Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 9780191889271, 9780198786061

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Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy Fiona Leigh (ed.) https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198786061.001.0001 Published: 2020

Online ISBN: 9780191889271

Print ISBN: 9780198786061

FRONT MATTER

https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198786061.002.0002 Published: March 2020

Subject: Ancient Philosophy Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

Stanley Victor Keeling

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Frontispiece 

Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy Fiona Leigh (ed.) https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198786061.001.0001 Published: 2020

Online ISBN: 9780191889271

Print ISBN: 9780198786061

FRONT MATTER

https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198786061.002.0004 Published: March 2020

Page iv

Subject: Ancient Philosophy Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

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You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

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In memoriam

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Robert William Sharples (28 May 1949–11 August 2010)

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Preface

*

* *

The chapters in this volume arose out of the eighth Keeling Colloquium in ancient philosophy on Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy, held in 2009 at UCL.

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Stanley Victor Keeling was a lecturer and reader in the Department of Philosophy at University College London until his retirement in 1954, where, during World War II, he also served as head of department. Upon his death in 1979, his wife having predeceased him, Keeling left his estate to a friend and former student with the wish that, if possible, he would like the establishment of an annual lecture on Greek philosophy given at UCL by a distinguished scholar of inter­nation­al note in the field. This friend (who wished to remain anonymous) generously supplemented Keeling’s estate, making possible not only the annual S.  V.  Keeling Memorial Lecture in Ancient Philosophy (since 1981), but also a series of Keeling Colloquia in Ancient Philosophy (the first in 1994), and the Keeling Graduate Scholarship (since 2008). In 2013, the anonymous donor passed away and left a further legacy which resulted in an expansion of the Graduate Scholarships programme, and the creation of the Keeling Centre in Ancient Philosophy at UCL in 2016. In addition to the annual memorial lecture, colloquia, and scholarships programme, the Keeling Centre now also hosts a Keeling Scholar in Residence, an annual Graduate Conference in Ancient Philosophy, a Keeling Research Fellow (from time to time), occasional visiting academics, and supports numerous events in ancient philosophy in and around London. Curiously, S.  V.  Keeling did not himself specialize in the field of ancient ­philosophy. Educated at Trinity College Cambridge (BA Philosophy), UCL (MA Philosophy), and Toulouse-Montpellier (Doctorat ès lettres), Keeling’s philosophical work was for the most part centred on Descartes and McTaggart. His prin­ciple published works were an annotated edition of McTaggart’s work, Philosophical Studies (Edward Arnold, London: 1934), a monograph entitled Descartes (Ernest Benn, London: 1934), and the 1948 annual British Academy Master Mind Lecture, which Keeling gave on Descartes (Proceedings of the British Academy 34 (1948), 57–80). Keeling nonetheless had an abiding affection for, and a firm belief in the central importance of, ancient Greek philosophy. It is said that in Paris, where he moved after retirement and remained until his death, he and his wife often read Greek philosophy to one another in the evening after dinner. This was the period in which he conceived his wish to foster and promote ancient philosophy at UCL, for the benefit of students and academics at UCL, but also in London more generally.

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x Preface

FVL, London 2019

1  See the memorials to Professor Sharples by David Sedley and Richard Sorabji in the volume of the Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies published in his honour, vol. 55 (1) 2012, pp. 1–3, and 5–18 (respectively).

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Robert (Bob) Sharples, Professor of Classics at UCL, had organized the colloquium, before sudden illness prevented his hosting it. Revised versions of the papers given at the colloquium by Melissa Lane, Aryeh Kosman, Tad Brennan, M. M. McCabe, Jean-Baptiste Gourinat, and Gwenaëlle Aubry have been supplemented with commissioned pieces from Paula Gottlieb, Karen Margrethe Nielsen, and James Warren, and a chapter that seeks to frame discussion of the topic by way of a historical and conceptual analysis of the philosophical concept from myself as editor. (Shorter response pieces given at the colloquium by Peter Adamson, Amber Carpenter, Miriam Leonard, and John Sellars have not been included in the volume.) Acknowledgement and sincere thanks are due to the contributors to this volume, particularly those who contributed to the original Keeling Colloquium, for their enormous patience and for their support over the very long time it has taken for their work to appear. I owe an especial debt to M. M. McCabe for moral and intellectual support and encouragement. Margaret Hampson has provided in­valu­able research assistance in producing this volume, with her characteristic philosophical insight, careful reading of texts, eye for detail, and superb organization, for which I am extremely grateful. Thanks are also due to Saloni de Souza for her hard work, care, and eagle eye as research assistant in the final stages of the volume’s production, particularly on the indices. Bob Sharples unfortunately passed away only months after the colloquium. As the memorials to him at the time attest, he was a giant—albeit a quiet, rather unassuming giant—in the field, who is greatly missed and will be long remembered.1 This volume is dedicated to his memory.

Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy Fiona Leigh (ed.) https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198786061.001.0001 Published: 2020

Online ISBN: 9780191889271

Print ISBN: 9780198786061

FRONT MATTER

Published: March 2020

Subject: Ancient Philosophy Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

Gwenaëlle Aubry, Centre National de la Recherche Scienti que, Université PSL Tad Brennan, Cornell University Paula Gottlieb, University of Wisconsin-Madison Jean-Baptiste Gourinat, Centre Léon Robin, CNRS Sorbonne Université Aryeh Kosman, Haverford College Melissa Lane, Princeton University Fiona Leigh, University College London Mary Margaret McCabe, King’s College London Karen Margrethe Nielsen, University of Oxford p. xii

James Warren, University of Cambridge

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List of Contributors 

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Keeling Colloquia

Heinaman. Published as Aristotle and Moral Realism, ed. R.  Heinaman (UCL Press, London: 1995). 2nd S.V. Keeling Colloquium, Whose Aristotle? Whose Aristotelianism? (1998), organized by Robert Sharples. Published as Whose Aristotle? Whose Aristotelianism? ed. R. W. Sharples (Ashgate, Aldershot: 2001). 3rd S.V.  Keeling Colloquium, Descartes and Ancient Philosophy (1999), organized by Gerard O’Daly and Martin Stone. 4th S.V.  Keeling Colloquium, Plato and Aristotle’s Ethics (2001), organized by Robert Heinaman. Published as Plato and Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. R.  Heinaman (Ashgate, Aldershot: 2003). 5th S.V. Keeling Colloquium, Philosophy and the Sciences in Antiquity (2003), organized by Robert Sharples. Published as Philosophy and the Sciences in Antiquity, ed. R. W. Sharples (Ashgate, Aldershot: 2005). 6th S.V. Keeling Colloquium, The Eudemian Ethics (2006), organized by Robert Heinaman. Published as The Eudemian Ethics on the Voluntary, Friendship, and Luck, ed. F.  Leigh (Brill, Leiden: 2012). 7th S.V. Keeling Colloquium, Particulars in Greek Philosophy (2007), organized by Robert Sharples. Published as Particulars in Greek Philosophy, ed. R. W. Sharples (Brill, Leiden: 2009). 8th S.V. Keeling Colloquium, Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy (2009), organized by Robert Sharples and Fiona Leigh. Published as Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy, ed. F. Leigh (Oxford University Press, Oxford: 2020). 9th S.V. Keeling Colloquium, Moral Psychology in Ancient Thought (2011), organized by Fiona Leigh. 10th S.V. Keeling Colloquium, Method in Ancient Philosophy (2013), organized by Jenny Bryan.

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1st S.V.  Keeling Colloquium, Aristotle and Moral Realism (1994), organized by Robert

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1

Fiona Leigh

1. Introduction However one construes ancient philosophical interest in the topic of self-know­ledge, it is clear that it cannot straightforwardly be identified with the area in con­tem­por­ary philosophy falling under that heading.1 The problems and concerns that tend to occupy contemporary philosophers working on self-knowledge—investigating, for example, the warrant for first-personal epistemic authority, or first-personal reference in light of standard models of reference, or self-perception relative to perception proper2—do not, on the whole, exercise ancient ­thinkers. Their works, nonetheless, plainly exhibit concerns that fall under the topic of self-knowledge, in the sense that they are to do with having knowledge about oneself that is essential for one’s own life, or for correctly ascertaining the content of one’s own thought. So, in the attempt to understand ancient philosophical thought on selfknow­ledge—what the ancient concept (or concepts) of knowing oneself amounts to, and the questions and problems to which it gives rise—we might ask what to  make of this clear difference between ancient and contemporary work on self-knowledge. Perhaps there is a radical divide between the two, a more or less complete discontinuity in the fundamental assumptions and conceptual frameworks within which the writings and debates of ancients and moderns respectively 1  I am grateful to Niels Christensen, Gail Fine, Christopher Gill, Mark Kalderon, Aryeh Kosman, Melissa Lane, M. M. McCabe, and Lucy O’Brien for discussion of various topics that appear in this chapter. I am particularly grateful to Peter Adamson, Joachim Aufderheide, Margaret Hampson, and Raphael Woolf for lengthy discussion and written comments on earlier drafts. Thanks too to Saloni de Souza for alerting me to various mistakes: all errors that remain are of course my own. 2  Among contemporary philosophers who ask such questions in relation to self-knowledge, see e.g. S. Shoemaker ‘Self-Reference and Self-Awareness’, Journal of Philosophy (1968) 65(19): 555–67; ‘Self Knowledge and “Inner Sense”, I–III, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research (1994) 54: 249–314; G.  Evans, ‘Self-Identification’, in J.  McDowell (ed.) The Varieties of Reference (OUP: 1982), 205–66; G. Ryle, ‘Self-Knowledge’ in his The Concept of Mind (Hutchinson: 1949), 160–89; G. E. M. Anscombe ‘The First Person’, in Guttenplan (ed.) Mind and Language (OUP: 1975); P.  Boghossian, ‘Content and  Self-Knowledge’, Philosophical Topics 17 (1989), 5–26; Q.  Cassam, ‘Introduction’, to his (ed.) ­Self-Knowledge (OUP: 1994), 1–19; L.  O’Brien, Self-Knowing Agents (OUP: 2007); B.  Gertler, ­‘Self-Knowledge’ entry, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2003, rev. 2015) https://plato.stanford. edu/entries/self-knowledge/. Fiona Leigh, Kinds of Self-Knowledge in Ancient Thought In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Fiona Leigh. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0001

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Kinds of Self-Knowledge in Ancient Thought

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2  Fiona Leigh

3  Or, for the Epicureans, consisting in a properly developed character (as I discuss in Section 5.1 below).

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reside. Or perhaps ancient work on self-knowledge reveals some continuity between ancient thought and contemporary interests, as well as deep differences. It is this question, that of the continuity and discontinuity between ancient and contemporary treatments of self-knowledge, that will be the overarching concern of this chapter. One source of discontinuity is obvious. For, one element distinctive of ancient thought on self-knowledge is the central role that knowing oneself—for instance, knowing the state of one’s moral character, or one’s status as a knower—plays in the good life. As I argue below, the state of flourishing, for most ancient thinkers consisting in possession of a virtuous disposition (moral or intellectual),3 is entwined with correctly grasping one’s own moral or intellectual status—and, for some thinkers, the process of acquiring that state. For ease of reference, I shall refer to this way or mode of knowing oneself as ‘dispositional’ or ‘character’ selfknowledge, and intend it to range over dispositions or character states that belong to an individual, broadly construed, so as to incorporate both intellectual and moral states of soul. Thus, one mark of discontinuity between ancient and con­tem­por­ary work on self-knowledge is a persistent focus on dispositional selfknowledge, which occupies the role of moral and intellectual imperative, and so carries with it a certain normative force. Potential lines of continuity, by contrast, emerge from the question of the subject’s accurate grasp of the contents of her own discrete mental or psychological states, such as her states of having appearances, beliefs, knowledge, desires, and other motivating states. Tracing such lines and their contours of agreement with and departure from contemporary concerns is, however, a complex task. On the one hand, it seems clear (as I set out later) that ancient philosophers, unlike Cartesian and post-Cartesian thinkers, did not accord psychological or mental states a privileged epistemic status as a special source of truth. But on the other, ancient thinkers nonetheless displayed some interest in correctly ascertaining the content of such states, and so in a manner or mode of knowing oneself that I shall refer to as ‘cognitive self-knowledge’. As regards this kind of self-knowledge, I will argue, both discontinuity and continuity between ancient and contemporary views can be identified. I begin in Section  2 by addressing the more complex issue of cognitive selfknowledge in ancient philosophy by way of the central points of departure from modern views on the topic in ancient thought argued for by Myles Burnyeat in his classic paper, ‘Idealism in Ancient Thought: What Descartes Saw and Berkeley Missed’. We will then be in a position to investigate the various contributions of Plato (Section 3), Aristotle (Section 4), Hellenistic philosophers (Section 5) and Plotinus (Section 6) to the topic of cognitive self-knowledge alongside their work

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Self-Knowledge and the Subjective in Greek Thought  3

2.  Self-Knowledge and the Subjective in Greek Thought In the course of demonstrating the alien nature of Berkeleian idealism to ancient thought, Burnyeat argued that Greek and Roman thinkers did not regard what he described as ‘subjective states’ (distinct from the pedestrian notion of individual mental states, as I explain below) as themselves possible items of knowledge.4 The first plank of Burnyeat’s argument is that all Greek thinkers assumed the existence of an objective world that our minds were in contact with. Even the fictional personification of extreme relativism, the character Protagoras in Plato’s Theaetetus does not doubt that the world exists for each perceiver and knower, but contends, Burnyeat claimed, that the particular way the world is for each perceiver is something that comes to be in a mutually dependent relation between thinker and the world.5 One upshot is the commitment, on the part of Greek thinkers, to the real existence, ultimately, of the object of thought. The second plank centres on the claim that Greek thinkers in general had a particular notion of the concept of truth. A statement is true, Burnyeat suggests, insofar as its content contains some reference to the objective world, existing independently from the thought that concerns it. He writes: ‘ “True” in these discussions always means “true of a real objective world” and that is how the word “true” had been used since Protagoras and before.’6 Consider the Pyrrhonian skeptic, who, like other Greek thinkers, does not doubt the existence of reality. What sets him apart is that, while other philosophers felt free to assert the truth 4 ‘Idealism and Greek Philosophy: What Descartes Saw and Berkeley Missed’ [‘Idealism’], Philosophical Review (1982) 41: 3–40. As I argue below, Burnyeat employs the term ‘subjective state’ to refer not to the general class of individual mental or psychological states, with which we are all pretheoretically familiar, as it were, but to a theorized conception of mental states—as having the special character of being immune to hyperbolic doubt precisely because of their psychological nature, i.e. as being subjectively true. 5  Tht. 151e–152c, 156a–157c; Burnyeat, ‘Idealism’, 8–14. He writes that for the Greeks, ‘there is a reality of some sort confronting us’ and any idealist reduction of reality to mind would have been ‘repellent to Greek thought, for it would seem to deprive the mind of the objects it must have’ (19–20). 6  Burnyeat, ‘Idealism’, 26.

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on dispositional self-knowledge. As we move from the discussion of the texts from one philosophical thinker or school to the next, and the relevant scholarship, we will also briefly canvass the ways the chapters in the rest of this volume seek to engage with some of the problems or issues that have emerged. I will conclude by drawing together considerations that suggest that the two kinds of selfknowledge delineated, cognitive self-knowledge of one’s individual mental states and dispositional self-knowledge of one’s moral or intellectual character, though conceptually distinct, ought to be understood as closely related, such that the ­former is a condition on the latter.

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4  Fiona Leigh

7 Sextus, Outlines of Pyrrhonism, I.100–13 = LS 72E; Of Sextus and Greek thinkers generally, Burnyeat writes: ‘in the skeptic’s book to say that an appearance, or the statement expressing it, is true is to say that external things really are as they (are said to) appear to be. “True” in these discussions always means “true of a real objective world” and that is how the word “true” had been used since Protagoras and before. . . The Greek use of the predicates “true” and “false” embodies the assumption of realism on which I have been insisting all along.’ ‘Idealism’, 26. 8  Burnyeat, ‘Idealism’, 38. The statement quoted is Burnyeat’s summary paraphrase of a passage from Descartes’ second Meditation (CSM II, 19). 9  Burnyeat, ‘Idealism’, 28–9. See Peter Adamson and Fedor Benevich, ‘The Thought Experimental Method: Avicenna’s Flying Man Argument’, Journal of the American Philosophical Association 2018, 1–18.

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of some of their thoughts (e.g. appearances or beliefs) as corresponding to some way the objective world is, he suspends judgement and merely assents to his appearances, being unable to find an unassailable basis for preferring one over another, incompatible appearance. In this way, the strong realist commitment in Greek thought prevents even the Pyrrhonian skeptic from conceiving the question whether the content of his experience at any moment truly is what it is in a manner utterly independent from the existence and nature of the object of thought.7 Hence, Sextus, when experiencing the honey as sweet did not entertain the further possibility of having the identical experience, i.e. with the same content, in the case of the non-existence of the object of experience. So, the idea that the statement expressing that content was true about that content in a manner invulnerable to extreme or hyperbolic doubt could not occur to him. Similarly, the statement that ‘I am a being who perceives many things, as if by the intervention of the bodily organs’, cannot be articulated.8 The conception of truth to which immunity from radical doubt was central was not in play. Burnyeat argues that it is not until Augustine that particular kinds of mental states, appearances, are conceived of as objects of truth claims that are certain irrespective of objective reality (though others have more recently argued for the idea’s presence in medieval thought).9 Augustine explicitly suspends belief about the objective existence of the referent of ‘this’ in ‘this appears white’, and deliberately confines the object of his inquiry to the mental state (the appearance of ‘this as white’) considered independently from any relation it might bear to an ob­ject­ive world. So conceived the mental state, the appearance, strikes him as something the existence and content of which is assured. Augustine has thus isolated the notion of ‘the subjective’: By observing that he is the subject of his experiences and concluding that the way things appear to him from his viewpoint can be ­discerned with certainty, irrespective of the existence of things outside that viewpoint, he has isolated an inner, distinctively subjective realm of appearances, divided in its existence and content from an objective realm. In this sense one kind of mental states, appearances, are identified as distinctively subjective states, and subjective truth emerges as precisely this certainty, namely the certainty that attaches to statements expressing subjective states. But, Burnyeat maintains, it is

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Self-Knowledge and the Subjective in Greek Thought  5

10  Burnyeat, ‘Idealism’, 33–9. 11  So Burnyeat’s question ‘when and why philosophers first laid claim to knowledge of subjective states? (‘Idealism’, 27, cf. 32.) is not fully answered until his discussion of Descartes. 12  See for instance John McDowell, ‘Singular Thought and Inner Space’, in P. Pettit and J. McDowell (eds.) Subject, Thought, and Context (OUP: 1986), 137–68; Stephen Everson, ‘The Objective Appearance of Pyrrhonism’ [‘Objective Appearance’], in Everson (ed.) Companions to Ancient Thought 2: Psychology, (CUP: 1991), 121–47; Stephen Gaukroger, ‘The Ten Modes of Aenesidemus and the Myth of Ancient Scepticism’, British Journal of the History of Philosophy (1995) 3(2): 371–87; Sara Rappe, ‘Self-Knowledge and Subjectivity in the Enneads’ [‘Self-Knowledge’], in L. Gerson (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus (CUP: 1998); Gail Fine, ‘Subjectivity, Ancient and Modern’ [‘Subjectivity’], in J. Miller and B. Inwood (eds) Hellenistic and Early Modern Philosophy (CUP: 2003), 192–231; Richard Sorabji, Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death (OUP: 2006), 44. 13  Rappe, ‘Self-Knowledge’, 251.

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not until Descartes, that certainty occupies a privileged epistemological position, and the application of the truth predicate becomes restricted to statements ­invulnerable to hyperbolic doubt.10 The subjective realm, the existence of which Descartes is certain, is the source of his clear and distinct perception that he is a thinking thing, which will in turn serve as a principle for his further claims to truth and knowledge. Subjective truth and the first-personal perspective in this way take centre stage, and subjective states are accorded a privileged position, as special objects about which we can lay claim to truth free from radical doubt, and so to knowledge.11 Burnyeat’s influential argument12 has shown that an abiding assumption of realism led ancient thinkers to a conception of thought as inextricably linked, in its being and its content, to objective reality, which, for them, exists. As a result, there were no states or activities of the mind or soul that were regarded as ­‘sub­ject­ive’ in the sense outlined above, i.e. regarded as having an existence and content independent from the nature and existence of the object of thought. Statements regarding the content of appearances (or any other mental state) were not therefore regarded as rare and valuable sources of unimpeachable truth simply because they were purely subjective, or beyond radical doubt. There was no subjective truth in this sense to be had about the content of thought—as Sara Rappe, following Burnyeat, observed in relation to Cartesian and post-Cartesian thought: ‘along with this privileging of the subjective point of view, coincides the invention of subjective truth.’13 From the claim that subjective truth in the sense outlined was off the table for Greek thinking, however, it does not follow that truth in the more pedestrian sense of correspondence to reality was likewise unavailable concerning the content of thought. That is, it does not follow from the inapplicability of the notion of subjective truth to statements about the content of mental states—and Burnyeat did not argue that it did follow—that truth predicates could not be applied to such statements, or, equivalently for our purposes, that statements could not be regarded as correctly identifying the content of those states. Statements about one kind of mental state, appearances, are significant for this question, not in virtue of

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6  Fiona Leigh

14  Note that the Stranger enjoins Theaetetus to list the number of ways the sophist has appeared to them (hēmin, 231d2). 15  Rhet. II.1–11. I take it that Jessica Moss in her Aristotle on the Apparent Good (OUP: 2012, 69–92) has shown that talk of appearances in Rhet. II by way of phantasma and phainesthai (and cognates) cannot, as some have suggested be read as talk of beliefs (e.g. Dow ‘Feeling Fantastic? Emotions and Appearances in Aristotle’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (2009) 37: 143–75).

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invulnerability to radical doubt, but because appearances were routinely regarded as states consisting of how things seem to the subject, where the way things are could in fact be otherwise. So, a statement that claims to get it right about some appearance qua appearance, asserts that it has correctly identified, and to that extent, expressed the truth about, the content of that appearance. We find such statements in Plato and Aristotle, for example. In the Sophist, the Stranger and Theaetetus find themselves facing a bewildering array of appearances of the sophist at 231b–c. The dialectical situation is complex, but the overall problem is clear: since the appearances are multiple and distinct, Theaetetus is confused as to which, if any, of them could capture the truth about the reality of sophistry (231b9–c2). The Stranger articulates the content of the six appearances of the sophist presented to them by their investigation thus far, to which Theaetetus agrees (231d2–231e6).14 In each case the content is available to them via memory and reflection, and picks up on an appearance that arose through their successive applications of the method of division. The truth-value of the successive statements asserting the content of each appearance is presented independently of the truth-value of the appearances vis-à-vis sophistry. Indeed, part of the point is that Theaetetus doesn’t know which appearance to believe, if any, about sophistry. And later, in the closing moments of the dialogue, Theaetetus urges the Stranger to reflect upon or ‘look at’ (hora su, 268a11) the details of the final appearance they have of the sophist, which description he says the Stranger articulates ‘most correctly’ (orthotata, 268b6), and which they affirm of him. Aristotle, too, takes it that people can routinely correctly identify and articulate the content of appearances as a matter separate from the truth value of that content in relation to the objective realm. In De Anima III.3, he points out that though the sun appears about a foot across, we don’t believe it (428b2–4), and in Book II of the Rhetoric he provides detailed analyses of the content of the various appearances that give rise to, or are perhaps constitutive elements of, various core emotions (pathē).15 Like Plato, Aristotle seems to assume that people are able accurately to report on the contents of their appearances. Neither presents or treats this ability as arising from immunity to radical doubt, or the nature of thought as such, or as part of what it is to be conscious, but rather as the result of reflective higher-order thought (and in Plato’s case, discussion), as well as introspection and memory. The truth expressible by statements concerning the contents of these particular mental states, appearances, was therefore not regarded as

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Self-Knowledge and the Subjective in Greek Thought  7

16 Sextus, M VII, 191, as cited in Fine, ‘Subjectivity’, 202. 17 Sextus, M VII 191, 193, 194, in Fine, ‘Subjectivity’, 202–3. (In relation to 191, although the adverb ‘truly’ is not attested in all manuscripts, Fine argues (convincingly to my mind) for the greater likelihood of its authenticity, 202). 18 Plutarch, Adv. Col. 1120F. 19  Fine ‘Subjectivity’, 201–9. This is a central part of her argument against Burnyeat, the overarching aim of her paper. 20 Sextus, M VII, 193–4. For discussion see R. J. Hankinson, The Sceptics (OUP: 1995), 58.

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a special kind of truth ground in the realm of the subjective: rather the avail­abil­ity of the truth about appearances, given some effort and upon reflection, seems to have been taken for granted. One possible exception to the claim that the Greeks did not recognize sub­ject­ive states (in the sense outlined above) or a special kind of truth, subjective truth, that pertained to descriptions of their content, and which, therefore, would seem to constitute an objection to Burnyeat, is found in Cyrenaic thought. For, the Cyrenaics not only regarded statements concerning the affections—sensations that are generally pleasant or painful, (pathē)—as true as a matter separate from the affections’ truth in relation to the objective world, as other Greeks did in relation to appearances, but they asserted them to be infallibly true (and, moreover, they identified the affections with appearances). As Gail Fine has shown, Sextus reports the Cyrenaics’ view that we can ‘assert infallibly (adiapseustōs) and truly (alēthōs) and certainly (bebaiōs) and incorrigibly (anexelenktōs) that we are ­whitened or sweetened’, though not about what causes the affections,16 that in their view it is true (alēthes) that people are affected in a certain way, and that the pathē are true (alēthē) and what is apparent to us in experience (ta phainomena).17 Plutarch too reports their view that when judgements stick to the affections they are free from error.18 There are resonances between the use of ‘infallible’ here and the Cartesian notion of subjective truth, and the identification and demarcation of the affections with what is apparent is suggestive of the division between the inner, subjective realm and an ‘external’ realm marked off by Augustine and then Descartes. Indeed, Fine argues that they do regard the affections as subjective states, and so assert their contents as true as such.19 Against this view, however, as Burnyeat noted it is unclear whether in speaking of e.g. ‘being sweetened’ or ‘being whitened’ the Cyrenaics are singling out a state of the soul, a psychological state. The latter possibility seems at least plausible in the case of the Cyrenaics, who, as hedonists, focused on sensual experiences chiefly involving somatic pleasure and pain. Moreover they seemed, with other Greeks, to be realists concerning objective reality.20 Together, these considerations suggest the following interpretation: it seemed certain to the Cyrenaic that he— his tongue and soul all together—was sweetened, though the particulars of the external cause remained uncertain. If so, the Cyrenaics claimed that the subject was aware of the existence and details of an experience precisely because

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21 The case of ‘being whitened’ in sight may seem less obviously corporeal. However, as Fine acknowledged, the Cyrenaics regarded sight as an activity or function that was corporeal partly or wholly, and argued that the person who sees yellow, or ‘is yellowed’ does so as a result of jaundice (‘Subjectivity’, 202. See also Stephen Everson, ‘The Objective Appearance of Pyrrhonism’. In Companions to Ancient Thought 2: Psychology edited by S. Everson (CUP: 1991), 121–47). 22  The awareness of the subject’s personal experience (in the sense described) is a psychological state (as Fine points out, 203). However, since the awareness is the relevant state of knowing (that the content of the affection is true and infallibly true), the point at issue is whether this state is knowledge of a psychological or mental state, as opposed to a different sort of state. I have presented reasons to doubt that the former is the right reading of the Cyrenaics. If, then, the latter describes their view, then the Cyrenaics’ claim is equivalent to ‘I have an infallibly true awareness /belief that my body and soul is sweetened)’, a claim that neither Augustine nor Descartes (nor perhaps medieval t­hinkers) would have agreed to. 23  A remark from Plutarch is further evidence of the interpretation proposed. He writes that the Cyrenaics understood the affections that arise from sensations, e.g. being sweetened, as having intrinsic and irrefutable evidence within themselves (Plutarch, Against Colotes. He adds that when belief (doxa) restricts itself to these, it is (in the Cyrenaic’s view) infallible (anharmartēton), but when it is directed towards states of affairs in the external world, e.g. whether honey is sweet, it becomes disturbed (Adv. Col. 1120E–F, as in Fine, 205)). The remark highlights a criterion of truth in play for the Cyrenaics, as with Greek thinkers generally—the presence and strength of evidence in favour of a claim, together with lack of evidence against it. If, however, they had forged an ontological distinction between an inner subjective realm from an outer ‘objective’ realm in the manner of Cartesian thought, we would expect them to insist that evidence was no longer required. Instead, they seem to have insisted only that certain kinds of states, certain experiences of the subject’s body and soul, bring sufficiently strong evidence along with them to establish the truth of the affections they give rise to. 24 Sextus, M VII, 191–4.

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it belonged to him, where the mode of experience incorporates the corporeal, as well as the psychological.21 The claim, then, that the statement ‘I am sweetened’ is true and cannot be disproved asserts the infallibility of the subject’s experience because it happens to him, and so asserts the infallibility of the subject’s personal mode of experience, but not, however in the sense of ‘subjective’ that Burnyeat highlighted, restricted to the mind and its contents, conceived of as radically distinct from what was external to it, including one’s own body.22 And this seems right, given their assumption of realism—what counts as the subject’s experience includes what happens to her body, absent reason to doubt its reality.23 In relation to Greek thought on self-knowledge, then, it seems that the Cyrenaics identified appearances (ta phainomena) with the affections (pathē).24 But if the above is right, in contrast to Plato and Aristotle, it seems doubtlful that they restricted appearances to the psychological or mental realm, or to the happenings of the soul alone. But the Cyrenaics also depart from Plato and Aristotle in making explicit what they appeared to take for granted, i.e. that the subject can unproblematically correctly report the contents of her appearances (even if the Cyrenaics seemed to take a different view about the nature of appearances), and they did so on the basis that these experiences belong to the subject, and so are ‘subjective’ in that sense at any rate. It is also noteworthy that none of the Greeks appear to have coun­ten­anced a special kind of truth, compatible with the notion of subjective truth described above, distinct from the pedestrian sense of truth as

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3. Plato 3.1  Cognitive Self-Knowledge in Plato Scholars have noted that Plato presents Socrates as possessing a kind of selfknowledge of his own epistemic or doxastic mental states and conditions, in

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correspondence, which was applicable to statements about psychological and non-psychological states alike. I have adduced reason to conclude, then, that for Greek thinkers truth predicates were applicable to statements articulated by the subject about the content of her own appearances, equivalent for our purposes to statements asserting the content of an appearance, where the notion of truth in play is that of correspondence (if somewhat roughly and vaguely conceived) between the ­content of the statement and the way that whatever the statement is about is, in reality. Absent from Greek thought, along with the absence of the notion of the subjective and of subjective truth, is the conception of first-personal epistemic authority as applied to one’s own thought. The inner realm of the subjective—the site of my experience of myself as a thinking thing—is not marked off as in­ dub­ it­ ably existing and uniquely able to furnish the subject with statements immune to the threat of external world skepticism. To be sure, as noted above, both Plato and Aristotle seemed to regard it as obvious (indeed unremarkable) that the subject is able to report on the content of her appearances, as how things seem to her. And the Cyrenaics explicitly claimed the truth of statements of sensory affections. But this was not on the grounds that the subjective is a distinctive ontological cat­egory, of and within which the subject has a special view that confers on her, and her alone, epistemic authority. Nor is the (first-personal) ability to ascertain correctly the content of appearances regarded as an expression of a more general kind of selfconsciousness that was later to be considered by some to be a condition of consciousness. To return to the question of continuity between ancient and contemporary thought as regards cognitive self-knowledge, then, the radical departure from ancient ways of thinking that began with Augustine (or perhaps medieval ­thinkers) and culminated in Descartes, saw a move from the pedestrian notion of truth to that of subjective truth concerning mental states, and also ushered in the Cartesian conception of first-personal epistemic authority. But although we have seen that Greek thinkers considered it possible and important to correctly identify the content of appearances—and so, for our purposes (and with the exception of the Cyrenaics), to arrive at cognitive self-knowledge in this case—it remains an open question whether they extended this kind of self-knowledge to other cognitive states. It is to this question, as well as that of dispositional or character selfknowledge in Greek philosophy, we now turn.

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25  For example, see Gabriela Roxana Carone, ‘Socrates’ Human Wisdom and Sophrosune in the Charmides’, Ancient Philosophy (1998) 18: 267–86; Raphael Woolf, ‘Socratic Authority’, Archiv für Geschicte der Philosophie (2008) 90: 1–38; Hugh Benson, Socratic Wisdom: The Model of Knowledge in Plato’s Early Dialogues (OUP, 2000: though Benson does not refer to Socrates’ awareness of his own ignorance, or ‘Socratic wisdom’, as a kind or instance of self-knowledge). 26  Raphael Woolf, ‘Socratic Authority’. Examples of third-personal epistemic authority are found in Charmides (158e–159a), and the Gorgias (474c–475e.) (Broad agreement with Burnyeat is noted at nn. 38, 20). 27  Woolf adduces examples from the Apology (21c–d; 22c; 23c–d). 28  Apol. 23c–d; Woolf, ‘Socratic Authority’, 12. 29  Woolf, ‘Socratic Authority’, throughout, but see especially 2–3, 6–9, 26–7. 30  Woolf, ‘Socratic Authority’, 2–11.

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particular the state or condition of being ignorant about some object of inquiry.25 For instance, Socrates proclaims that he does not know what, e.g. courage, or piety, or justice is in a number of dialogues, generally thought to be ‘Socratic’ or written early in Plato’s career (e.g. Laches, Euthyphro, Alcibiades I, Gorgias). However, one commentator, Raphael Woolf, has recently suggested that Plato’s depiction of Socratic self-knowledge is in fact in tension with his (Plato’s) general endorsement of third-personal, as opposed to first-personal, epistemic authority, and is potentially undermined by it.26 Woolf argues for a clear conception of, and commitment to, third-personal epistemic authority in a number of Socratic dialogues whereby the interlocutor, who takes himself to know something, is regularly revealed to be ignorant about that very thing by Socrates’ questioning. Moreover, Socrates is thereby able to demonstrate that his interlocutor cannot authoritatively claim to know the content of his own beliefs, while he, Socrates, does know them.27 For example, in the Gorgias, after Polus affirms that he believes it is better to commit than suffer injustice, Socrates’ declares that everyone, including Polus, thinks it better to suffer injustice than to perpetrate it (474b). Polus is outraged, but not, Woolf points out, because he takes himself to possess the kind of firstpersonal authority with respect to knowledge of the content of his own thoughts familiar to us as inheritors of Cartesian thought. Rather, Polus is outraged because in his opinion nobody, himself and Socrates included, thinks or believes it (474b–c). Each of Socrates and Polus claims to know the other’s beliefs better than they do themselves: both claim third-personal epistemic authority. Moreover, in this regard they are not unique: Plato depicts third personal authority as a general phenomenon—in the Apology others are said to follow Socrates’ elenctic ­method.28 However Woolf also argues that, with the sole exception of Socrates, Plato’s characters lack self-knowledge: they are unable correctly to identify their own states of mind.29 Socrates’ interlocutors are left confused and frustrated, and not, says Woolf, enlightened about their claims to know, or their beliefs. What sets Socrates apart from his interlocutors is simply that he alone among the Athenians can be said to know his own mental states—it is Socrates’ self-knowledge of his own ignorance that gives him his edge.30 But although he depicts Socrates as knowing

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31 Woolf argues that depictions of self-examination are not found in the corpus (‘Socratic Authority’). 32  Woolf, ‘Socratic Authority’, 34–7. 33  Woolf too claims that Plato depicts his characters as unproblematically able to report on the content of their thoughts, in the sense of being able to say how things strike them or articulate what they take themselves to believe, for instance. His analysis aims to show that they are nonetheless depicted as frequently mistaken about the content of their beliefs, despite their initial report resulting from their ability to say what they think they believe, or what they appear to themselves to believe. 34  Rachana Kamtekar rejects Woolf ’s interpretation of Plato’s position on self-knowledge on similar grounds (‘Self-Knowledge in Plato’ [‘Self-Knowledge’], in U. Renz, Self-Knowledge: A History (OUP: 2017), 25–33. She writes that it is possible to ‘believe quite strongly both p as well as the q, r, s, t that (escaping our notice) entail not-p; once we notice this, however, even if we weren’t previously openminded, our new awareness of our ignorance can open our mind’ (38). But whereas Kamtekar concludes that the process produces self-knowledge of ignorance and an open-mindedness, I am arguing that for Plato it produces self-knowledge of beliefs all along held, as well as self-knowledge of ignorance.

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his own ignorance, and so as possessing this negative kind of self-knowledge, Woolf claims that Plato found himself unable to account philosophically for selfknowledge.31 The underlying reason for this is logical: if one seriously questions one of her beliefs, it is, from the moment she doubts it no longer something she believes, since one cannot believe and simultaneously doubt the truth of some claim. Hence the subject of belief disappears under cross-examination: it is not self-cross-examination. By contrast it is possible to doubt somebody else’s beliefs, or a free-floating proposition.32 So Plato should not after all be read as endorsing first-personal epistemic authority, or (what I have called) cognitive self-know­ledge, even in cases as rare as Socrates. For very different reasons, then Woolf concurs with the claim argued for in Section 2, that Greek thinkers did not propose first-personal epistemic authority, even if some presupposed a first-personal view from which to report accurately on the contents of appearances.33 But his analysis is at variance with the conclusion of that section, i.e. that Greek thinkers including Plato regarded a certain kind of (what we call) self-knowledge, cognitive self-knowledge, possible. Against Woolf, however, I suggest that while it may be impossible to simultaneously adopt propositional attitudes of assertion and denial towards some proposition, it is possible to learn or realize that the beliefs one holds entail further claims that jointly provide grounds for a further belief, which therefore, in some sense, one was committed to all along (albeit unwittingly). Where this further belief also contradicts a belief one holds and has previously avowed, the agent is then in a position to know both that she has the further belief that arose through questioning, and that, being in a state of holding contradictory beliefs, cannot be know­ledge­able on the topic in question. In this way, self-knowledge of one’s beliefs—the beliefs which, in being all along committed to, one didn’t know oneself to possess—as well as of one’s ignorance, seems both possible and a matter of some importance to Plato in the Apology and the Gorgias.34 So too in the Alcibiades, Alcibiades admits that he

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35  As we have seen, Woolf explicitly denies cognitive self-knowledge for all Socrates’ interlocutors in the early dialogues (‘Socratic Authority’, 2–3, 6–9, 26–7). Annas, on the other hand, implies that Alcibiades becomes aware of his ignorance in the Alcibiades at 124b (‘Self-Knowledge in Early Plato’, in Platonic Investigations, D. J. O’Meara (ed.) (Catholic University of America Press: 1985) 117–18). A similar concession seems to come from Alcibiades at 117a–b, 118a–e, and 127d, and in the Laches from Nicias at 200a–b. Even Laches himself, though he remains convinced that he knows what courage is, becomes aware that it escapes him so that he cannot put it into words (194a–b). 36  M. M. McCabe reads Plato in the Charmides (169d–172a) as distinguishing between what she calls ‘subject-related’ self-knowledge, in which the subject knows something about herself, i.e. that she is a knower, and ‘object-related’ self-knowledge, in which the subject is aware of herself as having a particular item of knowledge (McCabe, ‘It goes deep with me: Charmides on Knowledge, SelfKnowledge and Integrity’, in Philosophy, Ethics, and a Common Humanity: Essays in Honour of Raimond Gaita, ed. C. Cordner (Routledge: 2011), passim, but especially sections 3–5). In a different paper McCabe argues that the Charmides can also be read as presenting arguments for a conception of perception as well as belief and knowledge as being higher-order and transitive in relation to its contents: the content of the first-order belief or perception or knowing is embedded in its higher-order counterpart, arrived at via introspection and reflection (‘Looking inside Charmides’ Cloak: Seeing Others and Oneself in Plato’s Charmides’, in Platonic Conversations (OUP: 2015), 180–7). 37  Charles Kahn argues that the Charmides gives us reason to think that in the early dialogues Socrates’ ability to know others’ ignorance should be understood as in fact grounded in his possession of the relevant knowledge at the first-order level, and so that his claim to be ignorant—which Kahn refers to as ‘Socratic self-knowledge’—is revealed as ultimately ironical and insincere (‘Plato’s Charmides and the Proleptic Reading of Socratic Dialogues’, Journal of Philosophy (1988) 85: 547–8). By contrast, Hugh Benson takes Socrates’ profession of ignorance as genuine, and argues that he is only capable of recognition, not knowledge, of ignorance, in his own case and that of his interlocutors (‘A Note on Socratic Self-Knowledge in the Charmides’, Ancient Philosophy (2003) 23: 31–47). For further discussion, see Kamtekar, ‘Self-Knowledge’, 28–33.

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does after all believe that just things are advantageous, having previously denied it (116d–e, cf. 114e).35 One dialogue that raises the question of cognitive self-knowledge of a different kind of cognitive or mental state, that of knowledge, is the Charmides. Having defined temperance (sōphrosunē) as self-knowledge (or knowing oneself) (164d–165b), Critias undergoes extensive questioning by Socrates. Together they articulate and explore a conception of self-knowledge as both knowledge that one knows and knowledge of what one knows (167a ff.). This raises the possibility that it is on the one hand knowledge the agent has about herself, as a knower—and so a kind of dispositional or character self-knowledge—and on the other, higherorder knowledge of the contents of one’s knowledge at the first-order level of some matter or topic—and so amounting to a kind of cognitive self-knowledge (perhaps as a condition on the former).36 As we have seen, however, the prom­in­ent case of self-knowledge on display (in the Charmides and elsewhere) is Socrates’ knowledge of his own ignorance. This in turn raises the question of how he is able to know, at the higher-order level, his own or another’s ignorance concerning the definition in question without possessing knowledge at the first-order level on at least some related matters, if not on the definition in question.37 The discussion of the conception of temperance as self-knowledge in the Charmides, however, ends negatively, with Socrates and Critias agreeing that they cannot clearly identify

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38 McCabe, ‘Escaping One’s Own Notice Knowing: Meno’s Paradox Again’ (Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 2009) 251–5; McCabe, ‘Waving or Drowning? Socrates and the Sophists on SelfKnowledge in the Euthydemus’ in The Platonic Art of Philosophy: Festschrift for Christopher Rowe, G. Boys-Stones, C. Gill, and D. el Murr (eds.) (CUP: 2013), 130–49. There McCabe argues that for Plato ‘it is a failing of any account of knowledge. . . that we might be unaware that we know, when we know’ (148).

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exactly what self-knowledge is knowledge of, or whether it is possible or beneficial, in turn casting doubt on whether any of the claims or arguments in the dialogue about self-knowledge ultimately ought to be attributed to Plato. However, it has been argued by M. M. McCabe that two other dialogues, the Meno and Euthydemus, can be read as further evidence that Plato endorsed this particular kind of cognitive self-knowledge, knowledge of one’s own know­ledge. The formulation and reformulation of the paradox in the Meno, McCabe suggests, is intended to draw attention to the way that knowing that one does or doesn’t know, as well as knowing what it is that one does or doesn’t know, is a condition on knowledge. In the Euthydemus, she points out, Socrates’ claim that knowledge and wisdom alone are good for its possessor, itself by itself, coupled with the suggestion that knowledge about something must be coupled with knowledge of how to use that knowledge (280e–282a), implies self-knowledge—knowing that one knows and of what, precisely, one knows.38 Plato’s endorsement of the possibility of cognitive self-knowledge of a very ­different kind of cognitive state, desiderative states, is suggested by passages from the so-called middle period that treat of the tripartite soul, the Republic and the Phaedrus. Within this account of human moral psychology, as we will see, awareness or knowledge of the content of one’s own occurrent desires and emotions is intertwined with knowing the moral status of one’s soul. At least in the virtuous person, it seems that in Plato’s view the agent comes to have true beliefs and knowledge about her own patterns of desires, feelings, and pleasures—what we might term her standing desires, emotional responsiveness, and characteristic pleasures—by way of correctly grasping the nature or content of her individual states of desiring, feeling, and taking pleasure. In this way, correctly grasping individual states is a necessary condition for knowing one’s moral state to be that of virtue. (So although I will present some of the central passages indicative of Platonic cognitive self-knowledge of desiderative states here, and those pointing to Platonic character self-knowledge of moral states in the next section, with a view to the overarching purpose of this chapter—to track continuity and discontinuity between ancient and contemporary conceptions of self-knowledge—their interconnected nature ought to be kept in mind.) In Book IV of the Republic, Socrates suggests that the virtuous person is aware (herself, or in virtue of her rational element or part’s being aware) of occurrent and standing desiderative and passionate states of the other two parts, and

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39  Socrates sometimes speaks as if it is the person as opposed to one of the parts that is the subject of cognitive states, and other times as if the soul parts themselves are subjects of such states. For example, 440c–d where Socrates describes the case of the person who believes someone inflicts hardships on him justly, and whose spirit refuses to become aroused, in contrast with the person who believes himself to have been wronged unjustly, in whom spirit is angry and ready to fight for what he, the person, believes is right. However, at 442c–d, Socrates says that the parts that rule and are ruled believe in common that reason ought to rule. For my purposes, however, it is not necessary to decide between the two: whether it is in virtue of the soul parts correctly grasping or knowing the contents of cognitive (including desiderative) states that belong to other parts, or through the activity of the rational part that the agent grasps individual cognitive (or desiderative) states belonging to her, and which arise from each of the soul’s three irreducible sources of desire, the agent comes to have ­self-knowledge of these cognitive (and desiderative) states. For the view that in the Republic Plato ascribes belief to each of the three parts as subjects, see Hendrick Lorenz, The Brute Within (OUP: 206), 56ff., 75ff. 40  See Terence Irwin, who reads Plato here as according reason the power of impartially weighing desires in light of overall benefit for the agent, so that the ends determined by practical reason ‘result from consideration of what is better, all things considered, for the whole soul, not from one’s strongest occurrent desires’ (Plato’s Ethics, OUP: 1995, 216). Irwin writes: ‘[the] desires of the rational part, in contrast to those of the spirited part, rest on deliberation about what would be best, all things considered, for myself as a whole. . . these desires are optimizing desires. . . Plato implies that [the rational part] is guided by a conception of the agent’s overall happiness or welfare’ (215).

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communicates with and regulates them over time. In the just person, the spirited part or element of the soul is said to refuse to rise up against unjust hardships and to willingly endure just ones (440c), in obedience to reason (441e). During individual events of hardship, the virtuous agent will suffer physical and psychological pain, and will be desirous of its ending.39 But she will also be aware of the potential for anger in herself, should the suffering and pain seem unfair, so any perception of injustice is submitted to the authority of reason. This kind of coordination requires awareness of individual or discrete cognitive states of how things appear (just or unjust), but also of feelings (of rising anger) and desires (to lash out at the perceived injustice or demand its end). Similarly, reason and spirit are said in the virtuous person to watch over the appetitive part, and control its pursuit and satisfaction of individual pleasures to ensure its proper development within the whole (442a–b). This implies that the virtuous person will have an awareness of each (or most) of her various desires at the time they occur and choose to permit satisfaction of only those that promote or maintain (or do not impede) virtue.40 Similarly in the Phaedrus awareness and regulation of individual desiderative states are attributed to the person who loves properly. The rational and spirited parts or elements of the soul, symbolized by the figures of the charioteer and the white horse respectively, are made completely aware of the strong physical desire for the beloved of the appetitive part, represented by the black horse, at the time of having it, as Socrates’ narration of the story of attraction and love in the present tense makes clear. These better elements of the soul respond by actively resisting the desire, and when the desire presents itself again at a later time, they resist again—a pattern of reaction and control in the present that is coordinated by reason together with spirit (253d–256b). In both dialogues’ account of moral progress

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3.2  Dispositional Self-Knowledge in Plato The idea of knowing one’s own character by grasping one’s dispositions or capacities, either those shared in common with others, or those specific to oneself as an individual, is not unique to ancient philosophy. But the further idea, that acquiring this kind of self-knowledge is crucial for one’s happiness or flourishing, and so counts as a moral imperative is, I have suggested, distinctive of ancient thought. The Republic perhaps provides the richest illustration of character or dispositional self-knowledge in Plato’s thought, in the account of virtues in the tripartite soul in Book IV, and the discussion of pleasure in Books VIII and IX. We have just seen that in Book IV the rational part of the soul discerns the contents of occurrent desires, issuing from both the spirited and appetitive elem­ ents of the psyche. At 441e, having described the obedience of spirit to reason in cases of just suffering, Socrates says that in the just person, spirit will be an ally to reason (441e). He is here describing a settled disposition (which will turn out to be a crucial component of courage) that follows upon a pattern of distinct acts of awareness of and complex interaction between individual desiring or motivating states and the rational beliefs of the agent: cognitive self-knowledge is in this way necessary for virtue, and we will see, for dispositional self-knowledge. Since each act culminated in self-conscious obedience to reason, the pattern of actions that arises from repeated instances of obedience and which results in the settled state of allegiance between spirit and reason similarly ought to be understood as a selfconscious state. At 442a–b, once again with reference to the just person, Socrates’ description of the joint surveillance of the appetitive element by reason and spirit, over the long term, to ensure it develops in a manner conducive to the benefit of the whole soul, is a description of an ongoing state characterized by self-awareness and careful regulation. The implication that this settled state should itself be understood as one the agent is aware of herself being in is confirmed a little later, when Socrates says that the temperate person’s soul enjoys friendly and harmonious relations between the parts, with ruler and ruled believing in common (homodoxein) that the rational part should rule (442c10–d1): The agent knows herself to possess the settled disposition of temperance, in believing in an unconflicted way that the reasoning element in her ought to rule her spirited and appetitive elements.

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within the framework of the tripartite soul, the person who makes substantial progress comes to a correct estimation of the content of her occurrent spirited and appetitive desiderative states, and so achieves cognitive self-know­ledge of this kind of mental state, as well as self-conscious mastery over individual occurrent desires of this sort.

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Socrates also says in this passage that a person is called wise when the rational part rules, and has knowledge (epistēmē) of what is beneficial to each part and to the whole (442c5–8). The agent, then, has know­ledge of what is best for her whole soul, and knowingly places reason in charge, guiding her decisions and actions in view of her conception of the good. It seems that the possession of wisdom, as with the other virtues, ought to be understood as a self-conscious state. The implication that the virtuous agent possesses character self-knowledge in Book IV receives confirmation in Book IX. There, amidst a long and complex argument concerning the nature and kinds of pleasure (the merits of which need not concern us here), the person in whom reason rules is said to have a ‘philo­soph­ic­al’ kind of soul, as opposed to the ‘victory-loving’ soul or the ‘money-loving’ soul of those in whom spirit and appetite, respectively, rule (581b–c). While each character type champions his own proprietary pleasure, only the philo­soph­ic­al character has tasted the pleasures belonging to the non-ruling soul parts within him (582a–d), and his high valuation of pleasures of reason is based on reason and argument as well as experience. The pleasures enjoyed by each of his parts are approved by the rational part, having been critically evaluated and endorsed (586d–587a). Hence, the philosophical person’s belief that these pleasures are best is true (582e), and the person with knowledge (ho phronimos) speaks with authority when he praises his own life (583a4–5). He has attained self-knowledge in relation not only to his own settled configuration of desires, pleasures, and set of values, but in relation to the evaluation of the unifying goal of his life, which makes it the most praiseworthy of the lives under discussion. Socrates concludes the discussion with an exhortation to virtue and self-knowledge, declaring that a person ‘of understanding’ (nous, 591c1) will strive to attain virtue. He will honour the studies that produce it and  despise those that don’t, looking to the constitution within himself and guarding against its disturbance by money, and will similarly look within in ­relation to honours, only sharing in those that he believes will make him better (591b–592a). At this point in the dialogue, Socrates’ exhortation to character or dispositional self-knowledge and virtue is directed squarely at his interlocutors, as opposed to the inhabitants of Kallipolis. The discussion of the three character types comes after the discussion of the successive degeneration of kinds of city and of soul, and proceeds only on the basis of tripartite division (580d). This suggests that the postulation of the three character types should be understood as a topic separate from the nature and possibility of the ideal state. The introduction of the image of the soul as a three-part creature comprising a little man, a lion, and a manyheaded beast in the discussion with the anonymous ‘someone’ (who claims that injustice profits the apparently just, but really unjust, person at 588b), closely ­mirrors the account of the tripartite soul and the relations between its parts from Book IV. If this is right, it suggests that Plato in the Republic endorsed and straightforwardly recommended to his readers, who have not had the privilege of

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41  Of course, as Socrates makes plain at 587aff., the philosopher kings and queens of Kallipolis will know the pleasures of all three soul parts, prefer those of reason, approve only a select number of pleasures of the other parts, and so on. It does not follow, however, that they are the only souls fitting the description of the philosophical character type. 42  I take it that Nicholas Denyer has shown, in his Plato: Alcibiades that the arguments against taking the Alcibiades (or Alcibiades I as it is sometimes known) as a genuine dialogue of Plato’s are less than persuasive (CUP: 2001, 14–26). 43  Julia Annas, ‘Self-Knowledge in Early Plato’, in D. J. O’Meara, Platonic Investigations (Catholic University of America Press: 1985), 111–38. Annas argues that Plato begins from a common conception of temperance (sōphrosunē) as self-knowledge, which focuses on objective features of oneself such as social position and rank, and extends this notion of self-knowledge to knowledge of one’s universal psychic capacity for reason. Christopher Gill, in his The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought (OUP: 2006), signals agreement with Annas’ interpretation of self-knowledge in the Alcibiades. He suggests that the reflexive (in auto to auto or in auto hekaston) in the dialogue should not be read as a linguistic equivalent of the subjective and post-Cartesian term, ‘the self ’, but as drawing attention to the essence of what a human being is, to what an ‘itself ’ is, in objective and impersonal terms (344). A more recent view that concurs with Annas’ reading insofar as it restricts the self in Plato to non-individualistic features is Richard Sorabji’s Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death (Clarendon Press: 2006); see also Pauliina Remes, ‘Reasons to Care: The Object and Structure of Self-Knowledge in the Alcibiades I’, Apeiron (2013) 46: 270–301. 44 One response to this question (amongst others) is given in McCabe, ‘Escaping One’s Own Notice: Meno’s Paradox Again’, in which she suggests that Plato invites the reader to consider that in a

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an upbringing in Kallipolis, character self-knowledge as tightly bound up with development and maintenance of the virtues, and so as a moral imperative.41 This rich, developmental account of dispositional or character self-knowledge is not, however, the only kind of dispositional self-knowledge that can be read into the dialogues. In the Alcibiades,42 the reference to the Delphic Oracle’s command to ‘know yourself ’ is ultimately interpreted by Socrates as knowing the best and most divine part of the soul, that with which one has knowledge and becomes wise (132d–133c). An intermediary step in Socrates’ account is secured by his claim that what a person truly is, as opposed to what belongs to him, is his soul as opposed to his body (129e–130e). Looking forward to the later passage, this can be taken to imply that a person is, strictly speaking, the rational element of his soul (or, perhaps, a distinctively rational soul), and this is the object of selfknowledge. The fundamental identification of oneself with soul and the analysis of self-knowledge as knowing one’s capacity for reason, shared universally with other human beings, can be—and indeed has been—read as a general or impersonal account of dispositional self-knowledge, in contrast to self-knowledge concerning one’s individual character or disposition, where that bears the marks of one’s unique experiences and development, or individual desires, capacities, and aptitudes.43 From the brief account sketched above of Plato’s interest in cognitive and ­character or dispositional self-knowledge, a host of questions present themselves. One is whether it is right to understand cognitive self-knowledge in Plato as a reflexive higher-order state, as I have suggested above. Another is how we should understand the internalist implication for Plato’s epistemology of self-knowledge as a condition on knowledge.44 Another question concerns motivation. On the

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3.3  Lane, Kosman, Brennan, and McCabe in This Volume The chapters in this volume on self-knowledge in Plato pick up and in various ways address a range of the issues and questions sketched above, in relation to either cognitive self-knowledge or dispositional self-knowledge, or in some cases, both. In her contribution, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plato? Recognizing the Limits and Aspirations of the Self as a Knower’, Melissa Lane offers an account of (what I have called) cognitive self-knowledge in Plato, and discusses the broad question of knowledge as motivating. Lane reads Plato in the Apology and the Protagoras as focused on a higher-order cognitive condition that with qualification she refers to as self-knowledge, explicitly in order to distinguish it from its post-Cartesian counterpart. Possessed by Socrates in the Apology and elsewhere in being aware of his own ignorance, and arrived at via Socratic questioning, this kind of correct epistemological account both internalist constraints—knowing that one knows (or does not)— and externalist constraints–the knower standing in the right causal relations—apply. 45  See Kamtekar, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plato’, who attributes two, not incompatible conceptions of self-knowledge to Plato, the non-individualist kind and a kind of self-knowledge similar to but more narrow than the account of character self-knowledge sketched above.

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complex, individualistic picture of character self-knowledge in the Republic, ­self-knowledge will be both authoritative and motivating: as well as knowing her values, goals, and patterns of desires, and what is best for the whole soul, the ­virtuous person knows herself to be virtuous. So she will unfailingly act as the virtuous person ought to act. We might think there is something peculiar, however, about construing self-knowledge as motivating. A further question arises about the possibility and role of dispositional self-knowledge for the student of virtue. Is self-knowledge only acquired by the virtuous, or, as I suggested above, does the process of moral improvement also demand correct discernment of one’s own, deficient, moral status (and with it, the content of her cognitive and desiderative states)? More detail is needed for an account of the transformation of one’s emotions, values, and desires, i.e. about the particular kinds of experiences that over time will cause an individual to make moral progress, and the role of self-awareness or self-knowledge in that progress. This in turn leads to the further question whether self-knowledge—cognitive or dispositional—contributes to the preservation of virtue in the subject, once acquired. There remains, too, the important issue of the relation between the account of dispositional self-knowledge in the Alcibiades, which as we saw can be read as non-individualistic, and the individualist account of this kind of self-knowledge in the Republic. Are they compatible, and if so, how? If not, did Plato overturn one conception of character self-know­ledge in favour of another?45

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46  On the question of reflexivity, then, the chapters of Lane and Kosman in this volume argue for distinct conceptions of self-knowledge in the Apology and Protagoras on the one hand, and the Charmides on the other.

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self-knowledge ought not be understood as a reflexive higher-order state, Lane argues. That is, it is not in her view a state standing in a direct, unmediated relation to a first-order state, but is, rather, mediated by the Socratic method of interpersonal discussion which, when deployed correctly, allows one to achieve self-knowledge of the extent to which one is a knower, or possesses ‘human wisdom’. A dramatic illustration of this wisdom ‘in the breach’ is found, Lane argues, in the Protagoras, in which the sophists are depicted as failing to gain awareness of the limits of their knowledge, despite being brought to the brink of grasping their own ignorance by Socrates. The positive counterpart to awareness of ignorance is found in Socrates’ espousal of what Lane calls the ‘Rule of Knowledge’: the view that knowledge is sufficient to motivate action, and never ‘dragged about’ by pleasure. Grasping the ruling nature of knowledge is to know about oneself how she would act, were she to be a knower (and is, moreover, explanatory of Socrates’ rejection of akrasia in the dialogue). In his chapter, ‘Self-Knowledge and Self-Control in Plato’s Charmides’, Aryeh Kosman reads Plato as investigating the nature of cognitive self-knowledge. He argues that Critias’ proposal that temperance (sōphrosunē) is self-knowledge, and its subsequent examination by Socrates, initially offers the reader a picture of self-knowledge as a reflexive self-awareness of the content of mental states ­(cognitive and affective). Kosman suggests that this self-knowledge, is, however, importantly ‘non-objective’. The initial discussion between Socrates and Critias at  165d–166c, he argues, presents the reader with a tension between the dual demands placed on self-knowledge in that dialogue. On the one hand, since self-knowledge as Critias describes it is directed inward, towards one’s conscious states in acting temperately (as well as towards a ‘self ’ as subject and condition of those states), it appears to be presented as reflexive.46 On the other, since, as a kind of knowledge, self-knowledge must be about something, and so dependent on the object it is directed towards, it is presented as exhibiting the characteristic of ‘objective intentionality’. A clue to the tension’s resolution can be found, Kosman suggests, in Charmides’ characterization of temperance as a kind of ‘quietude’ (159b), particularly in the context of what is missing from the dialogue’s treatment of temperance, namely the notion of mere self-control or enkrateia, as Aristotle calls it. As Aristotle makes plain in the Nicomachean Ethics—and, Kosman claims, as does Plato in the Republic—the virtue of temperance is not to be confused with self-control. For the former, in contrast to the latter, is distinguished by lack of internal conflict, characterizing a unified subject who is the unhesitating master of her actions. On  Kosman’s reading, the kind of self-knowledge Plato is drawing the reader’s

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47  A.  Kosman, ‘Perceiving That We Perceive: On the Soul III, 2’, Philosophical Review (1975) 84: 499–515; A. Kosman, ‘Metaphysics Λ, 9: Divine Thought’, Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, Symposium Aristotelicum, M. Frede and D. Charles (eds.) (OUP: 2000), 307–27. Kosman’s reading also picks up and further develops his reading of sophrosune in his ‘Charmides’ First Definition: Sophrosyne as Quietness’, in Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, Vol. II, J. Anton and A. Preuss (eds) (SUNY Press, 1983), 203–16.

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attention to in the Charmides is not a higher-order cognitive state directed towards a first-order state or reified self. Rather, in a continuation of his earlier work on Aristotle on perceiving that we perceive in the De Anima, and on nous thinking itself in the Metaphysics, Kosman understands self-knowledge in the Charmides as a mode of self-awareness characteristic of first-order thought.47 Self-knowledge is thus revealed to be non-objective insofar as it does not consist in the subject putting some state or element of herself before herself as an object of thought, but is rather the awareness of the subject who knows her action to be temperate. Self-knowledge retains intentionality, but is reflexive only in this qualified, non-ob­ject­ive sense. Tad Brennan’s chapter, ‘Reading Plato’s Mind’ takes up a number of the issues canvassed above. On the question of the relation between the non-individual selfknowledge that scholars have found in the Alcibiades and the individualistic ­dispositional self-knowledge in the Republic, Brennan suggests that both can be accommodated in Plato’s texts. Following Damascius, he distinguishes multiple kinds of self-knowledge in Plato, and articulates two: a ‘thin’ kind, consisting in knowing that one is in some essential sense a rational soul, and a ‘thick’ kind, ‘political’ self-knowledge of oneself as a soul with a psychology made complex in  its desires and irrationality by its embodied state—a description of what I have  called dispositional self-knowledge. Political self-knowledge, the focus of Brennan’s chapter, is built up from the subject correctly grasping her individual desires, values, beliefs, etc., the irrational nature of some of these, and their historical causes in the individual’s life story (and so is partly constituted by what I have called cognitive self-knowledge). Brennan adduces passages from the Republic and the Seventh Letter that speak to political self-knowledge. In one passage, the lower classes of Kallipolis are firmly ordered never to lie to the rulers (389b–d). Within the context of political allegory, the upshot is that in the just, virtuous soul the rational element actively scrutinizes, and comes to know, the irrational parts’ desires and states. In another passage detailing the degenerate soul types in Books VIII–IX, Brennan argues that the processes of corruption of young souls generates a psychological vocabulary and framework for understanding the aetiology of their various conditions, charting patterns of irrationality and the way that political forces shape the individual’s values, beliefs, and desires. Brennan’s chapter thereby also offers insight into the question of the role of dispositional self-knowledge in the moral development of the soul of the student of virtue, in reading Plato as illustrating the moral

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consequences of its absence. In the Seventh Letter, Brennan argues, an ex­plan­ation of the development of Plato’s own moral and political values and beliefs up until his arrival in Sicily is presented, either by Plato himself as author, or one of his close associates. The autobiographical narrative of his own interest and noninvolvement in Athenian politics at 324b–326b exhibits striking parallels with the explanatory features of degeneration of soul types and the account of Socrates ‘quietism’ at 496a–e in the Republic, in turn suggesting that the method of pol­it­ical (or character) self-knowledge is grounded in explanation based on the psychological theory of that dialogue. In her ‘From the Cradle to the Cave: What Happened to Self-Knowledge in the Republic?’ M. M. McCabe offers a new reading of Plato’s cave allegory in the Republic in terms of a focus on the question of self-knowledge via self-perception. In the allegory, the prisoners, whose view is physically fixed by head and body restraints, in a sense correctly identify themselves with their shadows (at least when they say ‘this is me’ of their own shadow). But they also—and obviously— go wrong in self-identifying, since they are not their shadows. Like the prisoners, Socrates’ interlocutors (and we, Plato’s readers), get it right in saying ‘this is me’ (when we self-refer) for the same reason, but we too go wrong in identifying ourselves with the ‘projection’ of ourselves in the discussion of psychology, ­epis­tem­ol­ogy, and metaphysics in the dialogue. For, in an effort to understand oneself, the subject of understanding remains the agent of understanding, and para­dox­ic­al­ly risks escaping her own grasp. The key to correct understanding of ourselves for Plato, of who we are, McCabe suggests, lies in understanding the view we have of ourselves, since, as active knowing subjects we always retain a view of ourselves, not as a condition of being a conscious, thinking thing, but in virtue of the relation of active knower to the thing that is known. For Plato, in the vastly improved human condition of the philosopher, educated in Kallipolis, the possibility of such self-understanding opens up. Through dialectic, the philosopher gains what McCabe describes as stereoscopic vision or ‘a view in the round’, by taking up different points of view. This in turn makes it evident how she knows what she knows—she understands, i.e. has a body of interconnected claims that together and individually are correct, generates explanations and accurate predictions, traces causal chains and so on, about the object. Since she has understanding, when it comes to knowing herself, she has a similarly deep understanding of what it is to know—to have stereoscopic vision—and thereby knows herself as a knower in this sense. This delivers selfknowledge not only of herself as possessor of the virtue of wisdom, but of her self—of who she is—as an enquiring subject, someone to be known ‘in the round’, stereoscopically. This self-knowledge, which is a kind of (what I have called) dispositional ­self-knowledge of oneself as wise, is achieved via reflective and reflexive thought on one’s cognitive states of knowing, as well as on the question of one’s character

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4. Aristotle 4.1  Cognitive Self-Knowledge in Aristotle In a brief and extremely difficult passage in Met. XII (Λ) chapter 9, in the context of a discussion of divine thought, Aristotle seems to discuss one case of cognitive self-knowledge canvassed above, that of understanding or knowledge (noēsis) cognizing itself (1074b34–35). He then goes on to argue that thinking is one with the object of thought on the basis of considerations of the object of thought in both the productive sciences (conceived in abstraction from matter) and the theoretical sciences, considerations clearly not restricted to divine thinking. Similarly in de Anima III.4 in a general discussion of the capacity of intellection or understanding (to noein) in human beings, Aristotle asks whether nous is an object of itself. His answer is that nous is an object of intellection or understanding just as the other objects of intellect are (430a1–2), reasoning once more that in cases of things without matter, what understands or thinks (to nooun) is the same as what it understands or thinks, and again draws on theoretical science (430a3–9). The claim that nous understands itself is consistent with Aristotle’s claim, earlier in III.4, that it must be completely without any qualities or properties itself, in order to cognize all things—including, presumably, itself (429a13ff.). But if it is not characterized by features of its own, how, we might ask, can it constitute an object of thought?48 Divergent interpretations of these claims concerning nous understanding itself are possible. With respect to our topic of self-knowledge the important question is whether, for Aristotle, understanding understands itself in such a way that the person who understands is able to understand that she understands, or perhaps thereby understands that she understands. A promising starting point could be the claim that understanding is identical with its object, which can be understood as suggesting that understanding and its object are in some sense alike in respect of the relevant (non-material) property of the object, so that the object of thought determines the content of understanding. One scholar, taking this approach, and with reference to the complex (and equally controversial) discussion of friendship 48  For a fuller formulation of this interpretive puzzle, and its resemblance to Gilbert Ryle’s puzzle of self-knowledge (in his The Concept of Mind (University of Chicago Press: 1949), 187), see Christopher Shields, ‘Aristotle’s Requisite of Self-Knowledge’, in Self-Knowledge: A History, U.  Renz (ed.) (OUP: 2017) 44–60, at 44–8. For further discussion of DA III.4 see his Aristotle: De Anima (Clarendon Aristotle Series, OUP: 2016), 292–311.

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or disposition as a knower. Such reflection, however, is not immediate, and is neither piecemeal nor episodic, but is developed from an indirect view of oneself as the active subject of the various mental states, as well as the subject who takes a view of herself, and seeks to understand herself, over time.

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4.2  Dispositional Self-Knowledge and Friendship in Aristotle That there is, in Aristotle’s view, a kind of knowledge about oneself that is relevant to the acquisition and maintenance of virtue is, I submit, suggested by the criteria of being virtuous set out in EN II.4. The virtuous person not only performs the right action, but does it virtuously, by which, Aristotle explains, he has in mind that the virtuous person knows that it is the right thing to do, chooses it for its own sake, and performs it from a stable and unchanging disposition (1105a31–33). This suggests that the virtuous person acts in full awareness not only of the rightness or fineness of the action, but also, it seems likely, of her own mo­tiv­ation­al state, and its being a settled, or permanent, character. It seems likely, that is, that someone who unfailingly acts in this way is aware, in general, of her motive for so acting, and of its unconflicted nature, even if, on some occasions, it escapes the virtuous person’s notice that she acts for the sake of the right action itself (or the 49  Frank Lewis, ‘Self-Knowledge in Aristotle’, Topoi (1996) 15: 39–58, at 48–52. It is worth noting that Lewis is critical of the reasoning he attributes to Aristotle, on the grounds that it is unclear intelligibility can be ‘taken on’ in the same way that the form of an object of understanding can become one with its object, considered apart from its matter. Compare, too, Leo Elders, who takes Aristotle in Met. Λ.9 to be asserting that sometimes understanding takes itself as its direct object of thought, at a higher-order level (Aristotle’s Theology: A Commentary on Book Λ of the Metaphysics (Van Gorcum: 1972), 262). 50  Aryeh Kosman, The Activity of Being (Harvard University Press: 2013), 224–32. Cf. Kosman’s ‘Metaphysics Λ: Divine Thought’ in Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, M.  Frede and D.  Charles (eds) (OUP: 2000), 307–26.

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and perception at EE VII.12 (1245a2–10), attributed to Aristotle the further claim that in becoming like its object, intellection also takes on the very intelligibility of the object of first-order intellection. Nous therefore knows itself through reflexive awareness, but in an indirect fashion, by first understanding something at the first-order level and taking on its intelligibility.49 By contrast, Aristotle could be taken as advocating a kind of self-awareness that accompanies all understanding, but which is not a higher-order state. Kosman has proposed one such reading, arguing against interpretations that suggest a reflective self-awareness. On his reading, the self-awareness that comes with understanding ought to be distinguished from intentional thought, typically of the objective world, in which thought, in the act of thinking, places some object before itself. Rather, understanding or intellection that knows itself is, for Aristotle, a kind of non-objective and non-reflexive ‘self-presence’ of the subject to herself at the first-order level.50 Insofar as Kosman argues that understanding’s understanding of itself in this way also serves as the condition of the subject’s consciousness, this interpretation can be seen as a rival to the view that nous cognizes itself at a higher level of thought by way of first-order understanding. We turn now to dispositional self-knowledge in Aristotle.

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51  Aristotle emphasizes that the last two conditions of virtue, that the action is done for its own sake, and from a firm and unchanging state, are achieved by the frequent doing of (e.g.) just and temperance actions (EN II.4, 1105b3–5). 52 See Sorabji 1973–74, 107, 126; Cooper 1986, 8; Hursthouse 1988, 211; Broadie 1991, 109; McDowell 1996, 28; Vasiliou 2007, 42; Jimenez 2016, 5. 53  For further discussion of habituation see Myles Burnyeat, ‘Aristotle on Learning to be Good’ in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, Rorty (ed.) (1980), 69–92, and Sarah Broadie, ch. 2 of her Ethics with Aristotle. Recent contributions to the (difficult) question of the development of the character state of the student of virtue during habituation, include Marta Jimenez, ‘Aristotle on Becoming Virtuous by Doing Virtuous Actions’, Phronesis (2016) 61: 3–32, and Margaret Hampson, ‘Imitating Virtue’, Phronesis (2019) 64(3). 54  Nancy Sherman, Making a Necessity of Virtue: Aristotle and Kant on Virtue (CUP: 1997), 211–12. 55  Cf. 1114a15–22, and Cat. 13a23–31; Cf. William Bondeson ‘Aristotle on Responsibility for one’s Character and the Possibility of Character Change’, Phronesis (1974) 19: 59–65; Sarah Broadie, Ethics with Aristotle (OUP: 1991), 160 ff.; Jean Roberts, ‘Aristotle on Responsibility for Action and Character’, Ancient Philosophy (1989) 9: 23–36; Susan Sauvé Meyer, ‘Aristotle on the Voluntary’, in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, R. Kraut (ed.) (Blackwell: 2006), 137–57.

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fine), and that her decision and motive issues from a settled character state. Moreover, the fact that this unchanging character state develops over time from habituation strongly suggests self-knowledge at a more general level.51 For, given the scholarly consensus that habituation is not mindless repetition,52 Aristotle’s account suggests the development in the agent of a pattern of awareness of, and critical reflection upon, not only the actions chosen, but also the motivational basis of choice, either as a result of her own deliberative efforts or instruction, as well as praise and blame.53 Moreover, in aiming for the mean, the agent is likely to develop a critical attitude towards the adoption of certain kinds of character and motivational states—feelings, responses, desires, and beliefs, as well as of her own natural tendencies as revealed by her experiences of pleasures and pains (EN II.9, 1109b1–13). The account of moral habituation with reference to determining the mean in action and feeling, then, is envisaged by Aristotle to be a self-conscious process conducted over the long term, requiring reflective self-awareness and self-evaluation. As such, it seems plausible to understand dispositional selfknowledge as a constitutive element of virtue that develops alongside our moral and intellectual characters. If this is right, it further suggests that the development and maintenance of practical wisdom (phronēsis) in the mature virtuous adult will begin to occur at a certain point of maturity alongside habituation, accounting for this pattern of reflection and the reflective knowledge of one’s own moral character.54 Note also that, as we saw in Plato’s Republic and Phaedrus, cognitive self-knowledge—correctly discerning the content of one’s cognitive states (where that includes one’s desiderative states)—seems to be a ne­ces­sary element in the process of acquiring character self-knowledge, and so entwined with it. Moreover, since it appears that Aristotle thinks we are each of us responsible for our own moral character (1113b3–1114a10), acquiring dispositional self-knowledge in the sense described would appear to be a moral requirement.55 The explicit claim that the virtuous person knows that he is virtuous, from which we can conclude that he possesses character self-knowledge, is found in

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56  EN VI.13, 1144b17ff. For further discussion, see Roger Crisp’s, ‘Aristotle on Greatness of Soul’, in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, R. Kraut (ed.) (Blackwell: 2006), 158–78; Paula Gottlieb, The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics (CUP: 2009), 29–30.

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Aristotle’s treatment of the magnanimous person in EN IV.3. Aristotle writes that the person who truly has magnanimity (megalopsuchia), also possesses all the other virtues (1123b29–1124a9; 1124a26–29). Aristotle says this person correctly thinks himself worthy of great things (1123b2–14), and describes megalopsuchia as a crown or adornment (kosmos, 1124a2) of the virtues. The great-souled person is contrasted with other people whose judgement about their own worth is incorrect: on the one hand, the person who thinks himself of greater worth than he is—the boasting fool, or the well-born and wealthy who lack excellence (1123b3–4; 1124a29–b5)—and on the other, the small-souled person who thinks himself of less worth than he in fact is. The person who overestimates his worth is described by Aristotle as patently ignorant about himself (1125a27–28), while the one who underestimates it is said to not know himself (1125a22). This smallsouled person is also criticized by Aristotle for refraining from performing fine actions and seeking external goods, on the grounds that they mistakenly think themselves unworthy of them (1125a26–27). With this sketch we can see that the possession of self-knowledge is not simply a condition of the self-conscious and reflective process of habituation and aiming for the mean in action and feeling: the perfected state resulting from this process, character self-knowledge, just is the virtuous person’s correct evaluation of ­herself, and so underpins her self-perception as able virtuously to perform those actions she (correctly) perceives are the right actions, at the right time, etc., and of it being fitting and praiseworthy for her to do so. Having undergone the process of moral development correctly, the virtuous person gets it just right in her ­self-estimation regarding her moral state and moral status, in the case of each virtue. Therefore, although this kind of self-knowledge has instrumental value for the student of virtue, eventually getting it right for all the virtues is an achievement of its own. Thus, self-knowledge partially constitutes an excellence praiseworthy for its own sake, which in turn furnishes (at least the beginnings of) an explanation of why magnanimity is a distinct virtue for Aristotle. Character ­self-knowledge has deeper implications too, since it also guides and grounds the magnanimous person’s expectations of the way others should treat her. Understanding magnanimity in terms of character self-knowledge may also prove promising in relation to puzzles arising from Aristotle’s portrait of the virtue. One puzzle is what the virtue consists in, such that it is a separate virtue in its own right, and such as to be an adornment of the virtues. Another concerns the small-souled person: She is good, and so virtuous in some sense, and yet her underestimation of her worth means she lacks magnanimity. But this appears to contradict Aristotle’s commitment to the unity or reciprocity of the virtues noted above.56 In relation to the first puzzle, Aristotle says that the magnanimous

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57  See, for instance, John Cooper, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’, in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, A. O. Rorty (ed.) (University of California Press: 1980), 301–40. This interpretation is not, however, ubiquitous: e.g. Shields in his ‘Aristotle’s Requisite’ rejects the idea that friendship is for Aristotle instrumental for self-knowledge in this way. For further discussion of Aristotle on friendship, the friend as another ‘I’, self-knowledge, and self-perception, see Jennifer Whiting ‘The Pleasure of Thinking Together: Prolegomenon to a Complete Reading of EE VII.12’, 77–154, and M. M. McCabe, ‘With Mirrors or Without? Self-Perception in EE VII.12’, 43–76, in The Eudemian Ethics on Friendship, the Voluntary, and Luck, Fiona Leigh (ed.) (Brill, Leiden: 2012).

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person, who correctly accords limited value to external goods, especially honour, and correctly expects others to honour her, will be (moderately) pleased in being honoured for great things, by good people (1123b1–1124a20). The award of such honours, and the pleasure she justifiably experiences from them, serves to amplify the virtues and is an addition of further (although relatively minor) value to the life of virtue. In this sense, magnanimity can be said to ‘make the virtues greater’ and can be thought of as an adornment to them (1124a1–2). In relation to the second puzzle, the role of self-knowledge argued for in moral development implies, though it does not establish, that the pusillanimous person worthy of great things is not virtuous. Her lack of self-awareness suggests that although at least some of her actions have been morally fine, they were not performed alongside a proper grasp of the correctness of her response to the situation at hand. Where such agents aim for the mean, perhaps they do not know that they hit it when they do. If so, then the pusillanimous person lacks in respect of both cognitive and character self-knowledge. It plausibly follows, moreover, that their lack of self-knowledge prevents the development of a firm and unchanging virtuous disposition. Aristotle also connects his account of friendship with coming to know oneself, and commentators have taken him to regard friendship as having instrumental value for self-knowledge of one’s moral character.57 In the Magna Moralia, friendship is very clearly said to facilitate self-knowledge (1212b8–24; cf. Rhet. 1381b18–31), with suggestions of the same claim at EN IX.9 (1169b33–1170a4) in the context of the question why the happy person needs friends. Exactly how Aristotle understands the instrumental value of friendship for character self-knowledge, ­however, is unclear. One scholar, Nancy Sherman, has argued that it facilitates self-knowledge in two ways. First, virtue friends engage in practical reflection, as an exercise of phronēsis, concerning their response to particular matters of ethical significance, though not as subjects of immediate deliberation about action. In this discursive activity, friends honestly assess themselves, and whether their actions and feelings are good and fine. Character friends in this way reflect back to the virtuous their true attitudes and feelings, and in revealing these to themselves in respect of cognitive and dispositional self-knowledge, help to guard against self-deception. The second function of friendship is to stimulate new interests and help shape new goals or ends. By taking part in shared ac­tiv­ities, perceiving and doing things together, learning and discovering things about the

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Aristotle  27

4.3  Nielsen and Gottlieb (and Kosman) in This Volume The chapters by Paula Gottlieb and Karen Nielsen in this volume respond to a number of the questions and issues concerning dispositional self-knowledge raised in the Section 4.2, and we will turn to them shortly. Before doing so, however, I want briefly to note that, in relation to the difficult interpretive question of how to understand Aristotle on self-knowledge of the state of knowing, Aryeh Kosman’s chapter, ‘Self-Knowledge and Self-Control in Plato’s Charmides’, can be read as making a further contribution to that debate. For, in that chapter, as we  saw above, Kosman presents an interpretation of self-knowledge in Plato’s Charmides as reflexive in a very qualified sense: it is reflexive since it is directed inward, to the subject’s own states, but it is non-objective in the sense that it does  not involve taking lower-order states as objects placed before thought, being  instead a mode of self-awareness or self-presence. Self-knowledge in the Charmides is, in other words, interpreted as a close cousin of the understanding that understands itself in Aristotle’s Metaphysics, but on independent textual grounds. If correct, it suggests that there was a conception of self-knowledge already in Plato for Aristotle to adopt and develop or modify for his own purposes, and to that extent offers further support for Kosman’s earlier interpretation of Aristotle’s claim that nous knows itself. In relation to the question of dispositional self-knowledge, Paula Gottlieb in ‘Aristotle on Self-Knowledge’, focuses on the place and function of knowledge of 58  Nancy Sherman, Making a Necessity of Virtue, 210–14.

