendering the more humble ac-
tivity of dialectical inquiry if they are recognized as an exagger-
ated version of it.
V: Theōria, Self-knowledge, and Dialectic
In each of these three dialogues, Socrates at some point uses theoric
language to put forward a fantasy version of the telos of philosophy
tailored to the shortcomings of his interlocutors with respect to their
capacity to practice philosophy as Socrates understands it. This prac-
tice involves: 1) a sense of dissatisfaction with ignorance, 2) a desire

to transcend it and reach for truth, and 3) a moderation of one’s ex-
pectations of success. Phaedrus, absorbed in the beauty of human
verbal artifice, requires a vision that, while promising benefits to the
practice of rhetoric, points him beyond his satisfaction with beautiful
speeches to a need for truth. Glaucon, in his quest for beauty and
grace of soul, already harbors potential seeds of dissatisfaction, but
the objects with which he seeks to furnish his soul do not lead him
to adequate knowledge of his ignorance; Socrates has to offer him
higher objects for internalization and deeper self-knowledge in order
to direct his longings toward philosophy. Simmias and Cebes already
long for wisdom of a mathematical-naturalistic sort, but their exces-
sive hopes for attaining it lead to despair and misology, and must be
moderated by the “second sailing” and the exposure of their erro-
neous notion of knowledge.
Finally, though it is unclear to what extent Socrates succeeds
in moving any of these characters in the direction of philosophy as
he understands it, the more important thing is that the reader see the
direction he is trying to go. When we compare the three dialogues,
we see that the direction is substantially the same. Dialectical in-
quiry presupposes a certain background trust in a natural eidetic
distinctness of things that it can neither demonstrate nor definitively
grasp. The ambition for such a definitive grasp in theōria is quite
human, but its complete fulfillment is beyond human power. At the
same time, it would be rash to reject the intimation that there is some
natural eidetic structure to things which orients our efforts to un-
derstand, draw proper distinctions, come to agreement, and uncover
first principles. Dialectic, whether understood as classing and dis-
tinguishing, as examining the cogency of ideas and hypotheses, or
as penetrating to more fundamental levels of hypothesis, is always
incomplete and on the way, but also always (and ever anew) making
headway. The closer Socrates comes in the dialogue to forthrightly
presenting his philosophical practice in this modest way, the less
heavily he relies on the language of theōria to express the achieve-
ment of philosophy.
Theōria and theōrein, then, are not technical, precise or static
terms for Plato, but words addressed to the various conditions of
specific interlocutors. If they offer a key to his understanding of the
philosophical experience and the fruits of philosophy, it is only by
marking moments in a dialectical transcendence of false starts in that
direction.
Two Villanelles
Kemmer Anderson
The Socratic Dilemma
What is the news? Has the ship come from Delos,

at the arrival of which I am to die?—Socrates to Crito
The ship from Delos will always arrive

with news from the gods that juggle your fate.
Who decides if you are dead or alive?
When the sailors land, how can you survive

the execution prepared on this date?
Cargo ships from Delos sometimes arrive
with prophecies from Apollo to drive

away the judgment of a court’s mandate
whose law decides who is dead or alive.
From what source do politicians derive

their hate to turn the truth that guides our state?
You think the ship from Delos will arrive
on time? But let us through reason revive

your legal case and find a delegate
to sway the city to leave you alive
for now and permit our learning to thrive,

though your words make some citizens irate.
The ship from Delos will always arrive
With that grave choice to be dead or alive.
R. Kemmer Anderson has taught at the McCallie School in Chat-

tenooga, Tennesee for over three decades.
POEMS | ANDERSON 125
Palamedes’s Ghost
Then I suppose that you have only heard of the rhetoric of Nestor and
Odysseus, which they composed in their leisure hours when at Troy,
and never of the rhetoric of Palamedes?—Socrates to Phaedrus
I would teach Andromache how to write

Her flesh, a record of her eyes and ears
To leave behind a mirror of this sight.
The alphabet of blood seen in signs might

Cut a path through the mind stained by her tears
After Andromache learns how to write.
The vowel screams from these war wounds would bite

Like flames and burn the heart with countless biers
Of piled dead through mirrors from this sight.
Consonants of bruised sounds, broken bones right

In front of a reader’s eyes print our fears
When I teach Andromache how to write
Lettered memories of her city’s fright.

When armies rip through lines of sons with spears
Leaving mirrors of grief strewn on site,
Words remain, picked clean from decaying light

That casts nations into long rotting years
Of death when women have not learned to write
A breathing mirror loomed and thread from sight.
Two Poems
Elliott Zuckerman
Not Twins
We’ll never have enough rehearsal time.

