The School Of Doubt: Skepticism, History And Politics In Cicero’s "Academica" 9004389873, 9789004389878

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The School of Doubt

Brill Studies in Skepticism Editors Diego Machuca (CONICET) Duncan Pritchard (University of Edinburgh) Advisory Board John Greco (Saint Louis University) John Christian Laursen (University of California, Riverside) Casey Perin (University of California, Irvine) Dominik Perler (Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin) Claudine Tiercelin (Collège de France)

volume 1

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bss

The School of Doubt Skepticism, History and Politics in Cicero’s Academica By

Orazio Cappello

leiden | boston

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov lc record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2018048923

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 2215-177x isbn 978-90-04-38986-1 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-38987-8 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

For Z.

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Contents Acknowledgments  xi Introduction  1

Part 1 Skepticism and Its Contexts. The Academica in Cicero’s Correspondence 1

The Shadows of Apography  13 1.1 Introduction  13 1.2 Stories from the Writer’s Desk: Documenting Cicero’s Writing of the Academica  16 1.3 Revision, Distribution and Reception: Cicero and His Academica  27

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Counter-Figuring Indifference: Varro and the Politics of Composition  36 2.1 Epistolary Thresholds: The Letter in Its Context  36 2.2 The Letter as Reluctant Agit-Prop: The Correspondence between Cicero and Varro  42 2.3 The Dedication Letter: ad Familiares 9.8  56

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Effecting Cicero: Fiction, Criticism and Subjectivity  61 3.1 The Epistolary Cicero: Dialogue, Friendship and the Subject of the Letters  61 3.2 On the Horizon: The Shrine to Tullia and Caesar’s Return  74 3.3 Conclusion  80

Part 2 The Pedigree of Doubt: Ciceronian Essays in the Historiography of Philosophy 4

Historical Philosophy: Cicero and the Academica in Their Historiographical Contexts  85 4.1 Program Notes  85 4.2 Situating the Academica: The Corpus  89

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4.3 Situating the Academica: The Tradition  94 4.4 Setting the Scene: Re-reading the Index  101 5

Philosophy’s Parallel Itineraries  115 5.1 Where Philosophy Begins: Epistemology and Historiography in the Academica  115 5.2 The Art of the Beginning: The Epistemological Foundation of Life  119 5.3 The Beginning of the Story/The Story of the Beginning  129

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Progress and Other Stories: Historical Models in Cicero’s Philosophy  131 6.1 Revision, Imitation and Development in the Academica: The Alternative Paths of Philosophical History  131 6.2 Embedded Narratives, Narrative Inconsistencies and the Inclusivity of Cicero’s History  142 6.3 Organizing the Field: The Disagreement of Philosophers and the Carneadea Divisio  151 6.4 Structure and Meaning: Hegel, Gueroult and Cicero  159 6.5 Interpretation, Position and Segmentation: Arcesilaus and Carneades in the Lucullus  167

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The Practice and Tradition of Philosophia: Debate, Critique and Community in the Academica  177 7.1 The Academy as Theatre  177 7.2 Critical Philosophy, or Philosophy at the Limit  188 7.3 Community: Reason, Canon and Philosophy  199 7.4 Conclusion  216

Part 3 Skeptical Strategies: Dialectic, Assimilation, Rhetoric 8

Re-Configuring Conflict: Looking for Philo and Antiochus  221 8.1 Who Speaks in the Academica  221 8.2 Framing the Dialogue: The Rhetoric of Philosophy  225 8.3 Antiochus versus Philo: Fictionalizing the Drift  228 8.4 Philo and Antiochus: Profiles in Conversation  239 8.5 Parallel Trajectories and the Myth of Crisis  256

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Dialectic and Self-Definition: The Sense of Arguing in Cicero’s Academica  261 9.1 Debate and the Philosophical Tradition  261 9.2 The Academy and the Stoa  272

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Dialectical Trajectories of Ciceronian Skepticism  297 10.1 Academic Skepticism in Cicero’s Academica  297 10.2 Into Subjectivity: Doubt and/as Experience  312 10.3 Conclusion  324



Conclusion  326



Bibliography  341 Index of Ancient Authors  372 Index of Names and Subjects  377

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Acknowledgments This book has lived as many lives as its author over the past few years. The seeds for what would become The School of Doubt were first sown by John Henderson, maestro horticulturist, almost a decade ago. The ideas then took an initial orientation at USC’s Department of Classics, where I proposed to develop them into a doctoral thesis. That proposal came with me to Alexandria, where I had hoped to share my time between writing and learning Arabic. At the time, Egypt was preparing to hold its first presidential elections after the events of the Arab Spring, and the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, Alexandria’s modern library, regularly served as the theatre of further protests against the collapsing ancien regime and against the rising tide of Islamist politics. Turned away more often than I was allowed in, over several months I read and re-read those texts of Cicero I had brought with me while becoming an unwitting observer of a country attempting to transition out of dictatorship. In this context, the dissertation took an altogether different direction. After the viva, the pressure to publish and secure a salary almost succeeded in dissuading me from pursuing the project. However, teachers and friends persuaded me that there was something worth saying buried in the thesis, and, if nothing else, this was going to be a book about the Academy by someone struggling to find his place in it. Revising the manuscript for publication was a slow process with which life repeatedly interfered. Much of the rewrite was carried out during early mornings and late evenings; lunch breaks and children’s naps; in airports and train stations; at the kitchen table and makeshift desks in basements and attics. All the while, my professional attention was divided between the academy and writing about parts of the Middle East and Sub-Saharan Africa emerging from complex, often post-conflict, situations. The social, political, institutional and economic dimension in which citizens and the disenfranchised share, engage with and negotiate knowledge was a preoccupation that took ever deeper roots in my theoretical musings on Cicero. Needless to say, the debt accrued throughout this period to those who fed and guided me, listened to me, showed me patience and picked up the slack is overwhelming. In the first place, the pentarchy, under whom I was privileged enough to study as an undergraduate, set the bar impossibly high for what a scholar and intellectual should be and strive for—and why it all matters. Simon Goldhill, John Henderson, Keith Hopkins, Rosanna Omitowoju and Robin Osborne reshaped my thinking about the classical world and broadened the horizons of my interests at a time when I was growing overly comfortable with (how I

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knew) what I knew. At the University of Southern California, Tony Boyle and Thomas Habinek provided a safe haven from which to explore Roman literature and culture more widely. They responded to my work with generosity and acumen, encouraging my interests, tolerating my flights of fancy and pulling me back down to earth. Claudia Moatti was equally instrumental to my later education in Roman thought and Cicero, opening my eyes to the resources of the Francophone tradition in Ciceronian and Late Republican studies, of which she is a formidable exponent. I have benefited from the comments of Tobias Reinhardt and Malcolm Schofield on earlier versions of the manuscript. Their observations have sharpened my thinking on key issues and expanded my understanding of many of the central questions with which the study wrestles. The same goes for the anonymous reviewer, who was encouraging and exacting in equal parts. I am also grateful to the rest of the Brill team who helped shepherd the manuscript to publication, especially Meghan Connolly and Diego Machuca. For their forensic eye, I must thank Christian and Ed. Both were recruited at the last minute and took on the unenviable task of making sure I sounded English, coherent and sane. Ed’s contribution goes well beyond reining in my rhetoric. Over the years we have traded books, records, thoughts and arguments, and he has played no small part in my decision to tread this path and write this book. Finally, I would like to thank the Department of History, Classics and Archaeology at University of London, Birkbeck, Catharine Edwards in particular, for a much-needed injection of confidence. Mistakes and opacities will have stubbornly survived the care and labor of all those I have just thanked. For these I take full responsibility and stand by them alone. The list of friends who have in one way or another pushed this project through and put up with me throughout it is long. The word Cicero may never have come up in conversation, but that is also what I am grateful for. In no particular order, I wish to thank: Anna and Stefan, finest hosts and wise chaperones during the time when I was taking my first tentative steps into ­academia; Francesca and Richard, who read, commented, shared and showed ­forbearance—and never turned down the opportunity not to talk shop; Natasha, Richard, Eliza, Albert and Wilkie; Albert, for his wise words on Part 2; Alex, for speaking very fast and often at each other about French theory, the fate of education and FIAT head gaskets; Alvise, Amol, Jimmy, Lorenzo Matthew, Mungo, Ronojoy and Zanny—all of whom made the process bearable, putting up with my absences and never letting me slip away; and for allowing me to explain what it was I was doing, an education in contemporary fiction and harping on about the insulating properties of plasterboard when properly installed, Dave.

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My parents who were perhaps surprised to hear that they had sent a son to be educated away from Rome to end up with a book about its fall. And my sister. Always available at the other end of the line, her voice has been and continues to be a lifeline. Peter and Parin took me in as a son, saw in me an ally against the cruel world of Scandinavian noir and helped me along every step of the way. The same goes for Adam, Martha and Tanya, my collective. I must also inscribe my name in the long list of Classicists who owe it all, or mostly all, to John Henderson. He has read—and often enough re-read—­ everything I have ever written for an audience (initially for an audience of one: him), not least this monograph. It is difficult to characterize the nature of this particular debt. This is because I see his influence everywhere in my work, on my bookshelves and in the piles of cds and records at home. Above all, he has taught me to read (while humming to ever more syncopated tempos and incoherent melodic lines). This book is dedicated to Z. Chief agitator, resource, stronghold. She gave me space to think and a home to write in; on many occasions she dragged me out of my comfort zone and showed me worlds I thought I wasn’t interested in. Not one to fall for visions of a tortured artist and with I. and Q. on the way, she cleared an area of the attic, put a desk in it and told me to finish the book. Thank you for the Garret of Doubt and for not letting me not do it.

Introduction The School of Doubt conducts a parallel philological and philosophical examination of Cicero’s Academica, a work on Hellenistic epistemology written in the first half of 45 bce. The treatise has a unique history, insofar as fragments of two different versions are extant: the second of a two-volume first edition, a dialogue known as the Lucullus; and, forty-six paragraphs of the first book of a four-volume second edition, the Academic Books.1 Both versions ostensibly explore a controversy that divided Plato’s Academy at the turn of the first century bce, pitting Philo of Larissa against his pupil Antiochus of Ascalon. Their dispute was centered on a disagreement over the foundation of knowledge. As the story goes—a story in large part drawn from the pages of the Academica— Antiochus took issue with certain teachings of Philo’s Academy, whose tradition, developed during the school’s Hellenistic period, came to stand for the unknowability of all perceptual and conceptual objects (impressions, or visa) and for withholding assent to any such impression. These two postures, which defined Academic teaching in the third and second centuries bce, were known as akatalêpsia and epochê respectively. While rejecting this dialectical attitude as a betrayal of the Platonic legacy in which he was educated and to which he professed his loyalty, Antiochus leaned closer to the certitude of the Stoics. Specifically, he believed that the Stoa’s theory of “kataleptic impression” (καταληπτική φαντασία) provided a secure foundation for knowledge and a route back to the systematic spirit of Platonism. Stoic sense-perception, the keystone of their philosophical ­system, was built around katalêpsis and claimed that the senses granted the individual access to the truth of the world, so long as certain perceptual conditions were met. This possibility was denied by the Hellenistic Academy, after its third-­century bce leader Arcesilaus made this refutation his life’s work and the Academy’s crusade for decades to come. By the time Cicero had taken an interest in philosophy, the skeptical current in the Academy still controlled the school under Philo’s stewardship; Stoicism was still the enemy, despite a growing interest, felt most acutely in Antiochus, in less virulent forms of doubt and 1 I follow general practice in referring to the surviving fragments as the Lucullus—and Catulus for the lost first dialogue of that edition—and the Academic Books. When discussing Cicero’s Academic project as articulated in the two editions, I use the label Academica. I note that, while the other titles are attested in his correspondence, Cicero never refers to the treatise, or any of its segments, using that designation. For a discussion of titles, see §I.1.2 and §I.1.3. For the text of the Lucullus and fragments of the Academici Libri I use Plasberg (1922).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:10.1163/9789004389878_002

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more constructive approaches to philosophy’s problems.2 Notwithstanding these tendencies, in Cicero’s account the argument between Antiochus and Philo rehearsed the Hellenistic conflict between Stoa and Academy. Composed after Cicero’s Consolation for the death of his daughter Tullia in 45 bce and the protreptic Hortensius, and contemporary with the ethical review presented in On Ends, the Academica stands as a decidedly technical work. Its subject matter, falling into the Hellenistic category of ‘logic’, manifests an indifference to Cicero’s personal situation, to the reasons for doing philosophy and to moral dilemmas we may suppose he was facing during that period. The first half of 45 bce was witness to a momentous phase in Roman history and in Cicero’s life. Caesar’s victory at Pharsalus (48 bce), confirmed by the massacre of Pompeian forces at Munda (45 bce), left the Republican world-order in chaos and pushed Cicero out to the margins of the world he once led. Grieving for his daughter and in the vulnerable position of a s­ upplicant to Caesar and his faction, Cicero resolved to write philosophy—something of an unexpected turn, judging from the extent of his labors in justifying it. He began this project by studying the fundamentals of knowledge, the usefulness and legitimacy of reason and the individual’s relation to the world as mediated through cognition and perception. In light of these reflections, one of the driving concerns of this monograph is to argue that the Academica is no less engaged with its context than any other work written by Cicero in the 50s and 40s bce—works that have warranted critical attention because of their explicit engagement with social and political questions. I contend that to understand the profound relationship between philosophical discourse and personal, social and political anxieties, we are required to take on board the technical aspects of Cicero’s philosophical views—their substance—along with the method by which he explores and defines them.