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activity and about one’s abilities, likes, dislikes, attitudes, and feelings, Sherman claims that on Aristotle’s view, friends ‘actualize’ one another. So even though friendship is of instrumental value for self-knowledge and happiness, it also plays a constitutive role in the good life, according to Sherman.58 Many questions remain for those interested in self-knowledge in Aristotle. In respect of Aristotle’s claim that nous cognizes itself, the debate concerning whether such cognition is an achievement brought about by reflection, or itself a condition on thought or on intellection, or whether it is a higher-order state or not, has not been settled. In relation to character self-knowledge, in what sense the pusillanimous person lacks self-knowledge and fails—if it is right to suppose they do fail—to be virtuous remains unclear. It also remains to ask whether Aristotle thought character self-knowledge was restricted to the virtuous, or also applicable to those with settled states less than virtuous—akratic, and vicious people—and if so, why. Finally, we may ask, if friendship is instrumental in the virtuous person’s gaining self-knowledge, is it right to view it as an antidote to self-deception, or does it facilitate self-knowledge in some other way?

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59  Paula Gottlieb, The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics, 25–32. 60  Compare H.  Curzer, ‘A Great Philosopher’s Not-So-Great Account of Great Virtue: Aristotle’s Treatment of Greatness of Soul’, Canadian Journal of Philosophy (1990) 20: 520. For an alternative view, that the pusillanimous person possesses neither the natural virtues nor perfect virtue, but instead possesses a degree of virtue within a range, see Crisp, ‘Aristotle on Greatness of Soul’, p. 168.

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one’s own character and abilities in Aristotle’s ethics. Building on recent work,59 she argues that what is required of the virtuous person in action, understood as what lies in the mean, is sometimes relative to the abilities of the virtuous agent. Combining this with the thought that right action is also relative to situations, Gottlieb claims that acting virtuously demands that the agent choose to deploy or not deploy certain capacities or skills, and so requires that she knows what her relevant capacities and skills are, ethical or non-ethical. Support is found in the description of truthful people in EN IV.7, who, in contrast to boasters, give true, unexaggerated reports of their own qualities. Further elaboration is provided by the account of magnanimity, in which, as we saw above, the agent knows her own worth, while the vain overvalue it and the pusillanimous undervalue it. Generalizing from this point, Gottlieb proposes a tripartite structure of ethical profiles determined by (dispositional) self-know­ledge or its lack. The rash and intemperate overestimate their situation, capacities, or needs, just as boasters overestimate their worth, while cowards and insensible people underestimate their position, just as the small-souled underestimate their worth. Gottlieb suggests that self-knowledge is necessary for virtue, and addresses the problem of the small-souled agent by suggesting that she lacks phronēsis, and in this way fails to be self-knowing.60 The question to what extent the akratic and enkratic person has or lacks (dispositional) self-knowledge is also addressed with the proposal that each makes use of a false statement, e.g. ‘I am a temperate person’ in their practical reasoning. Gottlieb distinguishes this kind of self-know­ledge from a more Cartesian version of that conception, gained solely by introspection into one’s subjective states and based on an assumption of first-personal epistemic authority: A person finds her beliefs about herself confirmed or challenged in the success or otherwise of her behaviour and in the responses of those around her. Last, Gottlieb turns to Aristotle’s account of friendship, and, reading its role as instrumental for self-knowledge, asks how it makes self-knowledge possible. She argues that Aristotle’s notion of the shared life of friends in EE VII.12, who seek to perceive and know together, is both outward-looking, so that friends look out on the world together in their shared activities, and also directed inward, being premised on the desire to know that one is good. As they perceive the good character of one another they come to perceive and know their own good character. On this reading, friendship functions less as an antidote to self-deception than as a platform for engaging in a specific kind of activity, centred around shared outward-looking projects, in which one is able to perceive and know that one is of good character.

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Epicureans and Stoics  29

5.  Epicureans and Stoics 5.1  Cognitive and Dispositional Self-Knowledge in Epicureanism For the Epicureans (and as we will see in Section 5.2 below, perhaps for the Stoics too), the question of cognitive self-knowledge bears an obvious and close connection to the question of dispositional self-knowledge, and, relatedly, to that of its  normative value. For, the methodology of Epicurean philosophy requires study of  one’s own psychological states in order to rid oneself of those that are

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Karen Nielsen, in her ‘Aristotle on Knowing One’s Own Acts and Motives: Why Self-Knowledge Matters for Virtue’, directly confronts the question of the nature of the relation between self-knowledge and virtue, suggesting that it is necessary for, and restricted to, virtue. She begins by suggesting that the third condition articulated by Aristotle for acting virtuously—acting from a firm and unchanging disposition (EN II.4)—is achieved on condition of self-knowledge. The selfknowing agent enjoys full understanding of and commitment to her actions and motivations, and thereby possesses a settled and unwavering moral disposition. This interpretation in turn allows Nielsen to explain magnanimity as characteristic of the virtuous person (who, in light of the reciprocity of virtue thesis, has all the virtues), without reading it as a mysterious sort of ‘bonus’ virtue, acquired upon realizing that one is virtuous. For, the person who has all the other moral virtues has knowledge of her acts and motives, and so, as well as having a settled character state, has knowledge of herself as being virtuous, and worthy of great things. In terms of the distinction between kinds or modes of self-knowledge delineated in the present essay, the virtuous have both cognitive and dispositional self-knowledge, where the former is necessary for the latter, on Nielsen’s view. The small-souled person is also explained by the relation between self-knowledge and virtue: this person is good, insofar as she performs the right actions and does them for their own sake, but lacks full knowledge of her acts and motives. Moreover, self-knowledge is confined to the virtuous. The virtuous person knows her own decision for action (her prohairesis), while the akratic becomes temporarily ignorant of her decision, in failing to attend to it and its affirming function, and so fails to have (what I have called) cognitive self-knowledge, whether or not she correctly appraises her own character as less than virtuous. The vicious, by contrast, do not come to the right decision but neither do they cease to pay attention to their decisions for action. The possible implication, however, that the vicious possess (dispositional) self-knowledge ought to be rejected. For, the vicious person does not perceive or know the true quality of her actions or motives, being in error about their value. Ultimately she is at odds with herself, and her own life does not bring her true pleasure.

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61 Epicurus Ep. Men. 127, 131; Lucretius DRN, 2.1–61 (=LS21 W), Philodemus De oec; XII. 4­ 5–XIII. 1–3). 62 Warren, Epicurus and Democritean Ethics: An Archeology of Ataraxia (CUP: 2002), 136–42; cf. Warren, ‘Removing Fear’ in The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, J. Warren (ed.) (CUP: 2009), 235–6. 63 Epicurus, Ep. Men 123–4; Ep. Hdt. 81, KD 81, Usener 548. For recent discussion of these fears, see David Konstan, ‘Epicurean “Passions” and the Good Life’, in The Virtuous Life in Greek Ethics, B. Reis (ed.) (CUP: 2006), 194–205; J. Warren, Facing Death: Epicurus and his Critics (OUP: 2004); J.  Warren, ‘Removing Fear’ in The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, J.  Warren (ed.) (CUP: 2009), 234–48. 64 Philodemus On Anger, VIII. 16–XXXI. 23. 65 Epicurus Ep. Men. 127–32; Epicurus KD 29 (=LS21 I). For further discussion of the Epicurean taxonomy of desires, see Julia Annas, ‘Epicurean Emotions’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies (1989) 30: 145–64; See also her The Morality of Happiness (OUP: 1993), 189–98.

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unwanted—fears, anxieties, intense passions, problematic desires, and the false beliefs they are founded upon—and instill in their place those that are acceptable— correct or true beliefs and the ensuing feelings and desires. So a person of good character, who will achieve eudaimonia, is someone who as a result of reflective effort comes self-consciously to possess beliefs, feelings, and desires that are neither incorrect, excessive, or unnatural, as well as correct perceptions and true beliefs. As these two modes of ancient self-knowledge are so interrelated in Epicurean thought, we will discuss them in tandem. The Epicurean sets her sights on the attainment of ataraxia and aponia, freedom from disturbance of the soul and from pain, as the route to happiness.61 Disturbance of the soul, in the form of fear, anxiety, unwanted pathē, unnatural desires, or desires that are natural but excessive, is rooted in ignorance and false opinion. But as James Warren has pointed out, the Epicurean does not aim at blissful ignorance as if humans were beasts, incapable of forming beliefs. Since we are rational beings, the aim is to possess explanations of the phenomena we tend to experience as fearful or desirous, that are not grounded in false beliefs or ig­nor­ance.62 Irrational fears and problematic desires take many forms, for the Epicureans, the two most prominent being fear of the Gods and fear of death.63 One excessive passion singled out for criticism is anger.64 Desires that lead to the soul’s dissonance in Epicurean writings are various, e.g. desires for excessive or fine food or drink, for wealth, sex, and honours.65 The goal of extirpating these problematic mental states presupposes that the agent can and ought to identify the contents of her fears, anxieties, and desires, and reflect on their basis either in reason or in empty (false) belief. Thus, the goal of Epicurean philosophy requires that these psychological states themselves become the objects of higher-order thought and reflection, in order to determine their suitability or otherwise for promoting ataraxia. The different therapeutic strategies and practices recorded by Epicureans illustrate various methods for arriving at cognitive self-knowledge. Some target a  troublesome desire by urging reflection on its underlying false belief. ‘This

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66  KD 71 = LS 21H(2), tr. LS. See too KD 30 = LS 21E(3): ‘Whenever intense passion is present in natural desires which do not lead to pain if they are unfulfilled, these have their origin in empty opinion; and the reason for their persistence is not their own nature but the empty opinion of the person’ (tr. LS). 67 Annas, The Morality of Happiness, 193–8. 68  VS 81 = LS 21H(4); Scholion KD 29 = LS 21I. 69 Lucretius, de Rerum Natura, 3.832–42, 972–5. 70  Whether the Symmetry Argument is directed against the (false) belief that the fact of being mortal is fearful, or the (false) belief that the state of being dead is fearful, is at the core of the interpretive difficulties. For a thorough recent discussion of the relevant issues, see Warren, Facing Death: Epicurus and his Critics (OUP: 2004), 58–68. 71  Tsouna points out that once the lesson is learned, the error is forgotten: ‘Epicurean Therapeutic Strategies’, in The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, J. Warren (ed.) (CUP: 2009), 252–4. 72 Epicurus, Ep. Men., 124 = LS 24A(1).

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question’, Epicurus writes, ‘should be applied to all desires: what will happen to me if the object of my desire is achieved and what if it is not?’66 Sufficiently critical reflection reveals that in fact nothing serious—no pain—comes from not satisfying problematic desires. It is, rather, the empty or false belief (kenodoxia) of the agent, that is pointed to as the cause of its existence and persistence. The content of the false belief is not given, but in many cases it is presumably, as Julia Annas has suggested, something that attaches excessive importance to the particular object of desire as a specification of a more general natural desire—e.g. the desire to eat lobster tonight, as opposed to something merely comestible.67 Alternatively, the underlying belief could attach importance to something of a kind of no real value at all according to the Epicureans, such as honour or wealth.68 Other strategies target the false beliefs directly, by way of argument. Against the fear of death, Lucretius advanced the so-called Symmetry Argument, maintaining that we should be no more troubled by our non-existence after death than we are by the fact of our non-existence before being born.69 Although the interpretation of the Symmetry Argument has been debated, Lucretius’ presumption that people can readily identify as their own the fear of death, and the argument’s purpose in providing reasoned grounds for overturning the concomitant belief that death is fearful, is (relatively) uncontroversial.70 In addition, Voula Tsouna has described the strategy, internal to the Epicurean school and reported by Philodemus, of directly challenging the false beliefs of a student by way of argument couched in frank speech (parrhēsia). The frank speech used may be mild or harsh depending on the strength of the student’s character and focuses on the error—the false belief—and not on the character of the student.71 Coming to then possess the correct beliefs, and the ensuing feelings and desires, likewise appears to be the result of reflective, effortful consideration of the content of one’s own mental states, but also of a meditative effort to undermine the affective causes of potential obstacles and strengthen those conducive to the correct states. So Epicurus in the Letter to Menoeceus: ‘Accustom yourself to the belief that death is nothing to us.’72 He goes on to provide reasons in favour of the true belief, but it is also worth noting that the use of the verb (sunethizō,

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73 Epicurus, Ep. Men., 135 = LS 23J. As Tsouna points out, Lucretius also stressed the importance of practice, repetition, and memorization (‘Epicurean Therapeutic Strategies’, 256–9). 74 Perhaps the Epicureans thought the affective components of pathē and desires take time to undergo change, or that repetition promotes associations among impressions that lead to the right action, or that memorization of central principles itself causes them to be causally efficacious in belief formation. Or perhaps repetition and accustoming oneself to what is true is necessary, somehow, to  counter opposing fears and desires. For further discussion, see Tsouna, ‘Epicurean Therapeutic Strategies’, 254–5. 75 Epicurus, On Nature, 34.21–1=LS 20B; 34.26–30=LS 20C. 76  Proponents of the orthodox view include Julia Annas, ‘Epicurus on Agency’, in Passions and Perceptions: Studies in Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind, Proceedings of the 5th Symposium Hellenisticum, J. Brunschwig and M. Nussbaum (eds) (CUP: 1993), 53–71; Susanne Bobzein, ‘Did Epicurus Discover the Problem of Free Will?’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (2000) 19: 287–337; Timothy O’Keefe, ‘The Reductionist and Compatibilist Argument of Epicurus’ On Nature, Book 25’, Phronesis (2002) 47: 153–86. The chief proponent of the dissenting ‘emergentist’ view is David Sedley, in his ‘Epicurean Anti-Reductionism’, in Matter and Metaphysics, J.  Barnes and M.  Mignucci (eds) (Naples: 1988), 295–327. For a neat recent summary of the main positions in the debate see Christopher Gill, ‘Psychology’, in The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, J. Warren (ed.) (CUP: 2009), 134–8. 77 Lucretius, de Rerum Naturum, 3.307–22; cf. Timothy O’Keefe, Epicurus on Freedom (CUP: 2005).

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accustom), implies a role for practice and repetition over time, either of the true beliefs themselves, or the arguments for them, or both. He later writes: ‘Practice these things and all that belongs with them in relation to yourself by day and by night. . . and you will never be disquieted, awake or in your dreams, but will live like a god among men.’73 This suggests that arriving at a correct belief by argument alone is not sufficient to bring about the right feelings and desires, but that their transformation takes time and repetition.74 However, in tandem with these meditative or repeated therapeutic practices, sustained and systematic identification and reflective, evaluative scrutiny of the content of the agent’s psychological states—and so cognitive self-knowledge—is demanded by Epicurean thought. We turn now to knowledge of one’s character in Epicureanism. In the extant remains of On Nature, Epicurus makes some suggestive remarks about our individual ‘natures’. He speaks of our ‘original constitution’ or ‘nature’, and suggests that the development of our characters is in some sense ‘up to us’ and dependent upon our beliefs.75 These fragmentary statements have been much disputed, but the prevailing orthodoxy has it that Epicurus means to contrast our undeveloped atomic nature with our developed character or state, itself ultimately comprehensible in physical, atomic terms, and claims that we are ourselves responsible for this development over time.76 Lucretius too writes that people, like animals, have natural character types, but that their development falls under the power of reason, so that if we rid ourselves of false beliefs we are able to live lives comparable to the gods.77 It seems clear that the sorts of therapeutic practices discussed above, and the cognitive self-knowledge that I argued it involves, will be crucial to correct and self-conscious development of character and so for dispositional selfknowledge and the attainment of eudaimonia. However, as Tsouna has pointed out, Philodemus connects the Epicurean theme of responsibility for character development with the absence of knowledge of one’s current character, good or

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5.2  Cognitive and Dispositional Self-Knowledge in Stoicism The Stoics, like the Epicureans, adopted a therapeutic method of philosophy and were greatly exercised by the problem of how to rid oneself of false beliefs, in both moral and purely epistemic contexts. It is not as obvious, however, that in the Stoic case, moral improvement or flourishing depended upon accurately ­discerning the content of one’s false beliefs or that the adoption of true beliefs was a self-conscious matter. As we will see, it is a more open interpretive question whether the Stoics countenanced cognitive self-knowledge, even, as we will see, in the case of the Sage. By contrast it seems clear that the Stoic sage would possess dispositional self-knowledge, although again matters are uncertain in the case of the student of virtue. Finally, Hierocles’ claim that we perceive ourselves may be understood to involve or consist in either cognitive or dispositional self-knowledge. Although a great deal of Stoic thought instructs the student to direct her gaze inward, in order to extirpate the emotions—reducible for the Stoics to false beliefs—or to adopt the correct attitude of indifference to matters such as health or wealth, Stoicism can be read as not demanding the reflective or introspective realization on behalf of the agent that she has some particular false impression with a determinate content. Stoic intellectualism involves the claim that all 78  Tsouna, ‘Epicurean Therapeutic Strategies’, 261. 79 Epicurus, VS23 = LS 22F(1); VS78 = LS 22F(7); KD27–28 = LS 22E(1–2); cf. Seneca, Letters 19.10 = Usener 542 = LS 22I.

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bad, and so with the absence of dispositional self-knowledge. In ‘On Frank Speech’, he writes that people affected by vices are like those who desire pleasure and shrink from pain too much in being irrational and in not knowing themselves. In another, ‘On Arrogance’, arrogant people are also said to lack knowledge of themselves. For if they did possess it, Tsouna writes, they would, according to Philodemus ‘register negative reactions towards themselves, would grieve about their own condition, and would seek to improve themselves’.78 Given the significance and high value Epicurus places on friendship, as something both useful and good in itself,79 the texts surveyed so far may lead us to wonder what role, if any, friends play in acquiring dispositional self-knowledge. The prominence Philodemus accords to the person in the role of teacher strongly suggests that the process of proper development of one’s character is not a solo pursuit. Other questions concern the process of therapy sometimes employed by the Epicureans, of repetitive meditations on the truth or falsehood of certain beliefs—why is such therapy necessary? Why, that is, is it not enough to accept the truth or falsehood of the relevant belief for the agent to come to possess the correct emotional or desiderative or motivational state?

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80  For further discussion, see Tad Brennan, The Stoic Life (OUP: 2005) 82–113. 81  Note that Galen’s reference to habits in On Hippocrates’ and Plato’s Doctrines, 4.7.24–41 (=LS 65P) is intended to underline the role of habituation in establishing the emotions (false and morally troublesome), rather than in bringing about moral progress. 82  Also called a ‘cognitive’ impression in Long and Sedley. Cicero, Acad. 2.77–8 = LS 40D; Sextus Empiricus, M 7.247–52 = LS 40E; DL 7.46 = LS 40C. 83 Frede, ‘Stoics and Skeptics on Clear and Distinct Impressions’, in The Skeptical Tradition, M. Burnyeat (ed.) (Berkeley: 1983), 85. 84  R. J. Hankinson, ‘Stoic Epistemology’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, B. Inwood (ed.) (CUP: 2003), 72. For Hankinson’s discussion of Frede, see 73. 85  Hankinson, ‘Stoic Epistemology’, 65–75.

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impulses (emotions, good feelings, preferences, and dispreferences) are cognitive, consisting entirely of beliefs, or, for the Sage, episodes of knowing.80 One plaus­ible consequence of this intellectualism is that it is enough to come to the realization that, e.g. the impression that ‘food is good’ is false for one to no longer have the impression, let alone assent to it, and so to no longer have the relevant opinion and concomitant desire for food. There will be no false impulse of which she ought to become aware and rid herself, only the true belief that food is on the whole to be preferred and something to go for, even though as something in itself neither good nor bad, it is something to which she is ultimately indifferent. The lack of importance accorded to habit or habituation by many of the Stoics, in contrast to the Epicureans, can be taken as further evidence that for the Stoics generally the transformation of assent (or belief), and so of the emotional states, is instantaneous (as one could be lead to expect on a purely cognitive view of pathē).81 Similarly, but for different reasons, one might think that the Stoics did not countenance self-knowledge of katalēptic impressions (those arising from and stamped in accordance with what is, and which could not arise from what is not)82 for the virtuous person who assents to such. Michael Frede argued that the mark of the katēleptic is not, for the Stoics, such as to be available to introspection by the agent, but is a causal feature of the impression that has special motivational force.83 Some support is found in Sextus: ‘impressions are katēleptic to the extent to which they draw us on to assent and to adjoin to them the corresponding action’ (M. 7.405, tr. Hankinson).84 If this interpretation is right, assent to the katēleptic, and so virtue, does not require cognitive self-knowledge. There is, however, textual evidence to suggest that nonetheless the Stoic Sage would reflect upon and so know the content of the impressions she assents to, as a result of her general awareness of the role of impressions in thought, action, and eudaimonia, and of the Stoic claim that the katēleptic impression is the criterion of truth. As Hankinson observed, if the katēleptic is criterial, then since assent (or the withholding of assent) is voluntary, we might think that the Sage and, perhaps, the student of virtue, ought to be able to discern the katēleptic from the non-katēleptic by grasping and reflecting upon the content of her impressions.85 Just how the katēleptic could be discerned is a topic of debate, since it is unclear what internal mark the impression could bear that would serve to distinguish it

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86  LS 41D(1); (3), tr. LS. 87  DL 7.46–7 = LS 31B(2). See also Plutarch, On Stoic Contradictions 1056E–F = LS 41E; Sextus, M 7.151–7 = LS 41C; Anonymous Stoic treatise (Herculaneum papyrus 1020) = LS 41D. 88  See also Marcel van Ackeren, ‘Self-Knowledge in Later Stoicism’, in Self-Knowledge: A History, U.  Renz (ed.) (OUP: 2017), 61–77; and A.  A.  Long ‘Representation and the Self in Stoicism’, in Companions to ancient thought 2: Psychology, S. Everson (ed.) (CUP: 1991), 102–20, discussed below, this section. 89 Hierocles, Elements of Ethics, 1.34–9, 51–7, 2.1–9 = LS 57 C. 90  That is, perception of one’s bodily parts and their location. A. A. Long, ‘Hierocles on Oikeiosis and Self-Perception’, in Stoic Studies (CUP: 1996), 250–63. 91 Hierocles, Elements of Ethics, 4.38–53 = LS 53 B (4–9). 92  Among the innovations of Stoic philosophy, writes Long, ought to be included the conception of a unitary consciousness in just this sense. A.  A.  Long, ‘Representation and the Self in Stoicism’, in Companions to Ancient Thought 2: Psychology, S. Everson (ed.) (CUP: 1991), 106–7.

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from its opposite in all conceivable cases. Nonetheless some fragments suggest a reflective effort directed towards impressions, such that the agent has a clear view of their content, and in certain cases withholds assent. In the ‘Anonymous Stoic Treatise’, the author says that ‘one who is non-precipitate should not be pulled by an incognitive [non-katēleptic] impression. . . and keeps control over his assents’, and that ‘wise men. . . also give greater attention to ensuring that their assents do not occur randomly, but only in company with cognition’.86 And Diogenes Laertius describes non-precipitancy as ‘the science of when one should and should not assent’.87 It is significant that these texts are not inconsistent with the quote above from Sextus. Therefore, absent textual support to the contrary, I suggest that it seems likely the Stoics considered the Sage able to discern the katēleptic by attentive introspection, though how they are able to do this remains a question for further research. In this case, then, the Stoics can be said to have coun­ten­ anced cognitive self-knowledge.88 Perhaps, in addition, Hierocles’ claim that all animals perceive themselves from birth—their own bodily parts and their function, e.g. hearing for ears, pier­cing for horns89—can be read as further support for this view. As Long has shown, in these passages Hierocles isolated the phenomenon now known as proprioception.90 Moreover, animals perceive themselves continuously, due to the thorough mixing of (material) soul or breath (pneuma) and body, in which the soul and body exert mutual pressure on one another, giving rise to an impression in the soul.91 If, in humans, self-perception gives rise to a katēleptic impression, self-perception would appear to amount to self-knowledge: assenting to the impression ‘this is me’ would be an instance of knowing (for the Sage) and an instance of katēlepsis (for the Sage and the student of virtue alike). Long argued that the referent of self-referring terms such as ‘I’, and so the self, for the Stoics was the hēgemonikon—or, for Epictetus, prohairiesis—and that it was constituted by a continuous, unified series of impressions.92 Self-perception is the impression of oneself as the subject of one’s own unique experiences, individual and particular, which is in addition the interpreter of the impressions it receives, capable of giving or withholding assent. But this idea of the grasp of onself as the subject

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5.3  Warren and Gourinat in This Volume The chapters by James Warren and Jean-Baptiste Gourinat in this volume address some of the issues around self-knowledge discussed above. Warren, in his ‘Epicureans on Hidden Beliefs’, offers one solution to the question why Epicureans 93  Only the Sage possesses knowledge according to the Stoics, as a result of giving strong assent to a katalēptic impression, while non-ignorant students of virtue possess apprehension. Impulses that are true are those experienced by the Sage, and are assents to katalēptic impressions about what it is good to do or refrain from doing. These are not emotions but ‘good feelings’ (eupatheiai): they are milder experiences, and include joy, watchfulness, and wishing or volition (Cicero, Acad. 1.42 = LS 41B (2–4); Sextus Empiricus, M 7.150–2; = LS 41 C (1–5) Stobaeus 2.73,16–74.3 = LS41H; DL 7.116 = LS 65F). See Tad Brennan, The Stoic Life, 62–81; R. J. Hankinson ‘Stoic Epistemology’, 59–84, Julia Annas, ‘Stoic Epistemology’ in Companions to Ancient Thought 1: Epistemology, S. Everson (ed.) (CUP 1990), 184–203. 94 Sextus, M II.201 = LS 59G(3): ‘Consequently [the virtuous man] also has expertise in his way of life, the peculiar function of which is to do everything on the basis of the best character.’ 95  Possible exceptions are the later Stoics Epictetus and Seneca, who appear to endorse moral progress over time, and a kind of habituation insofar as they urge their readers to scrutinize and reflect on their impressions, and aim for consistency in their impulses (Seneca, Letters 89.14 = LS 56B; Epictetus, Discourses 3.2.1–5 = LS 56 C(7)).

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of  experiences, able to determine and reflect upon its own impressions via ­introspection—and so achieve what I have called cognitive self-knowledge—should not be confused, Long maintains, with the notion of a transcendent ‘I’ or ego, to whom these experiences belong but is not itself identical with them. Selfperception, together with the notion of a unitary consciousness or hēgemonikon that perceives itself, is no precursor to that later development in philosophy. In relation to dispositional self-knowledge, it seems right to suppose that the Sage knows herself to be virtuous. For, the Sage assents only to katēleptic impressions, has knowledge concerning the right thing to do on any occasion, and also appears to act in full awareness of her actions being virtuous.93 Thus the Sage, who would be aware of the Stoic tenet that only actions performed from a virtuous disposition are truly virtuous, would know her own actions as virtuous, and likewise her own character to be virtuous.94 Whether the student of virtue on the Stoic picture ought to be regarded as possessing dispositional self-knowledge, however, is less clear. If she has some correct beliefs about Stoic thought, she might believe, e.g. that the emotions are not had by the virtuous. And so, experiencing emotions, she would be in a position to correctly assess herself as not ­virtuous. But equally she may lack the beliefs that would result in a correct moral appraisal of herself. And given that the student would not undergo a process of habituation, that path to discerning and correcting false beliefs (via cognitive selfknowledge) and so to discerning and correcting one’s moral character, would not be available. It seems that the path to virtue and eudaimonia for the student of virtue lies not in grasping the truth about her character but discerning those impressions that deserve her assent.95

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96 Gladman and Mitsis, ‘Lucretius and the Unconscious’, in Lucretius and his Intellectual Background, K. Algra, M. H. Koenen, and P. H. Schrijvers (eds) (Royal Academy of Arts and Science: 1997), 215–24, and J. Jope, ‘Lucretius’ Psychoanalytic Insight: His Notion of Unconscious Motivation’, Phoenix (1983) 37: 224–38. 97  Gladman and Mitsis, ‘Lucretius and the Unconscious’, 221. 98  Warren also points to Diogenes of Oinoanda’s contention that false opinions spread amongst people like a plague, transmitted from one to another purely in virtue of their association with one

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sometimes found it necessary to employ the repetitive meditation-like therapy noted above. Warren argues that Epicurean thinkers marked off a class of (false) beliefs that are hidden from the agent, being those she is neither aware of holding, nor can readily come to see herself as holding, and so are particularly difficult to combat. By adducing two passages—one from Philodemus’s On the Gods, the other from Diogenes of Oinoander—he argues that this kind of belief can lurk far below the surface of awareness, while simultaneously causing irrational behaviour or giving rise to further false beliefs (or both). Being unnoticed, it is difficult to uproot. If the agent’s thinking is directed elsewhere, she may even be unaware that she feels the relevant fear or desire, and so be unaware what the object of those affections are, and why she is afraid or desirous. Warren distinguishes Epicurean hidden beliefs from other kinds of mental states, particularly ‘unconscious’ states (those, according to psychoanalytic theory, that belong to a part of the mind not accessible to the agent).96 Moreover, he offers a critical qualification of the claim in Gladman and Mitsis that Epicurean therapy, aimed at eliminating the empty or false beliefs that give rise to irrational fears, does not involve un­cover­ing new fears or becoming aware of repressed emotions or desiderative states.97 For, since the Epicureans conceive of emotions as identifiable with beliefs (in part), the uncovering of the previously hidden belief and the understanding of why it is false will result in the discovery of the emotion or desire of which the agent was previously unaware, and so an increase in cognitive self-knowledge. Warren’s reading explains why there is no conflict between true and false beliefs experienced by the irrational agent, since she lacks cognitive self-know­ledge in relation to the false belief in question. In time, via Epicurean therapeutic strategies, she can come to know that she does in fact believe, e.g. that her soul will be ­tormented in the afterlife, as well as understand that it is false. Cognitive selfknowledge, then, allows the student of Epicureanism to extirpate the empty belief, and free herself from the pain of the fear of which it forms an element. Although it does not address the question directly, Warren’s chapter can also be seen as supplying the resources for a response to the question of the role of friendship in gaining self-knowledge, both cognitive and dispositional. That is, Warren’s analysis of these beliefs as constituents of pathē and desires, and causes of further beliefs and behaviours points to the way that reflective conversation between Epicurean friends may facilitate cognitive self-knowledge, and in turn, the proper character development, dispositional self-knowledge, and tranquillity that characterizes eudaimonia in their view.98

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another. But if this is the case, then if one were to live instead in a community characterized by Epicurean friendship (amongst good people with correct opinions), perhaps from a young age, the result of this association will likewise inculcate the right beliefs. 99  DL 7.85–6 = LS 57A. 100  Gourinat, ‘Self-Knowledge, Self-Perception, and Perception of One’s Body in Stoicism’, this volume, p. 207.

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Jean-Baptiste Gourinat, in his ‘Self-Knowledge, Self-Perception and Perception of One’s Body in Stoicism’ questions whether self-perception and self-knowledge for the Stoics ought to be understood as perception of the command-centre of the  soul, the hēgemonikon. Gourinat rehearses the Stoic identification of the hēgemonikon with oneself, and notes that it constitutes a strong prima facie basis for reading Stoic self-perception as perception of the hēgemonikon, and so selfknowledge in that sense. He then points out the lack of direct textual evidence for the hēgemonikon as the object of self-perception in Stoic writings, and indeed that Chrysippus asserts that there is no clear perception of where in the body the command-centre is situated. Turning to Hierocles, Gourinat then argues that self-perception must be of the body as well as the soul. Before Hierocles, Chrysippus had claimed that all animals are aware of (or conscious of, suneidēsis) their constitution (sustasis), which Gourinat understands as proprioception.99 To this, Hierocles adds the assertion that all animals perceive themselves, continuously from birth, and have perception of all the parts of the body and soul. For the Stoics, then, the soul is not perceived independently from the body in self-perception. But if there is a notion of ‘self ’ in Stoicism it applies to the egō or hēgemonikon, so self-perception is not perception of a ‘self ’. Nor is it perception of the body apart from the soul: Gourinat suggests that awareness of one’s own constitution in Chrysippus and Hierocles, in light of Seneca’s account of constitution, amounts to awareness of the soul as standing in a certain relation to the body. Self-perception of one’s body parts, then, is perception of parts of an ensouled body, and self-perception generally is of the animal as a discrete and unified entity. Gourinat concludes that according to the Stoics, although I am my command centre, I do not perceive myself, but instead ‘the whole of my animated body. . . perceives itself ’.100 In relation to the distinction between the kinds of self-knowledge distinguished in this chapter, Gourinat’s conclusion is compatible with understanding self-perception in Hierocles as continuous with a kind of dispositional self-knowledge. In self-perception the subject is aware of herself as a rational yet embodied individual, and is able to come to know herself as a potential knower, capable of becoming wise. On this view, in contrast to the notion of Platonic ­self-knowledge Annas has argued can be found in the Alcibiades, where the object of knowledge is a general, non-individual human rationality, the Stoics can be understood as conceiving of self-perception, and in this sense, dispositional self-

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Plotinus on Self-Knowledge  39 knowledge, as directed towards the individual’s own potential as a knower and possessor of wisdom.

6.1  Cognitive and Dispositional Self-Knowledge in Plotinus In Ennead V.3.1 ff., Plotinus addresses the question of self-knowledge. Against the Skeptics he argues for the possibility of self-knowledge as knowledge of self, where ‘self ’ is understood as the subject of knowing. In our normal everyday way of thinking, characterized by ‘discursive thought’ (dianoia), we arrive at know­ ledge through sense-perception and application of universal concepts (or Forms). Plotinus emphasizes that in discursive thought the object of thought is distinct from the thinking subject, and thereby implies that such cases of knowledge ­cannot be self-knowledge, strictly speaking.101 But we are able to recognize that the source of concepts is the divine intellect, and in this sense by way of discursive thought to acquire, as one scholar puts it, ‘a secondary, derivative awareness of ourselves’.102 Self-knowledge proper, by contrast, occurs in the act of intellect thinking itself, in which it is identical to its objects, the Forms. This purely intellectual mode of thought (nous), unlike discursive thought, is not mediated by images or representations, but is characterized by an immediacy in the activity of intellect. Drawing on Ennead II, Pauliina Remes has described this immediacy as an activity occurring at one and the same level of thought, as opposed to a higher-level act or activity of thinking comprehending a lower-order act or activity.103 And Dominic O’Meara has argued that in Ennead V.9.5 Plotinus follows Aristotle in Metaphyics XII.9 in conceiving of the divine intellect as pure actuality and so as continuously thinking itself as its object of thought. He further suggests that for us, human souls, ‘to know ourselves fully is to become one with the divine intellect’.104 This process entails engaging in contemplation as far as possible, eschewing the dom­in­ation of our lives by things in the sensible, material world, and is described by Plotinus as ‘assimilation to God’.105 Plotinus made use of, and invited his reader to join him in, introspective thought experiments. Rappe has read these ‘as a means of illustrating his 101  Enn. V.3.2–4. See Sara Rappe, ‘Self-Knowledge’, 255–8; Dominic O’Meara, Plotinus: An Introduction to the Enneads (OUP: 1993), 40–3. 102 O’Meara, Plotinus, 41. 103  Pauliina Remes, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plotinus’, in Self-Knowledge: A History, U. Renz (ed.) (OUP: 2017), 84–5. 104 O’Meara, Plotinus, 41. For discussion of the role of Aristotle’s DA III.4–6 in Plotinus’ understanding of divine intellect in Enn. V.4 and V.6, see 49–50. 105  Enn. I.2.1.4; 1.4.16.10–13; O’Meara, Plotinus, 97, 100–2.

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6.  Plotinus on Self-Knowledge

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106  Rappe, ‘Self-Knowledge’, 258. 107  Enn. V.3.3.32–33, 35–40, 45–6. As cited in Remes, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plotinus’, 81–2; cf. Gwenaëlle Aubry, ‘Metaphysics of Soul and Self in Plotinus’, in Handbook of Neoplatonism, Pauliina Remes and Svetla Slaveva-Griffin (eds.) (Routledge: 2002), and Aubry, ‘Un moi sans identité? Le hēmeis plotinien’, in Le moi et l’intériorité, G. Aubry and F. Ildefonse (eds) (Vrin: 2008), 107–25. 108  Remes, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plotinus’, 82.

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recommended method for cultivating self-knowledge’, whereby the mind can ‘become self-transparent by concentration upon itself ’. On this interpretation self-know­ledge ‘involves the realization that the mind or self is not an object of any kind’.106 These thought experiments or meditations are imaginative exercises that demand practice and effort, and are aimed at changes in habitual ways of thinking, involving self-awareness. The reader is asked to focus upon, e.g., a cosmic sphere or a geometrical shape, and to add contents and detail as Plotinus directs. ‘The purpose’, Rappe claims, ‘of this interior visualization is to call attention to the quality of interior vision itself, and in particular its capacity to be at once unitary and multifaceted in a way that exterior vision is not’. Perhaps it is in this way preparatory for the soul’s activity as intellect, in which intellect thinks the many Forms with which it forms a unity, being identical to its objects, but which nonetheless remain a multiplicity of distinct things, each one different from the other. The work of Remes suggests that there is a direct connection between cognitive self-knowledge and knowledge of one’s ethical and practical self in relation to the virtues, or dispositional self-knowledge in Plotinus. Following Gwenaëlle Aubry, Remes observes that in asking after the true self, Plotinus asks ‘who are we (hēmeis)?’ and answers that we are most properly our intellect, although we are also in an important sense the everyday discursively reasoning self.107 Remes writes ‘[t]he self is thereby closer to our everyday reasoning subject that makes use of both perceptual and intellectual abilities. This capacity is both derived from and empowered by the innate intellect, which already makes it understandable why the intellect can, in a qualified sense, be said to be our true or original self.’108 For Plotinus, Remes suggests, self-knowledge both of mental states and of one’s status in relation to virtue results from effortful, self-directed introspection and reflection. In Ennead I, Plotinus contrasts two kinds of ‘seeing’, one outward, to the world of bodies and sensible objects generally, the other an inner kind of seeing accomplished by the soul. Inner seeing amounts to a process by which the subject seeks to improve herself with regard to virtue by way of self-knowledge (Enn. I.6.9.1). As Remes interprets the passage, Plotinus urges the reader to look first to beautiful actions and works in the world, then to turn within and examine that part of her soul that thinks by way of discursive reasoning. If introspection does not find beauty, she is counselled to improve herself by way of metaphor— making the crooked bent, and the dark light, likening the soul’s development to a statue being worked on by a sculptor. The process terminates, ideally, in the

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Plotinus on Self-Knowledge  41

6.2  Aubry in This Volume In her chapter for this volume, ‘An Alternative to Cartesianism? Plotinus’s Self and its Posterity in Ralph Cudworth’, Gwenaëlle Aubry takes up the question of identifying the subject of self-knowledge in Plotinus. She notes the resonance with the Cartesian turn towards an immediate reflexivity, and seeks to explore the points of intersection with, and departure from, the Cartesian conception of self-knowledge. Plotinus enquires into what it is that knows itself in self-knowledge. If it is the self, the ‘we’ (the hēmeis), then is the subject of self-knowledge always the intellect? In answer, Aubry first traces the inherent duality of the self, the hēmeis, in Plotinus, which he speaks of in Ennead VI.4.14.16–31 as being two men—one, which is pure and divine, associated with the power or capacity of intellect, and a second man, with the power of sensation and memory. The self or hēmeis, she suggests, ought not be identified as being identical with either ‘man’, between which it alternates, but instead as being itself ‘a power of choice or identification’.111 Consciousness governs the use of one or the other power of thought or sensation, and this in turn grounds the explanation of how, for Plotinus, the self or ‘we’, through actualization, becomes either power. We are, in a sense, what we are conscious of, in the activity of being so conscious. But as in her previous work, Aubry stresses the practical element of choice involved: the hēmeis is the author of its own orientation towards one or the other, and of the kind of life lived. The higher power of intellection must be inhabited, made use of, and identified with through choice. There are, thus, two kinds of self-knowledge, the one belonging to awareness of the nature of discursive reasoning, and the other to the individual 109  Remes, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plotinus’, 91. For Remes’ full discussion of the passage, see 87–92. 110 As Peter Adamson has pointed out to me, Aristotle’s notion of god and divine intellect ­(discussed briefly in Section 4.1), ought to be seen as a precursor to the parallel notion in Plotinus, and therefore potentially the forerunner of this impersonal kind of dispositional self-knowledge (perhaps with Plato as author of the Alcibiades, depending on its interpretation, as discussed in Section 3.2). 111  In this respect, Aubry’s reading represents a divergence from that of Remes, noted in Section 6.1, in which she reads the self in Plotinus as closer to the subject of discursive thought and sensation, dianoia.

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­person seeing herself and knowing herself as virtuous, but this ‘inner vision would reveal not only the states of our soul, but the core self, the intellect, and its objects of knowledge, the Forms’.109 The process of coming to know oneself thus requires deep and sustained reflection and philosophical thought, involving c­ ognitive selfknowledge and ending in dispositional self-knowledge. To the extent that this facilitates assimilation to God, and becoming one with the divine intellect, the kind of dispositional self-knowledge arrived at is distinctive in being both perfect and impersonal.110

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7. Conclusion At the outset of this chapter I argued that a certain continuity between con­tem­ por­ary and ancient philosophical thought on the topic of self-knowledge can be traced insofar as the subject’s accurate grasp of the contents of (at least some kinds of) her psychological or mental states—which I have dubbed cognitive selfknowledge—is regarded as possible and important in both traditions. I suggested that although the Cartesian conception of the purely subjective and subjective truth was alien to ancient thought, Plato and Aristotle took it for granted that the subject could unproblematically identify the contents of her appearances, and we saw reason to take the Cyrenaics as claiming that statements describing the ­content of certain experiences of one’s own body and the soul—pathē—were in­fal­libly true. At the same time an obvious discontinuity between ancient and

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who identifies, as a result of choice, with intellect. In Plotinus, Aubry argues, the Delphic injunction becomes practical, ‘Become who you are’. The reflexivity characteristic of intellective thought, in contrast to that of discursive thought, does not exhibit the structure of subject and object. Aubry argues that the objects of intellect for Plotinus are always already interior to it, since the intellect is pure activity of intellection of the intelligibles (Forms). The intellect therefore knows itself by way of a kind of self-presence, and knows that it knows the intelligibles. Finally, Aubry shows how a scholar from the modern era, the Cambridge Platonist Ralph Cudworth, took up Plotinian ideas in constructing an anti-Cartesian account of thought and consciousness, and evinces, like Plotinus, a practical revision of the Delphic injunction to ‘know thyself ’. In relation to the modes of self-knowledge discussed throughout this chapter, Aubry’s account of the self becoming aware of itself through reflexive self-awareness either in the act of discursive thought or intellection implies cognitive self-knowledge, though it is not the focus of her chapter. In Plotinus, in contrast with Descartes, Aubry writes that the reflexivity of consciousness in discursive thought is ‘not equivalent to self-knowledge’, since in Plotinus’ hands, reflexivity does not result in the discovery of an interior realm of subjectivity, identifiable with the subject as essentially a thinking thing, but rather with two subjects, with which it identifies in turn. In the reflexivity of dianoia, moreover, consciousness takes individual acts of belief, appearance, and sensation for its object. Similarly, the self-knowledge of intellect involves intellect knowing that it knows the intelligibles. To the extent that what is known in these kinds of self-knowledge for Plotinus are the contents of mental states or activities, they can be regarded as kinds of cognitive self-knowledge, with the qualification that the self-knowledge of the intellect is a case of selfpresence, rather than knowledge of a state separate from, and put before, the ­subject that knows.

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contemporary interest in self-knowledge is found, I claimed, in the focus in the ancient tradition on coming to know one’s own individual moral or intellectual character—or dispositional self-knowledge, as I have called it—as an integral part of becoming virtuous or flourishing. In the course of the survey of ancient texts we have found a wealth of evidence that Greek and Roman thinkers were interested in the nature or conditions of knowing or correctly ascertaining the contents of various individual mental states. In contrast to knowing or correctly ascertaining appearances, however, one theme that emerged in relation to accurately grasping the contents of other kinds of cognitive states, such as belief, ignorance, and knowledge, was that it arises, according to ancient thinkers, as the result of considerable effort and reflection. It appeared that for ancient philosophers these kinds of cognitive self-knowledge were not a function of the soul’s or mind’s self-transparency as an immediately available feature or condition of thought. Less surprisingly, perhaps, from a ­con­tem­por­ary perspective, dispositional self-knowledge also emerged as an achievement, the result of critical reflection, and appeared on the whole to be ­limited to the virtuous in ancient thought (or those enjoying tranquillity, for the Epicureans). We have also seen that discussion of some of the key issues surrounding both kinds of self-knowledge in ancient thought are in various ways taken forward by the remaining contributions to this volume. In concluding this chapter, I want to emphasize that the convergence between the two kinds of selfknowledge as regards time and effort is not accidental: cognitive self-knowledge is plausibly taken as a necessary condition for dispositional self-knowledge which is to a significant extent, though not exclusively, built up out of it. We canvassed reasons to think that, in a number of dialogues from the ­so-called early or transitional periods, Plato regarded cognitive self-knowledge of the existence and content of one’s belief and knowledge states as possible and yet not a product of (Cartesian) first-personal epistemic authority. Rather, enquiry, effortful reflection, and (it seems) philosophical conversation are what make firstpersonal knowledge of belief and knowledge states, i.e. cognitive self-knowledge possible. This in turn strongly suggests that the virtuous person will know herself as a knower and possessor of wisdom, and to that extent will know her character, i.e. have dispositional self-knowledge. We also found evidence in the Republic of cognitive self-knowledge of desiderative states in the virtuous person (and perhaps the student of virtue), through which, it was implied, the virtuous person was also self-knowing in the dispositional mode. The connection between the cognitive and dispositional modes of selfknow­ledge was also suggested by the discussion of Aristotle. The conditions on virtue from Book II of the EN and the account of habituation in II–III suggested that cognitive self-knowledge was implicated in the attainment of dispositional self-knowledge and virtue for Aristotle. His sketch of the magnanimous person further supported this view. We also saw the suggestion that friendship was

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instrumentally valuable for cognitive and dispositional self-knowledge, at least for virtue friends, on Aristotle’s account of friendship. For, since friendship ­provides a forum for observation and reflective, evaluative discussion of actions, feeling and behaviour, as well as, plausibly, the impetus for the development of goals and values, it facilitates grasp of individual states and self-conscious moral development. In Epicurean and Stoic writings, the link between cognitive and dispositional modes of self-knowledge were strongly suggested by the therapeutic focus of each. A core element of the aim of both, in attaining eudaimonia, is to rid oneself of false beliefs and unwanted emotions, and substitute them with cognitions that truly reflect the way the world is for human beings. Hence, for the Epicureans, scrutiny of the existence and content of one’s mental states—cognitive selfknow­ledge—with a view to attaining freedom from disturbance, and so eudaimonia, was central. The extant remains also appeared to claim that a person’s character development was dependent upon her beliefs, and was to a significant extent her own responsibility. This strongly suggests that cognitive self-knowledge is ne­ces­sary for dispositional self-knowledge, and that the process of correct character development is self-conscious and lengthy. For Stoicism, the picture was more complex, but it seemed that on balance the evidence of the fragments and testimony suggested that the Stoics regarded the Sage as able to ascertain correctly the ­­contents of her impressions, and so to ensure she assented only to those that were katēleptic. The Sage, in being aware of the moral value of her actions, as well as (presumably, in her wisdom,) of the Stoic truth that only the virtuous perform truly virtuous actions, would also know her actions and her character to be virtuous: she would have dispositional self-knowledge. But for the non-virtuous, including the student of virtue, self-knowledge in either mode seemed doubtful. Finally, the theoretical and practical focus, in Plotinus, on the two kinds of thought the soul can engage in, discursive reasoning (dianoia) and intellection (nous), was seen as facilitating both cognitive and dispositional self-knowledge. The process of deliberately engaging in self-reflective thought at the level of dianoia enabled the subject to come to grasp and know the contents of various mental states, and, where applied to the practical and ethical context, thereby to grasp whether her soul was beautiful or in need of moral improvement. At the same time, it was suggested, Plotinus regarded the soul as able to become transparent to itself in intellection, by choosing to turn away from the sensible realm, either by directly engaging in contemplation of the intelligibles (Forms), or by way of meditative thought experiments. In contrast to discursive reasoning, this cognitive self-knowledge in intellection did not involve taking a higher-order view of a first-order contemplative or meditative state, but consisted in thought becoming one with its object. In both cases, however, cognitive self-knowledge together with the dispositional self-knowledge that can arise from it was the result of effort and choice.

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References  45

References Adamson, Peter, and Benevich, Fedor, ‘The Thought Experimental Method: Avicenna’s Flying Man Argument’, Journal of the American Philosophical Association (2018) 4(2): 1–18. Annas, Julia, ‘Self-Knowledge in Early Plato’. In Platonic Investigations edited by Dominic. J.  O’Meara (Washington, DC, Catholic University of America Press, 1985), 111–38. Annas, Julia, ‘Epicurean Emotions’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies (1989) 30: 145–64. Annas, Julia, ‘Stoic Epistemology’. In Companions to Ancient Thought 1: Epistemology edited by Stephen Everson (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1990), 184–203. Annas, Julia, The Morality of Happiness (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1993). Annas, Julia, ‘Epicurus on Agency’. In Passions and Perceptions: Studies in Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind, Proceedings of the 5th Symposium Hellenisticum edited by Jacques Brunschwig and Martha Nussbaum (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1993), 53–71. Anscombe, G.  E.  M. ‘The First Person’. In Mind and Language edited by Samuel Guttenplan (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1975). Aubry, Gwenaëlle, ‘Metaphysics of Soul and Self in Plotinus’. In Handbook of Neoplatonism, edited by Pauliina Remes and Svetla Slaveva-Griffin (London, Routledge, 2002), 310–22.

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Ancient philosophers can be seen as responding in different ways, then, to Socrates’ insistence on the significance of the Delphic injunction, ‘know oneself ’. But as the commanding nature of the injunction implies, the inscription instructs its reader to undertake a task that takes time, requires our attention and energy, is directed towards something we might go wrong about, the successful completion of which is to be regarded as an achievement. It is this aspect of ancient contributions to the topic of self-knowledge that, more than anything else, gives it its ­distinctive character and sets it apart from its contemporary counterparts. In this, I have argued, the cognitive and dispositional modes of self-knowledge, while distinct, are crucially linked, the latter being built up in large part from the former. But this does not entail, and nor do I mean it to imply, that the latter ought to be considered reducible to the former, to an aggregate of myriad instances of coming to know the contents of one’s individual thoughts, or mental states. For, knowing oneself as wise, or as possessing one or all of the character virtues, or—in the case of Epicurean thought—to have developed the seeds of one’s character correctly, would seem to require a diachronic, if not synoptic, critical view of oneself.

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46  Fiona Leigh Aubry, Gwenaëlle. ‘Un moi sans identité? Le hēmeis plotinien’. In Le moi et l’intériorité edited by Gwenaëlle Aubry and Frédérique Ildefonse (Paris, Vrin, 2008), 107–25.

Benson, Hugh, ‘A Note on Socratic Self-Knowledge in the Charmides’, Ancient Philosophy (2003) 23: 31–47. Bobzein, Susanne, ‘Did Epicurus Discover the Problem of Free Will?’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (2000) 19: 287–337. Boghossian, Paul, ‘Content and Self-Knowledge’, Philosophical Topics (1989) 17: 5–26. Bondeson, William, ‘Aristotle on Responsibility for One’s Character and the Possibility of Character Change’, Phronesis (1974) 19: 59–65. Brennan, Tad, The Stoic Life (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2005). Broadie, Sarah, Ethics with Aristotle (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1991). Burnyeat, Myles, ‘Aristotle on Learning to be Good’. In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics edited by Amelia O Rorty (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1980), 69–92. Burnyeat, Myles, ‘Idealism and Greek Philosophy: What Descartes Saw and Berkeley Missed’, Philosophical Review (1982) 41: 3–40. Carone, Gabriela Roxana, ‘Socrates’ Human Wisdom and Sophrosune in the Charmides’, Ancient Philosophy (1998) 18: 267–86. Cassam, Quasim, ‘Introduction’. In Self-Knowledge edited by Quasim Cassam. (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1994), 1–19. Cooper, John, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’. In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics edited by Amelia O. Rorty (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1980), 301–40. Cottingham, John, Stroothoff, Robert, and Murdoch, Dugald. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, Volume II (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1984). Crisp, Roger, ‘Aristotle on Greatness of Soul’. In The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics edited by Richard Kraut (Oxford, Blackwell, 2006), 158–78. Curzer, Howard, ‘A Great Philosopher’s Not-So-Great Account of Great Virtue: Aristotle’s Treatment of Greatness of Soul’, Canadian Journal of Philosophy (1990) 20: 517–38. Denyer, Nicholas, Plato: Alcibiades (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2001). Dow, Jamie, ‘Feeling Fantastic? Emotions and Appearances in Aristotle’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (2009) 37: 143–75. Elders, Leo, Aristotle’s Theology: A Commentary on Book Λ of the Metaphysics (Assen, Van Gorcum, 1972). Evans, Gareth, ‘Self-Identification’. In The Varieties of Reference edited by John McDowell (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1982), 205–66.

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Benson, Hugh, Socratic Wisdom: The Model of Knowledge in Plato’s Early Dialogues (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2000).

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References  47 Everson, Stephen, ‘The Objective Appearance of Pyrrhonism’. In Companions to Ancient Thought, 2: Psychology edited by Stephen Everson (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1991), 121–47.

Frede, Michael, ‘Stoics and Skeptics on Clear and Distinct Impressions’. In The Skeptical Tradition edited by Myles Burnyeat (Berkeley, CA, University of Caifornia Press, 1983), 65–93. Gaukroger, Stephen, ‘The Ten Modes of Aenesidemus and the Myth of Ancient Scepticism’, British Journal of the History of Philosophy (1995) 3(2): 371–87. Gertler, Brie, ‘Self-Knowledge’ Stanford Encyclopedia (2003, rev. 2015) https://plato. stanford.edu/entries/self-knowledge/. Gill, Christopher, The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006). Gill, Christopher, ‘Psychology’. In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism edited by James Warren (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2009), 125–41. Gladman, K. and Mitsis, P. ‘Lucretius and the Unconscious’. In Lucretius and his Intellectual Background edited by K.  Algra, M.  H.  Koenen, and P.  H.  Schrijvers (Amsterdam, Royal Academy of Arts and Science, 1997), 215–24. Gottlieb, Paula, The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2009). Hampson, Margaret, ‘Imitating Virtue’, Phronesis (2019) 64(3). Hankinson, Robert J. The Sceptics (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1995). Hankinson, Robert J. ‘Stoic Epistemology’. In The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics edited by Brad Inwood (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003), 59–84. Irwin, Terence, Plato’s Ethics (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1995). Jimenez, Marta, ‘Aristotle on Becoming Virtuous by Doing Virtuous Actions’, Phronesis (2016) 61: 3–32. Jope, James, ‘Lucretius’ Psychoanalytic Insight: His Notion of Unconscious Motivation’, Phoenix 37 (1983), 224–38. Kahn, Charles, ‘Plato’s Charmides and the Proleptic Reading of the Dialogues’, Journal of Philosophy (1988) 85(10): 541–9. Kamtekar, Rachana, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plato’. In Self-Knowledge: A History edited by Ursula Renz (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 25–43. Konstan, David, ‘Epicurean “Passions” and the Good Life’. In The Virtuous Life in Greek Ethics edited by Burkhard Reis and Stella Haffmans (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2006), 194–205. Kosman, Aryeh, ‘Perceiving That We Perceive: On the Soul III, 2’, Philosophical Review (1975) 84: 499–515.

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Fine, Gail, ‘Subjectivity, Ancient and Modern’. In Hellenistic and Early Modern Philosophy edited by Jon Miller and Brad Inwood (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003), 192–231.

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48  Fiona Leigh Kosman, Aryeh, ‘Charmides’ First Definition: Sophrosyne as Quietness’. In Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, Vol. II edited by J.  Anton and A.  Preuss (Albany, NY, SUNY Press, 1983), 203–16.

Kosman, Aryeh, The Activity of Being (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 2013). Lewis, Frank, ‘Self-Knowledge in Aristotle’, Topoi (1996) 15: 39–58. Long, Anthony A. ‘Representation and the Self in Stoicism’. In Companions to Ancient Thought 2: Psychology edited by Stephen Everson (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1991), 102–20. Long, Anthony, ‘Hierocles on Oikeiosis and Self-Perception’. In his Stoic Studies (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996), 250–63. Lorenz, Hendrick, The Brute Within (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006). McCabe, Mary Margaret, ‘Escaping One’s Own Notice Knowing: Meno’s Paradox Again’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society New Series (2009) 109: 233–56, reprinted in Mary Margaret McCabe, Platonic Conversations (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2015), 190–217. McCabe, Mary Margaret, ‘ “It goes deep with me”: Plato’s Charmides on Knowledge, Self-Knowledge, and Integrity’. In Philosophy, Ethics, and a Common Humanity: Essays in Honour of Raimond Gaita edited by Christopher Cordner and Raimond Gaita (London, Routledge, 2011), 161–80. McCabe, Mary Margaret, ‘With Mirrors or Without? Self-Perception in EE VII.12’, in The Eudemian Ethics on Friendship, the Voluntary, and Luck edited by Fiona Leigh (Brill, Leiden, 2012), 43–76. McCabe, Mary Margaret, ‘Waving or Drowning? Socrates and the Sophists on SelfKnowledge in the Euthydemus’. In The Platonic Art of Philosophy: Festschrift for Christopher Rowe edited by George Boys-Stones, Christopher Gill, and Dimitri el Murr (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2013), 130–49. McCabe, Mary Margaret, ‘Looking inside Charmides’ Cloak: Seeing Others and Oneself in Plato’s Charmides’. In Maieusis: Essays in Ancient History in Honour of Myles Burnyeat edited by Dominic Scott (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2007) 1–19, reprinted in Platonic Conversations, Mary Margaret McCabe (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2015), 173–89. McDowell, John, ‘Singular Thought and Inner Space’. In Subject, Thought, and Context edited by Philip Pettit and John McDowell (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1986), 137–68. Moss, Jessica, Aristotle on the Apparent Good (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2012). O’Brien, Lucy, Self-Knowing Agents (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2007). O’Keefe, Timothy, ‘The Reductionist and Compatibilist Argument of Epicurus’ On Nature, Book 25’, Phronesis (2002) 47: 153–86.

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Kosman, Aryeh, ‘Metaphysics Λ, 9: Divine Thought’. In Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, Symposium Aristotelicum edited by M.  Frede and D.  Charles (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2000), 307–27.

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References  49 O’Keefe, Timothy, Epicurus on Freedom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). O’Meara, Dominic, Plotinus: An Introduction to the Enneads (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1993).

Remes, Pauliina, ‘Reason to Care: The Object and Structure of Self-Knowledge in Alcibiades 1’, Apeiron (2013) 46: 270–301. Remes, Pauliina, ‘Self-Knowledge in Plotinus’. In Self-Knowledge: A History edited by Ursula Renz (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2017), 78–95. Roberts, Jean, ‘Aristotle on Responsibility for Action and Character’, Ancient Philosophy (1989) 9: 23–36. Ryle, Gilbert, ‘Self-Knowledge’. In his The Concept of Mind (London, Hutchinson, 1949), 160–89. Sauvé Meyer, Susan, ‘Aristotle on the Voluntary’. In The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics edited by Richard Kraut (Oxford, Blackwell, 2006), 137–57. Sedley, David, ‘Epicurean Anti-Reductionism’. In Matter and Metaphysics: The Fourth Symposium Hellenisticum edited by Jonathan Barnes and Mario Mignucci (Naples, Bibliópolis, 1988), 295–327. Sherman, Nancy, Making a Necessity of Virtue (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997). Shields, Christopher, Aristotle: De Anima, Clarendon Aristotle Series (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2016). Shields, Christopher, ‘Aristotle’s Requisite of Self-Knowledge’, In Self-Knowledge: A History edited by Ursula Renz (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2017), 44–60. Shoemaker, Sydney, ‘Self-Reference and Self-Awareness’, Journal of Philosophy (1968) 65(19): 555–67. Shoemaker, Sydney, ‘Self Knowledge and “Inner Sense”, I–III’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research (1994) 54: 249–314. Sorabji, Richard, Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006). Tsouna, Voula, ‘Epicurean Therapeutic Strategies’. In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism edited by James Warren (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2009), 249–65. Van Ackeren, Marcel, ‘Self-Knowledge in Later Stoicism’. In Self-Knowledge: A History edited by Ursula Renz (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2017), 61–77. Warren, James, Epicurus and Democritean Ethics: An Archeology of Ataraxia (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2002). Warren, James, Facing Death: Epicurus and his Critics (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2004). Warren, James, ‘Removing Fear’. In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism edited by James Warren (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2009), 234–48.

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Rappe, Sara, ‘Self-Knowledge and Subjectivity in the Enneads’. In The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus edited by Llyod Gerson (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1998), 250–74.

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50  Fiona Leigh Westerink, Leendert Gerrit, Olympiodorus, Commentary on the first Alcibiades of Plato. Critical Text and Indices (Amsterdam, North-Holland Publishing, 1956).

Woolf, Raphael, ‘Socratic Authority’, Archiv für Geschicte der Philosophie (2008) 90: 1–38.

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Whiting, Jennifer, ‘The Pleasure of Thinking Together: Prolegomenon to a Complete Reading of EE VII.12’. In The Eudemian Ethics on Friendship, the Voluntary, and Luck edited by Fiona Leigh (Leiden, Brill, 2012), 77–154.

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2

Melissa Lane

1. Introduction No one would expect to find a post-Cartesian conception of ‘self-knowledge’ in Plato, given that the idea of a privileged non-observational and non-inferential route to knowing or being able authoritatively to declare one’s own mental states rests on philosophical premises alien to the Greeks.1 Neither should we expect to find a post-Humean conception of ‘knowledge’ in Plato in which knowledge, or reason, lacks any motivational force. Thus the exploration of ‘self-knowledge’ in Plato must begin by interrogating just what is meant by ‘self ’, and by ‘knowledge’, in a given Platonic work, and what precisely the relationship might be between them. In so doing, reasonable working hypotheses would be (i) that the kind of second-order cognitive condition that would interest Plato would not be a postCartesian kind, but rather a second-order assessment of the extent to which the self is indeed a knower; and (ii) that, in contrast to a post-Humean perspective, the Platonic self who is fully and genuinely a knower would qua knower realize that knowledge in action. This chapter explores the first hypothesis by drawing on Plato’s Apology, finding there that the assessment of the extent to which the self is a knower of ‘the fine and the good’ is drawn in terms of recognizing the extent of one’s knowledge, 1 Consider the opening of the article on ‘Self-Knowledge’ in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, by Brie Gertler (2017): ‘In philosophy, ‘self-knowledge’ standardly refers to knowledge of one’s own sensations, thoughts, beliefs, and other mental states. At least since Descartes, most ­philo­sophers have believed that our knowledge of our own mental states differs markedly from our know­ledge of the external world (where this includes our knowledge of others’ thoughts’). For a classic argument that such a conception of self-knowledge is lacking in the ancient Greeks, see Burnyeat (1982); for further investigation of ancient ideas of the self, see Gill (1996) and Gill (2006: especially Chapter 2 on Socratic ideals thereof in Stoic and Epicurean thought). Raphael Woolf (2008: 93 n.37), however, suggests in passing that the absence of the Cartesian epistemological observational privilege of the first-person in Plato leaves open the possibility of finding there ideas akin to approaches to first-person authority, such as that developed by Richard Moran (2001). Melissa Lane, Self-Knowledge in Plato? Recognizing the Limits and Aspirations of the Self as a Knower In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Melissa Lane. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0002

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Self-Knowledge in Plato? Recognizing the Limits and Aspirations of the Self as a Knower

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52  Melissa Lane

2. The Apology on Wisdom as Understanding the Extent of One’s Knowledge In Plato’s Apology of Socrates, Socrates famously describes his purported puzzlement at the Delphic oracle’s answer to his friend Chaerephon, who had asked whether any man was wiser than Socrates—to which the Pythian priestess replied that ‘no one was wiser’ (21a7).2 Not believing himself to be wise, however, Socrates jibs at these seemingly obvious implications of the oracle’s pronouncement, and sets out to ‘refute the oracle’, only to discover that all of those reputed knowledgeable believe themselves to know things that they do not. From his first examination of ‘one of those reputed wise (sophōn einai)’—an experience that he goes on 2  English translations of Plato are taken from those in Cooper (1997), modified where noted (in some cases in the Protagoras significantly). Greek is cited throughout, for both Plato and Aristotle, from the most recent Oxford Classical Text edition of the work in question. Here I have literally translated kalon kagathon as ‘the fine and the good’, where the translation in Cooper by G. M. A. Grube glosses this as ‘anything worthwhile’.

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resulting in a second-order cognitive condition described not as ‘knowledge’ (or, a fortiori, ‘self-knowledge’) but rather as ‘human wisdom’ (Ap. 23a7). In other words, the closest analogue to self-knowledge in the Apology is a second-order achievement of recognizing the actual extent of one’s knowledge. This conception is then dramatized in the breach in the Protagoras where both the eponymous sophist and other sophists participating in the discussion resist that recognition. The Protagoras then moves on to terrain that helps us explore the second hypothesis, by emphasizing the neglected importance of the description of the ‘rule of knowledge’ on which Socrates and Protagoras agree. Here, the ‘rule of knowledge’ passage sketches out an aspiration of what it would be to be a fully knowledgeable self, meaning that the self would be ‘commanded’ by knowledge. While the Apology outlines a kind of second-order ‘human wisdom’ that involves understanding of the extent of one’s knowledge, the Protagoras dramatizes failures to achieve such understanding. It then goes on to outline a portrait of the fully knowledgeable self in which knowledge would be inherently put into practice in action. This latter account is framed as a claim about knowledge being inherently something that rules; hence, coming to know the truth of this claim gives the reader a cognitive grasp on what it would be for his or her self to know itself to be a fully knowledge-governed agent. I will call this claim the Rule of Knowledge and unpack it with the aid of Aristotle’s clear references to it in the Nicomachean Ethics. Again, nothing here is tantamount to ‘self-knowledge’ of a post-Cartesian kind, or to post-Humean conceptions of knowledge. Rather, in these dialogues Plato charts alternative problematics in which being aware of the extent to which one is a knower (a knowing self), and of what it would mean for one’s action were one to be fully a knower (or knowing self), are the central questions to be considered.

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The Apology on Wisdom as Understanding the Extent  53 to  suggest is repeated in the case of all the purportedly wise men whom he examines—he says that he learned this:

He concludes that the god (Apollo, speaking through the Pythian priestess at Delphi) should be interpreted as ‘using my name as an example, as if he said: “This man among you, mortals, is wisest (sophōtatos) who like Socrates, understands (egnōken—a form of the verb gignōskō) that his wisdom (sophian) is in truth worth nothing (oudenos axios esti tē alētheiai)” ’ (23b2–4).3 Chaerephon’s question, the oracle’s reply, and Socrates’ testing of what it means, are collectively framed as an inquiry about (in comparative terms) who is wise (sophos)—a wisdom whose content consists in ‘the fine and the good’ (kalon kagathon). Notice that Plato makes Socrates careful to introduce new terms for the second-order cognitive awareness that he describes achieving. Rather than having him describe himself as ‘knowing’ that he does not know what he had thought he knew, he describes this as gaining the recognition that it is not the case (‘not thinking’ it to be the case) that he knows it; then of ‘understanding’— and so gaining a special kind of human ‘wisdom’—that his supposed first-order wisdom about the fine and the good was actually worthless in respect of truth. Even though gignōskein does not necessarily have a different semantic meaning from eidenai (they cover overlapping ranges),4 the variation of verbs used by Socrates in this passage (between, in first person forms, gignōskō, oiomai, and oida) together with his introduction of the idea of wisdom (sophia) alongside ‘knowledge’, is important: it saves Socrates from self-contradiction in asserting a ‘knowledge’ of what he does not know, instead crediting him with a realization, understanding, or wisdom about this. That is, in his semantic choices here, Plato seems to be taking pains to avoid giving a perfectly reflexive second-order account ‘knowledge’ of the condition of one’s knowledge, of the kind that might most naturally be described as ‘self-knowledge’—even while having Socrates assert the value of having some kind of second-order cognitive grasp of the extent of one’s knowledge.5 3  I have added ‘in truth’ to Grube’s translation of this passage, to pick up the final two Greek words explicitly, and modified his ‘worthless’ to the more literal ‘worth nothing’. 4  Myles Burnyeat (2012) has argued that while eidenai is the most general verb expressing something like ‘to know’ in Greek, it is in many contexts in Plato convertible with gignōskein. 5  I owe this point to conversation with Jonny Thakkar. For a helpful reading of these issues in the Apology with which my account broadly coincides, see Vogt (2012: 30–42).

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I am wiser (sophōteros) than this man; it is likely that neither of us knows (eidenai) the fine and the good (kalon kagathon), but he thinks (oietai) he knows (eidenai) something when he does not, whereas when I do not know (oida—a first-person form of eidenai), neither do I think (oiomai) I know [oida implied]; so I am likely to be wiser (sophōteros) than he to this small extent, that I do not think (oiomai) I know (oida) what I do not know (eidenai) (Ap. 21d3–8).

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54  Melissa Lane

6  Vogt (2012: 27) distinguishes several varieties of ignorance, one of which is ‘ignorance as presumed knowledge’ in which people claim expertise that they do not in fact possess; this is exactly the kind of presumed knowledge that is punctured by means of examination in the Apology and in other dialogues, including, as we shall see, the Protagoras. 7  For general accounts of the oracle in the Apology, see Benson (2000) and Doyle (2004); for the connection between elenchus and the oracle, see also McPherran (2002). 8  This process is commonly termed the elenchus, but for reasons to doubt whether this is the best general term, see Tarrant (2002) and Chae (2015), though I will continue to use the common ter­min­ology here.

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To say that Socrates has gained ‘self-knowledge’ through following out his interpretation of the oracle, by conducting cross-examinations of purported knowers and concluding that he has ‘human wisdom’ in lacking their illusory claims to knowledge, would be inapposite or misleading in two respects. First, as we have seen, he has been (made by Plato to be) careful to eschew saying that he has gained ‘knowledge’ of the extent of his knowledge at all—by avoiding the second-order usage of the verb for ‘knowing’ that he consistently uses on the first order. Second, he has not gained any kind of cognitive grasp—be it knowledge or otherwise—or employed any method of doing so that would be intrinsically special to himself as compared to others. On the contrary, the very same methods that he uses to gain a better second-order cognitive grasp on the extent of his knowledge, are the methods that he can use to gain the same grasp on the extent of the knowledge (or lack thereof) of others—namely, the mutual experience of cross-examination. That is, testing whether others actually possess the expertise that they take themselves to possess, and testing whether one possesses any such expertise oneself, is done by means of the very same methods.6 Thus the Apology studiously avoids the reflexivity of ‘self-knowledge’, while developing an essentially symmetrical account of how one can gain a secondorder grasp on the extent of the knowledge (understood as expertise) that one actually possesses. For these reasons, it is best to say that the Apology portrays the value, not of self-knowledge, but of something that plays in some ways a structurally similar role: a kind of second-order cognitive awareness of the extent of one’s knowledge. Unlike post-Cartesian conceptions of self-knowledge, this is an awareness resting on no privileged first-person access or authority. Socrates’ account of the oracle gives us a template for interpreting cases in Plato’s dialogues in which Socrates tests or cross-examines characters who vaunt themselves on their wisdom.7 In the next part of this chapter, I will consider just such a case in another dialogue: Socrates’ cross-examination of Protagoras in the eponymous dialogue,8 followed by aspects of the portrayal of other sophists therein. By reading the drama of Plato’s Protagoras in the light of the Apology’s conception of the second-order importance of recognizing or understanding the extent to which one is, or is not, a knower of what is fine and good, I show how the Protagoras dramatizes the lack of knowledge about themselves typifying various characters—principally Protagoras, and more briefly, the other sophists and political men present. The result is that these characters are revealed not to have

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The Drama of the Protagoras  55 the knowledge that their public personae would seem to require, and so, to lack the very understanding of their own lack of knowledge that Socrates in the Apology achieves for himself in the course of finding wanting in others.

Protagoras is exactly the kind of glamorous figure who is ‘reputed wise’ in the Apology.9 As Hippocrates describes him, being a sophist means that, ‘as the name suggests, he is someone who has an understanding of wise things’ (312d4). And just as Socrates in the Apology describes having tested men of reputed wisdom ranging from political leaders to poets to artisans in order to ascertain whether any of them is wiser than he is, so in the Protagoras, we find him cross-examining Protagoras as a man, like the other sophists, reputed wise; indeed, as someone who trades upon that reputation for wisdom. The outcome will confront the sophist with a dilemma, hinging on the admission he is driven to make that ‘wisdom about what is and is not to be feared is courage’. On the first horn of the dilemma, the sophist must acknowledge that this conclusion contradicts his earl­ier claim that (as Socrates recaps it), ‘some men are extremely ignorant and yet still very courageous’ (360e). Or, if he insists on maintaining that latter claim, then he will be driven onto the second horn of the dilemma: in that case he must acknowledge that he cannot teach all of virtue (since courage does not involve knowledge and so, on the Socratic perspective he has been brought to endorse, must not be teachable). Either way, his professional reputation as a sophos able to teach virtue will be undermined. In this way, on the same model of cross-examination testing the extent of ­self-knowledge that we found in the Apology, the Protagoras puts Protagoras’ reputation as a wise person at risk. Now we cannot immediately assume that Protagoras is claiming to be a knower, at least in the Socratic sense. Indeed, while Protagoras vaunts himself on being a sophistēs (317b4, c1), he generally eschews making specific knowledge claims, instead appealing simply to the effects of associating with him (emoi suggenei, 318a7).10 Nevertheless, the sophist does spontaneously in his early speeches use the language of learning (to. . . mathēma, 318e5) to describe what benefits prospective students will receive from him. And this gives Socrates a crucial opening, enabling him to reframe the sophist’s claims in terms of his own language of knowledge of politics (tēn politikēn

9  Protagoras, a well-known foreign sophist (from Abdera) who was an historical personage as a visitor to Athens during Socrates’ lifetime, figures also in Plato’s Theaetetus. Several scholars have argued recently that his portrayal in the two dialogues should be construed as consistent: see Rowett (2013) and Sørensen (2014). Here, I will read his portrayal in the Protagoras only, without taking a stand on the question of whether that comports with his portrayal elsewhere. 10  I owe this point to a conversation with M. M. McCabe.

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3.  The Drama of the Protagoras: Sophists and their (Lack of) Vaunted Expertise

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56  Melissa Lane

11  Among the putatively widespread human social practices of engendering virtue in children that he describes, Protagoras does, however, include athletic training designed to avoid being ‘forced to cowardice in war or other activities through physical deficiencies’ (326c1–3). 12  It is notable that at 333b4–6, Socrates sums up the argument so far by asking, ‘Wouldn’t that make wisdom and temperance one thing?’ and going on to remark, ‘And a little while ago it looked like justice and piety were nearly the same thing’. So it could be that Protagoras is picking up on this when he later asserts that courage is the odd one out among the parts of virtue; perhaps he is astute in noticing that Socrates has left open the place of courage as potentially distinctive, a possibility which he then takes to have obvious empirical confirmation. 13  Denyer (2008) relates this passage to 342d3–5, on which in turn he notes that ‘Socrates apes the orators, who all use such phrases when introducing evidence’, citing Aeschines 3.30, Andocides 1.123, Antiphon 6.41, Demosthenes 24.146, Isocrates 21.14, and Lysias 31.14. 14  I have modified the translation by Stanley Lombardo and Karen Bell in Cooper (1997), to more literally translate ‘speaking truly’ (omitting the notion of ‘proof ’ that they introduce but that is at best implied), and to bring out the second-personal aspect of the second assertion (‘you will find’) to match that of the first (‘you will know’).

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technēn, 319a4) and the teaching of virtue (didakton einai aretēn, 320a5; hōs didakton estin hē aretē, 319c1). Protagoras accepts these terms, going so far as to reinforce his acceptance of them at the beginning of the Rule of Knowledge passage when he agrees that ‘it would be shameful indeed for me above all people to say that wisdom and know­ledge are anything but the most powerful forces in human activity’ (352c8–d3)—‘for me above all’ meaning precisely in virtue of his superlative reputation as a uniquely effective sophistēs. Thus, testing Protagoras’ claim to wisdom is—from a Socratic perspective, but also from a perspective that the sophist himself is brought to endorse—testing precisely whether he knows what he claims to know, that is, whether he has knowledge of the virtue that he purports that students can learn from, or at least by association with, him. In other words, Protagoras is exactly the kind of person whom Socrates in the Apology describes himself as responding to the oracle by setting out to examine. He is someone reputed wise who may be shown through cross-examination not to know what he claims (or has been induced to claim) to know—but who precisely refuses to recognize that lack of knowledge and so comes off worse than Socrates in the comparative measure of human wisdom. Indeed, the dialogue gives us at least two illustrations of his lack of the expertise he presumes to possess. The first illustration, mentioned briefly above, is Protagoras’ failure to explain how his account of courage fits with his earlier claim to teach virtue. In the Great Speech, Protagoras identifies ‘justice, and temperance, and piety’ as ‘what I may collectively term the virtue of a man’ (325a1–2). Notice that he does not mention courage here11—an omission presaging his much later insistence that courage is unique as a part of virtue ‘completely different from all the rest’ (349d4–5).12 In making that later assertion, Protagoras offers Socrates evidence for it, explaining, ‘This is how you will know that I am speaking truly’, 349d5–6).13 The evidence he offers is that ‘you will find many people who are extremely unjust, impious, intemperate, and ignorant, and yet exceptionally courageous’ (349d6–8).14 Because

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15  Denyer (2008) notes that ‘Protagoras was said to have been the first to set up argumentative contests’, citing DK 80 A 1.52. 16  Nevertheless, Socrates is able to bring the reluctant sophist to continue to answer through the intervention of others present, a point to be considered in Section 4.

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and insofar as one can readily observe people who are ‘exceptionally courageous’ yet evidently lacking in the other virtues (including wisdom), it follows (he infers) that the parts of virtue cannot all be identical, nor even ‘reasonably close’ to one another. A fortiori, courage cannot be the same as wisdom. Protagoras had offered no special account of courage, either in its presence or its absence, in his earlier claim to teach a comprehensive virtue that can enable men to succeed in both private and public life. Now, however, he makes an empirical claim about courage that sets it apart from all the other parts of virtue. Yet he does not acknowledge the question that this empirical claim naturally raises, which is whether he can still claim to teach a comprehensive virtue if it is indeed the case (as he has now asserted) that courage is so different from wisdom and so from the kind of virtue that can, presumably, be taught. This leads us to a second way in which Protagoras’ status as a knower—as a wise person or expert—is shown to be wanting. We have seen that his claimed role as a uniquely qualified teacher of virtue is thrown into doubt by his own exclusion of courage from the purview of knowledge and so (on his view) of what can be taught, ergo, of what a teacher of virtue can actually teach. Moreover, he proves unable to sustain that self-image of himself as a uniquely qualified teacher of comprehensive virtue in response to Socratic elenctic questioning. Consider how Protagoras explains his resistance to Socrates’ request that he limit himself to giving brief replies to Socrates’ questions: ‘Socrates, I have had verbal contests with many people, and if I were to accede to your request and do as my opponent demanded, I would not be thought superior to anyone, nor would Protagoras be a name to be reckoned with among the Greeks’ (335a4–8).15 Protagoras wants his widely acknowledged superiority and renown to remain undisputed, insulated against any challenge. Once again, he does not want to confront the question of whether he genuinely possesses the knowledge that he claims and is reputed to possess—the very question that the Apology puts on the agenda for Socratic cross-examination.16 Ultimately this line of questioning—encompassing the ‘rule of knowledge’ discussion that we will consider in Section 4—allows Socrates to make Protagoras confront afresh the question of the relationship between wisdom and courage. Socrates asks whether ‘wisdom of what is and is not to be feared is courage’ (360d4–5). This he describes as a question in response to which Protagoras ‘would not even nod. . . he remained silent’ (360d6). Socrates then drives home that an affirmative answer to his question (required to keep Protagoras consistent with his immediately preceding answers) would imply the elenctic refutation of

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17 On the importance of the consistency between words and deeds in other aspects of the Protagoras, see Woolf (2002); on its importance elsewhere in Plato, see Lane (1998) on the Crito.