Someone who looks a little bit like me
and I are playing twins. We’re asked to shout
some words, one to the other, but
no one will tell us which one shouts which words.
No doubt the overseer, who seems distracted,
is thinking of something else, perhaps
another pair of twins.
We sit at matching windows while the players,

tolerably in time, proceed from door
to door. Nearby the Playhouse is
already showing posters of the play.
People are lining up.
The stagehands are preparing.
I’m glad it isn’t to be called
The Shouting Twins.
I wish they’d chosen someone else

to play my counterpart. It’s hard for him
to look like me, for me to look
like him. His ears lack lobes.
Nor is there kinship in our eyes
or in our souls. We hardly
think alike. Perhaps we could succeed
if there were more rehearsal time.
Elliott Zuckerman is tutor emeritus at St. John’s College in Annapolis.

POEMS | ZUCKERMAN 127
Carrying Cordelia
I am assigned to carry in Cordelia.

The old and mobled king
is weakened by the recent incidents.
I have the arms and gravitas for what they call
a gracious act.
Right now we’re covered in heavy sheets

of thunder, wind and rain.
There’s ranting and expostulation.
The lightning doesn’t seem to work, but it is
silent anyway. A lactic hiss
now drowns out any other sound.
Hey, ho.
I still have time, but I must rush
to dip my paddle in the flood
and get to the king in my hurra-canoe.

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The St.

Subscriptions and Editorial Assistant

The St. John’s Review is published by the Office of the Dean,

©2014 St. John’s College. All rights reserved. Reproduction in

idiosyncratic desires, and to intend only such actions as we would

him.” Now as it happens, aretē is related to a Greek prefix ari-,

here that to have too many words is equivalent to having no cogent

times marked, very unremarkably, by routine and repetition; life

time like wave packets connected by a flat line—unexamined

cause it seems to me to show how Kantian purity can turn into

Morality, remember, requires command-issuing universal law;

smoother, less urgent, more subdued tenor of life. And indeed,

Enriching Liberal Education’s

For a number of years, it has struck me that people who write

1. Andrew Delbanco hardily approves of Anthony Kronman’s great-

ebbing of liberal education correlated with the economic, scien-

leges as institutions, ultimately locates the “universal value of a liberal

a philosophy of transformation, of creating original knowledge

Finally, while all these authors seem to be convinced that the

To Deneen, it seems that since the Enlightenment, greatness seems to

In the latter, we learn that “in order to be stably linked to demo-

5. Nussbaum, Not for Profit, 108.

6. Bruce Kimball, Orators and Philosophers: A History of the Idea of

twentieth-century America, reflects a two-fold tradition in edu-

national or international life of democracies—a role formerly re-

Through tracing the specific use of the words “liberal educa-

lativa as an investigation of the universal grammar that “un-

14. Ibid., 66 and 71.

universities. The philosophically based liberal-free ideal

could mention to exhort you to excellence.” Here Bruni cites

20. Leonardo Bruni. “The Student of Literature To Lady Battista Malat-

focus on the problem of new states, and its topical organization

23. Galileo Galilei. “The Starry Messenger,” in Discoveries and Opin-

end, the aphorisms take on the character, not of persuasion or elo-

may well be essential to the science of a liberal-free ideal, is it the

Great Britain during the American Civil War, followed by

34. Ibid., 1105.

which students may explore and conceive the foundations of dis-

36. I mean to suggest that by continuously returning to the principal parts

an education into a vast enterprise beyond his ken—in a way that

the story of making books—and, more broadly, the story of devel-

More generally, then, Aristotle’s Poetics is far less concerned with

means of construction for any given art or science. This is what

38. Certainly, Kimball’s analysis that a artes liberales accommodation

ences of a complex of three related universities and colleges—Co-

39. This admittedly truncated summary is derived from “Liberal Educa-

eral arts.” Those discussions, using different liberal arts, were

Kong, and Boya College of Sun-Yatsen University are all of

the invention of institutions and innovative programs that are

in a St. John’s-like program for a major, alongside a four-semester great

tact with the complex of institutions above, but emerging rather

vidual by disciplining them” (Kimball, Orators and Philosophers, 4).

To a large extent, the Association of Core Texts and Courses

44. A precursor to this paper was delivered as a speech entitled “Accom-

rarely encounter at disciplinary conferences. Another part of what

exist to offer extended versions of the ratio of a discipline—long

expression, rhetoric, and the textual tradition of the community.

46. Kimball, Orators and Philosophers, 240.

Definition and Diairesis