2 We have no evidence to suggest that Cicero, his teachers or the Academic sources he refers to in his philosophica used the label ‘skepticism’ (in Greek, σκεπτικός or σκέπτεσθαι). We find the first attested use in antiquity referring to a philosophical movement in the second century CE and the term is canonized in the second or third century CE (§III.10.1). As Carlos Lévy (2017) has lately reminded us, branding Cicero a “Roman Skeptic” (cf. Woolf 2015) is not an uncontroversial move and one that has gained greater traction among Anglo-American Ciceronianists than on the continent. I employ the label as a shorthand to describe the Hellenistic Academy in line with the tradition in which I developed as a scholar. However, sensitive to Lévy’s preoccupations, I explore the tenor of Cicero’s skepticism and defend my use of the term in Part 3. More generally, one of the aims of The School of Doubt is to study the Academica in the wider context of Western skeptical philosophies, and recourse to the term will, I hope, keep that comparative perspective foremost in the reader’s mind. I thank Prof. Ermanno Malaspina for drawing my attention to this point.

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Seeking to strike a balance between philosophical and rhetorical analysis, The School of Doubt builds on two currents in Anglo-American studies of ­Ciceronian philosophica. One approach, which has taken root over recent decades, understands Cicero’s philosophical dialogues as an alternative form of political action. In line with historical, political and sociological readings of his speeches and oratorical treatises, scholars working in this tradition argue that in the philosophica Cicero is taking up a particular position with respect to Caesar and his regime. In doing so, Cicero is offering new intellectual paradigms through which to reflect on the changing situation and is striving to promote and legitimize a stance or course of action—he is, however obliquely, speaking to urgent problems with which he and other marginalized figures of the late Republic found themselves endlessly wrestling. This camp is populated by specialists of Latin literature and Roman intellectual and cultural history, and their analyses are generally directed to areas of the corpus that address political and cultural issues: prefaces, dramatic interludes or ethical discussions, in particular where examples are drawn from contemporary Roman history or are directly, or demonstrably, relevant to it. Studies by Thomas Habinek (1990, 1995 and 1998), John Henderson (2000), Matthew Fox (2007), Ingo Gildenhard (2007) and Yelena Baraz (2012) have shaped the book’s approach to the philosophica, from the time when some of its ideas, ill-defined and inchoate, were marshalled into a thesis proposal. Historians of ancient philosophy make up the second group. Of late, their emphasis has largely been on examining and reconstructing Cicero’s philosophical arguments; evaluating their consistency and originality; and, investigating their origin in and development through the Hellenic tradition. Cicero’s explicit dependence on a wide variety of Greek sources—the historiographical character that underpins his project of bringing philosophy to Rome— has long offered scholarship an opportunity to scour the corpus for precious fragments of lost thinkers. This mutilation of Cicero’s writings took place at the expense of the thinker and the integrity of his thought. Over the past few decades, scholars have returned to Cicero with a newfound sense of responsibility to both text and context, evidenced also in studies concerned with philosophers principally known through Cicero alone. I am thinking here of the magisterial volumes by Charles Brittain on Philo of Larissa (2001), David Sedley on Antiochus of Ascalon (2012) and Harold Tarrant on the philosophy of the Academy in the second and first centuries bce (1985a). In line with their analytical methodology, this approach rarely displays investment in the particular Roman ecology within which Cicero wrote; yet, the focus on and sensitivity to the semantic and terminological detail of the text are unrivalled in Cicero studies. With reference to the Academica, the papers collected in Assent

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and Argument. Studies in Cicero’s Academic Books, edited by Brad Inwood and Jaap Mansfeld (1997), are a fine testament to the diverse and exciting results achieved by scholars in this field. These two lines of enquiry, which at present orient Anglophone Cicero studies, have begun to pay greater attention to each other and, in so doing, have turned the philosopher Cicero into a flourishing field of research. An indication of the extent to which scholarly interest in the philosophica has not just revived but intensified is the number of monographs and collections that have appeared in recent years alone. Sean McConnell published his study of philosophy in the epistolary corpus, Philosophical Life in Cicero’s Letters (2014); Raphael Woolf’s Cicero. The Philosophy of a Roman Sceptic (2015) made its mark on the bibliography, as did Walter Nicgorski’s Cicero’s Skepticism and His Recovery of Political Philosophy a year later (2016). Alongside these important works, the volumes edited by Gareth Williams and Katharina Volk on Roman philosophy (2015) and Julia Annas and Gabor Betegh on On Ends (2015) also call for mention. Across all these publications, the political is in conversation with the philosophical, as historians of ancient philosophy and political thought begin to take the substance of Cicero’s speculations more seriously. And they do so without losing sight of the complex literary-rhetorical texture of the dialogues and the socio-political climate in which they were written and circulated. Through all these publications, Cicero’s skepticism is coming into focus as a fundamental and original element of the philosophica. Attuned to the social and political implications of Cicero’s intellectual experiments, a continental tradition has already bridged the gap outlined above. On the Francophone side, the works of Michel Ruch, Pierre Boyancé, Alain ­Michel and Carlos Lévy, to name just a few, have shaped an interpretative school that reads Cicero’s philosophy as a literary accomplishment and a rhetorically inflected adaptation of Greek philosophical models. Although wideranging in their focus, length and methodology, these studies have consistently been just as conversant with Cicero the politician and orator, as with the Platonist and dialectician. The Anglophone renaissance in Cicero studies owes a significant debt to this tradition. As these names have started to become familiar items in our bibliographies, so too have the names of German scholars who have campaigned for the study of the philosophica as a literature of opposition. I am thinking of the two recent monographs on the Tusculan Disputations by Bernard Koch (2006) and Eckard Lefèvre (2008). Their interpretations of this complex exploration of death, emotion and virtue, emerge out of a now wellestablished practice of decoding the Hellenic currents in Cicero, with a view to understanding philosophy alternately as therapeutic and as a form of resistance (e.g. Bringmann 1971, Strasburger 1990 and Wassmann 1996).

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The present study is deeply indebted to the progress made across all these analytical practices and methods. My aim has been to reconcile philosophical and literary-rhetorical approaches in a close reading of the Academica. The analysis sets out to address the work’s literary, socio-political and cultural framework, without losing sight of the way in which the fragments elaborate a sophisticated form of skepticism and engage with the philosophy of its Greek sources. To this end, each of the three constituent parts of this monograph rely on a cross-pollination of ideas and methodologies drawn from these critical traditions, explicitly building on their insights, readings and reflections. Because the monograph engages intensively with the bibliography ­throughout, I shall not burden the introduction with further commentary on the secondary literature. But while I find myself mapping some of the field’s key ­critical co-ordinates, I must acknowledge the five resources on Cicero’s Academic treatise, in conversation with which the present study developed—five now well-thumbed volumes that have kept watch on my desk as I planned, wrote and revised the monograph. Three of these, I have mentioned already: Charles Brittain’s Philo of Larissa, Inwood and Mansfeld’s Assent and Argument, and Harold ­Tarrant’s Scepticism or Platonism? Readers familiar with Carlos Lévy’s Cicero Academicus (1992) will, however, sense its influence on almost every page. When my interest in the Academica evolved into a research project, Lévy’s study lifted my horizons for what a reading of a single Ciceronian treatise could hope to achieve. What is attempted over the coming pages comes nowhere close to the all-embracing design of his monograph; yet, integral to my approach is a dialogue with the Academica about its place in Cicero’s philosophical corpus and in the tradition and practice of Greek philosophy. Similarly, Jonathan Glucker’s Antiochus and the Late Academy (1978) served as an invaluable roadmap to my discussion of Plato’s school and its legacy in ­Hellenistic and Late Republican Rome. Beyond the guidance of specialized studies on Cicero, Roman intellectual history and ancient skepticism, this monograph leans openly on the work of modern and contemporary philosophers. In the first instance, the framework of the project reflects a longstanding engagement with poststructuralism, hermeneutics and critical theory—movements that introduced me, a student in classical philology, to philosophy. Thinking with and around Jacques Derrida, Gilles Deleuze, Theodor Adorno and Hans-Georg Gadamer prompted my interest in the intersection of philosophy and literature and ultimately dictated my approach to the rhetoric of Cicero’s philosophy. Their influence— in particular, that of Derrida and Deleuze—is at work principally in my attention to philosophy as text, as the practice of reading and performing texts by  actors embedded in wider cultural, institutional and political dynamics.

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The ­argument throughout is punctuated by references to these authors, in acknowledgment of the etiology of the questions it seeks to answer and as an indication of the literary-philosophical method employed. Connected to these contemporary forms of discourse analysis, discussions of philosophy as a historically oriented activity and the relation between system and critique evolve in dialogue with Georg Wilhelm Hegel. Instrumental to the argument in Part 2 is his approach to structural issues in the history of philosophy, and the debate his schematization gave rise to in twentieth-century studies, such as Martial Gueroult’s Dianoématique. Philosophie de l’histoire de la philosophie (1979) or Philosophy in History. Essays in the Historiography of Philosophy (1984) edited by Richard Rorty, Jerome Schneewind and Quentin Skinner. I return to Hegel in Part 3, as a useful figure with which to think when exploring the dialogue between Stoicism, its confidence in the world-building sovereignty of reason, and the anti-systematic character of Academic skepticism. Finally, orienting the monograph’s reflections on skepticism is Stanley Cavell’s The Claim of Reason (1979). My interest in Cicero’s philosophical expression of doubt—not least the understanding of it that I seek to develop in the monograph—was mediated through Cavell’s study of ordinary language philosophy. The work’s intimately ‘human’ treatment of skepticism, its view of epistemological problems as grounded in everyday life and the role of philosophical criteria in shaping a sense of community helped shine a different light on Cicero’s thought. The Claim of Reason has taught me to read Cicero’s personal anxieties alongside his critique of logic and sense-perception, seeing both as conversant, expressions of a deep-rooted disappointment with ­knowledge—specifically in Cicero’s case, forms of institutional knowledge that had been eroded over decades of political conflict and had ultimately failed Rome’s establishment. I explore the implications of this influence further in Part 3 and in the Conclusion. What I first tried to capture from Cavell’s book was the opportunity to read the philosophica not exclusively in terms of a practical or instrumental set of reflections structured in order to prolong the author’s political career. The ‘politics by other means’ refrain has rightly and persuasively emerged as a staple of scholarship since Thomas Habinek’s Politics of Latin Literature (1998), but it has also proved an obstacle to understanding Cicero’s skepticism in its own right, as a complex response to philosophical problems, as well as to the challenge of surviving in Late Republican Rome. Cavell’s exploration of the limits of reason paved the way to a different approach, and I hope the pages that follow will do this justice. Perhaps the monograph’s readings would have been just as effective or persuasive without reference to this theoretical infrastructure. And certainly, a more conservative readership in Classics may well find them obfuscatory, even

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an obstruction to my engagement with the text and the details of its philosophical argument. Nonetheless, in revising my doctoral thesis for publication, I have observed a tension between its modest ambition in providing a close-up of a single Ciceronian treatise and the broader vistas it sought to open up by exploring the Academica’s themes through the lens of modern and contemporary thinkers. Whatever the element of hubris in that experiment, I have chosen to underwrite this engagement as the cornerstone of the spirit and scope of The School of Doubt. Part 1 investigates the social, political and literary context within which ­Cicero composed and disseminated the Academica. To do so, I operate a close reading of the letters he wrote about the Academica and those written at around the same time as he was composing and revising the treatise during the first half of 45 bce. In this segment, I argue two co-ordinated points. First, the hesitation and uncertainty concerning all aspects of the Academica’s editing and its dedication to Marcus Terentius Varro forms a thematic whole with Cicero’s fears for the political future of Rome and his own place within that future. Cicero’s epistolary conversations anticipate many themes of the work and so carve out a space for philosophy in the everyday experience of his struggles. Second, ­Cicero exploits the mechanics of epistolary exchange and literary dedication to weave a social network of individuals interested in philosophical discourse. Exchanging philosophical views through letter-writing emerges as a way to forge social connections and create a new sense of community amongst those marginalized by the civil war. Against the backdrop of a developing philosophical register, Cicero’s correspondence with both Atticus and Varro looks to philosophy as an original intellectual space within which to think about and intervene in the emerging world order. Part 2 explores the historical texture of Cicero’s philosophy. Analyzing the competing historiographical models of Academic doctrinal development in the Lucullus and the first Academic Book, alongside the history of disagreements between philosophers that concludes the Lucullus, I argue that Cicero advances a specific agenda in shaping the historical context of his Academic project. He examines the philosophical legacy of Plato’s school in order to situate his own work within that institutional tradition and legitimize his philosophical methodology. Reaching back to Zeno and Arcesilaus, the Academica stages a network of thinkers engaged in a debate that marks out the field of Hellenistic philosophy and defines its community. This constitutive series of dialogues centers around an established set of philosophical themes and problems. It also contends with the issue of the legitimacy of Academic claims to the inheritance of Socrates and Plato. In framing the dialogues through c­ ompeting appeals to the Academy’s authority, Cicero’s account of the dispute between