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Protagoras’ earlier assertion ‘that some men are extremely ignorant and yet still very courageous’ (as recapitulated by Socrates at 360e1–2, from Protagoras’ claim at 349d6–8). That is, Socrates brings Protagoras to the brink of seeing that he must acknowledge that he does not, in fact, know this assertion to hold true, though he had earlier confidently asserted it to be something he would say ‘speaking truly’ (349d5–6). This brings the sophist to the threshold of Socratic recognition of the limits of his knowledge. Yet he baulks in the very moment of recognition. He refuses to grant the admission freely, instead characterizing Socrates as making him answer only out of his ‘love of victory’, and himself as therefore offering the answer only to ‘gratify’ Socrates (360e3–5). In baulking at the elenctic conclusion, Protagoras forecloses the possibility of gaining the distinctive kind of human wisdom— consisting in recognizing that he does not know what he had taken himself to know—that it is designed to produce. Instead, his last speech is a rather comically evasive effort to save his dignity: he praises Socrates and insists that ‘we will examine these things later, whenever you wish’ (361e5–6, the equivalent of modern-day evasions such as ‘we must get together’ or ‘you must come round some time’), while resolutely remaining silent on the implications of the conversation that they have just concluded. Protagoras rebuffs the examination that for Socrates is the source of the kind of second-order cognitive insight into one’s limitations arising from testing one’s claim to possess knowledge of virtue. That dramatic focus on the missing extent of one’s purported knowledge (even though the extent that is missing recognized here only in the breach) is ultimately complemented by the positive account offered of the Rule of Knowledge, in which a second-order cognitive insight into what it would be to be a knower of virtue is given a full and substantive structure, as we will see in Section 4. Before that, however, it is worth noting briefly how a more direct dramatic exposure of a lack of implied self-knowledge—depicted as a lack of practical consistency between words and deeds—is effected in the dialogue for other participants, and in particular for Hippias. Protagoras’ refusal to respect the terms that Socrates wishes to set for their exchange (requiring brief answers to questions) occasions the other sophists and leading political men present to get involved. And this in turn occasions a ­dramatic exposé of their lack of self-knowledge in a practical sense: that of an unacknowledged lack of consistency between their words and their deeds.17 This is made visible in their acting to establish collective conventions, in contradiction to the superiority of phusis over nomos that Hippias expresses explicitly as a distinguishing sophistic claim. Here, the dialogue illustrates a lack of presumed knowledge—and so a failure of self-knowledge understood as a proper recognition

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18  This mirrors Alcibiades’ misunderstanding in the Symposium of Socrates as being motivated by competitive rivalry and desire for victory, on which see Lane (2007). 19  It does however chime with Protagoras’ own later accusation of Socrates’ interest in victory. 20  Denyer (2008) notes that logon didonai ‘had a standard sense in public administration’, though it was also used by Plato in an expanded phrase and as ‘more or less equivalent to dialegesthai’, in a ‘semi-technical sense. . . whereby it means discussing things according to Socrates’ preferred method of question-and-answer’. 21  In this he is supported by Prodicus, who in a lengthy speech suggests ‘that the two of you ought to debate the issues, but dispense with eristics’ (337a7–b1). In this case, the sophist’s proposal seems simply to illustrate his well-known characteristic teaching style and subject (logic-chopping) rather than to undermine it.

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of the extent of one’s knowledge—in the characters of the other sophists, alongside the portrait of this lack in Protagoras that we have already traced. Upon Protagoras’ resistance to Socrates’ request that he keep his answers brief, a number of men present at the gathering speak up to try to resolve the impasse preventing the discussion from going forward. Three of them are leading Athenian politicians—Callias, Alcibiades, and Critias, the latter two of whom would become notorious for acts threatening or overturning the democratic constitution—while Prodicus and Hippias are visiting teachers of rhetoric and other intellectual arts. Strikingly, all appeal in some way to ideas of equal right, political or intellectual accountability, and the value of continued debate—ideas at odds with the political activities or intellectual positions that many of them in actuality propounded. Callias at first defends Protagoras’ equal right ‘to conduct the discussion as he sees fit’ (336b4–6), asking Socrates simply to stay and continue on any terms. Alcibiades intervenes by turning the issue into a question of victory: ‘if Protagoras admits that he is Socrates’ inferior in dialectic, that should be enough for Socrates’ (336c2–4), implying that this would satisfy Socrates by giving him the victory in the argumentative contest.18 While this focus on victory is somewhat the odd man out among the interventions,19 Alcibiades goes on to articulate a sense in which accountability must still play a role. He recommends that if Protagoras is unwilling to concede his inferiority in that type of argument, then he should be made to ‘engage in a question-and-answer dialogue and not spin out a long speech every time he answers, fending off the issues because he doesn’t want to be accountable (didonai logon)’ (336c4–d1).20 Thus, while Alcibiades seems to take seriously the role of accountability to reason-giving in determining the victor of an argumentative dialogue, he construes this solely as a victory-seeking exercise. Finally Critias suggests that rather than taking partisan sides, ‘we should instead join in requesting them [Socrates and Protagoras] both not to break up our meeting prematurely’ (336e3–4)—undeniably ironic in view of Critias’ destructive (and doomed) treatment of democratic institutions under the Thirty.21 The appeals to equality and accountability woven through these interventions are not explicitly undermined within the text, though the dramatic irony is ­evident to readers knowing the details of their lives and larger views. However, the text does present a dramatic undermining of the claims made by Hippias, the

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4.  The Nature of a Self Ruled by Knowledge of Virtue: The ‘Rule of Knowledge’ in the Protagoras The exposé of the lack of self-knowledge of the assembled sophists constitutes a major part of the drama of the dialogue. It remains to show how the dialogue goes on to sketch out a more positive portrait of what true knowledge would be like, by 22  Hippias manifests a lack of self-knowledge in a second way as well. He calls the whole group of sophists the ‘wisest’ of the Greeks, a stance which again accords conventional equality to them (albeit to a limited number of men). Yet this presumably must contrast with the unique status that each of them must assert in order to sell his wares. While Hippias does not explicitly assert such a unique status, we saw earlier that Protagoras has done so for his own part.

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only one here made explicitly to invoke the distinction between phusis and nomos that many sophists defended. Hippias begins by addressing the company by saying, ‘I regard all of you here present as kinsmen, intimates, and fellow citizens (politas) by nature (phusei), not by convention (nomō)’ (337c7–d1), remarking that nomos ‘tyrannizes the human race’ (337d2). This privileging of nature (phusis) over convention (nomos) is however undermined by the proposal he then puts: ‘I. . . implore and counsel you, Protagoras and Socrates, to be reconciled and to compromise, under our arbitration, as it were, on some middle course’ (337e2–338a7), namely, to ‘choose a referee or moderator or supervisor who will monitor for you the length of your speeches’ (338a7–b1). What is dramatized here is the proud exponent of phusis enjoining the establishment of a conventional nomos to govern the proceedings. Hippias asserts a knowledge-claim—that nomos tyrannizes over the human race, in implicit contrast to phusis—but acts in a way that contradicts that very putative knowledge.22 He is happy in practice to set up new conventional rules to govern rhetorical speech-acts even while attacking nomos (in the most general of terms) as tyr­an­nic­al. In proposing this course of action, Hippias in his actions contradicts the particular kind of expert knowledge—of the nomos/phusis distinction, interpreted as meaning that nomos is arbitrary and tyrannical, compared to the genuine relationships of phusis—on which his particular reputation as a sophist depends. In the terms of the Apology, he shows that he does not truly have (insofar as he does not consistently act upon) the expertise that he claims to possess. This is because he sees no contradiction in asserting that phusis should be followed in place of the tyranny of nomos, while proposing to govern the company of sophists and politicians in conventional terms of nomos alone. While Protagoras fails to bring himself to acknowledge that he lacks the knowledge he claims to have, Hippias does not even seem to see that there is a failure of knowledge about himself that needs to be explained. Once again, we see dramatized a lack of the kind of understanding of the actual extent of one’s purported knowledge, of the very type that Socratic examination on the model presented in the Apology works to produce.

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Rule of Knowledge: someone who has knowledge that is relevant to guiding action will always and only act ‘as [that] knowledge commands’.24 Consider now the longer context of the passage in which Rule of Knowledge is asserted: Come now, Protagoras, and reveal this about your mind: What do you think about knowledge? Do you go along with the many (tois pollois) or not? The many (tois pollois) think that knowledge (epistēmēs) is neither strong (ischuron) nor fit to lead (hēgēmonikon) nor fit to rule (archikon); instead, [they think that] while knowledge is often present in a man it is not knowledge itself which rules (archein) but something else, whether anger, pleasure, pain, at times love, often fear—they think of his knowledge as if it is being dragged about by all these other things like a slave. Does it seem like that to you, or that knowledge (epistēmē) is something noble and such as to rule (archein) a man, and if someone were to know (gignōskē) the good and the bad, he would not be controlled (kratēthēnai) by anything to act other than as knowledge commands (epistēmē), 23  Here, while I partly follow Lombardo and Bell in Cooper (1997), my translation substantially modifies theirs. In particular, note that I translate ‘be controlled’ as opposed to Lombardo and Bell’s ‘be forced’ for the passive infinitive kratêthênai at 352c5, to comport with ‘control’ for kratein at 351e2. 24  Compare Moss (2014: 289), where she identifies a claim in the Protagoras that she dubs Intellect Rules and defines as follows: ‘No appetite or passion can overpower intellectual judgment (know­ ledge) of what is best.’ Moss may choose Intellect rather than Knowledge because, as she rightly observes (289 with n.10), ‘Socrates first puts this as a claim only about knowledge (352c3–6)’, but then introduces supposition (‘knows or supposes (oiomenos)’, in her translation—the sense of oiomai is that of thinking or supposing), at 358b7—an introduction that C. C. W. Taylor (1976) in his commentary ad loc. views as simply a mistake by Plato. However, I prefer Rule of Knowledge as the label because, this one mention of supposition notwithstanding, the emphasis throughout the passage is clearly on knowledge. Denyer (2008), on Prt. 352c3–4, points out that the view that knowledge alone was ‘stably and reliably correct’ was broadly shared and scarcely contested among classical Greek thinkers, and Moss herself returns to a focus on knowledge alone in asserting that ‘if only knowledge is stable, then only knowledge can be virtue, for those with true beliefs about the good may change their minds’ (2014: 289). For these reasons I continue to focus on the claim as made originally, in terms of ‘knowledge’.

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outlining the nature of a self who would be ruled by such knowledge, in Socrates’ description of the Rule of Knowledge. Toward the end of the Protagoras, Socrates obtains the eponymous sophist’s agreement to characterizing knowledge as ‘such as to rule a man (kai hoion archein tou anthrōpou)’ (352c3–4). He spells out this account of knowledge further by asking Protagoras whether he would agree that, ‘if someone were to know (gignōskē) the good and the bad, he would not be controlled (kratēthēnai) by anything to act other than as knowledge commands (epistēmē keleuē), and so know­ledge (phronēsin) would be sufficient to save a man?’ (352c4–7, trans. modified).23 Putting these claims together gives what I will summarize as the Rule of Knowledge claim:

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62  Melissa Lane and so knowledge (phronēsin) would be sufficient to save a man? (352a8–c7, trans. modified)25

25  In this longer excerpt also, while I again partly follow Lombardo and Bell in Cooper (1997), my translation substantially modifies theirs, with thanks to Raphael Woolf for suggesting the translations of ‘fit to lead’ and ‘fit to rule’ to bring out the –ikos endings. 26  Rule of Knowledge is stated first in terms of epistēmē and then in terms of phronēsis. Plato is not rigidly consistent in his use of varying terms for knowledge. Nevertheless, his willingness to redescribe epistēmē as phronēsis here seems significant, for the latter clearly involves the practical control of actions from which the former might seem more distanced (though it is hard to read these terms without an Aristotelian retrojection). Elsewhere, for example in the Statesman, Plato uses epistēmē and technē interchangeably. We will see below (this section) that Aristotle’s invocation of the Protagoras in his own discussion of akrasia also employs both epistēmē and phronēsis. 27  Indeed, it may be important that the claim here could not be transferred to the condition of being ruled by a surrogate philosopher-ruler, as in the Republic. Perhaps a neglected reason that the Protagoras here rules out what is standardly termed akrasia, while the Republic seems to admit its possibility (even if on the best construal, as I believe, it does not), is precisely that the Protagoras is considering rule by one’s own knowledge while the Republic is for the most part considering souls who need to be ruled by the reason and knowledge of another. I owe this reflection to discussion with M. M. McCabe. 28  The noun akrasia is not used in the Protagoras or anywhere else in Plato, though in pointing this out, Shields (2007: 64) neglects the fact that Plato does at least once use a cognate: this is used in the Republic to describe the birth of a child to a male guardian older or younger than those enjoined to reproduce for the community, a child born ‘through a dangerous incontinence (ἀκρατείας)’ (461b1, trans. modified; noted in Walsh (1980 [1971])).

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The beginning of this passage stresses knowledge’s capabilities: it is ‘strong’; it is ‘fit to lead’ and ‘fit to rule’, capable of ‘rule’ and of ‘command’. But the end of the passage goes further. It insists that someone who knows would always in fact be controlled by his knowledge, such that no other force will be able to coerce or control his action contrary to its dictates (‘he would not be controlled by anything to act other than as knowledge commands’).26 Notice two further aspects of this final part of the passage. First, that the knowledge in question is of ‘the good and the bad’, matching (while extending) the focus on ‘the fine and good’ in the Apology and on ‘virtue’ earlier in the Protagoras. And second, that the claim involves the ascription of that knowledge to the person in question himself or herself. This would exclude, say, his or her simply depending on a reliable and knowledgeable friend.27 The rule of knowledge is here presented as internal to a  person and as realized in commanding his actions with full consistency. Knowledge both motivates and does so in such a way that it cannot be overcome by any rival motivational force. It not only informs our dispositions, but also, through them, commands our actions. So understood, Socrates’ articulation of Rule of Knowledge stipulates that what Aristotle will designate as ‘akrasia’ must be ruled out.28 This is because Rule of Knowledge expresses the unity of the virtues governed by knowledge, meaning that knowledge implies the possession of the appropriate dispositions stably and reliably governing action, and hence the possession of all the other virtues. Notice that this unity is not dependent on any special psychology such as intellectualism,

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29  Compare Denyer (2008) on 352c4–6, arguing that Socrates in the Protagoras must be construed either as holding that knowledge is ‘as easily acquired as the many originally thought’, or that ‘know­ledge of good and bad demands something like the long and intense schooling of appetite, emotion, and intellect that the Republic prescribes for those who are to rule an ideal society’. I want to emphasize that the Rule of Knowledge claim itself embodies the practical dimension of knowledge in controlling action, without a need to appeal to any particular conception of psychology. 30  He says to Protagoras’ assent, ‘You speak finely and truly (kalōs ge. . . kai alēthē)’ (352d4, my translation; this phrase is often under-translated as merely conventional agreement). I owe this observation of the strength of Socrates’ endorsement of this claim to Hendrik Lorenz; notice how ‘truly’ echoes Protagoras’ own earlier claim to be ‘speaking truly’ at 349d5–6, and other appeals to truth by Socrates in the dialogue that would bear further consideration. Note also that while Protagoras can see that it behooves him, as a sophist whose social role involves the claim to teach knowledge, to agree to Rule of Knowledge, he is impatient with Socrates’ concern to diagnose why ‘the many’ reject it. This impatience leads Protagoras at least close to, if not absolutely to, yet another dramatic self-contradiction, insofar as he criticizes the erroneousness, credulousness, and whimsicality of the many’s opinions (352e3–4, 353a7–8; and see anticipation of this condescension to the many in the Great Speech at 317a4–6, with Denyer (2008) ad loc. on the connections among these passages)—a criticism at odds at least in spirit, if not in letter, with the social epistemology celebrating the epistemic capabilities of the many that had characterized his Great Speech. If the many do not broadly succeed in learning and teaching political virtue, Protagoras’ self-knowledge of his role as a sophist in a society committed to the view that virtue can be taught (and hence, can be bought in the form of sophistic teaching) is once again at risk of being thrown into doubt. 31  Jessica Moss argues that Socrates’ acceptance of hedonism in the Protagoras should be read not as conventional popular hedonism, but as ‘Socratic Hedonism’ (2014: 317), introduced ‘to hypothesize that all ends reduce to one, and thereby to salvage Intellectualism’ (2014: 291, capitalization original). She argues that Socratic Hedonism leads to endorsement of what she calls ‘Intellect Rules’ (equivalent to Rule of Knowledge in present parlance, as per above), and is formulated as such to defeat Protagoras’ particular attachment to multiple sources of human motivation. But she does not hold that ‘Intellect Rules’ could only be endorsed on the basis of hedonism; indeed, as she acknowledges, ‘[t]here are surely other ways to get there’ for Socrates (2014: 290). In my view, Rule of Knowledge has a Socratic pedigree that stands independently of its linkage in this particular dialogue to the issue of hedonism, and it is this view that the present section is attempting to vindicate. An alternative position, defended by George Rudebusch (2000), takes the measure doctrine to be a full account, without reference to the rule of knowledge context in which it is embedded.

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nor on the peculiar version of hedonism that Socrates is also developing throughout this section of the dialogue. Rather it is simply built into the structure of the Rule of Knowledge claim itself.29 Insofar as knowledge commands action, nothing else will succeed in controlling it instead. Rule of Knowledge means that one’s knowledge will appropriately, stably, and reliably control one’s actions. It both necessarily produces the right dispositions—the virtues—and necessarily translates them into action. The claim is that knowledge itself is inherently commanding, so that if one acts wrongly, that in itself is evidence that one failed to possess knowledge in the full and proper sense in which it would necessarily have ruled. While Socrates poses endorsement of Rule of Knowledge as a question to Protagoras, he responds unusually strongly to Protagoras’ acceptance of it.30 This has not precluded readers from doubting its status as a serious Socratic commitment. Sources of such doubt include the fact that it is introduced in the context of an examination of Protagoras’ views on ‘the good and the pleasant’, occasioned by his earlier claims about the special nature of courage; that it is developed in terms of a controversial conception of the ‘measuring art’ (metretikē technē) involving a  seeming Socratic commitment to a form of hedonism;31 and that it leads

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32 In other dialogues, of course, but also earlier in the Protagoras, in Socrates’ exposition of Simonides, in which the closely related claim is raised that ‘no one does wrong voluntarily’ (hēkōn, 345d8).

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ul­tim­ate­ly to the aporia about whether or not virtue is knowledge, and whether as knowledge it is teachable, in which the dialogue ends. These complications have led to a relative neglect of the Rule of Knowledge claim per se in favor of debates about hedonism and the final aporia. However, while a full consideration of how to interpret the metretikē technē and its relation to Rule of Knowledge is beyond the scope of this chapter, we should note that Socrates concludes his discussion of it by indicating that its precise content requires further inquiry (‘What exactly this art, this knowledge is, we can inquire into later’, 357b5–6). He highlights as sufficient for his present purposes merely the fact that ‘it is knowledge of some sort’ (357b6)—a claim that fits well with my emphasis on Rule of Knowledge as the important and enduring contribution of the passage. The seemingly stipulative quality of Rule of Knowledge’s exclusion of what Aristotle calls akrasia may make it uninteresting for modern philosophers whose concern is to vindicate and explain the possibility of akrasia, rather than to rule it out by definition. It is out of place in a post-Humean atmosphere, for sure. But stipulating that knowledge is inherently such as to rule—that it carries its own motivation with it, in being inherently disposed to deployment in action—is instructive for those whose primary concern is to understand the nature of knowledge in the very much non-Humean thought of Plato. For Socrates’ stipulative definition of knowledge as being ‘such as to rule’ in the Protagoras serves to give structure to the unity of the virtues thesis that he develops elsewhere. It does so by explaining that it is the fact that anyone who (himself or herself) knows will have his or her actions controlled by knowledge that explains its reliably consistent and virtuous control of action.32 It implies that such unity has been misconstrued by modern objectors who ask questions such as what kind of knowledge could possibly consistently impart courage. Such questions are misplaced precisely because knowledge in Rule of Knowledge is presented as inherently controlling action. Hence it follows that anyone’s possession of the specific know­ledge that is involved in, say, courage, will indeed consistently manifest itself in courageous actions. This is precisely the insight that Socrates will draw upon in using Rule of Knowledge to refute Protagoras’ earlier claim, now brought back under ­exam­in­ation, that ‘courage differs very much from all the other parts of virtue’ (as restated by Socrates at 359b2–4). He will invite the sophist to ‘conclude that cowardice is ignorance of what is and is not to be feared’ (360c6–7), and then to draw the inference that ‘wisdom about what is and is not to be feared is courage’ (360d4–5). These conclusions build on an earlier point at which Socrates had brought Protagoras to recognize that he can no longer agree to the suggestion

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Now we may ask what kind of right belief is possessed by the man who behaves incontinently (akrateuetai). That he should behave so when he has knowledge (epistamenon), some say is impossible; for it would be strange—so Socrates thought—if when knowledge (epistēmēs) was in a man something else could master it and ‘drag it about like a slave’.33 For Socrates was entirely opposed to the view in question, holding that there is no such thing as incontinence ­(akrasias); no one, he said, acts against the best—people act so only by reason of ig­nor­ance.’ (NE VII.2, 1145b21–27)34

For this reason, Aristotle’s discussion is often broadly positioned as vindicating the possibility of akrasia while presenting Socrates in the Protagoras as having denied it. But in fact, as he goes on to explore the seeming phenomenon of akrasia, 33  The Greek here is perielkein autēn hōsper andrapodon, exactly echoing that in the ‘rule of know­ ledge’ passage, which reads: hōsper peri andrapodou, perielkomenēs hupo tōn allōn hapantōn. This makes clear that Aristotle is engaging directly with the text of the Protagoras. 34  Translations of Aristotle are, unless otherwise noted, from Barnes (1984: vol. 2), modified here to render ‘act against the best’ as conforming more literally to the OCT Greek. The emphasis on the name of Socrates is in Barnes.

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that  ‘the cowardly, with full knowledge, are not willing to go toward the more honourable, the better, and the pleasant’ (360a4–5), because (as Protagoras puts it), ‘If we agree to that, we will undermine what we agreed on earlier’ (360a5–6). Now, at this later stage of the dialogue, Rule of Knowledge has stipulated that full know­ledge leads to appropriately virtuous action. And it has offered a structure that gives meaning to that stipulation: knowledge (the kind of knowledge that Socrates is talking about when he talks about the unity of the virtues) is inherently ‘commanding’. It is impossible for such knowledge, truly possessed, to be inert. Its nature is to rule. Support for understanding Rule of Knowledge in this way may be derived from considering how an early reader of the dialogue, Aristotle, interpreted it. For in his explicit allusion to the Rule of Knowledge claim, clearly verbally marked as referring to the Protagoras, he manifestly takes Socrates there to be committed to it. Moreover, he conducts his examination of the claim without regard to the issue of hedonism—supporting the present proposal that Rule of Knowledge can be separated from the context of hedonism. For Aristotle, to an extent that we have failed to appreciate, Rule of Knowledge is itself an important Socratic commitment: on his account of Socrates in (what is clearly quoted from and so indicated to be the Protagoras), it is knowledge itself that—by ruling—rules out akratic action. Famously, Aristotle sets up his discussion of akrasia by drawing a contrast between his own effort to explain the phenomenon, and a seeming effort by Socrates (in terms clearly referring to the Socrates of the Protagoras, at least) to have denied it. Consider a section of the Stagirite’s introductory remarks:

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66  Melissa Lane

for the affective state (to pathos) in question does not occur in the presence of (parousēs ginetai) what seems (dokousēs) to be knowledge (epistēmēs) in the ­primary sense (kuriōs)36—nor is it this kind of knowledge that is dragged about (perielketai)—but in the presence of the perceptual kind [the perceptual kind of knowledge, in a loose sense].  (NE VII.3, 1147b14–16)

Here I quote the translation of the received text of the manuscripts—including the words parousēs ginetai—that Sarah Broadie and Christopher Rowe provide in a footnote in their edition of the Nicomachean Ethics. This is not a translation that they themselves defend or print in the main body of their translation; instead, claiming that the received text ‘gives an unacceptable sense’, they in the main body of their translation accept and translate instead from a conjectured emend­ation— as do many other modern editors.37 However, I will argue that we can make good sense of the received text reading and so have grounds to conserve it, by understanding it in light of the Rule of Knowledge conception of the Protagoras that seems to be informing Aristotle’s own reading here. Broadie and Rowe’s objection to the received text is that ‘nothing in the account so far [given by Aristotle in Book VII] suggests that the affective state does not occur in the presence of the universal’ (note ad loc., p. 393 emphasis original). This is referring to a contrast that Aristotle has drawn in his own discussion of akrasia between knowledge of universals and what he calls (but must mean in a loose

35  A reconciliation of this and similar passages that stress ‘a strongly intellectualist idea of akrasia’, with others in which Aristotle appears to focus on weakness of will caused by desire, is offered by Destrée (2007), who argues that the sense of knowledge in the first group is different from that in the second. 36  Aristotle may be punning here by using an adverb that can also mean ‘ruling’ or ‘controlling’, in order to pick up on a later remark by Socrates in the Protagoras that the measuring art renders the power of appearances akuron (356d8)—hence reserving by implication the power of acting in a ruling way to itself. I owe this observation to Christopher Bobonich (2007: 54), who invokes the parallel use of the same word in the Crito, 50b4, where it refers to depriving the court’s judgement of its authoritativeness in determining ‘what actually happens’. 37  Broadie and Rowe (2002), as well as Barnes, read dokousēs periginetai (following a conjecture by Stewart) instead of parousēs ginetai, and so they translate very similarly to one another, but differently from me: Broadie and Rowe, in the main body of their translation: ‘for it is not what seems to be knowledge in the primary sense that the affective state in question overcomes’; Barnes: ‘for it is not what is thought to be knowledge proper that the passion overcomes’. I argue in the main text however that the received text can be meaningfully, and indeed illuminatingly, construed without requiring such emendation.

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Aristotle will eventually concede—in at least one passage—that Socrates seems to have been correct in asserting that the person who truly knows will never act akratically.35 He makes this concession in a nearby passage of the same discussion that would according to the manuscripts—accepted in the Oxford Classical Text ­edition—best be translated as follows:

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The ‘ Rule of Knowledge ’ in the Protagoras  67

38  This is not to assume that Aristotle always gets Socrates, or Plato, right; his discussions must be judged on a case-by-case basis. See Lane (2006) for a case in which (so I argue there) he gets Plato’s Socrates wrong, as to the meaning of Socratic eirōneia. 39  M. M. McCabe has asked whether it must be true that a condition of having knowledge ruling in this way in one’s soul is that we know that we have it. It does seem to me likely that within the Apology–Protagoras outlook that I am exploring, we should expect that someone who has knowledge of virtue would know that she knows it. So the claim here is not that it is necessary to know that one is ruled by knowledge, if one indeed is, but that it is at least possible to come to know what it would be like so to be ruled. 40  This is a point made by Johnstone (2009); see also Evans (2010: 8), who identifies one of the three premises of what he calls the ‘Knowledge’ argument of the Protagoras as the ‘cognitive unity of the knowledgeable agent’. More generally, a number of influential authors interpret the thesis that no one does wrong voluntarily—which is one of the Platonic claims standardly read as a denial of akrasia—as fundamentally upholding the unity of the agent, as a concern in the Republic (Korsgaard 1999, 2009; Pettit 2003) and, more rarely, as a common concern across the Protagoras and the corpus as a whole (Shields 2007). While agreeing with this broad approach, mine differs in focusing on the indispensable role of the rule of knowledge in establishing such unity (and differs from Shields in particular by treating a wider stretch of text in the Protagoras). Pettit’s remark that akrasia is a ‘constitutional disorder’ (2003: 69) points in a similar direction.

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sense) knowledge of perceived particulars. While this distinction does play a role in Aristotle’s broader explanation, however, it need not be the issue here. Rather, ‘knowledge in the primary sense’ can be understood in light of the earlier Protagoras back-reference to refer precisely to the Rule of Knowledge. That is, the relevant characteristic of ‘knowledge in the primary sense’ is precisely and inherently to be commanding, such that it cannot be overcome by any pathos.38 If this is the point at issue, then the received text makes excellent sense. The real question is the nature of knowledge, which is foreign to a post-Humean conception in its intrinsic incorporation of success in determining actions. Aristotle is here presenting an account of what knowledge is like, one that Socrates in the Protagoras also presents. To learn that knowledge is commanding, is to learn about oneself as about anyone else, that when one possesses ­know­ledge, one will be ruled by it.39 Indeed, the unity, even the identity, of the agent’s self rests on her being properly ruled by knowledge. The absence of rule of know­ledge is an absence of that kind of proper rule.40 By dramatizing that the Rule of Knowledge excludes the possibility of being ruled by anything else, the Protagoras—as Aristotle sees—brings out the significance of knowledge being such as to rule, a point that is not developed so vividly in any other dialogue presupposing the unity of the virtues. Put in other words, if one were to come to know the (ruling) nature of know­ledge as Socrates proposes it here, one would come to know something about one’s self as indeed about any self: about how a fully knowing and so virtuous self would act. This would be the positive counterpart to the negative lack (the grasp of the extent to which one does not know what one purported to know) portrayed as achieved by examination in the Apology. It would be a form of knowledge about the self as a knower that stands apart from post-Humean, as from post-Cartesian, expectations. In knowing that a knowing self would necessarily be controlled by

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68  Melissa Lane the knowledge of virtue that she possesses, one would know what it would be to be a virtuous agent. For Plato, there could be nothing more valuably akin to ­‘self-knowledge’ than that.41

Barnes, Jonathan, The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation, 2 vols. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984). Benson, Hugh, Socratic Wisdom: The Model of Knowledge in Plato’s Early Dialogues (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). Bobonich, Christopher, ‘Plato on Akrasia and Knowing your Own Mind’. In Akrasia in Greek Philosophy: From Socrates to Plotinus edited by Christopher Bobonich and Pierre Destreé (Brill: Leiden and Boston, 2007) 41–60. Broadie, Sarah (philosophical introduction and commentary) and Rowe, Christopher (translation with historical introduction), Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics: Translation, Introduction, and Commentary. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). Burnyeat, Myles, ‘Idealism and Greek Philosophy: What Descartes Saw and Berkeley Missed’, Philosophical Review 41 (1982), 3–40. Burnyeat, Myles, ‘Episteme’. In Episteme, etc.: Essays in Honour of Jonathan Barnes, edited by Ben Morison and Katerina Ieradiakonou (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) 1–29. Chae, Yung In, ‘The Classical Emergence of Examination’. Senior thesis presented to the Department of Classics, Princeton University, 2015. Unpublished; on deposit with Princeton University Library. Cooper, John M. (ed.), Plato: Complete Works (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1997). Denyer, Nicholas (ed.), Plato: Protagoras (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). Destrée, Pierre. ‘Aristotle on the Causes of Akrasia’. In Akrasia in Greek Philosophy: From Socrates to Plotinus edited by Christopher Bobonich and Pierre Destrée (Brill: Leiden and Boston, 2007) 139–65. Doyle, James, ‘Socrates and the Oracle’, Ancient Philosophy 24 (2004), 19–36. 41  This is a much revised version of a chapter that has gone through various titles. A first version was written for the Keeling Symposium on Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy, University College London, November 2009, where it was insightfully commented upon by Miriam Leonard. Despite the shadow cast by Bob Sharples’ absence due to his terminal illness, the discussion at the symposium was stimulating and helpful. Subsequent versions of the chapter received useful challenge from audiences (and commentators, listed in parentheses below) at Columbia (Melissa Schwartzberg); Stanford (Phillip Horky); and Harvard (Matthew Landauer). Nicholas Denyer, Mark Johnstone, Fiona Leigh, Hendrik Lorenz, Victoria McGeer, and to an especially heroic extent James Doyle, M. M. McCabe, Jonny Thakkar and Katja Vogt, offered valuable comments on diverse previous drafts, while Philip Pettit and Raphael Woolf did so in general conversation. I am grateful to Fiona Leigh for steering the chapter through the editorial process.

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References

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References  69 Evans, Matthew, ‘A Partisan’s Guide to Socratic Intellectualism’. In Desire, Practical Reason, and the Good, edited by Sergio Tenenbaum (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) 6–33.

Gill, Christopher, The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). Gill, Christopher, Personality in Greek Epic, Tragedy, and Philosophy: The Self in Dialogue (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996). Johnstone, Mark A. ‘Tripartition and the Rule of the Soul in Plato’s Republic’, Ph.D. dissertation in the Department of Philosophy, Princeton University, 2009. Korsgaard, Christine M. ‘Self-Constitution in the Ethics of Plato and Kant’, The Journal of Ethics 3 (1999), 1–29. Korsgaard, Christine  M., Self-Constitution: Agency, Identity, and Integrity, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). Lane, Melissa, ‘Virtue and the Love of Knowledge in Plato’s Symposium and Republic’. In Maieusis: Essays on Ancient Philosophy in Honour of Myles Burnyeat edited by Dominic Scott (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) 44–67. Lane, Melissa, ‘The Evolution of Eirôneia in Classical Greek Texts: Why Socratic Eirôneia Is Not Socratic Irony’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 31 (2006), 49–83. Lane, Melissa, ‘Argument and Agreement in Plato’s Crito’, History of Political Thought 19, 3 (1998), 313–30. McPherran, Mark, ‘Elenctic Interpretation and the Delphic Oracle’. In Does Socrates Have a Method? Rethinking the Elenchus in Plato’s Dialogues and Beyond edited by Gary Alan Scott (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2002)114–44. Moran, Richard, Authority and Estrangement: An Essay on Self-Knowledge, (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001). Moss, Jessica, ‘Hedonism and the Divided Soul in Plato’s Protagoras’, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 96 (2014), 285–319. Pettit, Philip, ‘Akrasia, Collective and Individual’. In Weakness of Will and Practical Irrationality edited by Sarah Stroud and Christine Tappolet (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) 68–95. Rowett, Catherine, ‘Relativism in Plato’s Protagoras’. In Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy edited by Verity Harte and Melissa Lane (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) 191–211. Rudebusch, George, Socrates, Pleasure, and Value (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). Shields, Christopher, ‘Unified Agency and Akrasia in Plato’s Republic’. In Akrasia in Greek Philosophy: From Socrates to Plotinus edited by Christopher Bobonich and Pierre Destrée (Brill: Leiden and Boston, 2007) 61–86.

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Gertler, Brie, ‘Self-Knowledge’ entry, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2017) https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/self-knowledge/.

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70  Melissa Lane Sørensen, Anders Dahl, ‘Expertise on the Pnyx? Plato on Democracy and Political Technē’. Ph.D. dissertation, Humboldt-Universitat zu Berlin, 2014.

Taylor, C. C. W. (trans. and ed.), Protagoras: Plato. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976). Vogt, Katja Maria, Belief and Truth: A Skeptic Reading of Plato (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Walsh, James  J. ‘The Socratic Denial of Akrasia’. In The Philosophy of Socrates: A Collection of Critical Essays edited by Gregory Vlastos (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980 [1971]) 235–63. Woolf, Raphael, ‘Consistency and Akrasia in Plato’s Protagoras’, Phronesis 47 (2002), 224–52. Woolf, Raphael, ‘Socratic Authority’, Archiv für Geschicte der Philosophie, 90 (2008), 1–38 (reprinted in Ancient Philosophy of the Self edited by Pauliina Remes and Juha Sihvola (Berlin: Springer) 77–107).

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Tarrant, Harold, ‘Elenchos and Exetasis: Capturing the Purpose of Socratic Interrogation’. In Does Socrates Have a Method? Rethinking the Elenchus in Plato’s Dialogues and Beyond edited by Gary Alan Scott (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2002) 61–77.

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3

Aryeh Kosman

It’s out of the question, Critias assures Socrates in the middle of the Charmides, that someone should act temperately, that is, act with self-control, and yet not know of himself that that’s what he’s doing, not, in other words, be aware of himself as someone acting temperately or being temperate. Critias’ assurance comes as a response to a concern that Socrates has just expressed. Socrates is troubled that the account given by Critias of sōphrosunē—temperance—as a virtue that consists in the doing of what is right—hē tōn agathōn praxis—has this consequence, perhaps unintended, but nonetheless distressing: it allows for someone’s behaving temperately—doing what’s right—without being aware that that’s what he’s doing. Someone might, Socrates says, act temperately and be temperate—‘praxas prattei men sōphronōs kai sōphronei’—and yet be ignorant about himself that he’s being temperate—‘agnoei d’ heauton hoti sōphronei’. ‘No way,’ Critias responds. ‘If that were to follow from the account I’ve offered, I would give up the account’ (164c).1 What makes Critias so certain that a proper account of sōphrosunē reveals the impossibility of acting temperately while not knowing that one is doing so? If we had only this piece of dialogue, we might imagine that he thinks self-awareness is a requirement of temperance being a virtue. Perhaps he thinks that it’s not sufficient for attributing a virtue to an agent that the agent perform the act and that it be of a certain sort; an agent who can be said to act virtuously, as Aristotle will make explicit, must know what she’s doing (Nicomachean Ethics, 2.4 1105a). While it’s reasonable to think that Plato would agree with such a view, and reasonable to suppose that he may wish to intimate it as a subtext of Critias’ remark, it’s not clear that the awareness required for an act to be virtuous is what Critias has in mind. For an agent knowing what she’s doing in the case of such a requirement is not so much an instance of what we think of as self-awareness; it’s rather an instance of acting in full awareness, awareness, that is, of one’s actions, but not of oneself as thus acting. 1  This work was previously published in VIRTUES OF THOUGHT: ESSAYS ON PLATO AND ARISTOTLE by Aryeh Kosman, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Copyright © 2014 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Aryeh Kosman, Self-Knowledge and Self-Control in Plato’s Charmides In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Aryeh Kosman. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0003

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Self-Knowledge and Self-Control in Plato’s Charmides

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72  Aryeh Kosman

Forget everything that’s gone before; I want to abandon all the previous argument and concentrate on a single simple assertion. Here’s what’s true: sōphrosunē is someone knowing himself: to gignōskein auton heauton. (165b)

Critias now offers knowing oneself as a definition of sōphrosunē, and not merely knowing what one is up to nor merely knowing oneself to be temperate, sōphrōn. So Critias’ underscoring ought to lead us to think that the difference is even more than we had at first imagined. It’s one thing to know of myself that I am doing what a temperate person, a sōphrōn does, and another to know myself to be temperate, sōphrōn, and yet another simply to know myself.

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And as the dialogue continues, it becomes clear that virtue per se is not what Critias has in mind. For his attention, as we immediately discover, is focused not on virtue in general, but specifically on sōphrosunē. ‘I would sooner say I was wrong’, Critias continues, ‘than at any time admit that someone ignorant of himself might be acting temperately’: an agnoounta auton heauton anthrōpon sōphronein. That’s virtually, he goes on to say, the very thing temperance is, to gignōskein heauton: self-knowledge. Think of what’s inscribed at Delphi: gnōthi sauton— know yourself; that’s sōphrosunē (164d–165a). So it’s on the basis of an essential feature of this specific virtue that Critias rests his argument. It’s also on this account, as we’ll shortly see, that Socrates concludes that sōphrosunē involves, on Critias’ understanding, knowing something, and in a moment we’ll see what Socrates makes of that fact. But first note the change in the understanding of self-knowledge that has occurred in this small span of argument. What Critias initially finds implausible (164c) is that someone should act temperately without self-knowledge in a very specific sense: she does not know of herself that she is acting temperately. But what he then insists on (164d) is the impossibility of someone being temperate without self-knowledge in a less qualified sense: a person can’t be temperate if she lacks knowledge of herself tout court, above all (though perhaps not exclusively?) knowledge that she is temperate. This change may be merely stylistic, or it may at most signal the difference between self-knowledge considered episodically and self-knowledge considered more generally. On the one hand, I may be said to know myself when I know that at this moment I’m acting out a fear of exposure, or am about to be overcome by a moment of painful self-consciousness; on the other, I may be said to know myself because I have a broad and general sense of my likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, erotic and culinary tastes, propensities for one type of behaviour or for one type of coffee over another, and so on. But this is not a negligible difference; we may be able to imagine how to translate from one form of self-knowledge to the other, but there is a difference. And it’s a difference that Critias underscores by the end of the paragraph, in making clear that it is the latter sense of self-knowing that he has in mind:

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2  J. David Velleman Self to Self, 2006.

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Consider now the argument’s next move starting at 165c. If, Socrates says sōphrosunē is in fact an instance of knowing something, it must involve some kind of skill or understanding, some epistēmē, and it must be the skillful understanding of something; right? ‘Indeed it is,’ replies Critias, ‘of the self: heautou ge’. So what here emerges under the recondite description ‘the self ’ must be a fairly robust object of knowledge, for it’s the object of a dispositional understanding of the sort enjoyed by those who can be generally said to understand the world, that is to say, the object of an epistēmē. As medicine is a science of health—epistēmē hugieinou—so sōphrosunē is a science of the self—epistēmē heautou (165d). And that knowledge and its object have emerged from the rather more modest fact of an agent being aware that what she’s up to involves acting with moderation or self-control, that is, being aware of what she’s doing as an act of temperance. The thought that temperance is an awareness of what I’m about has segued into the thought that it is a science or understanding of the self: an epistēmē heautou. We may feel a need to somehow warrant this move the argument has made from knowing what I’m doing to a more extensive knowing the self. But that feeling may be eclipsed by the sense of a philosophical finding, the sense of having ­dis­covered the pathway to our concept of the self. It’s just that pathway for which Sartre argues in an early essay, The Transcendence of the Ego. There, and more elaborately in his Being and Nothingness, Sartre argues that it is out of moments of self-consciousness, moments when we become aware of our conscious states as objects, that we construct the ego as a transcendent object. This theory is not original with Sartre, but has roots at least as far back as Husserl and Brentano, and many philosophers have found quite respectable this segue from episodic selfawareness to a robust theory of what Sartre calls a transcendent ego. By ‘transcendent’ Sartre means something different from what many of us in a different lexical tradition might understand. He means ‘in the world as an object of our experience.’ For Sartre the ‘I’ is not figured as a transcendental ego, not, that is, as a self that lies behind experience. He attributes such a notion of a self that lies behind experience to a false Husserlian reading of Kant. Instead, Sartre understands the self as transcendent, that is, as an object of our experience, an analogue of virtual subjectivity. Such a self is revealed in and constructed out of moments of self-conscious reflection, moments like what David Velleman, speaking from a different discursive tradition, calls presentations in reflexive guise.2 So perhaps Critias’ move from an episodic self-consciousness secundum quid to a robust awareness of the self simpliciter represents a model for the move by which we acquire a concept of the self; it therefore represents at least a thread of continuity in our understanding of sōphrosunē as self-knowledge. But let’s put this question aside and follow the argument of the Charmides further.

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74  Aryeh Kosman

3  I use the term ‘objective intentionality’ rather than simply ‘intentionality’ precisely because I mean to direct attention away from the formal features of an intentional state to what is true of it by virtue simply of it having an object, and thus to bring out the dependence of intentional states upon their intended objects. Descartes is the modern philosopher who perhaps most famously uses this notion of the objective, which he inherits from its highly developed medieval usage. In the Preface to the Meditations he points out to the reader that the term idea is equivocal, for, as he puts it, it can be

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Socrates proceeds to ask Critias a series of questions based on this definition of sōphrosunē as ‘an understanding of one’s self ’—epistēmē heautou. The first of these questions asks: if sōphrosunē is a kind of skilled understanding, an epistēmē, what is its ergon? That is, what is it that this skilled understanding enables you to do? The science of medicine enables someone to produce health, which is therefore its ergon; carpentry—knowing how to build something—enables someone to produce, say a house, which is therefore its ergon. So what is it that sōphrosunē enables one to produce? (165d). That’s not a good question, Critias responds, for it supposes that all skills are alike. It supposes specifically that all involve the ability to produce something. But clearly that’s not true; for example, what does geometry produce? (165e). Socrates recognizes this reply to be a strong one, but it is one for which he has a counter-reply ready to hand. It’s true, Socrates responds, that geometry does not produce anything in the way that medicine engenders health. But geometry is not therefore without an ergon, because even geometry is of or is about something, something that is distinct from it. In this way, Socrates now asks Critias, what distinct thing is it that the knowledge or understanding that you say sōphrosunē is, is a knowledge or understanding of ? What is it about? (166b). This is a critical moment in the dialogue. In asking Critias to specify what this knowledge—the knowledge that sōphrosunē has been proposed to be—is the knowledge of, Socrates directs our attention to a feature of the cognitive that has been present in the dialogue until now, but unmarked. For until this moment, the dialogue has attended to what we might term formal features of sōphrosunē and the psychic conditions offered by way of its analysis. What Socrates’ question highlights is the ubiquitous but unmentioned fact of the intentionality of these states; it highlights the fact that a feature of sōphrosunē consistently alluded to concerns whether it constitutes, for example, knowledge of the good. Particularly since the dialogue’s turn to a discussion of the cognitive dimension of sōphrosunē, this feature is a critical feature that has remained, so to speak, in the dialogue’s unconscious, masked by an attention to formal features of the virtue. Socrates’ question brings into the open this question of intentionality, that is, of aboutness. Note that this question is a recognizable Socratic question. It is a question that exposes, to be sure, the complexity of our notions of understanding; but more importantly it is a question that invokes, as I’ve suggested, the objective intentionality that understanding shares with other concepts. By ‘objective intentionality’ I mean to designate the characteristic of things insofar as they are directed toward an object that they are of or are about.3

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understood materialiter, in a material sense, for any act of the intellect, or objective, in an objective sense, for the thing which that act represents, that is, the thing that the idea is an idea of, a thing that may or may not, as he immediately points out, exist outside the intellect. Ideas are by their nature objective, that is, they’re of something. In the Third Meditation, this fact is critical to Descartes’ ex­plor­ation of  our understanding of God, and therefore critical to his account of our subjective experience of the  world. See also G.  E.  M.  Anscombe, ‘The Intentionality of Sensation—A Grammatical Feature’, 158–68.

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The objectively intentional in this sense is a frequent topos in Plato. Think of the conversations early in the Gorgias on rhetoric, conversations in which Socrates insists that Gorgias be able to specify what rhetorical discourse is about (449d, 454a). Or recall the conversation in the Symposium between Socrates and Agathon about that feature of love revealed in the fact that love is always tinos—of something (199e). These conversations concern the objective intentionality of rhetoric and love; rhetoric and love are both—each in its way—directed toward an object, which object they are of or about. The intentionality that I mean to draw attention to is therefore not confined to the cognitive; it’s a feature of many affective as well as cognitive states, and it’s a feature of practices and modes of discourse like rhetoric that are cognitively based. So at this moment in the dialogue, Socrates asks Critias: given the objective intentionality of epistēmē, if you’re right that sōphrosunē is an epistēmē, what is it an epistēmē of or about? What is its distinct object? For even if it is correct that not every instance of understanding is productive, so that there may be no answer to the question, ‘what product does sōphrosunē produce?’ there should at least be an answer to the question, ‘what distinct object is sōphrosunē an understanding of ?’ (166b). Given the argument that has just preceded this question, surely Critias should be expected to have an answer ready to hand. For as we have just learned, in so far as sōphrosunē can be thought to be a kind of understanding, it is an understanding of the self. Indeed, we might wonder, why didn’t Critias offer this response earlier, in answer to Socrates’ inquiry into the ergon of sōphrosunē? Why didn’t he reply that this is what sōphrosunē produces: a robust but appropriate self. In any case, when Socrates now asks, what is this understanding an understanding of ? Critias might be expected to repeat his description of but a moment earlier. Recall that Socrates had posed this implicit question: you say that this is an epistēmē and that it’s tinos—of something? To which Critias replied: That’s right: heautou ge—of the self (165c). Now Critias could simply repeat this account of what sōphrosunē is about; it is about the self: heautou ge. But look at his actual response. Once again, Critias charges Socrates with imagining that sōphrosunē is like all the other sciences. And now adds: it’s different from them, for all the other sciences are of some other object and not of themselves, whereas this science alone is both of other sciences and is itself also of itself—kai autē heautēs (166c). It may take us a moment to realize what’s odd about Critias’ surprising reply, but only a moment. For then we come to hear the subtle but unmistakable shift from epistēmē heautou to epistēmē heautēs—from, for instance, Schwarzenegger’s

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4  The term ‘Pauline Predication’ is usually associated with Gregory Vlastos, but is in fact the invention of Sandra Peterson Wallace; see Vlastos ‘The Unity of the Virtues’, 257, fn. 88.

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understanding of himself—analogous to his love of himself or his fear of ­himself—to the understanding of understanding, an understanding that is of itself—analogous to the love of love or the fear of fear (the only fear one needs to have, as some of us may recall). These modes of understanding, clearly distinguished in Greek, may both be represented by the English self-understanding, in which case the distinction requires being uncovered. But more often translations give us the difference between ‘the understanding of oneself ’ and ‘the understanding of itself ’ in which case the distinction can be clearly heard. And once heard, it makes clear what is dicey about the move in Critias’ reasoning. If I love myself, it doesn’t follow that my love loves itself; self-criticism need not criticize itself, nor need self-abuse abuse itself. So if the sōphrōn understands himself, why should we then imagine that his self-understanding must understand itself? Perhaps the segue can be made more innocuous by seeing it as merely a ­version of (what is somewhat oddly termed) Pauline predication: just as ‘love is patient’ may mean that those who love are patient, so ‘self-love loves itself ’ may mean merely that the self-lover loves himself.4 And just so, ‘self-knowing knows itself ’ may signify merely that the self-knower knows himself. The reflexivity of the subject—‘Schwarzenegger loves himself ’—is replaced by a reflexivity of the predicate’s nominalization—‘Schwarzenegger’s love loves itself ’—the latter can therefore be parsed in terms of the former. But the segue remains disturbing. Whatever theories of Pauline predication may do to reassure us at the logical level, at the rhetorical level (or perhaps just below) something troubling has occurred. Of course we realize that the phrase understanding of understanding normally signifies someone’s understanding of understanding, and that this in turn means simply that someone understands something. But discursively something has happened in a text whose focus has shifted from speaking of someone understanding something to speaking of understanding understanding something. Talk that was of the subject and only secondarily of the subject’s understanding has been turned topsy-turvy; attention is now centered primarily upon the understanding. Perhaps what occurs at this moment of the dialogue is something like a ­cor­rect­ive response to the shift we noted earlier, the shift that led from knowing oneself to a theory of the self, what we might describe as a shift from a reflexive self to a reified self. (Think of the difference between self-love and narcissism, the ­difference between Jane loving herself and Jane loving her self.) Now at just the moment when Critias might invoke this self as the object of an understanding that governs a temperate life, we witness a return of the repressed reflexive. But now the reflexive in a purely impersonal (and most zany) form; here, as though the self-lover’s love were imagined, as if by sympathetic attraction, to love itself, just so does the self-knower’s knowledge know itself.

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As we read on, we soon see that this deference of the knower to her knowledge is not casual and not without its trace of regret. For after an extended discussion of how we are to understand reflexivity, a discussion to which we’ll return in a moment, Critias reassures Socrates that they are indeed upon the right path. He does this by invoking an inference that is the converse of the one we’ve just discussed, and which is, if possible, even zanier: someone, he says, possessing a knowledge that knows itself will himself (autos) be like the knowledge he possesses and will thereby know himself (169e). Just as someone who has speed is speedy, or someone who has beauty beautiful, or someone who has knowledge knowing, so someone who has self-knowledge will be self-knowing, that is to say, someone who has a knowledge that knows itself will be a knower who knows himself. It’s a witty inference, though it’s not too difficult to see what’s problematic about it. But set aside the question of whether it’s valid; allow that the inference might be one of the corps of wanton inferences that Plato so effectively uses in the course of his philosophical dramas. Here I want to draw attention to the fact that it is used a) to re-introduce the knower to centre stage, to re-invigorate his focal centrality in the discourse of self-understanding, and at the same time, b) to play a role in the re-emergence of the reflexive. That re-emergence, I suggest, is meant to generate in us once again the thought that talk of the self, as its very name suggests, has its home in reflexive constructions. And if the inference is troublesome, it may be because of the tension between the intentionality that Socrates has earl­ier exposed and the reflexivity that here surfaces. For in the one case, that of intentionality, consciousness reaches outward toward the world, which it is said to be about or of; in the other case, that of reflexivity, it turns inward toward the recesses of the self, whose very reflection it there captures. So we encounter an array of cognitive states in the course of Critias’ argument at the centre of the Charmides. Beginning with the knowledge that an agent has of himself in the course of a specific activity or mode of activity, the conversation moves to a more general sense of reflexive self-knowledge, and from that to the knowledge we may be said to have of the self as a substantive object. Talk of that general sense of reflexive self-knowledge and of a knowledge that can be thought to have the self as an independent object leads to the consideration of a rather different state, an understanding that itself is of itself: a self-knowing that knows itself. The conversation finally moves back to the personal reflexive via the inference (whether licit or not) from one sense of self-understanding to another (169e). I’ve suggested that the larger dialectic of the conversation, as it moves from the reflexivity of the knower to that of knowledge and back, serves to enforce the connection between the self of reflexivity and the reified self, as well as the priority of the former to the latter. At the same time, it reminds us of the intentionality of these modes of knowledge; if self-understanding is a form of understanding, then the fact of its intentionality is always real, an intentionality that, as we are about to see, makes problematic the reflexivity that introduces it.

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Now I propose that we look for a moment at the dialogue’s discussion of reflexivity, because I think that doing so will shed light on the dialectic we’ve noted—the dialectic that embraces self-knowledge secundum quid, self-knowledge in general, the self ’s knowledge of its own ‘reified self,’ and the self-knowledge that is as it were itself of itself. To do this, we’ll need to look briefly at the discussion that occurs between the first introduction of reflexivity (164d) and its subsequent reappearance (169e). Then I’ll ask us to take another excursion, this time into thinking about a question whose striking absence from the Charmides might surprise us, the question of self-control. Between the passages that I’ve suggested mark the force of the reflexive in Plato’s imagination, witnessed by its initial presence and subsequent re-emergence, Socrates invokes a series of familiar paradoxes that attend the notion of reflexivity. They show that the very notion of a knowledge that is of itself and of other instances of knowledge is a very strange notion (atopos) (167c). He begins by listing a series of activities objectively intentional (in the sense I indicated earl­ier) where it seems obvious that the activity is directed ‘outward’ toward its appropriate and alien object, and not ‘inward’ toward itself or other activities like it. These activities, in other words, are activities in which intentionality makes awkward any thought of the activity being reflexive. Sight, hearing, and perception in general, desire, purpose, fear, love: these are all directed toward their appropriate objects and not toward themselves. Indeed, if hearing were to hear itself, it would have to have a sound, and seeing similarly would have to have a colour. But how weird is that? And how purposeless? Given our sense of what hearing and sight are good for, a sense revealed by our coming to understand what they are of or about, it becomes unclear what purpose such reflexive hearing and sight might serve. What we need, Socrates urges, is an adequate explanation of the phenomenon of reflexivity in light of the requirements of intentionality; how is it possible that faculties might apply to themselves, and which of them might, and what would the good of them be? And for this, he says, we’re in need of megalou tinos andros, some great man, someone who could explain how seeing could be of seeing without making itself, as that which it sees, coloured, or hearing of hearing without making itself a sound, and who could explain for us what good there would be in such self-regarding moments in the annals of activities that are essentially other-regarding (169a). The need for a ‘great man’ who could thus reconcile for us intentionality and reflexivity may not seem as pressing as the need remarked on in the Phaedo for a charmer who can exorcise the fear of death (78a). But we may find it notable that in this dialogue death is repeatedly figured as a disintegration and a consequent loss of self, the very self that we might take Echecrates’ opening intensifier to invoke: ‘autos ō Phaidōn, you yourself, Phaedo, were you there with Socrates that day?’ And to which Phaedo refers in his answer: ‘autos; I was there myself ’ (57a). And if we recall how close this issue of reflexivity is, in another context, to the

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Temperance is surely a kind of order, I said, and the mastery of certain pleasures and desires, as people indicate when they use the phrase—I don’t know in what sense—‘being in control of oneself ’—kosmos pou tis, ēn d’egō, hē sōphrosunē estin kai hēdonōn tinōn kai epithumōn enkrateia, hōs phasi kreittō dē hautou apophainontes, ouk oid’hontina tropon. (Republic 430e)

This account of sōphrosunē as the control—enkrateia—of pleasures and desires and explicitly as the condition someone is in when in control of himself—kreittō dē hautou—is interesting for several reasons. In describing the virtue of sōphrosunē as the condition of an agent in control of himself, the argument reaffirms— independent of its shift from the operative activity of knowledge to that of control— the central role reflexivity plays in our dialogue’s argument. But the description will be surprising to anyone who has read Aristotle. For Aristotle the distinction between enkrateia and sōphrosunē is of considerable

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aptly named question of self-predication—How can the large be large without being one of the large things?—we can see why the question is a pressing one (Parmenides 132a). And surely it is pressing in any case; for what has been called into question is that deeply Socratic aspiration to self-knowledge. But Socrates, in response to Critias’ perplexity—a perplexity that he describes as infectious like yawns of the mind—concedes to Critias the issue, and turns away, in order that he might lead the conversation in another direction (169c). And if Socrates can turn, so can we, at least for the moment. So I propose that we attend to a different question, one that might have occurred to us earlier: why is this dialogue, ostensibly devoted to a discussion of sōphrosunē, concerned with the question of epistēmē at all? I propose to follow out this question in a direction that will at first not seem connected to what we have been talking about up until now. Our discussion began by my remarking upon Critias’ supposition that selfknowledge is a necessary component of sōphrosunē. Critias is not alone in that supposition; recall the facility with which sōphrosunē is identified with selfknowledge in the Alcibiades (131b, 133c). But we might wonder why this is so; why is our dialogue so centrally concerned with issues of cognition? For think how the discussion of epistēmē can obscure the common identification of sōphrosunē as a virtue of self-control or self-mastery, or as a virtue of moderation in the enjoyment of pleasure—involving, to be sure, but hardly essentially concerned with cognition. The virtue of sōphrosunē, in other words, is not obviously, and perhaps only mediately, a virtue that involves self-knowledge. It concerns, as we know from the conversation in the Republic, as well as from Aristotle’s extended discussion of the virtue, a person’s ability to act so as to be in control of himself or master of himself, particularly in his relation to pleasure. The fact that sōphrosunē is essentially concerned with self-control is made explicit in Socrates’ description in the Republic:

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The vacillation we experience between control and lack of control, enkrateia and akrasia, reflects an instability in our emotional life, in our capacity to respond, so that, to quote T.  S.  Eliot, ‘Between the emotion and the response/Falls the shadow’. Sophrosune, traditionally translated into English as ‘temperance’, reflects, by contrast, a flourishing sensibility the directions of whose attention dominate consciousness, so that there is no longer any inner conflict with the contrary inclinations that the enkratic individual defeats, and the akratic succumbs to.5

It’s tempting to think of Plato as failing to recognize this distinction between enkrateia and sōphrosunē, tempting to think of its recognition as specific to Aristotle. Indeed we often think of Plato and Aristotle as distinguished from one another precisely in these terms. Plato, perhaps on the basis of his description of sōphrosunē in Book 4 of the Republic (430e–431b), is thought to elide the distinction, identifying enkrateia and sōphrosunē; Aristotle then becomes the first to appreciate it. The temptation is understandable; these thoughts are part of a larger view on which Plato considers desires and passions intrinsically in need of straitened containment and control, in need, that is, of enkrateia. But I believe these thoughts to be misleading, and precisely because they imagine that Plato fails to recognize the distinction between these two modes of control, that he identifies sōphrosunē and enkrateia. For notice how the description in the Republic that signals just such identification—‘as people indicate when they use—I don’t know in what sense—the phrase “being in control of oneself ” ’—is immediately called by Socrates absurd—geloion (430e). And it may be that allowing such identification 5  Michael McGhee, ‘Moral Sentiments, Social Exclusion, Aesthetic Education’, 1999: 88.

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moment, not merely as a distinction between two different if related virtues, but as a governing principle of distinct modalities of self-control, and indeed of virtue in general. Aristotle’s analysis of moral weakness becomes clear only when we recognize the complexity of his contrasts between, on the one hand, self-control and lack of self-control—enkrateia and akrateia (or akrasia as it is more normally found)—and, on the other, between depravity and (for want of a better term) selfmastery—akolasia and sōphrosunē. The one is a contrast between having and lacking control. The other is a more radical contrast, a contrast between licentiousness and the ease of infixed discipline that allows the quietly virtuous to serenely pass by rather than to control or subdue temptation. Control and lack of control represent a different modality, a different dimension in the economy of moral life, from that of licentiousness and moral mastery. Recognizing these differences and the structure of moral sentiment and action that they represent for Aristotle should make clear to us the importance of properly understanding the notions of self-control or self-mastery. The point has been nicely put by Michael McGhee, who writes as follows:

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Pittacus was out of tune when he said that it is hard to be a man of worth: khalepon. . . esthlon emmenai. (339c) The contrast that saves the coherence of Simonides’ poem is not, as Socrates immediately makes clear, that between mere goodness and true worth, the agathon

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to govern the description of sōphrosunē explains the qualifications that Plato gives Socrates in the course of the discussion. Introducing the account, Socrates hedges his remarks with the words: ‘seen at least from here’—hōs ge enteuthen idein (430e);—and more strikingly some lines later he qualifies the claim that they have dis­covered the virtue of sōphrosunē as true ‘at least in relation to these views—hōs ge houtōsi doxai’ (432b). Above all it should be of interest to us that in the Charmides the concept of  enkrateia plays no role. In the colourful parade of suggestions as to what sōphrosunē really is—a kind of quietness, modesty, minding one’s business, knowing oneself and so on—wouldn’t there have been room for someone (think of the Republic) to slip in a suggestion of enkratic self-control? Not a whisper. I can easily imagine a Platonic dialogue on sōphrosunē whose inquiry began not with quiet­ness, but with enkratic self-control, much as the Laches begins its definition of courage not with loud and boisterous, but with steadfast. But this is not that dialogue, and I have no idea why Plato adopts the strategy he does. But I suspect that the reason must somehow be connected with this truth: insofar as we understand sōphrosunē as enkratic self-control, we figure it as a subtly lesser virtue, a virtue undoubtedly, but a skilled counterfeit of the coin of sōphrosunē. The sōphrosunē that Plato and Aristotle alike wish to endorse is the virtue that just transcends enkrateia; it lies just beyond this mode of strong-willed containment and is linked to the wisdom by which the sōphrōn is freed from the need for restraint. The distinction that I am here invoking between a lesser and an ideal form of self-mastery is a recognizable topos in many ‘wisdom traditions’, but I believe that we are familiar with it in broader outline from ordinary contexts. Think of the skill by which a beginning artisan, as the result of intense effort, achieves control and mastery over his intractable material, and then contrast to that difficult control the ease and virtual nonchalance with which the master craftsman works. Or contrast to the equestrian skill of a novice able to control his horse only with effort and struggle the apparent effortlessness of an experienced rider. Her control doesn’t even look like control, but if we’ve ridden we know that to hold the reins that lightly is a consummate achievement. With this understanding of sōphrosunē in mind, we can understand Plato’s treatment of Simonides’ poem in the Protagoras (339b–c). That poem speaks at one moment of the difficulty of virtue: it is hard for a man to become good: andr’ agathon. . . genesthai khalepon (339b) and at the very next moment seems to deny that difficulty:

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6 Maimonides, The Eight Chapters of Maimonides on Ethics, Shemonah Perakim, 1912. 7  Aryeh Kosman, ‘Charmides’ First Definition: Sophrosyne as Quietness’, 1983.

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of the first line and the esthlon of the second; it’s rather between becoming and being, the genesthai of the first line and the emmenai (that is, the einai) of the second. The poem contrasts, in other words, the struggle involved in the cultivation within oneself of virtue with the effortlessness that virtue allows in the activity of the sōphrōn who has so cultivated it. When such restraintless mastery rules the city, it becomes the political virtue of sōphrosunē, a virtue, it is important to recall, that stands in contrast to a tyranny’s forceful control of its citizenry. And when later in the Republic the virtuous ­person is described, it is as someone at peace with himself, one rather than many, self-masterful and harmonious (sōphrona kai hērmosmenon) (443e). In such a person, what would be the place of the restrained and bonded self-control of enkrateia? Think of reading the Laches and asking the same question with regard to andreia—courage; what need would a fully virtuous person have of the karteria— the endurance, first offered by Laches as the nature of courage? (192c). This distinction that I’ve sketched and which I’ve attributed to Plato, the distinction between the sōphrōn as a person of effortless and harmonious mastery, and the enkratēs as a person of strong will but conflicted control, has not always been easy to keep in sight, but it has never been lost. Here’s an example: Maimonides devotes a sizable section of his twelfth-century commentary on part of the Mishnah to the distinction between ‘a person of virtue’ and a person whom he describes as ‘conquering his inclinations’. Maimonides is interested in the fact that the ancient philosophers seem to privilege the former whereas rabbinic ­trad­ition appears to favor the latter. The distinction that exercises him here is clearly that between our two modes of self-mastery, sōphrosunē and enkrateia: we might say between temperance and continence.6 I have elsewhere suggested that this understanding of sōphrosunē as tranquil self mastery explains Charmides’ first account of sōphrosunē as hēsukhia tis: a kind of quietness—that is, a mode of tranquil and harmonious self-direction in which the agent is not in conflict with herself.7 It is nonetheless a mode of ­self-control, but it is not so much a mode of the agent controlling herself as it is of her being herself in control of her actions. Just so, the autodidact is not someone who is ‘self taught to’—simultaneously teacher and student—but someone who is self-taught, having learned through his own initiative and power without submission to anyone, not even himself, as teacher. It’s important, however, to keep clear that self-control is after all, a mode of control. The sōphrōn is in control of his actions, that is to say, he knows what he’s doing. Keeping that fact in mind may help us to recognize how for Plato the self-presence and self-knowing that is required for virtuous agency need not involve the self-alienation of enkrateia.

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8  The first locution is from De Anima, 3.2 425b13; the second is from Metaphysics 12.9, 1074b28–34. For discussion of these locutions see Kosman, ‘Perceiving That We Perceive: On the Soul III, 2’, for the first, and ‘Metaphysics Λ 9: Divine Thought’ in Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda for the second.

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The virtuous person, the sōphrōn is, we might say, self-masterful, not self-mastered; and it is in that sense that he is self-controlled. In suggesting that we might have expected the Charmides to be more centrally concerned with self-mastery, a self-mastery such as we find explicitly expressed in the account of sōphrosunē in the Republic, I’ve not meant to undermine the ­centrality in our dialogue of understanding—epistēmē—nor in particular of ­self-understanding—epistēmē epistēmēs. I’ve instead hoped to encourage us to think of how complex are the uses to which language that looks to be reflexive may be put. In particular, I want to encourage us to rethink locutions like epistēmē epistēmēs. For these are, I want to suggest, locutions that appear to express a simple reflexive but in fact do not. To understand these locutions and the reading I mean to recommend, I propose that we think of self-understanding in light of our more recent discussion of self-control. The suggestion I offer is simple: (1) We can interpret self-understanding on an analogy with self-control, and (2) when we do so, we should think of achieving a mode of self-understanding analogous to a self-control that is in contrast to enkrateia rather than represented by enkrateia. Indeed, we could say that what we want is a self-understanding that is the analogue not of self-control at all, but rather an analogue of self-mastery, something perhaps like self-presence. With that self-understanding as the model of epistēmē epistēmēs, the paradoxes that came in view when we thought deeply about reflexivity vanish (167cff.). For self-control and self-understanding on this model do not conceive of a relationship between one part that controls or knows and another that is controlled or known, where in each case the second is the object of the first. But of course the question of how exactly we are to understand the nature of that relationship remains. That question is at the heart of how to understand sōphrosunē, an undertaking that I’ve here only minimally addressed. So my thought is this: the apparent reflexivity of the form that governs the discussion of our dialogue: epistēmē epistēmēs—knowledge of knowledge—functions like a number of locutions that Aristotle employs, among them: perceiving that we perceive (De Anima 3.2), and the divine thinking of thinking—noēseōs noēsis (Metaphysics 12.9).8 The contexts of these locutions should be of interest to us. In the first the clear intertextuality of Aristotle’s arguments (3.2 425b11–20.) with the catalogue of paradoxes in our dialogue (167c–168a) should lead us to read Aristotle’s model not as one of hierarchical reflexivity (perceiving that one perceives) but of that unity of self with self I’ve been trying here to articulate. The text of the Metaphysics is of interest because Aristotle there interrogates thought itself precisely in terms of its intentionality, arguing much as our dialogue does, though

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9  For a detailed discussion of this view, see Kosman, ‘Metaphysics Λ 9: Divine Thought’. 10  I realize that this phrase may be misleading in suggesting that locutions are either reflexive or not. But think of how varied are the uses of the standard English ‘reflexive’ form of a noun with the prefix self-. Some instances of self-Φ may obviously involve the self as reflexive object, that is, a subject φ-ing herself: so for example self-criticism, self-abuse, self-love. In other cases the relation to subject may reveal a more indirect reflexivity; think of self-righteousness, in which the subject takes herself to be righteous, or self-confidence, in which the subject is confident of herself. In yet other cases, the relation is more subtle; how is the subject related to herself in cases of self-realization? Or, as I’ve suggested, in instances of someone self-taught? Yet others, as I’ve been suggesting, appear to involve reflexive action, but present such difficulties when thought of this way as to lead us to question whether such an understanding is appropriate: notable here besides the cases we’ve been considering is the phenomenon of self-deception. See William Ruddick, ‘Social Self-Deceptions’, 1988: 180ff.

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with a somewhat different strategy, that intentionality both represents a necessary feature of the cognitive and poses a difficulty for its proper understanding.9 These locutions are wrongly understood if we read them on the model of a reflexive self-knowing; they are expressions designed to reveal the non-reflective self-presence that is an irreducible aspect of the cognitive, as indeed it is of awareness in general. The locutions of self-awareness here point not to the self as object, but to the self as present to itself, we might say to the self as its own companion. We can think of all these cases—the understanding of our dialogue which is an ‘understanding of understanding’, the perceiving of De Anima 3.2, which is a ‘perception of perceiving’, and the divine thinking of Metaphysics 12.9, which is a ‘thinking of thinking’—as instances of what we might call faux reflexive.10 In each case what is expressed looks like a standard reflexive but is not. We are inclined to think of these as instances of self-awareness because of the syntax of Plato’s and of Aristotle’s expressions. But we need to understand that here self-awareness is not reflexive self-awareness, but simply the self-presence of all conscious experience. Just as in Metaphysics 12 Aristotle continues to speak of thought as an object of thought and in De Anima 3.2 of perception as an object of perception, so here Plato allows Critias to speak of epistēmē epistēmēs, knowledge as known. But in none of these cases are we to understand reflective self-awareness—my turning ever so slightly away from looking at Regent Street to engage in the vivid thought that I am now, at last, viewing the vibrant streets and byways of London—but the self-awareness that characterizes simple first-order consciousness—my knowing what I am thinking, or seeing, or saying, or doing. And that’s how the dialogue circles back to the awareness of the sōphrōn with which we began. For even at the end of the dialogue, when Socrates continues to express confusion about the nature of sōphrosunē, he’s able to agree that the sōphrōn knows what he’s doing, that he is, as Socrates describes him, someone who understands about that which he knows that he knows it, and about that which he doesn’t know, that he doesn’t know it: epistēmōn hōn te oiden hoti oiden, kai hōn mē oiden hoti ouk oiden (175c). He knows what he’s up to; but since this is not an objective self-consciousness, but self-aware action, intentionality is not blocked: he knows what he knows. That’s

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Self-Knowledge and Self-Control in Plato ’ s Charmides  85 why in the dream of a world governed by sōphrosunē, the dialogue is able to ar­ticu­late for us the hope that:

Note how the objective intentionality of sōphrosunē, problematic throughout the dialogue, is here restored; in that day, let it come speedily and in our time, we’ll know what we’re doing. On this Plato and Aristotle are in agreement: cognition is in its nature ob­ject­ive, that is, intentional; it reaches out toward a world other than itself which it posits as its object. But at the same time it involves a mode of self-awareness that is, as it were, non-objective, a consciousness of the subject as aware in which the subject as aware is present to itself but not before itself in the mode in which the posited object of consciousness is before consciousness. The attempt to explain and elucidate this non-objective mode of self-awareness, to articulate the sense in which it is a condition of consciousness of the objective world while preventing it from collapsing into simple reflexive self-awareness, is in some ways a deeply modern concern. It’s common to thinkers as central as Descartes, Kant, and Hegel, thinkers who, in different ways and with different degrees of manifestness, express the view (to put it in Kanto-Hegelian terms) that the spontaneity of self-consciousness is a condition for the possibility of the receptivity of consciousness. What I’m suggesting is that that modern concern is present, mutatis mutandis, in our ancient authors. It’s a virtue to know what I’m doing, to act consciously and with self-awareness. Gluttony, sloth, licentiousness, procrastination, like all their vicious cohort, sneak up on me when I lose sight of myself and forget what I’m about, when I fail to take account of what it is that I’m doing. So it’s a healthy phronēsis that is conscious of its actions, and we can therefore understand why sōphrosunē might be thought to be the virtue of self-consciousness. But reading this last paragraph, I am put in mind of the dangers of selfconsciousness, of how easily the ‘I’ can cloud awareness; I think of what Virginia Woolf calls ‘the dominance of the letter “I” and the aridity, which, like the giant beech tree, it casts within its shade.’11 We can easily imagine a reading that connects Charmides’ second account of sōphrosunē as modesty—aidōs—(160e) with Woolf ’s concern about the power of the ‘I’ to eclipse our vision. We may find troubling the incandescence that Woolf imagines as a mode of cleansing consciousness of self-opacity, the hot intensity of self-illumination by which artistic consciousness is enabled to turn out to and, with its fictional intentionality, illumine the world. But such self-immolating intensity may be the peculiar calling of the writer; there are surely other and gentler ways. Some mode of abnegation, 11  Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, 1989: 110.

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knowing what we’re doing, we’ll be able to do things well and to live happily: epistēmonōs an prattontes eu an prattoimen kai eudaimonoimen. (173dff.)

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86  Aryeh Kosman

References Anscombe, G. E. M., 1965, ‘The Intentionality of Sensation—A Grammatical Feature’ in Analytic Philosophy Second Series, edited by R.  J.  Butler Oxford: Blackwell, 158–80. Kosman, Aryeh, 1975, ‘Perceiving That We Perceive: On the Soul III, 2’, Philosophical Review, LXXXIV(4), 499–515. Kosman, Aryeh, 1983, ‘Charmides’ First Definition: Sophrosyne as Quietness’ in Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, Vol. 2, edited by J. Anton and A. Preuss, Albany: SUNY Press, 203–16. Kosman, Aryeh, 2000, ‘Metaphysics Λ 9: Divine Thought’ in Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, Symposium Aristotelicum, edited by Michael Frede and David Charles, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 307–27. Maimonides, 1912, The Eight Chapters of Maimonides on Ethics, Shemonah Perakim, translated and edited by Joseph Gorfinkle, New York: Columbia University Press. McGhee, Michael, 1999, ‘Moral Sentiments, Social Exclusion, Aesthetic Education’, Philosophy 74, 85–103. Ruddick, William, 1988, ‘Social Self-Deceptions’ in Perspectives on Self-Deception, edited by Brian P. McLaughlin and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty, Berkeley: University of California Press, 380–9. Velleman, J. David, 2006, Self to Self, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vlastos, Gregory, 1973, ‘The Unity of the Virtues in Plato’s Protagoras’ in Platonic Studies, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 221–70. Woolf, Virginia, 1989, A Room of One’s Own, New York: Harcourt Brace & Co.

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however, is surely a virtue for all of us, some mode of the self ’s relinquishment of itself by which the self-consciousness necessary for thoughtful action is kept from acquiring the opacity of egotism and self-absorption. A figure of that self-erasure and self-accomplishment is the virtue of sōphrosunē to which Plato points in our dialogue, points and leads us through a discourse of quiet and order, modesty and skilled self-knowing. Like the empty mindlessness of the fully mindful and enlightened sage, sōphrosunē is a virtue of self without self, a virtue of wisdom and self-mastery in which wisdom, self, and mastery vanish, and there remains only the quiet, orderly and effortless grace of skilled living.

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4

Tad Brennan

My topic in this chapter is self-knowledge in Plato, especially Plato’s Republic. I shall argue that Plato takes an interest in a kind of self-knowledge that is not always well-recognized in his writings. That both Plato and Socrates were interested in some kind of self-knowledge is of course well recognized. In particular, some parts of the Platonic corpus argue that self-knowledge consists in knowing the sort of thing that I am, and in particular, in knowing that I am a rational soul. I shall argue that in addition to this, we can find an active interest in a thicker and  more complex kind of self-knowledge. And this is reassuring, because the knowledge that I am a rational soul seems to satisfy a very impoverished and ­disappointing conception of self-knowledge. It is impoverished in four ways: 1. It is general, applying to any human being, rather than picking out the particular and accidental ways that I differ from other human beings; 2. It is only incidentally first-personal, since the fact that I am a rational soul is the same sort of thing I know about others and that others could know about me; 3. It is incomplete, in that it provides no information about my irrational aspects, despite the fact that I have good reason to think that parts of me are irrational; 4. And it is static, in that it is indifferent to the events that have befallen me during my life. I can know that I am a rational soul without knowing anything about my own contingent biographical history. What I am looking for in thick self-knowledge, and what (I shall argue) we can find if we look in the right places, is knowledge of myself as a particular individual, deeply marked by irrationality, knowledge which is had in a first-personal way, and incorporates a narratival understanding of how my own biography has contributed to making me who I currently am. To begin with, I would like to look at some familiar Platonic discussions of self-knowledge in order to draw out what I find objectionably thin and impoverished about them. This will help to prepare us to see what is interesting about the thicker passages that I will look at next. Let us start with the ancient source that drives many discussions of self-knowledge, the Delphic injunction: Know thyself, Tad Brennan, Reading Plato’s Mind In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Tad Brennan. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0004

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Reading Plato’s Mind

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1  Is he a thērion or a zōon hēmerōteron? Translation based on Nehamas and Woodruff ’s version in Cooper (1997). 2  Translation based on Hutchinson’s version in Cooper (1997).

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gnōthi sauton. This imperative, originally carved over the door to the temple of Apollo in Delphi, is quoted or mentioned at least five times in the Platonic ­corpus. For instance, in the Phaedrus (230a) Socrates disclaims any interest in myths and their interpretation, saying ‘I have no time for such things; and the reason, my friend, is this. I am still unable, as the Delphic inscription orders, to know myself. . . Am I a beast more complicated and savage than Typhon, or am I a tamer, simpler animal with a share in a divine and gentle nature?’1 Here Socrates proclaims that he is striving to know himself, and then specifies the knowledge that he is seeking: he wants to know what sort of an animal he is and what sort of nature he has, and in particular whether he is a savage beast or a tame animal. The Delphic injunction also plays a prominent role in the First Alcibiades, in which Socrates makes self-knowledge the essential preliminary to self-improvement: ‘Could we ever know what skill makes us better,’ Socrates asks the young Alcibiades, ‘if we didn’t know what we were? And is it actually such an easy thing to “know oneself ”? Was it some simpleton who inscribed those words on the temple wall at Delphi? Or is it difficult, and not for everybody?’2 What are we, then? That is what we want to know. Socrates then proceeds to offer two proofs that the correct account of what a human being is states that it is a soul. The first argument is that human beings use their bodies as instruments, but the only thing that uses our body is our souls, so human beings can only be their souls. The ­second argument states that the user of an instrument must be distinct from the instrument used, and since the human being uses the body, the human being must be distinct from the body. Socrates concludes, ‘Do you need any clearer proof that the soul is the man?’ And I think we may agree that these are proofs of exemplary clarity, even if their soundness is not above question. With this demonstration behind them, Socrates can then urge Alcibiades to better himself by bettering the thing that he now knows is his real self: he should try to become wiser and more virtuous by taking care of his soul. The insistence that a human being is a soul, and that the body is no part of the human being, is also echoed in the Phaedo. When the reliably dim-witted Crito asks Socrates how they should bury him after his death, Socrates comments to his assembled friends, ‘I do not convince Crito that I am this Socrates talking to you here and ordering all I say, but he thinks that I am the thing which he will soon be looking at as a corpse, and so he asks how he shall bury “me”.’ Socrates asks his friends to correct Crito’s misconceptions, ‘so that Crito will bear it more easily when he sees my body being burned or buried, and will not be angry on my behalf, as if I were suffering something terrible, and so that he should not say at the funeral that he is laying out or carrying out or burying “Socrates”. . . You must

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3  Translation based on Grube’s version in Cooper (1997).

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be of good cheer, Crito, and say you are burying my body, and bury it in any way you like and think most customary’3 (115c–e). Crito has signally failed to know what Socrates is, not having followed the longer, more complicated teachings of the Phaedo, all of which support the more concise proofs of the Alcibiades that a human being is a soul and is not a body. What I wish to draw your attention to is not the correctness or adequacy of this account of human nature. Rather, what strikes me about these passages is how they construe the Delphic injunction to know oneself. When Socrates in the Phaedrus seeks to know himself, what he wants to know, apparently, is what sort of animal he is, and what the nature of animals like that might be. But that question calls for an entirely generic answer: whatever its answer is, it will be as much a fact about Phaedrus as it is about Socrates. When a more confident Socrates in the Alcibiades and Phaedo finds himself in a position to answer the injunction more authoritatively, his answer is that he is a soul, and not a body. Here too, the content of this self-knowledge, supposing it true, is entirely generic, applying equally to every member of the human race. But any project for self-knowledge that winds up with Socrates and Alcibiades knowing the same things about themselves, and the same things at that time that we could be said to know about ourselves right now, strikes me as a failure and an evasion. A student whose knowledge of the multiplication-table proceeded no further than saying ‘2 times 2 is an integer, 3 times 5 is an integer, 7 times 8 is an integer,’ and so on, would not be more remiss than the champion of self-knowledge whose account says ‘Socrates knows himself when he knows that he’s a rational soul; Alcibiades knows himself when he knows that he’s a rational soul; Medea knows herself when she knows that she’s a rational soul’, and so on. And keep in mind that the ‘self ’ in this self-knowledge is only accidentally reflexive: Socrates knows that he is a rational soul, but Alcibiades can know that same fact about him just as well as he can, and Crito really ought to know it by now. And this central fact of self-knowledge is not altered by events within one’s life. If Socrates is a rational soul that uses his body as an instrument, then this was true of him at age 20, and not made any more or less true by his marriage, his having children, his going to war, his involvement in politics, his speaking with sophists, and so on. It’s not clear that there is any role for biography in the content of what I know when I know myself. But the situation in the Phaedo is actually a bit worse than this still. For Socrates has earlier made a point of arguing that much of what we would think of as human psychology is actually not proper to human beings at all, when those are properly understood. Most of our desires do not belong to us, but only to our bodies. This is why true philosophers rejoice at the prospect of death and its concomitant

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90  Tad Brennan

4  Translation based on Grube’s version from Cooper (1997).

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separation of soul and body: ‘So long as we have a body and our soul is fused with such an evil, we shall never adequately attain what we desire, which we affirm to be the truth. The body keeps us busy in a thousand ways because of its need for nurture. . . It fills us with wants, desires, fears, all sorts of illusions and much nonsense. . . Only the body and its desires cause war, civil discord, and battles’ (66bc).4 Here we learn that large swaths of human psychology—the desires and fears that lead to wars and civil discords, for instance—belong to the body. And given the argument of the Phaedo as a whole, that must mean that they do not belong to the soul, and thus do not belong to the human being, properly understood. Neither Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War nor Shakespeare’s history plays, on this view, can help us to understand humanity; nor can a statesman’s soliloquies constitute progress towards his own self-knowledge, no matter how honest or searching they may be, if they dwell on the desires and fears that led him to war. None of that belongs to his self in any case. These are the worries that led me to say at the start of this chapter that there is a conception of self-knowledge in Plato that is unattractively thin, and disappoints our contemporary interests in self-knowledge. For it leaves out two of the central things we seek in a knowledge of ourselves, today: a knowledge of the particular, and a knowledge of the contingent. The self-knowledge that I seek is a self-knowledge that will help me to understand how I differ, as an individual, from other individuals. It is not sufficient for me to know, generically, that I am a human being or a rational soul. I want to understand why I behave differently from other people, why I face the particular set of psychological problems that afflicts me, from which you seem to be immune. And I also want to know about the contingent history of my condition, how a sequence of events during my current incarnation has affected the structure and content of my soul in its current state. For it seems fairly evident on any account that differences in upbringing and education, and exposure to historical crises and fluctuations, can have an effect on my self. My desire to understand how events have shaped me is partly the prospective thought that this knowledge will allow me to heal myself in the future by undoing or counteracting the baleful influences of the past. But it is partly motivated by the simple thought that my own past is so pervasively influential in making me who I am today, that nothing could count as full knowledge of me that did not include knowledge of it. As with any kind of knowledge, we can and do seek self-knowledge for practical purposes, as for instance self-improvement going forward. But we can seek knowledge and understanding for its own sake, and we may think that knowledge of our personal past, inasmuch as it is knowledge of our selves, is valuable in this way, too. This mismatch between our expectations for thick self-knowledge, and the kind of thin self-knowledge that Socrates offers us, is so great and striking, that

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5  His view is described by Olympiodorus in his Commentary on the Alcibiades (§4–5), Westerink (1956). Olympiodorus accepts the Damascian theory of multiple self-knowledges (originally derived from the Plotinian theory of grades of virtue in Ennead 1.2), and argues that the Alcibiades is a mixed work (§7–8), which explores both political self-knowledge and kathartic self-knowledge (and indeed theoretical and enthusiastic self-knowledge—as usual with late Platonism, useful distinctions are made, and then degenerate into florid proliferations).

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we may be tempted to look for historical differences to explain the discrepancy. Perhaps we are separated from the Greeks by divisions of sensibility and mentality that make our questions inapposite to their time. Perhaps they lived before the invention of individuality. Perhaps the interest in the narrative explication of an individual’s life had to await the rise of novels in the early modern era. Perhaps the austere impersonality of Socratic self-knowledge reflects the theological difference between a god of the geometers, who eternally thinks the same abstract thoughts, and the god of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who watches the falling of a sparrow. Or perhaps that’s all rubbish. Ancient theology, after all, was generally about as austere and impersonal as an episode of ‘East Enders’—Hesiod’s Theogony is full of scandalous, gossipy bits about who did what to whom, and how their lives were affected thereafter. Ancient drama constantly presents us with narratival explications of the fate of lives. The Oedipus Rex cannot be summarized by saying, ‘he found out that he was a rational soul.’ Differences of mentality may divide us from the Greeks in other areas, but they cannot explain Socrates’ apparent lack of interest in thick self-knowledge. It is more accurate to say, I think, that the approach to self-knowledge that I have highlighted above is only part of the entire story, even within Plato. It is one strain, but not the only strain, in Platonic psychology. Damascius, the last of the Platonist scholarchs, suggested that we should distinguish different grades of s­ elf-knowledge.5 The kind of self-knowledge we saw on display in the Phaedo, Damascius called kathartic or purificatory, since Socrates is presented as undergoing the final stages of his purification from the body, and thus knows a self that is separate from the body. On the threshold of departing from everything earthly, he looks back at desires, fears, and other ordinary human motivations from a perspective that makes them seem alien to his true self. But there is another kind of self-knowledge that Damascius calls ‘political self-knowledge’. If you are a pol­it­ical agent, you must be actively employing your body in your dealings with the state. Your political life requires you to fight for your country, hate its enemies, and love your fellow citizens. Desires and fears are not alien to your political self. If we want to study this political self, and see what kind of self-knowledge Plato might have correlated with it, the place to look is in his treatise titled the Politeia, i.e. the Republic. My aim is to discuss a fairly small range of texts within the Republic, but in order to make my fairly narrow point I should begin with an overview of its structure, and an outline of its theories.

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92  Tad Brennan

6 361d.

7 368c–369a.

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The Republic records Socrates’ attempt to argue that the life of justice is happier than the life of injustice. The terms under which he makes this attempt are laid down in the second book by Plato’s brothers, Glaucon and Adeimantus, and they are almost hyperbolical in their stringency. Socrates must show that justice makes the just person happier than injustice makes the unjust person, even if every possible turn of events goes badly for the just person, and every lucky break befalls the unjust person.6 Furthermore, he must vindicate the desirability of justice without making any reference to the consequences of a reputation for justice, among humans or in the afterlife. Justice must make its possessor happy purely and solely by its presence in the soul of the just person. The strategy that Socrates adopts is to argue that justice and happiness are in some sense the same psychological condition, as are injustice and misery—roughly speaking, justice is a kind of psychological health, tranquillity, and good order, where injustice is a kind of psychological disease, turmoil, and disorder. To make this case in detail, Socrates must present an entirely new theory of human psychology. But the theory is very complex, and the soul itself is invisible. Socrates cannot present his theory simply by pointing to the inside of a soul and asking his ­audience to watch its internal functioning. He needs a teaching aid; some sort of macro­scop­ic model that will display the same complexity that the soul contains, but in visible and familiar form. And ideally, the model should not bear a merely accidental resemblance to the soul, but rather should have the structure that it has, exactly because the soul has the structure it has. When St. Patrick took up the shamrock as the outward and visible sign of the mysterious three in one, he relied on an accidental isomorphism; the leaves of the shamrock may be suggestively Trinitarian, but they do not have the shape that they do as a direct consequence of the persons of the Trinity having the relations that they do. Because the resemblance is merely accidental, ungoverned by causal relations between model and original, it is also very shallow and limited. Beyond the fact that trinity and trefoil are each some sort of three in one, there are few further points of similarity to be exploited. Fortunately for Socrates, he had available to him a macroscopic model for the soul that bears many of the features that it bears precisely because the soul bears them first, and this causal governance means that the extent of isomorphism is much greater and more reliably indicative of real resemblances. This model, of course, is the Greek city-state. Socrates tells his audience early in the second book that they will talk about cities because they are easier to look at than souls.7 He will argue that there are conditions of cities that are relevantly like justice and happiness in persons. And by showing how justice in the city produces the civic analogue of happiness, and injustice in the city produces the civic analogue of misery, he’ll be able to illustrate his answer to the hyperbolic challenge that Glaucon and Adeimantus set for him.

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8 439d.

9 440a–d.

10 432c–434c.

11  e.g. 472b–e.

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The revolutionary innovation in psychology that is required for his answer, and which in turn requires cities to stand as perceptible illustrations, is the idea that the human soul has parts, and that its health, happiness, and virtue are all a matter of the interaction of these parts. The parts themselves, three in number, are each independent sources of motivation, and differ in the kinds of objects that they value and pursue. The appetitive part pursues physical pleasures such as those of eating, drinking, and sex, and it flees from physical pains.8 The spirited part loves honour and fears shame; it also cares about the social institutions of peer-group and community that provide the necessary context for having a reputation, and for competing to be well regarded.9 Finally, the rational part loves truth, wisdom, and true goodness, hating falsehood, ignorance, and whatever is truly bad. The lower parts of the soul are incapable of caring for anything other than their own objects, and their uncoordinated pursuits of their objects makes one’s life tumultuous and unstable. But although they cannot truly value each other’s values, they still nevertheless can be brought to work in parallel, without overt behavioural conflict, when they are coordinated by the rational part. When each of them does its own work under the guidance of reason, the resulting state of the soul can be called justice.10 Indeed, Socrates shows that justice can be ad­equate­ly defined only in these terms. But the resulting state of affairs can also be called happiness, and indeed Socrates argues that it is the truest and most desirable kind of happiness. Books 2 through 7 of the Republic are dedicated to developing a picture of a just, virtuous, healthy, well-regulated and accordingly happy soul. The method of presentation that Socrates constantly employs is to describe an ideal city and its internal functioning. He sometimes interrupts the political allegory to make explicit the way that he intends it to apply to the soul,11 but more often he leaves it to his audience to draw the correct comparisons. Books 8 and 9 then complement this picture by presenting various forms of psychological pathology, vice, and misery. Here too, Socrates makes his points with imagery derived from politics, by investigating cities that are pathological in civic ways, i.e. politically chaotic, fragmented states, or even outright failed states. The psychological pathologies that particularly interest him are those that ­correspond to breakdowns of the regulation between intra-psychic parts. These are the ones most relevant to the overall theme of the Republic, since it is the good regulation of the parts that constitutes both justice and happiness. We have already seen, in the first two-thirds of the book, that in a well-regulated soul, the physical appetites are moderate, conducive to the health of the organism, and responsive to rational control; that the spirited desires for honour and reputation are also kept well in hand by reason and help reason in turn to regulate the appetites; and that reason divides its time between the abstract reflections it v­ alues

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94  Tad Brennan

12  And even the dreary deliberations will involve constant study of the Good itself. In that regard, we should not think of the rulers dividing their time between two distinct objects of contemplation at all (since it is always the Good that they have in view) but rather that they sometimes see it as the most desirable thing, and sometimes as the most knowable thing (505a). 13 548d–550b. 14 553a–555b. 15 558c–561e. 16 571a–580a. 17 580b.

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most and the more dreary but necessary practical deliberations over how best to provide for the well-being of the organism as a whole.12 We are thus unsurprised to learn that bad health in the soul will consist in various ways that the nonrational parts can subvert the rule of reason and dominate the individual’s choices and actions to the detriment of the whole. Socrates focuses on four pathologies in particular. The first is the case of a man who comes to be dominated by the love of honour and competition.13 The second case features a man who organizes his life around the disciplined and methodical pursuit of money.14 The third involves a man whose soul lacks any organizing principle whatever, so that he constantly vacillates and dithers, pursuing transient fads and enthusiasms, but without sustained commitment to any set of values.15 The final case shows us a man in the grips of an obsessive and self-destructive desire, perhaps a chemical addiction, or a romantic folie á deux, which forces him to single-mindedly pursue a course of action that is contrary to his own interests.16 Socrates thinks that these four pathologies form a descending series; each is more unhealthy, more vicious, and more unhappy, than the last.17 The first of the four is the least bad. The man who mistakes honour for the highest good is ­making a serious mistake; he is not giving proper weight to the value of truth, phil­oso­phy, and the real, absolute good, and he is not allowing rationality and wisdom to control his life. Nonetheless, he’s not such a bad sort in the grand scheme of things. He is a traditionalist, somewhat stuffy, whose sense of propriety and code of honour frequently lead him to do the right things, even if he has no deep understanding of why they are right. His love of honour and competition keep him in good physical shape and moderate his sensual appetites, while his fear of shame and disgrace generally keep him clear of the worst vices. This is the man that Socrates compares to a timocratic or Spartan constitution. The second, miserly type sees no intrinsic value in either truth or honour: money is his highest good. But he too would pass among us as a decent sort. His greed makes him ambitious, driven, and hard-working; he is neither a timewaster nor a profligate, and his activities are productive and prosperous. No love of honour acts to keep his appetites in check, but the love of money does much in that way—this man avoids the grossest indulgences because they simply cost too much. His sense of value is pinched and mercenary, and there is nothing fine, noble, or lofty in his life. But frugality and focus make him outwardly respectable; his hours are regular, his appetites moderate, his bodily health is robust. Socrates illustrates this soul by comparing it to an oligarchic city.

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Reading Plato ’ s Mind  95

18  In the political allegory, we could also make this point by saying that the life of the timocrats will resemble the life of auxiliaries in the Kallipolis, and the life of the oligarchs will resemble the life of the producers in the Kallipolis. The differences are more important than the resemblances, of course; in the Kallipolis, auxiliaries and producers are always ultimately under the direction of the philosopherrulers, and this will make a difference both to their overt behaviour on occasion and to the rationale of their behavior even when it is unchanged. Auxiliaries will compete, hunt, and go to war in the Kallipolis, as timocrats do in the timocracy; but they will probably do these things rather less in the Kallipolis, and when they do them there will be a good reason behind it.

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About both of these two we can say not only that they generally avoid the worst vices, but also that their master-desires are still oriented towards things that play some positive role in a fully ideal life. Even the ideal human being still has an honour-loving part, and an appetitive part, and the ideal human life involves ­providing some satisfaction to these parts as well. The best life does not require the mortification of the flesh and the pulling down of pride; in the ideal life, one gratifies the healthy sensual appetites to the extent that is necessary for health, and one gratifies a legitimate pride with commensurate honours. There is a slice or aspect of the fully healthy life that would look rather like the life of the honourlover, and another slice or aspect that would look rather like the money-lover.18 The fundamental pathology in the love of honour or money is a failure to see the  whole good, and the usurpation of its place by goods that are only partial. Nonetheless, when properly situated in a rational organization, they are goods. The vision of life that elevates them to the highest good is partial and distorted, but the eyes are still directed towards something good-like, and the resulting life is still systematically organized towards its pursuit. They are poor imitations of a rational life that realizes the good, but there is still some faint resemblance. The third stage of decay, the constitutional ditherer, has lost even these redeeming features. Here there is no stable vision, and no consistent pursuit; watching this life, you see no method at all. Granted, this person will sometimes desire the things that a good person would desire; honour or profit, even some abstract thinking will occasionally tickle their passing fancies and elicit a brief pursuit. But their tastes are entirely indiscriminate; they respond with equal enthusiasm to meaningless frivolities as to genuine goods. Easily distractible, their time is most often occupied in pursuit of the latest, shiniest, most attention-getting thing; and this will typically be some bodily pleasure. Here too they make no distinction between gratifications of the appetites that are necessary for good health, and those that are pointless or will even lead to pain in the long run; whatever pleasure is uppermost in their minds at the time will drive out all other considerations for the nonce. Refusing to subordinate any one kind of value to any other, they set all of them on an equal footing, and let any of them rule their actions as chance may have it. In this soul there is no coordination between parts, and no integration of the parts into a larger whole; the activities and allegiances are fragmented and centrifugal, lacking unity and cohesion. This is the psychic state that Socrates compares to a democracy.

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19 This is what the references to drones imply (572e–573a); ancient bee-keepers erroneously believed that drones were a kind of parasitic infection that attacked bee colonies.

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The deepest form of psychological disease features a perverse return to unity and subordination. This is the life of an addict, possessed by an addiction. One aim, one obsessive desire, now masters all of the individual’s attention: everything else is sacrificed to the satisfaction of their overpowering need. But instead of a life organized around an accurate understanding of the agent’s integrated good, this life is centred around an end that is not good for the agent at all, an end that is good for something alien to them and to their well-being. It is like enslavement to a demonic possession; the victim works furiously to do things that are good for another, and destructive to itself. Socrates compares this psyche to a host that has been taken over by a parasite.19 Now all of the host’s energies are drained away from its own well-being, and redirected to the well-being of some entity entirely distinct from it. But it is worse even than the case in which a worm or fly fastens on the host’s flesh and saps its strength, for in that kind of case the infested host may still realize that the parasite’s interests are antagonistic to its own, and may fight to shake off or scrape out the alien infestation. In this psychological case, it is my very psyche that is infested, and it is my desires and beliefs as well as my energies that are redirected to the benefit of another. Far from fighting to rid myself of this parasitic, life-draining alien, I feel the keenest desires to help it, to do anything for it, even though doing so is contrary to my interests; and I feel the keenest pains whenever its needs are not met, even though its destruction would actually be to my greatest advantage. The most diabolical parasite commandeers my psyche as well as my body, and deludes me into abandoning my own good for the good of another. Thrasymachus in the first book (343c) had argued that just­ ice is this sort of thing; a societal brainwashing that makes its deluded victims work for another’s good. Socrates replies by saying that it is really injustice, the state of mind of the maximally unjust person, that involves the victim’s unrelenting enslavement to another’s good. Thrasymachus had thought that unjust people were the ultimate exploiters; now they turn out to be the ultimate victims of the most profoundly intimate exploitation, the most thoroughly alienated from the pursuit of their own welfare. Socrates compares this sort of psyche to a city in the grips of a tyrant, a false leader who exploits the city and forces it to sacrifice its own welfare to his whims. I have summarized this gallery of psychological abnormality, which occupies well over a book in the Republic, in order to claim that Socrates’ psychological theory shows a vivid interest in three of the four elements of self-knowledge that I found lacking: particularity, irrationality, and narrativity. The subjects of these profiles are certainly not interchangeable specimens of the genus human being; we know much more about them than merely that they are rational souls. And

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Reading Plato ’ s Mind  97

He comes to be in something like the following way. He is the young son of a good father who lives in a city that is not well governed. The father shuns honours and offices and lawsuits and all such business, and is even willing to be belittled in order not to have distractions. And the son becomes timocratic, when first of all he hears his mother complaining that her husband is not one of the rulers, and that she is belittled on this score among the other women, and when she sees that her husband makes no special effort to get money, and does not fight and jostle for it both in private and public dealings, but rather puts up with all such things with placid indifference. Her husband focuses his thoughts on himself, and neither honours her too much nor dishonours her. Embittered by all of this, she tells the boy that his father is unmanly and too relaxed; and she says all the other things that women in these situations like to say. And even the servants say things like this to the son in secret, and they seem to be wellintentioned. And when they see that his father does not pursue people who owe him money or take advantage of him in other ways, then they counsel the son that when he becomes a man he should revenge himself on all those people and be more of a man than his father was. And when he leaves the house he hears and sees more of the same: those who attend to their own affairs in the city are called simpletons and are held in contempt, whereas those who do not stick to their own affairs are held in high repute and praised. The young man sees and hears all this; he also hears his father’s words and sees his behaviour from close up, as well as the words and behaviour of others. So he is torn by both; his father nourishes the rational elem­ent in his soul, but the others nourish the appetitive and spirited part. His badness is not due to his nature but to the wicked company that he keeps, and so when he is pulled in both directions he arrives at the middle. He hands over the authority in himself to that middle part, the victory-loving and spirited part. And now he has become an arrogant and honour-loving man.

20  549c–550b; translation mine.

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what we know about them makes extensive use of the role of irrationality in ­distinguishing one person from another. If self-knowledge should help us see why we face the problems that we face rather than the problems faced by others, then this psychological theory can provide the right sort of vocabulary and framework for making those detailed distinctions. I now want to direct your attention to the way that Socrates describes the genesis of each type, to see how his theory in­corp­ or­ates the idea that who we are is a result of previous events in our lives. Here is Socrates’ description of the childhood of the honour-lover:20

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98  Tad Brennan Before I say anything about that narrative, let me offer you a second one, which recounts the genesis of the oligarchic miser:21

These two narratives are intended to shed light on a soul, or a class of souls. They show how certain pathological conditions came about. The conditions can also be described in their final forms, as the domination of spirit in the first instance, or the domination of necessary appetites in the second. Those are accurate descriptive diagnoses, but they lack the aetiology that narrative provides. We would not understand these souls as well as we do, if we did not see how they had been shaped by the experiences in their lives. I want to note some of the features that these narratives share. In each case, the son is confronted with two patterns or examples of ways of life. Since these are stories of decline, his father represents a better way of life, closer to true virtue though already flawed, from which the son will decline a further step towards vice. The causes of the descent are also represented by people in the boy’s life. Some of them are inside the household, as for instance the timocrat’s mother and household servants. But it takes a village to corrupt a child, and so an important part is played in each story by what the boy learns from the values embodied in the city at large. Political events—lawsuits, exile, and so on—play a larger role in 21  553a–d; translation mine.

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The son of an honour-lover becomes an oligarch in something like the following way. When he is a child, at first he emulates his father and follows in his footprints. But later he sees his father suddenly shipwrecked, running aground on the city as though on a reef, and losing all his possessions overboard and himself as well. He held a generalship, or some other office of great authority, and then wound up in court on trumped-up charges. He was executed or banished or disenfranchised and fined, and he lost all of his property. The son sees and suffers all this, loses his own property and takes fright. The love of honour and the spirited part had been enthroned within his soul, but now he shoves them out on their heads. His sudden poverty humbles him, and he turns greedily to ­making money. By scrimping and drudgery he gradually gets together some money. Don’t you think someone like that would then elevate their appetitive and money-loving part to the throne and crown it as the great king within their soul, adorning it with tiaras and ceremonial swords? And as for his reason and his spirit, wouldn’t he make those parts huddle on the ground below the new king, reduced to slaves? He won’t allow reason to reason about or investigate anything other than ways to turn a little money into a lot; and he won’t allow his spirit to admire or honour anything other than wealth and the wealthy, or to pursue its love of honour in any way other than by making money and whatever else contributes to that.

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Reading Plato ’ s Mind  99

22 455d.

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the story of the oligarch’s origins, possibly because the city he is growing up in is already worse-governed than that in which the timocrat grew up. But even in the timocrat’s case, we see the young man carefully scrutinizing the political climate around him, trying to learn lessons from it and responding to it by altering his own character. The role of the timocrat’s mother—the Lady Macbeth or Mommy Macbeth figure who eggs the boy on to be more aggressive than his father—has sometimes been brought forward as evidence that Plato was not in earnest when he described his ideal city in Book 5 as allowing every sort of job to be open equally, to equally qualified men and women, and when he insisted on several occasions that the class of Philosopher Rulers will include Philosopher Queens as well as Kings. But I think it shows, if anything, just the opposite. This domestic drama is taking place in a city which we are told is not well governed, and its lack of good governance is reflected in the pathologies on display. To begin with, the father is said to be a good man, whose values include a lofty disdain for ordinary things and a preference for abstract rational reflection. In these regards he is a sort of philosopher, or at least has a philosophic nature. In a well-run city, he would not be allowed to idle around avoiding offices and bother; he would be compelled to be a ruler as well as a philosopher, and thus receive both the offices and honours that he lacks in his current life. This man, and his city, show what happens when reason abdicates its ruling responsibilities, when theoretical rationality is indulged while practical rationality atrophies. His wife, meanwhile, is painted as the very image of an honour-loving soul. She carefully monitors her own status within her social group; she wants honour for herself and for her family; she is quick to take offence at insults; she is repelled by anything that smacks of cowardice; and she gets angry. This is a highly ambitious, competitive person. In the ideal city, she would have a position high up in the army, if not in the ruling class itself. And as a general or cabinet minister, or a drill sergeant at the very least, she would be able to satisfy her fiery, honour-loving part in a life that would benefit both her and the city at large. The central source of her own pathology in this story is the very fact that she lives in a city that denies her the possibility of satisfying her own ambitions in her own person. This is why she must attempt to channel them through her husband, and then through her son, in ways that are poisonous and harmful for all involved. Far from undermining Socrates’ earlier commitment to the gender-neutrality of the ideal city, her story vindicates it in several ways. For it shows, to begin with, that Socrates really does think the various natures needed to perform the whole range of duties within the city are distributed among women as well as men, as he had said in Book 5.22 And it shows that when gender exclusivity first arises in badly run cities, it is both a symptom of their corruption, and a cause of more corruption to come.

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23  Adam (1902) in his notes on 494c: ‘It has long been admitted that this picture is drawn chiefly from Alcibiades. In antiquity Plutarch seems to have suspected something of the sort, for he describes Alcibiades’ degeneration in language adapted from the present passage (Alc. 4.1). But the personal touches must not blind us to the fact that Plato is portraying the type, although Alcibiades sits for the portrait.’

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I set out to look for the components of a richer kind of self-knowledge in Plato, and I hope to have shown you three out of four. The kind of knowledge that Socrates gives us of the timocratic man goes far beyond saying that he is a generic rational soul using a body: we now have a rich description of the particular patterns of irrationality that make him the way he is, and a narrative of the events in his previous life, both public and private, that caused him to become that way. If the timocratic man knew himself in these ways, he would have the kind of selfknowledge that might allow him to rectify some of his own pathologies, or would at least give him a better understanding of his condition. But of course, the timocratic man is not describing himself; the knowledge here is still third-personal rather than first-personal, self-knowledge at all. We have the right kind of theory and vocabulary for self-knowledge, but no self that is both subject and object of its own knowledge. But this too can be found, both in the Republic and elsewhere in the Platonic corpus. In the Republic, Socrates is the main speaker, and so it is to him that we must look for examples of proper self-knowledge. I think there is one, and that it displays many of the patterns that we saw in the descriptions of the pathological psychologies in Books 8 and 9. It occurs during Socrates’ survey of the reasons that no one is inclined to think that philosophers would make good rulers. When Socrates first proposes that philosophers should rule in the ideal city, he expects his interlocutors to respond with derision and disbelief, and they do. Adeimantus points out (487c–d) that when people look around them at the philosophers of their day, they see that the greatest number of them are bizarre eccentrics, not to say completely vicious, while the most decent-seeming ones are completely useless at governance. With this assessment, Socrates professes himself wholly in agreement: none of the people known to them as philosophers are fit to be rulers. Those who have the right sort of nature almost never go into philosophy at all—when they show early promise of intelligence and competence, their family and their city steer them away from philosophy into a premature engagement in practical affairs and political ambitions (491a–495b). They are flattered and exploited by scheming opportunists, and the very excellence of their natures, when it is corrupted by the wrong upbringing, leads them to become examples of vice on a large scale.23 These ­people do not give philosophy a bad name, because they are not thought to be philosophers at all, but their fate does prevent it from getting a good name. Their corruption deprives philosophy of the talented natures it would need to prove that philosophical training produces the best rulers.

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Reading Plato ’ s Mind  101

Now the members of this small group have tasted how sweet and blessed a ­possession philosophy is, and at the same time they’ve also seen the madness of the majority and realized, in a word, that hardly anyone acts sanely in public affairs and there is no ally with whom they might go to the aid of justice and survive, that instead they would perish before they could profit either their city or their friends and be useless both to themselves and to others, just like a man who has fallen among wild animals and is neither willing to join them in doing injustice nor sufficiently strong to oppose the general savagery alone. Taking all this into account, they lead a quiet life and do their own work. Thus, like someone who takes refuge under a little wall from a storm of dust or hail driven by the wind, the philosopher—seeing others filled with lawlessness—must rest content if he can somehow lead his present life free from injustice and impious acts and depart from it with good hope, blameless and benevolent.24

Adeimantus, perhaps hoping to make up for his earlier bluntness, offers words of consolation: ‘Well, that’s no small thing for him to have accomplished before departing.’ But Socrates will not be flattered: ‘Nor is it any very great thing, either, since he did not happen upon an appropriate constitution. In the appropriate one, he will grow larger, and he will save both his own affairs and those of the public.’ Socrates is here describing a class of souls that are damaged and pathological, and explaining how they came to be that way. If a name would aid the diagnosis, we might call these people Quietists. As in the case of the timocrat and oligarch, 24  Translation based on Grube/Reeve.

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Since the people with the right natural abilities generally fail to become ­ hilo­sophers at all, those who do tend to espouse philosophy will lack the natural p qualifications needed for it. These untalented duffers are the public face of ­phil­oso­phy, and it is their eccentricity, vice, and uselessness that leads the public to meet the idea of philosopher rulers with a laugh or a shudder. Finally, says Socrates (496a), there is a small class of people who do have the right nature, but for one reason or another are not seduced by political power. They may be disenfranchised by exile, or be citizens of a trivial city whose very insignificance deprives local politics of its allure. They may be kept from politics by some physical ailment that precludes activity, as is his friend Theages. Or, Socrates says, they may be kept from engaging in politics by the intervention of a divine sign that explicitly forbids it—this he says explains his own case, and perhaps the case of some very few others. The class is so small, its members so few, and their reasons for membership so miscellaneous, that nearly every case will be anomalous in one way or another. Socrates is not in that regard an anomalous member of a homogenous club, but a regular member in a club of anomalies. Here is how Socrates describes them, and himself:

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102  Tad Brennan

25  And his pathology has consequences for those around him. It is not an accident that Socrates resembles the father of the timocratic man of 549c; the corruption of timocratic children is partly the result of good fathers who shirk their political duties.

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the quietist comes about when some forces incline him towards virtue, and other forces, political forces in the city around him, prevent him from being as virtuous as he could have been. And Socrates is diagnosing himself as a Quietist. I think we should not downplay the force of Socrates’ final admission, that his circumstances have unnaturally diminished him and made him incapable of saving ­himself and helping his fellow citizens. The deviation from ideality is not as severe as in the case of the timocrat or oligarch, but here too the events of his life have left their marks on his soul. If we were to x-ray his soul (as it were) and compare it to the soul of a philosopher-ruler, the shrinkage and missing bits would be immediately evident. His reason is deficient, because he had neither the training nor the exercise in practical rationality that a philosopher-ruler would have had.25 Here we have the elements of particularity and narrativity from the Book 8 accounts of pathological souls, combined with a first-person perspective to yield genuine self-knowledge. The emphasis in this case does not fall on the irrational parts, because the particular pathology in question is internal to the development of the rational part itself. But it is a profound kind of self-knowledge that Socrates evinces here, an awareness of his own practical deficiencies that is as significant as his more typical awareness of his epistemic deficiencies. In the Apology, Socrates tells us that his modest, human wisdom consists in not believing that he knows what he does not in fact know (21a). Here, he manifests a parallel wisdom, by not believing himself practically capable of what he was in fact never made able to do. That he is aware of his practical incapacity is only partial consolation for the fact that his upbringing and circumstances incapacitated him. I would argue, further, that even ideal and unblemished psyches are enjoined to know themselves, where this includes the active investigation of their irrational parts. To make the case for this would require me to say more about reading the Republic than I have time for today, because the evidence for self-scrutiny comes from the political allegory. I have in mind the fact that in the ideal city, the lower classes are sternly admonished never to lie to the rulers (389b–d). The rationale for this prohibition comes from the therapeutic model: ‘for a private citizen to lie to a ruler is just as bad a mistake as for a sick person or athlete not to tell the truth to his doctor or trainer about his physical condition, or for a sailor not to tell the captain the facts about his own condition or that of the ship and the rest of the crew—indeed it is a worse mistake than either of these. ‘The kind of information that the lower classes must share freely and neither withhold nor dissemble is specified; it is not just any topic on which they are forbidden to lie, but specifically information about their own condition and abilities to do their jobs—the analogues of a patient’s or athlete’s health. If the rulers in the ideal city are hereby enjoined to

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Reading Plato ’ s Mind  103

When I was a young man, I had the same ambition as many others: I thought of entering public life as soon as I came of age. And certain happenings in public affairs favoured me, as follows. The constitution we then had, being anathema to many, was overthrown, and a new government was set up consisting of fifty-one men. . . Some of these men happened to be relatives and acquaintances of mine,

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maintain an active, unvarnished flow of information about the health and condition of the lower classes, then I believe that this is equivalent to saying, via the ­allegory, that even a fully virtuous and rational soul must actively scru­tin­ize its own irrational psychic parts and their desires. I say that in Socrates’ description of the incapacitated philosophers we can see self-knowledge of the thick kind that I set out to find, but I suppose someone might object as follows. When we read the Republic, it is not the historical figure, Socrates the Athenian, before us, but Socrates the character in Plato’s dialogue. Plato wrote these lines for him to speak, and in doing so may have made Socrates the character express insights into Socrates the Athenian that the historical figure himself never had. A fair criticism, but a hard one to answer. I think Socrates’ words in the Republic show, at the very least, that Plato understood and valued a kind of deep self-scrutiny, one that goes far beyond realizing that one is a rational soul using a body, to investigate our limitations, imperfections, and ir­ration­al­ities, and their origins in our early childhood, family, and society. If the depiction of thick self-knowledge in Plato’s leading character is not sufficient evidence of Plato’s interest in thick self-knowledge, where else can we find it? It’s not as though Plato ever wrote in the first person himself, in such a way that he could provide a particular, contingent, narratival and first-personal example of self-knowledge of his own. Unless, of course, one is willing to accept the evidence of the ‘Seventh Letter’. I will not insist on a policy in this regard, but I do want to discuss it, because I think it contains evidence of exceptional interest no matter whose hand we ascribe it to. At the opening of the letter, Plato is depicted as replying to an overture from friends and followers of Plato’s deceased political ally Dion. These friends assure him that they are of the same mind as Dion was on political matters—they have the same dianoia—and that they would like him to support their new champion, Hipparinus, who is also of the same mind. Plato responds that he knows very well what Dion’s dianoia was about Syracuse, namely that it should be free and live under the best laws, and that it is not impossible that Hipparinus should also hold these same opinions, too. But it is evident from Plato’s cautious responses that he is not entirely convinced that all parties are in fact of the same mind. In order to make clear where he stands, and in order to make sure that his views are in harmony with his correspondents, Plato offers to narrate how he arrived at them. As you read this paragraph, I hope you will note the many similarities it bears to the kind of narration we saw in the Republic:

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The more I reflected upon what was happening, upon what kind of men were active in politics, and upon the state of our laws and customs, and the older I grew, the more I realized how difficult it is to manage a city’s affairs rightly. . . [W]hereas at first I had been full of zeal for public life, when I noted these changes and saw how unstable everything was, I became in the end quite dizzy; and though I did not cease to reflect how an improvement could be brought about in our laws and in the whole constitution, yet I refrained from action, waiting for the proper time. At last I came to the conclusion that. . . the ills of the human race would never end until either those who are sincerely and truly l­overs of wisdom come into political power, or the rulers of our c­ ities, by some divine dispensation, learn true philosophy. Such was my mind— such was the dianoia that I had—when I arrived in Italy and Sicily for the first time.26

The express intention of this passage is to reveal to his addressees an accurate account of his political convictions, so that all parties can be confident that they are in agreement before they proceed. It is for that reason striking that Plato is not depicted as simply offering an abstract account of his political views, which was certainly something he could have done. Rather, he offers an account of how he came to have the views he did, which parallels at many points the developmental

26  324b–326b; translation based on Morrow’s in Cooper (1997).

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and they invited me to join them at once in what seemed to be a proper ­undertaking. My attitude towards them is not surprising, because I was young. I thought that they were going to lead the city out of the unjust life she had been living and establish her in the path of justice, so that I watched them eagerly to see what they would do. But as I watched them they showed in a short time that the preceding constitution had been a precious thing. Among their other deeds they named Socrates, an older friend of mine whom I should not hesitate to call the wisest and justest man of that time, as one of a group sent to arrest a certain citizen who was to be put to death illegally, planning thereby to make Socrates willy-nilly a party to their actions. But he refused, risking the utmost danger rather than be an associate in their impious deeds. When I saw all this and other like things of no little consequence, I was appalled and drew back from that reign of injustice. Not long afterwards the rule of the Thirty was overthrown, and with it the entire constitution; and once more I felt the desire, though this time less strongly, to take part in public and political affairs. . . By some chance, however, certain powerful persons brought into court this same friend Socrates. . . and the jury condemned and put to death the very man who, at the time when his accusers were themselves in misfortune and exile, had refused to have a part in the unjust arrest of one of their friends.

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Reading Plato ’ s Mind  105

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narratives that we have seen in the Republic. First we meet the young man before his character is formed, though his family and class background already appear as powerful shaping forces. He has the complacent and unreflective political ambitions that are common to his aristocratic caste. But when a route to power offers itself, he is repelled by the injustice of his associates. There is another political upheaval, and his own ambitions reassert themselves. But then we see a father-figure, more virtuous than those around the boy, who suffers a political catastrophe in court, which leaves the young man deeply shaken. (Was that man’s good influence already active in the young man’s first decision not to join the Thirty? It is not spelled out here, but seems likely). He keeps watching the political world, trying to draw lessons from it, trying to see how to respond to events. If this were a narrative of moral decline, then the father’s catastrophe would have led the son to abandon his moral patrimony and succumb to the moral standards current in the larger society. He would have become an active participant in a degraded culture and thus descended to a lower moral level than his father held. In this narrative, the struggle between the father-figure’s more noble values and the political associates more vicious influence is resolved in the op­pos­ite direction; Plato ascends through this crisis to a vision of the ideal Republic. He begins life in a milieu of pathological oligarchic vice, and comes to acquire a deep commitment to the values of the Kallipolis, as personified in the unity of practical and theoretical rationality in the Philosopher-Ruler. The story thus gives an incidental demonstration that the general downward trend in the Republic stories, their tracing of moral decadence, is not an inevitable feature of psychological development. The bad news, of course, is that this happy outcome is due to a sort of deus ex machina, or daimonion ex machina, in the person of Socrates. The effects of experience, even here, are not purely salutary; the Plato of the ‘Seventh Letter’ is made more cautious and suspicious by what he sees. If he acquires the right values, he also acquires some contingent scars; his resultant character is far from the uniform indistinguishable character of an ideal person in an ideal state. The author of this passage was either Plato or one of his close associates. For my purposes, it is sufficient that someone in his circle saw that the methods of psychological explanation deployed in the Republic could be used as a method of self-knowledge and self-revelation, a way both to understand yourself and to reveal yourself more truly and accurately to others whom you wish to have understand you. We have evidence, I think, that Plato’s thoughts about self-knowledge go far beyond the kind of impoverished view we saw in the Alcibiades, in which the Delphic injunction to know yourself can be satisfied by the discovery that you are a rational soul. I have called this chapter ‘Reading Plato’s Mind’, and we have seen three senses, I think, in which that phrase might describe it. In one sense, I have advanced some interpretations of Plato that may seem excessively speculative or in­ad­equate­ly supported, and thus invite the accusation of mind-reading. In another sense, we

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106  Tad Brennan

References Adam, James (1902) The Republic of Plato. Cambridge: CUP. Cooper, J. M. (1997) Plato: Complete Works. Indianapolis: Hackett. Westerink, L.  G. (1956) Olympiodorus, Commentary on the first Alcibiades of Plato. Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing.

27  I am grateful to the organizers of the Keeling Colloquium for inviting me to contribute a chapter, to Miriam Leonard for excellent comments on the first draft, and especially to Fiona Leigh for her help in editing and improving the final version. And as always, my deepest thanks go to Liz Karns.

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read the Seventh Letter as a narratival description of Plato’s own psychological development, and thus read Plato’s mind with better evidence. And in a third sense, I advocated the aggressive interpretation of political imagery in the Republic as a means to deepening our understanding of the psychological theory. It’s a well-known feature of the Republic that it depicts a city as a way of depicting a soul in larger letters. It is less often pointed out that since the Republic in Plato’s Republic represents a mind, the real title of the work could equally well be ‘Plato’s Mind’. When you next open your text of the Republic, I hope you will join me in reading Plato’s mind.27

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5

What Happened to Self-Knowledge in the Republic? Mary Margaret McCabe

1.  Two Oddities in the Republic Some bits of the Republic are odder than others.1 Some are just odd, in ­themselves; others acquire their oddity when we reflect on their place in the dialogue as a whole or on their connections with other Platonic works. Start with two: the story of the prisoners’ view of their own shadows in the cave; and the tale of the ‘amazing sophist’ in Book 10, who holds up a mirror and creates a world. Their oddity, I shall argue, calls attention to something that matters to Plato: the role we should give to our view of ourselves in our account of knowledge. ‘Ourselves’ is what causes the trouble here; but to deal with that we need to rethink—I shall suggest Plato to suggest—what it is to have a view. In thinking about that, I shall wonder about three connected notions: self-perception, self-reference, and self-knowledge; and I shall argue that Plato poses puzzles about all of those notions to make his readers see better how knowledge should be understood. The central books of the Republic offer some kind of contrast between the objects of knowledge and belief; and it is a common enough view that this contrast is both exhaustive and exclusive.2 It is then a short step to supposing that the state of mind that is knowledge (511d) is determined by its objects; knowledge, on that view, is passive, a state of being affected by the reality of the intelligible.3 If the objects themselves are then distinct from each other, knowledge may be correspondingly simple or even piecemeal. But that account of knowledge poses severe difficulties for the Republic itself. If knowledge is like this, we know just if we encounter the right objects. How is that 1  This chapter has benefited from discussion with many people and many audiences. My thanks to my hosts and my interlocutors at Hamburg, Western Ontario, Cornell, Toronto, Athens, Prague, Oslo, London (at the 2009 Keeling Colloquium), São Paolo, and Dublin. As always, I have benefited from advice and discussion with colleagues, especially Charles Brittain, Verity Harte, and Fiona Leigh. This chapter was published in my Platonic Conversations (Oxford University Press, 2015). 2  See here most recently e.g. Gerson (2009), ch. 3 but contra e.g. Fine (2003). 3  Hence the expression τέτταρα ταῦτα παθήματα ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ, 511d7. Mary Margaret McCabe, From the Cradle to the Cave: What Happened to Self-Knowledge in the Republic? In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Mary Margaret McCabe. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0005

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From the Cradle to the Cave

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108  Mary Margaret M c Cabe

2.  The Cradle First, the cradle: Hierocles the Stoic thought that the ability to perceive ourselves is something with which we are born, something that comes with the cradle:4 animals perceive their own parts and . . . this happens to them from the very beginning. Hierocles,Elements of Ethics 45 ff.5

He thus seeks to explain our basic adult nature (phusis) by thinking about the capacities we must have at birth. For, he argues, we are born able to perceive not only what is outside ourselves, but also (and equally) what is within.6 That this is 4  See here Brunschwig (1986). 5  Ramelli and Konstan (2009). 6  For this argument to work, the perceptions of what is outside and those of what is within must be ‘perception’ of the same sort. Suppose we take the perception of what is outside to be objective perception; that is to say, perception that is determined primarily by what it is of; then so too will inner perception be objective. Or, if we think of all perception primarily in terms of perceptual awareness, then we may likewise think of proprioception as a kind of awareness. But the use of ‘proprioception’ is tricky: it regularly refers to the information received by inner perception, and to the reception of that information, and then often also to our awareness of that information (even when this is very lowgrade awareness of our physical dispositions); see here e.g. discussion in O’Shaughnessy (2003). In what follows I seek a middle ground between objective perception and subjective awareness, namely the subject’s own perspective on her perceiving.

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encounter made to happen? The Republic suggests that we come to know because we have been educated; how can education ensure such an encounter with r­ eality? And the Republic suggests that we come to know because we have become virtuous: how does virtue ensure an encounter with reality? What account is to be given of how education, or virtue, put us in the right place at the right time to be affected by the intelligibles? What are we to say, in all of this, about what goes on in the knower in the process of coming to know? In what follows, by way of an excursus in the direction of Hierocles the Stoic, I shall suggest that the oddities on which I shall focus give us the beginnings of an answer to this last question. For, I shall claim, they reveal two features of the Republic account of coming to know that are located in the subject, rather than the object, of knowledge. The first feature is a condition of self-knowledge: that it is essential to knowledge that the knower knows herself to know. The second is an account of what this self-knowledge would include: namely a perspective on what is known, where that is understood as systematic, seen from a wide view of what is intelligible. This complex account of knowledge, I think, shows how knowledge can be developed by education; and it shows, too, how the conditions of know­ ledge allow the objects of knowledge to extend more broadly than individual forms—this makes it at least possible that the philosopher, returning to the cave, could have understanding of the world around her.

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The Cradle  109

7  See McCabe (2015) ch. 16. 8  See Furley’s classic (1978). 9  See McCabe (2015) ch. 9. 10  My thanks to David Papineau for discussion here; this is a promissory note for a deeper account of proprioception at a later date. 11  As I argue in McCabe (2013) and (2015) ch. 16.

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so is shown by the fact that animals know how to use their limbs—for locomotion and defence—so that they must be capable (from birth) of proprioception, the immediate perception of the inner disposition of their bodily parts. Proprioception seems thus to be explained on the model of our perception of external objects: so as objective perception, rather than subjective consciousness. Still, proprioception is also somehow perception of the perceiving subject—it is, under some description, reflexive; it is self-perception.7 But there is a problem here (I shall call it the problem of reflexivity): surely the agent of some action cannot also be the patient, as such? Surely there are no self-movers, strictly speaking?8 We might insist that if something is said to move itself, or act on itself, it does not do so in respect of the same parts of itself. If perception is such an action, then how can we self-perceive, in anything like a strict sense? (Plato might ask the same question: see Charmides 167 ff.;9 Republic 430 ff.) Proprioception, however, does not fall to that objection, at least on Hierocles’ account—for here what is perceived is some part of the subject, where the ­perceived part and the perceiving part are not the same. Since the same account applies to the perception of ‘the things outside’ and of the things that are ‘one’s own’, this suggests that proprioception is the grasp of some inner object of ­perception: one’s bodily parts, or one’s disposition. Indeed, one can show that proprioception occurs by seeing that animals ‘grasp’ that they have the equipment to defend themselves against predators: so the internal and the external are parallel, and both seem to be cases of objective perception. So Hierocles escapes the problem of reflexivity by indirection. But then why is proprioception so important, since the same task could be done by ordinary perception?10 In the case of proprioception, by contrast to ordinary perception, we have also an ineliminable reference to the subject: the animal sees its own parts as its own: for that is the basis for its self-defence. This kind of self-perception is limited, as befits its role in the cradle where our moral development may start; but it is designed to give to the young of any species some mediated grasp of themselves as the subjects of their cognitive processes. For Hierocles’ cradle argument is the basis for his general theory of oikeiōsis, which is an injunction to broaden one’s sense of oneself. This normative theory11 is incompatible with treating proprioception as merely a matter of subjective consciousness; it does admit, however, of thinking about a richer version of subjective perception, where the perspective of the subject is in view. For, Hierocles famously insists, we should extend our perception of our own parts outwards, coming to consider as our own (as parts of

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110  Mary Margaret M c Cabe

3.  Shadows in the Cave Turn back now to Plato, and the cave and its prisoners. At the beginning of Republic 7 Socrates says: Next compare our own natures to the following effect in respect of education and lack of education.  (514a1–2)13

What follows seeks to explain something about ‘our natures’, in the context of the discussion of education (cf. 515c5); and the cave starts with childhood (514a5). The cave uses a thought experiment to describe human nature (‘us’) in general,14 and our potential for education. So the cave matches the running theme of the central books of the Republic: the development of the philosopher through education. Consequently, we might expect this extended image to give us an account in detail both of our basic natures before education starts15 and about how we might develop therefrom. Socrates’ account is heavily structured, in four marked sections: 1. the prisoners in the cave (514a1–515c3); 2. what happens when the prisoner is released and turned around (515c4–516c3); 3. the reflections of the returning philosopher on his previous state (516c4–e2); 4. what would happen, were he to return to the cave (516e3–517a7).16 12  Do I perceive myself and others as parts of me (as mine) or as being me (as me)? Does this give me an account of myself as a perceiving subject to found my moral development? I have discussed the different versions of oikeiōsis in McCabe (2005) and (2013). 13  Μετὰ ταῦτα δή, εἶπον, ἀπείκασον τοιούτῳ πάθει τὴν ἡμετέραν φύσιν παιδείας τε πέρι καὶ ἀπαιδευσίας. 14  Notice the odd word order at 514a2–3: ἰδὲ γὰρ ἀνθρώπους οἷον ἐν καταγείῳ οἰκήσει σπηλαιώδει, ‘For see men as in an underground cave-dwelling. . . ’. The generic ‘men’ here again suggests that what follows is a description of human nature, rather than just introducing the story—‘imagine some men. . . ’—and then giving an account of what happens in some cases—e.g. where men are banded together in a society. The repeated vocabulary of seeing (which some translators misleadingly render ‘imagine’) brings the vocabulary of the frame and the framed close together. 15  Cf. the reference to ἀφροσύνη at 515c5. 16  There is a question about just how, and with what detailed correspondence, the cave fits with the line; 517a8 ff. Are we to say that the prisoners are in a state of eikasia (510a; 511e)? Whatever that would involve, we must surely attribute something cognitively complex to them: the point is not that

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ourselves, or as ourselves, simpliciter)12 first our nearest and dearest and then our neighbours and fellow citizens, as far out as the furthest Mysian. It is only when this process of oikeiōsis is complete that the Stoic sage may be thought to have reached virtue and self-knowledge. Self-perception, thus, is to be understood on a normative continuum from the cradle on. Our capacities and our limitations from birth determine what, or who, we should become.

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The Prisoners ’ Cognition  111

4.  The Prisoners’ Cognition So what is the prisoners’ natural state? Their physical situation—bound so that they can move neither their limbs nor their necks, stuck facing the wall on which the shadows are cast—explains what they see (514b2): from the outset the focus is on their perceptual range.18 Socrates then describes four distinct cognitive19 conditions of the prisoners: 1. how they see themselves and each other (515a5–8); 2. how they talk to each other and name what they see (515b4–5); 3. how they attribute sounds to the shadows (515b7–9); 4. how they think that the shadows are the truth (515c1–2). The second condition is introduced as parallel (tauton touto, 515b2) to the first.20 Consequently, the last three conditions, which elaborate how the prisoners relate to the shadows of the things carried past behind them, allow us to fill out the first, how the prisoners relate to the shadows of their companions and themselves. But this first condition, I shall suggest, renders the entire account both complex and severely puzzling. The puzzle, I shall suggest, is no mistake.

they are merely confronted by shadows, but rather how they process them (otherwise we could not say that there is anyone in this state exclusively, let alone that we are like them). The prisoners fail to (are not in a position to) answer questions about what things are, both because of the limitations of the objects of their cognition and because of their cognitive constraints. On this see Harte (2007). 17  Still, the state of the dialectician at the end of his education is also described in terms of his nature, 537c; compare 424a. 18  514b2, 515a6, 515b5, etc.; reinforced and marked by the language of vision in the frame dialogue, as Socrates and Glaucon continue the discussion, e.g. at 514a2, 514b5, 514b8–9. 19 Does ‘cognitive’ need defending? If perception were raw, unmediated, and non-complex, it might; but I say that perception is not raw here or in at least some other passages either. When we see, we see that this is thus and so, or we see this as thus and so: more later and compare Charm. 167 ff.; Rep. 523–5 (an exception may be the theory of perception in the Theaetetus; but the standing and role of that theory in the dialogue are problematic). See McCabe (2015) chs. 6 and 9. 20  Τί δὲ τῶν παραφερομένων; 515b2 ‘What of the things carried past?’ 515b2, is elliptical, picking up the construction at 515a5, πρῶτον μὲν ἑαυτῶν τε καὶ ἀλλήλων οἴει ἄν τι ἑωρακέναι ἄλλο…

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So while the first section describes the prisoner’s natural state, the second, third, and fourth explain what it is for him to be educated.17 Just as the second and fourth sections complement each other (they describe, respectively, the journey out of and the journey back to the cave), so also there are connections between the first and the third sections—in particular, between the released prisoner’s reflections on himself and his erstwhile companions in the third section and his earlier view of himself and them in the first.

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112  Mary Margaret M c Cabe Consider, then, the last three conditions:

Perhaps what they see—the shadows of artefacts cast on the wall before them— gives the prisoners the conditions for reference: these things (on this reading of the text) are what there is; this is their reality.22 At least, the prisoner can name what he sees (and somehow take himself to be doing so)—he may say ‘that is a bison’ (or perhaps just ‘bison’). And he should be able to identify it: ‘a bison, not an okapi’ (that is some part of the competitions held with his companions: ‘an okapi next’). Furthermore, that reality somehow exhausts what there is for them to talk about—so that when they hear sounds, they attribute those sounds to the shadows before them: Third condition:  What if the prison also had an echo in the facing wall? Then when one of the carriers said something, do you think the prisoners would think what sounded was anything but the passing shadow? (515b7–9)23 The shadow moves and the echo sounds—and the prisoner says ‘the bison bellowed’, ‘the okapi squeaked’. And these echoes and shadows somehow exhaust the truth for the prisoners; this is all there is to reality for them. What are shadows in fact are not shadows for the prisoners, but the real things for them—these are the bison and the okapi of their world: Fourth condition:  Altogether, then, I said, such men would think that the truth is nothing but the shadows of the artefacts. (515c1–2)24 21  Translation and text are vexed. Εἰ οὖν διαλέγεσθαι οἷοί τ’ εἶεν πρὸς ἀλλήλους, οὐ ταῦτα ἡγῇ ἂν τὰ ὄντα αὐτοὺς ὀνομάζειν ἅπερ ὁρῷεν; [Slings] Εἰ οὖν διαλέγεσθαι οἷοί τ’ εἶεν πρὸς ἀλλήλους, οὐ ταῦτα ἡγῇ ἂν τὰ παριόντα αὐτοὺς νομίζειν ὀνομάζειν ἅπερ ὁρῷεν; [Harte]. Harte’s extremely persuasive version of this reads it without the qualifier ‘as being’ (2007). She argues that they would think themselves to be naming the things that are when they mention the things they see. Whether or not one follows that account of it, Socrates seems here not to draw a sharp contrast between the structure of seeing and the structure of thinking [of something as]; so here perception may have broad cognitive content, as I argue further later in this chapter. 22  Perhaps they also give them something more like the answer to a ‘what is x?’ question, like the lovers of sights and sounds (as Harte’s account would allow). Maybe the prisoner can say ‘you ask what is a bison? That is what a bison is. . . ’. If so, the first condition might have him asking ‘who am I, really?’ and answering ‘I am that’, pointing to the shadows on the wall. 23  Τί δ’ εἰ καὶ ἠχὼ τὸ δεσμωτήριον ἐκ τοῦ καταντικρὺ ἔχοι; ὁπότε τις τῶν παριόντων φθέγξαιτο, οἴει ἂν ἄλλο τι αὐτοὺς ἡγεῖσθαι τὸ φθεγγόμενον ἢ τὴν παριοῦσαν σκιάν; 24  Παντάπασι δή, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, οἱ τοιοῦτοι οὐκ ἂν ἄλλο τι νομίζοιεν τὸ ἀληθὲς ἢ τὰς τῶν σκευαστῶν σκιάς. This condition is very strongly framed—prima facie, it does not allow a restriction on the scope of what they see on the wall of the cave (for example, that the image only tells us about their moral truths and concepts). They do not, according to the image, have any different sort of access to ‘themselves’.

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Second condition:  So if they were able to have conversations with each other, don’t you think that they would think themselves to be naming these things passing by, the things they see? (515b4–5)21

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The Prisoners Are ‘ like Us ’   113

5.  The Prisoners Are ‘Like Us’ The prisoners are, Socrates says, like us (515a5). And this likeness is explained by26 the first condition: for they can see themselves and each other only by virtue of the shadows they throw on the wall opposite: First condition:  For have such people, first of all, seen anything of themselves or each other, do you think, save the shadows cast by the fire on the wall of the cave in front of them? How could they have, he said, if they have been compelled to hold their heads fixed throughout their lives? (515a5–b1)27 This opening account of the prisoner’s position at 515a5–8 is elaborately put: literally ‘such people, first of all, of themselves and each other do you think anything have seen but the shadows?’ This calls attention both to the subjects of the seeing and to the reflexive nature of what is seen, at the same time as it points to how the seeing is in fact an identification: they see in the shadows something ‘of themselves’.28 How does this work? And how does it manifest itself in what the prisoners say (on the analogy with the later conditions)? 25  Of course it is hardly cradle-like to suppose we speak when we are born. So someone might complain that the role of the cave is much more limited than Hierocles’ cradle. In reply, notice the claims to exhaustiveness that pervade the passage: that sits ill with supposing that this is an illustration of something much more limited than the experience of the prisoners as a whole (e.g. their moral experience). Consider the repeated phrases for identity (‘nothing but’ vel sim.) at 515a6, b8, c1. 26 Notice γὰρ at 515a5. 27  τοὺς γὰρ τοιούτους πρῶτον μὲν ἑαυτῶν τε καὶ ἀλλήλων οἴει ἄν τι ἑωρακέναι ἄλλο πλὴν τὰς σκιὰς τὰς ὑπὸ τοῦ πυρὸς εἰς τὸ καταντικρὺ αὐτῶν τοῦ σπηλαίου προσπιπτούσας; Πῶς γάρ, ἔφη, εἰ ἀκινήτους γε τὰς κεφαλὰς ἔχειν ἠναγκασμένοι εἶεν διὰ βίου; 28  Something similar is to be said of the second condition, on Harte’s view.

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Perhaps the prisoner may say ‘These are all the bison there are’ or ‘what a complex world I inhabit’. But notice just how much is captured by these conditions. The prisoners perceive what is projected in sight and sound by the wall and they seem to talk about it in complex ways. Their talk is even reflective to a degree (‘they think themselves to be naming’; ‘the truth is nothing but. . . ’) and its content is exhaustively explained by their perception of the shadows before them. Suppose, then, that the cave describes the bare cognitive equipment that comes to us by nature (as if in the cradle), especially how what we say is related to what we see.25 That relation is determined by two aspects of the prisoners’ situation: that the objects they see are somehow ersatz or derivative; and that their point of view is fixed and so limited to what they behold before them. Consequently their (our) cognitive state is somehow or other deeply wrong, mistaken, inadequate, badly in need of the education the Republic may provide.

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29  I am grateful to Doukas Kapantais for discussion. 30  Notice the repeated pronouns: ἀλλήλους at b4; αὐτοὺς b8; ἀλλήλων 516c9.

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Imagine what happens when the prisoner sees his shadow or that of his c­ ompanion. As in the later conditions, he will name what he sees: he says, for example, ‘Socrates’ or ‘Alcibiades’. But suppose he is in fact Socrates, and he is naming the shadow that happens to be cast by his own head. Perhaps he says ‘Socrates’ and in fact names himself: but in doing so, he just names ‘Socrates’, and makes no claim to be seeing ‘himself ’. Then his seeing himself will be de re: in fact the prisoner has a seeing of himself, but that fact will not be present to the mind of the prisoner. Or perhaps he sees the shadow, and sees it as somehow his own, and the naming as naming himself; then his seeing himself will be de dicto (he will have in mind not only that this is Socrates, but also that this is himself: ‘that is me’; ‘I am Socrates’). Which?29 If de re, why should this be significant as the first thing he sees, or the condition that explains the prisoners’ likeness to us? His own shadow would be but one among many. And if de re, why would this ground the talk among the prisoners?30 After all, the prisoners don’t just identify and recognize the shadows in front of them (they don’t just itemize things on a list); they are imagined to have conversations with each other about the things they see, conversations with complex ­linguistic content—reference and attribution—and competitions with each other where one or the other of them will be acknowledged as the winner. In all this talk, each prisoner needs to be able to say of his companion just what he would say of the other shadows in front of him. So he should be able not only to recognize that his companion is there, but also to identify him, to be able to say: ‘Alcibiades’; or ‘this [pointing to the shadow] is Alcibiades’. And he should be able to make attributions, such as ‘Alcibiades is speaking’, or ‘Alcibiades is dumb’, or ‘Alcibiades won the competition’. So whatever else we say of the content of what they say to each other, that conversation is predicated on their being able to ­recognize that there is someone to have the conversation, and the competition, with: they must be able to make that identification. But their information is restricted to what the shadows provide: the shadows are their reality and their truth. So when the prisoner says ‘this is Alcibiades’, he refers to the shadow before him, even when the shadow is in fact cast by Alcibiades himself, sitting three seats away, himself in chains. The same will hold of the things the prisoners say about their own shadows. But their attribution here needs to be set in the context of the lives they live. If they are to compete, there must be a way of their saying that they themselves have won the competition, of saying not ‘Socrates won!’, but ‘I won!’ So they see the shadows as themselves; and their attribution is de dicto. Each might start out in the competition by saying, of the shadow in front of them, ‘that [pointing to the shadow] is me’. As a consequence, the ‘seeing’ that the prisoners do of themselves

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Self-reference And Self-perception  115

6.  Self-Reference and Self-Perception Theirs is, however, a parlous condition—as Glaucon anticipates (515a4). Identifying another could be a matter of christening that shadow, in the first instance; and thence of recognizing it, once christened, again. So, Alcibiades sees Socrates’ shadow for the first time, and declares—or is told—that this is Socrates; and thereafter re-identifies that shadow with the same expression, ‘this is Socrates’, and takes that shadow-Socrates to speak and to win the competition. But what are we to say of the corresponding case, where I claim victory and identify myself, where that identification is somehow de dicto? If I articulated what I see, I would say something like ‘this is me’. How do I get the referent, the ‘me’, the first time around? What is it for ‘this’ to be limited to the shadow world before me, and then to be said to be ‘me’? And what is it for this limitation to be explained by Glaucon’s next remark, that the prisoners have had their gaze fixed forwards throughout their lives? Somehow or other the limitations of the prisoners’ perception of themselves are accounted for by their point of view—straight forwards—while that point of view still allows them to get hold of the referent, ‘me’. And somehow or other those limitations need to be limited: for the prisoner, surely, gets something right about it when, pointing to his own shadow, he says ‘this is me’. For—in claiming success in the competition, for example—he rightly denies that Alcibiades was the winner. How can this work?32 If the shadows are all there is to the prisoners’ reality, there is no more to my identification of myself than what I say about my own shadow. I can’t say of my own shadow that it is a shadow caused by me, any more than I can say of the shadow I call ‘that bison’ that it is caused by a bison figurine (or that the figurine is a copy of something else). I have no other source of access to ‘me’ than the shadow itself: I see it as me, not as my shadow. And that just looks seriously peculiar for the special case of ‘me’. Consider a different way of thinking about ‘me’ and ‘I’. When I use the ­expression ‘I’, it might be said, I cannot be wrong in my self-reference—in 31  There is a great deal to be said about why talking is so fundamental, in Plato’s view; see McCabe (2015) chs 1 and 5. 32  Again, see Harte (2007) for parallel issues about the rest of the prisoners’ talk.

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and each other is cognitively rich, forming as it does the condition for talk between them.31 It can have expression in some such sentence as ‘this is Socrates’, ‘this is Alcibiades’; and in further sentences: ‘that is Socrates, again.’ This is about identifying, and re-identifying, themselves and each other: the first thing they see (it may be first in the order of explanation, not necessarily in time) is a precondition for their life in the speluncar community they inhabit.

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116  Mary Margaret M c Cabe referring to myself I am immune to misidentification.33 Perhaps the linguistic role of ‘I’ just does this trick:

Such a thought might be apposite to the cave, which is repeatedly about the relation between experience and speech. And an ‘immunity to error through misidentification’ might be thought to be something basic to our relations with others and the world (something, perhaps, that turns up with the cradle). This ‘I’ to which I refer must be the ‘I’ who does the referring; and from that point flow all my other self-attributions (an ‘I’ who looks within myself must, equally, be the ‘I’ who does the looking). Successful self-reference is—so this thought goes—somehow natural or basic to language. But just this self-reference is what seems to go wrong in the cave. The prisoners’ situation is, however, complex: on the one hand there is the object in view (the shadow, and the causal relations the shadow in fact has to other things in the world, although those relations are obscured from the prisoner); on the other there is the prisoners’ view of that object. So while self-reference might be immune to error by misidentification, if self-reference is explained by self-perception—as it is in the cave—that may bring error along with it. Indeed, there may be a whole tangle of issues here. On the one hand, if I see myself, I seem to run foul of the paradox of reflexivity: how can I see myself, when myself is doing the seeing? On the other hand, if what I see, in seeing myself, is in fact only my shadow, even though I don’t know it, it looks as though my self-identification has gone wrong. In both cases, the paradox of reflexivity is tackled by in­dir­ec­tion: either I perceive myself by perceiving my parts, or I perceive myself by perceiving my image. Even Hierocles acknowledges that perceiving myself is not a direct reflexive, but shows up instead in the limited perception of my bodily parts. Likewise, for the prisoner, self-perception comes out peculiar, just because both his view and the object in view are somehow compromised.

7.  Does It Matter? Yet however the prisoner’s view of himself works, it seems to matter. For when the philosopher returns to the cave, he is in a position to see his erstwhile companions, and to recall and reflect on his own life in the cave, and theirs (516c4–5). 33  See Shoemaker (1968) and compare discussion of de re misidentification in Pryor (1999). 34  Sainsbury (2011).

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I claim that there’s no more to understanding a token of ‘I’, whether as speaker or hearer, than being able to apply to the token the rule: English speakers should use ‘I’ to refer to themselves as themselves.34

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Does It Matter?  117

35  Hence see Section 4: the repeated language of vision in the frame dialogue. This will become significant later, in Book X, when the discussion of seeing oneself is repeated in the context of a discussion of artistic imitation. 36  Brunschwig (1999), (2003), and Burnyeat (1997), 239–40 take differing positions about this.

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When he does this, moreover, his old life suffers by comparison: for he thinks himself fortunate in the change in his situation, the others he left behind pitiable (516c6). If there is meant to be a careful parallel between the philosopher’s position and that of the prisoner, this moral view of his own life and that of others should have as its counterpart the prisoner’s view of (or about) himself, impaired as it is by his being tied down in the cave. Some part, that is to say, of the comparison between the prisoner and the philosopher in the first and third sections of this short passage involves the differences between their views of themselves. And the prisoners are ‘like us’ (515a5): what they see there is somehow analogous to what we see right now—a shadow on the wall, an image in a book, some other indirect sight of ourselves.35 Someone may object: If the prisoners have such an anomalous view of themselves, why is the sequel not focused on resolving it? The description of the ascent from the cave seems to attend most of all to the objects the prisoner sees, where those objects are expressly outside him; even outside the cave the images and reflections he sees are images of men in general, not of himself in particular (516a). Starting with the prisoner’s view of himself, so the objector may insist, is merely a matter of artistic detail, and that is why the prisoner’s self-seeing is dropped once he ascends from his seat before the shadowy wall. So self-perception and, on the return, self-knowledge become redundant to real enlightenment.36 Instead—on this account—the ascent from the cave offers to the philosopher the increasing objectification of his knowledge, with the result that he will have, at the  end of his journey, no interest in what is personal at all, including himself; and that is what makes him good at being a king. Self-knowledge, then, is quietly dropped. A different view might be that the dropping is loud, if not clangorous; and that the sheer paradoxicality of the prisoners’ situation is designed to make us respond. That response may demand, however, a deal of revision of our assumptions, not only about what constitutes the self, but also about what it is to see or know it. Both issues, I say, are expressly invited by the anomaly of the first thing the ­prisoners see—themselves—and by the radical change when the philosopher comes back down into the cave, and reflects on how his life compares to those he left behind. Here we cannot imagine the philosopher simply occupying an impersonal perspective (he explicitly compares their lives to his own, 516c5); nor can we imagine his stance being one of detachment, since he thinks about his own life in terms of its happiness, its eudaimonia. What happens, then, when the ­phil­oso­pher-king thinks at this stage about himself ?

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118  Mary Margaret M c Cabe

8.  The ‘Amazing Sophist’ of Book X My second oddity occurs in Book X, when Socrates is talking about making things—about craftsmen, about poets, and about the things they make—under the general heading of imitation, mimēsis. This passage, like many others before it, has often been construed as including a further explication of how the status of the objects of sight, or of understanding, determines the mental state of the subject (is it knowledge? Is it belief? Are we to look to what it is of, and read the mental state off from that?) At the same time, many have argued that this account of Plato’s epistemology is too thin to do justice to the complex things he says about states of mind and their structure;38 yet the strangeness of this passage has, I think, been underestimated. Socrates has been talking about his ‘customary method’ of positing a form for each named plurality, and applied this to artefacts and their templates (596b). The 37  On this see Burnyeat (1997).

38  e.g. Annas (1981), Fine (2003), Harte (2007).

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Well, perhaps the point is that what the prisoner sees is a self determined by his own culture—the philosopher, by contrast, has a view of himself and his erstwhile companions that is enlightened, and right.37 On that account, what the prisoner gets wrong is the object of his view: and so perhaps what needs to happen when the philosopher descends is that he repudiates this earlier self, supposes that this was not himself at all. When he comes back down, on such an account, the phil­oso­pher says ‘this is not me’, in response to his earlier self ’s identification of his own shadow, ‘this is me’. But this seems to miss something important: the prisoner’s problem is not merely that his visual object is wrong, but that the wrongness of the object is explained by how he views it. The explanation (at 515a9–b1) of what goes wrong in the prisoner’s view of himself is not said to be ‘oh well, that’s only a shadow’; nor is it, as it is in the case of the other objects the prisoners see, that this shadow is cast by an ersatz object. On the contrary, this shadow is indeed cast by the speaker who might say ‘this is me’; and there is some sense—as we consider this image from the outside—that he is right, along with a rather worrying sense that he just must be wrong. The difference between the prisoners and the returning philosophers is not that we have a new self, but that we have a new view when we come down: we can see the causal structures of things, even whole lives, rather than just looking straight ahead at shadows. On that new view, acquired outside the cave, we might revise what we said before; for when, as a philosopher, I see myself, I see myself better, and perhaps discount some features (grey and flat, for example) as belonging to the shadow, not to my self. But I cannot also deny, on my return, that my own shadow was indeed cast by myself: my earlier view was still, somehow, right. What is it to see myself better in this way?

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The ‘ amazing Sophist ’ Of Book X  119

But look at this craftsman, too, and consider what you would call him. Which one? The one who makes everything, everything which the individual craftsmen make. (596b10–c1)40

In the context of the discussion of the idea of the couch and the table, we might be forgiven for expecting this ‘one who makes everything’ to be someone super­nat­ural, the creator of all the templates of the arts and crafts. This expectation is encouraged by Glaucon’s response: Someone clever you describe, and a wonderful man.  (596c3)41

This translation preserves the Greek word order: in Glaucon’s response the noun ‘man’ seems bathetic—surely no man makes everything? Surely Socrates is ­talking about god, wondrously ingenious? I haven’t said that yet, but you will soon say what you say even more. For this same craftsman is not only able to make all furniture, but also he makes all the things that grow from the earth, all the animals.  (596c4–7)42

God, surely? 39  For some responses see Harte (2006), (2010). 40  Ἀλλ’ ὅρα δὴ καὶ τόνδε τίνα καλεῖς τὸν δημιουργόν. Τὸν ποῖον; Ὃς πάντα ποιεῖ, ὅσαπερ εἷς ἕκαστος τῶν χειροτεχνῶν. 41  Δεινόν τινα λέγεις καὶ θαυμαστὸν ἄνδρα. 42  Οὔπω γε, ἀλλὰ τάχα μᾶλλον φήσεις. ὁ αὐτὸς γὰρ οὗτος χειροτέχνης οὐ μόνον πάντα οἷός τε σκεύη ποιῆσαι, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ ἐκ τῆς γῆς φυόμενα ἅπαντα ποιεῖ καὶ ζῷα πάντα ἐργάζεται, τά τε ἄλλα…

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craftsman for each artefact, he says, looks to the form, the idea, in making whatever he constructs—for without that he would be unable to make anything at all (596b). All this seems to be about making (copies of the template) and looking (at the template to do the making). Accordingly, there are three kinds of craftsmen— painters, craftsmen, and god—each of whom makes things, of different orders of reality (596e–597e). Central to this arrangement is the contrast between the painter and the craftsman, a contrast in part explained by the difference between appearance and reality. And somehow all of this is to be deployed to explain why tragedy is deceptive: like a painting, it provides us only with a view (of whatever it is we see when we watch a play) from one direction. So what is it that is wrong with what we see? Is it that the actors are dressing up? Or is the problem also something about where we are sitting in the theatre?39 That the latter, our point of view, is essential to Plato’s account is suggested by a shock in the middle of the discussion of the couches and the tables and their makers. In advance of the entrance of god into the classification (at 597b), Socrates suddenly seems to change tack:

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120  Mary Margaret M c Cabe and himself. And in addition to these things, he fashions the earth and the sky and the gods and everything in the heavens and in Hades beneath the earth. (596c7–9)43

You are talking, he said, of a quite wonderful sophist. (596d1)44

Suspicion might easily fall on the expression ‘sophist’—but here, surely, its evaluative content is unclear, until Socrates begins to clarify: Are you not convinced? I said. And tell me, do you think that there could not at all be such a craftsman, or do you think that there could be someone who makes everything—in one way, even if in some other way he does not? Or do you not perceive that you yourself would be able to make these things, in one way? And what, he asked, would that way be?  (596d2–6)45

Socrates has disambiguated: we are not talking about god, only Glaucon: Nothing difficult, I said, but what is fashioned often and quickly—most quickly of all, I suppose, if you were to take a mirror and carry it around with you everywhere. For quickly you would make the sun and the things in the heavens, and quickly the earth, and yourself and all the other animals and furniture and plants and all the other things I mentioned right now. Yes, indeed—I would make them appear, but not to be in truth.  (596d7–e4)46 43  καὶ ἑαυτόν, καὶ πρὸς τούτοις γῆν καὶ οὐρανὸν καὶ θεοὺς καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ τὰ ἐν Ἅιδου ὑπὸ γῆς ἅπαντα ἐργάζεται. 44  Πάνυ θαυμαστόν, ἔφη, λέγεις σοφιστήν. 45  Ἀπιστεῖς; ἦν δ’ ἐγώ. καί μοι εἰπέ, τὸ παράπαν οὐκ ἄν σοι δοκεῖ εἶναι τοιοῦτος δημιουργός, ἢ τινὶ μὲν τρόπῳ γενέσθαι ἂν τούτων ἁπάντων ποιητής, τινὶ δὲ οὐκ ἄν; ἢ οὐκ αἰσθάνῃ ὅτι κἂν αὐτὸς οἷός τ’ εἴης πάντα ταῦτα ποιῆσαι τρόπῳ γέ τινι; Καὶ τίς, ἔφη, ὁ τρόπος οὗτος; 46  Οὐ χαλεπός, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, ἀλλὰ πολλαχῇ καὶ ταχὺ δημιουργούμενος, τάχιστα δέ που, εἰ ‘θέλεις λαβὼν κάτοπτρον περιφέρειν πανταχῇ· ταχὺ μὲν ἥλιον ποιήσεις καὶ τὰ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ, ταχὺ δὲ γῆν, ταχὺ δὲ σαυτόν τε καὶ τἆλλα ζῷα καὶ σκεύη καὶ φυτὰ καὶ πάντα ὅσα νυνδὴ ἐλέγετο. Ναί, ἔφη, φαινόμενα, οὐ μέντοι παριόντα γέ που τῇ ἀληθείᾳ.

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We may now begin to hesitate: although everything Socrates says may remind us of, for example, the divine causation of the form of the good (509b) and the world outside the cave (516a), he seems to suggest that this amazing creator fashions also himself. Is that what we would expect, even of god? The Baron Munchausen effect of this kind of self-causation should worry us more than somewhat (especially if we recall the cautious discussion of the problem of reflexives in Book 4, 430–1). And the marvel-making features of this craftsman’s activity echoes, surely, the way that someone makes the ersatz objects that are paraded before the fire within the cave (514b). Glaucon, at any rate, begins to be suspicious, for (again with the odd delayed word order):

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The ‘ amazing Sophist ’ Of Book X  121

47  Again there is a great deal else in play here, notably in the talk about mirrors; this is taken up— and, I say, dropped—by Aristotle in his discussions of the friend as another self (see McCabe, 2015, ch. 16). 48  This is part of the puzzle (‘like who?’): as such, I suggest, it ensures that the puzzle provokes a broad range of people, including the readership of the Republic itself. 49  See here e.g. Wilberding (2004).

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An amazing sophist indeed: someone who carts a mirror around, and who looks at himself in it, and in that way creates himself. The short excursus into mirrors is à propos, Socrates says. Why?47 My earlier objector would say that this confirms the thought that the prisoners only see themselves when they are at the lowest grade of existence, stuck with their heads fixed looking at the shadows. The mirror, perhaps, is sneakier, because it moves around with us, so that whichever way we turn, we see our own mirror images in it, but self-perception is still something limited to low-grade cognition. But—in riposte to the objector—the earlier puzzles should not leave us now: if the mirror in which I gaze upon myself makes me, what is the relation between the me that is made and the I who does the looking, or, indeed, the I who makes myself by carrying a mirror around? The mirror invites the same sort of difficulty about reflexives posed in the cave, and asks the same questions with renewed emphasis. What is the relation between an image of myself and myself, given that the self who sees the image is just what the image is of? How can I say, whether looking in the mirror or at the wall of the cave, ‘this is me’? In cases of self-perception and self-knowledge, how am I to sort out the difference between subject and object, when they are the same me? The puzzle is intensified by the vertiginous composition of the passage. Until very late on, we may find ourselves unsure whether we are talking about a divinity or a charlatan; and the moment where our doubts crystallize is the point where Socrates suggests that this amazing craftsman makes himself. He does it, it transpires, by seeing himself: so the self-perception that seemed to drop from view and from significance in Book VII here again takes on a central role. What exactly is the point of bringing it back with such attention now? Both in the cave and in the mirrors, the demand to disentangle subject and object is a double one. First, we are not just asked to classify what we see, or to determine how we see in terms of sight’s objects, but we are invited to consider the seeing subject in the special case where what we see is ourselves. Second, the puzzle is a direct challenge: we, the readers, are invited to think about the seeing subject in an extended image of ourselves as we read: the prisoners are ‘like us’.48 Is the point here that the subject of self-perception is created by its context—so, cashing out the image, by the society in which the individual lives?49 What, then, is going on when we connect what we are told by Socrates about ourselves, with our own position as we read? And what, consequently, are we to say about the deficiency of this mirrored view of ourselves? Is Socrates telling us that we need

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9.  A View in the Round Consider what happens next in Republic X. The issue is still who the imitator is (597b2).50 The painter—like god—is making imitations: imitations of the cre­ ations of the craftsmen (598a1), portrayed not as they are but as they appear. And that contrast, between how things are and how they appear, is now explained: a couch, whether one looks at it from the side, or from in front or from anywhere else, does it differ at all from itself? Or does it not indeed differ from itself,

50  Even if the painter is a mirror-carrier, so that the focus seems to shift back towards the object of our view (596e ff.). This explains Socrates’ interest in the intentions of the makers (god, for example, is a pretty determined character, 597c–d), and his conclusion that if the tragedian provides images that are at the third remove from ‘nature’ (597e3), then the tragedian, like the other imitators, is the third remove from the king and from nature (597e).

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to jettison our interest in ourselves altogether to reach the pure truth of the world on reality? Or should we recognize that the image is a sham, imposed by others, something we should reject when we properly see who we really are? How are we to achieve that? Notice the similarity between the mirrors and the shadows. In both cases, the ordinary objects of sight are somehow or other derivative: we see the shadow of a bison, the mirror image of an okapi. In each case the image derives from some independent original, and we might well suppose that in changing the object of our sight, its veracity would be improved: all I need to get the right view of a bison is to look at a real bison, not its shadow. However, the suggestion that mirrors and shadows may provide us with a view of ourselves changes the emphasis of the account; and it does so by having these self-perceptions perform a prominent role in the two passages. For in self-perception the relation between the image and the original is tricky, since the original is not so much the proper object of our perception, but rather the subject—who is present, all along. As object, conversely, the subject must be seen indirectly—whether partially (as in Hierocles’ account of proprioception) or derivatively (in a mirror or a shadow). To get at the truth about ourselves, then, we do not merely have to adjust the object of our inspection, but also figure out how to access the subject. What we see, when we see ourselves in a mirror or as a shadow, is indeed ourselves, even if there is some kind of deficiency in the view of ourselves it provides. The mirrors and the ­shadows shift focus towards how we view, and away from the image in view. Essential to that shift is the reference to ourselves—a reference, as I have argued, which appears in the content of what we say of our viewing: the prisoners and the mirror-carrier see their images as themselves.

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View In The Round  123 but appears different [sc. from different viewpoints], and the same for everything else? That’s right, he said. It appears, but does not actually differ at all.  (598a7–10)51

For example, the painter, we say, will paint a cobbler or a carpenter, or one of the other craftsmen, for us, although he [the painter] knows nothing of these crafts. But nonetheless, if the painter is a good one, then by drawing the carpenter and exhibiting him from afar, he will deceive children and stupid people into believing that he is a real carpenter.  (598b8–c4)52

This shift is once again surprising, away from the objects that appear, and towards their creators. Painting here imitates what appears by imitating the point of view of the painted craftsman. In the painting, the craftsman is frozen in his view of his object: the pictured craftsman does not see what he is pictured as making from all sorts of points of view, but only from the point of view in which he is depicted. Like the prisoners in the cave fixed at the neck, he can see only in the direction in which his gaze is depicted. The contrast between appearance and reality, thus, is offered not merely in terms of the objects of the craftsman’s inspection, but in terms the view of the craftsman himself, as he is depicted. (Again the doubleness of the account should not escape us: for we too see speakers frozen in their points of view, as we look at the dialogue from the outside.) This, as 598a made clear, is exactly what we are meant to get from the idea of an appearance: something not seen from more than one point of view. That does not make the point of view false; but it makes it seriously deficient. The fixity of the point of view is the same one we are offered when we see ourselves in a mirror, for the point of view is determined and exhausted by the angle of the mirror. That does not mean that this is not, somehow or other, an image of me: but it makes that image inappropriate as the source of knowledge about me (see 598c ff.). For I cannot see myself, as it were, in the round, only straight-on, just as the depicted carpenter can only fix his painted gaze on one side of the table, depicted as it is, flat. The self-image of the prisoners, likewise, is as flat as my view of myself in the mirror. This limitation of my image is the source of the paradox of ‘this is me’, said of my shadow first encountered in the cave.