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Philo and Antiochus focuses his wider engagement with the Academic tradition and stakes a claim to his membership of that historical community. The act of performing and reading the Academica, in turn, allows his audience to participate in the kinds of debates that distinguish members of said community. Furthermore, Cicero shows that philosophy is a historical practice, insofar as the fabric of theoretical speculation consists of reviewing, challenging and engaging with the broader tradition—a packed playground of interlocking schools, thinkers and rebels. This encounter underpins Cicero’s sense of community—a trans-historical network binding Greece and Rome—and gives philosophy its unique discursive character, as a normative practice and methodology. Philosophy’s past proves to be a disputational resource as well as a way of authorizing one’s place in the discipline. Because the argument in Part 2 addresses the relationship between Cicero and the Academy as constructed in the fragments of the Academica, the first chapter offers a broader discussion of the institutional history of Greek philosophy focusing on the life of the Academy during the second and first centuries bce. Part 3 focuses on Cicero’s philosophical doubt as expressed in the Lucullus and, to a lesser extent because of its fragmentary state, the first Academic Book. I argue that, because of its dialectical nature, Academic skepticism offers the author of the Academica a method to select, survey and critique key opponents from across the spectrum of Hellenistic philosophies. The parasitic character of this philosophical practice enables Cicero to structure the field of philosophy according to a set of oppositions and around given themes and problems. Developing the historiographical approach adopted in Part 2, I address this strategy of appropriation from the perspective of the critical mechanisms of skeptical philosophy and how these are deployed in the representational economy of Cicero’s Academica. Critical emphasis on method, doctrinal coherence and the intellectual biography of the Academy’s leaders directs Part 3 to an analysis of Cicero’s thought—or rather, the philosophical and methodological position that the work promotes. What is articulated over the extant sections of the Academica amounts to an original form of skepticism, centered on Cicero’s translation of Carneades’ pithanon, the probabile or persuasive impression. The author’s views are profoundly indebted to this second-century Academic scholarch. Building on an analysis of the probabile in the Lucullus, a profile of Carneades and a reading of Cicero’s voice in the work, I posit that Cicero’s philosophy of doubt is both radical and pervasive. I also suggest that this method privileges the subjective experience of the examiner, whose responsibility it is to treat all impressions—ideas and percepts—with a critical attitude. The Conclusion explores the implications that Cicero’s corrosive skepticism and the open-endedness of the Academica’s discourse have for the social and

Introduction

9

political dimension of the project. Returning to Part 1 and the profound sense of situatedness within its historical context that the Academica continuously re-affirms, the conclusion highlights how Cicero’s political reflections are characterized by a sense of caution, hesitation and uncertainty about the future. I engage directly with the staples of Ciceronian political thought, ­principally Ettore Lepore (1954), Neal Wood (1988), Luciano Perelli (1990) and Robert Radford (2002), in order to reassess the Academica’s position within the constellation of more or less overtly political works Cicero had been circulating, performing and suppressing since the 50s bce. The argument begins with Cicero in his milieu, as seen from the perspective of his letters and his campaign to make space for philosophy in a time of chaos; it ends with the author looking at Roman society from the perspective of a philosophy of chaos, anti-systematic and aimed at destabilizing the certainties of the commonplace. Within this framework, the structure of the argument will at times appear episodic and recapitulatory, as the same themes, issues and passages are treated from different perspectives. So for example both Parts 2 and 3 offer views on the importance of the individual to the economy of Ciceronian philosophy. I adopt this strategy of explication for four reasons: – In the first place, The School of Doubt puts forward a range of readings of the Academica whose general objective is to re-evaluate the complexity of this text. Cicero’s Academic project involves a series of critical interventions aimed at undermining the coherence of Stoic dogma and, more widely, doctrinaire approaches to philosophy. The result is not reducible to what we might call with Theodor Adorno (1984: 163) an “airtight deductive system;” it is a set of rhetorically arranged reflections both for and against Stoicism and the skeptical Academy. I felt—as I have always felt about many critical studies of philosophers or philosophical works—that a tidily patterned thematic straightjacket would cheat the Academica of its defiance. So, in my own limping gait I sought to follow Cicero. – Second, as the study situates itself between literary and philosophical analysis, the argument necessarily progresses through discrete readings, which cumulatively build a case for reading philosophical passages rhetorically— and vice-versa. – The third reason concerns Ciceronian studies as scholarly domain. Through a comprehensive reading of the Academica that means to be exacting in its philology and sensitive in its philosophical analysis, I hope to show the value of blending critical practices to scholars of ancient philosophy, as well as to cultural and intellectual historians. – Finally, the three parts are written as self-contained essays on the Academica. Despite the interconnection between the segments and the ­overall

10

Introduction

i­ nterpretive agenda that they serve, each part can be read on its own. The downside of this approach, which I will do well to acknowledge now, is a certain amount of repetition. The suite of different methodologies and hermeneutic imperatives driving the analysis should provide compensation and ensure the argument engages—and remains engaging. Readers looking for a global theory of Ciceronian thought as seen through the Academica will find nothing of the kind here. The argument minimizes use of other passages in the philosophica (or the rhetorica or speeches for that matter) as comparanda to explicate Cicero’s application of certain terms or concepts. I do not, for more than an example, look to the Republic or On Duties to integrate his view on virtus (moral excellence) or libertas (freedom)—both terms cursorily sketched in the Academica’s surviving prefaces. Instead, my approach is founded on an argument developed in Part 1, namely that to adopt this wideangle lens is to miss an important element of Cicero’s philosophical project: that it responds to the fast-changing political circumstances and that, through his letters, we are provided with an insight into that dynamic. The myth of the unity of Cicero’s thought and of the philosophica as a carefully integrated encyclopedia of philosophy takes no notice of the discontinuity that characterizes Cicero’s approach to philosophical composition. Not only does the collection as a whole defy clear-cut systematization, but the reader is often told, as in the preface to the On Ends’ second book, that he continued writing as a response to a popular demand for his works. Above all, to read the philosophica as an incorporated conceptual unity must rank as a potentially egregious mistake that blinds readers to the historical specificity of the deployment of cardinal concepts and speculative approaches. This is especially palpable in the case of On Divination, whose two books bridge Caesar’s assassination (and subsequent deification) in March 44 bce. But witnesses to this changeability and tendency to switch focus, redefine terms and adapt to an ever-degenerating political situation are legion. The dialogue between Cicero’s On Duties and the second Philippic, written at around the same time, is a paradigmatic example of how urgent political concerns, primarily Cicero’s conflict with Mark Antony that will ultimately decree his execution, bleed into the philosophy. I am deeply sympathetic to panoptic approaches to Ciceronian thought, which continue to offer productive avenues of study. Nonetheless, in the pages ahead I maintain that the brief of monographic contributions to the explication of Ciceronian thought is to explain and explore the text at hand on its own terms.

Part 1 Skepticism and Its Contexts. The Academica in Cicero’s Correspondence

∵ Why not leave open the discussion of this question of the position, of the positions (taking a position: position (/negation))? position—affirmation? overturning/displacement? etc. j. derrida, Positions (2004b: 60)

Chapter 1

The Shadows of Apography 1.1

Introduction

Eight days after completing “two big books” on Academic epistemology (duo magna συντάγματα, Att. 12.44 [285]), Cicero sent a letter to his friend Atticus that was to have a momentous impact on how later scholarship would interpret his philosophy.3 Ad Atticum 12.52 [294], written in Cicero’s villa at ­Tusculum on the twenty-first of May 45 bce, seems to offer a general reflection on how the author goes about philosophizing. This reflection is condensed in what looks like an afterthought to the letter’s final section. As he fields an imaginary question from his friend concerning his literary project, Cicero talks about it in the following terms: “my works are copies, and so require less effort. I only add the words, and I’ve got plenty of those” (ἀπόγραφα sunt, minore labore fiunt; verba tantum adfero, quibus abundo, Att. 12.52.2 [294]). The Greek term apographa identifies the works in question—whatever these might be—as something of an imitation; and the brief phrases that follow imply not only that this kind of derivative work is “less” of a strain than, by implication, writing something original, but that the author’s original contribution is limited to words alone. Hidden behind a Greek word, a fictional exchange and an opaque question, Cicero’s thoughts on composition draw a distinction between the content and form of his works, reassuring the reader that he is in no short supply of style. Beyond the remarkable impact the post-script has had on how Ciceronian philosophy—and Roman philosophy—has been interpreted, the letter has a direct bearing for students of the Academica.4 The present tense of its many 3 Numeration of the letters follows the standard Oxford Classical Text arrangement in books. It is then followed by the number assigned to the letter in Shackleton Bailey’s Cambridge edition of the epistolary collection. 4 Madvig’s landmark edition of On Ends points to Att. 12.52 [294] as confirmation of how little substantial thinking was happening in the philosophica, where Greek originals were merely abridged and re-styled by the consummate orator (1839: lx–lxviii). Largely on the basis of this sentence, the Danish philologist wrote the program for Quellenforschung, the now fashionably demonized approach that reads through Roman philosophy to reach the Greek originals behind it. Behind Madvig himself were the strong philhellenic currents of German Idealism, worshipping the originality, transcendence and purity of Greek thought (cf. Johan Gottlieb Fichte’s Address to the German Nation in Moore 2008).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:10.1163/9789004389878_003

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Chapter 1

active verbs (sunt, fiunt, abundo and adfero) and its dating connect the passage to a series of letters that document Cicero’s writing, revision and dedication of the Academica over the first half of 45 bce. Accordingly, the letter has become an important centerpiece of scholarly attempts to explain the Academica’s relation to its sources.5 However, the manuscript tradition has let interpreters down, since the precise terms of the question Cicero scripts for his addressee are unclear. What prompts the reference to apographa is the impossibly opaque: “de lingua Latina securi es animi. dices ‘†qui alia quae scribis?†’,” reworked to indicate a potential concern on Atticus’ part about Cicero’s literary style (so in Purser’s Oxford Classical Text) or to address an imagined comparison between Varro’s On the Latin Language (De Lingua Latina) and Cicero’s technical output (Shackleton Bailey ad loc.). In addition, questions remain about apographa: whether behind the Greek lie the Catulus and Lucullus, or the first book of On Ends, then referred to as the Torquatus, which we know Cicero had just completed. If Cicero is discussing his approach to writing the Academica, how do we square this statement with his later view that the A ­ cademic Books are, in fact, an original? Why does he choose this unusual apographa, particularly in a context where other Greek expressions, like syntagmata and syntaxis, are employed as working ‘titles’ for the drafts? The Academica is the most talked about treatise in Cicero’s epistolary collection. Totaling eighteen direct references over a period of two years, with a possible further twenty oblique references between February and August 45 bce, the author produces an extended reflection on writing philosophy that he links specifically to his project on Academic epistemology.6 In this light, the letters negotiating the compilation, revision and distribution of the Academica offer a unique window onto an ancient philosopher at work—one “Platonists and Aristotelians must envy keenly” (Schofield 2013: 74). They also present an opportunity to study up close and from different perspectives the production and dedication of a particular philosophical text, while also exploring the general relationship between philosophical and epistolary writing in the first half of 45 bce.7 Part 1 has two aims. The first is to study how Cicero’s exchange with A ­ tticus and Varro, the Academica’s dedicatee, situates the work within a series of literary and philosophical reflections running right through Cicero’s c­ orrespondence 5 Glucker (1978: 407–412) and Lévy (1992: 59–74 and 183–186). 6 Cf. Hunt (1998: 10 n. 4) for the calculation. 7 Hutchinson (1998: 15 n. 23) has already pointed out that Cicero scholars have not yet “grasped” the “full significance” of this part of the correspondence.

The Shadows of Apography

15

of the period, as well as locating the manuscript at the heart of a social and political network, fractured in the wake of the Republican defeats at Pharsalus (48 bce) and Thapsus (46 bce). I hope to show that a diaphanous boundary separates philosophy and epistolography, as the “real-life,” personal, concerns of the letters are both the source for and subject of the conceptual deliberation of the treatises. Shying away from a confessional and documentary approach to the collection, I will argue that the letters do not deliver a straightforward editorial position on how his Academica ought to be read. On the contrary, their author constructs a dense web of postures, unveiling multiple approaches to the Academica that underlie Cicero’s uncertainties about the kind of effect his experiment in Latin philosophical writing might have, and his aspirations for its place in Rome’s changing political and institutional landscape. Chapters two and three will zero in on how the letters shape the personal, social and political context within which Cicero’s project on Academic epistemology is conceived, developed and distributed. Central to chapter two will be a reading of Fam. 9.8 [254], dedicating the Academic Books to Varro. Placing the letter and its ‘gift’ within the exchange that occupied Cicero and Varro through the civil war, I evaluate Cicero’s struggle to define and translate a socio-political agenda into a common philosophical register. Focusing on the preoccupations that moved Cicero to write the Academic treatise, chapter three explores how both the letters and the extant prefaces mediate these fears, establishing thematic, linguistic and conceptual links between philosophical skepticism, hesitations on the literary execution of his project and doubts about his position in the Roman world. The vista onto Cicero’s world opens out in this last chapter to include Caesar and his coterie, as well as the ghost of his recently deceased daughter, Tullia. The second objective is to rethink how the letters shape our approach to the philosophica. Cicero’s letters are currently undergoing an exciting critical renaissance, with works like Yelena Baraz’s A Written Republic (2012), Sean McConnell’s Philosophical Life in Cicero’s Letters (2015) and the collection edited by Francesca Martelli (2016a) restoring the literary, rhetorical and intellectual sophistication to texts once viewed as the privileged storehouse of biographical and historical data. With a view to contributing to this movement, §I.1.2 and §I.1.3 surveys the letters about the Academica in an attempt to provide a narrative reconstruction of those industrious months in Cicero’s life and identify some of the critical issues that have marred progress in this area; §I.2.1 develops an alternative theoretical framework, leaning on Gérard Genette and Jacques Derrida, as well as on the French Ciceronianist Michel Ruch—all too rarely cited in English-­language studies—in order to study these issues, and set up the discussion for the rest of chapter two and chapter three.