51  κλίνη, ἐάντε ἐκ πλαγίου αὐτὴν θεᾷ ἐάντε καταντικρὺ ἢ ὁπῃοῦν, μή τι διαφέρει αὐτὴ ἑαυτῆς, ἢ διαφέρει μὲν οὐδέν, φαίνεται δὲ ἀλλοία; καὶ τἆλλα ὡσαύτως; Οὕτως, ἔφη· φαίνεται, διαφέρει δ’ οὐδέν. 52  οἷον ὁ ζωγράφος, φαμέν, ζωγραφήσει ἡμῖν σκυτοτόμον, τέκτονα, τοὺς ἄλλους δημιουργούς, περὶ οὐδενὸς τούτων ἐπαΐων τῶν τεχνῶν· ἀλλ’ ὅμως παῖδάς γε καὶ ἄφρονας ἀνθρώπους, εἰ ἀγαθὸς εἴη ζωγράφος, γράψας ἂν τέκτονα καὶ πόρρωθεν ἐπιδεικνὺς ἐξαπατῷ ἂν τῷ δοκεῖν ὡς ἀληθῶς τέκτονα εἶναι.

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But the sequel discusses how the painter can imitate not a couch but a carpenter— and so on for the other craftsmen:

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10. Education

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So what should we do about education? The prisoners are vulnerable to a double failure—they are focused on the wrong objects, and in the wrong way, from a perspective that is fixed and flat. They fail, as a consequence, in the first stage of their cognitive progress: for they fail even to see themselves right. The reason for this is partly a matter of their point of view. Both shadows and mirrors let us down: they are mono-perspectival, and thus account for the subject’s failure of self-perception. If I see my shadow, or my reflection, I can get it right in saying that this is me; but I can only do so if I have access to other views of myself, other ways of seeing that will allow me to get knowledge of me—not just knowledge of that flat image that happens, indeed, to be an image of me. The fault, then, lies partly in the subject of self-perception: without a view in the round, an extensive self-inspection, he must fail, in some way, to identify himself on the wall of the cave, even insofar as he is right that the shadow is indeed somehow him. For what he sees is not himself, as a whole, but some image of himself; and he sees it from only one of many possible points of view. His self-perception is indirect and it is partial; and the indirection explains both what he gets right and what he gets wrong. (There still lurks, thus, the problem of reflexivity.) But as the prisoner emerges from the cave, he is not merely exposed to different objects; he takes different views of what he sees (he looks round and back, e.g. 515d–e). The philosopher’s culminating view of the sun (and of the form of the good) is described not only as a seeing, but also as a contemplation (theōria, e.g. at 517d4) and a viewing (theasthai, e.g. 516b6). This vision has been thematic since the very beginning of the dialogue, where Socrates’ vision of the Thracian procession (327a ff.) is thoroughly discursive. The story of the ascent describes how the philosopher sees the artificial sources of the shadows (and, it seems, recognizes them as such, 515c4 ff.) and then the shadows of their natural originals, and then the originals themselves—by being able, in the first instance, to turn his neck round (515c7). The ascent is punctuated by periods of blindness, when his point of view fails altogether; and the descent likewise has him fail to see at all, once back in the darkness of the cave. But each of these phases of the life of the philosopher press hard, not so much on the objects of his perceptions (are they ersatz or somehow real?) as on a contrast between the fixed point of view of the prisoner and the improvement of the sight of the philosopher, described in terms of how his vision, as he escapes, is more and more in the round, more and more, as I shall say, stereoscopic. That is why, in his practice of dialectic, the philosopher is imagined taking up different points of view; and that is why, once he has reached the summit of his ascent, he has become a ‘synoptic dialectician’ (537c7). Within the imagery of the cave, he still sees, but he sees better. His achievement is not merely a matter of standing out there in the sunlight—it is a matter of how he has an all-round view

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53  There is an important issue here—for expansion on a different occasion—about how all this figures in moral vision and moral transformation. At least, this material presses the idea that there must be an internal, as well as an external, component in the development of moral vision; but see McCabe (2015) chs. 6 and 10. 54  Seeing may still provide some kind of information, and it may still be a suitable analogue for knowledge. But the conditions on seeing are complex: i) it is not merely the direct affection of the subject by the object; ii) it has complex content; iii) it is essentially perspectival.

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of things.53 When he returns, therefore, he sees himself and his erstwhile companions in the round: and this allows him to compare favourably his own life with the lives of those still imprisoned—it gives him a view of his whole life. It does not falsify the remark he may have made when he was still tied down—of the shadow before him, ‘that’s me’—but it allows him a full account of what it is to be himself, and to live the life he has now discovered. But the difference between how the prisoner sees and how the philosopher sees is supposed to illustrate the difference between their general cognitive states. The prisoner’s single perspective illustrates the piecemeal nature of his cognition; the stereoscopic vision of the philosopher shows how he knows or understands. While it is true that the prisoner and the emerged philosopher have different objects of cognition, they differ also in the view they take of those objects. Perception is like knowledge in giving us some kind of genuine view of the things we see: but it is unlike it in giving us that view from a single perspective. Knowledge has some special objects of its own; but it also has a special way of seeing: the stereoscopic way. This is not an impersonal view, nor need it be a neutral one; but it is one that sees things all the way round.54 How, now, does this stereoscopic account of the philosopher’s view explain what we might recognize as self-knowledge? Self-knowledge is acquired, on this account, not from a direct seeing (of one’s shadow, or one’s reflection) but by a concerted attempt to see oneself as a whole. Self-knowledge is not here understood as mirror-recognition (even though the prisoner does somehow recognize his shadow as his own), but as some deep understanding of myself, of who I am and the life I live. The contrast between these two views of myself explains just why it is that the lives of the prisoners are so limited; and why their views of themselves are so puzzling. The prisoners escape the paradox of reflexivity only by virtue of making a mistake (their shadows are not themselves). By seeing himself stereoscopically the philosopher, by contrast, avoids the risk that in seeing himself reflected back he somehow creates himself in his own mirror. For the object of his  vision is not known by a mirror-identification (or, then, by the first-person authority of introspection, or by proprioception, or by the immediate awareness of consciousness), but as a complex whole, by being seen from all around. And in seeing myself from all around, I am able to grasp not only the object of selfknowledge, but, and more importantly, its subject: the self who views, all around. The stereoscopic view explains both the object in view and the subject.

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11.  The Normativity of Perception

For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe anything but the perception. . . the mind is a kind of ­the­atre, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, ­re-pass, glide away and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations. . . The comparison of the theatre must not mislead us. They are the successive ­perceptions only that constitute the mind.’ Treatise of Human Nature, I.iv.6, Selby-Bigge/Nidditch, 251–63

Hume insists that introspection only delivers ‘particular perceptions’, no view of ‘the self ’; the self is a convenient fiction. Does Platonic stereoscopy have an answer to Hume’s objection? If there is a general problem about the self ’s being the object of its own knowledge, that problem remains even if knowledge is glossed as something broader in compass than individual events of cognition. For why should we think that the collection of points of view that are possessed by the synoptic dialectician are in any sense held together as focused either on, or by,

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The cave is echoed in the taxonomy of imitation and the descriptions of the world of the amazing sophist. And both passages, I have argued, are set up to puzzle the reader, and to invite reflection on the problems of reflexivity, self-perception, and self-knowledge, from the point of view of both object and subject. I conclude from this that both self-knowledge and reflexivity matter to the Republic’s account of knowledge. This has the consequence, first, that knowledge has internal conditions, conditions specifying in some respect the disposition of the subject, as well as external ones (it cannot merely be true that the objects of knowledge determine it). Second, the perspectival account of knowledge supposes knowledge to be complex, if not holistic, in its content. And third, it shows (via the problem of reflexivity) that the subject of knowledge must be understood in complex ways: this may allow there to be some logical space for how the subject of knowledge may change and develop in the course of education. All three consequences should press us to think of knowledge here as epistemically rich: as understanding, rather than a piecemeal assemblage of justified true beliefs, where ‘understanding’ tells us as much about the understander as about what is understood. But at the same time the puzzles of reflexivity are not easy to shift. This self that sees is somehow the same one as the object of its seeing. If this is not to fall to the puzzle of reflexivity (the agent should not also be the patient, as such), we may find a different problem looming: what is the self that is the object of self-know­ledge? Remember Hume:

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The Normativity Of Perception  127

55  This view of the philosopher-king has seemed right to some; see McCabe (2013) for discussion of the impersonal view. 56  See Burnyeat (1980) on how this complex of reflection and habit is deployed by Aristotle to explain learning to be good. 57  Normative in the sense that the faculty of perception can be improved (not in the sense that I may once have aspired to 20:20 vision).

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some kind of metaphysical unity? Perhaps in focusing upon the view, rather than upon the object in view, I am attributing to Plato a vanishing conception of the self and an impersonal philosopher-king?55 The pervasive analogy between perception (especially vision) and knowledge may help here. Right from the lowest stage of the cave, perception has cognitive content, as I have argued (‘that is me’). So my perception of myself, even at this lowest stage, is not merely a raw feel, not merely unmediated input from outside, but capable of complex expression (hence the strongly linguistic features of the conditions of the cave). But this cognitive content is somehow improved as the prisoner escapes and climbs out of the cave. That improvement—as I have argued—is not merely a matter of the philosopher’s changing the objects in view, but of enriching her points of view. And the two processes are interconnected. For at each stage her understanding both of what she sees and how she sees it is reflective: she sees that she has a point of view, or that she had a different one back then—her view of herself as she once was is essential to her understanding where she stands. By the process of ascent, and the connected process of reflection, she comes to see better and better, and that improvement is connected to her better view of herself.56 So on the stereoscopic model, perception is normative.57 But the ascent and the return cash this normativity in ethical terms. What is it that self-perception seeks to see, in the cave? What is it that the prisoner seeks to find out in the ascent and in the return? The ascent and the return are—as it is often observed—centred on the life of the philosopher. The project of education is not to reach a kind of scientific knowledge that would deliver a count of the en­tities in the world, including the entity that has that knowledge, even if such a count is available to the philosopher. Instead, what she seeks is a kind of moral understanding that will make coherent the role of value in her own life, and that will thus make of her life an integrated whole. This will be self-understanding in the sense urged on us by the Delphic oracle; but it is continuous with the elementary attempts at self-perception of the prisoner in the cave. So there is here no separation of the moral from the intellectual; on the ­contrary, as the context of the Republic makes clear, knowing and understanding are thoroughly imbued with value. In coming to understand, the philosopher becomes wise. That involves self-knowledge and self-perception in the sense that wisdom engages the subject of cognition, as well as its objects. The puzzle of reflexivity is resolved by taking self-knowledge, or self-perception, to be a ­stereoscopic matter, multi-perspectival, reflective, and broad in scope. This is

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References Annas, Julia. An Introduction to Plato’s Republic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981). Brunschwig, Jacques. ‘The Cradle-Argument in Epicureanism and Stoicism’, in The Norms of Nature: Studies in Hellenistic Ethics edited by Malcom Schofield and Gisela Striker, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 113–45. Brunschwig, Jacques. ‘Un détail négligé dans la caverne de Plato’ in La recta ratio: criticiste et spinoziste: mélanges en l’honneur de Bernard Rousset edited by L. Bové, (Paris: Presses Paris Sorbonne, 1999), 65–76. Brunschwig, Jacques, ‘Revisiting Plato’s Cave’ in Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy edited by J. J. Cleary and G. M. Gurtler (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 19: 145–77. Burnyeat, Myles. ‘Aristotle on Learning to be Good’. In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics edited by Amelia  O.  Rorty, (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1980), 69–92. Burnyeat, Myles  F. Culture and Society in Plato’s Republic, The Tanner Lectures (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997). Fine, Gail. ‘Knowledge and Belief in Republic V–VII’. In her Plato on Knowledge and Forms (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 85–116. Furley, D. J. ‘Self-Movers’. In Aristotle on Mind and the Senses edited by G. E. R. Lloyd and G. E. L. Owen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 165–80. Gerson, Lloyd, Ancient Epistemology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Harte, Verity. ‘Beware of Imitations: Image Recognition in Plato’. In New Essays on Plato edited by F. Hermann (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2006), 21–42. Harte, Verity. ‘Language in the Cave’. In Maieusis: Essays on Ancient Philosophy in Honour of Myles Burnyeat edited by Dominic Scott (Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2007), 195–215. Harte, Verity, ‘Republic X and the Role of the Audience in Art’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 38 (2010), 69–96.

58  See McCabe (2015) ch. 12.

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understanding; we see and we are seen, in ways that include the perspective of the subject, in the round. But it is also moral understanding: essential to the value of a life.58 It is hardly surprising that it takes so long to come out of the cave; and hardly surprising that to do so we reach a state that is good in itself, as Glaucon had demanded: understanding of this sort is virtue—supremely difficult, but a very good thing.

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References  129 McCabe, M. M. ‘Extend or Identify: Two Stoic Accounts of Altruism’. In Metaphysics, Soul and Ethics: Festschrift for Richard Sorabji edited by Ricardo Salles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 413–44.

McCabe, M. M. Platonic Conversations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). O’Shaughnessy, Brian, ‘Proprioception and the Body Image’, in Consciousness and the World edited by B.  O’Shaughnessy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 628–55. Pryor, James. ‘Immunity to Error through Misidentification’, Philosophical Topics 26, (1999), 272–304. Ramelli, I. and Konstan, D. Hierocles the Stoic: Elements of Ethics, Fragments and Excerpts (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009). Sainsbury, R.  M. ‘English Speakers Should Use “I” to Refer to Themselves’. In SelfKnowledge edited by A.  Hatzimoysis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 246–60. Shoemaker, Sydney, ‘Self-Reference and Self-Awareness’. Journal of Philosophy 65, 19 (1968): 555–67. Wilberding, James, ‘Prisoners and Puppeteers in the Cave’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 26 (2004), 117–39.

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McCabe, M.  M. ‘The Stoic Sage in the Original Position’. In Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy edited by Verity Harte and Melissa Lane (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 251–74.

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6

Paula Gottlieb

In contemporary treatments of self-knowledge, the term ‘self-knowledge’ usually refers to knowledge of one’s own mental states or to knowledge of ‘the self ’. In the first case, philosophers wonder whether people’s first-person access to their own mental states (their beliefs, perceptions, feelings, and so on) makes knowledge about them special. For example, they wonder whether there is some special introspective consciousness that is at work here, and whether one can be wrong about one’s own mental states. In the second case, discussion ranges over what the self is, whether it persists, the nature of personal identity and other such ­questions. While questions about the special nature of one’s own mental states and questions about the self are not alien to ancient Greek philosophers,1 the s­ elf-knowledge I wish to discuss in Aristotle’s Ethics does not primarily concern knowledge of one’s own mental states nor knowledge of the self as these are understood in modern debates. Rather, it is the knowledge of one’s own particular abilities and character.2 The role of self-knowledge in Aristotle’s ethics is elusive at best, but I shall argue that knowledge of one’s own particular abilities and character are forms of self-knowledge implicit in Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean3 and in his account of practical reasoning. The good person has both kinds of knowledge, while the bad person may have knowledge about his non-ethical abilities, but not about his character. As for the akratic—the person who knows the better course but voluntarily takes the worse—it is unclear whether such a person lacks self-knowledge when acting akratically or rather is self-deceived. Finally, I shall consider whether these views about self-knowledge in the Nicomachean Ethics also appear in Aristotle’s discussion of friendship elsewhere.

1  For example, in Plato’s Theaetetus, Socrates shows in arguments against Protagoras that one is not infallibly right about how things appear to oneself as well as how they are in relation to oneself. It is a disputed question whether Aristotle thinks that one has infallible knowledge about the special objects of the senses, sweetness, redness, and the like. Commentators also treat the soul in Plato as the self. Even Aristotle sometimes speaks as if one’s true self is whatever it is that thinks, although always with qualifications, as Sorabji points out (Sorabji 2006, 117–18). Karen Nielsen addresses this issue in Section 6 of her contribution to this volume (henceforth cited as Nielsen). See also footnote 21 for her view of the Aristotelian self. 2  I do not mean to suggest that memory plays no role in Aristotle’s account. 3  For an account of these issues that does not rely on Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean, see Nielsen. Paula Gottlieb, Aristotle on Self-Knowledge In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Paula Gottlieb. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0006

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Aristotle on Self-Knowledge

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1.  The Doctrine of the Mean and Knowing One’s Abilities

4  It may be controversial why Aristotle lists the virtue and vices in this way and whether he should, but it is not disputed that he does. 5  See Gottlieb 2009, especially 25–32. 6  This is not to say that there are no other possible interpretations, just that it is more plausible than the alternatives presented here.

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According to Aristotle, each virtue of character, for example, generosity, ­mildness, or courage, comes between two vices. For example, the virtue of generosity comes between the vice of stinginess and the vice of wastefulness, the virtue of mildness comes between the vice of inirascibility and the vice of irascibility and the virtue of bravery comes between the vice of cowardice and the vice of rashness. Virtues and vices come in triads (EN II 6 1107a2–3; EN II 8, especially 1108b11–13). This is one aspect of the doctrine of the mean.4 Aristotle also says that the mean is relative to us. He explains this aspect of his doctrine of the mean by means of an  analogy with Milo, six-time champion wrestler at the Olympic Games. The amount of food appropriate for such a hefty guy, who according to Aquinas could eat a whole joint of beef at one sitting, is not the same as the amount of food appropriate for a beginner. A ‘one size fits all’ approach to nutrition will not do. The appropriate amount is relative to each person (EN II 6 1106a26–1106b7). In the case of virtue of character as opposed to physical strength, the agent has to experience the appropriate feelings and act appropriately as opposed to merely eating the correct amount. Feelings and actions have to be suited to the circumstances at hand. They also have to be suited to whatever abilities of the agent are relevant in the circumstances, just as the food that is appropriate for Milo and for the beginner depends on their different abilities when they are in training.5 For example, according to Aristotle, in battle Kate would be acting rashly if she dived in to save a drowning soldier if she could not swim, but Henry would be acting bravely if he did so and could swim. The idea that correct actions and feelings are relative to our abilities also makes sense of Aristotle’s otherwise puzzling claim that it can be finer (kallion) to let a friend do a fine action (EN IX 8 1169a32–34). At first sight, it may sound as if Aristotle is endorsing letting others go forward in battle, for example, while the agent stays safely behind, hardly a fine way of proceeding, or that Aristotle is proposing a kind of altruistic dilemma where one virtuous person says ‘After you’, and the other says ‘No, after you’, and nothing is accomplished. A more plausible interpretation is that it is finer to let someone else do a fine action when that person has an ability that one lacks oneself.6 It would therefore be finer for Kate to let Henry take the kudos of diving in. Such a view about abilities is independent of whether one thinks that a quantitative account of the mean is correct or not. According to a quantitative account, what one ought to do and feel is quantitatively measurable. As Curzer, the leading

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7  Curzer 2012, 43. Curzer accepts the view about abilities, Curzer 2012, 136–7. 8  For the debate between Curzer and the rival interpretation by Hursthouse, see Curzer 2012 especially 53–4 and 79, and Hursthouse 1981 and 2006. Here I am claiming simply that the view about abilities is compatible with Curzer’s account, although, like Hursthouse, I disagree with his overall account. See Gottlieb 2015. 9  ‘Qualities’ translate ‘ta huparchonta. . . peri hauton’. These could also include ordinary belongings. 10  The relationship between Aristotelian self-deprecation and Socratic irony is a delicate one. On the complexity of Socratic irony, see Gottlieb 1992.

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proponent of this view, puts it, ‘a good-tempered person feels a moderate amount of anger about a moderate number of injuries and insults on a moderate amount of occasions toward a moderate number of people for a moderate length of time’.7 The alternative view is that the Aristotelian parameters are not all quantifiable. For example, doing something on the right occasion is not the same as doing it on a moderate number of occasions, and the correct amount of anger to express on a given occasion is not always a moderate amount.8 If Henry and Kate need to activate or not activate different abilities in order to act virtuously, it seems that in order to be virtuous and to act correctly in such circumstances Kate and Henry must know what abilities they have and lack. This point is made clearer in Aristotle’s account of the nameless virtue of truthfulness (alētheia). Truthful people surely know what their qualities are because they ­generally tell the truth about themselves and do not belittle or exaggerate their own qualities,9 as do boasters or self-deprecators10 (EN IV 7 1127a20–26). Truthful people are also diplomatic about the information they give out and in how they comport themselves. This does not mean that they will not say less than the truth on occasion (cf. EN IV 3 1124b30–31), just as the brave person will not go forward when to do so would be rash. Since, in discussing the boastful person, Aristotle gives an example of someone pretending to be a seer or a physician, it is reasonable to think that the qualities in question at least include non-ethical skills that a person has. Knowing one’s own abilities, then, would seem to be a requirement for being a good person and being able to act correctly, but it will not be distinctive of such a person if bad people can have this type of self-knowledge as well. In Aristotle’s discussion of truthfulness, those who have the opposing vices of boastfulness or self-deprecation tell falsehoods about their abilities. For example, one type of boaster pretends that he is a physician when he is not so that he can gain honour while avoiding detection. He would seem to know that he is not a physician and so is lying, but it is also possible that he has convinced himself that he is a phys­ician and so is self-deceived. Aristotle’s text does not say. While the vices related to truthfulness do not obviously depend on the lack of knowledge of one’s abilities, Aristotle’s account of the virtue of magnanimity and related vices suggests that good people have knowledge of their own characters while bad people do not.

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2.  The Doctrine of the Mean and Knowing One’s Character

11  Aristotle says that the person who is worthy of little and thinks so is sensible (sōphrōn), not magnanimous (EN IV 3 1123b5). I have speculated that he has the nameless virtue concerned with honour on a small scale (EN IV 4), and that this explains the addition of such a virtue in the Nicomachean Ethics when it is absent from the Eudemian Ethics (Gottlieb  2009, 44–5). Thanks to Monte Johnson for raising this issue. 12  This pace Curzer, who thinks that Aristotle should not have included self-knowledge in the def­ in­ition of magnanimity (Curzer 2012, 139). 13  The term ‘hesitant’ (‘oknēros’) is applied to the female of the species in History of Animals 608b13. 14  An alternative approach would be to emphasize the fact that the magnanimous person has complete virtue. On the relationship between magnanimity and complete virtue, see C. C. W. Taylor 2006, 217, 221–2. On the problem of how one cannot have one virtue fully without having all the others with respect to the large-scale virtues of magnanimity and magnificence, see Gottlieb 2009, 215–18.

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Magnanimity (megalopsuchia, literally ‘great souledness’) is opposed to the two vices of pusillanimity and vanity (EN IV 3). It is the virtue concerned with great honour (EN IV 3 1125a35–6). The magnanimous person thinks he is worthy of great things when he is so worthy and he accepts appropriate honours. The pu­sil­lan­im­ous person thinks that he is worthy of less than he is and so does not aim at appropriate honours. The vain person thinks that he is worthy of more than he is and so puts himself forward for honours that he does not deserve.11 Aristotle describes the magnanimous person at length, distinguishing him from imitators who look down on others without cause and, one might add, have given the Aristotelian magnanimous person a bad name. The last part of Aristotle’s discussion of magnanimity is the most interesting.12 There Aristotle says that the pusillanimous person would seem not to know ­himself (agnoiein d’heauton EN IV 3 1125a22) and vain people do not know themselves either (heautous agnoountes EN IV 3 1125a28). In the case of the pusillanimous person, this is why he deprives himself of the goods of which he is worthy and shrinks from fine actions and practices as well as from external goods. This makes him seem hesitant13 rather than foolish. According to Aristotle, vain people are stupid and do not know themselves. They make this obvious by going for honours that they are not worthy of, and then are shown up. The pu­sil­lan­im­ous person underestimates his own worth and the vain person overestimates his. They may each be sincere, but they lack self-knowledge. Aristotle concludes, ‘Pusillanimity is more opposed than vanity to magnanimity; for it arises more often and is worse’ (EN IV 3 1125a 32–4). Perhaps that is because society loses more from the pusillanimous person’s abstention from public life than it is harmed by the engagement of the vain person. Or perhaps the idea is that the vain person will learn from being shown up, whereas the pu­sil­lan­im­ous person will not change. On this view, the pusillanimous person would be further away from self-knowledge than the vain person. If we take seriously Aristotle’s view that it is impossible to have one virtue of character fully without having all the others (EN VI 13 1144b30–1145a2),14 it

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seems, then, that in order to be fully good, one should know both one’s non-ethical abilities and one’s virtuous qualities. If the account of magnanimity and associated vices can be generalized, for each set of virtue and vices there are three recognizable underlying psychological profiles involving self-knowledge. Just as the virtues are unified, in Aristotle’s view, so there is also unity among some of the vices. The coward, the pusillanimous person, the inirascible person, and the ­person who is indifferent to honour all underestimate their worth and abilities. The rash person, the vain person, the irascible person, the person who loves honour too much, and the buffoon all overestimate their worth and abilities. The coward’s inappropriate fear and lack of confidence in his abilities lead him to run from battle. The rash person, who is over-confident, overestimates his abilities to succeed in battle. The person who is inirascible, and does not get angry when he ought when insulted, again has too low opinion of his abilities and worth. The buffoon is full of himself and thinks his ability to make appropriate jokes is much greater than it is. To give a further example, the intemperate person thinks that he needs more than he does, and the insensible person thinks that he needs less. The match is not perfect. Flattery (the excess vice relating to the virtue of friendliness) would seem to line up with the deficiencies, if the flatterer happens to be insecure, and, as I pointed out earlier, the boaster, who has the excess vice relating to the virtue of truthfulness, may not be wrong about his abilities, but simply lying, although there is a question about whether a successful boaster needs to deceive himself too. However, if the general picture is correct, it provides a principled reason why Aristotle thinks that each virtue is flanked by two vices and why he presents the virtues and vices in this way. He proposes a triadic view because such a view captures three salient psychological mentalities, mentalities based on having or lacking the relevant self-knowledge of one’s character. There is no hint here that self-knowledge could be gained solely by introspection, as on some modern views. As we have seen, the vain person can gain self-knowledge by interacting with others and being shown up. The pusillanimous person withdraws from interacting with others and so is worse off with respect to self-knowledge. Generalizing again, it is reasonable to suppose that by interacting with others self-knowledge is gained and retained. I shall return to this issue in Section 4. A problem remains. If self-knowledge is necessary for being a good person, who is the pusillanimous person? How can he be good without knowing it? A speculative solution is that he is someone who has natural virtues, one basis for becoming virtuous, but has not yet acquired thoughtfulness (phronēsis) to be fully good. He lacks the virtues of character in their complete form, and underestimates his potential. In not putting himself forward, he is preventing himself from gaining the relevant experience for becoming fully virtuous. (Aristotle says that the pusillanimous person does not seem to be vicious, but just in error [EN IV 3 1125a18–19].) If that is so, one might reasonably think that self-knowledge,

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3.  Akrasia, Practical Reasoning, and Self-Knowledge If the good person has self-knowledge and the bad person lacks it, at least as it applies to his character, what of the person who is akratic? It is hard to describe such a person without begging various questions, but briefly the akratic is someone who intermittently acts, and voluntarily, against her better judgment. In order to explain how Aristotle thinks akrasia is possible, it is necessary to take a step back and consider how it is that the good person gets all her practical reasoning correct and acts accordingly. Aristotelian practical reasoning reflects the fact that one cannot have full virtue of character without thoughtfulness nor thoughtfulness without full virtue of character (EN VI 1144b30–32). In order to carry out the right actions one must have the right virtues of character, including the right motivation imbued with the right kind of thinking, and be perceptive enough (partly by having the correct emotional responses to the world and to other people) to notice the features of a situation that call for such action.15 The practical syllogism of interest here provides the content of practical reason­ing and motivation of the good person in schematic form. Aristotle fails to provide clear examples of ethical reasoning, so I have constructed one on his behalf: Major Premise:  Generous human beings do (and should) help friends in need. Minor Premise:  I am a generous human being and this is my friend in need now. Conclusion:  (the action itself or a specification of the action if the agent is ­prevented from acting) I should help my friend now.16 In this case, the major premise reflects the character of the generous person. The part of the minor premise that says ‘I am a generous person’ crystallizes the fact that the agent is a generous person and has the requisite motivation to aim at

15 This is not meant to be controversial, although different commentators emphasize different aspects of practical reasoning as most important. 16  I defend this type of account in detail in Gottlieb 2009, 151–72. See too Ackrill 1973, 30. Kenny also singles out an ethical syllogism for special discussion, but he does not emphasize the first part of the minor premise (Kenny 1979, especially 112–24).

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understood as knowing one’s abilities and character, should be relegated to thoughtfulness and not to virtue of character, because thoughtfulness is required to be fully virtuous. An alternative view would be that such a suggestion is misplaced because in the good person virtue of character and thoughtfulness are inextricably connected.

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17  Wiggins 1980, 236. 18  The very last line of the practical syllogism is not part of deliberation, but is a matter of perception. See Gottlieb 2009, 163–5 cf. Cooper 1975, 46. 19  This does not mean that akrasia is always an unstable stage on the way to becoming good or bad. On this point, see Cooper 2009, 12–13. 20  But see too Anthony Price on the one-syllogism view Price 2006, 240–1) and also Price 2008 and 2011, especially 292–3. Price also makes much of the De Anima schema, which is consistent with my account (Price 2011, 236–41). 21  The central text EN VII 3 is quite convoluted, giving rise to widely differing interpretations of what the akratic does and does not know. For example, Pickavé and Whiting argue that it is the major premise that is not used (Pickavé and Whiting 2009, 336), while David Charles argues that Aristotle allows for one type of akrasia where the akratic knows the major premise and reaches all the way to the conclusion (Charles 2009). Nielsen cites the Magna Moralia in arguing that according to Aristotle

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generosity as a goal. If she was not generous and lacked such motivation, the first premise would be of no interest. Therefore this part of the minor premise links the major premise with the conclusion to act now, and explains why the agent acts accordingly. ‘I am a human being’ as opposed to ‘I am a generous human being’ would be too weak to do the trick. Also, my having a particular virtue may help me focus on the salient particulars, so that the infinite possible considerations that David Wiggins highlights are less daunting.17 Of course, the first part of the minor premise is not something that a generous person would say to herself while doing the generous action, and it might appear to be smug to have such a thought at all.18 It is widely believed that the akratic, the person who is aware of a better course of action, but voluntarily takes the worse, poses a special problem for Aristotle’s account of phronēsis because what he ought to do in a given situation is not what he would do if he had phronēsis, and virtue of character is defined by the person with phronēsis. For example, the claim is that if the akratic is liable to drink too much, he should keep away from situations where he would be tempted to do so, unlike the person with phronēsis. This is incorrect. If the akratic aspires to be a good person, he needs to try to act as the good person would, even if the situation is difficult, otherwise he will never become habituated to be a good person.19 The akratic is attempting to use the same syllogism as the good person. According to Aristotle the paradigm case of akrasia arises in the field of temperance. To explain in more detail, the akratic has the major premise ‘Temperate people do and should avoid too many sweets’. The correct syllogism would continue with the minor premise ‘I’m a temperate person and this is not the time to eat more sweets’ and the conclusion would be to refrain from eating. However, since the akratic lacks good character, he has a recalcitrant desire that interferes with the effectiveness of his practical reasoning and leads him off in the wrong direction. The view that the akratic’s action can be explained using one syllogism is admittedly controversial,20 as is the question whether the akratic can lack knowledge of the major premise, the minor premise, the conclusion, or none of the above.21

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the akratic fails to attend to her knowledge, i.e. her own decision, and therefore fails to attend to herself, i.e. to the commanding part of her soul (Nielsen Section 5). 22  For more on the vicious person as portrayed in EN IX 4, see Nielsen Section 4.

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I am going to take a different tack and suggest that, unlike in the case of the good person’s practical reasoning, we should understand the first part of the minor premise as something the akratic may say to herself or others, while she lacks knowledge of it because it is false. When the akratic has the correct major premise ‘Temperate people do and should avoid too many sweets’ but acts ­contrary to that belief, a case can be made that while she thinks that she is a temperate person—she may say, ‘I’m a temperate person’ as the first part of the minor premise while she raids the fridge in the middle of the night—she does not arrive at the correct conclusion because she lacks self-knowledge or is self-deceived. That is because she is not, after all, a temperate person. Temperate people do not have lapses of this sort. The akratic’s lack of self-knowledge is not permanent, however. The akratic regrets her action, which shows that she knows it was not the temperate thing to do. As Aristotle puts it, ‘And in general akrasia and vice are of different kinds. For the vicious person does not recognize that he is vicious, whereas the akratic person recognizes that he is akratic’ (kai holōs d’ heteron to genos akrasias kai kakias; hē men gar kakia lanthanei, hē d’ akrasia ou lanthanei) (EN VII 9 1150b35–36).22 We seem to have reached the paradoxical conclusion that people can think to themselves or even say out loud ‘I am such-and-such a person’ provided that they are not such-and-such a person. Perhaps the enkratic person, the person who has a recalcitrant desire in the sphere of temperance but does not act on it, would also need to tell himself that he is a good person, even though he is not, in order to boot-strap his way into acting in accord with how he should. (Unlike the fully good person, he only acts in accord with the correct reason, because his mo­tiv­ation and thinking are not properly integrated. Properly speaking, he does not reach the same conclusion as the good person.) If, however, ‘I am a generous human being’ expresses the present lack of ­self-knowledge of the akratic, one might expect it to express the presence of self-knowledge in the good person when it appears in the person’s good practical syllogism. However, one might also think that if it does, then the good person must be complacent and smug, not the right attitudes for someone who is truly good. Such a view rests on a mistake. To show why this is so, we need to consider this part of the practical syllogism in more detail and its role in generating action. In his paper ‘The Essential Indexical’, John Perry describes a scenario in which he is wandering round a supermarket and sees a trail of sugar. He is very irritated at whoever is responsible for the trail, but suddenly realizes that it is he who is responsible. This realization cannot be properly captured by any third-person

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Major Premise:  Generous human beings do not trail sugar. Minor Premise:  I am a generous human being. This is my trail of sugar. Conclusion:  (the action itself or a specification of the action if the agent is ­prevented from acting) I shouldn’t trail sugar. Here ‘I am a generous human being’ reflects Perry’s self-knowledge, his know­ledge of his own good character. Yet Perry need not think to himself, ‘Wow, what a good person I am’. Therefore, there is also nothing wrong with ‘I am a generous human being’ in the practical syllogism expressing the self-knowledge of the generous person. A smug attitude is not entailed.

4.  Friendship and Self-Knowledge It is a commonplace that according to Aristotle good friendship, friendship based on virtue of character and not simply on pleasure or utility, enables one to have self-knowledge,24 but what Aristotle means by this and how to interpret the apparently supporting texts is controversial. It is tempting to begin with Nicomachean Ethics IX 9, which is a discussion of why the good person who is self-sufficient needs friends. In fact, Aristotle has already provided a way to answer this question in Nicomachean Ethics I.  As he says, ‘We do not say that the self-sufficient is for oneself alone (autō(i) monō(i)), living a solitary life, but also for parents and children and wives and in general for friends and citizens since human beings belong to a polis by nature’ (EN I 7 1097b11). One is not self-sufficient by being solitary, but by living in a community with friends, family, and fellow citizens. The most famous discussion in Nicomachean Ethics IX 9 is characterized as being ‘phusikōteron’ (EN IX 9 1170a13). What this means is much-debated, and 23 Perry 1979. 24  See for example Nancy Sherman’s discussion of ‘Aristotle’s pivotal claim that through character friendships the parties gain in self-knowledge’ (Sherman 1989, 142 cf. Sherman 1997, 210).

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description. Nevertheless, it is action-guiding and results in a change in Perry’s course of action. He makes sure that he is not trailing sugar any more. Indexical thoughts are of this kind.23 ‘I am a generous human being’, when a true first-person indexical thought, results in a certain kind of action. That one is generous is also important. To expand Perry’s example, Perry does not want to be the wasteful and thoughtless person who is trailing the sugar. Being a good person, he stops trailing the sugar when he finds out that he is the culprit. Since generosity is opposed to wastefulness in Aristotle’s schema, Perry’s reasoning, presented in Aristotelian fashion would be as follows:

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25 Thanks to Brooks Sommerville for providing a detailed explanation of the use of the term ‘phusikōs’ in EN VII 3 and elsewhere. 26  On further complications of participating in the same activity, see Price 1989, 116–18. 27  Cooper 1999, 341. 28  See too Cooper 1999, 340. 29  See Bobonich 2006, 15–16.

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Aristotle’s use of the term ‘phusikōs’ varies from work to work.25 Since Aristotle begins by comparing non-human animals and humans, ‘from the point of view of natural science’ seems an appropriate translation. The basic idea is that the cap­acity for (sense)-perception defines an animal’s life, but both the capacity for (sense)-perception and the capacity for thinking (noein) define a human life. Activating these capacities is living to the full, and living in such a way is good and pleasant. The reason for this is that one senses that one is activating these capacities, whether they be to see or to hear or to walk, and sensing that one is activating these capacities is to sense that one is alive, and sensing one’s life (a good in itself) is pleasant. (The inclusion of walking is interesting since it goes beyond the capacities Aristotle focuses on in the next passage.) Hence one friend will share awareness with his friend when they share the activities of conversation and thought. Aristotle adds that living together is not sharing the same pasture like grazing animals. This does not mean that friends share only higher thinking. When they share a meal, they do not just happen to eat next to each other as do cattle. Nor do they merely eat in silence.26 As the passage proceeds, Aristotle moves from the idea that life is good to the idea that an orderly life is good and that the life of a good person is good. Aristotle says, ‘We agreed that someone’s own being is choiceworthy because he senses that he is good (to d’ einai ēn haireton dia to aisthanesthai hautou agathou ontos’ (EN IX 9 1170b8–9). As Cooper points out, the discussion is not about self-knowledge where this is understood as ‘knowledge of one’s character and qualities, motives, and abilities’,27 although the last sentence is suggestive. Nor is the discussion about reflective self-consciousness. When one sees, one senses that one sees and so on. Sensing that one sees is not the outcome of reflecting on one’s seeing. To see is already to be aware that one is seeing. While the appreciation of life is enhanced in the ­company of a good friend, sensing rather than knowing that one is good is a topic of the passage. To find an argument about the appropriate conception of self-knowledge, one might turn to the Magna Moralia (MM 1213a10–26).28 It is contested whether this work is Aristotelian,29 but if it is, it provides an argument concerning selfknowledge. The idea is that we can see our flaws better in another self just as we can see our face better in a mirror. Therefore, we need a friend for self-know­ledge. One would expect the conclusion of this argument to be that we need friends to find out about our flaws, i.e. in order to become virtuous in the first place. The conclusion, though, is that the self-sufficing friend (presumably the good person) will need a friend to know himself, since knowing oneself is pleasant. However,

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30  On this problem, see especially Biss 2011. 31  This image is in Alcibiades I, 133C. 32  Lewis 1993, 41. 33  In the following, I use the Oxford Classical Text ed. Walzer and Mingay 1991. 34  Against the idea that self-knowledge is an issue here, see Osborne 2009, especially 1, 9, 12, but her view of self-knowledge is not the view of the earlier parts of this chapter. 35  For detailed analysis and comments on the whole chapter, see Whiting 2012. She puts special emphasis on the topic of pleasure.

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presumably the good person will not have serious flaws that he needs a friend to reflect. There is a further problem. If we recognize our flaws in others better than in ourselves, how will we realize that our friend’s flaws are our flaws too? There is a deeper problem with the argument, and that concerns the metaphor of the mirror.30 The metaphor suggests that the good person and his friend stand opposite each other, maybe looking into each others’ eyes,31 passively reflecting back each other’s good qualities and using each other to do so. Now, Aristotelian friendship is sufficiently broad to cover family relationships, friends, acquaintances, and lovers, but C.  S.  Lewis’s comment that ‘Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; Friends side by side, absorbed in some common interest’32 would seem to capture the difference between a friend in a mirror and a friend as more plausibly described in the Nicomachean Ethics. If Aristotelian friends are to gain or retain self-knowledge, that is because they are absorbed in activities together, looking out at the world. While the Nicomachean Ethics does not clearly connect friendship with ­self-knowledge, and there are difficulties with the Magna Moralia account as well, a passage in the Eudemian Ethics33 may be pertinent (EE VII 12).34 Of course, caution is required when introducing such a text, especially when the Eudemian Ethics has no discussion of self-knowledge in its treatment of magnanimity and has a very cursory discussion of truthfulness, which is not even counted as a full virtue of character (EE III 7 1233b39–1234a3). However, the question to be addressed is the same as in the Nicomachean Ethics, why the self-sufficient person will need friends. Various themes in the Eudemian passage (EE VII 12) foreshadow the Nicomachean discussion: that life is active, that friends share in (sense)-perception, that determinacy reveals what is good, that sharing activities with a friend is pleasant, and, consistent with earlier passages in the Nicomachean Ethics, that for us happiness depends on something other than ourselves, unlike God. (True, Aristotle says that Heracles’s mother might have preferred him to be a god, but the alternative in this case is slavery [EE VII 12 1245b29–31].) Aristotle also notes that studying and feasting together are acceptable because these are not just for the sake of food and for the necessary pleasures. The Eudemian argument is difficult and often aporetic.35 The main difference between it and the original Nicomachean argument is that instead of sensing and thinking, the argument relies on sensing and knowing (gnōrizein) in explaining what

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36  For example, see Kenny 2011, 137 cf. Reeve 2014, 337. 37  Kosman  2014, 159 followed by, for example, Whiting 2012, 92, and Inwood and Woolf  2013, 148. The discussion of Maxine is in Kosman 2014, 163–5. 38 McCabe 2012.

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it is to live. Sharing life is sharing sensing and knowing (suzēn to sunaisthanesthai kai to suggnōrizein) (EE VII 12, 1244b25–26). That is, living together is sensing and knowing together. Aristotle raises the question why knowing itself would not be enough. This seems to be a Platonic question. Why do we not just want there to be knowledge, the form knowledge itself? The answer in Greek is ambiguous. It could mean that I want knowledge of myself,36 not just knowledge in general, or it could be that I want myself to know. Kosman37 argues for the latter by implicit analogy. Just as the thwarted lover of Maxine would not want to become the person who has her love if such a person is different from himself, so someone who wants knowledge will not be satisfied if someone else knows instead. According to Kosman, this is because we desire our own consciousness; each of us wants to be a first-person subject. On the alternative view, the problem is that knowing oneself would be no different than knowing another. Sensing and knowing oneself is more desirable. While Kosman’s interpretation has been criticized for not including sufficient reflectiveness,38 the next part of the argument suggests that what we desire is not  mere consciousness but being good. Aristotle says that wishing to sense (or perceive) oneself is wishing to be of a certain character (toiondi) (EE VII 12 1245a4–5). Aristotle then switches from sensing to knowing, concluding that one wants to live because one wants to know and that means that one wants to be the object of (what is implicitly) one’s own knowledge. But it seems as if the ­reason for this is that one wants to know that one is of good character. If that is Aristotle’s view here, it is more in line with the account of knowledge of one’s own character, a type of self-knowledge implicit in Aristotle’s discussion of practical reasoning and the doctrine of the mean. One might think that friends are useful for imparting and gaining knowledge as teachers and learners, but Aristotle argues against that suggestion in the following discussion (EE VII 12 1245a11–18). According to the argument there, the self-sufficient should not have deficiencies in knowledge to be remedied. Friends should be on a par. This seems a bad reason to reject the suggestion, especially if the teaching and learning are mutual, and it is not clear if Aristotle himself thinks that it is a good reason. Unfortunately, he does not consider the view any further. In the next passage, Aristotle addresses his original problem, starting again, claiming among other things that (a) A friend is a second Hercules, another self (EE VII 12 1245a30) and (b) Perceiving one’s friend must be in a way perceiving oneself, and in a way knowing oneself (EE VII 12 1245a35–37). If this is supposed to be an argument for the necessity of friendship from self-knowledge, the reader

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References Ackrill, J. L. 1973. Aristotle’s Ethics. Translation with notes. New York: Humanities Press. Biss, M. 2011. ‘Aristotle on Friendship and Self-Knowledge: The Friend beyond the Mirror.’ History of Philosophy Quarterly 28(2): 125–40. Bobonich, C. 2006. ‘Aristotle’s Ethical Treatises’ in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut. Oxford: Blackwell, 12–29. Charles, D. O. M. 2009. ‘Nicomachean Ethics VII 3: Varieties of akrasia’ in Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Book VII: Symposium Aristotelicum, ed. C.  Natali. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 42–71. Cooper, J. M. 1975. Reason and Human Good in Aristotle. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. 39  Sorabji 2006, 236. 40  Osborne 2009, 1, 9, and 12. 41  Thanks to the Greeks for discussion of the first sections of this chapter, especially David Ebrey, Emily Fletcher, David Hildner, Terry Penner, and Ruth Saunders. Also, thanks to all those who raised questions about my account of akrasia at various venues, including Jennifer Whiting, Martin Pickavé, David Charles, Christof Rapp, Philipp Brüllman, Owen Goldin, Susanne Foster, Melissa Shew, David Ebrey, Richard Kraut, Carlo Natali, John Wynne, Daniel Tovar, Chris Bobonich, Josh Ober, also Terry Irwin and Hendrik Lorenz, and for detailed written comments, Brooks Sommerville and Matthew Darlingum. Thanks also to Sarah Paul, Monte Johnson, and, for her thoughtful comments and encouragement, Fiona Leigh.

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will be disappointed. If however, we are allowed to connect the argument with the idea that wishing to perceive oneself is wishing to be a certain character, and another Hercules is a good friend, then perceiving and knowing him, if one is also good, would be to know one’s own good character. How does one perceive and know him? Not as one would by looking at him as in a mirror, but rather by perceiving and knowing along with him, or as Richard Sorabji explains this, by attending to the same things.39 Catherine Osborne also makes the important point that friends look outward, but she takes this to mean that Aristotle is not discussing self-knowledge at all.40 However, if self-knowledge is as described in the earlier parts of this chapter, we need not arrive at such a conclusion. In sum, Aristotelian self-knowledge is outward-looking. Sharing one’s life activities with a friend enables one to know one’s own qualities and capacities, if one’s friend is good. (Here Aristotle is assuming that one lives in the kind of society where such people can exist.) As we saw in Aristotle’s account of practical reasoning, knowing one’s own qualities and capacities, if one is a fully good human being, is not a strange kind of meta-knowledge. Wishing to know oneself is to wish oneself to be a good human being. Self-knowledge is therefore primarily an ethical topic. Modern accounts of self-knowledge that omit this aspect are missing the importance of self-knowledge for the good life.41

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References  143 Cooper, J.  M. 1999. ‘Friendship and the Good in Aristotle’ in Reason and Emotion. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 336–55.

Curzer, H. J. 2012. Aristotle and the Virtues. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gottlieb, P. 1992. ‘The Complexity of Socratic Irony: A Note on Professor Vlastos’ Account.’ Classical Quarterly 42(1): 278–9. Gottlieb, P. 2009. The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gottlieb, P. 2015. ‘Review of Howard  J.  Curzer Aristotle and the Virtues, Oxford: Oxford University Press.’ Philosophical Review 124(2): 258–60. Hursthouse, R. 1980–1981. ‘A False Doctrine of the Mean.’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 81: 57–92. Hursthouse, R. 2006. ‘The Central Doctrine of the Mean’ in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut. Oxford: Blackwell, 96–115. Inwood, B. and Woolf, R. (eds) 2013. Aristotle Eudemian Ethics. Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kenny, A. 1973. ‘The Practical Syllogism and Incontinence’ in The Anatomy of the Soul: Historical Essays in the Philosophy of Mind, ed. A. Kenny. Oxford: Blackwell, 28–50. Kenny, A. 1979. Aristotle’s Theory of the Will. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kenny, A. 2011. Aristotle: The Eudemian Ethics. Translation with notes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kosman, A. 2014. ‘Aristotle on the Desirability of Friends’ in Virtues of Thought: Essays on Plato and Aristotle. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 157–82. Lewis, C.  S. 1993. ‘Friendship—The Least Necessary Love’ in Friendship: A Philosophical Reader, ed. N. K. Badhwar. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. McCabe, Mary Margaret. 2012. ‘With Mirrors or without? Self-Perception in Eudemian Ethics vii 12’ in The Eudemian Ethics on the Voluntary, Friendship, and Luck: The Sixth  S.  V.  Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy, ed. Fiona Leigh. Boston, Leiden: Brill, 43–76. Osborne, C. 2009. ‘Selves and Other Selves in Aristotle’s EE vii 12.’ Ancient Philosophy 29: 349–71. Perry, J. 1979. ‘The Problem of the Essential Indexical.’ Noûs 13: 3–21. Pickavé, Martin and Whiting, Jennifer. 2008. ‘Nicomachean Ethics 7.3 on Akratic Ignorance’ Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 34: 323–72. Price, A. W. 1989. Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Price, A.  W. 2006. ‘Acrasia and Self-Control’ in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut. Oxford: Blackwell, 234–54.

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Cooper, J. M. 2009. ‘Nicomachean Ethics VII 1–2: Introduction, Method, Puzzles’ in Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Book VII: Symposium Aristotelicum, ed. C.  Natali. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 9–39.

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144  Paula Gottlieb Price, A.  W. 2008. ‘The Practical Syllogism in Aristotle: A New Interpretation’ in Philosophiegeschichte und Logische Analyse/Logical Analysis and History of Philosophy Focus: The Practical Syllogism/Schwerpunkt: Der praktische Syllogismus, 151–62.

Reeve, C. D. C. 2014. Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics. Translation with introduction and notes. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Sherman, N. 1989. The Fabric of Character: Aristotle’s Theory of Virtue. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sherman, N. 1997. Making a Necessity of Virtue: Aristotle and Kant on Virtue. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sorabji, R. 2006. Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Taylor, C.  C.  W. 2006. Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics Books II–IV. Translation with introduction and commentary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Walzer, R.  R. and Minjay, J.  M. 1991. Aristotelis Ethica Eudemia. Oxford Classical Texts.Oxford: Clarendon Press. Whiting, Jennifer. 2012. ‘The Pleasure of Thinking Together: Prolegomenon to a Complete Reading of EE vii 12’ in The Eudemian Ethics on the Voluntary, Friendship, and Luck: The Sixth S. V. Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy, ed. Fiona Leigh. Boston, Leiden: Brill, 77–154. Wiggins, D. 1980. (1975–1976). ‘Deliberation and Practical Reasoning’ in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A.  O.  Rorty. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 221–40.

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Price, A. W. 2011. Virtue and Reason in Plato and Aristotle. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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7

Why Self-Knowledge Matters for Virtue Karen Margrethe Nielsen

What connection, if any, exists between self-knowledge and virtue in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics?1 In Plato’s Apology, the injunction ‘know yourself ’ is treated as the fundamental principle of ethics. In Socrates’ estimation, awareness of one’s own ignorance is a precondition for virtue. This awareness, or ‘human wisdom’ (anthrōpinē sophia), enables our search for truth. Despite disavowing knowledge of virtue, Socrates claims to be wiser than other men, for he has no false beliefs about his own epistemic state. He captures the sum of his human wisdom when he states that ‘when I do not know, neither do I think I know’ (Apology 21d), which entails, by contraposition, that when he does think he knows, he actually does know.2 In general, Socrates thinks that when we acquire knowledge of virtue, we will be aware that we know: S knows that F only if S is aware that he knows that F.3 It appears, then, that ethical knowledge is luminous. Awareness of one’s own epistemic state is a precondition for virtue, both instrumentally, by making those who do not know eager for the search (Meno 84b), and intrinsically, by being a necessary property of knowledge once attained. Since Socrates thinks

1  Throughout, I quote T. H. Irwin’s translation of the Nicomachean Ethics, 2nd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999). 2  In the Apology, Socrates explains how he can avoid false beliefs about what he knows by reference to divine intervention—his spiritual manifestation (daimonion) warns him whenever he is about to accept something false. Those who know what virtue is would avoid accepting falsehoods by another mechanism, namely their grasp of the aitias logismos (explanatory account), by which true beliefs are ‘tied down’ and turned into knowledge (Meno 98a). 3  In principle, the disavowal at Apology 21d does not rule out the possibility that Socrates in fact does know what virtue is, despite being unaware of it. But when Socrates explains his disavowal of knowledge of virtue in the Meno, he states that ‘I am as poor as my fellow citizens in this matter, and I blame myself for my complete ignorance about virtue’ (71b). His inability to state an account means that he does not know the definition. If he had known the definition, he would have given an account, and so would have been aware of knowing. For a discussion of Socratic inquiry, see Gail Fine, The Possibility of Inquiry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014).

Karen Margrethe Nielsen, Aristotle on Knowing One’s Own Character: Why Self-Knowledge Matters for Virtue In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Karen Margrethe Nielsen. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0007

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4  One might object that all that is required is true belief about what one knows—but since Socrates suggests a method by which to test claims to knowledge, namely the ability to state a definition that resists elenctic refutation, we can (at least in principle, if perhaps not in practice) be justified in our claims to know what virtue is. Notice that it is not a consequence of Socrates’ principle that those who lack knowledge are aware of it. His encounters with self-professed experts suggest that they tend to be very confident that they know, despite their ignorance: ignorance begets ignorance of one’s own ignorance. 5  In the Republic, Plato treats the form of the good as the most perfect object of contemplation, and argues that it yields the best pleasures (Rep. 585a–e; 586e). But to the extent that just souls mirror its perfection, the virtuous should derive pleasure from knowing their own minds. 6  Plato’s Socrates does not treat it as a virtue either, for familiar reasons having to do with the unity of the virtues, his view that virtue is knowledge, and that knowing a part of virtue requires knowing what virtue is as such. 7  Irwin claims that Aristotle’s considered view in the Nicomachean Ethics is that magnanimity properly speaking consists in the concern with honour displayed by Achilles and Ajax, and not the indifference to fortune characteristic of Socrates and Lysander. According to Demosthenes, it is well known that ‘when Ajax was robbed of the prize of highest merit (aristeia), he thought his life was not worth living (abiōton) for himself ’ (Dem. 60.31). By contrast, Socrates’ claim in the Apology and the Crito that life would not be worth living for him if he were forced to cease practicing philosophy was

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that virtue is knowledge, a firm and unshakable epistemic state (Meno 97a–98a), knowing the definition of virtue just is possessing virtue.4 I shall call the first role of self-knowledge its ‘propaedeutic’ role: self-knowledge enables the development of virtue in those who do not yet possess it. The second role, which I will call its ‘perfected’ role, is less expansively explored by Socrates, presumably because he has not yet encountered anyone in Athens who knows what virtue is. But it is not hard to see why self-knowledge will be good in itself for the virtuous when they attain it, since it is knowledge of a perfected state. And as Plato and Aristotle agree, contemplating perfection is the best and most pleasant activity.5 There is no obvious counterpart to Socrates’ ‘human wisdom’ in Aristotle’s ­ethics or list of virtues.6 This does not mean, however, that Aristotle treats awareness of one’s own character as unimportant, or that he overlooks its contribution to a life well lived. Whereas Socratic self-knowledge, as awareness of one’s own ignorance, should engender humility in the face of human limitations, Aristotle holds that a virtuous man should take pleasure in his own actions and pride in his own perfection. To disavow good qualities one in fact possesses is a vice—self-deprecation (eirōneia)—and even pusillanimity (mikropsuchia) if the disavowed qualities are great. This does not entail that Socrates was small souled, however, for Aristotle thinks Socrates was right to disavow knowledge of divine matters. Socrates was  the wisest man in Athens on account of his human wisdom (Ap. 21d). Thrasymachus accuses Socrates of insincerity at Rep. I 337a where he dismisses ‘his usual eirōneia’. By contrast, Aristotle maintains that Socrates was truthful (EN IV 7, 1127b23–7). He could even claim a philosophical kind of ‘greatness of soul’ or magnanimity (megalopsuchia) on account of his indifference to external misfortunes, unfailing commitment to virtue, and noble comportment at the trial (see Post An. 97b17–25; EN IV 3, 1124a16–21).7 Aristotle brands those who

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Aristotle on Knowing One ’ s Own Character   147

motivated by his love for truth, not honour. Even so, Socrates says at his trial that if he must make a just assessment of what he deserves, then his assessment is free meals in the Prytaneum—an honour bestowed on heroes (Apol. 36e). See Irwin, ‘Some Developments in Aristotle’s Conception of Magnanimity’, Arete XI (1999) 1–2: 173–94. 8  Irwin follows LSJ in rendering ‘baukopanourgos’ (from ‘baukos’, coy, affected) as ‘humbug’. LSJ only cite one instance of the word: this one in Aristotle. 9  For the claim that Aristotle’s treatment of magnanimity threatens the coherence of his position on the reciprocity of the virtues, see T. H. Irwin, ‘Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (1988), 61–78, also Richard Kraut, ‘Comments on “Disunity in the Aristotelian

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disavow small qualities they obviously have as ‘humbugs’ (baukopanourgoi, IV 7, 1127b27).8 By contrast, those who are ‘moderate in their self-deprecation (eirōneia)’ and confine themselves to qualities that are ‘not too commonplace or obvious’ seem sophisticated (EN IV 7, 1127b29–31) and deserve praise. Socrates belongs in the latter group. Whereas Socrates seems more interested in the propaedeutic role of selfknowledge for imperfect agents, Aristotle’s concern in the Ethics is rather to explain the ‘perfecting’ role of self-knowledge for agents who already possess what he calls ‘greatness in each virtue’ (1123b30). That is, Socrates focuses on human knowledge as a starting point of ethical inquiry, while Aristotle is interested in self-knowledge as the end point of a developmental process that yields full virtue—a state that comprises all the virtues of character when conjoined with practical wisdom (phronēsis). Aristotle has principled reasons for thinking that self-knowledge is characteristic of the magnanimous man. The magnanimous man recognizes that he is worthy of great honours since he possesses ‘complete virtue’ (IV 3, 1124a28–29). Magnanimity is a kind of ‘adornment’ of the virtues (kosmos tis tōn aretōn 1124a1–2): ‘it makes them greater, and it does not arise without them’ (meidzous gar autas poiei, kai ou ginetai aneu ekeinōn 1124a2–3). It is proper to the magnanimous man to possess ‘greatness in each virtue’. But by recognizing his own perfection, Aristotle thinks he somehow enhances this greatness. This may sound paradoxical. The magnanimous man (1) possesses ‘greatness in each virtue’ (1123b30); (2) knows that he possesses greatness in each virtue (1125a23; 28) and (3) claims great honour on account of it (1123b23–4), but seemingly (4) possesses an additional virtue on account of his self-knowledge, and his claim to honour. How can he possess greatness ‘in each virtue’ if magnanimity is one of the virtues? Aristotle’s description might be taken to mean that magnanimity is (i) a higherorder virtue that sits on top of the other virtues as a mere embellishment, without itself being one of the first-order virtues, a view that has been defended by Stephen Gardiner. This view sits uneasily with Aristotle’s uncompromising commitment to the reciprocity of the virtues, the view that if you have any one virtue of character, then you have them all (EN VI 13, 1144b32–1145a2).9 More plausibly,

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Virtues” by T. H. Irwin’ (1988), 79–86, and T. H. Irwin, ‘Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues: A Reply to Richard Kraut’ (1988), 87–90. For a proposed solution that restricts the reciprocity thesis to virtues other than magnanimity and magnificence, see Stephen Gardiner’s ‘Aristotle’s Basic and Non-Basic Virtues’, OSAP (2001), 261–97; also the discussion of large-scale virtue in Paula Gottlieb, The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 215–218, and Gottlieb’s chapter in this volume. 10  This is evident from Aristotle’s description of what greatness in each virtue entails, where he highlights the quality of the acts and motives of the magnanimous man: ‘Greatness in each virtue also seems proper to the magnanimous person. Surely it would not at all fit a magnanimous person to run away [from danger when a coward would], swinging his arms [to get away faster], or to do injustice. For what goal will let him do shameful actions, given that none [of their goals] is great to him? And if we examine particular cases, we can see that the magnanimous person appears altogether ridiculous if he is not good’ (IV 3, 1123b30–36). Here, ‘being good’ means doing virtuous acts for the right reason, i.e. because they are fine. But doing right acts for the right reason is only a necessary and not a sufficient condition for possessing virtue given the claims of EN II 4 about the need to act from a firm and unchanging state.

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Aristotle may view magnanimity as (ii) a self-reflexive first-order virtue that transforms acts in accord with the other virtues into acts that are done virtuously (‘meta’ virtue, EN VI 13, 1144b26–27), by strengthening the agent’s commitment to the fine, and thereby ensuring that he acts from a stable and unchanging character. In Nicomachean Ethics II 4, Aristotle maintains that for acts in accord with the virtues to be done virtuously, it is not enough that they are of a certain kind; the agent must also be in the right state when he does them. Specifically, he must know that his acts are virtuous (be eidōs), he must decide on them, and decide on them for their own sakes (be prohairoumenos di’auta), and he must do so from a firm and unchanging state (bebaiōs kai ametakinētos echōn) (II 4, 1105a31–5). Aristotle denies that this firm and unchanging state is simply a state of the intrinsically rational part of the soul, and so he denies that virtue is knowledge: virtue requires the excellence of both the part of soul that listens to reason (the part with non-rational desires and emotions) and the part that gives reasons. My proposal is that Aristotle’s three-fold description of the conditions for virtue of character explains why (1)–(3) are consistent. The person who possesses greatness in each virtue demands honour on account of the quality of his acts and his decision to pursue them, but not on account of his hexis prohairetikē (II 6, 1107a1), or character state, since his state of character only becomes firm through his recognition of the quality of his acts and motives. ‘Greatness in each virtue’ is therefore greatness in the discharge of the duties entailed by each virtue, and the self-recognition that causes magnanimity consists in the recognition of oneself as the kind of person who reliably does virtuous acts and decides on them for their own sakes.10 If this is right, (4) is not in fact reflective of Aristotle’s view: magnanimity is not a virtue in addition to complete virtue, but a part of virtue as a whole, and a ne­ces­sary condition for the possession of any other virtue. The magnanimous person’s great claims are thus the social expression of his self-knowledge: he knows that he is worthy of respect, and demands to be respected. In this chapter,

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The Roles and Value of Self-Knowledge  149

1.  The Roles and Value of Self-Knowledge Before we can appreciate Aristotle’s position, we need a better view of the roles that self-knowledge and self-awareness play in Aristotle’s account of the development and possession of virtue. Aristotle emphatically denies that self-knowledge is a virtue in its own right. Emotions associated with recognition of one’s own moral failings are not capable of a mean. Although shame (aidōs or aischunē) is appropriate for the young, since they live by their feelings but are restrained by shame, an older person does not deserve praise for his readiness to feel disgrace. For it is wrong to do disgraceful acts. Being the sort of person who voluntarily does any disgraceful act is proper to a vicious person. If, says Aristotle, ‘someone’s state of character would make him feel disgrace if he were to perform a disgraceful act, and on account of this he

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I  will defend a view of the self-knowledge of the magnanimous person as ­self-reflexive in this sense: it is part of the essence of magnanimity that the ­magnanimous man knows the quality of his acts and his motives. While it is possible to possess ‘greatness in each virtue’ without magnanimity, if one decides on virtuous acts for their own sakes, it is not possible to do them ‘from’ (meta) virtue without magnanimity, since that demands the firmness of character that only magnanimity secures. It is a consequence of my view that the self-knowledge that magnanimity affords is central to Aristotle’s conception of virtue in the Nicomachean Ethics. By recognizing the character of his own acts and motives, the magnanimous man affirms his commitment to choosing virtuous acts for their own sakes, and this commitment is required for full virtue. By contrast, a person who fails to recognize his own acts and motives for what they are lacks the firm and unchanging state characteristic of virtue. He has not yet come into his own as a virtuous agent. This means that pusillanimity should not be understood as a failure to recognize virtues that one in fact possesses, but rather failure to recognize that one’s acts and motives have certain qualities; viz., that they are in accord with virtue. On this line of reasoning, the pusillanimous man fails to claim honour that he deserves not because he is already virtuous, but fails to recognize it, but because he would be virtuous, were he only to recognize his acts and motives for what they are. When Aristotle seemingly paradoxically ascribes ‘greatness in each virtue’ to the pusillanimous man, then, he is not claiming that he has all the other virtues, save magnanimity, nor is he compromising his commitment to the reciprocity of the virtues—the view that the virtues are inter-entailing. He rather indicates why his claim to great honours would be well founded, were he to claim them. He further argues that he should claim them. This will strengthen his agency by affirming his commitments.

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11 Matthew Walker, ‘Contemplation and Self-Awareness in the Nicomachean Ethics’, Rhizai: A Journal for Ancient Philosophy and Science 7 (2010) 2: 221–38.

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thinks he is decent, that is absurd’ (atopon, EN IV 9, 1128b26–28). Shame is ­concerned with what is voluntary, and a decent person will never willingly do disgraceful acts. Shame and disgrace are therefore appropriate reactions to awareness of one’s own moral failings. But since moral failings are bad, feeling ashamed will not make one virtuous. Still, the agent who feels regret and remorse for his voluntary acts and shame at his moral shortcomings is better off than the vicious agent, who flees from awareness of his own flaws. The third role of self-knowledge, which has no obvious counterpart in Socrates’ discussion, is what I will call its ‘affirmative’ role: awareness of the fine quality of one’s acts and motives strengthens one’s commitment to virtue. This role will seem paradoxical if we think that the magnanimous man knows himself as virtuous in the sense that he satisfies all of the agent-criteria from EN II 4 for acting virtuously, for if what is known is a soul that is already perfect, then it cannot be made better by recognizing itself as such. Still, Aristotle claims that a magnificent man will know that he is worthy of great honours, and that this self-knowledge magnifies his perfection and reaffirms his commitment to virtue. The ‘affirmative’ role of self-knowledge differs from the ‘perfected’ role. While self-knowledge of the affirmative kind makes us possess virtue of character, and so produces it, self-knowledge of the perfected kind consists in contemplating virtue of character once it has come into existence. When we have acquired full virtue, contemplating our own souls is pleasant and valuable in itself, just as ­contemplating perfection in a character friend is pleasant and valuable in itself. As Aristotle states in the Nicomachean Ethics, ‘it is pleasant to perceive that something good is present in us’ (EN IX 9, 1170b2). We can perceive this directly, or, more easily, through the mirror of a good friend. But what, exactly, is ‘the good that is present in us’? Some scholars have argued that self-knowledge in Aristotle’s ethics is restricted to knowledge of the divine element in us (EN X 7, 1177b28): theoretical rather than practical nous. A defence of this account of what I have called the ‘perfected’ role is developed by Matthew Walker in ‘Contemplation and  Self-Awareness in the Nicomachean Ethics’ (2010).11 On Walker’s analysis, Aristotle’s warning not to ‘Think human, since you are human’, nor to ‘Think mortal, since you are mortal’ indicates that the human self is the divine self. If as far as possible we aim to be ‘pro-immortal (athanatidzein)’, and ‘go to all lengths to live a life in accord with our supreme element (to kratistion tōn en hautōi)’ (EN X 7, 1177b33–5), we shall be ourselves most fully. Contemplating the divine elem­ent in our souls is the best kind of self-knowledge. I shall argue that for Aristotle, self-knowledge for humans (in Quassim Cassam’s phrase) is knowledge of the state of our whole souls. What makes us human is not the divine element in us. Thus, the injunction ‘know yourself ’ cannot be heeded if we take divine

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Truthfulness and Self-Knowledge  151

2.  Truthfulness and Self-Knowledge To elucidate the role of self-knowledge in Aristotle’s ethics, we should first ­consider the virtue of truthfulness (alētheia) (EN IV 7).13 Truthfulness is often thought to be one of the more peculiar virtues in Aristotle’s taxonomy, with no real counterpart in modern conceptions of character virtue. Aristotelian truthfulness is not the contrary of mendacity, but rather the contrary of a specific kind of pretence about oneself. The truthful man knows who he is, and is sincere in ­presenting himself to others, whether it concerns his expertise (being a doctor) or his moral qualities (being disposed in the right way). He may tell a lie if the end is 12  I here use ‘self-blindness’ in a more restricted sense than what we find in the literature stemming from Sydney Shoemaker’s work (e.g. ‘Self-Knowledge and Inner Sense’ in his The First Person Perspective and Other Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994)). For Shoemaker, selfblindness is the inability to know one’s own mental states except from a third-person point of view. But since this appears absurd (for reasons related to Moore’s paradox), Shoemaker thinks we should infer that we have special access to our own mental states. They are not ontologically distinct from our beliefs about them. By contrast, I use ‘self-blindness’ to mean a failure of self-knowledge, whether of the first-personal or the third-personal kind. Thus, the akratic person who is made aware of his lapses by his friends will no longer be self-blind, though his knowledge of his own mental state is third-personal and based on testimony (‘You really did respond passive-aggressively to his request!’; ‘You really did help yourself to a third profiterole—I saw you!’). I take Aristotle’s analysis of akrasia to entail that no one is aware while he is acting that his act conflicts with his own convictions about what he should do—the agent always suffers from some kind of clouded vision brought on by excessive or base desires (unacknowledged aggression; an excessive fondness for profiteroles), despite his decision not to be passive-aggressive or to overindulge in sweets. This is a failure to ‘use’ or ‘pay attention to’ knowledge that the agent possesses, even when the agent pays lip-service to his own beliefs (‘I know I shouldn’t be upset with you, but. . . ’; ‘I know I should resist temptation, but. . . ’). For a lucid discussion of Shoemaker, see Matthew Parrott, ‘Self-Blindness and Rational Self-Awareness’, Philosophers’ Imprint 17 (2017), 1–22. 13  Aristotle initially calls this a ‘nameless’ virtue, but then provides it with a name. In his translation of the Eudemian Ethics, Kenny names it ‘candor’ or ‘sincerity’, which captures its essence well provided that we keep its restricted domain in mind. In the Eudemian Ethics, Aristotle curiously does not treat truthfulness as a virtue, though it is praiseworthy. Instead it is treated as a kind of emotion along with friendliness, wit and proper indignation, on the ground that these don’t involve prohairesis (1234a23–29). They are given minimal analysis.

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self-contemplation as an exclusive model. What matters is not simply knowing the divine element in us, but the way in which we are thinking and acting beings with different faculties that interact. A virtuous person will know a perfected soul when he knows himself, but it is a perfected human soul. By contrast, a self-blind person will fail to know his own motives as well as his own character.12 This is the predicament of the vicious, as well as those who suffer from akrasia. Although Aristotle rejects Socrates’ treatment of virtue as an epistemic state, arguing instead that it is a state that decides (hexis prohairetikē), consisting in a mean with respect to actions and passions (EN II 6, 1107a1–3), the transition from vice to in­con­tin­ence, and from incontinence to virtue, has a corollary in a transition from persistent self-blindness (vice), to momentary lapses in awareness (akrasia), and finally selfknowledge (virtue).

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14  I defend the compatibility of circumstantial relativism and robust moral realism in ‘Aristotle on Principles in Ethics’, in D. Henry and K. M. Nielsen (eds), Bridging the Gap between Aristotle’s Science and Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 29–48. 15  So Irwin, in his note to 1127b29–30 in his translation of Nicomachean Ethics (Irwin 1999), p. 226. Other commentators claim that Aristotle is not dismissing Spartan dress per se, but rather the Athenian fashion for wearing it. The remark is meant as a critique of bad faith. To Aristotle’s mind, unadorned dress is false humility, at least if worn by those who are vain about their appearance. Diogenes Laertius reports that Aristotle ‘was conspicuous by his attire, his rings, and the cut of his hair’ (DL V.1), so he may have had a chip on his shoulder. 16  In his note to 1127b25–27 (Irwin 1999) p. 226, Irwin claims that Aristotle does not classify Socrates as a self-deprecator in the end; instead, he reserves that name for the vice. The reason is that Socrates’ disavowals of knowledge were sincere and truthful.

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fine and the circumstances demand it;14 but he neither exaggerates nor downplays his own qualities. He ‘acknowledges the character he has, without exaggerating or belittling’ (IV 7, 1127a25–6), and he does so because it is fine, and so without ulterior motives. He is, says Aristotle, truthful both in ‘what he says and does and the way he lives’, simply because of his character (1127a28–9). Whereas the boaster exaggerates his own qualities, the self-deprecator underestimates himself in what he says. Of the two vicious characters, self-deprecators ‘appear to have more cultivated characters’ than boasters according to Aristotle (IV 7, 1127b23–24). For they avoid bombast, and are not looking for profit through their misrepresentation. Self-deprecators typically disavow qualities that tend to win reputation: ‘Those who are moderate in their self-deprecation and confine themselves to  qualities that are not too commonplace or obvious appear sophisticated’ (1127b29–31). In the moral sphere, only the person who knows himself—what characteristics he does and does not have—can be truthful. While some boasters deliberately mislead others by misrepresenting themselves, such as quacks and impostors, others delude themselves as well, like the politicians, poets, and craftsmen exposed by Socrates. The self-deprecator who ‘disavows small qualities he obviously has’ may or may not realize that he is insincere. He may claim to suck at mental arithmetic, when he is only average, or to be ‘terrible’ at sports, when he is ­actually mediocre. Aristotle dismisses Spartan dress as ‘ostentatiously austere’ (1127b29–30).15 Members of the torn cloak brigade wear their patches as badges of honour, vainly displaying their indifference to appearance. Thus, just as the boaster may or may not be consciously dissembling, the self-deprecator may or may not believe his own spin. To this extent, the deficient and excessive states that flank the virtue of truthfulness are compatible with self-blindness. The truthful person, by contrast, is always self-aware. It is only the person who, like Socrates, fails to claim great qualities that he is not aware of having, who approximates truthfulness. He is praiseworthy, for, as Aristotle notes, ‘he inclines to tell less, rather than more, than the truth; for this appears more suitable, since excesses are oppressive’ (1127b8–9). Thus, in Aristotle’s assessment, Socrates is truthful, since he disavows something of great value—knowledge of the most important matters—that he has found lacking in himself (1127b25–27).16

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Magnanimity and Self-Knowledge  153

3.  Magnanimity and Self-Knowledge To see why knowledge of the quality of one’s acts as well as knowledge of the ­quality of one’s character is necessary for complete virtue, consider Aristotle’s remarks about magnanimity in EN IV 3. Aristotle holds that magnanimity is a kind of ‘adornment of the virtues’ (1124a1–3). The magnanimous man already possesses ‘greatness of virtue’, but magnanimity makes these perfections greater still, since it enhances them. I have suggested that this means his acts have certain great qual­ities, in that they are virtuous, and that the agent also knows that they are virtuous and decides on them for their own sakes—for the reason because of which they are virtuous. This grounds the magnanimous man’s claim to honour, for honour is bestowed on acts that are virtuous in their own right and on agents on account of doing them for the right reason. The magnanimous man demands honour from good men since he ‘thinks himself worthy of great things and really is worthy of them’ (EN IV 3, 1123b39–40). Honour is recognition of his worth, and his worth reflects the excellence of his deeds as well as his motives. In making great claims, the magnanimous man 17 The Eudemian Ethics denies both claims, treating truthfulness as a kind of emotion and denying that it involves prohairesis. I take the far longer and more detailed analysis in the EN to reflect Aristotle’s considered view about this virtue and the others treated in EE III 7. 18  For the claim that ‘the virtues are decisions of some kind, or [rather] require decision’, see EN II 5, 1106a4–5 as well as the definition of virtue as a state that decides at EN II 6, 1107a1–3. For the claim that ‘decision is most proper to virtue, and distinguishes characters better than actions do’, see EN III 2, 1111b 5–7.

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Truthfulness is thus a virtue concerned, not with a passion (unless we include amour propre on the list of passions), but rather a type of action, namely the act of making claims about oneself. It is connected with prohairesis in two ways—by being a state that decides (EN II 6, 1107a1) as all virtues are, but more specifically, by being a virtuous state that makes the agent aware of his own qualities, insofar as such awareness is a precondition for truthful claims.17 This includes awareness of the quality of his acts and the motives behind his acts.18 However, the quality of the agent’s prohairesis is not simply a matter of what he decides to do—what he considers fine and the means by which he pursues it—it also depends on the firmness or weakness he displays in his choice. To act as a virtuous person acts, we need to know that our acts are virtuous, we need to decide on them for their own sakes, and we need to do so ‘from a firm and unchanging state’, as opposed to a weak and vacillating state (EN II 4, 1105a29–35). Only a perfectly virtuous agent will satisfy all three criteria. But if he does, he will know not only that his acts are virtuous, but in the end also that he does them from a virtuous state. That is, he will know his own character. This knowledge is only available to a person who has all the virtues of character.

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19  Howard Curzer, ‘A Great Philosopher’s Not-so-Great Account of Great Virtue’ Canadian Journal of Philosophy (1990), 515–37, also Curzer, ‘Aristotle’s Much Maligned Megalopsuchos’, Australasian Journal of Philosophy (1991), 131–51 and his Aristotle and the Virtues (Oxford: OUP, 2012). 20  Roger Crisp, ‘Aristotle on Greatness of Soul’ in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics edited by R. Kraut (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 158–78.

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esteems his own actions and his own motives appropriately, since he knows that they are fine. By contrast, the vain man claims honours to which he is not entitled, and ­overestimates his own worth, whereas the pusillanimous man does not claim the honours to which he is entitled, since he underestimates his own worth. Aristotle notes that the pusillanimous man is worthy of goods, and in particular honours, but he ‘deprives himself of the goods he is worthy of, and would seem to have something bad in him because he does not think he is worthy of these goods.’ ‘Indeed’, adds Aristotle, ‘he would seem not to know himself (agnoein d’heauton); for if he did, he would aim at the things he is worthy of, since they are goods’ (EN IV 3, 1125a20–23). Aristotle’s description of the pusillanimous man has occasioned a number of proposals. Curzer suggests that while the magnanimous man recognizes natural virtues in himself and esteems them appropriately, the pusillanimous man fails to acknowledge his natural propensity for virtue, and does not claim appropriate honour on account of it.19 However, Aristotle nowhere suggests that natural virtue deserves to be honoured; that is reserved for the habituated virtues of which we are ourselves somehow (pōs) contributing causes (sunaitioi) (III 5, 1114b23). Crisp20 maintains that Aristotle allows a spectrum of character virtue, such that it may be possessed to varying degrees. To Crisp, Aristotle’s description suggests that pusillanimous men have greatness of virtues (otherwise they would not be worthy of honour), but that they don’t yet have the virtues to the maximal extent, since they do not know that they are virtuous. On this interpretation, virtue of character allows of ‘the more and the less’, such that the magnanimous man is more virtuous than the pusillanimous, while both are virtuous. While superior to Curzer’s proposal, Crisp’s interpretation is not ultimately tenable. For it is incompatible with Aristotle’s explicit commitment to the ­reciprocity of the virtues. Pusillanimous men are worthy of honour only on account of the correctness of their acts and motives, but not yet on account of the firmness of their character states. Their characters are only hypothetically worthy of honours, in the following sense: if they were to think more highly of themselves, and claim the respect they deserve, they would develop the firmness of character that Aristotle in EN II 4 takes to be characteristic of full virtue. Pusillanimous men are not in fact in possession of virtue, then, but they are very close. Their worth is of a kind that would be realized, were they to have greater esteem for their own acts and motives. An analogy may help make this vivid. A soldier who either does not know that his acts are brave, or who is uncertain about his true motives for doing

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21  See Nancy Sherman’s Afterwar (Oxford: OUP 2015) for a number of cases of ‘moral injury’ in soldiers. 22  Aristotle here opposes the view that underestimating one’s own character is a precondition for morality. Humility in the form of pusillanimity can lead to moral cowardice or dithering. 23  Roger Crisp explains Aristotle’s description of magnanimity as a sort of ‘adornment of the virtues’ (1124a1–3) as follows: ‘If the small-souled person is to be worthy of great honour, then we must presume that “greatness of every virtue” (1123b30) is characteristic of him as much as of the greatsouled person. But he is not perfect since his diffidence leads him to refrain from noble actions which he would otherwise have performed (1125a25–7). Thus we see how greatness of soul could make virtues already great even greater, by spurring its possessor into action in situations where the timid will stand back’ (Crisp, ‘Aristotle on Greatness of Soul’ in R. Kraut (ed.) The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 158–78, p. 167. On Crisp’s interpretation, Aristotle’s point is that awareness of one’s own virtue enhances preexisting virtues by strengthening our commitment to fine acts. This entails that self-knowledge is a defining feature of magnanimity, though Crisp does not emphasize this feature in his analysis. However, Crisp’s interpretation also entails that Aristotle rejects the reciprocity of the virtues, which Aristotle unquestionably endorses. It should therefore be resisted. I think we can preserve Crisp’s insight about affirmation of acts and motives without supposing that an agent can possess each virtue in separation from magnanimity.

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brave acts, may fail to appreciate that he is in fact acting as a brave soldier should, and will be a worse soldier because of it. For he may hesitate before he does what he knows he should do and what he thinks is fine. And he may suffer from doubts and soul-searching of a kind that is inimical to action.21 Or consider the person who sits in a meeting and thinks to herself: someone should speak up. But she lacks the confidence in her own judgement to intervene, and assumes that others have better judgement. In the end she speaks up, but by that time, opinion is already formed. Here, too, deficient self-esteem leads to inaction. This means that, contrary to what Aristotle’s initial description of the state would indicate, pusillanimity is not a failure to recognize virtues that one in fact possesses, but rather a failure to recognize the virtue that one would possess, were one to make appropriate claims for oneself, commensurate with the quality of one’s acts and motives. Vain men, who lay claim to honours they do not deserve, likewise reveal that they do not know themselves (heautous agnoountes, 1125a28) when they make great claims, but in their case, the reason is that they do not deserve great honours. Their acts or motivates make them undeserving of great honours. The vain man will likely be a rash soldier; in meetings, he will speak before he thinks and claim credit undeservedly. By contrast, the magnanimous man is at the extreme insofar as he makes great claims, ‘but insofar as he makes them rightly, he is intermediate; for what he thinks he is worthy of accords with his real worth, whereas the others are excessive or deficient’ (IV 3, 1123b13–16). Aristotle maintains that pusillanimity, as the deficient state, is actually worse than the excessive state of vanity—and more widespread. For pusillanimity makes people ‘hold back from fine actions and practices since they think such actions are unworthy of them’ (1125a26–7).22 Self-knowledge makes a virtuous man more firmly committed to fine acts by giving him moral self-confidence. It thus strengthens his disposition to the point where it becomes a virtuous state of character. I have called this the ‘affirmative’ role of self-knowledge.23 It is separate

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4.  Vice and Self-Awareness: EN IX, 4 My analyses of truthfulness and magnanimity reveal that, despite his refusal to identify virtue with knowledge, Aristotle recognizes the importance of selfknowledge in his treatment of virtue of character. To possess virtue, one must know that one’s acts are virtuous, one must decide on them for their own sakes, and one must have a firm and unchanging state, which is only possible if one recognizes the quality of one’s own acts and motives. This claim about the importance of self-knowledge has its counterpart in Aristotle’s analysis of vice as a kind of self-blindness (EN IX 4). It is often noted that Aristotle treats alienation from oneself as a sign of vice, and being one’s own friend—a kind of ‘appropriation’—as a sign of virtue. The virtuous person is familiar with himself because he wants what is good with his whole soul, while the vicious person is conflicted and ‘shuns himself ’ because his rational and nonrational parts are at war.24 The internal animosity of the vicious manifests itself as a cycle of excess and remorse. First, base and excessive appetites make the vicious man overreach. But since excess is not good, indulgence is soon followed by painful regret, which he flees by further excesses, followed by new regrets. Though the vicious man indulges his appetites on principle, thinking that it is right (he acts in accordance with his prohairesis EN VII 4, 1148a17), his enjoyment is brief. Reality soon catches up with him in the form of hangovers, gout, and indigestion, as well as all the social ills of injustice. Thus the intemperate man may regret his indiscretions, but only because he dislikes their long-term effects, not because he judges them to be base. He acts on his decision (prohairesis) to indulge. However, it is not a decision that he can wholeheartedly endorse, for when the hangovers kick in, he feels regret. These regrets are not moral hangovers, however, for it never occurs to the vicious man to reconsider his conception of happiness.25

24  The theme is of course familiar from Plato’s Republic: see especially IX 577d–580a. 25  I defend my analysis at greater length in ‘Vice in the Nicomachean Ethics’, Phronesis 62 (2017), 1–25. For an analysis that departs from my own, see Jozef Müller, ‘Aristotle on Vice’, British Journal of the History of Philosophy (2015), 459–77.

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from the instrumental and perfected roles, since it is not merely an aid in causing the agent to choose virtuous acts for their own sakes, nor does its value reduce to the value of contemplating a fine object—viz., a perfected soul. In its affirming role, self-knowledge strengthens and intensifies the virtuous agent’s commitment to fine acts by making him aware of the excellence of his acts as well as his motives. Magnanimity may thus be likened to the clenched ‘hand over fist’ that characterizes Stoic katalēpsis in Zeno’s famous image (Cicero, Academica 2.145). It affirms his commitment to the fine.

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The vicious man has made reason a slave of his passions, and as such he ­ isunderstands his own nature. He is therefore blind to himself at two levels— m the personal and the human—and lacks self-awareness. Most fundamentally, selfknowledge requires recognition of one’s rational nature and the appropriate relationship between the parts of the soul. Aristotle’s remarks about self-knowledge may lead us to think of it as a virtue in its own right. However, neither Plato’s Socrates nor Aristotle treats self-knowledge as a virtue or self-blindness as a vice. It is easy to see why, if by ‘self-knowledge’ we mean awareness of the quality of one’s acts or motives, whatever they happen to be. For if they fall short of the fine, then being aware of that flaw could not be tantamount to virtue. This would, first of all, run counter to the doctrine of the reciprocity of the virtues, and it would furthermore entail, per impossibile, that a perfectly callous unjust person would have a redeeming feature, namely his ­recognition of the depravity of his own acts. But such awareness would border on psychopathy, and in any case, it is not clear that Aristotle treats ‘clear-eyed’ vice as a possibility. In Aristotle’s view, self-knowledge is praiseworthy only if (1) it is a sign of excellence, as in the case of magnanimity, or (2) insofar as self-knowledge, like shame, is a semi-virtue of the learner, making him inclined to change his ways. The first self-type of self-knowledge is unqualifiedly good and unconditionally good, and also qualifiedly good to the extent that it strengthens our commitment to virtue. The second is only qualifiedly or conditionally good, because it helps engender virtue. It follows that self-knowledge should not be identified with truthfulness or magnanimity, since self-knowledge, unlike these virtues, is not praiseworthy per se. Aristotle’s claims about vice may strike us as surprising; one might think that the vicious have no grounds for regret given that they act in accordance with their conception of the best. Whereas the akratic man abandons his prohairesis and his conviction under the sway of passion, the vicious man remains committed to his decision even though it is base. It is tempting, then, to assume that the vicious man can be psychologically unified and a friend of himself, and that he has no internal reason to hide from himself or hang his head, if not in shame, then at least in regret. Aristotle’s portrait of the vicious man shows greater psychological perspicuity than the common conception of the villain as exulting in his own vice. For since the vicious in fact act contrary to what is good, they will not consistently reap rewards that are beneficial for them. Socrates’ remark applies: ‘what else is being miserable but to desire bad things and secure them?’ (Meno 78a). It is a fact of life that the rewards of vice are harmful, and this means that there is evidence available to the vicious that they are living their lives the wrong way. However, the vicious are resistant to acknowledging this evidence for what it is. The harmful effects of their acts give rise to a desire to flee from the past and to seek diversion among an ever-changing circle of friends. As Aristotle observes: vicious people ‘shun themselves’ and seek others to pass their days with, since

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26  A vicious person has nothing lovely about him, and no friendly feelings toward himself: ‘Hence such a person does not share his own enjoyments and distresses. For his soul is in conflict, and because he is vicious one part is distressed at being restrained, and another is pleased [by the intended action]; and so each part pulls in a different direction, as though they were tearing him apart. Even if he cannot be distressed and pleased at the same time, still he is soon distressed because he was pleased, and wishes these things had not become pleasant to him; for base people are full of regret. Hence the base person appears not to have a friendly attitude even toward himself, because he has nothing lov­ able about him’ (EN IX 4, 1166b20–28). 27  As Norwegian Satanists used to put it. See e.g. interview with the soon-to-be murderer ‘Greven’ (aka Count Grisnach) in Bergens Tidende, 20 January 1993.

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‘when they are by themselves they remember many disagreeable actions, and anticipate others in the future; but they manage to forget these in other people’s company’ (1166b16–19).26 As a consequence of these emotions, vicious men cannot form stable friendships, for just as they cannot take pleasure in their own activities, since they are bad (and merely instrumentally valuable in bringing about enjoyment), and they cannot take pleasure in observing the actions of their friends. For if the friend’s activities are good, they remind the vicious man of his own shortcomings, and if they are bad, then it is not the activities themselves that are a source of pleasure, but the enjoyments and rewards they promise to produce. And since these rewards are excessive or base, the fruits of injustice soon turn sour. Whereas a virtuous man’s own being is choiceworthy for him, and his virtuous friend’s being is choiceworthy in the same or similar way, since the friend is ‘another himself ’ (EN IX 9, 1170b10), the vicious do not value their own lives. Aristotle holds that ‘Someone’s own being is choiceworthy because he perceives that he is good, and this sort of perception is pleasant in itself.’ But the vicious man cannot perceive that he is good, and so the best kind of pleasure—contemplation of the good—is unavailable to him, whether in his own case or that of his friend. This does not mean, however, that he perceives the viciousness of his own acts or motives. By ‘fleeing from himself ’, he is also fleeing from a truthful estimation of his own acts and motives. The vicious man will likely dismiss Aristotle’s observations about pleasure and the good, since he thinks highly of himself, yet his own being is not a source of true pleasure to him. To experience pleasure, he must seek diversion and enjoyment elsewhere. It appears, then, that Aristotle is not prepared to maintain that there is such a thing as clear-eyed vice. Vicious agents are not continuously aware of their own depravity, nor the quality of their own acts. Instead, they may think that ‘it is good to be bad’,27 or defend their behaviour as appropriate and just (see e.g. EN II 8, 1108b24–7), or in any case dismiss considerations of justice and fairness as so many words (‘high-minded simplicity’, in Thrasymachus’ memorable phrase, Rep. 348c). Aristotle is therefore right to observe that ‘base people are at odds with themselves, and have an appetite for one thing and a wish for another, as in­con­tin­ent people do’ (EN IX 4, 1166b6–7). In some cases, they do not choose good things

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5.  Akrasia and Self-Awareness: EN VII, 3 The portrait of the vicious man in EN IX 4, indicates that Aristotle continues the Platonic tradition of viewing overreaching—or excess—as part of the essence of vice. Though he acknowledges that ‘underreaching’—or deficiency—is equally culpable, he sees the vicious man as driven primarily by a desire for excessive sensuous gratification. Indeed, Aristotle remarks that ‘people who are deficient in pleasures and enjoy them less than is right are not found very much, for that sort of insensibility is not human. . . if someone finds nothing pleasant, or preferable to anything else, he is far from being human’ (EN III 11, 1119a7–10). Vicious men, by contrast, are not rare. The vicious man is dominated by his appetites, which determine the content of his prohairesis. This means that intemperance is a particularly significant vice—a fact underscored by Aristotle’s analysis of akrasia as concerning the same feelings as temperance and intemperance.28 Though the argument he gives for this claim is tenuous,29 Aristotle implicitly recognizes that temperance entails self-knowledge in his analysis of vice, and when he explains akrasia in EN VII, 3, as a type of self-blindness. The akratic agent fails to pay attention to what he knows. Though his prohairesis is for the right acts, and though he understands why they should be preferred, he fails to pay heed to his own convictions when he acts under the influence of passion. But this just means that he fails to pay attention to himself. For Aristotle identifies the agent with his prohairesis (EN II 5, 1106a4–5). However, Aristotle does not think that temperance can be defined a science (epistēmē) ‘of itself ’, as Critias initially suggests in Plato’s Charmides (166d). Critias holds that unlike other sciences, temperance has no subject matter beyond itself. It is a purely self-reflexive kind of knowledge. By contrast, Aristotle thinks that the domain of temperance is the pleasures of touch and taste, and to the

28  In the Charmides, the only Platonic work apart from the Apology to discuss the Delphic injunction to ‘know yourself ’, Critias explains the injunction to ‘know yourself ’ as a call to temperance—any man who knows himself will be temperate, and any temperate man will know himself: ‘This is pretty much what I say temperance is, to know oneself, and I agree with the inscription to this effect set up at Delphi’ (164d). 29  See Aryeh Kosman’s analysis in this volume.

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that appear to them, but instead choose pleasant things that are actually harmful, and suffer as a result. In other cases, they are too cowardly or lazy to do what strikes them as best, and they come up with a reason to shrink back from fine action. In either case, they suffer from clouded judgement. For like everyone, they wish for happiness, but the actions they choose in pursuit of this goal are consistently at odds with this end. That is why their prohairesis is bad, and their characters base.

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This argument, then contradicts things that appear manifestly. If ignorance causes the incontinent person to be affected as he is, we must look for the type of ignorance that it turns out to be; for it is evident, at any rate, that before he is affected, the person who acts incontinently does not think [he should do the action he eventually does].  (EN VII 2, 1145b27–31)

Aristotle’s inquiry, then, aims to uncover what kind of ignorance causes akrasia— specifically, whether it is of a kind that makes the many’s explanation of akrasia incoherent. For the many thought that a man knows while he acts that his action conflicts with what is best, whereas Socrates claimed that it would be ‘terrible for knowledge to be in someone, but mastered by something else, and dragged around like a slave’. Therefore, he opposed their account of incontinence, in the belief that there is no incontinence, since ‘no one supposes while he acts that his action conflicts with what is best; our action conflicts with what is best only because we are ignorant’. In other words, Socrates is said to maintain that it is impossible to know while one acts that x is better than y, and yet to do y rather than x because one is overcome by passion—the agent cannot know or suppose this and still act contrary to his knowledge or belief.

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extent that it requires judgement, it is judging these rightly and desiring them in the appropriate way that is the mark of the temperate man. By contrast with Critias, then, Aristotle holds that a virtue like temperance requires self-knowledge without being reducible to it. For temperance is the mean state with regard to the pleasures of touch and taste, and as such it is defined with reference to feelings. However, a temperate man will abstain from excessive or base pleasures on principle, because he thinks that they are base. Therefore, his prohairesis makes him seek what is appropriate in enjoyment. A temperate person wants the same thing with his entire soul, since his appetites agree with his rational principle. He is therefore not alienated from himself, but psychologically unified. He has no need to disregard the cravings of one part to follow the injunctions of another, or to ignore the injunctions of the rational part for the sake of following appetite contrary to reason. Consequently, he is not forced to ignore or disregard any part of himself while heeding the demands of another. In what way does akrasia involve a failure of self-knowledge by Aristotle’s account in EN VII? Aristotle explains akratic lapses with reference to some kind of clouded judgement—the agent fails to ‘use’ or ‘attend to’ what he knows, and acts beneath himself as a result. The exact details of his account in EN VII 3 are disputed, but Aristotle seeks to preserve the Socratic denial of what we may call clear-eyed akrasia, while holding that having knowledge is compatible with ­failing to use it at the appropriate time. Thus some kind of ignorance is to blame for akratic lapses—and to this extent Socrates is right. Having outlined Socrates’ position in the Protagoras, providing a near verbatim quotation of Socrates’ view, Aristotle remarks:

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(i) Between having and using knowledge, where ‘using’ means paying attention to what one knows. (ii) Between universal and particular premises. (iii) Between different types of having knowledge. He states that it seems ‘extraordinary’ (deinon) if someone were to ‘have and attend to his knowledge’ and still do a wrong act. And he observes that it may be possible for someone to have the universal premise that dry things benefit every human being and that he is human, but to either not have or not activate the particular premise that this particular sort of thing is dry, and so to do a wrong act as a result of his failure to use the particular premise. And there are even different ways in which one may said to ‘have a premise’ that may make using it more or less difficult—one can have it in the way of someone asleep, or in the way of someone mad, or someone drunk. The latter may be able to say the words, but he lacks understanding of how the minor premise of his practical syllogism relates to the major. The madman has even stronger feelings than the drunk, which overwhelm his capacity to use knowledge appropriately in action. He may even be deluded about particulars (which makes it questionable whether the resulting act is ­voluntary, contrary to the case of akratic men). And the sleeper has, but cannot currently exercise, his knowledge, given the state he is in.30 Aristotle employs an explanatory device from his natural science to explain how the akratēs fails to use his knowledge—just as scientific facts can be explained using a demonstrative syllogism, the akratic’s act can be explained using a syllogism about actions.

30  Notice that Aristotle only uses those asleep, mad or drunk as examples of different kinds of ­ aving without using, without explicitly comparing the condition of the akratic man to each. What the h three have in common is that their knowledge is ‘disturbed’ (1147a17). I take it that only the drunk man is akin to the weak akratēs in the specific way in which his knowledge is disturbed.

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This explanation is eliminative—no one could satisfy all predicates in the many’s explanation of akrasia at the same time. Aristotle’s explanation, by contrast, is not eliminative in the sense that he denies the possibility of akrasia; he rather redescribes what happens in such a way as to preserve the core of Socrates’ insight— no one can attend to his knowledge or belief and act beneath himself—while explaining how strong appetites can cause attention deficits that have akratic actions as their result. For Aristotle, the conflict between our knowledge or beliefs about what is best and our acts is only recognized after the fact, but this does not mean that we fail to hold those beliefs or to possess that knowledge while we act, though we fail to pay attention. In VII 3, after outlining the puzzles about akrasia in VII 2, Aristotle states ‘First, then, we must examine whether the incontinent has knowledge or not, and in what way he has it’ (1146b9–10). Aristotle introduces the following distinctions:

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31  For an alternative reconstruction of the akratēs inference, attributing to her the false indexical belief ‘I am a temperate person’, and hence lack of self-knowledge, see Paula Gottlieb in this volume. Gottlieb’s proposal is intriguing, though I am not yet convinced that Aristotle in fact thinks that such a self-referential thought is part of the akratēs’ deliberation, or the deliberation of the temperate person for that matter.

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He envisions a person who has resolved to avoid sweets, and hence has a universal belief hindering him from tasting, but who nevertheless has the second belief that everything sweet is pleasant and that this is sweet, who eats the sweet under the influence of appetite. The akratēs has a belief hindering him from tasting, but he is moved by his observation that ‘this is sweet’ to taste, though this belief is not contrary to right reason in its own right (only the appetite to which it gives rise is). I will not here examine all the interpretive difficulties to which Aristotle’s ‘­scientific’ explanation gives rise—the passage from 1147a25–b19 has produced a scholarly industry. But it is significant that Aristotle treats the agent’s failure to use his ­universal premise (whether we are to believe that it states ‘Nothing sweet should be tasted’ or ‘Everything sweet is unhealthy’—Aristotle does not spell it out) as the reason why he should be labelled ‘akratic’. This failure to use knowledge is caused by appetite’s influence, since it makes him pay attention to the fact that this is sweet, which reminds him that it will be pleasant. Using general knowledge, then, presupposes the ability to pay attention only to the right particular features of the case at hand, and not being sidetracked by features that should not be decisive, or to treat these features in the wrong way (viz., by being reminded about the pleasures caused by sweets rather than their unhealthy effects on the body when one sees them). Aristotle concludes by observing that ‘since the last premise is a belief about something perceptible, and controls action, this is what the incontinent person does not have when he is being affected. Or [rather] the way he has it is not knowledge of it, but, as we saw, [merely] saying the words, as the drunk say the words of Empedocles’ (1147b10–13). This, says Aristotle, means that Socrates was right in a way when he denied that knowledge could be dragged around by ­passion like a slave, for the type of knowledge that is dragged around is not ‘fully knowledge’ but rather ‘perceptual knowledge’. Thus, it’s our failure to pay attention to the fact that this is unhealthy (because it’s a sweet) that makes us indulge in sweets even when we know that we should not.31 Aristotle’s great advance over Socrates is to realize that whether or not you pay attention to what you know is not itself a function of what you know, but of your character. Attention might be classed as an epistemic virtue, but only because it is ‘about’ your use of knowledge that you possess as subject matter. ‘Perception’ is not really perception, whether of the special senses or in the sui generis form of moral intuition. Rather, perception is attention. Aristotle describes prudence as a

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For it is possible for the incontinent to have the universal knowledge (epistēmē) that the things of this sort are base and harmful, but not to know that these things are base in particular, so that while having knowledge in this way he makes a mistake; for he has the universal knowledge, but not the particular. For it is as in the case of drunk people. For drunk people, whenever the drunkenness is gone, are the same people again (palin hoi autoi eisin). And reason was not expelled from them, nor was knowledge, but it was overcome by the drunkenness, and when the drunkenness has gone, they are the same people again (palin hoi autoi eisin). The incontinent again is in the same condition again. For his passion, having overcome, made the reasoning inactive. But whenever the passion, like the drunkenness, has gone, he is the same person again (ho autos estin). (MM II 6, 1201b33–1202a8, transl. Irwin)

In the state of passion, the akratēs is no longer himself, just like the drunk man. When he regains awareness of his own convictions, he also regains awareness of

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deliberative virtue, but it also comprises the ability to perceive particulars. By ‘perceiving particulars’ Aristotle means paying attention to them and activating your knowledge of universals. It is only through paying attention to particulars, and by connecting particulars appropriately to general principles that you can act on what you know and display prudence. This ability is part of intellectual virtue. It is not itself epistēmē. Aristotle therefore rejects Socrates’ identification of virtue with knowledge by pointing out that possessing knowledge is not enough—for whether you use your knowledge itself depends on your intellectual virtues, and these intellectual virtues cannot be reduced to states of knowledge. They are rather abilities that have been perfected into stable dispositions, namely the stable dispositions combined into the virtue of prudence, including the disposition to pay attention. How does the akratic man’s failure to use his knowledge amount to a failure of self-knowledge? To the extent that the akratēs is committed to his principles, but fails to use those principles due to excessive or base appetites, he is not acting in accordance with his conception of the fine. Aristotle thinks that our characters are defined with reference to our choice of end—the ends we adopt combined with the means we use to promote them determines the content of our prohairesis. This prohairesis is not simply an individual decision, but a general commitment to a conception of fine living. Whether this conception is reflected in individual acts will determine how firmly or weakly we are committed to our conception of the fine life. Character states are prohairetic states. Thus, a failure to pay attention to one’s decision in action is also a failure to pay attention to oneself. The Magna Moralia II 6 highlights this connection when it makes the following observations about the akratēs:

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32  In all three ethics, however, the rational part of the soul concerned with action is described as the one that makes decisions and that—ideally—governs the part of the non-rational soul. This is the part with appetites (epithumiai), which is ‘simply desiring’ (‘holōs orektikos’ EN I 13, 1102b31), insofar as its desires do not stem from reason. 33  But Aristotle there defines virtue as a ‘hexis prohairetikē’—a state that decides (EN II 7, 1107a1), so the connection is recognized. ‘What we decide to do is what we have judged [to be right] as a result of deliberation. For each of us stops inquiring how to act as soon as he traces the principle back to himself, and within himself to the guiding part (to hēgoumenon) for this is the part that decides. This is also clear from the ancient political systems described by Homer; there the kings would first decide and then announce their decisions to the people. We have found, then, that what we decide to do is whatever action, among those up to us, we deliberate about and [consequently] desire to do. Hence also decision will be deliberate desire to do an action that is up to us; for when he have judged [that it is right] as a result of deliberation, we desire to do it in accord with our wish (kata tēn boulēsin)’ (EN III 3, 1113a4–13).

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himself. Though the Magna Moralia, unlike the common book, does not link akrasia to prohairesis (the term is entirely absent from the analysis of akrasia in the MM), we may say that the person who suffers from akrasia becomes himself again when he regains conscience of his own decision. In acting on appetite, he is not really being himself, since the self most properly speaking is the rational part of his soul. The akratēs’ state is thus not stable and unchanging; instead, he vacillates and is dominated now by reason, now by appetite. Aristotle calls the part of our rational soul that deliberates and decides about action, and that determines the shape of our moral character ‘to hēgoumenon’— the commanding part of the soul—and also ‘to kuriōtaton’—the most controlling part, when he describes it in its role as ‘ruler’ of the non-rational part that is ‘simply desiring’ (holōs orektikos) insofar as its desires do not stem from reason. When he describes it with reference to its specific activity, he prefers to call it the ‘deliberating’ or ‘calculating’ part (to bouleutikon or to logistikon). In the Magna Moralia, it is even called ‘the part that decides’—‘to prohairetikon’ (MM I 34, 1196b28; 32)—though that specific label is missing from both the EE and EN.32, 33 Depending on the state of your prohairesis, you will either be someone who merely knows, but does not attend to, right reason, or someone who both knows what is right and attends to right reason in your actions. Thus, the person with phronēsis possesses knowledge in two ways—he makes the right decisions, and so knows what should be done and why, and he further knows his own mind, insofar as he unfailingly attends to what he knows and his own decision (prohairesis). By contrast, the akratic man makes the right decisions, but fails to attend to what he knows because he is sidetracked by passion. Thus, akrasia is a failure of practical self-knowledge—more specifically, a failure to ‘attend to’ (theorein) the decisions of the commanding part of your soul. The person who suffers from akratic lapses is therefore alienated from himself— his affliction is at once an expression of a failure of self-knowledge and a failure of rational self-love. He is, for a while, blind to who he is.

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6.  Aristotle and the Human Self

34  Aristotle has no term for the ‘person’, and no noun for the ‘self ’ strictly speaking, though the intensive ‘autos’ sometimes does the job: Aristotle calls a friend an ‘allos autos’—literally ‘another himself ’ at EN IX 9, 1169b7 (cf. MM 1213a24). See Joseph Owens, ‘The Self in Aristotle’, Review of Metaphysics 41 (1988) 4: 707–22; 707. Owens examines only De Anima, and so misses a wealth of evidence about Aristotle’s conception of the human self in his ethical treatises. 35  M. Walker, ‘Contemplation and Self-Awareness in the Nicomachean Ethics’ Rhizai, A Journal for Ancient Philosophy and Science VII (2010) 2: 221–38.

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I have maintained that Aristotle sees awareness of one’s own character as a ­precondition for virtue. Thus, knowing the state of one’s own character is necessary for being in the best state. Since perception of goodness is pleasant in and of itself, awareness of oneself is intrinsically valuable if one has virtue. That is why the friendships of good men are rewarding—they provide a source of the best kind of enjoyment. The awareness of virtue that such friendships enable furthermore strengthens one’s inclination to perform fine acts, and so it has an amplifying and affirming role in addition to being intrinsically worthwhile. However, it is not obvious that contemplating virtue in oneself or one’s friend is the best pleasure available for a human being. Indeed, some readers deny that the human self34 can be studied through contemplation of the activities of practical nous on Aristotle’s considered view. For the human self is not the self that has feelings, deliberates and acts, but rather the ‘divine element in us’ responsible for contemplation of eternal and unchanging truths studied in science—more specifically, the first principles of science that are incapable of demonstration. Therefore, we should treat Aristotelian self-knowledge as knowledge of the divine self, not knowledge of the self embodied in our state of character. Matthew Walker has recently defended this view at length.35 Walker notes that in EN IX 4, 1166a22–23 and IX 8, 1168b34–1169a3, Aristotle identifies the self ‘malista’ or ‘most of all’ with nous. Human being are their rational part primarily, and their non-rational part secondarily. In the context of Book IX, Aristotle does not distinguish between nous in its theoretical and practical aspects. However, Walker thinks that the account of the self in EN X 7–8 refines and supersedes the account of IX, and that Aristotle in X 7–8 argues that, since theoretical nous is ‘higher and more complete’ than practical nous, ‘we are ultimately “most of all” contemplative nous’ (2010: 224, note 7). If this is correct, treating knowledge of one’s own character as self-knowledge is in itself a sign of self-blindness, for we thereby reveal that we misidentify our true self. Aristotle’s description of the activity of the unmoved mover in the Metaphysics and De Anima mirrors his description of the prudent man in the Ethics in one respect: both have self-knowledge by attending to themselves. The unmoved mover attends to himself continuously when he thinks; he is both the subject and

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166  Karen Margrethe Nielsen

And just as a city and every other composite system (kai pan allo sustēma) seems to be above all its most controlling part (to kuriōtaton malist’ einai), the same is true of a human being; hence someone loves himself most (kai philautos dē malista) if he likes and gratifies this part (. . . ). Clearly, then, this, or this above all, is what each person is (touth’ hekastos estin ē malista), and the decent person likes this most of all.  (EN IX 8, 1168b31–1169a3)

The passage contains a series of claims about what a composite system is ‘malista’: ‘most of all’ or ‘most properly’. When the parts stand in a non-symmetrical relation 36  ‘The excellent person is of one mind with himself (houtos gar homognōmonei heautōi), and desires the same things with his whole soul (kai tōn autōn oregetai kata pasan tēn psuchēn). Hence he wishes goods and apparent goods to himself, and achieves them in his actions, since it is proper to the good person to reach the good by his efforts. He wishes and does them for his own sake (heautou heneka), since he does them for the sake of his thinking part (tou gar dianoētikou charin), and that is what each person seems to be (hoper hekastos einai dokei). Moreover, he wishes himself to live and to be preserved. And he wishes this for the rational part more than for any other part (kai malista touto hōi phronei)’ (EN IX 4, 1166a14–19).

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object of thought, and unlike embodied human agents, he never needs rest. Therefore, the unmoved mover possesses ‘theōrētikē epistēmē’ (‘attending knowledge’ Met. XII 7; De Anima III, 4). The prudent man reliably attends to (theōrein) his own decision. Since the state of the agent’s decision determines who he is by determining his character, the prudent man is also attending to himself as the kind of person that he is (EN VII 3, 1146b35–6). Both the unmoved mover and the prudent man therefore exhibit self-knowledge, but in different ways. The unmoved mover knows himself by being identical to his object—he is thought thinking itself—while the prudent man attends to himself as a person who is firmly committed to the fine. In IX 4, Aristotle notes that the virtuous person ‘is of one mind with himself (houtos gar homognōmonei heautōi), and desires the same things in his whole soul (kai tōn autōn oregetai kata pasan tēn psuchēn)’ (1166a14–15). He ‘wishes goods and apparent goods to himself, and achieves them in his actions’, and does so ‘for his own sake (heautou heneka), since he does them for the sake of his rational part (tou gar dianoētikou charin), and that is what each person appears to be (hoper hekastos einai dokei)’ (1166a17–18). Thus he wants his own preservation by wanting the preservation of the rational part more than any other part of his soul (kai malista touto hōi phronei) (1166a18–19). Insofar as the excellent person is said to ‘desire the same things with his whole soul’, the rational part that he seeks to preserve must be or include the part of reason capable of having its own desires, namely practical nous.36 Why are we properly called self-lovers only if we gratify the rational part of our souls rather than the part that it controls? In IX 8, Aristotle supports his view with reference to political systems, transposing the way we label cities after their constitutions to the way we should label the soul after its most controlling part:

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Aristotle and the Human Self  167

37 Dominic Scott, ‘Aristotle on Well-Being and Intellectual Contemplation’, Aristotelian Society Supplementary Volume 73 (1999) 1: 225–42.

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to each other because one rules and the other is ruled, the composite itself is most properly identified with the most controlling part—to kuriōtaton. The claim that a composite x is ‘malista’ F with respect to its most controlling part, y does not preclude that x can also be said to be F with respect to the subordinate part z. But in claiming that x is malista F with respect to y, Aristotle indicates that x is properly F in this respect, and only derivatively or secondarily in other respects. Thus, what something is—its essence—must be defined with reference to its controlling part, though the part controlled is also part of its nature. In the pol­it­ical sphere, this means that the essence of a political community is determined by the nature of its ruling class—whether it is a kingship, an oligarchy or a democracy. The subjects give the city its character in a derivative way. Similarly, a human being is his most controlling part, and a self-lover strictly speaking is a lover of his controlling part, not a lover of the appetitive part being controlled. This is not to deny that the soul comprises both a rational and non-rational part, but the former is most properly who we are, and the latter is a part of who we are only by standing in a subordinate relation to the first. Dominic Scott notes that Aristotle’s use of ‘malista’ claims in this passage mirrors his use in the discussion of friendship in VIII 3–4. Here, Aristotle observes that character friends are friends most of all (malista), for they love their friend for the friend’s own sake, on account of who the friend is, and not for some coincidental feature, such as utility or pleasure (1156b10–12). That is why the friendship of good men is complete (teleion). Scott observes that whereas in the case of friendship, pleasure friends and utility friends are said to be friends only coincidentally, since the ‘attracting features’ are coincidental and extrinsic to the other person, not who they are in themselves, in the case of self-love what is loved in the derivative sense—the non-rational soul— still has some claim to be the self. Writes Scott, ‘Pejorative as he is about the love of the appetites, [Aristotle] assumes that it still counts as self-love, right through to the end of the chapter (cf. 1169b2)’ (1999: 230).37 Indeed Aristotle ends the chapter by reaffirming that selfishness is a kind of self-love, but a kind that misunderstands the nature of a human being. Selfish people do not understand who they are—they identify with their appetites, and not with their reason. Consequently, they do not understand that self-love properly speaking is not only compatible with love for others, but tantamount to it, since it seeks what is fine, and fine actions benefit oneself and others, albeit in different ways. Two passages in EN VIII 7, 1159a7–14 and IX 4, 1166a20ff suggest that Aristotle is not prepared to identify the self with the divine element, even if it is the best element in us. In the first, Aristotle asks whether friends really wish their friends ‘to have the greatest good, to be a god for instance?’ Aristotle rejects this idea, for if he becomes a god ‘he will no longer have friends, and hence no longer have goods, since friends are goods’. Aristotle proceeds to argue: ‘If, then, we have

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168  Karen Margrethe Nielsen

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been right to say that one friend wishes good things to the other for the sake of the other himself (ekeinou heneka), the other must remain whatever sort of being he is (hoios pot’estin ekeinos). Hence it is to the other as a human being (anthrōpōi) that a friend will wish the greatest goods—though presumably not all of them, since each person wishes goods most of all to himself ’ (EN VIII 7, 1159a7–14). Aristotle confirms this opinion later on, when he writes: ‘And no one chooses to become another person (genomenos d’allos) even if that other will have every good when he has come into being; for, as it is, the god has the good [but no one chooses to be replaced by a god]. Rather, each one of us chooses goods on condition that he remains whatever he is (all ōn ho ti pot’estin); and each person would seem to be the understanding part (to nooun), or that most of all (ē malista)’ (EN IX, 4, 1166a19–23). These passages reveal that Aristotle would balk at excluding the part of the soul that deliberates and decides about action as part of who we are ‘most of all’. One might object that the friendship books do not represent Aristotle’s final word about the self. In Book X of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle seems to treat the person as ‘the most divine element’ in his soul, namely theoretical nous. It is it, rather than practical nous, that is the ‘the supreme element in us’ and ‘natural ruler and leader’ in the soul (X 7, 1177a15–21). Thus, if the person is the best elem­ent in his soul, we should think of the self as being most of all theoretical intellect. It is remarkable, however, that Aristotle in the course of his analysis of this divine element never once pauses to state that this is who we are. Rather, he refers to it as ‘the most divine element in us’ (tōn en hēmin to theiotaton)—as if it is external to the self. True, he holds that ‘each person appears to be his understanding, if he is his most controlling and better element’. And he argues that for a human being, the life in accord with understanding ‘will be supremely best and most pleasant, if understanding, more than anything else, is the human being’ (X 7, 1178a3–8). However, the claim that we are our understanding does not specify that we are theoretical understanding, and nothing Aristotle has said up until this point suggests that its referent is restricted to theoretical nous, rather than nous in both its theoretical and practical form. Indeed, Aristotle’s description of the activity of productive intellect (nous poiētikos) in De Anima III, 5, seems very far removed from anything we may associate with the Socratic dictum ‘know yourself ’. If this were the human being, human capacities would be identical to the divine. The position would be even more peculiar is if we identify the most divine element in us with the ‘part’ that Aristotle in De Anima II 1 413a3–7 describes as separable from body (for claims about separation, see also I 1, 403a3–b19; II 2, 413b24–7; III 4, 429a10–13; b5, as well as Metaphysics XII 3, 1070a24–6). Perfect self-knowledge is characteristic of this element. As Aristotle describes productive intellect in De Anima, ‘understanding (nous) is itself an object of understanding in the same way as its objects are. For in the case of things without matter the

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References  169

References Cassam, Quassim, Self-Knowledge for Humans (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). Crisp, R., ‘Aristotle on Greatness of Soul’ in The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics edited by R. Kraut (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 158–78. Curzer, H., ‘A Great Philosopher’s Not-so-Great Account of Great Virtue’ Canadian Journal of Philosophy 20 (1990), 515–37.

38  The claim matches ones he makes in Metaphysics XII 7: ‘Understanding in its own right is of what is best in its own right, and the highest degree of understanding is of what is best to the highest degree in its own right. And understanding understands itself by sharing the character of the object of understanding; for it becomes an object of understanding by being in contact with and by understanding its object, so that understanding and its objects are the same. For understanding is what is capable of receiving the object of understanding and the essence (ousia), and it is actually understanding when it possesses its object; and so it is this that seems to be the divine aspect of understanding, and its actual attention to the object of understanding is pleasantest and best. If, then, the god is always in the good state that we are in sometimes, that deserves wonder; if he is in a better state, that deserves still more wonder.’ (Met. XII 7, 1072b18–27), transl. Irwin and Fine. 39 The interpretation of this passage, as well as the rest of III, 5, is highly fraught. One critic (Shields) likens De Anima III 5 to a Rorschach blot. See Christopher Shields, Supplement to Aristotle’s Psychology: The Active Mind of De Anima iii 5, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 2016.

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understanding part and its object are one, since actual knowledge (theōrētikē epistēmē, i.e. “attending knowledge”) and its object are the same’ (De Anima III 4, 430a3–5; cf. Met. 1072b18–21).38 If the human self most properly speaking is identical to this ‘divine’ part, self-knowledge would be the pure actuality of t­ he­or­et­ic­al, productive nous: thought thinking itself. But this appears to be something other than knowledge of a person. The divine element in us is an impersonal rather than a personal self. For in De Anima III 5 Aristotle remarks that it is only when productive intellect has been separated that ‘is it precisely what it is, all by itself. And this alone is immortal and everlasting. But when it is separated, we do not remember, because this is unaffected’ (430a22–25),’39 whereas memory requires a bodily organ. Therefore, productive nous when it is fully itself is not memory-connected to us as human beings. Indeed, productive nous may even be impersonal in a stronger sense, by being numerically one thing, common to all rational souls. Nor, when it is ‘in us’, is it necessarily or essentially connected to the other parts of the human soul, whether passive understanding, or the other soul-parts that Aristotle ­at­tri­butes to the human being. It is therefore peculiar to think of this type of nous as somehow corresponding to who we are without violating fundamental assumptions about what it is to be a self and a person, assumptions that Aristotle shares. Ethical self-knowledge is an indisputable part of human self-knowledge.

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170  Karen Margrethe Nielsen Curzer, H., ‘Aristotle’s Much Maligned Megalopsuchos’, Australasian Journal of Philosophy 69 (1991), 131–51. Curzer, H., Aristotle and the Virtues (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Gardiner, S., ‘Aristotle’s Basic and Non-Basic Virtues’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy XX (2001), 261–97. Gottlieb, P., The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Irwin, T., ‘Some Developments in Aristotle’s Conception of Magnanimity’, Arete XI (1999) 1–2: 173–94. Irwin, T., Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics, 2nd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999). Irwin, T., ‘Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues: A Reply to Richard Kraut’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (Supplementary Volume) (1988), 87–90. Irwin, T., ‘Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (Supplementary Volume) (1988), 61–78. Kraut, ‘Comments on “Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues” by T.  H.  Irwin’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (Supplementary Volume) (1988), 79–86. Müller, J., ‘Aristotle on Vice’, British Journal of the History of Philosophy (2015), 459–77. Nielsen, K. M., ‘Aristotle on Principles in Ethics’, in Bridging the Gap between Aristotle’s Science and Ethics edited by D. Henry and K. M. Nielsen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 29–48. Nielsen, K. M., ‘Vice in the Nicomachean Ethics’, Phronesis 62 (2017), 1–25. Owens, J., ‘The Self in Aristotle’, Review of Metaphysics 41 (1988) 4: 707–22. Parrott, M., ‘Self-Blindness and Self-Knowledge’, Philosophers’ Imprint 17 (2017), 1–22. Scott, D., ‘Aristotle on Well-Being and Intellectual Contemplation’, Aristotelian Society Supplementary Volume 73 (1999) 1: 225–42. Sherman, N., Afterwar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Shields, C., ‘Supplement to Aristotle’s Psychology: The Active Mind of De Anima iii 5’, in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy edited by Edward  N.  Zalta, https://plato. stanford.edu (2016). Shoemaker, S., ‘Self-Knowledge and Inner Sense’ in his The First Person Perspective and Other Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Walker, M., ‘Contemplation and Self-Awareness in the Nicomachean Ethics’, Rhizai: A Journal for Ancient Philosophy and Science 7 (2010) 2: 221–38.

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Gail Fine, The Possibility of Inquiry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014).

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8

James Warren

1.  Introduction It is a common theme in ancient philosophical thought that in order to live a good and happy life it is important to ‘know thyself ’. This Delphic injunction is elaborated in various different ways in different philosophical traditions. Here I concentrate on the way in which Epicurean accounts of philosophical therapy allow that a person may fail to know himself because he fails to know what he believes. This failure of this kind of self-knowledge can be an obstacle to human happiness because these unremarked or unknown beliefs may be the ultimate cause of painful psychological and physical consequences, either directly or by encouraging other painful beliefs and behaviours. These unknown beliefs are often at the root of a person’s failure to live a good and pleasant life.1 A necessary preliminary part of effective philosophical therapy and improvement will therefore involve the full disclosure to the subject of their own mistakes. Here I consider two Epicurean texts that offer categorizations of kinds of belief and attempt to distinguish a class of what I will call ‘hidden’ beliefs: beliefs that can be extremely damaging but are difficult to identify and remove because the believer does not know that he is committed to them. Closer attention to these Epicurean texts is important for a full understanding of the Epicureans’ psychological outlook and the presuppositions of some of their therapeutic practices. These two texts—Philodemus On the Gods Book 1 (PHerc. 26) Col. XXIV Diels and Diogenes of Oinoanda fragment 35 Smith—can be used to supplement some passages in Lucretius which have been the subject of previous related discussions, including discussions over whether we can identify in the poem an appreciation of something like ‘the subconscious’. I shall say relatively little about the process by which the Epicureans think someone might come to reject false beliefs and acquire true ones in their stead and the various techniques that might be employed to help someone to do just that. No doubt, the process will often be difficult and lengthy. After all, Epicurus does remind us that we need to ‘grow accustomed’ to the 1  For example, in his work on the various tactics and means of encouraging moral improvement through therapeutic philosophical discussion, Philodemus refers to people who are not aware of their own errors (On Frank Speech (PHerc. 1471): μήτε συν|αισθάνεσθαι τὰς άμαρτίας Fr. 1.2–3 Olivieri).

James Warren, Epicureans on Hidden Beliefs In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © James Warren. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0008

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Epicureans on Hidden Beliefs

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172  James Warren thought that death is nothing to us (Ep. Men. 124). The process of uncovering and altering beliefs might take some time and involve altering various ac­com­pany­ing attitudes and behaviours.2

Lucretius includes in his discussion of the irrational fear of death various passages which have attracted the attention of people interested in general questions of Epicurean moral psychology. For example, he imagines the case of someone who says that he accepts that there is no sensation after death but is nevertheless concerned because, when he dies, his body will be subject to rotting in a tomb, or burning on a pyre, or perhaps predation by wild beasts. All these thoughts cause him pain even though he says he believes that death is the end of sensation and he will therefore not feel any of these possibilities (DRN 3.870–87). Lucretius comments that there is evidently something inconsistent in this man’s attitudes and that there must be some sting or motivation ‘hidden in his breast’ (caecum subesse| aliquem cordi stimulum 3.873–4) that is responsible for the anxiety since the professed beliefs would otherwise be sufficient to dispel any fear. Just a little later Lucretius comments that this person, again despite his professed beliefs, nevertheless identifies himself with the lifeless and insensate corpse and does so ‘without himself knowing’ (inscius ipse 3.878). Apparently, Lucretius wishes to attribute to this person various mental states that are causing the painful reaction to the prospect of mortality. These mental states are not only at odds with the professed beliefs on the matter to which this person is committed but also are present without the person being aware of them. Any attempt to rid such a person of the fear of death will therefore have to excavate these hidden states since this person is, on the surface, quite happy to accept the important claims of the Epicurean perspective on death but remains subject to painful anxiety. Later in the book Lucretius comments that people are often burdened by mental distress but fail to recognize that its source is internal rather than external (3.1053–75). Here he imagines someone who recognizes that he is unhappy but tries to allay his problems by leaving the house and heading for the city. But then he finds he is no happier there and comes back home again. The problem is that he is the source of his own happiness but cannot recognize this fact. Such a person, Lucretius says, ‘does not know the causes of his unhappiness’ (e quibus id fiat causis quoque noscere 3.1055) is ‘ignorant of what he wants’ (quid sibi quisqe velit nescire 3.1058) and generally is ‘a patient who does not understand the cause of

2 

For a concise account of Epicurean therapeutic practice see Tsouna 2009.

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2.  Self-ignorance in Lucretius, Philodemus, and Diogenes of Oinoanda

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Self-ignorance In Lucretius, Philodemus   173

πε-            20 ρ̣ὶ [δὲ] τῶ[ν] ταρ̣α̣χῶν εἰσιν ὅ[λως δύο] τῶ̣[ν δοξῶν δι]αφ[οραί·] ὁ [γὰρ τῶν μα-] καρίων ζώ[ιων] φ[όβ]ος τὰ πο[λλὰ κατ’ οὐ] διειλημμένας [ἐ]νίστατα[ι δό]ξας, ὁ δὲ περὶ θ[α]ν̣άτου κ[ατ]ὰ τὸ πλε[ῖστο]ν ἐξ ὑ-  25 πούλων̣ ἔρχεται [κ]αὶ ἀδιαρθ[ρ]ωτοτέρων·6 εὐ[θ]εραπευτότερ[αι] δὲ ἐκ̣[εῖν]α̣ι̣ ἢ αὗται· χαλεπὸν γὰρ ὄντω̣ς τὸ τ[αρα]χῆς ὕπου[λο]ν καὶ τυφλὸν κ[ο]ὐ δυνάμενον βα[ρεῖα]ν̣ κ̣ω̣φ[εί]αν ἀπ̣[ολ]ακ̣τίσαι̣[· τ]ούτοις 30 [γε μὴ]ν [τ]ό γ̣ ’ ἔνουλ[ον] οὐχ οἷαί τ[ε] διαι[ρεῖν σοφοὶ λόγοι· τὸν] αἰῶ[ν]’ οὖν [α]ὐτὸν ἄνθρωποι κα[κὸν κ]αθόλο[υ] π̣ο[οῦνται κε-] νῶ̣ς·

In general, concerning these anxieties there is a distinction between two sets of beliefs. For the fear of the blessed gods for the most part arises on the basis of beliefs that have not been grasped separately, whereas the fear of death for the greatest part arises out of beliefs that lurk below the surface and are unarticulated. The former are easier to cure than the latter because fully ridding oneself of a latent, hidden, source of anxiety is difficult and it is not possible to throw aside such weighty foolishness. Indeed, even wise words are unable to take away these people’s wound; in general, humans for no good reason make out that infinity itself is something evil.

3  Compare also the comments at DRN 2.14–19, especially pectora caeca at 2.14: presumably here caeca means both that there are mental states that are hidden and also that people’s minds are often blind to their underlying beliefs and motivations. See Fowler 2002, 68–70. 4  See Jope 1983; Segal 1990, esp. 23–5; Nussbaum 1994, 195–204; Warren 2004, 20–3; Konstan 2008, 47–58. 5  I discussed this passage very briefly in Warren 2007, 236–8. This chapter is a welcome opportunity to revisit and revise the ideas first outlined there, including the translation of these lines. The text is from Diels 1916. 6  In the text at Diels 1916, 42, Diels prints at XXIV.27 ἀδιαρθ[ρ]ωτοτέρων; in his discussion of this section at Diels 1916, 94, however, he prints ἐξ ὑπούλων ἔρχεται καὶ ἀδιαρθρωτέρων.

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his illness’ (morbi quia causam non tenet aeger 3.1070).3 The subject fails to know himself in various senses: he does not know why he is not living a good life, does not know what it is that he really desires, and does not understand what is causing him to be miserable. All this is combined with a reliable awareness that he is indeed experiencing mental and perhaps physical distress. Lucretius’ account has been the subject of some detailed and helpful discussion that often credits him with the plausible psychological insight that people are sometimes led to behave in certain ways for reasons that they themselves do not fully understand and cannot fully articulate.4 But those accounts have tended to be rather imprecise about the details of the Epicurean psychological commitments that underlie Lucretius’ poetic account, perhaps reasonably so since Lucretius himself is not especially interested in those complexities at this point of his work. However, there are two additional intriguing Epicurean texts which offer more assistance in piecing together just what the Epicureans thought about the kinds of motivational forces that can lead someone to act and suffer in the ways described by Lucretius and how they would characterize the particular form of self-ignorance with which this person is afflicted. The first text is Philodemus On the Gods Book 1 XXIV.20–34 Diels (PHerc. 26):5

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174  James Warren

7 

Diels 1916, 94, translates: ‘geheimgehaltenen und undeutlicheren Vorstellungen’. τὸ ταραχῆς ὕπουλον καὶ τυφλὸν. With τυφλόν here compare the famous caecus stimulus cordi at Lucr. DRN 3.874 discussed above. 9  For uses of the verb in a similar methodological sense of setting out clearly a number of distinct claims see e.g. Epicurus Ep. Hdt. 38: ταῦτα δὲ διαλαβόντας συνορᾶν ἤδη περὶ τῶν ἀδήλων (as printed in Dorandi’s text of Diogenes Laertius following MSS BPF; Bailey prefers Cobet’s ταῦτα δεῖ διαλαβόντας . . . , von der Muehll has ταῦτα δὲ διαλαβόντας) and Ep. Hdt. 67: νῦν δ’ ἐναργῶς ἀμφότερα ταῦτα διαλαμβάνομεν περὶ τὴν ψυχὴν τὰ συμπτώματα. 8 

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As is usual with these Herculanean papyri, the text is not perfectly preserved and requires a degree of supplementation. But, in general terms, it is fairly clear that Philodemus here offers a distinction between beliefs that are ‘not grasped ­separately’ (ou dieilēmmenai) and those that ‘lurk beneath the surface and are un­articu­lated’ (hupoulai and adiarthrōtoterai).7 This second group is also described as including troubling beliefs that are ‘latent’ and unnoticed by the subject.8 The former include beliefs about the gods while the latter include many fears about death; the former are more easily treated than the latter. The reason for the comparative ease of treating fears of the gods over fears about death is related to the initial distinction between the types of belief. The sense in which the fears of the gods are ‘not separately grasped’ makes them comparatively ­simple to treat, while the sense in which the fears of death are ‘hidden and un­articu­lated’ makes them comparatively difficult. As an example of beliefs about the gods that are ‘not separately grasped’ we might consider the belief that the gods are blessed (makarioi) and the belief that they are pleased or displeased by certain human actions. Sometimes people are unable to see that these are two distinct claims, one of which can be retained while the other is not and, as a result, people are prone to spend time and energy in the futile business of trying to win the gods’ favour and avoid their wrath. Such behaviour has a tendency to generate anxiety and mental pain. But it is relatively easy to induce someone to recognize that these are two different beliefs and, once  these two beliefs are properly separated from one another in the subject’s thoughts, Philodemus assures us that it will be simple to ask the subject to note the incompatibility between the two. If the gods are essentially blessed then their state of well-being should not depend on anything as trivial as human actions. The incompatibility between the beliefs can then easily be removed by the simple rejection of one of the beliefs, in this case the belief that the gods are pleased or displeased by certain human actions. That is the member of the belief-pair that is rejected since it is the one that is held with less conviction: the other member is undoubtedly true of the gods by definition.9 The other class of beliefs, in contrast, are ‘hidden’, ‘latent’, and ‘unarticulated’ in a way that presents many more difficulties for their treatment and removal. Each of the terms Philodemus uses deserves a little thought since together they help to characterize the beliefs he has in mind. First, such a belief is ὑπούλος: hidden and covered over in the sense that a sore or a bruise might extend beneath the surface

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10 See LSJ s.v. for other citations including Plato Tim. 72d1–3: ὅθεν πληρούμενος τῶν ἀποκαθαιρομένων μέγας καὶ ὕπουλος αὐξάνεται, καὶ πάλιν, ὅταν καθαρθῇ τὸ σῶμα, ταπεινούμενος εἰς ταὐτὸν συνίζει (the spleen can become enlarged and swollen because it has been wiping off impurities and keeping the liver clean); Gorg. 518e3–519a1: καί φασι μεγάλην τὴν πόλιν πεποιηκέναι αὐτούς· ὅτι δὲ οἰδεῖ καὶ ὕπουλός ἐστιν δι’ ἐκείνους τοὺς παλαιούς, οὐκ αἰσθάνονται (those who say that they made the city great fail to see that it is swollen and festering). 11  Alex. Aphrod. in Arist. Met 26.22 (ad Arist. Met. 984a3–5): Ἵππωνα ἱστοροῦσιν ἀρχὴν ἁπλῶς τὸ ὑγρὸν ἀδιορίστως ὑποθέσθαι, οὐ διασαφήσαντα πότερον ὕδωρ, ὡς Θαλῆς, ἢ ἀήρ, ὡς Ἀναξιμένης καὶ Διογένης. διὸ καὶ παραιτεῖται αὐτοῦ τὴν δόξαν ὡς ἐπιπόλαιον καὶ οὐδὲν διασαφοῦσαν. ἢ οὐχ ὡς ἀδιάρθρωτον αὐτοῦ τὴν δόξαν παραιτεῖται· οὐ γὰρ εἶπε διὰ τὴν εὐτέλειαν αὐτοῦ τῆς δόξης, ἀλλ’ ὡς οὐκ ὀφείλοντα ἐν τοῖς φιλοσόφοις ἐγκαταριθμεῖσθαι διὰ τὴν τῆς διανοίας εὐτέλειαν.

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of the flesh. The adjective certainly has negative connotations; it seems to describe not merely something that lurks below the observable surface but also something that is in an unnatural, swollen, or damaged state and is a cause of pain and suffering.10 These beliefs are also ‘unarticulated’ (adiarthrōtoterai) not merely in the sense that they are not clearly distinguished from one another as was the case for the more treatable class of damaging belief. Rather, a belief is ‘unarticulated’ in this sense when it has not itself yet been clearly identified by the subject; the subject is unable to grasp and distinguish the belief and this is a futher obstacle to its being clearly inspected, evaluated, and finally rejected. To clarify this sense of a belief being ‘unarticulated’ we might compare a remark in Alexander’s commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics 984a3 which also helps to distinguish two senses in which someone might be said to hold an ‘un­articu­lated’ belief, namely: (1) the subject holds a belief that he cannot clearly communicate to anyone else and (2) the subject holds a belief whose content is itself not clearly articulated. The topic of this section of the commentary is Aristotle’s remark that it is not easy to classify the early philosopher Hippo along with various others, including Thales, who held that the archē or principle of things is ‘the wet’ (to hugron). Alexander explains that his sources say that Hippo held that the archē was ‘the wet’ in a rather vague way (adioristōs) since he did not make clear whether the principle was water (like Thales did) or air (like Anaximenes and Diogenes did). As a result, it is reasonable to criticize Hippo because his account is unclear. Alexander is inclined, furthermore, to think that this lack of clarity in the account is in turn because Hippo’s thinking on the matter is shabby and imprecise (adiarthrōton). In short, the fault is not simply that Hippo cannot communicate his belief in a direct, clear, and comprehensible fashion. Rather, Hippo simply had not thought enough about the matter and what opinion he did have is rather indistinct.11 It seems likely that Philodemus intends to describe the second, more damaging and less easily treatable, class of beliefs as ‘unarticulated’ in this second sense: the content of the belief is itself imprecise and unclear. Since the subject might himself not in fact be aware that he holds the belief in question, this is a further reason to conclude that the failure of articulation is not a simple failure of being able to communicate that belief in a clear fashion to someone else.

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176  James Warren

οὗτος ὁ φόβος τ̣[οτὲ] μέν ἐστιν τετρα[νωμέ]νος, τοτὲ δ’ ἀτρα[νής]· τετρανωμένος [μὲν]       5 ὅταν ἐκ φανεροῦ̣ [κακόν] τι φεύγωμεν ὥσ[περ] τὸ πῦρ φοβούμε[νοι δι’] αὐτοῦ τῷ θανάτῳ [περι]πεσεῖσθαι, v. ἀτραν̣[ής]  10 δὲ ὅταν, πρὸς ἄλλ̣[ωι τι]νὶ τῆς διανοίας ὑ[παρ]χούσης, ἐνδεδυμ̣[ένος τῇ] ἐφύσει καὶ ὑποφω[λεύων] . . .

M. F. Smith translates: As a matter of fact this fear is sometimes clear, sometimes not clear—clear when we avoid something manifestly harmful like fire through fear that we shall meet death by it, not clear when, while the mind is occupied with something else, it (fear) has insinuated itself into our nature and [lurks] . . . 12

Diogenes refers here to two kinds of fear rather than two kinds of beliefs. But, for the Epicureans, fear is an emotion (pathos) whose cognitive element is a belief and we can therefore take him also to be drawing a distinction between kinds of beliefs.13 The Epicureans recognize that emotions do of course have various extracognitive and affective characteristics too, but fear is at its core a belief and many fears are at their core false or ‘empty’ beliefs.14 Diogenes distinguishes between two kinds of fear: the kind that is atranēs (not clear, not evident) and the kind that is tetranōmenos (clear, evident). The latter arises from an evident evil (for ex­ample, fear that we might die because of a fire is an ‘evident’ fear because its object is 12  Morel 2010, 1047, translates: ‘Cette crainte est parfois éclairée, mais parfois elle est obscure . . .; obscure lorsque, profitant que la raison est retenue par quelque chose d’autre, elle s’est insinuée dans notre nature . . . ’ 13 There are also, of course, affective aspects to emotions: their being pleasant or painful. But Philodemus De Ira VI.13–15 makes clear that ‘the pathē in our soul are consequent upon our false beliefs (ψευδοδοξία). Cf. Epic. Ep. Hdt. 81. The scholion to Epic. Ep. Hdt. 66 notes that the Epicureans place the logikon part of the soul in the chest in part because that is where we physically register fear and joy. Cf. Lucr. DRN 3.136–42. See Konstan 2006; Tsouna 2007, 39–41. 14  See Tsouna 2007, 38–44; Konstan 2008, 1–25. Konstan 2008, 18–22, offers some evidence for a further implication of this claim, namely that non-human animals that are incapable of holding beliefs are incapable of emotions such as fear. The textual evidence is not as clear as we might like. Still, Lucretius tends to reserve the terms metus and timor for the emotion of fear that humans experience and is based on a belief; he uses pavor for non-human animals’ instinctive behavioural reactions to pain and threats. It is also not clear precisely how the Epicureans explain the reactions of pre-rational human children. Presumably, if there is no possibility of explaining their behaviour in terms of beliefs, there must be some alternative mechanism that relies mostly on the simple pathē of pleasure and pain.

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Problems of communication may arise later on in the therapeutic process but, at this stage, the sufferer is not even aware that there is this imprecise belief lurking below the surface of his actions and thoughts. Any attempt to deal with this damaging belief will have to involve both the clarification of the content of the belief and also the clarification of the content of the belief to the believer himself. The second text is Diogenes of Oinoanda fragment 35.II.2–14 Smith:

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15  ἐνδύω can suggest something that does not merely enter or insert itself in something else, but also that it does so surreptitiously: see Pl. Phaedo 89d3–e3: misanthrōpia can creep into a person’s soul as a result of repeatedly placing trust in and then being deceived by unreliable people. ὑποφωλεύω is used for things that are hidden or sheltered by something that prevents them from being perceived: see LSJ s.v. 16  There is a helpful discussion of this passage in Konstan 2008, 47–50.

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evident); the former occurs when our thought (dianoia) is concerned with something else. This kind of fear, in addition, is settled (endedumenos) deep in one’s nature and lurks there (hupophōleuōn) without being noticed. These adjectives extend the characterization of the damaging but unrecognized beliefs we were able to extract from Philodemus but lack the additional colouring added by the talk of these beliefs ‘festering’. All the same, Diogenes manages to suggest how deep-seated and hard to uncover these beliefs can be and also how they might surreptitiously slip into a person’s soul without their noticing.15 The distinction Diogenes offers is perhaps less subtle than that to be found in Philodemus since the contrast is between a relatively simple case of fear caused by the direct perception of a potentially harmful item—the fire—and fear caused by certain beliefs about death.16 In fact, Diogenes is perhaps guilty of eliding two characteristics of a given fear that will be relevant to our evaluation of its being reasonable to hold the underlying belief. The first concerns the object of the fear and whether that object is something evident or something non-evident. The second concerns the way in which the fear is present in the subject’s mind. Here, there is a distinction to be made between fears that are held by the subject knowingly and those that are held by the subject although the subject’s thinking is directed elsewhere. These two characteristics ought to be kept separate. It is possible to imagine someone who is afraid of something non-evident but in a way that is clear and evident to the subject himself. His thought is not directed elsewhere. For example, someone might be afraid that he will contract and die from a disease that is caused by imperceptible particles in the environment. The specific object of this fear is not evident in a way that contrasts with the way in which the fire in Diogenes’ example is evident. But in both the case of someone afraid of imperceptible particles and the case of someone afraid of a fire, we might say, the fear is evident to the subject in the sense that the subject is perfectly aware that he is afraid, what he is afraid of, and why he is afraid. What is more, in both cases it might be perfectly reasonable for the subject to be afraid. In contrast, someone might equally be afraid of these imperceptible particles or indeed of something that is perfectly evident and perceptible—such as a fire—without that fear being evident in the sense that the subject is not aware that he is afraid, what precisely he is afraid of, and why he is afraid. Diogenes has run together these two senses in which a fear might be evident by giving only one example in which he describes someone who is afraid of an object that is evident—the fire—and is also perfectly aware that he is afraid, that he is afraid of the fire, and that he is afraid of the fire

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178  James Warren

3.  Hidden Beliefs, Behaviour, and Suffering We can now draw together some general thoughts from these texts. The Epicureans, it seems, are prepared to accept a class of beliefs that are not open to immediate inspection by their holder. The subject may hold the belief but be un­aware of doing so and indeed may be unaware of ever acquiring the belief in question. Such a belief may have consequences for the believer’s actions, behaviour, and character. Most importantly, such a belief may be a source of pain either directly or indirectly. Either it is a direct source of painful mental anxiety as is the case, for example, when the belief is a fear of some object, or it is the cause of certain behaviours that are in turn physically or psychological painful. These hidden beliefs are not merely those which are neither explicit nor can immediately be inferred by the subject when offered some kind of proximate stimulus. They can therefore be contrasted with various other sorts of belief that we might be said to hold but not be aware at all times aware of possessing. For example, I believe that the Earth travels round the Sun but I do not always attend to that belief and there are many days when I might not be aware that I possess that belief. But nevertheless, I certainly have not forgotten that the Earth travels round the Sun: it is a belief that I can recall at will. So there is a large class of beliefs that might be said to be present but not attended upon. But these beliefs are not really ‘hidden’: they are beliefs I hold that are sometimes attended upon and sometimes not. It is no great trouble for me to accept that I do indeed believe that the Earth travels round the Sun even if I have not given much thought recently to basic astronomy. We can also compare the Epicureans’ hidden beliefs with what are sometimes classified ‘implicit’ or ‘tacit’ beliefs. If I were to ask you if you believe that you are less than five and a half metres tall I imagine you would immediately say that you do. (Similarly, if someone asks me if I believe the Earth travels round the Sun I will immediately say that I do, even if I have not considered the matter for some time.) But it is unlikely that this is a belief that has been a matter of some conscious judgement on your part in the past and is now somehow stored in your

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because of the risk it poses to his life. In that case Diogenes ought to have resisted the rapid assimilation of an ‘evident’ (tetranōmenos) fear to a fear that is caused by an ‘evident’ object (ek phanerou). Nevertheless, the close of this passage draws attention once again to the notion that the fear of death is something that is often deeply ingrained in a person’s nature and lurks there undetected but nevertheless can cause us to suffer pain and behave in various unfortunate ways. What is more, it is sometimes evident to the subject neither that he is afraid, nor what he is afraid of, nor indeed why he is afraid.

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17 

See, for example, Dennett 1978, 45–6; Lycan 1988 ch. 3; Manfredi 1993.

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mind ready for you to recall. (In this way it is unlike my belief that the Earth travels round the Sun. That is something I learned or came to believe at a particular time.) Rather, this is a belief you hold in the sense that it is something you might immediately infer from those occurrent beliefs you have which are the result of conscious judgement or else is something you can infer directly from a simple piece of empirical observation. Furthermore, there is a sense in which I might reasonably have attributed to you this implicit or tacit belief even prior to asking you the question simply by observing your behaviour. You do not hesitate before walking below arches that are five and a half metres high and this behaviour might license the ascription to you of this tacit belief. There are various questions that might be asked of the proposal that we should attribute to ourselves and to others various tacit beliefs. It is not evident, for example, whether there are limits to the kinds of inference that would be necessary for the reasonable ascription of a tacit belief nor, if there are such limits, what they should be. (For example, you hold some relatively simple true beliefs about mathematics that, with sufficient inferential work, would yield all sorts of further complicated and sophisticated mathematical thoughts. But it is perhaps not so plausible to ascribe to you now all of these complicated mathematical thoughts even as tacit beliefs.)17 Nevertheless, this picture of the presence of ‘tacit beliefs’ among the potential explanatory factors of an agent’s behaviour does capture at least part of what I think these Epicureans have in mind with their category of ‘hidden’ beliefs. In both cases, the beliefs in questions are beliefs that it is in some sense reasonable to attribute to the subject on the basis of the subject’s observed and expected behaviour. And in both cases the subject may act on the basis of some relevant belief without being aware that the behaviour is motivated in that way. But there are also, I think, ways in which the Epicureans might resist the swift assimilation of their notion of ‘hidden’ beliefs to these ‘tacit’ beliefs. The Epicureans think that they have good positive evidence from the subject’s observed behaviour and experience for the claim that he does indeed have the relevant hidden belief even in the absence of the subject’s awareness of this being the case. A ‘hidden’ belief, in that case, is a belief that must be present if we are to explain a given agent’s behaviour in a plausible manner and therefore these ‘hidden’ beliefs are operative in the subject’s current motivations and necessary for the full and satisfactory explanation of the subject’s behaviour. For example, Lucretius might claim to be able to ascribe to a particularly miserable Roman various pernicious beliefs about mortality or about the gods simply on the basis of observing that Roman’s patterns of behaviour and the ways in which he appears to be suffering psychological pain. It would be impossible, thinks Lucretius, to explain why a poor miserable Roman behaves and suffers as he does unless we assume that he possesses, unknowingly, some particular hidden belief. Notice, of

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18  Jope 1983, 237, is too hasty in connecting this directly with Epicurean attitudes to the physical nature of the soul: ‘Philosophically, it was the thorough materialism of Epicurean theory that made it possible for Lucretius to assume unconscious motivation. For while spiritualist theories can simply postulate an immaterial subject that is defined as capable of undergoing mental processes as we experience them, materialists must reduce consciousness to mechanisms of which we are not aware.’ (Cf. Segal 1990, 24 n.42.) The metaphysics of the Epicureans’ philosophy of mind are complex and controversial, of course, and Jope’s claim could be questioned in various ways. For now, I will leave aside the question of the relationship, if any, between the metaphysical nature of the soul and these ‘hidden beliefs’. 19  At this point, we might think about how Socrates is depicted in Platonic dialogues as being able to act as a midwife to another person’s beliefs or is able to provoke the interlocutor into expressing what he really believes. The interlocutor might never have been able to do this on his own.

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course, that this is a good example of a familiar kind of Epicurean scientific ­methodology: the Epicurean psychologist has established something that is unclear and unobservable (adēlon) on the basis of its presence being fully ­compatible with and, indeed, explanatory of what is being observed.18 The principal manner in which this class of ‘hidden’ beliefs is distinct from both those beliefs that Philodemus refers to as merely ‘undistinguished’ or ‘un­articu­lated’ (in the sense of being not distinguished from one another rather than the sense of being ‘un-uttered’) and also from the broad class of ‘tacit’ beliefs is that these hidden beliefs are particularly difficult for the subject himself to root out. It takes a skilled observer to work out precisely what belief is behind the poor Roman’s self-damaging behaviour and misery and it takes a skilled practitioner of Epicurean therapy to tease out in his conversational partner the various hidden beliefs that need to be addressed in a frank and open fashion. Indeed, once these hidden beliefs are uncovered then they can be properly articulated and the treatment will be at least as easy as Philodemus assured us is the case for those un­articu­lated beliefs about the gods.19 These ‘hidden’ beliefs, therefore, are beliefs that are directly responsible for certain aspects of an agent’s behaviour and af­fect­ive state but are not easy for the agent himself to recognize and cannot be grasped by the subject via some simple inferential steps. Furthermore, the metaphor of the belief being ‘under the surface’ (hupoulos) suggests that it is not merely non-evident but also positively concealed; the agent might think that he believes something that is the contrary of this hidden belief while the hidden belief is in fact what is responsible for his behaviour. At this point, we might pause to consider whether what I have been calling ‘hidden’ beliefs might helpfully be assimilated to ‘unconscious’ or ‘subconscious’ beliefs. Here we need to take care because these characterizations can carry more or fewer additional psychological commitments. The Epicurean account should certainly be contrasted with accounts that refer to unconscious beliefs in the theoretically loaded sense of the unconscious that derives from Freudian psychology even though various commentators, particularly those discussing the Lucretian passages with which we began, have flirted with the idea of ascribing to Lucretius

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20  This point is well made by Gladman and Mitsis 1997 who offer a convincing discussion of why this more theoretically loaded notion of the unconscious ought not to be attributed to the Epicureans. Most commentators are rightly hesitant to make any strong connection between Epicurean psychological insights and psychoanalysis. See, for example, Jope 1983, 224: ‘Of course, we must understand “unconscious” in a loose sense characterizing any mental process of which a person is not aware, and  not in the sense of the “unconscious proper” defined by psychoanalysis as an entire separate region of the psyche not accessible to conscious scrutiny. Yet Lucretius does employ a notion that people do  not understand—and can deceive themselves about—their own motivations.’ Compare also Segal 1990, 24–5. 21  For a discussion of the content of Epicurean pathē see Warren 2013.

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an early awareness of the unconscious in this more psychoanalytic sense. There is a relatively simple sense in which the Epicureans do think the beliefs we have been discussing are ‘unconscious’ but only in the sense that they are not currently part of the subject’s explicit thoughts and may never have been the result of a deliberate act of judgement on the subject’s part.20 In addition, the Epicureans hope that these beliefs can in principle be unearthed and discarded as the result of deliberate inspection, elaboration, and evaluation. Thus, the beliefs we are thinking about clearly are ‘unconscious’ in the sense that they are not—or at least not always—remarked upon, noticed, or considered by the subject in question. In that sense there seems to me to be little difference between calling a belief an ‘unconscious’ belief and calling it an ‘implicit’ or ‘tacit’ perhaps even a ‘hidden’ belief. Nevertheless, I am wary of using the terms ‘unconscious’ or, more loosely, ‘subconscious’ to qualify these beliefs since this might be taken to imply the commitment on the part of the Epicureans to some kind of additional psy­cho­ana­­ lytic­al theory of unconscious motivation that is not appropriate. The Epicureans certainly do not, for example, concede that there are unconscious motivations that are irredeemably unknowable by the conscious mind. The hidden beliefs that interest these Epicureans are not just hidden from the subject but are also often harmful to the subject. They are harmful in the way that anything else is harmful in Epicurean terms: they cause pain. This characteristic does reveal, however, an interesting way in which, although these beliefs are hidden, they will impinge on the subject’s awareness and will do so in a way that is veridical, regardless of the truth or falsehood of the belief in question. Let me explain. The subject will feel and register the pain caused by the hidden belief without registering the belief itself. And, what is more, the subject will be affected in a veridical fashion: the pain shows that the experience is per se bad. In other words, a subject may be aware of the affective aspect of this emotion but not be aware of the cognitive aspect. The first part of this situation is of course related to the Epicureans’ insistence that the pathē of pleasure and pain are criteria of truth: the pathos of pain is a reliable indication that one is being harmed. But the pathē of pleasure and pain are not themselves able to disclose to the agent precisely what it is that is causing the harm or benefit and often it will take the agent some time and additional cognitive effort to work out just what it is even in cases in which the pathos is caused by some external perceptible object.21 For example, if

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22  Consider the summary of Lucretius’ strategy offered by Gladman and Mitsis  1997, 221: ‘The emphasis of his therapy is not to uncover new fears or to bring previously unacknowledged and repressed emotions into awareness, but rather to make us rationally understand the wider causal connections and power that the fear of death has, and to demonstrate why the fear is ‘empty’ and ‘wrong’. My discussion is in agreement with this in broad terms but I would insist on some important clarifications based on the Epicureans’ own understanding of the nature of a fear and of an emotion. In my view, for the Epicureans it is indeed important, on occasion, to uncover a ‘new’ fear at least in the sense of making evident to the subject for the first time a previously hidden belief and then to show why that belief is empty or false. In so far as the Epicureans will identify the belief with an ­emotion then this will also suffice to uncover and then dispel an emotion. It will also prevent further affective harm (the pathos of pain) being caused by that belief. 23  Smith  1993, 438–9, compares Thuc. 2.51.4: . . . ὅτι ἕτερος ἀφ’ ἑτέρου θεραπείας ἀναπιμπλάμενοι ὥσπερ τὰ πρόβατα ἔθνῃσκον. The closing section of Lucretius DRN 6—the description of the plague of Athens—which build on Thucydides’ account, evidently is meant to stand in some sense as a more general description of the psychological suffering which Epicurus alone is able to cure.

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an agent places his hand on a hot surface he will experience a pathos of pain which will be truth-telling in the sense that it will indicate correctly that the subject is being harmed. Some additional cognitive work and inspection of the relevant sense-perceptions will be needed to come to the—relatively obvious—belief that what is harmful is the fact that his hand is resting on a hot surface. (There are of course other cases in which the cause of a bodily pain might be more difficult to trace and identify.) Similarly, in cases in which the affection of pain is being caused by one of the agent’s beliefs rather than some perceptual stimulus then it may be simple to recognize the cause of the harm or it may be very difficult. It is reasonable enough for an agent to recognize that he is pained by a certain fear when the relevant belief is evident (‘I am suffering mental anguish because I believe that I did badly in this morning’s examination’). But it is not always the case that the source of the pain will be so easily discovered. For example, the Epicureans insist that it is often the empty fear of death that is the cause of the subject’s mental pain but this pain may be difficult to remove because the fear is deeply rooted and hidden from the subject’s awareness although the pain is not. Casual reflection will not be enough to diagnose the true cause of the suffering.22 Finally, we should consider just how it is that we are supposed to acquire these hidden beliefs. How do they surreptitiously slip into a person’s soul and fester there, unnoticed, while causing serious psychological pain? The metaphor of a hidden injury or sore implied by Philodemus’ and Diogenes’ vocabulary for describing these beliefs is helpful here. We acquire such beliefs simply by being around other people, hearing what they say, and seeing how they behave. Diogenes of Oinoanda compares the acquisition and transmission of damaging false beliefs to the spread of a contagious disease (Fr. 3.IV.3–12): ‘But, as I have said before, the majority of people suffer from a common disease, as in a plague, with their false notions (pseudodoxia) about things, and their number is increasing (for in mutual emulation they catch the disease from one another, like sheep) . . . ’ [trans. M. F. Smith].23 A sheep can be affected by a disease simply because it is

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4.  Hidden Beliefs and Epicurean Therapy Perhaps the most important aspect of this entire account, however, is the very simple point that the Epicureans are inclined to think that these hidden beliefs are indeed beliefs at all. It is, after all, this presumption in favour of the view that the operative motivational forces are to be accounted for in intellectualist terms that leads them to the further claim that there are beliefs that the subject himself is unaware of holding and which might take some time and effort for the subject to uncover and consider in the open. The Epicureans choose to retain a simple account of motivational explanation in so far as they hold that all human intentional behaviour can be analysed ultimately in terms of the agent’s beliefs. They do not recognize any non-rational sources of motivation. However, they do ­recognize that on occasion the ultimate explanation of an agent’s action might in fact be opaque to the agent himself. This might be thought to be in tension with the generally intellectualist account of motivation they offer but this tension is

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living in proximity with another infected sheep and, once infected itself, will pass the disease on. Similarly, people acquire these beliefs from one another and pass them on. Sometimes, no doubt, the belief will be acquired knowingly as when some poor unfortunate acquires the belief that virtue is the only good through spending time studying with the Stoics. But often the belief will be acquired less evidently. A child will gradually acquire beliefs about the gods or about death by observing others’ behaviour, by hearing what they say, by reading poetry and looking at funerary monuments. There may be no identifiable moment at which the child first acquires the belief that, for example, after death a person’s soul is subjected to torment in an underworld. And there may be no single explanation for why a person might have the belief that death is something harmful. Indeed, the Epicureans will say that the subject may not ever notice that they do in fact hold such beliefs even though they must in fact hold such beliefs if we are to be able to explain their behaviour. The gradual and unremarked method by which these beliefs are acquired may also be a reason why they tend to be ‘unarticulated’ in the sense we outlined earlier: such a belief has no single and identifiable source since it is usually the compound product of a variety of influences exerted over a period of time. The Epicureans believe that we have a natural propensity to acquire beliefs simply as a result of living among other people. Some of these beliefs, once acquired, are hard to identify and to root out and can generate various kinds of pains, either directly or indirectly. They can cause us to behave in unfortunate ways and they can prevent the proper acquisition and appreciation of true beliefs.

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184  James Warren

24  This is also why the Epicureans’ ‘hidden’ beliefs cannot be assimilated to ‘aliefs’: innate or habitual tendencies to react to apparent stimuli in a particular way. Aliefs, as outlined by Gendler (see, e.g. Gendler 2008, 557–8) are potentially available to conscious awareness and may be possessed by both humans and non-human animals.

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resolved, they hope, by marking out an additional set of distinctions within the set of an agent’s beliefs.24 To put this point another way, we might consider what alternative means there might be for accounting for the same observed behaviour that Lucretius diag­noses as the result of a hidden belief. For example, it might be possible to think that in addition to someone’s belief that there is no perception after death there is operative in that person’s soul some brute non-rational fear of bodily mutilation that is in tension with the intellectual grasp of what in fact happens when one dies. This brute aversion might then be considered responsible for various pains and various behaviours that seem to be inconsistent with the subject’s professed belief. There are obvious candidates in ancient Greek moral psychological theory for accounts that allow a plurality of motivational forces alongside the intellectual motivation provided by beliefs. Furthermore, these alternative models would be able to supply their own accounts of how these non-rational motivations are acquired and take hold in a person’s soul and also how they might be treated, altered, and perhaps removed. And yet the Epicureans are sufficiently confident in the explanatory power of a generally intellectualist moral psychology that when they are confronted with cases such as those illustrated by Lucretius of the person who says he believes one thing but acts and reacts in a contrary fashion, they explain the surprising behaviour in terms not of the presence of a non-rational motivational centre but rather the presence of yet another belief. And this belief, since it is in tension with the professed view, is then classified as a belief that is hidden even from the subject himself. What in other accounts might be diagnosed, for example, as a case of a lack of harmony between the rational and non-rational aspects of a soul is instead characterized as a case of a tension between two motivationally effective beliefs, only one of which is evident to the subject. In cases in which there is no tension there too such hidden beliefs can do a job of explaining behaviour for which there is no ready account to be had simply by reference to what the subject sincerely says he believes. The cost of this odd notion of hidden beliefs—and the strange consequence that perhaps the vast majority of people turn out in fact at least sometimes not to know what they believe—is compensated by the Epicureans’ ability to keep intact a monistic account of human motivation that deals exclusively in terms of beliefs, where these beliefs lie at the core of all human desires and emotions.

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References   185

References Dennett, D. 1978, Brainstorms, Cambridge, MA: Bradford Books. Diels, H. 1916, Philodemos über die Götter. Erstes Buch. (Abhandlungen der Könliglich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 7), Berlin: Verlag der Könliglich Akademie der Wissenschaften. Fowler, D. 2002, Lucretius on Atomic Motion: A Commentary on De Rerum Natura 2.1–332, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gendler, T. 2008, ‘Alief in action (and reaction)’, Mind and Language 23: 552–85. Gladman, K.  R. and P.  Mitsis, 1997 ‘Lucretius and the unconscious’, in K.  Algra, M. H. Koenen, and P. H. Schrijvers eds., Lucretius and his Intellectual Background, Amsterdam: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Science: 215–24. Jope, J. 1983, ‘Lucretius’ psychoanalytic insight: his notion of unconscious motivation’, Phoenix 37: 224–38. Konstan, D. 2006, ‘Epicurean “passions” and the good life’, in B. Reis ed. The Virtuous Life in Greek Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 194–205. Konstan, D. 2008, A Life Worthy of the Gods: The Materialist Psychology of Epicurus, Las Vegas: Parmenides Publishing. Lycan, W. 1988, Judgement and Justification, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Manfredi, P. A. 1993, ‘Tacit belief and other doxastic attitudes’, Philosophia 22: 95–117. Morel, P.–M., 2010, ‘Diogène d’Oenoanda’, in D. Delattre and J. Pigeaud eds. Les épicuriens, Collection Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (no. 564), Paris: Gallimard: 1027–72. Nussbaum, M. 1994, The Therapy of Desire, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Segal, C. 1990, Lucretius on Death and Anxiety, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

25  I would like to thank for their helpful comments Svavar Hrafn Svavarsson and the audience at the University of Iceland where a version of this chapter was delivered. Fiona Leigh helped me to clarify my ideas and encouraged me to extend the discussion in new directions.

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Furthermore, it also allows Epicurean therapeutic practice to be focussed exclusively on the assessment and revision of beliefs even though it now must accept that there is an important role to be played by techniques that encourage the subject to uncover beliefs that might have been acquired and held on to without his conscious awareness. That process, finally, can quite rightly be labelled as a process of acquiring a kind of self-knowledge. Before a student of Epicureanism can begin to acquire the right beliefs and jettison his false beliefs, he must first discover what he believes.25

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186  James Warren Smith, M.  F. 1993, Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Epicurean Inscription, Naples: Bibliopolis. Tsouna, V. 2007, The Ethics of Philodemus, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Warren, J. 2004, Facing Death: Epicurus and his Critics, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Warren, J. 2007, ‘Removing fear’, in J.  Warren ed. The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 234–48. Warren, J. 2013, ‘Epicureans and Cyrenaics on pleasure as a pathos’, in S. Marchand and F. Verde eds. Épicurisme et scepticisme, Rome: La Sapienza: 127–45.

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Tsouna, V. 2009, ‘Epicurean therapeutic strategies’, in J.  Warren ed. The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 249–65.