16 1.2

Chapter 1

Stories from the Writer’s Desk: Documenting Cicero’s Writing of the Academica

The 1990s was the decade of the Academica. Lévy’s masterful Cicero Academicus (1992) was followed by Inwood and Mansfeld’s Assent and Argument (1997) and a thorough assessment of the manuscript tradition of the Academic Books by Terence Hunt (1998). Although they cover different ground, all three works share a concern with the various stages of composition and circulation of the Academica; all three evidence the importance of tracing Cicero’s authorial trajectory through from conception to dedication as key to any approach to the text. The relevant letters are numerous, complex and often opaque pieces of varying length. So, in order to present the evidence within a structured f­ ramework, I have suggested a four-phase narrative of the Academica’s ­production—a survey that draws unashamedly on the above-named studies and on Shackleton Bailey’s Cambridge edition of the Letters to Atticus. The first phase begins on the seventh of March 45 bce. Cicero is undergoing a period of intense emotional turmoil, during which he turns to literary pursuits to grieve for the loss of his daughter and the demise of his beloved Republic. Breaking the long silence that started sometime in November 46 bce,8 Cicero writes to Atticus painting a maudlin picture of him grief-stricken at Astura: “I engage in my studies (utor litteris) with no more difficulty here than at home. But that same torment (ardor) oppresses me and endures, though you can be sure I don’t indulge it—I fight it” (Att. 12.13.1 [250]). The term “ardor” returns in the next letter, Att. 12.14 [251], in which we learn that Cicero had been working on a Consolation for his daughter’s death, that the book was with “copyists” (­librarii) and soon to reach Atticus. Cicero is writing against grief, swallowed up in his litterae, yet conscious of the futility of this distraction, from which he admits he draws little profit, only temporary solace (non quo proficiam quid sed tantisper impedior) in the face of an irresistible “force” (vis).9 Against this backdrop of sorrow and feverish composition (totos dies scribo, Att. 12.14.3 [251]), Cicero inaugurates the process of literary self-reflection that will accompany his late philosophical production ending with On Duties of 43 bce. ­Locating his Consolation in the genre’s history (Cicero had burned through Atticus’ collection of Consolations at the beginning of the paragraph), he declares his work an original, as no one before him directed such litterae towards himself. While the ability of literature to alleviate pain remains on the horizon of his thoughts, 8 Att. 12.11 [249], of uncertain date. Cf. Shackleton Bailey on Att. 11.13 [250]. 9 See Griffin (1997: 28) and Shackleton Bailey (ad loc.) on Att. 12.14 [251]. Both understand Cicero’s emphasis on writing as a signal that he had begun work on other treatises.

The Shadows of Apography

17

therapy has to make space for a different order of concern, one that takes shape in the historically rooted aesthetic ambition of Cicero.10 Between the eighth of March and the first open discussion of the Epicurus on the sixteenth (Att. 12.12.2 [259]),11 Cicero rehearses many of the themes of the earlier letters, from his solitude and the limited comfort litterae offer him, to the dominant place literature occupies in his routine—“my every conversation (sermo) is with books” (Att. 12.16 [253]). On the day before the Epicurus is mentioned, in response to Atticus’ complaint that Cicero risks being criticized for indulging his grief, the author claims that literature is, at the very least, the perfect disguise for sorrow (dissimulatio is a theme of these letters) and he asks Atticus for information on Roman exempla “relevant to the treatise on the alleviation of pain” (Att. 12.20.2 [258]).12 Over this short period we see the development of a further number of key themes that balance therapeutic and literary concerns. Writing is a good cover for a desperate man, a worthy deception; writing is also reflection, a process of continuous improvement and selfcriticism. The fact that the Consolation is almost ready for distribution does not diminish Cicero’s interest in the topic, which he continues to investigate; he also dwells on the form of philosophical composition, as he discusses the Epicurus and promises to do things differently “in the future with respect to the type of characters” (hoc genus personarum, Att. 12.12.2 [259]) he picks for his cast. The letter introduces Cicero’s concern with his choice of protagonists, and it does so using Greek expressions (μεθαρμόσομαι; ἀνεμέσητον γάρ) and voicing the consideration that using dead actors (antiquos) frees him from the nuisance of having to please live ones. Reid (1885: 29) locates the first “trace of any intention” to write about the Academy in Att. 12.23.2 [262]. Cicero asks Atticus “why” (quae causa) an Athenian embassy of philosophers was sent to Rome in 155 bce, naming specifically the Academic Carneades; “what was the controversy about” (quae controversia); who was the leading Epicurean; and, who were “the famous political theorists in Athens” (Athenis πολιτικοὶ inlustres) at the time—all historical details relevant to the Lucullus, particularly the narrative vignette at Luc. 137. ­Accompanying this request, and so the possible inception of his Academic project, is the profession of an increased sense of isolation and collapse, driven by the demise of institutions that scaffolded Cicero’s sense of self. Without 10 11 12

Cicero compares the literary value of his Consolation with the tradition and its therapeutic efficacy with Brutus’ litterae at Att. 12.13.1 [250] and 12.14.4 [251]. See Wilcox (2005a and 2005b). Probably an early version of On Ends; cf. Ruch (1958a: 153 and 161). This conversation on exempla of loss in Roman history continues in Att. 12.22.2 [261] and 12.24.2-3 [263].

18

Chapter 1

the forum at the center of Cicero’s world, his “house” (domus), the “law courts” (iudicia) and the “senate house” (curia) mean nothing to him (Att. 12.21.5 [260] and 12.23.1 [262]). Rome’s spaces lose all their significance in Caesar’s new world and are populated by men whose gaze Cicero cannot meet with ease (aequo animo). There can be no return to the forum—there no longer is a forum— just as there can be no subjection to the judgment of those who now occupy it. Cicero shakes off their criticism, telling Atticus he stands as his own judge (meo iudicio), under the direction of those “doctissimi homines,” whose work he reads, drinking it as medicine (medicina, remediis), and “incorporates” into his own (Att. 12.21.5 [260]). The expression “in mea etiam scripta transtuli,” referring to the transfer or incorporation of the writings of the wisest men into Cicero’s own, constitutes the first reference to Cicero’s method of philosophical composition, looking forward to Att. 12.52.3 [294] with which we began this chapter. It also introduces the verb (transfero) that will describe on three occasions the rewriting of the Academica.13 Furthermore, it is the first time since the Republican defeat at Thapsus that Cicero shares with Atticus his belief that philosophy should be a key ingredient in shaping his socio-political orientation. By the middle of March 45 bce, philosophy is firmly instituted as therapy for his loss, an arena for intellectual dialogue both with the past and with a growing Roman audience, while also emerging as an important aspect of his social and political agenda. A flurry of letters starting on the thirteenth of May delineates the next phase of composition—a phase that begins with the announcement to Atticus that Cicero had finished “two big books” (duo magna συντάγματα, Att.12.44 [285]). Around the time, it seems that Cicero is developing and sharing other projects with his correspondent. He refers to these drafts either through Greek terms like syntagmata and apographa (Att. 12.52 [294]) or by their titular characters, like Torquatus, Catulus and Lucullus. He adds “new prefaces” (nova prooemia) to the Catulus and Lucullus on the twenty-ninth (Att. 13.32.3 [305]) and alludes to the early stages of a next project, which he describes in Greek as a “πολιτικὸν σύλλογον” (a political conference, Att. 13.30.2 [303]). He ­acknowledges ­Aristotle’s student Dicaearchus as a key influence on this treatise. But the work is soon to be scrapped.14 13 14

Att. 13.13-14 [321], 13.16 [323] and 13.12.2 [320]. Att. 12.21 [260] has been widely overlooked in the literature on the Academica. In all likelihood, the Torquatus is either a rewrite of the first book of On Ends, earlier titled Epicurus, as argued by Shackleton Bailey ad loc.; or an expanded version, so books one and two of On Ends, as argued by Ruch (1958a: 153 and 162–164). On Cicero’s Dicaearchan parenthesis, see McConnell (2015: 115–160).

The Shadows of Apography

19

This stage of authorial activity is characterized by an opaque conceptualization of Cicero’s literary production. Terms like συντάγματα, ἀπόγραφα and σύνταξις require a degree of interpretation on the part of the reader, who is asked to infer from the context what texts lie behind them. As noted in the introduction to the chapter, syntagma and apographa indicate a collection of writings, probably a combination of some early versions of On Ends and Academica, while syntaxis is used as title both for On Ends (περὶ τελῶν σύνταξιν, Att. 13.12.3 [320]) and the Academica (implied with Ἀκαδημικὴν in the same sentence of Att. 13.12.3 [320]; also Ἀκαδημικὴν σύνταξιν, Att. 13.16.1 [323]).15 Cicero insists on Greek monikers, which he rarely repeats, preferring to use cognates or truncating the label altogether; and their referents are often vague. In this fluid referential framework, the question of the Academica’s established “title,” as Terence Hunt puts it (1998: 13–16), appears extraneous and anachronistic. Between the end of March and the first ten days of May Cicero offers a panoramic view of his intellectual labors that shape a literary context for the A ­ cademica.16 On the one hand, he relentlessly pursues the apology for his grief, using writing both as therapy and as a public statement of his recovery. At Att. 12.38a.1 [279] and 12.40.2 [281] he boasts that the literary feats he was accomplishing during the period of mourning could not have been achieved by one who indulged unrestrainedly in grief, an accusation that Atticus suggests was not uncommon to hear among Cicero’s detractors. Philosophy is therefore presented as a sign of his re-integration into a productive life. Besides, Cicero considers himself above his critics, whom he challenges to read as much as he is writing. His time in the library is further defined as a helpful “diversion from sorrow” (aberratio a dolore) and worthy of his status because “especially fitting for a free man” (maxime liberalis, Att. 12.38a.1 [279]). But these justifications are continually revised, and in a letter dating to the twenty-fourth of March, Cicero distinguishes between “anguish” (dolor) and its outward expression (maeror), indicating that the Consolation only had a cosmetic effect. The letter also underlines the extensive and pervasive force of that anguish in Cicero’s life, as he links grief over Tullia’s death to his “mourning for the republic” (lugere rem publicam, Att. 12.28.2 [267]). The outward appearance of these parallel sorrows are a significant concern for Cicero, Atticus, his inner audience and the public at large, as we shall discuss later on in Part I, when studying his a­ ttempts to build a shrine for his daughter and reach out to Rome’s leading men with his treatises. 15 16

On syntagmata/syntaxis, see Reid (1885: 30–1) and Ruch (1958a: 153–155). In April the correspondence was interrupted because Cicero was with Atticus at his villa, where he enjoyed “thirty days in [his friend’s] garden,” Att. 12.40.2 [281].

20

Chapter 1

On the other hand, Cicero begins to emphasize an explicit and controversial political component in his literary activity. His work is not limited to brooding consolations or explorations of ethical problems, but it turns to political philosophy with the express aim of opening a dialogue with the Caesarian camp. The coda to ad Atticum 12.38a.2 [279] of the seventh of May points the way. Cicero mentions his admiration for a work by the founder of the Cynic school, Antisthenes, the title of which is Cyrus. The numeration following the title suggests the second of two dialogues Antisthenes had written on the Persian king, the subtitle of which is “On Kingship” (περὶ βασιλείας).17 The reference looks forward to Cicero’s literary attempt at a rapprochement with Caesar, a “letter of advice” (συμβουλευτικóν)—a “kingship tract,” as McConnell (2014: 198) has recently described it—modelled on Aristotle’s letter to Alexander (Att. 12.40.2 [281]; cf. 13.28.2-3), that will frustrate Cicero for the month to come and ultimately be discarded. Greek philosophical models guide Cicero’s effort to open and participate in a political debate about—and with—Caesar, his circle of collaborators (two of whom, Oppius and Balbus, censure the letter) and Rome’s leadership.18 This debate also encompasses a review of contemporary works that react to Cicero’s eulogy of Cato (laus Catonis), written in the wake of the great Republican’s suicide: a pamphlet by Caesar’s lieutenant Hirtius, also described as an anthology of “Cato’s vices” (vitia Catonis), a “letter” (epistulam) or “rough draft” (πρόπλασμα) of Caesar’s Anticato, and the two-book Anticato itself (Att. 12.40.1 [281] and 12.41.4 [283]).19 This exchange between once opposing camps emerges as a guarded pamphlet war, staging Cicero as a peripheral thinker in search of a meaningful dialogue with Caesar. Efforts to strike up that conversation consist in missives that ultimately express a failure to compose and to speak directly; the letters, in fact, co-opt literary and historical parallels that never quite fit and are eventually cast off; and the dialogue is relayed through minor figures and intermediaries. Phase three encompasses the revision of the Academica. Both Att. 13.16 [323] of the twenty-sixth of June and 13.19 [326] of the twenty-ninth describe the transition from the first edition to the third, from the Catulus and Lucullus to the Academic Books. On his arrival at Arpinum on the twenty-second, Cicero decides to replace his original Academic interlocutors, Catulus and Lucullus, with Cato and Brutus (Att. 13.16 [323]). However, soon thereafter, ­prompted 17 18

19

For a list of Antisthenes’ works, see Diogenes Laertius’ Lives 6.1.5-17. McConnell (2014: 195–213) offers a sensitive account of Cicero’s philosophical agenda in composing the letter and its trajectory from the hopeful act of a good citizen to its cold reception, and the admission that neither the letter nor its sources had any place in C ­ aesar’s Rome. See Damon (2008) for a different view. On Cicero’s Cato, see Jones (1970) and Wassmann (1996: 139–159).