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9

Jean-Baptiste Gourinat

If one maintains that one’s soul is an incorporeal entity, it is in principle not ­difficult to separate self-knowledge from self-perception, and knowledge of my immaterial soul from the perception of my own body.1 For instance, in a famous passage of Plato’s Alcibiades, Socrates argues that, since a human being is his own soul, not his body, or the compound of body and soul,2 self-knowledge is know­ledge of one’s soul.3 An important point is that Socrates’ argument is based on the assertion that a human being is his own soul because the soul rules (archei) the body.4 A puzzling consequence is that we know ourselves through another soul or God:5 like someone who sees his or her own eye by contemplating its reflection in someone else’s pupil, the soul knows itself by contemplating another soul, and in particular by contemplating something similar to what is the best part of itself, namely God and wisdom (theon te kai phronesin).6 Whether such knowledge is personal or impersonal is a debated issue, but it is of no concern to us here.7 What is important is that self-knowledge is knowledge of one’s soul, and does not ­consist in the perception or knowledge of one’s body. However, according to the Stoics, my soul is a body (a pneuma),8 and, in ­general, knowledge of bodily things is more or less identical with the perception 1  I wish to express my gratitude to the late Bob Sharples and to Fiona Leigh for their kind invitation to the Keeling Colloquium. I also thank John Sellars for kindly and competently acting as my respondent at the conference: his comments were highly profitable and helped me to improve the final version of my text. And finally I wish to thank Fiona Leigh for kindly checking and correcting my English, in addition to offering more substantial suggestions. 2 Plato, Alc. I, 129e–130c. Whether the dialogue is authentic or not is not relevant here, since the ancient philosophers thought it was genuine. 3 Plato, Alc. I, 130e: ψυχὴν ἄρα κελεύει γννωρίσαι ὁ ἐπιτάττων γνῶναι ἑαυτόν. 4 Plato, Alc. I, 130a–e. 5  See Gill (2006), 356 : ‘This passage (Alc. 133a-c) suggests that self-knowledge is best achieved by looking at someone else rather than by introspection’. 6 Plato, Alc. I, 132c–133b. 7  For a recent discussion, see Gill (2006), 344–59. 8 See, among others, Chrysippus, quoted by Galen, PHP, 3.1.10 V 287 K., 170.9–10 De Lacy (SVF 2.885). Jean-Baptiste Gourinat, Self-Knowledge, Self-Perception, and Perception of One’s Body in Stoicism In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Jean-Baptiste Gourinat. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0009

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188  Jean-Baptiste Gourinat

9  See Origenes, Cels., 7.37 (SVF 2.108): τοῖς ἀναιροῦσι νοητὰς οὐσίας Στωϊκοῖς περὶ τοῦ αἰσθήσεσιν καταλαμβάνεσθαι τὰ καταλαμβανόμενα καὶ πᾶσαν κατάληψιν ἠρτῆσθαι τῶν αἰσθήσεων. Cf. [Plutarch], Plac. 4.8 899D (SVF 2.850); Diogenes Laertius 7.52 (SVF 2.84); Cicero, Acad. Pr. 1.41 (SVF 1.62). 10  This is obvious from the fact that the Stoics used many arguments to show that the soul is made of pneuma. Even Antipater’s famous monolemmatic argument, which infers life from respiration (‘You breathe, therefore you live’), does not identify my self with breath (see SVF 3 Ant. 26–7). 11  For Chrysippus, see below the passages quoted by Galen, PHP, 2.2.10–11 V 215 K., 104.29–105.6 De Lacy (SVF 2.895) and 3.5.24–6 V 327–8 K, 206.4–11 De Lacy (SVF 2.884). 12  For Epictetus, see Diss., 3.1.40–43, 3.18.1–3, 4.5.12. Epictetus 1.1 argues that the faculty of reason studies (theōrei) itself, not that it perceives itself or knows itself—this is what logic is, namely studying what reason consists in, but obviously logic is not self-knowledge in the common meaning of selfknowledge. Logos or reason is a structured set of phantasiai or impressions (1.20.5) and this enables logos to ‘make use’ of the incoming impressions (1.1.5). Note that Epictetus never says that I am my own logos, while he says that I am my own ruling part. The ruling part of the soul of a rational animal is rational: to a certain extent, this ruling part may be identified with logos, but logos is basically a certain set of impressions contained in the ruling part of the soul. The ruling part of the soul does not only consist in this set of impressions, since it also has a certain number of faculties: impression, assent, impulse, and desire, which are rational without being reason. What reason is able to do by studying itself is to ‘test and discriminate the impressions’ it receives (see 1.20.7: δοκιμάζειν τὰς φαντασίας καὶ διακρίνειν), and this critical examination of its own impressions is hardly identical with self-knowledge. 13 Epictetus, Diss., 3.13.17–18, 3.18.3, 4.6.34. 14 Epictetus, Diss., 1.1.11, 3.10.15, 4.1.111–12, 4.1.158. However, he may also say that my body is mine (see 4.1.78).

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of those things: when it comes to bodies (and almost everything is a body in  Stoicism), katalēpsis is aisthēsis, or comes through aisthēsis.9 Therefore, ­self-knowledge of my own soul should be self-perception of my own soul as a pneuma. However, in fact, I do not perceive myself as a pneuma.10 What do I perceive of myself? Or rather: what do I perceive when I perceive myself? It is not easy to know what the Stoic answer to such questions would be. At first sight, the answer is rather straightforward: it is frequently attested that I am the controlcentre of my self i.e. the commanding part of my soul, my so-called hēgemonikon,11 or, in the language of Epictetus, that I am my prohairesis.12 This is what I am, I know it, and I know myself as such a central part of my soul, not as my whole soul. This point is certainly influenced by Plato’s argument in the Alcibiades that a human being is what rules the body, namely the soul. Chrysippus and Epictetus, each of them with his own vocabulary, seem to go a step further by admitting (almost implicitly in the case of Chrysippus, more openly in the case of Epictetus) that a human being (an ‘I’) is not simply one’s own soul but the ruling part of one’s soul. This is especially clear when the Stoics, like Epictetus, sometimes not only say that I am not my body,13 they even say that my body is not mine:14 what is mine is my soul, and I am my hēgemonikon. Therefore, when I perceive myself, I should not perceive my body, I should perceive my own hēgemonikon, as something different from my own body. Furthermore, my hēgemonikon is supposed to be located in my heart, and therefore self-perception should be the perception of my soul as located in my heart—and certainly, according to the Stoics, this is where I perceive my emotions, among other things, in such a way that, according

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Absence of a Clear Perception of the Hēgemonikon  189

1.  The Absence of a Clear Perception of the Hēgemonikon as the Egō According to Stoic doctrine, the human soul is a psychic pneuma, mixed with a human body and endowed with aisthēsis and impulse,16 in addition to the properties of the hectic pneuma (coherence) and the natural pneuma (nutrition and

15 See Chrysippus quoted by Galen, PHP, 3.1.17 V 288 K, 170.24 De Lacy (SVF 2.885): οὔτ᾿ αἰσθήσεως ἐκφανοῦς γενομένης. 16 Hierocles, El. moral., 1a.31–3 ed. Bastianini-Long: ἐ[ν]θυμ[ητέο]ν [(ἐστὶν) ὅτι τὸ] ζῷο(ν) [το]ῦ μὴ ζῴου δυο[ῖν] ἔχει δ(ια)φοράν, (αἰ)σθήσει τε κ(αὶ) ὁρμῇ. For Hierocles’ Elements of Ethics, see also now Ramelli and Konstan (2009).

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to Chrysippus, perceiving my emotions in the region of the heart induces the belief that the control-centre of the self is located in one’s heart. Things, however, are not so clear-cut, since there is in fact no clear self-perception of where the command-centre of my soul is located: as Chrysippus explains, this is why there is so much antilogia between philosophers and physicians about the location of the ruling part of the soul.15 Chrysippus mentions the absence of any self-perception as well as the absence of any anatomical evidence. For him, there does not seem to be any first-person subjective experience of oneself. That there is no clear perception or anatomical evidence of the location of the hēgemonikon is a decisive issue since it means that the hēgemonikon does not know or perceive its  own unity in one unique command-centre. If I have no direct evidence (by ­self-perception or anatomy) of the location of my ruling part, then I cannot be sure than my hēgemonikon is a unique and centralized entity, henceforth I cannot be sure that there is no difference between the rational and the irrational parts of the soul (a central Stoic tenet). This does not mean that Chrysippus does not think that it is plausible, to say the least, but this means that I have no clear perception of the unity of my self, and this unity is something I can only infer plausibly. Moreover, as I shall argue, in some passages, the Stoic Hierocles seems to identify self-perception with the perception of my own body and soul, and not with the perception of my sole commanding-faculty. Therefore, at least in Hierocles, self-perception seems to be the experience of the unity of my body and soul in an ensouled body. For Hierocles, things seem to be as follows: my hēgemonikon is what I am, and is located in my heart, but I do not really perceive my hēgemonikon itself as clearly distinct from the rest of my body; rather I perceive myself as the whole of my body and soul, not only as the central ‘I’ of my personality. Therefore, the question I shall discuss in this chapter is the following: how should we understand self-perception in relation to perception of one’s body? Can I perceive myself as distinct from my own body?

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17 [Galen], Intr. s. med., 9, XIV 697.6–8 K (SVF 2.716). 18  Calcidius, 220 (SVF 2.879, LS 53G, their translation). 19 [Plutarch], Plac., 4.21, 903 B (SVF 2.836, LS 53 H, transl. modified). 20 Galen, PHP, 3.1.15 V 288 K., 170.25 De Lacy (SVF 2.885). 21  On the status of εὔλογον and πιθανόν in Chrysippus’ On the soul, see Tieleman (1996), 255–87.

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growth).17 This pneuma or breath pervades the whole body, and is divided into eight parts: the commanding-faculty or hēgemonikon, the five senses (sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch), the semen, and the voice. The commanding-faculty is located in the heart, while the other parts ‘flow from their seat in the heart, as if from the source of a spring, and spread through the whole body. They continually fill all the limbs with vital breath, and rule and control them with countless different powers—nutrition, growth, locomotion, sensation, impulse to action.’18 The senses are parts of breath extending from the commanding-faculty to the cor­res­pond­ing sense organs, for instance ‘sight is breath which extends from the commanding-part to the eyes, hearing is breath extending from the commanding-part to the ears, . . . ’, and they are like messengers bringing messages to the central part of the soul, conveying the information or impressions they receive from the outside (or, in some cases, from the inside).19 The Stoics tend to identify the ‘I’ with this ruling part of the soul, located in the heart. However, to the best of my knowledge, they never say that this is what I perceive, or that I perceive myself as located in my heart. As mentioned above, Chrysippus even asserts the contrary, namely that there is no clear perception of where the command-centre of my soul is located. There is not even any evidence (tekmērion), according to Chrysippus, from which it is possible to deduce syllogistically the location of the soul.20 There is no demonstration of the location of the soul, no more than direct evidence of it. Strictly speaking, this means that one does not know where the command-centre of the soul is located; one may only have ‘plausible’ views (euloga) about it.21 There is no scientific knowledge of it. Not to know where my hēgemonikon is located constitutes in itself an important issue, precisely because knowledge of a bodily soul must proceed through ­perception. If I do not perceive where my true self—namely my hēgemonikon—is, then I do not perceive my true self, since I do not know whether my true self is a part of pneuma located in my head or a part of pneuma located in my heart—and I do not even perceive myself as a pneuma. The ruling part of the soul can perceive its own body and its soul but it cannot perceive itself as the command-centre of the soul. I do not perceive my soul otherwise than through my perceptions, but, as far as the command-centre of my soul is concerned, I do not perceive it anywhere: when I see something, I perceive my eyes as affected by the object they see, but I do not perceive the ruling part of my soul as affected by vision, and therefore I do not perceive what is supposed to be my self. If I do not perceive my own ruling part and if I cannot know where it is, then how could I be sure that I have one and

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Absence of a Clear Perception of the Hēgemonikon  191

22 Galen, PHP, 3.1.16–18 V 289 K, 170, 29–32 (SVF 2.885). 23  Stobaeus, 2.7, vol. 2, 86, 19 (LS 53Q, their translation). See a half-dozen of occurrences in Adler’s SVF 4 p. 156, sv. φορά, §3, some of which are literal quotations from Chrysippus. 24 Galen, PHP 3.1.23 V 290 K, p. 172.17 De Lacy (SVF 2.886): τὸ κοινῇ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις δοκοῦν. 25 Galen, PHP 3.1.22 V 290 K, p. 172.15–16 De Lacy (SVF 2.886): ζητήσομεν παραπλησίως ἀπὸ τῆς κοινῆς ὁρμώμενοι φορᾶς καὶ τῶν κατὰ ταύτην εἰρημένων λόγων (‘We shall next inquire about these matters, starting out in the same way from the common tendency and the expressions that are in accord with it’, De Lacy transl.). 26  See the texts of Galen PHP 1.7 gathered in SVF 2.897. 27  See Galen, PHP 2.5.68–73 V 254–5 K, p. 140.25–142.7 De Lacy (SVF 2.898).

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only one command-centre of my body and soul? And if I do not know that, what do I know of myself? Nonetheless, the Stoics say that the location of the hēgemonikon in the heart is a common feeling and they adduce many pieces of evidence and testimony in favour of this thesis (according to Galen, the second half of Book I of Chrysippus’ On the soul was devoted to such arguments).22 According to Chrysippus, there is a common phora in favour of this location and of this identification of the ‘I’ with this heart-centred hēgemonikon. Phora of course is not knowledge, it is not perception, and it is especially not katalēpsis or aisthēsis as a kind of aisthētikē katalēpsis. Phora is just a kind of common feeling, a kind of instinctive and nat­ural tendency. The Stoics use the word phora in different psychological contexts, and for example define impulse as ‘a movement (phora) of soul towards something’.23 In a slightly different sense, Chrysippus uses phora several times in his On the soul to indicate a koinē phora, by which he means, according to Galen, ‘what appears to all men’.24 This koinē phora tends to persuade all men that the commanding part of their soul is located in their heart. Therefore, it is not through an inner perception that we think that the central part of our soul is located in our heart, it is through an opinion, a belief shared by all men. Things, Chrysippus maintains, are ‘said in accordance with’ this common belief, and the devising of arguments in favour of the location of the soul in the heart must start from this common belief and its expression.25 Of course, Chrysippus did not ignore the fact that many men (including prominent philosophers and phys­icians) believed that the command-centre of our soul is located in the head. I suggest that what he meant is rather that, despite the natural tendency common to all men (a tendency which gives birth to the so-called phusikai ennoiai), many men tend to disregard this natural tendency and are persuaded of the contrary by false reasonings, based for instance on anatomy, since anatomy seems to prove that the nervous system is head-centred and that the head is the seat of the commanding-faculty. However, according to Chrysippus, anatomy was inconclusive and he stuck to Praxagoras’s conclusions rather than to Herophilus’ more recent discoveries.26 Furthermore, Chrysippus argued that, even if the head is the source of the nerves, it does not follow that the head is the location of the commanding part of the soul, since, for instance, language comes from the chest.27

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I think that people in general come to the view that our commanding-faculty is in the heart through their awareness, as it were, of the passions that affect the mind happening to them in the chest and especially in the region where the heart is placed. This is so particularly in the case of distress, fear, anger, and above all, excitement.28

Hence, even if we do not have a direct perception of our hēgemonikon as located in the heart, the common opinion we all naturally develop (though we may come to adopt a different position) is directly based on the perception of our emotions as happening in the chest and involving physical symptoms in the heart. Of course, Chrysippus has many arguments to support this view.29 But, these are, in his opinion, philosophical arguments to support the Stoic view, and they do not constitute the origin of the ‘common’ belief about the location of the commandingpart—sometimes, these argument are merely arguments to prove that this is what most men believe, despite the appearances. However what really explains that we naturally have the feeling that our commanding part is located in the heart is the perception we have of the inner symptoms of the emotions. One may say that Chrysippus begs the question, since he presupposes that the centre of our emotions is also the centre of our rationality—and this, of course, is a debatable piece of Stoic doctrine, not a self-evident truth. It is true that at this point Chrysippus begs the question, but he argues for it elsewhere,30 and, more im­port­ant­ly, this is not the point. For the point is not the validity of the argument, but how we naturally come to form such an opinion. And what Chrysippus asserts is that this common belief is induced by the awareness of our emotions in the region of the heart. Chrysippus identifies this command-centre of the soul with the self, or more precisely with my self, with me. This is asserted or rather presupposed by him in two 28  Chrysippus, quoted by Galen, PHP 3.1.25 V 290–1 K, 172.20–6 De Lacy (SVF 2.886, LS 65 H, their translation): Κοινῇ δέ μοι δοκοῦσιν οἱ πολλοὶ φέρεσθαι ἐπὶ τοῦτο ὡσανεὶ συναισθανόμενοι περὶ τὸν θώρακα αὑτοῖς τῶν κατὰ τὴν διάνοιαν παθῶν γιγνομένων καὶ μάλιστα καθ᾿ ὃν ἡ καρδία τέτακται τόπον, οἷον μάλιστα ἐπὶ τῶν λυπῶν καὶ τῶν φόβων καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς ὀργῆς καὶ μάλιστα τοῦ θυμοῦ. 29  There are, basically seven series of argument: (1) common language expressions; (2) testimonies from the poets; (3) etymological arguments; (4) arguments from the heart as the source of psychic faculties; (5) arguments from the heart as the centre of the passions; (6) language and thought ori­gin­ at­ing from the same source, the heart; (7) rationality and impulsivity located in the same place, as the poets show. See the reconstruction in Gourinat (2005) 567–71. 30  See Galen, PHP 3.7.1–4 V 335–6 K., p. 212.5–18 De Lacy (SVF 2.900). More generally, as is rather well known, it is argued by the Stoics that the emotions do not arise in an irrational part of the soul, but in the siege of reason. See Cicero, Ac. Post. I.39 and Galen, PHP 3.7.11 V 337–8 K. p. 214–10 De Lacy (SVF 2.900); PHP 5.1.4 V 429 K., p. 292, 16–20 De Lacy (SVF 3.461).

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Now, what is this ‘common tendency’ based on? It seems to derive from ­ erception, since, according to Chrysippus, this common tendency originates p from the ‘awareness’ (sunaisthēsis) of the emotions as occurring in the chest and more specifically in the heart:

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Absence of a Clear Perception of the Hēgemonikon  193

We say egō too in this way, pointing to ourselves at the place in which we declare thought to be, since the demonstrative reference is conveyed there naturally and appropriately. And even without such demonstrative reference by the hand, we incline into ourselves when we say egō, since the word egō is just like this, and it is pronounced with the demonstrative reference next described. For we utter the first syllable of egō by letting the lower lip move down into ourselves demonstratively, and the second syllable is connected accordingly with the chin’s movement and inclination towards the chest and this kind of demonstrative reference; and it indicates nothing distant, as happens in the case of ekeinos [‘that one’].32

This argument, adduced repeatedly by Chrysippus, may seem odd, but all the same it is our best piece of evidence that Chrysippus presupposed that I am my ruling part. This passage used to belong to the second part of the first Book of On the soul, which included all the arguments in favour of the location of the ruling part of the soul in the heart. It followed an argument establishing that thought and voice have the same source. This is still one of the arguments based on ‘things said in accordance with the common beliefs’ at the beginning of this part of Book 1. Therefore, the etymology of egō is supposed to be due to what men basically feel. We feel that the central part of our soul is located in our chest and, when we want to designate ourselves, the sound we pronounce is in fact a gesture of the mouth, the lower lip and the chin, indicating that we naturally think that our self is located in the region of the chest. The utterance of ‘egō’ is a kind of gesture, comparable to the movement of the hand with which I point to myself.33 Contrary to the argument from the inner feeling of the emotions, the argument from the utterance of the word egō does not seem to be directly connected with an inner feeling of something happening in the region of the heart, but, given the immediate context, it is more probably connected with the obvious feeling (ekphanōs) that 31 Galen, PHP 3.5.24–6 V 327–8 K, 206.4–11 De Lacy (SVF 2.884). 32 Galen, PHP 2.2.10–11 V 215 K, 104.29–106.6 De Lacy (SVF 2.895, LS 34J, their translation): Οὕτως δὲ καὶ τὸ ἐγὼ λέγομεν, κατὰ τοῦτο δεικνύντες ἑαυτοὺς ἐν ᾧ φαίνεσθαι διάνοιαν εἶναι, τῆς δείξεως φυσικῶς καὶ οἰκείως ἐνταῦθα φερομένης· καὶ ἄνευ δὲ τῆς κατὰ τὴν χεῖρα τοιαύτης δείξεως νεύοντες εἰς αὑτοὺς τὸ ἐγὼ λέγομεν, εὐθὺς καὶ τῆς ἐγὼ φωνῆς τοιαύτης οὔσης καὶ κατὰ τὴν ἑξῆς ὑπογεγραμμένην δεῖξιν συνεκφερομένης. τὸ γὰρ ἐγὼ προφερόμεθα κατὰ τὴν πρώτην συλλαβὴν κατασπῶντες τὸ κάτω χεῖλος εἰς αὑτοὺς δεικτικῶς· ἀκολούθως δὲ τῇ τοῦ γενείου κινήσει καὶ ἐπὶ τὸ στῆθος νεύσει καὶ τῇ τοιαύτῃ δείξει ἡ ἑξῆς συλλαβὴ παράκειται οὐδὲν ἀποστηματικὸν παρενσημαίνουσα, ὅπερ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἐκεῖνος συντέτευχεν. 33  Galen, 3.5.25 V 328 K, 206.6 De Lacy (SVF 2.884).

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passages quoted by Galen, where he adduces the pronunciation of the fi ­ rst-person pronoun ‘egō’ as an argument in favour of the location of the hēgemonikon in the heart. According to Galen, Chrysippus used this argument twice, in his Etymologies and in the first Book of his On the soul.31 In one of the passages, Galen gives a literal quotation from On the soul:

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2.  Self-Perception as Perception of Body and Soul As a consequence of the lack of self-perception of the ruling part of my soul, selfperception is in fact perception of my whole body and soul. This is abundantly clear from several passages from the fragmentary remains of the papyrus known as the Elements of Ethics, by Hierocles, a Stoic philosopher, presumably to be dated around the second century ad.36 What remains of Hierocles’ book, i.e. around 300 lines of Greek papyrus, is what seems to be a rather orthodox 34 Galen, PHP, 2.5.19 V 243 K, 130.31–3 De Lacy (SVF 2.894): ταῦτα δὲ ἐκφανῶς περὶ τὴν καρδίαν γίγνεται, ἐκ τῆς καρδίας διὰ φάρυγγος καὶ τῆς φωνῆς καὶ τοῦ λόγου ἐκπεμπομένων. 35 Galen, PHP, 2.5.15–16 V 243 K 130.24–5 (SVF 2.894): εὔλογον δέ, εἰς ὃ γίγνονται αἱ ἐν τούτῳ σημασίαι, καὶ ἐξ οὗ ὁ λόγος, ἐκεῖνο εἶναι τὸ κυριεῦον τῆς ψυχῆς μέρος (‘it is reasonable that that to which the meanings in this go and out of which discourse comes is the sovereign part of the soul’, De Lacy transl.), and later, 2.5.20, 130.33–132.2 De Lacy: πιθανὸν δὲ καὶ ἄλλως, εἰς ὃ ἐνσημαίνεται τὰ λεγόμενα, καὶ σημαίνεσθαι ἐκεῖθεν, καὶ τὰς φωνὰς ἀπ᾿ ἐκείνου γίγνεσθαι κατὰ τὸν προειρημένον τρόπον (‘and it is credible besides that utterances should receive their meaning from the place to which they convey meaning and that words should come from there in the manner described’, De Lacy transl.). 36  See Goulet (2000). On Hierocles’ identity see Ramelli and Konstan (2009), xix–xxvi.

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language originates in the region of the heart and comes through the windpipe from the chest,34 combined with the probable argument (pithanon, eulogon) that the meaning of the words is imprinted by our thought at the place where thought takes place.35 Therefore, once again, we do not have a direct feeling of the central part of ourselves as located in our heart, but we have some evidence of where language comes from, combined with a probable argument. In the passage quoted by Galen, Chrysippus does not say whether this evidence is an inner perception or relies on anatomical evidence, but it is probably supposed to be both. In any case, the fact is that we do not have a self-perception of the ruling part of ourselves, and the result is that we do not have a certain and infallible knowledge of its location. What we have is the perception of language originating in the chest and a reasonable inference from that perception to the thought that the centre of rationality must be located at the very place where language originates. To sum up, it seems pretty clear that we do not have an inner perception of the centre of our soul and rationality. What we have is an inner feeling (supported by anatomy) that emotions and language take place or originate in the chest, and more precisely in the region of the heart. From this we have both a natural tendency to believe that the command-centre of ourselves is located in our heart, and reasonable arguments that it must be so. However, we do not have a firm knowledge of it, no more than direct evidence from perception. Therefore, it is not surprising that, despite what seems to be the truth (according to Chrysippus ­ at­ural and the Stoics), philosophers and physicians are not in agreement with the n tendency of men, no more than they are with each other.

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Self-Perception as Perception of Body and Soul  195

37  See the synopsis of Hierocles’ Elements of Ethics in Long (1996), 262–3. 38  Plutarch, SR, 12, 1038C (SVF 1.197, SVF 2.724). 39  See Diogenes Laertius 7.85–6 (SVF 3.178, LS 57A). 40  Diogenes Laertius 7.85 (SVF 3.178, LS 57 A): Χρύσιππος ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ Περὶ τελῶν, πρῶτον οἰκεῖον λέγων εἶναι παντὶ ζῴῳ τὴν αὑτοῦ σύστασιν καὶ τὴν ταύτης συνείδησιν. 41  The same remarks hold of Porphyry, De abstinentia, 3.19 (SVF 1.197), who uses αἰσθάνεσθαι, a rather neutral verb, but this may well be Porphyry’s vocabulary, as Arnim points out ad loc. 42  See Brunschwig (1986) 137, and Long (1996) 258–60. Loss of proprioception takes place when you do not know where your own body is or that it is yours. See more on that later (p. 197–198 below).

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ex­pos­ition of the Stoic theory of oikeiōsis, designed as introductory remarks on ethics37—a rather frequent practice in Stoic expositions on ethics, as is apparent in Cicero and Diogenes Laertius. As Hierocles argues, ‘we say that the exposition of the prōton oikeion [the first appropriate thing] is the best starting-point for elementary ethics’ (1.35–37). According to Plutarch’s definition, oikeiōsis ‘is clearly aisthēsis and awareness (antilēpsis) of what is proper to us’.38 This may be a questionable definition, since oikeiōsis seems to be an impulse rather than a sense-perception,39 but it is clear that self-perception of myself and of what is appropriate to me are closely connected to appropriation itself. According to Diogenes Laertius, Chrysippus said that ‘the first thing appropriate to every animal is its own constitution and the consciousness of it’.40 Chrysippus here uses a rather uncommon word, suneidēsis, literally ‘self-knowledge’ or ‘consciousness’. This is a word unknown to Plato or Aristotle, but it will be widely used among the Church Fathers because of its employment in the New Testament. Chrysippus does not actually speak here of self-awareness, but rather of the animal’s awareness of its own constitution (sustasis). According to him, animals have a natural tendency to preserve themselves, since they naturally perceive their own body, along with the way it is constituted, i.e. the location of the different parts and organs of their body and their function. In the context of Diogenes Laertius and of his Chrysippean source, the use of the verb sunistanai a few lines below shows that the word plainly means ‘the way nature has constituted the animal’. The word suneidēsis, used by Chrysippus to describe the perception by the animal of its own constitution, has a stronger meaning than the word aisthēsis, which one may find for example in Plutarch:41 it is not only sense-perception (aisthēsis), it is a little more than that. I suggest, then, that –eidesis presumably involves the awareness of what these parts and organs are, how they must be used, and what their usefulness is, while sun– implies (as will be apparent from Hierocles) that this awareness goes along with the perception of the outside world. Therefore, what we have here is perception of my own body along with the awareness of what the parts of my body are, and how they function, in addition to the perception of the external world: in other words, we have a clear awareness of what is properly mine, as opposed to what is not and stands outside myself. This, as has been frequently emphasized, for instance by Jacques Brunschwig or Tony Long,42 is proprioception as opposed to exteroception, or

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There happens an awareness (antilēpsis) both of all the body’s parts and of the soul’s. This is equivalent to the animal’s perceiving itself.46

Note here that Hierocles uses the word antilēpsis, a word that is also used by Plutarch when he gives a definition of Stoic oikeiōsis—therefore it is clearly a technical word. More importantly, note that such a definition of self-perception is explicitly based on the fact that, for the Stoics, an animal is a compound of body and soul.47 However, one could say that, since this description fits for all animals, not only for human beings, it is more general than a description of human self-knowledge or self-perception. What Hierocles describes is the animal’s self-perception, not self-perception by a human being. Hence, it could be the case that self-perception by the animal is perception of its body and soul, but that self-perception by a human being is perception of his/her own egō, as something different or less extensive than his/her body and soul. Therefore, the Stoics could have thought 43  See Hierocles, El. moral., 1.38. 44 Hierocles, El. moral., 7.48–50: φ(αί)[νετ(αι) τὸ ζῷ(ον) ἅμα τ]ῇ γενέσει (αἰ)σθά[νε]σθ(αί) τε αὑτ[οῦ] κ[(αὶ)] ο[ἰκειο]ῦ[σ]θ(αι) ἑαυτῷ κ(αὶ) τῇ ἑ[αυ]το[ῦ] συστάσ[ει]. 45  Long (1996), 254. 46 Hierocles, El. moral., 4.51–3 (LS 53B): ἀντίληψιν γίνεσθ(αι) μερῶ(ν) ἁπά[ν]τ(ων) τ(ῶν) τ[ε τ]οῦ σώματος κ(αὶ) τ(ῶν) τ(ῆς) ψυχ(ῆς)· τοῦτ[ο] δ(έ) (ἐστιν) [ἴσ]ον τῷ τὸ [ζῷ(ον) (αἰ)]σθάνεσθ(αι) ἑαυτοῦ. 47  See Hierocles, 4.38–9: γένος οὐδ(ὲ)ν ἕτερ[όν] (ἐστὶ) τ[ὸ] ζ[ῷ(ον)] ἢ [τὸ] σ(ύν)θετον ἐκ σώματος [κ(αὶ)] ψυχ(ῆς) (‘the animal is no other in genre than a compound of body and soul’).

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rather proprioception alongside exteroception, rather than self-perception strictly speaking. It is, in any case, highly significant and highly original, that, in Stoic ethics, the first argument is based on self-perception and on the animal’s instinct of self-preservation and its ‘appropriation’ resulting from self-perception. However, Chrysippus himself does not seem to speak literally of ‘self-perception’: he only mentions the ‘awareness of one’s constitution’. It is Hierocles who frequently speaks of ‘self-perception’ and says several times that every animal perceives itself continuously from the time of its birth.43 He says that the animal not only has perception of its own constitution, but also of itself: ‘the animal, from the time of its birth, has perception of itself (aisthanetai hautou) and appropriates itself to itself as well as to its constitution (sustasei)’.44 The reason why self-perception was central to the topic of oikeiōsis for the Stoics is summed up by Tony Long: ‘it was a Stoic datum [. . . ] that the self-love denoted by an animal’s primary oikeiōsis implies and requires self-perception. We may restate this point by saying that an animal could not have an affective attitude towards itself unless it was aware of itself as something to be concerned about’.45 In order to argue in favour of an animal’s oikeiōsis to itself as the animal’s primary impulse, Hierocles argues that an animal has perception of itself as its primary perception. But what is perception of itself by the animal? It is perception of the parts of its body and soul:

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Self-Perception as Perception of Body and Soul  197

48  See Seneca, Ep. 121.12, quoted below: ‘we know that we have a soul, but we do not know the essence, the place, the quality or the source of the soul’. 49  Note that Seneca, Ep. 121.14 mentions that the human constitution differs from the animal’s constitution in being reasonable, but he does not indicate any specificity of human/rational senseperception. However, as John Sellars pointed out in his response, ‘one thing that rational humans do that non-rational animals do not do according to the Stoics is subject their impressions to scrutiny before making acts of assent’, and this certainly involved a difference in the way a human being perceives himself.

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that the animal perceives itself as body and soul, but that, when it comes to human beings, self-knowledge is the knowledge of one’s soul, not the knowledge of one’s body and soul, and that the same goes for self-perception. In other words, we could have something like the argument of the Alcibiades according to which man is what rules the body, so that knowledge of one’s body is knowledge of something of oneself, not of oneself. Therefore, in the case of human beings, selfperception could be perception of one’s ruling part of the soul by itself. But could it be so? To the best of my knowledge, there is no evidence in favour of that possibility. We, as animals, perceive that we have a soul, but it is never said that I perceive or know myself as the ruling part of my soul, though this is what I am. As we have seen, there is no clear perception of where the ruling part of a human being is, from which it follows that we do not perceive the nature and position of our soul.48 From the lack of perception of the position and nature of my soul, it follows that the soul does not fully perceive itself, but that man has a rather confused perception of his soul. To be sure, the ruling part of the soul also has a certain awareness of its own faculties, and reason knows its own capacities, but there is no clear perception of the unity and location of my soul. Except emotions, which seem to be clearly perceived in the heart, all the other activities of the soul are perceived as taking place in the sense organs: sight is in the eyes, taste is in the tongue, etc. Thought itself is supposed to be a corporeal process, but it is not perceived as taking place in a precise place of the body, in particular not in the heart. The Stoics are convinced that emotions are rational, and that emotions and reason are located in the same part of the body and soul compound, but they acknowledge that we do not have any inner experience of thought happening in the heart as a physical process of the pneuma. I do not experience myself as a portion of breath contained in the region of the heart. Therefore, it must be the case for human beings as well as for every animal that when a human being perceives himself, namely all the time, he perceives his own body and soul, and he can never perceive one independently of the other.49 However, one should note that self-perception here is not perception of the self, as if there was something like ‘the self ’ for the Stoics: rather, self-perception is plainly self-perception or perception of the animal by itself. If there is something like ‘the self ’, it’s rather the egō or the ruling part of the animal, but this part of a human being has no faculty to perceive itself as a separate part of that human being. And this obviously is not a surprise, since body and soul are intermingled

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50  Long (1996), 258. While we were discussing by e-mail my topic for the colloquium in 2009, Bob Sharples wrote to me that he had such an experience when he had a stroke and not only ‘lost use of [his] left leg completely for a week, but also, for the same period, any awareness of where it was’. 51 Hierocles, El. moral., 1.42–6: οὕ(τω) γ(ὰρ) αὖ βραδε[ῖς] κ(αὶ) πόρρω συν[έ]σεω[ς] ἔνιοι τυγχάνουσιν ὥ[σ]τε κ(αὶ) τ(οῖς) ὅλοις ἀπ[ι]στεῖν εἰ τὸ ζῷο(ν) (αἰ)σθάνετ(αι) ἑαυτοῦ. δοκοῦσι γ(ὰρ) τ(ὴν) (αἴ)σ[θ]ησιν ὑπὸ τ(ῆς) φύσεως αὐτῷ δ[ε]δόσθ(αι) πρ(ὸς) τ(ὴν) τ(ῶν) ἐκτὸς [ἀ]ντίλη[ψιν], οὐκέ[τι δ(ὲ) κ(αὶ)] πρ(ὸς) τ[ὴν] ἑαυτοῦ (‘for there are some persons so slow and far from any understanding as to disbelieve utterly that an animal perceives itself. For they believe that perception is given to animals by nature for apprehending external objects and not for apprehending oneself as well’, Ramelli and Konstan transl.). This group of adversaries, according to Long and Bastianini (1992) 390–1, may be some Peripatetics, presumably those mentioned by Stobaeus 2.7.13–26, 116.19–152.25. See Ramelli and Konstan (2009), 40–1. As Long and Bastianini (1992), 390–1 point out, this group is distinct from a group of adversaries previously mentioned by Hierocles, who believe that self-perception begins only after birth, while Hierocles believes it begins at the very moment of birth. This first group of adversaries may be identified with Antiochus of Ascalon, but this needs not to concern us here. 52 Hierocles, El. moral., 1.47: τοὺς οὕ(τως) ἀ[(πο)ρο(ῦν)τας ὅπως τ]οιο[ῦτ᾿] ἂ[ν] γένοιτο. 53  Namely, when we experience pain, but it could even be argued, as was suggested to me by John Sellars, that ‘we do all experience our senses themselves along with whatever information they are carrying. I feel my eyes straining, hear my ears crackling, and notice my arm aching as I push against something’. 54  Another argument against Hierocles’ arguments on self-perception might be that the animal does not perceive itself since it is the soul that perceives the body, and not the animal as body and soul that perceives its body and soul. This point has been argued recently by Kühn (2009), 395–7 who accuses Hierocles of ‘paralogism’ and chastises Long for not having been able to identify Hierocles’ alleged paralogism. Unfortunately, it is Kühn himself who simply misses the point, and does not understand that, because of the complete blending of body and soul (mentioned in 396 n.2), the whole of the body is mixed with the soul. (On the blending of body and soul, see Alexander, de Mixtione, 4, 217.32–6 Bruns (SVF 2.473 = LS 48 C 10) and Stobaeus, I.17, p. 153.19–21 ed. Wachsmuth (SVF

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and cannot be separated, except by death. If I was experiencing myself separately from my own body, it would just mean that I am dead—or at least that I am not in good health and do not have normal perceptions: one can think of the cases of the loss of proprioception such as those described by Tony Long, who mentions the case of a young woman ‘who, as a result of a spinal lesion, lost all control of her body’ and ‘had lost the capacity to feel her body as something that belonged to her’.50 Let us take a closer look at Hierocles’ arguments. According to Hierocles, an animal may be said to perceive itself if it perceives both its own soul and its whole body. And this is perfectly sound, since an animal is a compound of body and soul. The problem is that, in fact, it is not at all evident that we perceive our own soul or even our own body. Quite the contrary: Hierocles had to oppose some adversaries of the Stoics who denied self-perception,51 or, at least, ‘had difficulties concerning the way such a thing may happen’, so that it was not evident at all to those adversaries that we perceive our own soul or body.52 According to these (presumably) Peripatetic opponents, perception only perceives external objects. This position may seem to involve a strange argument, since it may be considered rather obvious that we perceive our own body and senses by perceiving external objects and that we perceive our own body at least occasionally,53 but the point of the opponents seems to be that we just perceive external objects through our senses without perceiving ourselves by the same token.54 To answer these objections,

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Self-Perception as Perception of Body and Soul  199 Hierocles adduces two arguments in favour of self-perception, but, at first sight, both are in favour of the animal perceiving its own body, not its own soul:

Therefore the first proof of every animal’s perceiving itself is its consciousness of its parts and the functions for which they were given. The second proof is the fact that animals are not unaware of their equipment for self-defence. When bulls do battle with other bulls or animals of different species, they stick out their horns, as if these were their congenital weapons for the encounter. Every other creature has the same disposition relative to its appropriate and, so to speak, congenital weapons.56

Hierocles here has two arguments in favour of the animal’s self-perception, namely the fact that the animal perceives its own body, and the fact that it perceives the usefulness of the parts of its own body for self-defence. At first sight, both arguments tend to show that the animal perceives its own body, not that it perceives its body and soul. The point, however, is that, when an animal perceives itself in such a way, it perceives that it has an animated and ensouled body, since Hierocles says that we not only perceive that we have ears and eyes, but we also perceive their function and their functioning, that is, we perceive that our ears and eyes are perceptive organs functioning in such and such a way. What Chrysippus and Hierocles say is that what we perceive is our sustasis or constitution. In particular, animals have a specific kind of constitution, a mixture of body and soul, consisting in the ‘ruling part of the soul disposed in a certain way to

2.471)). It could only be argued that since some parts of the body are devoid of sensibility (like the nails and hairs), they are perceived by contiguity, not by blending. However, I am not sure this is not a negligible issue, and, in any case, this is not what Kühn argues. 55 Hierocles, El. moral., 1.51–8 (LS 57 C, their translation, completed): Τὰ ζ(ῷα) πρῶτον μ(ὲν) μερ(ῶν) τ(ῶν) ἰδίω[(ν)] (αἰ)[σ]θάνετ(αι) [. . . ] καὶ [ὅ]τι ἔχε[ι] κ(αὶ) πρ(ὸς) ἣν ἔ[χ]ει [χ]ρείαν, ἡμεῖς τε αὐτοὶ ὀφθ(αλ)μ(ῶν) κ(αὶ) [ὤ]τ(ων) κ(αὶ) [τ](ῶν) ἄλ̣[λ(ων)]. τῇδ(ε) γο(ῦν) κἀπειδὰν μ(ὲν) ἰδεῖν ἐθέλωμ(έν) τι, τοὺς ὀφ[θ(αλμοὺς) ἐ]ντείνομ(εν) ὡς ἐ(πὶ) τὸ ὁρατόν, οὐχὶ δ(ὲ) τὰ ὦτα, κἀπειδὰν ἀκοῦσ(αι), τὰ ὦτα π(αρα)βάλλομ(εν) κ(αὶ) οὐ[χὶ] τοὺς ὀφθ(αλμούς). 56 Hierocles, El. moral., 2.1–9 (LS 57 C, their translation): Διὸ πρώτη πίστις το[ῦ] (αἰ)σθάνεσθ(αι) τὸ ζ(ῷον) ἅπαν ἑαυτοῦ ἡ τ(ῶν) μερ(ῶν) κ(αὶ) τ(ῶν) ἔργ(ων), ὑπὲρ ὧ(ν) ἐδόθη τὰ μέρη, συν(αί)σθησις· δ(ε)υτέρα δὲ ὅτι οὐδ(ὲ) τ(ῶν) πρ(ὸς) ἄμυναν π(αρα)σκευασθέν(των) αὐτοῖς ἀν(αι)σθήτως δ(ιά)κειτ(αι). κ(αὶ) γ(ὰρ) ταῦροι μ(ὲν) εἰς μάχην κ(αθ)ιστάμ(εν)οι ταύροις ἑτέροις ἢ κ(αί) τισιν ἑτερογενέσι ζῴ(οις) τὰ κέρατα προΐσχοντ(αι), κ(αθά)περ ὅπλα συμφυᾶ πρ(ὸς) τ(ὴν) ἀντίταξιν. οὕ(τω) δ᾿ (ἔ)χει κ(αὶ) τ(ῶν) λοιπ(ῶν) ἕκαστον πρ(ὸς) τὸ οἰκεῖον κ(αί), ἵν᾿ οὕ(τως) εἴπω, συμφυὲς ὅπλον.

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The first thing that animals perceive is their own parts. . . both that they have them and for what purpose they have them, and we ourselves perceive our eyes and our ears and the rest. So whenever we want to see something, we strain our eyes, but not our ears, towards the visible object, and when we want to hear something, we tend the ears and not the eyes.55

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The child of whom we were speaking does not know what ‘constitution’ is, but he knows his own constitution. He does not know what an animal is, but he ­perceives (sentit) that he is an animal. Moreover, that very constitution of his own he only understands confusedly, cursorily, and darkly. We also know that we have a soul, but we do not know the essence, the place, the quality or the source of the soul. Such is the perception (sensus) of the soul which we possess, ig­nor­ant as we are of its nature and position. Even so animals have a perception (sensus) of their own constitution. For they must necessarily perceive this, because it is the same agency by which they perceive other things too; they must have a perception of the principle which they obey and by which they are controlled. Every one of us understands that there is something which moves his impulses, although he does not know what it is. And everyone knows that he has some primary impulse, even though he does not know what it is and where it comes from. Thus even children and animals have a perception of their ruling prin­ciple, even though it is not clearly outlined or expressed.58

This text completes and confirms what we have already found in Chrysipppus and Hierocles: we do not know what our soul is or where it is, but we perceive that 57 Seneca, Ep., 121.10 (SVF 2.184): constitutio est, ut vos dicitis, principale animi quodam modo se habens erga corpus. 58 Seneca, Ep. 121.11–13, Gummere transl. modified: Itaque infans ille quid sit constitutio non nouit, constitutionem suam nouit; et quid sit animal nescit, animal esse se sentit. (12) Praeter ea ipsam constitutionem suam crasse intellegit et summatim et obscure. Nos quoque animum habere nos scimus: quid sit animus, ubi sit, qualis sit aut unde nescimus. Qualis ad nos (peruenerit) animi nostri sensus, quamuis naturam eius ignoremus ac sedem, talis ad omnia animalia constitutionis suae sensus est. Necesse est enim id sentiant per quod alia quoque sentiunt; necesse est eius sensum habeant cui parent, a quo reguntur. (13) Nemo nonex nobis intellegit esse aliquid quod impetus suos moueat: quid sit illud ignorat. Et conatum sibi esse scit: quis sit aut unde sit nescit. Sic infantibus quoque animalibusque principalis partis suae sensus est non satis dilucidus nec expressus.

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body’, according to the definition given by Seneca.57 Despite the fact that Seneca says that it is a definition (finitio) of ‘constitution’, this is just a description of what the constitution of an animal is. Obviously, this description of an animal’s constitution combined with the description of the animal’s perception of the function and functioning of its own parts entails the view that when we perceive the parts of our body as functioning either for perception or for bodily movements ruled by impulse, we perceive our own body as the body of a living being, i.e. as a body mixed with and ruled by a soul, since perception and impulse are specific properties of soul. This, I take it, is the meaning of Hierocles’ initial claim, when he maintains that ‘we must bear in mind that every animal differs from the non-animal in two respects, sensation and impulse’ (1.31–33): if we perceive the parts of our body as designed for perception and impulse, then we perceive the parts of our body as the parts of an ensouled body. This seems to me to be pretty clear in Seneca’s parallel argument:

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59  Compare Diogenes Laertius 7.86 (SVF 3178) with Philo, Leg. Alleg., 2.22 (SVF 2.458) and Galen, Adv. Iul., 5, 48.18 Wenkebach [266 K.] (SVF 2.718). 60  Note that Hierocles, El. moral., 4.10 unexpectedly uses the expression ‘complete juxtaposition’ (δι᾿ ὅλ(ων) π(αρά)θεσις), though one expects that he should speak of κρᾶσις δι᾿ ὅλων, as he does in 4.6, where he says that the soul ‘is completely mixed’ (σ(υγ)κέκρατ(αι) κ[(ατὰ)] πᾶν). 61 Hierocles, El. moral., 4.60–5.7. It is important to stress that in this passage, Hierocles uses the first-person plural: ‘in winter [. . . ], even if we happen to be immerged in a deepest sleep, we draw our blankets and we cover what is cold’ (π(ερὶ) χειμῶνος [. . . ] εἰ κ(αὶ) βαθυτάτῳ πεπιε[σ]μ(έν)οι τύχοιμ(εν) [ὕπ]νῳ, ὅμ[ω]ς ἐφελκόμεθα τὰ ἐνεύ[ν(αι)]α κ(αὶ) π(ερι)σκέπο(εν) τὰ ψ[υ]χόμενα). 62  Long (1996), 260.

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we have a soul, and we perceive that we have a ruling part, which is responsible for our impressions and our impulses. Therefore, we have, in the end, a perception of our hēgemonikon, but not independently from our body. Conversely, we have a perception of our body, but not independently from our soul: we do not perceive our body as a body exterior to our own mind, but as an ensouled part of ourselves. We are composed of a body and a soul, and what we perceive constantly is not a  body and a soul, it is a mixture of both, i.e. an ensouled body. This is why Hierocles says that we constantly perceive ourselves: we constantly perceive ­ourselves as a body mixed with a soul and ruled by it, because this is what we are. And, in the end, this is the reason why we cannot perceive our own soul as located in the heart—because, even if our ruling part is located in the heart, it is the whole of our body that is sentient. Except, of course, in the case of bones, nails and hair (ruled respectively by hexis and phusis, not by our soul),59 there is not a single part of our body which is devoid of perception, because the entirety of our body is ensouled and animated. There is a complete mixture of our body and soul,60 and this is why every affection of the soul affects the body and every affection of the body affects the soul (4.10–11). Furthermore, argues Hierocles, this self-perception is continuous: it never stops even during sleep, as may appear from the fact that, in winter, when we sleep, we (human beings) draw our blanket to protect the parts of our body from cold.61 As Long rightly remarks, ‘waking consciousness, then, or focusing on something, is not necessary to self-perception’.62 Self-perception, therefore, does not involve first-person consciousness. But this is not to say that self-perception is only inferred from the observation of animal behaviour. Rather, Hierocles argues in favour of animal self-perception by analysing animal behaviour from the outside, as it were, and by combining it with first-person plural experience of human beings, which does not refer to a conscious state of being. Self-perception is not self-consciousness, it is in a way something more primitive, and of which we are not necessarily aware. To sum up, self-perception, for an animal or a human being, is perception of itself as an animal, that is as a complete mixture of body and soul, ruled by soul. Neither the animal nor the human being may have any clear self-perception or any knowledge of where the ruling part of its soul is, but he nevertheless clearly perceives that he has a ruling part, to which his whole body obeys. It is precisely

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3.  The Ruling Part and the Parts of the Body in Self-Perception Early on in his second treatise in the chronological order (Enneads 4.7), in an effort to defend the soul’s immortality and its incorporeality, Plotinus mounts a bold attack on the Stoic theory of the soul. Part of his attack is directed against the Stoic theory of perception, the relationship between the ruling part of the soul and its parts, and especially against the theory of self-perception as involved in pain. Now, although it is true that Plotinus never mentions self-perception, it is nonetheless clear that it is what he has in mind here.63 It is also true that he never mentions the Stoics explicitly. But he never explicitly mentions them in any of his treatises, although it is absolutely evident, as is shown in the fragments of von Arnim and in Graeser’s classic book, that he refers to them on many occasions.64 In fact, von Arnim has only selected fragments from five treatises, and, apart from the first treatise on the genres of being (Enneads VI.1), no other treatise is as frequently selected as a source of Stoic thought by Arnim than 4.7 [2].65 Indeed 4.7 includes many ‘Stoic’ tenets on which, in many cases, Plotinus is our only witness, as, for example, the assertion in Chapter 4 that the soul is a pōs echon ­pneuma.66 This is presumably perfectly correct, but, strangely enough, it is the sole testimony we have.67 In Chapter 6, Plotinus initiates his attack on the Stoic theory of perception, involving an imprint (tupos) comparable to the imprint of seal-rings on wax:68 the passage is not in the SVF. It is striking that Plotinus’ attack uses some arguments we know to have been those of Chrysippus against Cleanthes’ literal interpretation of what Chrysippus thought to be Zeno’s metaphor: ‘if the impressions persist, Plotinus says, either it will not be possible for others to be imprinted because the first ones will prevent them, so that there will 63  See the arguments of Koch (2009), 99–100 on the similar issue of the relation between the theory of pain and knowledge. 64  Graeser (1972). 65  See Adler’s index in SVF 4, 209. Note also that Eusebius, E.  P. 15.22 excerpted the treatise at length as part of his attack against the Stoics. 66  Plotinus, 4.7 [2], 4.12–13 (SVF 2.443). 67  With the exception of a fragment of Porphyry preserved by Eusebius, P. E., 15.11.4 (Porphyry, F 249 Smith), probably dependent on Plotinus. On this Plotinian passage see Longo (2009), 126–7 n.19. 68 Plotinus, 4.7 [2], 6. 37–40: οὐκ ἂν ἄλλον τρόπον γένοιτο τὸ αἰσθάνεσθαι ἢ οἷον ἐν κηρῷ ἐνσημανθεῖσαι ἀπὸ δακτυλίων σφραγῖδες (‘perception could not occur in any other way than that in which seal-impressions are imprinted in the wax from seal-rings’, Armstrong transl.).

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because every part of his body is sentient that a man cannot perceive where his ruling part is. For him to perceive his ruling part independently of his own body, it would have to be the case that he could no longer feel the rest of his body, or at least that the rest of his body should be disconnected from its ruling part. This brings us to a final question: what is the relationship between the ruling part and the parts of the body in self-perception?

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When a man is said to have a pain in his toe, the damage is presumably in the region of the toe, but they will obviously agree that the perception of pain takes place in the region of the ruling principle. Well then, though the breath is different from the suffering part, the ruling principle perceives that it is affected, and the whole soul is affected in the same way. How then does this happen? They will assert that it is by transmission: first of all the soul-breath in the region of the toe is affected, and passes the affection to the part situated next to it, and this to another, until it arrives at the ruling principle.72

This description clearly reproduces Stoic doctrine, as encapsulated for instance in the Placita: The Stoics say that affections occur in the affected regions, but perceptions in the ruling part.73 69  Plotinus, 4.7 [2], 6.43–6 (Armstrong transl. modified): εἰ δὲ μένουσιν οἱ τύποι, ἢ οὐκ ἔστιν ἄλλους ἐνσημαίνεσθαι ἐκείνων κατεχόντων, ὥστε ἄλλαι αἰσθήσεις οὐκ ἔσονται, ἢ γινομένων ἄλλων ἐκεῖνοι οἱ πρότεροι ἀπολοῦνται· ὥστε οὐδὲν ἔσται μνημονεύειν. 70 Sextus, M. 7.373 (SVF 2.56): εἰ γὰρ κηροῦ τρόπον τυποῦται ἡ ψυχὴ φανταστικῶς πάσχουσα, ἀεὶ τὸ ἔσχατον κίνημα ἐπισκοτήσει τῇ προτέρᾳ φαντασίᾳ, ὥσπερ καὶ ὁ τῆς δευτέρας σφραγῖδος τύπος ἐξαλειπτικός ἐστι τοῦ προτέρου. ἀλλ᾿ εἰ τοῦτο, ἀναιρεῖται μὲν μνήμη, θησαυρισμὸς οὖσα φαντασιῶν (Bury transl. modified). 71  A very interesting account of Plotinus’ attack may be found in Koch (2009). 72  Plotinus, 4.7.7.1–10 (SVF 2.858), Armstrong transl. modified: Ὅταν δάκτυλον λέγηται ἀλγεῖν ἄνθρωπος, ἡ μὲν ὀδύνη περὶ τὸν δάκτυλον δήπουθεν, ἡ δ᾿ αἴσθησις τοῦ ἀλγεῖν δῆλον ὅτι ὁμολογήσουσιν, ὡς περὶ τὸ ἡγεμονοῦν γίγνεται. Ἄλλου δὴ ὄντος τοῦ πονοῦντος μέρους τοῦ πνεύματος τὸ ἡγεμονοῦν αἰσθάνεται, καὶ ὅλη ἡ ψυχὴ τὸ αὐτὸ πάσχει. Πῶς οὖν τοῦτο συμβαίνει; Διαδόσει, φήσουσι, παθόντος μὲν πρώτως τοῦ περὶ τὸν δάκτυλον ψυχικοῦ πνεύματος, μεταδόντος δὲ τῷ ἐφεξῆς καὶ τούτου ἄλλῳ, ἕως πρὸς τὸ ἡγεμονοῦν ἀφίκοιτο. 73 Ps.-Plutarch, Plac. 4.23.1 (SVF 2.854, LS 53 M): Οἱ Στωϊκοὶ τὰ μὲν πάθη ἐν τοῖς πεπονθόσι τόποις, τὰς δὲ αἰσθήσεις ἐν τῷ ἡγεμονικῷ.

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be no other sense-impression (aisthēsis), or if others are made, those former impressions will be destroyed, so that there will be no possibility of remembering.’69 This is clearly similar to what Chrysippus had said against Cleanthes’ literal interpretation of Zeno’s ‘impression’ (tupōsis): ‘if the soul when receiving a presentation (phantasia) is impressed like wax, the last motion will always keep overshadowing the previous presentation, just as the impression of the second seal is such as to obliterate the first, but if this is to be so, memory, being an accumulation of presentations, is abolished.’70 So what we have here, paradoxically enough, is Plotinus’ reproduction, in attacking the Stoics, of Chrysippus’ attack against Cleanthes, namely, we have the Stoic position endorsed by Plotinus as a charge against the Stoics. This is an indication that Plotinus’ charge may not be completely relevant. However, in Chapter 7, he carries on his attack, and this time he argues from pain and from the perception of pain. Arnim has reproduced only a very short passage from the chapter, but the whole chapter is against the Stoics.71 Plotinus first gives a very detailed account of the Stoic theory of pain:

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74 Galen, PHP, 2.5.35 V 247, 134.24 (SVF 2.882): διαδίδοσθαι. 75  See the discussion by Koch (2009) 91–9. See also Longo (2009) 152 and n.2.

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The two texts make a distinction between the pathos in a region of the body (namely in the first case a physical damage affecting that part of the body) and the impression occurring in the ruling part of the soul (as a mental state of perception). The word pathos, in that context, does not mean ‘passion’ or ‘emotion’, but designates the fact of being physically affected. Perception of pain as a damage in the body is just a special case of perception in general. And this, of course, is also coherent with the theory of sense-perception, as transmitted from the sense organs to the ruling part of the soul through the breath as by messengers delivering a message to the king. Therefore, we have one and the same pattern with perceptions and passions: they take place in the ruling part of the soul, located in the heart. The perception of pain, being at the same time a perception and a passion, occurs in the ruling part, while the affection occurs in the affected part of the body. Here, we evidently have a case of self-perception, since the ruling part of our soul perceives an affection of the body and is affected by it. It is not only the affected part of the body that is affected by the damage, it is also the ruling part of the soul that has a perception and an impulse corresponding to this affection. When a human being has a part of his body affected by some damage, this damage makes an imprint in the affected part of the body, as is the case with any other sense-perception, and this affect is ‘transmitted’ to the ruling part, which grasps the affection and reacts impulsively to it. Plotinus here uses a word, ‘transmission’, which we cannot be sure not to be his own Platonic imprint. For, diadosis, ‘transmission’, is a term of Platonic origin, since the corresponding verb is used several times in the context of the theory of perception in the Timaeus, especially in 45d2. In this passage, Plato gives a description of vision as involving a ‘fire’ whose movements are ‘transmitted through the whole body all the way to the soul, where it induces this perception that we call “sight”’. This clearly is not very different from the Stoic theory of vision. In the Stoic context, it is paralleled only in another passage of Plotinus, in his fourth treatise, 4.2.2.13 (again not in the SVF), and in a more reliable passage of Galen.74 So there is some probability that the vocabulary of ‘transmission’ may be a Platonic import of Plotinus and Galen, but there is also some probability that the Stoics may have borrowed it from the Timaeus. All in all, it is more probable that it was really a Stoic term, and, in any case, the notion clearly seems to be of Stoic origin.75 Whatever may be the case, Plotinus argues that such perception by transmission is, in fact, impossible. His criticism is based on the technical notion of transmission. According to him, transmission of the affection occurs from one part of the body to the next one, as if each part of the body was relaying something from the previous one, as a runner passing over the baton to the next runner, or as if the ball on the pool table was transmitting the movement it received from the

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It is necessary then, if the first part when it suffered perceived the suffering, that the second part’s perception should be different, if the perception is by transmission, and the third part’s different again, and there would be many perceptions, even an infinite number, of one pain, and the ruling principle would perceive in its turn after all these other perceptions and have its own perception over and above all these. But the truth would be that each of those perceptions would not be of the pain in the toe, but the perception next to the toe would be that the sole of the foot was suffering, and the third perception that another part higher up was, and there would be many feelings of pain, and the ruling principle would not perceive the pain in the toe but the pain in the part next to itself, and would know this alone and let the other pains go, and not understand that the toe had a pain.76

In the beginning of his argument, Plotinus more or less applies Zeno of Elea’s argument concerning infinite division to the transmission of the affect from one part of the body to the other. If each part of the body was transmitting its pain to the part nearest to it, this process might be divided ad infinitum. Here, Plotinus makes use of the fact that Stoic bodies are continuous and that there is no atomic part. In that case, transmission of perception from one part to the other applies to the potentially infinite division of the continuum, and, therefore, there will be an infinite number of small perceptions. He could argue against that, but he does not bring that case against the Stoics.77 What Plotinus argues is rather that the ruling principle only perceives the pain in the part of the body next to it and hence cannot perceive the affect of the body in the part of the body where it takes place. It could only happen, Plotinus says, if ‘the perceiving entity’ (to aisthanomenon) was ‘in all parts identical to itself ’—and this, he says, cannot be the case for a body.78 What Plotinus means here, I take it, is that there is a part of the soul in every part of the body, since every part is sentient, but if there is an affection passing from one part to another, each sentient part just receives the affection of the 76  Plotinus, 4.7.7.10–22 (not in the SVF, Armstrong transl. modified). This passage immediately follows the one quoted above: Ἀνάγκη τοίνυν, εἰ τὸ πρῶτον πονοῦν ᾔσθετο, ἄλλην τὴν αἴσθησιν τοῦ δευτέρου εἶναι, εἰ κατὰ διάδοσιν ἡ αἴσθησις, καὶ τοῦ τρίτου ἄλλην καὶ πολλὰς αἰσθήσεις καὶ ἀπείρους περὶ ἑνὸς ἀλγήματος γίγνεσθαι, καὶ τούτων ἁπασῶν ὕστερον τὸ ἡγεμονοῦν αἴσθεσθαι καὶ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ παρὰ ταύτας. Τὸ δὲ ἀληθὲς ἑκάστην ἐκείνων μὴ τοῦ ἐν τῷ δακτύλῳ ἀλγήματος, ἀλλὰ τὴν μὲν ἐφεξῆς τῷ δακτύλῳ, ὅτι ὁ ταρσὸς ἀλγεῖ, τὴν δὲ τρίτην, ὅτι ἄλλο τὸ πρὸς τῷ ἄνωθεν, καὶ πολλὰς εἶναι ἀλγηδόνας, τό τε ἡγεμονοῦν μὴ τοῦ πρὸς τῷ δακτύλῳ ἀλγήματος αἰσθάνεσθαι, ἀλλὰ τοῦ πρὸς αὐτῷ, καὶ τοῦτο γινώσκειν μόνον, τὰ δ᾿ ἄλλα χαίρειν ἐᾶν μὴ ἐπιστάμενον, ὅτι ἀλγεῖ ὁ δάκτυλος. 77  This is clearly indicated by Koch (2009) 104–6. 78  Plotinus, 4.7.26–8. On this point, see also 4.7.5.25–6. Cf. Koch (2009) 103–4.

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previous one. And in that case, Plotinus argues, what touches the ruling part of the soul in the end is not the affection of the affected part, but the affection of the part of the body close to the ruling part. And therefore, there can be no perception of the pain at the place where the body is affected:

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Since the animal is no other in genre than a compound of body and soul, and both of these are tangible and impressible and of course subject to resistance, and also blended through and through, and one of them is a sensory faculty 79  cf. Koch (2009) 101–2 n.63.

80  Diogenes Laertius, 7.158 (SVF 2.872).

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part next to it, and ignores the affection of any other part than the part next to it; it is only if the perceiving soul is not divided into as many parts as the body and if it is the same in all its parts that this sentient soul knows in each part of the body what happens to every other part of the body. In other words, it is only if the soul is not a body that it can be the same in every part of the body, and perceive the affection of the body where it takes place, thanks to its ubiquity. What Plotinus seems deliberately to ignore is that, according to the Stoics, the pneuma is not a static entity but a flow, pervading the whole body according to a tonic movement.79 The animal body is not made of juxtaposed separate parts, indefinitely divisible, it is made of parts unified by a constant flow of pneuma which, in fact, is not only supposed to be mixed with every part of the body, but also to diffuse through it dynamically. And, apparently, the transmission of the affection from the affected region of the body to the ruling part of the soul just follows the flow of the breath—it does not pass from one part of the body to the next. The Stoics have an undulatory theory of the transmission of sound and light through a continuous medium. This is clearly stated in the case of the sound, which is supposed to diffuse like a wave created by a blow on the surface of water.80 In the same manner, every sensory affect is transmitted through the breath like a wave on water. In a way, however, this does not solve the difficulty raised by Plotinus, since, when the sensory wave arrives at the central part of the soul, the commandcentre of the soul receives the impact transmitted through the proximate part of the flow. Similarly, when, in the midst of water, I receive the impact of a wave, I certainly do not feel where it originated from. But what is important here is again the Stoic argument of self-perception, since the pneuma is not a non-sentient medium as the flow is, and it is not just the medium through which the blow from the outside reaches my ruling part, contrary to the wave reaching me while I am bathing in the sea. The soul is a con­tinuum and a sentient one, it is not the juxtaposition of sentient bodies, it is the unifying soul of a unified body. Perceptions take place in the ruling part, not in the affected part of the body, but as the human being perceives his whole body and perceives the function of all the parts of his body but not the location of his own ruling part, except when it is affected by an emotion, he necessarily perceives what part of his body is affected, since, properly speaking, what he perceives of himself are the parts of his soul-body mixture—not the parts of his soul. And for this to happen, it is important that the soul may be completely mixed with the body, so that each part of the body may be pervaded by a continuous flow of pneuma:

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The Ruling Part and the Parts of the Body in Self-Perception   207

The pneumatic soul is identical with itself throughout the whole body, though blended with heterogeneous parts of the body, so that Plotinus’ requirement, namely that the perceiving entity should be ‘in all its parts identical with itself ’, is fulfilled. Plotinus does not ignore the Stoic theory of the total blending of body and soul, but he denies its plausibility (4.7.82). This, obviously, is a different argument. Nevertheless, what Plotinus allows us to understand of the position of the Stoics is precisely that, for them, the total blending of body and soul and the con­tinuum of the pneuma throughout the body are the necessary conditions of self-perception. The consequence is that the ruling part of the soul, being inseparable from the rest of the soul, cannot clearly perceive itself independently of the rest of the body, so that, even if I am the ruling part of my soul, and not my whole body and soul, self-perception is perception of the human being by himself, not of the soul by the soul. I am the ruling part of my animated body, but I do not perceive myself—it is the whole of my animated body that perceives itself. Self-perception by the animal is not perception of ‘the’ self. Even if there is a transmission of pain from the affected parts of the body to the command-centre of the soul as well as a transmission of impressions from the sense organs to the same ruling part of the soul, I do not perceive the affections in the ruling part, but where they take place. Likewise, external perception is the perception of external objects, and this is partly due to the fact that I do not perceive my own command-centre but only the sentient parts of my ensouled body. We tend to think that self-knowledge is the knowledge of our soul by our soul—but this, for the Stoics was either impossible or wrong. It is impossible in the sense that I cannot know for certain where the ruling part of my soul is 81  Hierocles, 4.38–52 (LS 53 B, their translation, modified): Ἐπεὶ τοί[ν(υν) γένος οὐδ(ὲ)ν] ἕτερ[όν] (ἐστι) τ[ὸ] ζ[ῷ(͂ͅον)] ἢ [τὸ] σ(ύν)θετον, ἐκ σώματος [κ(αὶ)] ψυχ(ῆς), ἄμφω δ᾿ (ἐστὶ) θι[κ]τὰ κ(αὶ) πρ(οσ)βλητὰ κ(αὶ) τῇ [π]ρ(οσ)ρερεί[σει] δὴ ὑπόπτωτα, ἔτ[ι] δ(ὲ) δι᾿ ὅλω(ν) κέκρατ(αι), κ(αὶ) [θά]τερ[ον] μ(έν) (ἐστιν) αὐτ(ῶν) δύναμι[ς (αἰ)]σθητική, τὸ δ᾿ αὐτ[ὸ] τοῦτο κ(αὶ) τρ(όπον), ὃν [ὑ]πεδείξ[αμ(εν)], κινεῖτ(αι), δῆλον ὅτι δ[ι]ανεκῶς (αἰ)σθάνο[ι]τ᾿ ἂν τ[ὸ ζῷ(ον)] ἑαυτοῦ. τεινομ(έν)η γ(ὰρ) ἔξω ἡ ψυχὴ [μ] (ετ᾿ ἀ)φέσ[ε]ως [πρ(οσ)β(άλ)]λει πᾶσι τ(οῦ) σώματος τ(οῖς) μέρεσιν, ἐπειδὴ κ(αὶ) κέκρατ(αι) πᾶσι, πρ(οσ)βάλλουσα δ(ὲ) ἀν[τι]πρ(οσ)[β(άλ)λ]ετ(αι)· ἀντιβατικὸν γ(ὰρ) κ(αὶ) τὸ σῶμα, καθάπ[ερ] κ(αὶ) ἡ ψυχή· κ(αὶ) τὸ πάθος συνερειστικ[ὸ]ν ὁμοῦ κ[(αὶ)] ἀντερ[ε]ιστικὸν ἀ(πο)τελεῖτ(αι). κ(αὶ) [ἀ(πὸ) τ(ῶν)] ἔ[ξω] τ(ῶν) μερῶ(ν) εἴσω νε[ῦον] ἐ(πὶ) τ(ὴν) ἡγεμονίαν το[ῦ στή]θους σ(υν)αναφέρ[ετ](αι), ὡς ἀντίληψιν γίνεσθ(αι) μερῶ(ν) ἁπά[ν]των τ(ῶν) τ[ε τ]οῦ σώματος κ(αὶ) τ(ῶν) τ(ῆς) ψυχ(ῆς)· τοῦτ[ο] δ(έ) (ἐστιν) [ἴσ]ον τῷ τὸ [ζῶ(ͅον) (αἰ)]σθά[ν]εσθ(αι) ἑαυτοῦ.

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which itself undergoes movement in the way we have indicated, it is evident that an animal perceives itself continuously. For by stretching out and relaxing, the soul makes an impression on all the body’s parts, since it is blended with them all, and in making an impression it receives an impression in response. For the body, just like the soul, reacts to pressure; and the outcome is a state of their joint pressure upon, and resistance to, each other. From the outermost parts inclining within, it travels to the commanding-faculty, with the result that there is an awareness both of all the body’s parts and of the soul’s.81

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208  Jean-Baptiste Gourinat

References Arnim, H. von (1903–1905), Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, Leipzig, Teubner, 3 vols. [vol. 4 (indices), compiled by M. Adler, Leipzig, 1924] [abbreviated SVF]. Brunschwig, Jacques. ‘The cradle-argument in Epicureanism and Stoicism’, in The Norms of Nature: Studies in Hellenistic Ethics edited by Malcom Schofield and Gisela Striker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 113–45. Gill, Christopher, The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). Goulet, Richard. ‘Hieroclès’, in Dictionnaire des philosophes edited by Richard Goulet (Paris: CNRS Éditions, 2000), 686–8. Gourinat, Jean-Baptiste. ‘Le traité de Chrysippe Sur l’âme’, Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale, 110/4 (2005), 557–77. Graeser, Andreas, Plotinus and the Stoics, (Philosopha Antiqua 22, Leiden: Brill, 1972). Koch, Isabelle. ‘Plotin critique de l’épistémologie stoïcienne’, Philosophie antique 9 (2009), 81–113. Kühn, Wilfried. Quel savoir après le scepticisme? Plotin et ses prédécesseurs sur la connaissance de soi, Histoire des doctrines de l’Antiquité classique 37, (Paris: Vrin, 2009). Long, Anthony. ‘Hierocles on oikeiosis and self-perception’, in A. Long, Stoic Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 250–63 (originally published in K. Boudouris (ed.), Hellenistic Philosophy, vol. I, Athens, 1993: 93–104).

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located, I can only have a natural tendency to guess where it is and probable inferences. It is wrong in the sense that I cannot perceive the ruling part of my soul as an entity distinct from the rest of my body and soul: they are so intermingled with one another that I cannot perceive the one independently of the other. It is precisely the function of the soul to perceive the parts of its body and its organs (including the sense organs), their location and their function, and the imprints and affects they receive. And this, from a Stoic point of view, is precisely what self-perception is, since it allows me to rule my body. In that sense, there is no self-knowledge of what I am. I am persuaded that I am the commanding centre of my soul, which in turn is mixed with my body, but this kind of knowledge is not self-knowledge, because I only have of this an inner feeling and a common tendency, and it is plausible that it is so. What I have as self-perception is the whole of my body and soul perceiving itself, and this is quite different from the form of self-knowledge involved, for instance, by Plato.

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References  209 Long, Anthony, and Bastianini, G. ‘Hierocles, Elementa Moralia’, in Corpus dei papiri filosofici greci e latini, I, vol. 1, edited by G.  Bastianini and A.  Long (Firenze: F. Olschki (1992), 268–451.

Longo, Angela, Plotin, Traité 2 (IV, 7), introduction, translation, commentary, and notes, Les Écrits de Plotin (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2009). Ramelli, Ilaria and Konstan, David(tr.). Hierocles the Stoic: Elements of Ethics, Fragments and Excerpts, SBL, Writings from the Graeco-Roman World 28 (Leiden: Brill, 2009). Tieleman, Teun. Galen and Chrysippus on the Soul: Argument and Refutation in the De placitis books II-III, Philosophia Antiqua 68, (Leiden: Brill, 1996).

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Long, Anthony, and Sedley, David. The Hellenistic Philosophers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987) [abbreviated LS].

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10

Gwenaëlle Aubry

What the different contemporary criticisms of reflexive philosophy have in ­common is that they all call into question the post-Cartesian idea according to which the self has a privileged relationship to itself.1 What is thus questioned is the possibility of an immediate and evident access to interiority, provided by self-consciousness, as well as that of a knowledge based on such consciousness. As Charles Larmore recently wrote, the notion of internal sense, as well as the idea of self-knowledge that is based on it, amounts to ‘inventing an entirely unintelligible capacity, since it is meant to provide a self-apprehension deprived of the two distinctive features of knowledge as a whole (distinction between subject and object, possibility of error)’.2 Such challenges urge us to examine the history of self-knowledge and, more precisely, of the articulation of the relations between self-knowledge, self-consciousness, and interiority. Far from being immediate or obvious, this articulation, which can be found in Descartes, is the result of an elaboration. In Platonic philosophy, for instance, the injunction to self-know­ledge, the Delphic precept, is dissociated from the ideas of immediate reflexivity and of interiority.3 More generally, it has been shown that the ancient self was to be found not as much in the dimension of interiority and self-consciousness as in that of exteriority and manifestation. This is why Jean-Pierre Vernant could write that the self existed for the Greeks essentially in act, in energeia: L’individu se situe lui-même dans les opérations qui le réalisent, qui l’effectuent ‘en acte’, energeia, et qui ne sont jamais dans sa conscience. Il n’y a pas d’introspection. Le sujet est extraverti. Il se regarde au-dehors. Sa conscience de 1  One can find them summed up for instance in J.-C.  Billier’s Introduction to Descombes and Larmore, 2009. 2  Descombes and Larmore, 2009, 105. 3 About the history of the ‘Know Thyself ’ and the tradition of the First Alcibiades, see Courcelle, 1974; J. Pépin, 1971. In Plotinus: G. O’Daly, 1973, chap. 1. Gwenaëlle Aubry, An alternative to Cartesianism? Plotinus’s Self and its Posterity in Ralph Cudworth In: Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Edited by: Fiona Leigh, Oxford University Press (2020). © Gwenaëlle Aubry. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198786061.003.0010

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An Alternative to Cartesianism? Plotinus’s Self and its Posterity in Ralph Cudworth

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An Alternative to Cartesianism?  211 soi n’est pas réflexive, elle n’est pas repli sur soi, travail sur soi, élaboration d’un  monde intérieur, intime, complexe et secret, le monde du ‘Je’. Elle est existentielle.4

• First, Plotinus associates self-knowledge with interiority. More precisely, the precondition of self-knowledge is the conversion to interiority. But this in­ter­ior­ity is not ‘subjective’, much less, ‘intimate’. It bears or contains the very principles of reality, from the One-Good to Nature.

4  Vernant, 1996, 73–93, 91. See also Vernant, 1989, which receives further discussion in Aubry and Ildefonse, 2008, 9–16. 5  Brunschwig, 1983, 360–77. 6  Eth. Nic. IX, 1168a7. 7  Brunschwig, 1983, 375. 8 Foucault, 2001. 9 Gill, 2006. 10  Gill, 2006, 348–51.

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This description partly resumes the analysis of Jacques Brunschwig in a paper disconcertingly entitled ‘Aristote et l’effet Perrichon’,5 published in a collective volume in honour of the famous Cartesian scholar Ferdinand Alquié. Brunschwig wonders about Aristotle’s assertion that the producer is in act in his work.6 For a modern, such an assertion is, he says, somehow ‘wild and absurd’: that my work should be something of me, fine, but how could it be me? Yet this assertion, according to Brunschwig, enables us to grasp an essential feature of the ancient self: it leads one on the path of ‘a kind of paradoxical cogito which could be put in the following words: I can see me (in my work), therefore I am; and I am where I see me; I am this projection of myself which I see’.7 It is through act, exteriority, mani­fest­ation, that the Greek self would achieve self-knowledge and self-identification. A parallel to this analysis is found in the work of Michel Foucault, who has shown how, in Platonic thought in particular and ancient thought in general, the gnōthi seauton was subordinated to the epimelei heautou, self-knowledge to self-care, and how the philosophical requalification of self-knowledge—the accentuation of the ­cognitive dimension of the self ’s relationship to itself—should be considered as a distinctive feature of modernity and a consequence of the ‘Cartesian moment’.8 It can also be connected with Christopher Gill’s characterization of the ancient self as ‘objective-participant’ rather than ‘subjective-individualist’.9 These various analyses converge in acknowledging the primacy, for the ancient idea of the self, of exteriority (act, action, alterity, norms, and values adopted by a community or postulated in a universal), but also (and this is why they can be compared to those of Foucault)10 in the description of a relationship to oneself that is not primordially cognitive. If these analyses are worth recalling, it is because they can help to better appreciate the singular position which Plotinus represents in this context, and which I shall, to begin with, try to evaluate. It can be characterized in the following way:

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212  Gwenaëlle Aubry

I would like to develop these various points, according to the fundamental distinction between two modes of self-knowledge: in soul, and in Intellect. At the same time, I shall try to emphasize the dissociations of the conceptual relations and equivalences inherited from the ‘Cartesian moment’: between self-knowledge and self-consciousness, but also between self and substance, or between self and identity. I would thus like to show how Plotinus, although, of course, he is not a ‘modern’, is no longer an ‘ancient’ either: how, in particular, he no longer associates the hēmeis with energeia, but with dunamis, not with act, but with power and potentiality. Finally, I shall try to identify the echoes of this singular conception of the self in the work of a modern who also is, in many respects, a Cartesian: Ralph Cudworth. A Cambridge Platonist, and great reader of Plotinus, Cudworth (who first used the words ‘internal sense’ and ‘pyschology’) presents, against Descartes, a theory of the self which dissociates thought from consciousness in order to characterize the self, more fundamentally, as a continuous generative power and a tension towards the Good.

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• Second, the ‘I’, which Plotinus (and this plural is significant) calls the ‘we’, the hēmeis, does have immediate access to itself; in other words, Plotinus does accept an immediate reflexivity. But this self-consciousness is not ­self-knowledge. First, because it does not give access to a unity, but to the multiplicity which constitutes the hēmeis. Second, because this multiplicity is not essential. Rather, the hēmeis perceives itself as made up of multiple powers, only one of which (the intellect or the separate soul) constitutes its essence. This is why self-consciousness is not primarily a revelation of the essence, but rather of distance from the essence. • This is also why a distinction must be made between the subject of selfconsciousness (the hēmeis and, along with it, the dianoia) and the subject of self-knowledge (the intellect or separate soul). In other words, one has to distinguish between two modalities of self-knowledge, only the second of  which is genuine knowledge. Indeed, at the level of the intellect, ­self-know­ledge is really the soul’s coincidence with its essence and, beyond it, with the totality of ousia (or with the Intellect-principle). • This leads me to my last point: unlike the separate soul, the hēmeis is not an ousia. It is not adequate to its essence, nor is it a substance in the sense  of the permanent substrate of attributes and qualities. Associated with (but not identical to) consciousness, situated more than defined, it is, in fact, that which, depending on the orientation it gives to its consciousness, identifies itself with one or the other of the powers in which it consists.

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Self-Knowledge in the Soul  213

1.  Self-Knowledge in the Soul

. . . ‘Know yourself ’ is said to those who because of their selves’ multiplicity have the business of counting themselves up and learning that they do not know all of the number and kind of things they are, or do not know any one of them, nor what their ruling principle is or by what they are themselves. (VI.7 [38], 41. 21–25)11

To know oneself does not amount to grasping one’s essence, unity, or identity, but to counting up the multiplicity in which one consists, organizing it into a hier­ archy, and, finally, determining what, in this multiplicity, is properly ‘ourselves’. We have here three distinct operations, which are so many successive declensions of the Delphic precept: ‘Know how many you are’; ‘Know what governs in you’; ‘Know what in you is really you’. Self-knowledge can be achieved only at the end of this process of counting, hierarchization, and internal selection. Indeed, such knowledge requires, as its very first condition, a conversion to interiority which is also an estrangement from the body and from the primary testimony to its union with the soul: sensation. Thus, as long as we exercise only our sense faculty, ‘we do not know ourselves yet’, we know only ‘part of our soul’, whereas we are ‘the whole soul’. In order to have a perception (antilēpsis) of this latter, we must ‘turn our power of apprehension inwards’ (V.1 [10], 12. 8–13). Thus, although it presupposes a conversion to interiority, self-knowledge is not merely an access to a unity. What this conversion allows the subject to grasp is ‘the whole soul’, that is, a plurality of powers, states, and operations. In other words, to quote the enumeration with which Treatise 53 (I.1) opens, these are ‘pains and pleasures, fears and audacities, passions, opinion, reflection, and thought’.12 Yet it also allows us to grasp the very principles of reality: soul, Intellect, and the One-Good. For, as Plotinus writes, those three realities also exist in us: in us, not as sensible beings, but as identical with what Plato calls ‘the inner man’ (V.1 [10], 10. 6–10). Plotinian interiority is therefore simultaneously plural and stratified. 11 Here as below the translation used is that of Armstrong. The following development partly resumes Aubry, 2007. 12  I.1 [53], 1.1–9. Cf. Aubry, 2004.

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Plotinus immediately associates the injunction to self-knowledge with the question of the one and the many. From the outset, therefore, self-knowledge is graduated according to the levels of reality. Thus, it applies only to an inferior degree of being, characterized by multiplicity:

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214  Gwenaëlle Aubry

But we. . . Who, ‘we’? Are we that which draws near and comes to be in time? No, even before this coming to be came to be we were there; men who were different, and some of us even gods, pure souls and intellects united with the whole of reality [. . . ] But another man, wishing to exist, approached that man; and when he found us—for we were not outside the All—he wound himself round us and attached himself to that man who was then each one of us [. . . ]; and we have come to be the pair of them, not the one which we were before—and sometimes just the other one which we added on afterwards, when that prior one is inactive and in another way not present.  (VI.4 [22], 14. 16–31)

This text describes the hēmeis as made up of two men or, rather, two alternate and alternative presences. It does not consist in the two men at the same time, yet ‘sometimes’, or ‘more than once’, neither is it the initial man any longer, but rather 13  It has been emphasized elsewhere that Plotinus is thereby distinguished from Plato as well as from Aristotle; see Aubry, 2008 (1).