The Shadows of Apography

21

by Atticus’ suggestion to find a place for Varro in his treatises, Cicero rewrites the work to cast his friend and contemporary in the leading role. It is Catulus’ and Lucullus’ perceived “lack of experience in these matters” (in iis rebus ἀτριψία) and “ignorance” (ἀπαιδευσία) that initially persuade Cicero to redraft. He completes the first revision within a few days of his arrival. The second and final edit is penned a few days later, animated by the idea of a dedication to Varro and the latter’s illustrious philosophical pedigree. Varro’s suitability is addressed as a key theme of the revision at Att. 13.16.1 [323] and again at 13.19.5 [326], where his affiliation to the first-century bce Academic Antiochus of ­Ascalon makes him an ideal spokesman for the position “Cicero” will attack in the Academic Books. The enthusiasm drives Cicero to celebrate ­Atticus’ suggestion as divinely inspired (ἕρμαιον). Several details that emerge in the above-­mentioned accounts of the redraft are anticipated in three shorter letters ­dating to the twenty-third, twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of June (Att. 13.12 [320], 13.1-2 [321] and 13.14-15 [322] respectively). Indeed, the day after he ­arrives in his hometown of Arpinum, Cicero airs the idea of rethinking the Academica with Varro as protagonist. This intention stems from his concern that Catulus and Lucullus are “aristocrats but not scholarly” (homines nobiles sed nullo modo philologi). Varro, in contrast, is a contemporary with an established philosophical profile; an author, who, incidentally, also “endorses” ­(probat) ­Antiochus’ ideas (Antiochia, Att. 13.12.3 [320]).20 The letter of the twenty-third of June articulates a complex literary frame for the edits. After two short lines promoting Atticus to the role of “publicist” (praeconium) on the back of his success plugging the defense of Ligarius (Att. 13.12.2 [320]), Cicero discusses his abortive exchange of dedications with Varro. Placing this trade within a longer history of composition, and alluding to A ­ tticus’ suggestion in 54 bce to find space for Varro in the first wave of ­philosophica (Att. 4.16.2 [89]), Cicero indicates that his previous “orations or other works of that kind” (orationes aut aliquid id genus) did not offer a fitting template into which he could “weave” (intexere) Varro. But reciprocity and genre take a new turn in the 40s bce: even before Cicero begins a course of “more literary” (φιλολογώτερα) treatises in a genus more appropriate for a Varro, his intellectual counterpart “had announced a pretty major and weighty dedication” (denuntiaverat magnam sane et gravem προσφώνησιν). Despite his “constant agitating” (adsiduo cursu), Varro comes up with nothing in two years; all the while, Cicero is preparing his reciprocating gesture (me parabam ad id quod ille mihi misisset). This emphasis on mistiming and preparation allows for the 20

Varro must have been on Cicero’s mind well before late June if we accept Shackleton Bailey’s emendation of Att. 12.52.3 [294].

22

Chapter 1

letter to frame the interchange as one between the blundering comic Kallipides and Hesiod, Cicero’s paradigm of reciprocity (Att. 13.12.3 [320]).21 After the Hesiodic parallel, Cicero interweaves his thoughts on On Ends (here: περὶ Τελῶν σύνταξιν) with those on the Academica. At once, the expanding network of dedications interlinking his late philosophical production comes into focus: Brutus is identified as the recipient of his ethics project, and Varro finds space as the dedicatee for the treatise on Academic epistemology. The connection between the two works is highlighted by the grammatical dependence of “illam Άκαδημικὴν” on “σύνταξιν” (cf. Att. 13.16.1 [323]), a construction that underlines the extent to which Cicero thought about and read these contemporaneous treatises in each other’s light. This attitude is reflected in the way he relates to his writing. By informing Atticus that he was especially keen on On Ends (sane mihi probatam), he inaugurates an aesthetic approach to his writing that he pursues by voicing his belief that the Academica is a tract that requires “litterateurs” (philologi; acute loquuntur). In this context, there also emerges the fretfulness about Atticus’ endorsement of dedications: ­Cicero receives a positive response with regard to On Ends, however circumspect (idque tu eum non nolle mihi scripsisti), but he is still eagerly waiting for Atticus’ nod to direct his Academic project to Varro. The search for that approval, a pursuit that will reach an obsessive intensity over the following month, underscores the extent to which these literary offerings are not solo productions, but rooted in social networks. Over the next couple of days, the aesthetic judgment and anxiety over Atticus’ sanction gain prominence. Att. 13.14-15 [322] is the first salvo in the grinding battle to win Atticus over. In a handful of short phrases distributed across the letter’s four sections, Cicero puts the onus on Atticus to consider the ­appropriateness of the dedication and how Varro might feel about it, inviting his correspondent to share the reason for his initial suggestion and even offering the option of another change of names: “I wish you would consider this matter more closely: whether you think it right to dedicate this book I’ve just finished to Varro” (illud etiam atque etiam consideres velim, placeatne tibi mitti ad Varronem quod scripsimus). Significantly, Cicero implicates Atticus directly (etsi etiam ad te aliquid pertinent) by including him in the dialogue as “third speaker” (ei dialogo adiunctum esse tertium, Att. 13.14-15.1 [322]; cf. Att. 13.19.3 [326]). From this point onwards, there is hardly

21

The Hesiodic verse cited in the letter, Op. 350, establishes the duty to reciprocate and is behind the promise Cicero makes to Atticus in the preface to the Brutus (16). On the influence of this archaic paradigm on Republican Rome see Stroup (2010: chapter 2).

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a letter that does not exhibit a similar state of mind; and many do only that (Att. 13.22 [329], 13.23 [331], 13.24 [332] and 13.25 [333]). Att. 13.14-15 [322] develops two further perspectives on the dedication. The first involves the relation between amicitia and dedication, as Cicero suspects that it was jealousy towards Brutus that prompted Varro to want a work dedicated to himself.22 The hypothesis makes the rewrite more than an issue of reciprocity between two authors, but one of hierarchy of privileges among amici expressed by the circulation of literary works. In the next section, in fact, Cicero expands the circuit by turning to another request he has difficulty in satisfying—a demand made from within the “Trojan” or Caesarean camp by Dolabella, for which Cicero and Atticus agree “something of a more general nature and with a more political orientation” (κοινότερα quaedam et πολιτικώτερα, Att. 13.10.2 [318]) would be appropriate. While the first perspective orients a sociological approach to philosophical production, the second commands an overtly aesthetic one, centered on the originality and form of the revised Academic Books. In exploring details of the rewrite, Cicero tells Atticus that the Academica had gone “from two to four books” (ex duobus libris… in quattuor). He also tells his friend that, although “these volumes are altogether greater than the previous edition, nonetheless much was edited out” (grandiores sunt omnino quam erant illi sed tamen multa detracta). Exemplifying Cicero’s elusive approach, the expression plays with the image of volume and abundance, while reflecting on the tautness of argument and thrust. At the end of the section, the author winds his way back to the work’s new form, with a tricolon celebrating his achievement as “more brilliant, more succinct, better” (splendidiora, breviora, meliora). All three comparatives, particularly “breviora,” return to the play of quality and quantity, content and form, which opened his reflection. They also serve to underline the originality that he attributes to the Academic Books, as “nothing out there exists in this sort of genre that is comparable, not even among the Greeks” (in tali genere ne apud Graecos quidem simile quicquam, Att. 13.13-14.1 [321]). The distinctiveness of the four-volume set emerges from a generic comparison with Greek works, securing a place for the Academic treatise on the horizon of Cicero’s philosophy and providing the background against which his own production begins to take shape. The fourth phase begins once the revision is finalized and culminates in Varro’s reception of the four volumes (Att. 13.44 [336]); it includes the dedication letter, Fam. 9.8 [254]. Three themes continue to develop throughout this period, framing the presentation and delivery of the treatise. Concern with the formal, 22

Jealousy returns at Att. 13.18 [325].

24

Chapter 1

literary, qualities of the Academic Books is a primary topic of reflection for the author, who on the twenty-eighth of June celebrates his “artful little books” (sane argutulos libros, Att. 13.18 [325]). On the next day, after a momentary hesitation about how well he believes the work turned out (nescio quam bene), Cicero stresses that he could not have done a more “accurate” job (ita accurate ut nihil posset supra) in completing a “comprehensive review of the academic question” (academicam omnem quaestionem, Att. 13.19.3 [326]). Fullness and precision are accompanied by Cicero’s reassurance that the work amounts to a stylistic coup: “Antiochus’ arguments,” he observes, “are really quite persuasive” (sunt vehementer πιθανὰ Antiochia), and the “oratorical elegance” (nitorem orationis), on which his reputation is founded, is not only on show, but breathes new life into the acumen of his erstwhile teacher, Antiochus (Att. 13.19.5 [326]). A few days later he will proclaim that “there is nothing more elegant than those books” (nihil est enim elegantius illis, Att. 13.25.3 [333]). Recognition of the treatise’s quality is linked to discussions of genre, which comes into view as a second central concern of the fourth phase. Picking up on Att. 13.13-14.1-2 and 13.12.3 [320], and in response to those who critique the inclusion of a distinguished contemporary like Varro as opportunism, Att.13.19 [326] develops Cicero’s thoughts on the formal possibilities that adoption of the “Aristotelian style” (Ἀριστοτέλειον morem) of philosophical dialogue entail. In broad brush strokes, Cicero contrasts the use of Aristotle and Heraclides of Pontus as literary-philosophical models, with the former offering him the opportunity to include contemporaries—and, so, himself as interlocutor. While Heraclidean dialogue implies a historical setting with historical characters, the Aristotelian template demands present-day reference points. Cicero makes no secret of what this means for the philosophica. Aristotle’s theatre of philosophy provides him with the chance to break out of the anonymity imposed by Heraclides dialogue; it represents the platform on which he can engage directly with his generation and, crucially, give his own voice greater prominence. In fact, the new form seems to oblige Cicero to write himself in as protagonist.23 The contrast between Greek models offers Cicero a shorthand to categorize his philosophical output into two groups: the early works of the 50s bce, including the Republic and On the Orator, in which Heraclides dictates the choice of older characters and, in turn, consigns him to a non-speaking part (eae personae sunt ut mihi tacendum fuerit; puero me hic sermo inducitur, 23

See Zanatta’s edition of Aristotle’s dialogues (2008); on Heraclides of Pontus see Schütrumpf’s text and translation (2008), along with Fortenbaugh and Penderer (2009). The latter collection contains an article by Matthew Fox on the dialogue form (pp. 41–57). For a deeper dive, see Gottschalk (1980) and Wehrli (1969).

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25

ut nullae esse possent partes meae); and, the Aristotelian departure of the mid-40s bce, exemplified at the time of Att. 13.19 by On Ends (Att. 13.19.4 [326]).24 Apology for the switch of literary codes maps onto the second wave of ­philosophica’s generic and socio-political considerations, both of which center on Cicero’s refusal to be a “non-speaking part” (κωφὸν πρόσωπον) against Atticus’ advice to make Cotta Varro’s co-protagonist (Att. 13.19.3 [326]). In Aristotle’s footsteps, our author takes the stage in his philosophical ruminations and assumes the “commanding place” (principatus) in the dialogues, under no illusion that using his own generation and his personal authority might arouse resentment. So, Cicero defends his choice of Republican leaders in On Ends—namely, L. Torquatus, M. Cato and M. Piso—by pointing out that their recent death will protect the work from jealous responses (ἀζηλοτύπητον). The generic choices of the 40s bce, in other words, reflect Cicero’s determination to find space for his own voice in the philosophical fictions. This is a new commitment that has the potential to upset the society in which the works will be distributed. And while On Ends ostensibly manages the risk by involving the recently deceased, the Academic Books are thrust into this envious society on their own.25 Along with style and genre, Varro’s reception is the third key preoccupation of this phase. Cicero continually pressures Atticus to answer his concerns about the dedication. The earlier insistent calls to think about the implications of this gift quickly become invitations to discuss the issue viva voce (Att. 13.18 [325], 13.19.5 [326] and 13.22.3 [329]). Finally, the invitation becomes a total delegation of responsibility in favor of Atticus. The question of distribution and “publication” is linked to the role his correspondent plays in the circulation of the philosophica. In the same letters in which Cicero complains that unfinished and unauthorized copies of his works in Atticus’ possession have ended up with Balbus and Caerellia (Att. 13.21a.1 [327] and 13.22.3 [329]), he also eagerly instructs his friend to prepare the Academic Books to be sent on to Varro. The parallel notions of a polished version in the hands of Atticus and that of the dedication as his responsibility characterize the final phase of composition. 24 25

The same interest in classification surfaces both in the preface to On Divination book two, where production is organized according to topic, and in On Fate, where the works are categorized according to argumentative style. During the 50s bce, the idea of taking on a more authoritative role in his technical works had already made an appearance in Cicero’s correspondence. After a public reading of a “Heraclidean” version of the Republic, Cicero’s friend Sallustius had advised him to cut out a part for himself, because his experience of government and his consular rank would add “authority” (auctoritas) to the arguments (Q.fr. 3.5.1 [25]). As James Zetzel (1995: 4) comments, this fear of offending contemporaries in the Republic is pointedly “political.”