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It consists in the several powers which form a human soul, but also in the traces left in it by what is superior to it (Intellect and the One). Plotinus nonetheless admits—and this is an essential and singular point—an immediate grasp of the self, or, rather, the us, the hēmeis, by itself. More precisely, he formulates, in two different places, a reflexive question: at the end of the above quoted enumeration that opens Treatise 53, he asks ‘That which acts as overseer and carries out the investigation and comes to a decision about these matters: what sort of thing is it?’ (1, 9–11). And in Treatise 22 (VI.4), we find another text which opens with this strange question: ‘But we. . . Who, “we”?’ (14, 16). What emerges here is, indeed, an immediate reflexivity, a relationship of the hēmeis to itself which requires neither another subject, nor an object.13 However, this immediate relation to oneself does not amount to self-knowledge. Or, rather, it can only be related to the first moment of self-knowledge as distinguished above: that is, the grasp of a multiplicity which must still be distributed between different subjects of attribution. This is why the reflexive question does not bear its answer in itself: to ask ‘But we. . . Who “we”?’ is not enough to know who we are; the hēmeis does not grasp itself through its capacity to be conscious of itself. This capacity does not teach it anything about itself, does not give it access to its essence, nor to its identity. In other words, self-consciousness is not equivalent to self-knowledge. It is much rather an access to ‘the whole soul’, that is, to the plurality of powers, states and operations already listed. This plurality is progressively reduced, in Treatise 53, to a fundamental duality: polla gar hēmeis, claims Plotinus first (9, 7), and then ditton to hēmeis (10, 5). Treatise 22, for its part, immediately stresses this duality:

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Self-Knowledge in the Soul  215

We, however, are formed by the soul given from the gods in heaven and heaven itself, and this soul governs our association with our bodies. The other soul, by which we are ourselves, is cause of our well-being not of our being. (II.1 [40], 5. 18–21)

This already indicates how we are to understand the affirmation quoted above from Treatise 53, according to which ‘the hēmeis is double’. This does not mean that the hēmeis is both men together, nor that it consists in their sum. In fact, the hēmeis is more dual than double, in the sense that it can be either one or the other of those two men. Yet neither of the two is really the hēmeis: in the first one lies its essential identity, which includes some individual qualities but excludes body, memory, and history; in the second one, the anonymous powers common to all living beings. Thus, to return to our concern, not only does conversion towards interiority and the reflexive question provide access to a mere duality, but they also miss their object, since the hēmeis does not grasp itself as identical with this duality. Another, later, text may shed light on this point as well as on the passage from Treatise 22. In Treatise 49 [V.3], the hēmeis is designated as ‘to kurion tēs psukhēs’, ‘the principal part of the soul, in the middle between two powers, a worse and a better’ (3, 35–38). These two powers are then identified with sensation and thought. Although they are not ‘us’, however, they can be called ‘ours’: But it is generally agreed that sense-perception is always ours—for we are always perceiving—but there is disagreement about Intellect, both because we do not always use it and because it is separate.  (V.3 [49], 3. 40–42) 14 This is how Treatise 38 [VI.7], 5, 2–3 characterizes it (see also Pierre Hadot’s commentary, Hadot, 1988: 221). About the individual’s intelligible preexistence in the logos, cf. Aubry, 2008 (2). 15  VI.4 [22], 15, 12–13. 16  This point is developed in Aubry, 2008 (1). 17  See for instance IV.3 [27], 32. 17–21; IV.4 [28], 2. 1–8.

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the second. Those two presences are also described (I shall come back to this point) as two alternative acts: when we are the second man, this means that the first one is no longer active (l. 30). Treatise 22 gives clues about what one should understand by those two men: the first or primeval man is ‘man in the Intellect’, that is to say soul plus the logos of man.14 The second or adventitious man is first designated in chapter 14 of Treatise 22 as ‘that which draws near and comes to be in time’ (l.16): in the next chapter, the ensouled body will be described in similar words.15 Now, and this is the point I would like to stress here, the hēmeis is neither of those two: it is neither the separate soul, nor the ensouled body, the ‘animal’.16 Admittedly, the separate soul is associated with a logos which already contains some individual qualities, but it is without consciousness, memory, or body;17 the ‘animal’, for its part, is body as ensouled by the powers of the World-Soul, not of the individual soul. This is why Plotinus clearly distinguishes it from the hēmeis:

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216  Gwenaëlle Aubry

But then, does not the ‘we’ include what comes before the middle?—Yes, but there must be a conscious apprehension (antilēpsis)18 of it: we do not always use all that we have, but only when we direct our middle part towards the higher principles or their opposite, or to whatever we are engaged in bringing from potentiality or state to act.  (I.1 [53], 11, 4–8)

Consciousness, as long as it governs the actualization or use of a specific power, sensation, or thought, is therefore that by which what was only ‘ours’ becomes ‘us’. In other words, it is what governs the identification of the hēmeis with one or another of the two men in which it consists. Two points must be stressed: • First, consciousness here appears as an operator of selection, rather than of totalization.19 • Second, and we shall concentrate on this point, consciousness is not the reve­la­tion of an identity, but the means to an identification or, rather, to two distinct and exclusive identifications. For Plotinus, we are not conscious of what we are, but, rather, we are (in act) what we are conscious of (an animal, a being of pure sensation, when we are only aware of the activity of the

18 Along with this word, one also finds sunaisthēsis, parakolouthēsis, sunēsis, sunthesis. For an attempt of classification, see H. R. Schwyzer, 1960; A. C. Lloyd, 1964; E. Warren, 1964. 19  It is not the case in other texts, such as V.I [10], 12. 5–10 (quoted below, 217), where consciousness is treated as an operator of totalization.

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The formulations we read here are very close to those of Treatise 22: like the two men, the two powers corresponding to them (sensation defining the living being, thought the separate soul) are the subject of an alternative ‘use’. Just as we are ‘more than once’ the adventitious man, we ‘always feel’. And just as the first man, in Treatise 22, was said to be ‘inactive’ when the second man is active, we read here that ‘we do not always use it [i.e. Intellect]’. But what also appears clear is that the two men or the two powers the hēmeis finds in itself when it wonders who it is, are not ‘us’ but ‘ours’. In this first moment of self-knowledge, we don’t yet know who we are, but only what is ‘ours’. The following question must then be asked: how can that which is only ours become ‘us’? We have seen that the notions of activity and use appeared successively in treatises 22 and 49. Plotinus closely associates both with the notion of consciousness. In Treatise 53, use is identified with actualization. To use is to drive something from potentiality to actuality, from dunamei to energeiai. And it is consciousness that governs this operation. Thus, Plotinus writes in chapter 11 (l. 3–4): ‘The higher principles are active in us when they enter the middle region.’ The following question is then asked:

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Self-Knowledge in the Soul  217

I would like, before coming to the second part of my chapter, to stress one last point: Plotinus’s dissociation between consciousness and substance. As we just saw, consciousness is closely linked to the hēmeis. But this does not mean that it is identical with it: in Treatise 53, the hēmeis is designated as that which governs its orientation, up or down, towards the separate soul or towards the animal. In Treatise 10 (V.1), Plotinus also says not that we are consciousness, or that consciousness is us, but, simply, that ‘we are linked to it’: For not everything which is in the soul is immediately perceptible, but it reaches us when it enters into perception;21 but when a particular active power does not  give a share in its activity to the perceiving power, that activity has not yet ­pervaded the whole soul. We do not therefore yet know it, since we are ac­com­pan­ied by the perceptive power (meta tou aisthētikou) and are not a part of the soul but the whole soul.  (V.1 [10], 12. 5–10)22

The hēmeis cannot be identified with dianoia, any more than it can be with consciousness; once again, it is merely associated with this faculty. In Treatise 53, Plotinus writes, with regard to opinion and reasoning, that ‘this is precisely where we mostly are’ (7, 15–16). We saw that, in Treatise 49, this situation was designated as intermediate between two powers, sensation and thought. But the hēmeis was designated at the same time as that which can use one way or the other. This is why I have elsewhere called it a ‘subject without identity’, or else a power of choice

20  See I.2 [19], 4. 19–25. 21 Here, aisthēsis. 22  See Pierre Hadot’s commentary, 1997, chap. II, 34.

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ensouled body, a separate soul when we become aware of the unceasing activity of pure thought). If the reflexive question leads to the acknowledgment of a duality, consciousness, for its part, amounts to the choice of an identity. For this reason, it must be associated with the two last moments of the declension, by Plotinus, of the process of self-knowledge: ‘Know what governs in you’, and ‘Know what, in you, is really you’. Awareness is what governs this selective and hierarchizing moment of self-knowledge. Now, the remarkable thing is that the relation between consciousness and selfknowledge does not determine the relationship to oneself as primordially cognitive, but rather as practical. The really cognitive moment is only the first one, that is, the consciousness of the various powers, or of the two men, in whom the hēmeis consists; but this first moment must leave room for a choice, a selection, and an exclusive orientation of consciousness. For that matter, Plotinus explicitly associates this moment with the cathartic degree of virtue.20

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23  This description is contested by Tornau, 2009, 332–60: 334, n. 2. That the hēmeis is not an ousia is nonetheless what appears for instance in I.1 [53], 2 where one can read an explicit distinction between ‘soul’ and ‘essential soulness’, ψυχή and ψυχῇ εἶναι, that is to say between the soul linked with body, to which sensation, opinion, and reflection can be attributed, and the separate soul, which is, for its part, a form, an energeia and an unmixed essence (οὐσιῶδες ἄμικτον, 2, 19). Now the hēmeis must, as we saw, be associated with the former as distinct from the latter. Besides, even though I think it can be characterized as intermediary between two powers which are also two potential identities, I do not describe the hēmeis as a ‘pure potentiality’, as Tornau writes, but as a power of choice and self-determination (For this link between hēmeis and proairesis, see Aubry,  2004, 302–4). Along the same lines, see Sorabji,  2006, 119, who writes that the self, for Plotinus, ‘is something that you yourself can shape rather than something that has just been given you by nature’, and traces this idea back to the Stoics, as well as O’Daly, 1973, 49: ‘The self is not a static datum, even if it exists potentially in its entirety: it is essentially a faculty of conscious determination, a mid-point which can be directed towards the higher or towards the lower.’ 24  About the hēmeis being irreducible both to the separate soul and to the dianoia, I refer to the answer given in Aubry,  2008 (1), 118, n. 29 to Chiaradonna’s article in Aubry and Ildefonse  2008, n. 22, 284. As we saw, the hēmeis can be situated at the level of the dianoia, but it can also identify with the separate soul. Therefore it is not identical with ‘soul’: one must, into soul, distinguish between the dianoia and the separate soul, and the hēmeis is neither one nor the other but the principle of the passage from one to the other. As L. Lavaud writes: ‘It is the very gap between us and the soul that allows the appropriation of the Intellect, its becoming “ours” ’ (2002: 188). 25  For a Cartesian reading of Plotinus, see Rappe, 1996. One could ask, as Peter Adamson did when this conference took place in London, whether one should not recognize, already at the level of the dianoia, a kind of Plotinian cogito whose formulation would be as follows (here I quote from Adamson’s response to my paper): ‘I cannot doubt that here is a somehow united multiplicity of capacities, even though I can doubt which, if any, of these multiple capacities is me.’ This Plotinian cogito would be the immediate and indubitable intuition of my inward multiplicity. It is certainly very interesting to look for a Plotinian cogito at the level of the dianoia, since the comparison with Descartes is usually made only at that of the Intellect. Still, and along with those already developed, two points must be stressed which may help to evaluate the irreducibility of Plotinus’s approach to Descartes’: first, even though Plotinus admits, as we saw, an immediate reflexivity, this can’t be con­ sidered an intuition, since the kind of consciousness that obtains at the level of the dianoia is closely associated by Plotinus with discursivity, logos and imagination (see below, n. 27); second, and this may be the most important point, not only is this immediate reflexivity not an intuition of the essence, but none of the multiple capacities it has as its object can be referred to the essence, i.e. to thought. Plotinus could not write, as Descartes does in the ‘Second Meditation’: ‘Sed quid igitur sum? Res cogitans. Quid est hoc? Nempe dubitans, intelligens, affirmans, negans, volens, nolens, imaginans quoque, et sentiens’ (Meditationes de prima philosophia, ed. Adam &Tannery, Œuvres de Descartes VII, Paris: Vrin, 1996, 28). Even though they are objects of consciousness, judgement, opinion, imagination, and sensation cannot be brought back to thought nor considered as its modes. Being conscious of them is not enough to attribute them to a unique subject nor to consider myself as this subject. Those multiple capacities must be distributed between different subjects, that is to say, between different levels or powers of the soul (sensation and imagination belong to soul as linked with body, judgement, to the dianoia, thought, to the separate soul). It is this Plotinian distinction between different levels of the soul, which also are different subjects of attribution, that forbids any conception of ‘subjectivity’.

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and identification.23 The hēmeis cannot be identified with a specific power of the soul, any more than with one or another of the two men who cohabit in it.24 On the contrary, it is that which identifies with one or the other, according to the orientation it gives to its consciousness. Of these two men, however, only the first one, the separate soul, is a substance, an ousia. At the end of this first stage, we can thus notice that Plotinus both makes use of the notions that were to be articulated by the ‘Cartesian moment’, and clearly distinguishes them:25 the ‘we’ is associated with consciousness, but is not identical with it; it is endowed with reflexivity, but this reflexivity is not equivalent to

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Self-Knowledge in the Intellect  219

2.  Self-Knowledge in the Intellect In Treatise 49, Plotinus distinguishes between two modes of self-knowledge: The man who knows himself is double, one knowing the nature of the reasoning which belongs to the soul, and one up above this man, who knows himself according to Intellect because he has become that Intellect; and by that Intellect he thinks himself again, not any longer as man, but having become altogether other and snatching himself up into the higher world.  (V.3 [49], 4. 7–13)

We must therefore distinguish between self-knowledge in the soul, that is to say, here, in dianoia, and self-knowledge in the Intellect. The principle of passage from one to the other is, once again, the hēmeis (which is another proof of its irreducibility to dianoia): the Intellect, which was said to be ‘ours’, can become ‘us’ at the end of the process of actualization-identification described above. Or rather, as Plotinus puts it, ‘if it is really ours and if we belong to it, then we shall know both the Intellect and ourselves’. But for this to happen, we must ‘become Intellect’ and ‘abandon all the rest which belongs to us’ (V.3 [49], 4. 29–30). The question of what this ‘rest’ is, that is to say what remains of the hēmeis in the Intellect, has often been discussed.26 I would like for my part to ask once again the question that guides me here: that of the articulation or distinguishing, by Plotinus, of the fundamental terms of the Cartesian complex. For matters are not the same in the soul and in the Intellect. I shall focus on two points: • First, the dissociation between consciousness and self-knowledge, whose formulation, at the level of the Intellect, is the reverse of that which applied to the dianoia and the hēmeis: we should no longer say that self-consciousness does not amount to self-knowledge, but rather that self-knowledge is ­independent of consciousness; • Second, the identification between self-knowledge, thought, and substance, an identification that is based on the concept of energeia.

26  See in particular Tornau, 2009, as well as Remes, 2007.

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self-knowledge; it does not give access to the essence, but to several powers and a fundamental duality; of the two men that make up the hēmeis, only the first one constitutes its essence and is itself a substance. However, the hēmeis is not immediately identical with this man; it can only identify with him by making a selective use of its consciousness, so that the Delphic imperative should be understood here as a practical imperative: ‘Become what you are’, rather than ‘Know who you are’.

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220  Gwenaëlle Aubry We read, in Treatise 31, a description of what it means to ‘become Intellect’:

This text describes an alternation between presence and consciousness, as well as between unity and duality, identity and difference with ‘the god’ (Intellect). Selfconsciousness is associated with duality and difference. We already saw above how Plotinus considers it sometimes as a power of totalization, sometimes as a power of selection. Here, it appears under another aspect: as a factor of distance and division.27 Consciousness is no longer the way to identity with oneself but, quite the contrary, the cause of an estrangement. Such a consciousness, still linked to sense-perception, must make way for another kind of consciousness which does not introduce any distance between ‘subject’ and ‘object’: ‘This is a sort of intimate understanding (sunesis) and perception of a self (sunaisthēsis hautou) which is careful not to depart from itself by wanting to perceive too much’ (V.8 [31], 11. 23–24). This non-reflexive consciousness, which also is radically separated from senseperception, is the only one that amounts to self-knowledge: ‘We have no perception of what is our own, and since we are like this we understand ourselves best when we have made our self-knowledge one with ourselves’ (V.8 [31], 11. 31–33). We must therefore distinguish between two modalities of consciousness as well as, correlative to them, two modalities of self-knowledge: in the hēmeis, consciousness is, first, knowledge of its constitutive duality, then, choice of an identity; in the Intellect (or in the hēmeis considered as identical to the first man and to the separate soul), consciousness is pure presence to, and pure identity with, oneself, but with oneself as divine and no longer as man.28 Self-knowledge can also be predicated of the Intellect itself. More precisely, it must be so, since Intellect, like soul, is a multiple being.29 But we are then 27  In the same lines, see also IV.3 [27], 30. 7–15, where consciousness is associated with logos and imagination, phantastikon, as well as I.4 [46], 10. 28–31, where Plotinus writes: ‘Conscious awareness is likely to enfeeble the very activities of which there is consciousness; only when they are alone are they pure and more genuinely active and living.’ 28  Cf. Plato, First Alcibiades, 133c. 29  It is one-multiple (ἓν πολλά), whereas soul is one-and multiple (ἕν τε καὶ πολλά): cf. VI.7 [38], 14. 11–12 and IV.2 [2], 2.40.

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Making no more separation, is one and all together with that god silently present, and is with him as much as he wants to be and can be. But if he returns again to being two, while he remains pure he stays close to the God, so as to be present to him again in that other way if he turns again to him. In this turning he has the advantage that to begin with he sees himself (aisthanetai), while he is different from the god; then he hastens inward and has everything, and leaves perception behind in his fear of being different, and is one in that higher world; and if he wants to see by being different, he puts himself outside. (V.8 [31], 11. 5–13)

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30  Sextus Empiricus Adversus Mathematicos VII, 310–12 together with Plotinus, V.3 [49] 1. 5–12; 5. 1–15. Plotinus’s answer to Sextus is analysed by R. T. Wallis, 1987; see also D. O’Meara, 2002. 31  This point is developed in Aubry, 2007. 32 ‘ὥσπερ τὸ αἰσθητικὸν πρὸς τὰ αἰσθητά, οὕτω τὸν νοῦν πρὸς τὰ νοητά’, De Anima III.4, 429a 17–18; see also III.8, 431b 26–8. 33  Theaet. 197b–198d. 34  Theaet. 191d s.; cf. V.3 [49], 5. 21–5: ‘The contemplation must be the same as the contemplated and Intellect the same as the intelligible; for if it is not the same, there will not be truth; for the one who is trying to possess realities will possess an impression (tupon) different from the realities, and this is not truth.’ 35  V.6 [24], 1. 5–6: ‘μᾶλλον οὖν νοεῖ ὅτι ἔχει’.

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confronted with another aporia: the one formulated by Sextus Empiricus, according to which it is impossible for a compound being, and particularly for the intellect, to have knowledge of itself: either it will know itself by itself as a whole, but in this case its knowledge will have no object, or else it will know itself by a part of itself, but in this case it won’t know this very part of itself.30 In order to solve this aporia, Plotinus will show that the distinction between what knows and what is known, intellection and intelligible, does not apply to the Intellect. In other words, he will formulate a model of knowledge that establishes identity between what knows and what is known. This model rests on a re-use of the Aristotelian notion of energeia.31 But it is also built against the notion of passive intellect: according to Aristotle, the noūs pathētikos receives the form, to which it is identical only in potentiality, so that its relationship to the intelligible is the same as that of the sense to the sensibles.32 Plotinus claims, in contrast, that ‘we must take this Intellect to be, not that which is in potentiality or that which passes from stupidity to intelligence [. . . ] but that which is actually and always intellect’ (V.9 [5], 5. 1–4). Thus, Intellect is not ac­tual­ized, as is sense by the sensibles, or the noūs pathētikos by the intelligibles, but it is always already in act, energeiai. But this implies that it should already have its object within itself, instead of extracting it from the sensible (V.9 [5], 5. 6–23) or finding it in an intelligible distinct from itself. In order to express this interiority of the intelligible to the Intellect, Plotinus speaks of ‘possession’ and uses the verb ekhein; he thus takes up the Platonic meaning of the hexis which, in the Theaetetus, is opposed to ktēsis as effective grasp to mere disposition.33 Plotinus opposes possession to the imprint, tupos.34 There is an imprint when knowledge is applied to an external object, which, as such, is not necessarily given to it, and in relation to which it is passive. This is why dissociating the intelligibles from the Intellect amounts to characterizing thought on the model of the imprint, and, ultimately, to confusing noēsis and aisthēsis (V.5 [32], 1. 20–27). Conversely, the interiority of the intelligibles to the Intellect ensures an immediate, necessary, and active knowledge. To think, in the real sense of the term, is to possess,35 to be one with one’s object, which does not mean to be absolutely one, for, in this last case, thought is no longer necessary.

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Will it know itself (gnōsetai heauton) in such a way that it knows the intelligibles alone but does not know who it is, but will know that it knows the intelligibles which belong to it, but will not yet know who it is? Or will it know both what belongs to it and itself?  (V.3 [49], 1. 24–27)

Self-knowledge is not empty reflexivity. It is not only knowledge that one knows, but knowledge that one is, or, more precisely, knowledge, by the Intellect, of the totality of the intelligibles and of ousia. However, neither is self-knowledge a mere addition to knowledge of the object, according to the model formulated by Aristotle in book Lambda of the Metaphysics (9, 1074b36): identical in act, but without actualization, to the intelligibles and to the ousia, the Intellect, while thinking the intelligibles, also thinks itself.37 This knowledge identical with its object is, for Plotinus, what defines truth: ‘Real truth is also there, which does not agree with something else, but with itself, and says nothing other than itself ’ (V.5 [32], 2. 18–19). Truth is less conformity than identity, self-transparency of that thought which is indissolubly the first essence and the first intelligible. Plotinus thus asserts, in the Intellect, and through the notion of energeia, the identity between self-knowledge, self-consciousness, and ousia. While thinking 36  Charmides 170c–171c. About the reformulation, by Plotinus, of the aporias of the Charmides, see M.-F. Hazebroucq, 2002. 37  L. P. Gerson, 1997, thus stresses that, in the case of the Intellect, Plotinus admits a ‘self-evident cognitive state’, and that, in this paradigmatic case, self-knowledge and self-reflexivity are identical. P.  Remes  2007, 174–5, sketches for her part a comparison between some Plotinian texts about the incorrigibility of self-thought (III.9 [13], 6. 1–2 and V.8 [31], 11, 37–8) and the Augustinian and Cartesian cogito.

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Thus, even more than interiority, one must assert the identity of the in­tel­li­gibles with the Intellect. And, once again, this does not mean only that the Intellect and the intelligible become unified through the act of intellection, but that they are immediately one and the same act, one and the same energeia (VI.6 [34], 6. 19–26). For the intelligible also is the first substance, the prōtē ousia; and, as such, it is also prōtē energeia; but the first act, which also is the best one, is intellection. And the Intellect, in its turn, if it is act and not mere potentiality, must be intellection; therefore, it is identical with this very act, with which being and the intelligible are one as well (V.3 [49], 5. 35–43). The argument of Treatise 49 thus leads to the position, in energeia, of the identity of being, intelligible, and the Intellect. Sextus’s aporia about self-knowledge can thus be dismissed. But Plotinus also uses the same means to answer another aporia: that of the Charmides, according to which self-knowledge, progressively defined as science of itself, is an empty, object-lacking science.36 The problem of the Charmides is also clearly formulated in Treatise 49:

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An Anti-Cartesian Plotinus: Ralph Cudworth  223

3.  An Anti-Cartesian Plotinus: Ralph Cudworth These analyses may help us to better understand why Plotinus cannot be enlisted either for the ancient thought of the self, nor for the modern philosophies of 38  See for instance VI.7 [38], 41. 21–2: ‘If it was only one, it would have sufficed to itself and would not have needed to get understanding.’ This point must be stressed as one of those which forbid any Cartesian reading of Plotinus: even if one can compare the Intellect’s self-knowledge with Descartes’s incorrigibility, it does not have the same systematic function as the cogito, since it is not a principle but, on the contrary, the very sign that the Intellect is not the Principle. 39  As is, for instance, this kind of relationship to oneself that the Stoics called oikeiōsis: both an immediate reflexivity and the corporeal and sentient self ’s appropriation to itself. 40  That what, as is well known, its original meaning, as well as that of the other Delphic precepts, particularly the μηδὲν ἄγαν: ‘Know thyself ’, that is to say ‘Know what your limits are’, in order not to go beyond them. Verbeke,  1997, also underlines that Plotinus’s interpretation of the Delphic precept breaks with this prevention from hubris.

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itself, Intellect knows itself as knowing, and also knows the being it is. Plotinus claims not only the possibility of this mode of knowledge (against Sextus), and its validity (against the Charmides), but that it is the very model of truth. However, he does not confer on it the value of a principle: if the Intellect thinks itself, it is precisely because it is not the first principle, because it is not the One. What is more, it only thinks itself for lack of the One.38 This is why, ultimately, the structure of self-knowledge is the same for the soul and for the Intellect. Just as, for the hēmeis, to know itself according to the Intellect is to think itself ‘not any longer as man, but having become altogether other and snatching himself up into the higher world, drawing up only the better part of the soul’ (V.3 [49], 4. 10–13), to know itself, for the Intellect, is to know its own inadequacy to the One. Self-knowledge is nothing more than a substitute for unity. For this reason, it is not closure nor perseverance into oneself.39 Knowing oneself, for Plotinus, is not as much knowing what oneself is as knowing where one comes from: ‘He who has learnt to know himself will know from whence he comes’ (VI.9 [9], 7. 33–34). This is why the Delphic imperative is, as we saw, immediately linked to the problem of the one and the many, so that it immediately receives an ontological reading: to know oneself is to be able to situate oneself in the order of reality, that is to say, both to count the multiplicity one is made of, and to evaluate the superior unity one comes from. But, ultimately, one must come back to this greater (for the hēmeis converted to the Intellect) or ultimate (for the Intellect converted to the One) unity. For this reason, the Delphic precept appears as an invitation not as much to know one’s limits40 as to overcome them. We don’t so much have to coincide with ourselves as to conform ourselves to an excess; not so much to secure our identity as to identify with what we come from; we don’t have to know what we are, but, rather, what we can be, and which both exceeds and founds us.

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The Wisdom of God is as much God as the Will of God [. . . ] Now, all the Knowledge and Wisdom that is in Creatures, whether Angels or Men, is nothing else but a Participation of that One Eternal, Immutable, and Increated Wisdom of God, or several Signatures of that one Archetypal Seal, or like so many reflections of one and the same Face, made in several Glasses, whereof some are clearer, some obscurer, some standing nearer, some farther off.42

Against the absolutism of the first cause and divine omnipotence, Cudworth postulates immanent powers or plastic natures, which operate as an intermediary between divine action and nature.43 While accepting Cartesian mechanism, he admits, alongside those plastic natures, some immanent principles of motion, which are so many centres of ‘self-activity’ and ‘internal energy’. Cudworth thus replaces the dualism of mind and body, by that of force and matter, activity and passivity, or again life and extension.44 Indeed, and this is the point I would like to stress, these forces are incorporeal and spiritual, but they are not all endowed with consciousness. We must distinguish, among them, between ‘such as either 41  See Zarka, 1997; Cassirer, 1932. Cudworth explicitly enlists Descartes for this volontarist trad­ ition: cf. A Treatise of Free Will (TFW), XIV: ‘And this is that monstrous or prodigious idea or por­trait­ ure of God which Cartesius hath drawn out in his metaphysics [. . . ] A being nothing but blind, indifferent, and fortuitous will, omnipotent. And all divine perfections are swallowed up into will.’ Cf. A Treatise concerning Eternal and Immutable Morality with A Treatise of Free Will, ed. by S. Hutton, Cambridge University Press, 1996, 187. 42 Cudworth, A Treatise concerning Eternal and Immutable Morality (TEIM), I, 3, 7, 26. Cf. Plotin I.1 [53], 8. 17–18. 43  About the legacy, here, of the Plotinian notions of Nature and logos, see A. Petit, 1997. 44  On this point, see J. A. Passmore, 1990, chap. II.

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consciousness and the subject. He must be distinguished from the former insofar as he accepts an immediate reflexivity, a direct access to interiority. But, unlike the latter, he does not confer on self-knowledge the value of a principle. In the soul, self-consciousness is neither self-knowledge nor identity with the essence; in the Intellect, self-knowledge is accompanied by a kind of self-consciousness, and grounds a model of truth, but it is only a substitute for the One, the first principle which, as absolutely simple, does not need to think or to know itself. Plotinian philosophy nonetheless appears as a decisive source of inspiration for a Modern who is also, in many respects, a Cartesian, but who found in Plotinus a basis to criticize some fundamental aspects of Descartes’ thought and, in particular, his philosophy of the self. Ralph Cudworth’s (1617–88) main purpose was to oppose voluntarism, i.e. those conceptions of divine omnipotence which see in it both an exclusive cause and a sovereign arbitrariness.41 Against such notions, he opposes the inseparability, in God, of will and understanding; and to express this, he appeals to Plotinian images:

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An Anti-Cartesian Plotinus: Ralph Cudworth  225

an active Exertion of the Inward Strength, Vigour, and Power of the Mind, displaying itself from within; and the Intelligible Forms by which things are understood or known, are not stamps or Impressions passively printed upon the Soul from without, but Ideas vitally protended or actively exerted from within itself.49

Cudworth calls this process ‘reminiscence’, and quotes Plotinus again. The fact is that one cannot fail to be struck to find here some of the articulations we have been trying to make clear earlier: the identity, at the level of an intellectual ­know­ledge characterized as a participation in the intelligible, between thought and consciousness;50 their dissociation at the level of soul. But it is precisely Cudworth’s conception of the soul which appears as the most remarkable, when compared to that of Descartes, as well as the closest to Plotinus. It is immediately placed under the banner of ancient thought, and the aegis of the ‘Know thyself ’.51 For Cudworth as for Plotinus, however, conversion towards 45 Cudworth, The True Intellectual System of the Universe (TIS), Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1977, I, 3, 159. 46 Cudworth, TIS, I, 3, 160. Here again, the formula echoes Plotinus, III.8 [30], 4. 27–28. 47 Cudworth, TIS, I, 3, 159. 48 Cudworth, TIS I, 4, 718. 49 Cudworth, TEIM, IV, 1, 1, 73–74. 50  We must nonetheless specify that Cudworth refuses to consider the intelligible essences as real ousiai: those essences are created, so that the Neoplatonists were, according to him, wrong to substantify them: see on this point L. Gysi, 1962, chap. III, as well as M. Baldi, 1997. 51  Cf. J.-L. Breteau, 1983, 105–15: 109.

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acts with express Consciousness and Synaisthesis, and such as is without it, the latter of which is this Plastic Life of Nature’.45 Cudworth thus rejects the Cartesian identification between thought and consciousness. The plastic natures are endowed with ‘cogitation’, or rather with a sort of ‘Drowse, Unawakened or Astonished Cogitation’,46 which must be distinguished from ‘clear and Express consciousness’, or again from ‘that duplication, that is included in the Nature of συναίσθησις, con-sense and consciousness, which makes a Being present with itself, attentive to its own Actions or Animadversive of them. . . ’.47 Cudworth’s criticism of the Cartesian cogito is based on this dissociation between thought and consciousness: the soul’s essence cannot be made to reside in thought, nor can thought be identified with clear and distinct consciousness. Moreover, the very strategy of the cogito must be criticized: although every thought we have is not clear and distinct, those which are so can’t be doubted. For our clear and distinct perceptions are in fact participation in the divine understanding, or the ‘first original knowledge’. And since the latter can’t be dissociated from omnipotence, there is no sense in supposing that omnipotence could deceive us about itself. What is more, everything that is clearly perceived also is: ‘every clear and Distinct perception is an entity or truth’.48 And such a clear perception in its turn is not an effect of omnipotence within us, but:

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226  Gwenaëlle Aubry

52 Cudworth, TFW, 7, 171. 53 Cudworth, TFW, 10, 178. Cf. SVF I 66 and II 802. 54  As stressed by J.-L. Breteau, 1997. 55 Cudworth, TEIM, IV, 4, 11, 131. 56 Cudworth, TFW, 8, 173. 57 Cudworth, TFW, 8, 172. 58 Cf. Principia philosophiae I, 21; Meditationes - Secunda: ‘Ego sum, ego cogito; certum est. Quandiu autem? Nempe quandiu cogito; nam forte etiam fieri posset, si cessarem ab omni cogitatione, ut illico totus esse desinerem ‘ (ed. Adam &Tannery: 27); - Tertia: ‘Quoniam enim omne tempus vitae in partes innumeras dividi potest, quarum singulae a reliquis nullo modo dependent, ex eo quo paulo ante fuerim, non sequitur me nunc debet esse, nisi aliqua causa me quasi rursus creet ad hoc momentum, hoc est me conservet’ (AT: 48-49). See on this point the analysis of J.-L. Marion, 1986, 158ff.

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in­ter­ior­ity first amounts to the discovery of internal multiplicity: far from being identical to thought, soul first appears as ‘πολυδύναμος, [. . . ] hath many powers or faculties [. . . ]; it can and doth display itself in several kind of energies as the same air and breath in an organ, passing through several pipes, makes several notes’.52 This last simile is more Stoic than Plotinian, since it evokes pneuma. And the fact is that Cudworth calls the leading part of the soul hēgemonikon, which also is ‘that which is properly ourselves’. He considers it as a power both of reflexivity and of tension, by which ‘the soul is comprehending itself [. . . ] and holding itself, as it were, in its own hand, as if it were redoubled upon itself, having a power of intending or exerting itself more or less’.53 At the same time, however, this tension is essentially a tension towards the Good, which is accomplished in free will rather than in freedom of indifference.54 In soul, as we saw, those mul­tiple powers go together with what Cudworth calls a ‘potential omniformity’, which is a power of participation in the Intellect or, again, the ‘ectypal print’, in soul from ‘one Archetypal Intellect’.55 It is in this articulation of power and potentiality that the Plotinian legacy appears most clearly: like the Plotinian hēmeis, the Cudworthian self consists of several powers, some of which are also the traces of a superior principle within it, and the means for an elevation to the Intelligible and a tension towards the Good. The characterization of soul as poludunamos is thus linked to an essentially dynamic conception of the subject: the desire for the Good in soul is ‘a constant, restless, uninterrupted desire [. . . ] an ever bubbling fountain in the centre of the soul, an elater or spring of motion, both a primum and a perpetuum mobile’.56 This may, moreover, be the most anti-Cartesian point: since soul is defined by life more than by thought, and thought is dissociated from consciousness, the subject is no longer characterized as that which grasps itself in the instantaneity of the cogito, but rather as that which continually displays its power, which ‘always spins out’ the ‘thread of life’.57 The Cartesian cogito appears suddenly, in a fragmented instant; and, outside of it, the subject has no access to its own existence. To ensure this existence, it must appeal to the guarantee of divine omnipotence.58 The model Cudworth proposes is not only different from but also opposite to the Cartesian one: the continuous power of life contrasts with the point-like actuality of the cogito, and the tension of the self towards a God whose omnipotence

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References  227

References Aubry  G., 2004, Plotin. Traité 53 (I, 1), Introduction, translation, commentary, and notes, Paris: Cerf. Aubry  G., 2007, ‘Conscience, pensée et connaissance de soi selon Plotin: le double héritage de l’Alcibiade et du Charmide’, Etudes Platoniciennes IV, 163–81. Aubry G., 2008 (1), ‘Un moi sans identité? Le hēmeis plotinien’, in Le moi et l’intériorité, edited by G. Aubry and F. Ildefonse, Paris: Vrin 2008, 107–25. Aubry  G., 2008 (2), ‘Individuation, particularisation et détermination selon Plotin’, Phronesis 53, 271–89. Aubry  G., 2009, ‘L’empreinte du Bien dans le multiple: structure et constitution de l’Intellect plotinien’, Etudes philosophiques 3, 313–31. Aubry G., and Ildefonse F. (eds), 2008, Le moi et l’intériorité, Paris: Vrin. Baldi M., 1997, ‘Cudworth versus Descartes: platonisme et sens commun dans la critique des Méditations’, in The Cambridge Platonists in Philosophical Context: Politics, Metaphysics and Religion, edited by G. A. J. Rogers, J.-M. Vienne and Y.-C. Zarka, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 173–83. Billier J.-C., 2009, ‘Introduction’ to V. Descombes and C. Larmore, Dernières nouvelles du Moi, Paris: PUF, 7–39. Breteau  J.-L., 1983, ‘La conscience de soi chez les Platoniciens de Cambridge’, in Genèse de la conscience moderne, edited by R. Ellrodt, Paris: PUF, 105–15.

59 Cudworth, TFW 19, 201: ‘That which is conscious of itself, reflexive upon itself, may also well act upon itself, either as fortuitously determining its own activity or else as intending and exerting itself more or less in order to the promoting of its own good.’ 60  Cf. Breteau, 1983, 114–15.

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cannot be separated from understanding and will, contrasts with the dependence upon a primordially omnipotent God. Finally, and this is the last aspect under which Cudworth can be considered as the heir of Plotinus, the subject grasps itself not so much through consciousness and self-knowledge as through self-determination.59 Ultimately, consciousness itself is less ‘self-comprehensive, self-reflexive, self-recollective’ than ‘self-determinative’.60 And it is finally in free will as choice of the Good, that the relationship of the subject to itself reaches completion. Thus, the practical inflexion of the ‘Know thyself ’, which we already noticed in Plotinus, can be found again here. This is why we can say that the remarkable articulation by Plotinus of the notions of self-knowledge, self-consciousness, and subject, while it is no longer ancient but not yet modern either, nevertheless opens the way, inside modernity, for a path that is an alternative to Cartesianism.

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228  Gwenaëlle Aubry Breteau J.-L., 1997, ‘La Nature est un art’. Le vitalisme de Cudworth et de More’, in The Cambridge Platonists in Philosophical context: Politics, Metaphysics and Religion, edited by G. A. J. Rogers, J.-M. Vienne, Y.-C. Zarka, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 145–57.

Cassirer  E., 1932, Die Platonische Renaissance in England und Die Schule von Cambridge, Leipzig: Teubner. Chiaradonna R., 2008, ‘Plotino: il “noi” e il NOŪS (Enn. V, 3 (49) 8, 37–57)’ in Le moi et l’intériorité, edited by G. Aubry and F. Ildefonse, Paris: Vrin, 277–93. Courcelles  P., 1974, Connais-toi toi-même; de Socrate à Saint Bernard, Paris: Etudes Augustiniennes. Cudworth  R., 1996, A Treatise concerning Eternal and Immutable Morality with A Treatise of Free Will, edited by S. Hutton, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Cudworth R., 1678, The True Intellectual System of the Universe, Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1977. Descartes  R., 1641, Meditationes de prima philosophia, in Œuvres de Descartes VII, edited by C. Adam and P. Tannery, Paris: Vrin, 1996. Descombes V. and Larmore C., 2009, Dernières nouvelles du Moi, Paris: PUF. Dixsaut M. (ed.), 2002, La Connaissance de soi. Etudes sur le Traité 49 de Plotin, Paris: Vrin. Foucault M., 2001, L’Herméneutique du sujet, Cours au Collège de France, 1981–1982, Paris: Hautes-Etudes-Gallimard-Editions du Seuil. Gerson L. P., 1997, ‘Introspection, self-reflexivity, and the essence of thinking according to Plotinus’, in The Perennial tradition of Neoplatonism, edited by J. J. Cleary, Leuven: University Press, 153–73. Gill  C.  J., 2006, The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought, Oxford: University Press. Gysi  L., 1962, Platonism and Cartesianism in the Philosophy of Ralph Cudworth, Berlin: Herbert Lang. Hadot  P., 1980, ‘Les niveaux de conscience dans les états mystiques selon Plotin’, Journal de Psychologie 2–3, 243–66. Hadot P., 1988, Plotin. Traité 38 (VI, 7), Introduction, translation, commentary, and notes, Paris: Cerf. Hadot P., 1997, Plotin ou la simplicité du regard, Paris: Gallimard. Ham  B., 2000, Plotin. Traité 49 (V, 3), Introduction, translation, commentary, and notes, Paris: Cerf. Hazebroucq  M.-F., 2002, ‘La connaissance de soi-même et ses difficultés dans l’Ennéade V, 3 et le Charmide de Platon’, in La Connaissance de soi. Etudes sur le Traité 49 de Plotin, edited by M. Dixsaut, Paris: Vrin, 107–31.

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Brunschwig J., 1983, ‘Aristote et l’effet Perrichon’, in La Passion de la raison. Hommage à Ferdinand Alquié, edited by J.-L. Marion, Paris: PUF, 360–77.

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References  229 Lavaud L., 2002, ‘Structure et thèmes du Traité 49’, in La Connaissance de soi. Etudes sur le Traité 49 de Plotin, edited by M. Dixsaut, Paris: Vrin, 179–207.

Marion J.-L., 1986, Sur le prisme métaphysique de Descartes, Paris: PUF. O’Daly G., 1973, Plotinus’s Philosophy of the Self, Shannon: Irish University Press. O’Meara D., 2002, ‘Scepticisme et ineffabilité chez Plotin’, in La Connaissance de soi. Etudes sur le Traité 49 de Plotin, edited by M. Dixsaut, Paris: Vrin, 91–103. Passmore J. A., 1990, Ralph Cudworth: An Interpretation, Bristol: Thoemmes. Pépin J., 1971, Idées grecques sur l’homme et sur Dieu, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Petit A., 1997, ‘Ralph Cudworth: un platonisme paradoxal: la Nature dans la Digression concerning the Plastick Life of Nature’, in The Cambridge Platonists in Philosophical context: Politics, Metaphysics and Religion, edited by G. A. J. Rogers, J.-M. Vienne, and Y.-C. Zarka, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 101–11. Rappe  S., 1996, ‘Self-knowledge and subjectivity in the Enneads’, in The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus, edited by L. P. Gerson, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 250–74. Remes P., 2007, Plotinus on Self: The Philosophy of the ‘We’, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rogers G. A. J., Vienne J.-M., and Zarka Y.-C. (eds), 1997, The Cambridge Platonists in Philosophical context: Politics, Metaphysics and Religion, Dordrecht: Kluwer. Schwyzer  H.  R., 1960, ‘Bewusst und Unbewusst bei Plotin’, in Les sources de Plotin. Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique, tome 5, Fondation Hardt, Vandoeuvre/Genève, 341–90. Sorabji R., 2006, Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tornau C., 2009, ‘Qu’est-ce qu’un individu?’, Les Etudes philosophiques 3, 332–60. Verbeke  G., 1997, ‘Individual consciousness in Neoplatonism’, in The Perennial Tradition of Neoplatonism, edited by J. J. Cleary, Leuven: University Press, 135–52. Vernant  J.-P., 1996, ‘“La mort dans les yeux”, Dialogue avec Pierre Kahn’, in Entre mythe et politique, Paris: Seuil, 73–93. Vernant J.-P., 1989, ‘L’Individu dans la cité’, in L’Individu, la mort, l’amour. Soi-même et l’autre en Grèce ancienne, Paris: Gallimard, 211–32. Wallis  R.  T., 1987, ‘Scepticism and Neoplatonism’, in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms in Siegel der neueren Forschung II, 36.2., Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 911–54. Warren E., 1964, ‘Consciousness in Plotinus’, Phronesis IX, 83–98. Zarka Y.-C., 1997, ‘Critique de Hobbes et fondement de la morale chez Cudworth’, in The Cambridge Platonists in Philosophical context: Politics, Metaphysics and Religion, edited by G. A. J. Rogers, J.-M. Vienne, and Y.-C. Zarka, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 39–52.

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Lloyd  A.  C., 1964, ‘Nosce Teipsum and Conscientia’, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 46, 188–200.

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Self-Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Eighth Keeling Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy Fiona Leigh (ed.) https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198786061.001.0001 Published: 2020

Online ISBN: 9780191889271

Print ISBN: 9780198786061

END MATTER

Published: March 2020

Subject: Ancient Philosophy Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

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Index 

Index of Passages Cited For the bene t of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. AESCHINES 3.30 56n.13 ALEXANDER OF APHRODISIAS (Alex. Aphrod) Aristotlecum Metaphysica/On Aristotle’s Metaphysics

4, 217.32–36 Bruns (SVF 2.473 = LS 48 C 10) 198n.54 ANDOCIDES 1.123 56n.13 ANONYMOUS Anonymous Stoic Treatise (Herculaneam Papyrus) LS 41D(1) 35 LS 41D(3) 35 LS 41D 35n.87 ANTIPATER (Ant.) Ant. 26–27 (SVF 3) 188n.10 ANTIPHON 6.41 56n.10 ARISTOTLE Categories (Cat.) 13a23–31 24n.55 De Anima (DA) I.1, 408a3–b19 147–148 II.1, 413a3–7 168–169 II.2, 413b24–7 168–169 III.2 84–85 III.2 425b11–20 83–84 III.2, 425b13 83–84 III.3 425b11–20 83–84 III.3 428b2–4 6–7 III.4 165–166 III.4, 429a10–13 147–148 III.4 429a13 22 III.4 429a17–18 221n.31 III.4, 429b5 168–169 III.4 430a1–2 22 III.4, 430a3–5 168–169 III.4 430a3–9 22 III.4–6 39n.104 III.5 168–169 III.5, 430a22–25 169 III.8, 431b26–8 221n.31 Eudemian Ethics (EE) III.7 1233b39–1234a3 140 III.7 1234a23–29 151n.13

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26.22 175 De Mixtione

III.7 153n.18 VII.12 1245a2–10 22–23 VII.12 1245a4–5 141 VII.12 1245a11–18 141 VII.12 1245a30 141–142 VII.12 1245a35–37 141–142 VII.12 1244b24–26 140–141 VII.12 1245b29–21 140 Metaphysics (Met.) XII 84–85 XII.3, 1070a24–6 168–169 XII.7 165–166 XII.7, 1072b18–17 169n.39 XII.7 1072b18–21 168–169 XII.9 84 XII.9 1074b28–34 83–84 XII.9 1074b34–35 22 XII.9, 1074b36 222 Nicomachean Ethics (EN, NE, Nich. Eth.) 1097b11 138 1102b31 164n.33 1105a 71 1105a29–35 153 1105a31–33 23–24 1105a31–35 148 1105b3–5 8n.21 1106a26–1106b7 131 1106a4–5 159 1107a1 148153165n.34 1107a1–3 150–151153n.18 1107a2–3 131 1108b11–13 131 1108b24–7 158–159 1109b1–13 23–24 1111b5–7 153n.18 1113a4–13 165n.34 p. 232

1113b3–1114a10 23–24 1119a7–10 159 1123b1–1124a20 25–26 1123b2–14 24–25 1123b13–16 155 1123b23–4 147 1123b29–1124a9 24–25 1123b3–4 24–25 1123b30 147155n.23 1123b39–40 153–154 1123b5 133n.11 1124a1–2 25–26147

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VII.12 26n.57140

1124a1–3 153155n.23 1124a2–3 147 1124a12 24–25 1124a26–29 24–25 1124a28–29 147 1124a29–b5 24–25 1124b30–31 132 1125a18–9 134–135 1125a22 24–25133 1125a23 147 1125a25–7 155n.23 1125a26–27 24–25155–156 1125a27–28 24–25 1125a28 133147 1125a32–4 133 1125a35–6 133 1126b29–30 152 1127a20–26 132 1127a25–6 151–152 1127a28–9 151–152 1127b23–24 151–152 1127b23–27 146–147 1127b25–27 152 1127b27 146–147 1127b29–31 146–147151–152 1127b8–8 152 1128b26–28 149–150 112a28 155 1144b17 25n.56 1145b21–27 65 1145b27–31 160 1146b9–10 161 1147a17 161n.30 1147a25–19 162 1147b10–13 162 1147b14–16 66 1148a17 156 114b26–27 147–148 114b30–32 133–135 114b32–1145a 147–148 1150b35–36 137 1156b10–12 167 1159a7–14 167–168 1166a14–15 166 1166a14–19 167n.37 1166a17–18 166 1166a18–19 166 1166a19–23 167–168

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1125a20–23 154

1166a20 167–168 1166a22–23 165 1166b6–7 158–159 1166b20–8 158n.26 1168a7 211 1168b31–1169a3 166 1168b34–1169a3 165 1169a32–34 131 1169b33–1170a4 26–27 1169b7 165n.35 1170a13 138–139 1170b2 150–151 1170b8–9 138–139 1170b10 158 1177a15–21 168 1177b28 150–151 1177b33–5 150–151 1178a3–8 168–169 1223b30–36 148n.10 1224a16–21 146–147 Magna Moralia (MM) 1196b28 164 1201b33–1202a8 163 1212b8–24 26–27 1213a10–26 139–140 Posterior Analytics (Post. An., PA) 97b17–25 146–147 Rhetoric (Rhet.) II.1–11 6n.15 II.4 1381b18–31 26–27 CALDICUS 220 (SVF 2.897, LS 53G) 190n.18 CHRYSIPPUS In Galen, De Placitis Hippocratis Et Platonis/On Hippocrates’ and Plato’s Doctrines (PHP) 2.2.10–11 V 215 K, 104.29–106.6 De Lacy (SVF 2.895, LS 34) 188n.11193 2.5.35 C 247, 134.24 (SVF 2.882) 204 3.1.10 V 287K., 170.9–10 De Lacey (SVF 2.885) 187n.8 3.1.15 V 288 K, 170.25 De Lacy (SVF 2.885) 190n.20 3.1.17 V 288K, 170.24 De Lacy (SVF 2.885) 189n.15 p. 233

3.1.25 V 290–1 K, 172.20–6 De Lacy (SVF 2.886, LS 65 H) 192 3.5.24–6 V 327–8K, 206.4–11 De Lacy (SVF 2.884) 188n.11 4.7.24–41 = LS 65P 34n.81 In Sextus Empiricus, Adversus Mathematicos/Against the Mathematicians (M) 7.373 (SVF 2.56) 202–203 CICERO Academics (Acad.) 1.41 (SVF 1.62) 188n.9 1.42 = LS 41B (2–4) 36n.93

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1169b2 167

2.77–8 = LS 40D 34n.82 2.145 155–156 CUDWORTH, RALPH A Treatise Concerning Eternal and Immutable Morality (TEIM) I, 3, 7, 26 224 IV, 1, 1, 73–74 225 IV, 4, 11, 131 225–226 A Treatise of Free Will (TFW) VIII, 172 226–227 VIII, 173 226 X, 178 225–226 XIV 224n.41 The True Intellectual System of the Universe (TIS) I, 3, 159–61 224–225 I, 4, 717–19 225 DEMOSTHENES 24.146 56n.13 60.31 146n.7 DESCARTES Meditations Second Meditation CSM II, 19 4n.8 Second Meditation 218n.25226n.58 Third Meditation 226n.58 DIOGENES LAERTIUS 5.1 152n.15 7.46 = LS 40C 34n.82 7.46–7 = LS 31B(2) 35n.87 7.52 (SVF 2.84) 188n.9 7.85–6 (SVF 3.178, LS 57A) 195nn.38–40 7.85–7 = LS 57 A 38n.99 7.86 (SVF 3178) 200n.58 7.116 = LS 65 (F) 36n.93 7.158 (SVF 2.872) 206n.80 DIOGENES OF OINOANDA 35.II.1–14 176 3.IV.3–12 182–183 EPICTETUS Discourses (Diss.) 1.1.5 188n.12 1.1.11 188n.14 1.1 188n.12 1.20.5 188n.12 1.20.7 188n.12 2.21–5 = LS 56 C(7) 36n.95 3.1.40–42 188n.12 3.10.15 188n.14 3.13.17–18 188n.13 3.18.3 188nn.12–13

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VII, 171 225–226

3.10.15 188n.14 4.1.78 188n.14 4.1.111–12 188n.14 4.1.158 188n.14 4.5.12 188n.12 4.6.34 188n.13 EPICURUS Epistula ad Menoeceum/Letters to Menoeceus (Ep. Men, Epic. Ep. Men.) 124 = LS 24A(1) 31n.72171–172 127 30n.61 127–32 30n.65 131 30n.61 135 = LS 23J 32n.73 Epistula ad Herodotum/Letters to Herodotus (Ep. Hdt., Epic.Ep.Hedt.) 38 174n.9 66 176n.13 67 174n.9 81 30n.63176n.13 Key Doctrines (KD) 27–28 = LS 22E(1–2) 31n.69 29 (= LS21 I) 30n.6531n.68 71 = LS 21 H(2) 31n.66 81, Usener 548 30n.63 On Nature 34.21–1 = LS 20B 32n.73 34.26–30 = LS 20C 32n.73 Vatican Sayings (VS) 23 = LS 22F(1) 31n.69 78 = LS 22F(7) 31n.69 81 = LS 21(H)4 31n.68 EUSEBIUS Preparatio Evangelica/Preparation for the Gospel (P.E.) 15.11.4 202n.67 15.22 202n.65 GALEN/PSEUDO GALEN Adversus Julianum/Against Julian (Adv.Iul) 5, 48.18 201n.59 De Placitis Hippocratis Et Platonis/On Hipocrates’ and Plato’s Doctrines (PHP) p. 234

1.7 (SVF 2.897) 191n.26 2.2.10–11 V 215K, 104.29z–105.6 De Lacy (SVF 2.895, LS 34) 188n.11193 2.5.15–16 V 243 K, 130.31–31 De Lacy (SVF 2.894) 194n.35 2.5.19 V 243 K, 130.31–33 De Lacy (SVF 2.894) 194n.34 2.5.68–73 V 254–5 K, p. 140.25–142.7 De Lacy (SVF 2.898) 191n.27 3.1.10 V 287K., 170.9–10 De Lacey (SVF 2.885) 187n.8 3.1.15 V 288 K, 170.25 De Lacy (SVF 2.885) 190n.20 3.1.16–18 V 289 K, 170, 29–32 (SVF 2.885) 191n.22 3.1.17 V 288K, 170.24 De Lacy (SVF 2.885) 189n.15 3.1.22 V 290 K, p. 172.1516, De Lacy (SVF 2.886) 191n.25

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123–4 30–31

3.1.23 V 290 K, p. 171.17 De Lacy (SVF 2.886) 191n.24 3.1.25 V 290–1 K, 172.20–6 De Lacy (SVF 2.886, LS 65 H) 192 3.5.24–6 V 327–8K, 206.4–11 De Lacy (SVF 2.884) 188n.11193n.31 3.5.25 V 328 K, 206.6 De Lacy (SVF 2.884) 193n.33 3.7.1–4 V 335–6 K, p. 212.5–18 192n.30 4.7.24–41 = LS 65P 34n.81 Introductio Seu Medicus/Introduction or the Physician (Intr .s. med) 9, XIV 697.6–8 K (SVF 2.716) 190n.17 Elementia Ethics/Elements of Ethics (El. moral.) 1a.31–3 (Bastianini-Long) 189n.16 1.31–33 199–200 1.34–9 = LS 57C 35n.89 1.35–37 194–195 1.38 196n.43 1.42–6 198n.51 1.47 198n.52 1.51–7 = LS 57C 35n.89 1.51–8 199 2.1–9 (LS 57 C) 199 4.10 201n.61 4.10–11 200–201 4.38–9 196n.47 4.38–52 (LS 53 B) 206–207 4.38–53 = LS 53 B(4–9) 35n.89 4.51–3 (LS 53B) 196n.46 7.48–50 196n.44 ISOCRATES 21.14 56n.13 LUCRETIUS De Rerum Natura/The Nature of Things (DRN, Lucr. DNR) 2.1–61 (= LS21 W) 30n.61 2.14–19 173n.3 3.136–42 176n.13 3.307–22 32n.77 3.832–42 31n.69 3.870–87 172 3.873–4 172 3.878 172 3.874 174n.8 3.972–5 31n.69 3.1053–75 172–173 3.1055 172–173 3.1058 172–173 3.1070 172–173 6 182n.23 LYSIAS 31.14 56n.13 OLYMPIODORUS

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HIEROCLES

Commentary on the ‘Alcibiades’ §4–5 91n.5 §7–8 91n.5 ORIGEN Against Celsus (Cels.) 7.37 (SVF 2.108) 188n.9 PHILO OF ALEXANDRIA Legum Allegoriae/Allegorical Interpretation (Alleg.Leg, Leg.Alleg) PHILODEMUS De Oeconomia/On Property Management (De.Oec.) XII.45–XIII.1–3 30n.61 De Ira/On Anger VI.13–15 176n.13 VIII.16–XXXI.23 30n.64 On Frank Speech PHerc.1471, Fr.12–3 Olivieri 171n.1 On the Gods 1 XXIV.20–34 Diels (PHerc. 26) 173 PLATO Alcibiades/ Alcibiades I (Alc., Alc. I) 114e 11–12 116d–e 11–12 117a–b 12n.35 118a–e 12n.35 p. 235

124b 12n.35 127d 12n.35 129e–130c 187n.2 129e–130e 17 130a–e 187n.4 130e 187n.3 131b 79 132c–133b 187n.6 132d–133c 17 133a–c 187n.5 133c 79220n.28 Apology (Ap., Apol.) 21a7 52–53 21a 102 21c-d 10n.27 21d3–8 53 21d 145–147 22c 10n.27 23a7 51–52 23b2–4 53 23c–d 10n.2710n.28 36e 146n.7 Charmides (Charm.) 159b 19–20

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2.22 (SVF 2.458) 201n.59

160e 85–86 164c 71–72 164d–165b 12 164d–165a 72 164d 7278159n.28 164e 78 165b 72 165c 7375 165d–166c 19 165e 74 166b 74–5 166c 75 166d 159–160 167c 7883 167c–168a 83–84 167 109 169a 78 169e 77 169c 79 169d–172a 12n.36 169e 77 170c–171c 222 175c 84–85 173d 85 Crito 504b 66n.36 Euthydemus 208e–282a 12–13 Gorgias 449d 75 454a 75 474b 10–11 474b–c 10–11 518e3–519a1 175n.10 Laches 192c 82 194a–b 12n.35 200a–b 12n.35 Meno 71b 145n.3 78a 157–158 84b 145–146 97a–98a 145–146 98a 145n.2 Parmenides 132a 78–79 Phaedo 57a 78–79

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165d 73–74

66b–c 89–90 78a 78–79 89de–e 177n.15 115c–e 88–89 Phaedrus 230a 87–88 Protagoras (Prt.) 312d4 55 317b4 55–56 317c1 55–56 318a7 55–56 318e5 55–56 319a4 55–56 319c1 55–56 320a5 55–56 325a1–2 56–57 326c1–3 56n.11 333b4–6 56n.12 335a4–8 57 336b4–6 59 336c2–4 59 336c4–d1 59 336e3–4 59 337a7–b1 59n.21 337c–d1 59–60 337d2 59–60 337e2–338a7 59–60 338a7–b1 59–60 339b 81 339b–c 81 339c 81 345d8 64n.32 p. 236

349d4–5 56–5763n.30 349d5–6 56–8 349d6–8 56–58 351e2 61n.23 352a8–c7 61–62 352c3–4 6161n.24 352c3–6 61n.24 352c4–6 63n.29 352c4–7 61 352c8–d3 56 352d4 63n.30 352e–4 63n.30 353a7–8 63n.30 356d8 66n.36 357b5–6 63–64 358b7 61n.24

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317a4–6 63n.30

359b2–4 64–65 360a4–5 64–65 360a5–6 64–65 360c6–7 64–65 360d4–5 57–5864–65 360d6 57–58 360e1–2 57–58 360e3–5 57–58 361e5–6 58 461b1 62n.28 Republic 327a 124 337a 146–147 343c 96 361d 92n.6 368c–369a 92n.7 384c 158–159 389b–d 20–21102–103 424a 111n.17 430 109 430–1 120 430e–431b 80 430e 79–81 432b 80–81 432c–434c 93n.10 438d 93n.8 440a–d 93n.9 440c 13 440c–d 10n.29 441e 1315–16 442c–d 10n.29 442c10–d1 15–16 442c5–8 15–16 443e 82 472b–e 93n.11 487c–d 100 491a–495b 100 494c 100n.23 496a 101 505a: CP22 94n.12 509b 120 510a 110n.16 511d 107 511e 110n.16 514a1–2 110 514a1–515c3 110 514a2–3 110n.14 514a4 115

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360e 55

514a5 110 514b 120 514b2 111 514b8–9 111n.18 515a 111n.20113116–117 515a5–8 113 515a5–b1 113 515a6 111n.18113 515b2 111111n.18 515b4 114n.30 515b4–5 112 515b4–7 111 515b5 111n.18 515b7–9 111–112 515b8 113n.25114n.30 515c1 113n.25 515c1–2 111–112 515c4 124 515c4–516c3 110 515c5 110 515c7 124 515d–e 124 516a 117120 516b6 124 516c4–5 116–117 516c4–e2 110 516c5 117 516c6 116–117 516c9 114n.30 516e–517a7 110 517a 110n.16 517d4 124 518a5–8 111 523–5 111n.19 537c 111n.17 537c7 124–125 p. 237

548d–550b 94n.13 549c 102n.25 549c–550b 96–97 553a–d 98 553a–555b 94n.14 557d–580a 156n.24 558c–561e 94n.15 571a–580a 94n.16 572e–573a 96 580b 94n.17 580d 16–17 581b–c 16

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515a9–b1 118

582a–d 16 582e 16 583a4–5 16 585a–e 146n.5 586d–587a 16 586e 146n.5 587a 17n.41 588b 16–17 591c1 16 596b 118–119 596b10–c1 119 596c3 119 596c4–7 119 596c7–9 120 596d1 120 596d2–6 120 596d7–e4 120 596e–597e 118–119 596e 122n.50 597b 119 597b2 122 597c–d 122n.50 597e 122n.50 597e3 122n.50 598a1 122 598a7–10 122–123 598b8–c4 123 598c 123 Seventh Letter 324b–326b 20–21103–104 Sophist 231b–c 6–7 231b9–c2 6–7 231d2 6n.14 231d2–231e6 6–7 268a11 6–7 268b6 6–7 Symposium 199e 75 Theaetetus (Tht.) 151e–152c 3n.5 156a–157c 3n.5 191d 221 197b–198d 221 Timaeus 45d2 204 72d1–3 175n.10 PLOTINUS

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591b–592a 16

Enneads (Enn.) I.1 [53] 213217 I.1 [53] 1, 9–11 214 I.1 [53], 1.1–9 213 I.1 [53], 1.3–4 216 I.1 [53], 2, 19 218n.23 I.1 [53] 7, 15–16 217–218 I.1 [53], 9, 7 214 I.1 [53], 11, 4–8 216 I.2 [14] 91n.5 I.2 [14], 1.4 39n.105 I.4 [12], 16.10–13 39n.105 I. 6 [17], 9.1 40–41 II.1 [40], 5.19–21 215 IV.2 [4], 2.13 204 IV.3 [27], 32.17–21 215n.17 IV.4 [28] 2.1–8 215n.17 IV.7 [2] 202–203 IV.7 [2], 4.12–13 202n.66 IV.7 [2], 5.25–6 205n.78 IV.7 [2], 6. 37–40 202n.68 IV.7 [2], 6.43–46 202–203 IV.7 [2], 7.1–10 203 IV.7 [2], 7.10–22 205 IV.7 [2], 7.26–8 205–206 IV.7 [2], 8 207 V.1 [10] 217 V.1 [10], 10.6–10 213–214 V.I [10], 12.5–10 217 V.1 [10], 12.8–13 213 V.3 [49] 216–218 V.3 [49], 1 39 V.3 [49], 3.32–33 40n.107 V.3 [49], 3, 35–38 215 V.3 [49], 3.35–40 40n.107 V.3 [49], 3.40–42 215 V.3 [49], 3.45–6 40n.107 V.3 [49], 4.7–13 219 V.4 [7] 39n.104 V.6 [24] 39n.104 V.9 [5], 5 39 VI.1 [21] 202–203 p. 238

VI.4 [22] 216 VI.4 [22], 1.16 214–215 VI.4 [22], 1.30 214–215 VI.4 [22], 14.16 214 VI.4 [22], 14.16–31 41–42214 VI.4 [22], 15, 12–13 215n.15

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I.1 [53], 10, 5 214

VI.7 [38], 5, 2–3 215n.14 VI.7 [38], 41.21–25 213 PLUTARCH AND PSEUDO-PLUTARCH Adversus Colotem/Against Colotes (Adv. Col.) 1120F 7n.18 Alcibiades (Alc.) 4.1 100n.23 De Stoicorum Repugnuntiis/On Stoic Contradictions (SR) 12, 1038C (SVF 1.197, SVF 2.724) 195n.38 Placita Philosophorum/The Doctrines of the Philosophers (Plac.) 4.8 899D (SVF 2.850) 188n.9 4.21, 903 B (SVF 2.836, LS 53 H) 190n.19 4.23.1 (SVF 2.854, LS 53 M) 203 PORPHYRY De Absentia 3.19 (SVF 1.197) 195n.41 Fragments 249 (Smith) in Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica/Preparation for the Gospel (P.E.) 15.11.4 202n.67 PROTAGORAS DK 80 A 1.52 57n.15 SENECA Epistulae/Letters (Ep.) 19.10 = Usener 542 = LS 22I 31n.69 89.14 = LS 56B 36n.95 121.10 (SVF 2.184) 200n.57 121.11–13 200 121.12 197n.48 121.14 197n.49 SEXTUS EMPIRICUS Adversus Mathematicos/Against the Mathematicians (M) II.201 = LS 59 G(3) 36n.94 VII.151–7 35n.87 VII.150–2 = LS 41 C (1–5) 36n.93 VII, 191 7nn.16–17 VII, 191–194 8n.23 VII.193 7n.17 VII.193–194 7n.20 VII.194 7n.17 VII.247–54 1n.2 VII, 310–12 221 VII.405 34 Outlines of Pyrrhonism I.100–13 = LS 72E 4n.7 STOBAEUS I.17 p. 153.19–21 198n.54 II.73,16–74.3 = LS41H 36n.93 II.7, vol. 2, 86, 19 (LS 53Q) 191n.23 THUCYDIDES (Thuc.)

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1056E-F = LS 41E 35n.87

2.51.4 182n.23

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General Index For the bene t of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Aisthēsis, sunaesthēsis (perception -  See also object, perception, See also self-perception)139–141187–8191– 2195–196202–203205–206216n.18217220–221224–225 Akrasia (weakness of will), akratic 1927–2962–6767n.4079–80130135–138142n.41150–151151n.12157– 16562nn.26–27 Alquié, Ferdinand 211 Analogy of the cave 21107–108110–111112n.24113113n.26116–118120–127 Anger 13–153061–62131–132192 Annas, Julia 12n.3517n.4330–3130n.6532n.7636n.9338–39118n.38 Antilēpsis  See also awareness, See also consciousness195–196213216 Anxiety 29–30172–174178 Appearances phantasia2–911–1242–4366n.36118–119123126152192 Appetite 1661n.2463n.2993–9598156158–164164n.33167 Aponia (painlessness) 30 Ataraxia (tranquillity) 30 Aubry, Gwenaëlle 40–42 Augustine 4–578n.229 Autobiography 20–2187 Awareness antilēpsisconsciousness8–98n.2210n.2511n.3412nn.35–3613–2022–2733–424452–54717384– 85102108n.6125136138–139145–147149–153155–159171n.1172–173175–185184n.24192195–197198n.50199– 201206–207216–217220n.27 Belief True 3–48–9131628–3436–37145n.2 False kenodoxia29–3436–3744145–146162164n.32171–172176–177181–185 Hidden 171–175173n.3177n.15178–185 Implicit, tacit 178–181 Justi ed, True 126 Berkeley 2–3 Body  See also soul7–8172135–3638–3942–436688–9196100103162168–169172187–208213– 217218nn.23,25224–225 Burnyeat, Myles 2–810n.2524n.5334n.8351n.153n.4117n.36118n.37127n.56 Brennan, Tad 20–2134n.8036n.95 Broadie, Sarah 24nn.52–53,5566–67 Brunschwig, Jacques 32n.76108n.4117n.36195–196211 Cambridge Platonism 42210 Cave, the  See analogy of the cave Character 2–39–1315–1820–3336–3742–4598–99103–105122130–136138–142145–156158–159162– 167169n.39178 Cogito 211218n.25222n.37223n.38225–227 Cognitive self-knowledge 2–39–2022–2529–3739–44 Cooper, John 11–1224n.5226n.5752nn.2–356n.1461n.2362n.256888n.190n.4104n.26106135136n.18139 Command-centre hēgemonikon38189–194206–207 Consciousness antilēpsisawareness6–7913–16192123–2529–3032–3335–363841–4472–73778084– 86109130139141152179184–5199201210212214–20224–7 Courage 9–1012n.3515–1655–5863–6581–82131

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Alētheia  See also truthfulness53132151–152

Cowardice 2856n.1164–6599131133–134148n.10155n.22158–159222 Cudworth, Ralph 41–42212224–227 Curzer, Howard 11–1228n.60131–132133n.12154–155 p. 240

Crisp, Roger

25n.5628n.60154–155155n.23

Delphic injunction, imperative, precept 1741–42457287–89105127159n.28171210213218–219223 Democracy, democratic 5995167 Descartes, Cartesian, post-Cartesian, anti-Cartesian 2–53n.44n.87–118n.2417n.4318–192841–4351– 525467–6874n.385210–212218–219218n.25222n.37223n.38224–227224n.41 137141148151n.12157–160164166172–173184–185188n.12226 Dialectic, dialectical, dialectician 6–7215977–78111n.17120124–125 Diadosis  See also transmission204 Dianoia (discursive thought) 3941n.1114244103–104176–177212217–219 Diogenes of Oinoander 36–37171–178182–183 Disposition, dispositional hexis2–3912–1315–1820–3337–4562–6473108–109126151–152155–156162– 163199–200221 Dispositional self-knowledge 2–391215–1820–4441n.111 Dunamis, dunamei  See also potentiality212216 Education 2180n.590107–108110–111113124–126 Egō (self) 3879192–193196–198 Elenchus, elenctic method 10–1157–58146n.454nn.7–8 Emotion 6–7131830n.6533–3436–374463n.2980135148–150151n.13153n.17158176–177181–182184– 185187–189192194197–198204206 Energeia (actuality) 210–212216218n.23219221–223 Epistēmē (knowledge, scienti c knowledge) 15–1661–6262n.2665–6673–767983–85159–160162– 163165–166168–169 Eirōnea  See also self-deprecation146–147 Enkrateia, enkratic (self-control) 19–202879–83137 Epicureanism 2n.329–3436–3743–4551n.1171 Ergon (function) 74–75 Eudaimonia  See also  ourishing, See also happiness29–3034–374485117 Expert, expertise 36n.9354–60146n.4151–152 False Belief  See also belief, See also 29–3436–3744145–146162164n.32171–172176–177181–185 Humility 146152n.15155 Impression 33–3436 Impulse 2034 Leader 96 Reasoning 28191 Falsehood 4n.72833–347393123132137181–182 Fear  See also object29–3132n.7436–375557–5861–6264–657275–767889–9193–94133–134172–174176– 178181–182184192213220 Fine, neness 23–263051–5552n.26263n.3094131133147–148150–159163165–166 Fine, Gail 5n.1278nn.21–22,2427–29107118n.37145n.3 First-person Authority 19–12284351n.153103130141 Reference 187100141192–193 Perspective, view 4–510–1187100102124–125137–138141151n.12189200–201 Flattery 100–101134

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Desire 213–1820–2123–2428–3436–3759n.1866n.3578–8189–9193–96103–104136–

Flourishing  See also happiness, See also 2153342–43 Foucault, Michel 211 Friend, friendliness, friendship 1522–28333743–4452–536287–88101103–104121n.47130–131134–135138– 142150–151151n.13156–158165167–168 God, gods 30–3236–3739–415374n.390–91118–120122140167–168169n.39171–174179–180182– 183187214–215220224226–227 Gottlieb, Paula 25n.5627–28130–142147n.9164n.32 Gourniat, Jean-Baptiste 36–39, 187–208 Gladman, K. R. and Mistis, P 36–37181n.20182n.22 Hankinson, R. J. 7n.2034–3536n.93 p. 241

Happiness

eudaimonia ourishing214n.401526–2729–3031n.673342–43808592–94117140156158–

159171–173 Harte, Verity 107n.1110n.16113n.28115n.32118n.38119n.39112nn.21–22 Health 33–3473–748587–95102–103147–163197–198 Hēgemonikon  See also command-centre35–363861–62178–179189–194200–201225–226 Hegel 85 Hemeis (self) 40–1212214–220223226 Hexis (state  See also disposition148150–151165n.34200–201221 Hidden belief  See belief Hume, Humean, post-Humean 51–526466–68126–127 Husserl 73 Honour, honourable, honours 1625–2630–3164–6593–99132–134146n.7147–150152–155 Identi cation, identi able, misidenti cation 1n.21731–323841–4279–81113–116118125162–163191211216– 219224–225 Identity 3–422–2335–3639–4256–5767113n.25130165–166168–169187–189194n.36205–207212–226 Imitator, imitation mimēsis)117n.35118122–123126 Immunity to doubt 3–43n.46–79 to error 101–102116 to misidenti cation 115–116 Implicit belief  See belief Impression phantasia32n.7333–3644188n.12189–190197n.49200–204206–207221n.34225 Intentionality 19–203274–7577–7983–86 Interiority 210–211213–215221–226 Internalism 17–18126 Introspection 12n.362833–3639–41125–127130134187n.5210–211 Inquiry 4–59–125363–647581145n.3147160164 n. 33 Irrationality 20–213032–3336–378796–97100102–103172189192n.30 Irwin, Terence 14n.40142n.41145n.1146nn.7–8147n.9152nn.15–16163164n.33 Kalon kagathon (the ne and the good) 52n.253 Kant 24n.547385 Katalēpsis, Katalēptic (comprehension) 3436n.93155–156187–189191 Kenodoxia (false or empty belief –  See also belief30–31 Kosman 1n.119–20232783n.8141159n.29 Lane, Melissa 1n.118–1919n.4667n.38 Larmore, Charles 210 Lewis, C.S. 140 Long, Anthony 34n.8235–36189n.16195–198198n.54200–201

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Gill, Christopher 1n.113n.3817n.4332n.7651n.1187n.5211

Magnanimity megalopsuchia24–2628–2943–44132–134140146–150153–157 Mean, the 23–28130–135 Medicine 73–74 Megalopsuchia (magnanimity –  See also Magnanimity24–2578133146–147154n.19 Memory 6–741–42130n.2169202–203214–215 Mimēsis (imitation) 118 Misidenti cation  See also immunity, error)115–116165 McCabe, Mary Margaret 1n.112n.361317n.442126n.5755n.1062n.2767n.3868n.41141n.38 173179–181183–185197–199 Narrative 20–218790–9196–100102–106 Nielsen, Karen Margrethe 2729130nn.1,3136n.21137n.22 Nomos (custom, law) 58–60 Nous (mind, understanding, intellect–  See also object1619–2022–23273944150–151165–166168–169221 Oikeiōsis (appropriation) 35n.90109–110194–196223n.39 Object Of contemplation, intellect, intellection, understanding 22–234276146n.5155–156165–166168–169221 Of consciousness 85218n.25220 Of desire 30–3136–3793 Of experience 3–436–3773 Of fear 176–178 Of inquiry 4–59–10 Of knowledge 38–394173757783100107–108125–126168–169210220–222 p. 242

Of perception 3884–85109113116–118121–123126–127130n.1190–191198–199207218n.25 Of cognition, thought 3–519–2022–232730394484–8594n.12110n.16125127–128 Of truth 4–5 Of self-knowledge 12n.361717n.43192139–41457784–85126–127141 Oligarchy, oligarchic 9495n.1898–99101–102105167 O’Meara, Dominic 10n.3012n.3539221n.30 Osborne, Catherine 140n.34141–142 Ousia (being -  See also substance169n.39212218–219222–223225n.50 Pain 7–813–1523–2430–333761–62729395–96126156171–172174–176176nn.13–14178–184198n.53202– 207213 Pathē, pathos (a ection) 6–93032n.74343742–4366–67176–177181–182204 Paradox, paradoxical 1317n.44217883116–117123125137147149–51 Parrhēsia (frank speech) 31 Perception, perceiver, perceptible Aisthēsis, sunaesthēsis13–512n.3613–1519–2325–3032n.763335–3638– 4166–677883–8593107–111112n.21113115–116120–122124–128130135136n.18138–142150–151158162– 163165177–178181–182184187–208, 207–208212–213215217220225 Perry, John 137–138 Philodemus 30nn.61,6431–3336–37171–178171n.1180182–183 Philosopher rulers 17n.4162n.2795n.1899–103105117124–128 Phronēsis (practical wisdom) 23–2426–2861–6262n.2685134–136147164166187 Phusis (nature) 58–60108–109138–139191200–201 Pleasure 7–813–1617n.411923–262932–3361–65799395126138–140146–147150–151158–160162165167– 169171174176nn.13–14181–182213 Phainomena  See also appearances7–9 Phantasia  See also appearances, See also impressions6n.15188n.12203 Pneuma (breath  See also soul35–36187–191197202–203206–207225–226

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Motivation 215–1923–242933–3437n.965159n.186263n.31649193135–137139146n.7148–154157–158172–

Potentiality dunamis212216218n.23221–222226 Practical reason 28130135–138141–142 Prohairesis (choice) 2935–36148150–151153156–160163–164187–189 Proprioception 35–3638108–110122125195–198 Pusillanimity 25–28133–134146–147149154–156 Rappe, Sara 539–40218n.25 Remes, Pauliina 17n.4339–41219n.26222n.37 Rowe, Christopher 13n.3866–67 Sainsbury, Mark 116n.34 Sartre, Jean-Paul 73 Scott, Dominic 167 Self-awareness, self-consciousness 1n.215–2023–2739–40427184–85110149–152151n.12156– 165166n.36195–196 Self-blindness 150–152156–157159165 Self-control enkrateia19–20717378–83187–189 Self-deprecation eirōnea132146–147151–152 Self-determination 218n.23227 Self-image 57123 Self-love 7684n.10164166–167196 Self-mastery 15–1619–2079–8385–86 Self-perception 1212526n.5735–3638–39107109–110115–117121–122124126–128187 Self-reference 1n.22135–36107115–116162n.31164n.32222n.37 Self-re ection 44 Self-re exive 147–148159–160222n.37227 Self-understanding 2175–7783127 Shame 5693–94148n.10149–150157–158 Sherman, Nancy 24n.5426–27138n.24155n.21 Shoemaker, Sydney 1n.2116n.33151n.12 Sage 33–364485–86109–110218n.24 Sophia  See also wisdom53145–146 Sophists, sophistry 6–71951–5254–6163n.3064–6589107118–122126 Sōphrosunē  See also temperance10n.2512–1317n.431920n.4771–7679–86 Soul Activity of the 58–939–4144165 Awareness of, consciousness of, perception of 8n.2211–123840–4183n.8151–152157187–191193– 202204–206212–213217–218220224–225 p. 243

/Body relation 7–835–363888–90103180n.18187–189191193–194206–208213–215217–218 /City relation 16–17105–106 Command-centre of the  See Command-centre, See  Divine 39168215 Development of 448897101–102149–150155–156177182–183 Experiences of 42–43176n.13 Greatness of  See also magnanimity, See also 24–25133146–147154n.20155n.23 Immortal 37182–184202–203 Impressions on the phantasia202–207225 Intellect and the 212–216219–221223225–226 Location of the 189–194197206–208 Smallness of 24–29146–147150155n.23

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Rule of Knowledge 1951–5256–5860–68

State of 27–81340–4187–94148158n.26160163–164166 Tripartite 13–1820–2162n.2767n.3987–8892–99101–103 Spirit 13–1663n.309397–98145–146180n.18 Stereoscopy 21124–127 Stoicism 33–3638–394451n.1108–110155–156182–183187218n.23223n.39225–226 Subjective states 3–5728 Substance ousia212217–219222 Syllogism 135–138136n.18161 Tacit belief  See belief Technē (craft) 55–5662n.2663–64 Temperance sōphrosunē12–1315–1617n.4319–2056–5771–7379–8082137159–160 Third person 9–11100137–138150–151 Timocrat, timocracy 9495n.1897–102 Transmission diadosis182–183203–207 Truth 2–1127–2833–3642–4452–5363n.308189–9093–94102–103111–114120–122132134140145– 146146n.7152165181–182192194205221n.34222–225 Truthfulness alētheia27–28132134140146–147151–153156–158 Tsouna, Voula 31–3332nn.73–74172n.2176nn.13–14 Tyranny, tyrant 608296 Unconscious, the 36–37180–181180n.18 Understanding nousobjectself-understanding1620–23272936–3752–556072–7783– 84909496100108116118125–128161167–169198n.51220223n.38224226–227 Unmoved mover 165–166 Vernant, Jean-Pierre 210–211 Vice 272932–338593–9598–101105131–135137146–147149–152152n.16156–159 Virtue 25–613–2123–2933–3637n.9840–4143–552–861–871–27476n.479–8285–691n.593101–2107– 10113127–8131–6138140145–57160162–3165165n.34182–3216–17 Walker, Matthew 150–151165 Warren, James 3032n.7636–3731nn.70–71 Wisdom Sophia Woolf, Raphael 1n.19–1251n.158n.1762n.2566n.3568n.41141n.37 Woolf, Virginia 85–86

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Symmetry argument 31