26

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Cicero initially considers sending a copy to Varro directly (Att. 13.22.3 [329]), and the fact that Atticus has the books is mentioned only on the eleventh of July. Once Atticus is said to be in possession of the treatise, Cicero puts the ball in his “publisher’s” court. He extracts himself from the process of delivery and assumes the role of a spectator to the potential exchange by telling Atticus, “whatever you do, I shall approve” (quod egeris id probabo, Att. 13.24.1 [332]). He will continue to play this role right until the twenty-eighth of July, when Cicero welcomes Atticus’ decision to send the work as a gesture of daring and shows himself interested in Varro’s reaction (Att. 13.44.2 [336]). The author binds this dedication to the distributive economy of amicitia by diffusing responsibility, making himself and Atticus at once spectators and actors in this social drama written around the Academica.26 There are two later references that keep the Academica on the horizon of Ciceronian epistolography. The first involves an emendation to the Academic Books that Cicero advises Atticus and, indirectly, Varro, to make ­directly to their copies. An intuition concerning philosophical terminology strikes the author towards the end of August 45 bce (Att. 13.21.3 [351]). After a month spent worrying about Caesar’s return, the impact this might have on his life, and his irritating nephew, Cicero delves into a lengthy d­ iscussion on “inhibere” (to restrain) as equivalent to the skeptical epochê (withdrawal of assent).27 ­Observing a boat being rowed aground near his house in Astura, Cicero ­revisits the use of inhibere to translate epochê. The Latin verb, signposted as Atticus’ suggested translation for epochê (illud tuum), is “an ­unequivocally nautical term” (verbum totum nauticum) that, as Cicero had the opportunity to witness, describes how rowers (remiges) backwater to hold a boat up. That is, rowers do not stop and raise up their oars (sustineri remos), as he originally believed, but continue to paddle with a different technique (non enim s­ ustinent sed alio modo remigant) in order to achieve a backward motion (convertentis ad puppim). Because inhibere entails “movement” (motus), it is “nothing at all like epochê” (id ab ἐποχῇ remotissimum est), the skeptical position of suspension, which for Cicero amounts to stillness (§III.8.4, §III.9.1 and §III.9.2). To illustrate this point, Cicero draws on two paradigmatic images for the theory that provide a positive contrast to rowing: Lucilius’ and C ­ arneades’ dexterous “driver” (agitator; auriga) reining 26 27

On Atticus as “publisher”—and the suspicion with which we ought to treat this title—see Sommer (1926), Phillips (1986), Kleberg (2009: 41–43) and Winsbury (2009: 53–56). Att. 13.45 [337], 13.46 [338], 13.47 [339], 13.37.4 [340], 13.38 [341] and 13.40 [343]. On his nephew, Att. 13.38 [341], 13.38 [341], 13.39 [342], 13.41 [344] and 13.37 [346]; on his epistolary response to Caesar’s Anticato, Att. 13.50.1 [348] and 13.51.1 [349].

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in his horses (sustineas currum … equosque; retentionem), and Carneades’ example of a “boxer” (pugilis) holding his guard (προβολὴν, Att. 13.21.3 [351]; cf. §II.7.2 and §III.9.2).28 As the author draws ever closer to his meeting with Caesar, he continues to be a shrewd observer of the world around him—a world that, in turn, shapes his Latin philosophy and urges him to reconsider projects already finalized and circulated. The second concerns a misplaced prooemium for the third Academic Book (Att. 16.6 [414]). On the twenty-fifth of July 44 bce, a whole year after the four volumes had been accepted by Varro, Cicero sends Atticus a new treatise, his now lost On Glory, prefaced, erroneously, by the introduction to the third ­Academic Book. He attributes this blunder to the existence of a “collection of prefaces” (volumen prooemiorum), out of which he picks one for each ­“treatise” (σύγγραμα). The resurfacing of the Academica at this late date is significant not only because Cicero portrays himself re-reading this work while on a voyage—and that’s how he picked up on the mistake—but also because he implies that one of its prefaces is still relevant to, and appropriate for works of a later date.29 Moreover, it is impossible not to sense an intriguing correlation between Cicero’s attitude to the philosophica, whose prefaces can be readily discarded, recycled and substituted for something new, and the subject matter of that original work on the Academy, epistemological arguments sustaining the mutability of an Academic skeptic’s opinion. As he reassures Atticus, “I immediately ploughed through writing a new preface and sent it to you. Detach the old one and paste this one in” (statim novum prohoemium exaravi et tibi misi. tu illud desecabis, hoc adglutinabis, Att. 16.6.4 [414]). 1.3

Revision, Distribution and Reception: Cicero and His Academica

Set between two three-month lacunae in the correspondence with Atticus, from November 46 bce to March 45 bce and August to December 45 bce, the suggested four-phase architecture provides a neat chronicle for the h ­ istorical development of Cicero’s Academic project. Nonetheless, as themes and p ­ reoccupations flow into and out of the different stages, disappearing and reappearing only for 28

29

In the discussion, Cicero cites a hexameter by Lucilius, the second-century bce poet, widely regarded as Rome’s earliest and greatest satirist. The inclusion is noteworthy, as the Republican satirist is named at Luc. 102 as the dedicatee of an Academic work written by Carneades’ pupil Clitomachus. Baraz (2012: 6–7) argues that the existence of the volumen is an indication that the philosophica is a “unified project” dealing with “the same kind of objections and concerns” throughout.

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Cicero to alter his perspective on the work and its r­ eception, the historicizing approach seems undermined by a sensitive reading of the letters themselves. As we have seen, the same letters speak to a variety of concerns, picking up the threads of an earlier discussion, covering old ground from new directions, interweaving an ever-changing network of literary, philosophical, personal, political and social preoccupations. Accordingly, while the four phases offer a convenient way to shed light on the Academica’s evolving thematic contexts, such ‘periodization’ is also valuable insofar as it tests the limits of scholarship on the relationship between the work and the letters. The question of the text’s ‘publication’ is central to what makes the Academica a unique project in Cicero’s literary production, namely the fact that two editions survive, that both are fragmentary and that we possess indications of when and why revision was undertaken. Past approaches have fixated on discrete moments of the work’s life, composition, publication and reception, in a way that suggests an anachronistic understanding of those terms, particularly publication, and that values the letters as the earliest testimonia for the transmission of the text. In this context, the letters are useful to ­establish dates for each phase and the work’s title, as well as offering the basic material out of which to build hypotheses about, for example, why two editions are extant, why they survived in such truncated form or why the Catulus is never heard of again after Att. 13.12.3 [320].30 However, the letters hardly endorse a single title for any of the editions, referring to the first either by their title characters or de Academicis (Att. 13.12.3 [320] and 13.13-14.1 [321]), and the second by a variety of Greek and Latin expressions. Even the later treatises employ Academici Libri only on three occasions, Tusc. 2.4, Nat.D. 1.11 and Div. 2.1, of a total five references (including Tim. 1 and Off. 2.8). Equally, the ‘publication’ of two—of the three—editions emerges as a complex procedure. The writer, or auctor, is not the sole party responsible for authorizing the final draft of a treatise and its distribution to a wider public. Atticus, the copyists and Cicero’s own demanding readership are all involved. Significantly, Cicero’s hesitations about the Academica’s ‘publication’ occur at a time when other works, including the fifth book of On Ends, escaped Atticus’ library and Atticus is consulted on editorial as well as distribution matters. Along with publication, revision has posed a serious challenge for students of the Academica, particularly around the intermediate version with Brutus and Cato referred to once at Att. 13.16 [323]. The challenge concerns what exactly motivated the rewrite, what it entailed and how—or if—Varro’s 30

Hunt (1998) exemplifies this methodology, co-opting the letters to serve as starting-point to his chapter on the manuscript history, from Antiquity to the Renaissance.

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real-life Academic affiliations are reflected in the final version. Both James Reid and Carlos Lévy, to name two of the most influential students of the work, read the revision through an analysis of the relationship between these two late Republican intellectuals. The English editor (1885: 33–34) indulges a ­psychological ­interpretation of the Cicero-Varro bond, emphasizing the distance between the two and the mix of social etiquette and opportunism that convinced Cicero to do away with the less than satisfying first protagonists. Carlos Lévy (1992: 133–140) also championed this position in his monograph on the A ­ cademica. An interpretation of the revision along these lines promotes a reading of the letters that sees them as chronicling the states of mind accompanying the re-dedication. Lévy’s original contribution to the debate on revision centers on the problematic Cato-Brutus edit, and how that lost edition challenges the established scholarly view about the sources behind each speaker’s position in the Academica. As mentioned in §I.1.1, Lévy’s (1992: 183) editorial work on the infamous apographic confession frees both On Ends and the Academica from suspicion of plagiarism and suggests, instead, a reference to other “minor” translations, which Cicero was working on over that period. Lévy pursues the question of the Academica’s originality further by asking what the expressions “partes Antiochinae” and “Antiochia ratio” (Att. 13.16 [323] and 13.19.3-5 [326]) suggest about the source(s) for Varro’s speech, and what, in turn, this implies for Lucullus’ speech in the surviving book of the first edition. The letters shed little light on the particulars of revision, touching on the changes of ­characters, the devotion linking Varro to Antiochus, Varro’s suitability for the speaking part, and the uniquenss of the final product in the context of Greco-Roman philosophical literature. Partly because of the speed at which the rewrite takes place, these remarks have been read as implying that a robust continuity exists between the roles played by two speakers and their ultimate Antiochian source. Varro replaces Lucullus, both of whom speak from the same Antiochian script, possibly a treatise in dialogue form known as the Sosus (cf. Luc. 12).31 However, even the most cursory reading of the two fragments shows the extent to which Lucullus’ and Varro’s views do not easily map onto each other, beginning as they do from diametrically opposed views of the senses, which are the building block of Lucullus’ system (Luc. 19) and an obstacle to knowledge for Varro (Ac. 1.31). Sensitive to this difference, Lévy (1992: 188) moves away from that simple equivalence and speaks of “deux philosophies de la connaissance incompatibles.” 31

For a discussion of sources and attribution, see the discussion in §III.8.1.

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Cato and Brutus represent yet another impediment to the simple geometries of character swap, which has been inferred from a reading of the letters. Brutus is often on stage in Ciceronian literature as a follower of Antiochus and a friend and student of Antiochus’ brother Aristus, whom we meet in the preface to the Lucullus (Luc. 12).32 Cato comes repeatedly into view as the great Stoic hero of the Republic’s last stand, principally in the third and fourth books of On Ends, and a conservative who often stumbles on the austerity of his philosophical position.33 Their respective intellectual pedigrees indicate that both could play the role of the Stoicizing Platonist Antiochus, and so both make ideal substitutes for Lucullus. If the transition to Varro has had an effect on the philosophy expressed in the Academic Books, modifying what was set forth in the Antiochian speech of the Lucullus, it seems likely that Brutus/Cato would have had a similar effect on that role. This caution is especially due in relation to that intermediate version, as the subdivision of roles in that rewrite would have been complicated by the claim both Brutus and Cato could lay to Antiochus and the Stoic imprint of his views. In other words, what happens between the two editions has significant implications not only in the context of identifying and profiling the new actors; the change also impacts how we understand the Academica uses its sources. The theory of a simple and transparent transmission, from a single original Greek philosophical text right through the various protagonists until the Varronian edition, is further complicated when we compare the letters on revision with the text of the Academica itself. Labels like “partes Antiochinae” and “Antiochia ratio” are not Roman labels for a Greek source text, indexing what to expect from Varro or Lucullus. Rather, they seem to serve a different purpose, creating expectations in the reader about content. Miriam Griffin’s (1997: 23–27) study of the exchange weighs in on the debate about the intermediate edit, addressing, in particular, how Cicero could have undertaken a substantial rewrite of this intermediate adaptation over such a short period. Her analysis of Att. 13.16 [323] focuses on “transtuli,” the verb signaling the transfer of roles, whose perfective sense she emphasizes in her claim that the second edition was not a working draft, but something complete. The Cato-Brutus version was neither a sketch, nor did it mirror the “shape” of the Catulus-Lucullus version. Precisely because it did not take Cicero long to write the Academic Books out of the intermediate version, and on the back of 32 33

On Brutus’ relationship to Aristus, see Brut. 332, as well as 120 and 139. Also, Tusc. 5.21 and Fin. 5.8. See Parad. 1–4 with Att. 2.1.8 [21], Fam. 15.5 [28] and 15.6 [29] with Att. 7.2 [125] Cf. Stem (2005) on Cato; Sedley (1997) on the conspirators and their philosophy; Benferhat (2005) on the monarchical aspirations of the cives epicurei during Cicero’s lifetime.

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the promise that, should Varro not appreciate the dedication, it would be equally fast to put Brutus and Cato back in, Griffin argues that the second edition must have developed the key changes that would make Cicero celebrate the Academic Books’ originality (cf. Att. 13.14-15 [322], 13.16 [323] and 13.25 [333]). The haste with which the rewrite is carried out is an issue linked to the question of when the third edition was completed. In Griffin’s argument, the Varro redraft begins on the twenty-third of June (ad Varronem transferamus, Att. 13.12.2 [320]) and is completed on the twenty-eighth (perfeci sane argutulos libros ad Varronem, Att. 13.18 [325]). Though sensitive to Cicero’s language, this interpretation and its underpinning principle that the number of days is directly proportional to the sophistication of the final product, leaves only two days for the substantial reworking that leads from the first to the second edit. Cicero started on this version “as soon as [he] arrived at the villa” on the ­twenty-first (simul ac veni ad villam, Att. 13.16.1 [323]). Her emphasis on “transtuli” (Att. 13.16 [323]) and “perfeci” (Att. 13.18 [325]) overlooks a number of other perfects in the letters leading up to Att. 13.12 [320], and the implications of Cicero’s promise of a quick backpedal to the Brutus-Cato configuration should the dedication offend or otherwise dissatisfy Varro. The treatise exists in a continuous state of being finalized, a transitively finished product, always on the verge of being turned back into its earlier form. Catulus, the protagonist of the first edition’s lost opening book, emerges as critical to mapping out the reassignment of roles and determining how the editions differ. Griffin wonders whether Cato might do as a replacement for the title-character if the Catulus were really only a general discussion of the history of the Academy, as first suggested by Rudolf Hirzel (1883); or, whether Cicero would be better suited to play Catulus, leaving Brutus to play the part of Hortensius—Hortensius who is said at Luc. 10 to have made an important contribution to the debate in the Catulus, yet whose possible stand-in, Atticus, is little more than a spectator in the first Academic Book. Moreover, as Griffin notes, the exclusion of the old guard severs an important dramatic link to the protagonists of the Academic project. The Lucullus, in fact, contextualizes the epistemological and historiographical debate in terms of the early firstcentury bce dispute between Philo and his pupil Antiochus—a polemic sparked when Antiochus obtains a controversial work by his teacher while part of Lucullus’ military retinue in Alexandria (Luc. 11). Antiochus’ social and political connection to the Roman general’s world translates into the occasion on which he receives Philo’s contentious Roman Books and provides the opportunity to debate it before a Roman audience.34 34

On the “Sosus Affair,” as Glucker calls the controversy, see §III.8.3; also §III.8.1 and §III.8.4.

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As Griffin (1997: 1) establishes in the opening of her essay on the Academica, far from yielding a straightforward account of how the work was written and what motivated its execution, a close reading of the epistolary frame turns up a series of “inconsistencies” that “cast doubt at times on [Cicero’s] sincerity.” That Cicero’s letters, as individual pieces and as part of edited volumes, construct sophisticated rhetorical postures is the central insight of contemporary critical approaches, sensitive to the socio-political and/or literary agendas expressed even in the sermo cotidianus of many of the letters.35 However, epistolary narratives about the Academica have picked specific trajectories through the material. These interpretive paths have been only partially interested in the complex crisscrossing of preoccupations that accompany the project through to its final revision. With the exception of Griffin’s note of caution, on which this paragraph opened, scholarship has not been sufficiently attentive to the often incongruous positions and perspectives taken up by Cicero on the project, why and how it came to be written and rewritten as it did. Griffin’s article offers a sobering review of how the letters locate the Academica both within Cicero’s perceived anti-Caesarianism and within the late series of philosophical works, widely described as a philosophical ‘encyclopedia’. On the matter of the political orientation of the Academic treatise, Griffin questions Lévy’s interpretation of the Academica as an anti-tyrannical tract, which brackets Caesar’s authoritarianism with the dangers of dogmatism (Griffin 1997: 12–14). Citing letters of the period, some of which we analyzed above, she points out their emphasis on dialogue, the references to an exchange of works and the conciliatory tones adopted towards the Dictator on his return from Spain (Att. 12.40 [281], 13.19 [326], 13.51 [349] and 13.42.3 [354]).36 Griffin argues that the letters do not underwrite a univocal political momentum for the Academica, nor do they frame it in terms of subversion. They model different—rhetorical—postures that Cicero adopts while producing a text about the importance of dialogue.37 On the systematic nature of Cicero’s philosophical production, the Academica’s revision also challenges the established thesis that the second wave of 35

36 37

Key co-ordinates of the contemporary debate include: Hutchinson (1998), Leach (1999 and 2006), Beard (2002), Gunderson (2007) on the letters as literature. On the communicative act, Garcea (2003, 2005). On the politic and the political, Dettenhoffer (1990), Hall (2009), White (2010) and Bernard (2013). On friendly posturing, Citroni Marchetti (2000, 2009), C. Williams (2012) and Wilcox (2012). See also the collection of articles in Ruth and Morello (2007) and the recent volume edited by Martelli (2016a). Griffin (1997: 13) describes Cicero’s attitude as “accommodating” and “tactful.” I discuss the centrality of dialogue and dialectic to the philosophical texture of the Academica extensively later on. See §II.7.1, §III.9.1 and §III.10.1.

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33

philosophica functions as a fully integrated ‘encyclopedia’. This is a term found everywhere in studies of Cicero’s philosophical output, whose significance has had its most visible effect on the French tradition.38 However, the view that the treatises amount to the execution of a planned and serialized compendium is undermined by several statements, key among which is the opportunistic attitude that often emerges in Cicero’s works and letters, where his writing is characterized as responding to the positive reception of his treatises.39 Furthermore, the notion of a cohesive series, namely the sequence Hortensius, Catulus, Lucullus that hangs on the same characters following an investigative thread at each other’s villae, is shattered by the revision. The last two dialogues turn into a foursome with a new set of protagonists and with a different spatial and temporal setting.40 The editorial process the Academica is subjected to in full view of his closest readership points to an altogether different logic for the philosophica from the one commonly accepted among critics. Cicero’s claim to a comprehensive treatment of philosophy’s “parts” (­ partes), “limbs” (membra) or “issues” (quaestiones, Nat.D. 1.9; Div. 2.4.) has suggested to scholars a systematic approach governed by the tripartite division of Hellenistic philosophy into logic, ethics and physics.41 Nonetheless, it is difficult to isolate moments in which Cicero clearly labels the Academica a work of ‘logic’, as he more often understands its subject matter in terms of an expression of “support” (patrocinium) for the Academy and as a methodological reflection. Later references to the treatise, namely at Nat.D. 1.11-3, Div. 2.1 and Tusc. 5.11, point to the Academic Books as a statement of method, rationalizing the importance of giving voice to contrasting views in an open, evaluative, framework. Even so, whatever his avowed commitment to it, the Academica’s dialectic does not 38

39 40 41

Michel’s 1968 article clearly expresses this attitude, which is reflected in Grimal (1986), and shapes Lévy’s overall approach in Cicero Academicus. We often find the term in English-language literature, prominently so in Schofield (2008: 65); recently, Woolf (2014: 36). According to Lévy, the review of philosophical disagreements at Luc. 116–146 writes a table of contents for his future works. Steinmetz (1990a) addresses the question of a plan structuring Cicero’s philosophical “publications,” for which he identifies a design, as well as three instances in which that plan had to be revised. Cf. Philippson (1939) and Bringmann (1971). See also §II.4.2 n. 127. See, for example, Fin. 1.2 or Att. 12.12.2 [259] with Griffin (1997: 7–8). The unity of geography and character leans also on a topical progression, from justifying the importance of philosophy to arguing about what particular school to follow. Cf. Hirzel (1883), Philippson (1939) and Bringmann (1971). Carlos Lévy (2017: 21), for instance, sees in the treatises that follow the Academica a growing number of indications (“signes”) that Cicero understands his philosophica as a “recherche qui, commencée par le protreptique de l’Hortensius, va se prolonger dans les trois champs de la philosophie tels qu’ils avaient été définis par les Stoïciens.”

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underpin the more directive approach of the Tusculans or the paternal lectures of On Duties.42 If the Academica cannot be seen as the entry on ‘logic’ in the ‘encyclopedia’, neither does it represent the methodological manifesto for all that is to come. When reviewing his philosophical production, Cicero shifts perspectives on the corpus, never surrendering a fixed schematic approach, but rather playing on different organizational principles before his audience. So in the preface to On Fate he categorizes his technical writings according to argumentative strategies adopted, or according to topical interests in the opening of On Divination’s second book. In this locus classicus for Cicero’s masterplan, the author fails to conduct a full appraisal of the philosophical project, significantly omitting the Laws and plans for some of the later treatises like On Old Age, On Friendship and On Glory (Div. 2.1-4). As a diverse, intricate and ever-evolving set of concerns percolate through the authorial and editorial journey that is the Academica, Cicero’s late philosophy throws up a number of incongruent and puzzling positions. Such postures come into view when we read the text alongside—and against—the prefaces and letters that accompany it. These framing devices have been celebrated by a chorus of scholars as precious anchors into a Roman (psychological) reality, unique “resources” that express Cicero’s authorial intent (Schofield 2013: 73).43 Matthew Fox (2007: 8) had already noted how the letters in particular represent a limit, as well as an opportunity, for the scholar, who is at once given access to “unparalleled knowledge” of her author, but through a set of texts that also “act as limitations to the kinds of readings to which [Cicero’s] writings are amenable.” The material dedicated to and surrounding the Academica does more than give full shape to these complexities, providing a valuable insight into Cicero’s self-representation and performance as critic and distributor of his work at a crucial juncture of his philosophical career. As critic, Cicero develops a language and network of models through which to read his work. The Greek terms that repeatedly define his work, “συντάγματα,” “σύνταξις,” “ἀπόγραφα,” “διφθέραι,” “σύγγραμα,” are not mere flourishes or nudges to his Hellenophile correspondents. They underscore a system of shifting titles and references, which, as we have seen, lay at the very heart of Cicero’s approach to that work. The problem of referencing the work also brings into focus the temporal contours of the production of the Academica. The ‘where-and-when’ of the first references is problematic, since the chronology of the treatise’s production could extend from Orat. 237 of 46 bce to 42 43

See Griffin (1997: 5–7). On different forms of arguments in Cicero, see Ruch (1969), Lévy (1984) and Cappello (forthcoming). See also Gildenhard (2007) and Baraz (2012).

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35

July of 44 bce (Shackleton Bailey 1971: 88–89; cf. Bringmann 1971: 88–89). At lengthy ­intervals and with renewed vigor Cicero meditates on the work he (in)famously produced so quickly. And these reflections took a variety of forms: glosses on the persuasiveness of certain parts alternate with appreciations of the work’s quality and its generic innovativeness. Cicero’s interest in the distribution of the work is equally significant. Concerned with issues of authorization and control of distribution, he laments the escape of the Torquatus from Atticus’ copyists and reprimands his friend for his loose management of On Ends, part of which ended up in the hands of the persistent Caerellia and Balbus (Att. 13.21a [327] and 13.22 [329]). Silence about the Lucullus and Catulus is suggestive, they disappear from the correspondence but not entirely from the manuscript tradition; and equally important is the question of what characterizes a ‘final version’, seeing that Att. 13.21.3 [351] aims at making changes in three copies. Furthermore, in response to the scholarly treatment of the Academica’s production, it is worth commending the re-integration of the numerous letters that, though not directly addressing composition, revision or dedication, frame these events and inform their development. Undoubtedly the character of the Varro-Cicero friendship deserves a broader contextualization. Not only does the dedication letter warrant closer analysis, but it asks to be read against the background of the longer exchange between the two, to which it makes continuous reference. The socio-political impact of the revision is i­ ntimately connected to the broader epistolary exchange with Varro.44 Moreover, the psychological portrait of Cicero is markedly incomplete without reference to themes present in letters contiguous to the ones directly interested in the ­Academica. If we are to examine the postures of Cicero’s epistolary persona, it is crucial to bring into the picture the anxieties and hopes that shape it; among these, Caesar’s return from Spain and the projected “fanum” (shrine) for his lost Tullia take up considerable space and enrich the literary-critical concerns just discussed. The question of what kind of ‘Cicero’ is presenting his works to his audience—and what kind of audience—is finally embedded in alternative authorial positions linked to treatises being developed contemporaneously to his Academic project, namely his On Ends, whose origins are, as Ruch (1958a: 151) noted, impossible to disentangle from those of the Academica. 44

The case for reading the dedication in context has already been made by Boes (1990: 218– 225) and Hutchinson (see §I.1.1 n. 7 above).

Chapter 2

Counter-Figuring Indifference: Varro and the Politics of Composition 2.1

Epistolary Thresholds: The Letter in Its Context

Past approaches to the Academica’s composition are founded on a particular view of how to read the letters. By this I refer not only to the analysis of the letters’ language, themes and tropes, but also to the process of selection and exclusion that shapes the corpus. Which letters are relevant? What part of the exchange bears on the documentary aspect of composition, which bears on the psychological aspects? These questions relate to the semantic appreciation of the letters themselves: to what extent is the exchange sincere or rhetorical artifice? Is their meaning limited or exploited by generic conventions? Is there an intended audience beyond Atticus and Varro? This first section of chapter two acts as a methodological introduction to both chapters two and three. It examines some of the assumptions underlying the issues raised at the end of the previous chapter, fleshing out a possible theoretical framework through which to read the Academica’s correspondence. Here, I am primarily interested in understanding how the letters can be read alongside and against the works they are contemporary with, talk about, comment on and even skirt around. While I draw on influential voices from the structuralist and poststructuralist tradition, it is important to note that reflecting on the place of letter writing in literature is not a uniquely contemporary concern. Achard’s La Communication à Rome (1991) convincingly argues that in the Late Republic the letter remained a fluid structure, conceptualized both as a “conversation between absent friends” (amicorum colloquia absentium) and a fully formed “genre” (genus litterarum), with its protocols and functions (cf. Phil. 2.27, Fam. 2.4.1 [48] and 13.15.3 [317]).45 Even over the relateively short period during which Cicero is occupied with the Academica, we see the letters fulfilling several functions and occupying a variety of social and literary spaces. They often exist as acts of friendship, s­ ignals

45

See Hutchinson (1998: 5–9) and White (2010: 21), who picks out Fam. 2.4 [48] as the “rudiments of a theory.”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:10.1163/9789004389878_004

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shoring up a relationship (Att. 13.25.3 [333]);46 at other times, they articulate modes of social engagement and political debate; or, again, self-conscious expressions of a personal or public agenda to be circulated and critiqued (Att. 13.38.1 [341] and 13.25.3 [333]). Studies on issues of performance, literary style and publication have already addressed several concerns raised above, focusing primarily on the problematic liminal ground between public and private, life and literature, document and script that Cicero’s letters have come to inhabit.47 Scholarship’s long voyage in the company of this anthology is a testament to the collection’s polyphony, with two key co-ordinates set by Hutchinson (1998) and Beard (2002). Both critics reexamine the literary and rhetorical aspects of the letters from complementary perspectives: Hutchinson’s monograph analyzes styles and techniques of Cicero’s letter writing, elevating the texts he dissects to the status of artistic creations, shaped by, and fully aware of, the lively epistolographic tradition within which they were composed.48 From the single dispatch to the issue of selection and collection, Beard (2002: 124) presses the question of how the letters’ perceived “reality” continues to undermine and make suspect their interpretation as literary performances. With an eye to editions like Tyrrell and Purser’s and Shackleton Bailey’s, both of which rearranged the letters into chronological sequences, she demonstrates the importance of understanding each book as a “literary collection.” This privileging of the historical perspective obliterates not just the process through which the letters were selected and arranged, but also neglects the boundary between literature and documentation, which is always already “contested” in these texts. Cugusi, Hutchinson, Beard and Bernard, along with students of the Academica discussed in §I.1.3, all stumble on the question of ‘publication’, as they struggle with the idea that Cicero prepared an “anthology” (συναγωγή, Att. 16.5 [410]) of letters. Although there is no doubt that numerous letters were written for a broader audience and that many others were expected to be circulated more widely, signs of this distribution are gleaned from the texts ­themselves— whether Cicero tells us the letter is directed at the general public, so to speak, 46 47 48

On the theme of ‘nothing to write’, see Att. 12.30.1 [270], 12.41.1 [283] and 12.53 [295] with Garcea (2005: 113–116) and Martelli (2016b). Biblical scholars have long been interested in the question of private “letter” versus public “epistle,” see Deissmann (1903) and Doty (1969). Hutchinson (1998: 5), building on his work on colometry and Att.1.16 [16]. In his wake, see also Bernard (2006: 67) on “les rapports entre la rhétorique, la tradition littéraire et l’epistolarité.” On the artistic pedigree of the letter, see Paolo Cugusi’s attempt to tabulate the genealogy (1983: 151–159). And Corbinelli (2008).

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or its rhetorical features impose this kind of reading on them, the ­concept of publication foists a dichotomy onto these texts: they were either public or private. However, Setaioli (1976: 114) points the way to a more sophisticated reading of the epistolary situation. He argues that it is impossible to separate “general availability” from “publication” of the letters, and hence in view the distinction is a “sophism” of “methodically no value.” A text’s entrance into the public domain, whether a treatise or a letter, is not homologous to (a modern understanding of) publication, and it is Cicero himself who reflects on his letters as artifices and on their existence within that public domain.49 Public and private, literature and document are categories the orator construes and ponders when writing letters; they do not necessarily articulate rigid separations between the letters and the treatises. Michel Ruch’s Le préambule dans les oeuvres philosophiques de Cicéron (1958) evaluates the place of the letter in the field of the orator’s philosophical production. His focus, as evidenced in the title, is another liminal textual space, the prooemium. In the monograph, Ruch (1958a: 9) identifies three textual zones that constitute a work’s “préambule:” the letters, the “mise en scène” and the “entretien préliminaire.” He does not study the letters to the exclusion of other parts of the text that set the scene or justify the treatise’s choice of characters and subject; rather, he focuses on the relationship between these peripheral spaces and the body of the works. The letters’ inclusion is an important methodological statement about their significance. Not only are they put side by side with other features canonically recognized as parts of the literary composition (or directly bearing on it), but they are examined in precisely the same way as those features. Ruch investigates the literary timbre of Cicero’s dedication letters—their form, structure and function—in order to decipher the “fundamental laws” of the Ciceronian prologue. The fact that he examines correspondences and thematic relationships across letters, analyzing rhetorical features and strategies alongside historical reflections about the dedicatee and the letter’s social and political function, opens up new vistas for the way the letters integrate not just Cicero’s world, but the philosophical agenda of the texts themselves. The letters are, in other words, considered as narrative or rhetorical prefaces, enjoying

49

I am particularly wary of entering the debate about ‘publication’, preferring to focus on Cicero’s self-presentation and his conceptualization of the process. For historical and sociological discussions of this process see Kenney (1982), Starr (1987) and Johnson (2000). Besides Setaioli (1976), on the publication of Cicero’s letters in general, see Boissier (1863 and 1897), Phillips (1986), Taylor (1964) and Nicholson (1994 and 1998).

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the same function as the treatises’ prologues and subject to the same stylistic protocols (1958a: 343 and 353). According to Ruch (1958a: 75–76), Cicero views both the letters and dialogues as continuations and imitations of viva voce disputes. Many exchanges self-reflexively situate themselves as extensions or inceptions of conversations that have happened, or will happen, in real life. In the case of the Academic Books, the dedicatory letter, Fam. 9.8 [254], promises a face-to-face interaction in the future, offering itself as the beginning of that exchange.50 Letters often also enjoy a mimetic relationship with real or literarized discourse, as for example in Fam. 11.27.8 [348], where Cicero openly imitates the style of his disputations or those letters of 49 bce, among which Att. 7.11 [134] and 8.3 [153], where philosophical method structures his deliberations on how to act as the clouds of civil war gather.51 Ruch (1958a: 337) also argues that Cicero thought of his prologues as letters by pointing to the terminological elision of prooemia and litterae—labels that seem to be used interchangeably at, for example, Att. 13.32.3 [305], where Cicero tells his correspondent that he wrote new prooemia for the Catulus and Lucullus, describing these immediately after as “litterae” (letters). Behind Ruch’s observation is a longer history of reflection on the use of litterae to describe the philosophica. Madvig (1876) and Reid (1885) had already noted the ambiguity of On Ends 1.12 (where the five volumes are described in terms of “his litteris”), while recent conjectures about the Consolation posit the work was in epistolary form, partly also because it is often referred to as litterae.52 Underlying the formalist approach to the préambule is an emphasis on these ‘in-between’ texts as grounding Cicero’s philosophy in the lived present. The letters characterize the philosophica as a set of theoretical responses to the historical context, so that, together with the prologues, they exist as “fragments d’une vaste autobiographie intellectuelle” (Ruch 1958a: 345 and 429– 431). ­Cicero introduces himself on the stage of his writing through both the letters and the prose prefaces, and he does so by hardwiring the fictional realm of the dialogues to the actuality of his experience. In this light, Ruch (1958a: 271) frames Cicero’s dedication to Varro as more than simply an attempt to mollify a temperamental colleague; the letter is also interested in co-opting Varro’s help in shaping the work’s reception by the wider public. To achieve 50 51 52

Ruch (1958a: 76) sees On Fate as an instance of a treatise that is the “prolongement direct et immédiat de conversations.” See volume four of Shackleton Bailey’s Letters to Atticus with Michel (1977b). Att. 12.14.3 [251] and 12.28.2 [267] with Shackleton Bailey (ad loc.). Cf. ad Br. 1.9 [18]. The Caesarian Anticato is also alternately described as “liber” and “epistula,” Att. 12.40.1 [281], 12.44.1 [285] and 12.41.4 [283].

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this, Fam. 9.8 [254] inflects the dialogue as symbolic rather than fictional, with Cicero and Varro meeting halfway, exchanging compliments and a­ ffirming a ­reciprocal and collaborative relation (§I.2.3). Through this reading, Ruch seeks to show the extent to which Cicero’s letters can and do inform responses to his treatises. This also draws the letters into the same literary dynamic, as they entwine thematic and literary programs with personal, social and political agendas. Alongside his emphasis on aesthetics and form, the register to which Ruch returns time and again is that of center and periphery. The critic is keen to systematize the disparate mass that is Ciceronian marginalia (introduction, prologue, prelude, program, dedication), and in so doing, he proposes a unity for this cluster of texts—of function, form and structure— that connects it to the technical works. This fascination with the ontology of the text, not least the relation between inside and outside, anticipates many of the concerns of structuralist and post-structuralist thinkers. Their work moves the discussion forward, from Ruch’s dedicatory and prefatory etiquette, to re-evaluating the relevance of letters otherwise believed to be marginal or uninfluential. Gérard Genette is the key figure in this debate. His foundational Paratexts (1997) is a panoramic investigation of “literary” materials that contribute to the reception and dissemination of texts. He revisits Jacques Derrida’s “hors livre,” the first essay in Dissémination (1972) where the philosopher studies the role “out-of-text” plays in the semantics of “in-text,” or the relation between inside and outside, supplement and main body.53 In Derrida’s treatment, prefaces emerge as a problematic textual field that raise important questions about what constitutes and differentiates the main body of a text and its margins. Reflecting on Hegel’s repudiation of Vorrede in the opening of his Phenomenology of the Spirit, Derrida (1972: 13) analyzes the practice in terms of a paradox: a writing that affirms authorial control over the work, purporting to be part of it and determining its meaning, while still positioned before and “outside” it. In ontological terms, he wonders with Hegel whether writing about and around philosophy is the same as writing/doing philosophy, or philosophical exposition itself?54 Genette (1997: xviii, 2 and 9–10) capitalizes on Derrida’s intuition concerning signification and location to build a systematic approach 53 54

Baraz (2012: 4–8) also enlists Genette and Derrida as the theoretical framework for her discussion of the prefaces. She emphasizes intentionality and strategy in the economy of paratextual writing over and against their complicating and obfuscating effect. At the center of Derrida’s work is a sustained interest in the peripheral, marginal and supplementary that will ultimately draw him to letters and letter-writing, as for example in La Carte Postale (1980), Mémoires (1986) and Positions (2004b).

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to ­paratexts. Which project he begins by defining paratexts as the “fringe, threshold, undefined zone” of any text, including the “liminal devices and conventions” framing a book.55 As Genette works out different categories for the various typologies of paratext, starting with margins existing within (peri-) and outside (epi-) texts, he establishes three basic principles for his study that sustain Derrida’s reflections on what margins (can) do. In the first place, he roundly dismisses the question of intentionality. According to Derrida (1972: 2) paratexts are authorial, insofar as they are “more or less legitimated” by their author and evidently enjoy a relationship with the text whose limen they constitute. Second, this threshold is a space of reader-author negotiation or “transaction,” playing a strategic role in the text’s reception and interpretation. In this respect, Derrida’s (1972: 5, 12 and 407–408) paratexts are both positioned between the “ideal and relatively immutable identity of the text” and the “empirical (sociohistorical) ­reality of the text’s public,” as a form of discourse “that is fundamentally heteronomous, auxiliary, and dedicated to the service of something other than itself that constitutes its raison d’être.” Lastly, he draws a distinction between paratextual function and effect, specifically in relation to journals and private correspondence where public and private discourses are blurred. Although paratexts, letters in particular, may not intentionally or explicitly bear on an author’s literary production, Genette (1997: 346 and 371) recognizes that they are often relevant to how we read these works. Consequently, he encourages a more lateral approach to what counts as the margins of a certain text. In addition, and again in the case of letters, the possibility of publication or circulation means that the paratext always already engages in the literary corpus of an author—but not for that reason, Genette underlines, are these less “intimate.” Intent plays a significant part in discussions of paratextual function, as the author may want a letter to elicit a response, for example; however, in terms of their effect, paratexts are more diffuse and elusive in how they interest and engage the public at large. Together, Ruch and Genette elaborate a hermeneutic framework that addresses some of the issues raised above (§I.1.3), namely the extent to which the letters composed between March and August of 45 bce ought to be integrated in our approach to the surviving fragments and their prologues. Surveying the wealth of correspondence addressing the Academica, as well as the numerous other letters of the period, these texts emerge as an opportunity to further our understanding of how the letters and the philosophica interact. The number 55

Note that the French title, Seuils (thresholds), introduces the architectural register from the outset.

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of practical and rhetorical considerations that seem to torment and ­confound ­Cicero throughout the composition, revision and dedication; the way that these concerns pull the author’s epistolary persona in different directions, making him change his mind, hesitate, retract—ultimately, all these anxieties and fluctuations must be read as integral to his Academic project. Over the next two sections of chapter two and in chapter three, I concentrate on paratextual function, studying the kind of response Cicero aimed to elicit for his Academic Books in the context of a broader conversation with Varro about philosophical writing and philosophical conversation in the new Caesarian world order. The final chapter examines the effect of the wider network of letters produced during the period, looking beyond the political focus of how the correspondence orients the text’s reception and function. Integrating his hesitation about revision and dedication with indecisions and fears developed around other projects, I argue that the skeptical drive of the Academica is co-extensive with the rhetorical and literary positions adopted and discarded in the letters. 2.2

The Letter as Reluctant Agit-Prop: The Correspondence between Cicero and Varro

How do the letters foreground the Academica’s significance as a political work? How do they model the Academica’s socio-political agenda? This section and the next address these questions from two converging perspectives. On the one hand, they highlight the way in which Cicero uses the letters to construct a social network within which the Academic treatise is to be distributed; on the other hand, they study how Cicero inflects political themes in his exchange with Varro in order to anticipate and illuminate the political orientation of the Academica. This dual perspective is indebted to the trend in Cicero scholarship that has sought to interpret the letters as ‘political’ texts through an approach founded on the categorical distinction between the letters’ form and content. Sociolinguistic and pragmatic methodologies, as for example those brought to bear on the letters by Garcea (2003), Hall (2009) and Bernard (2013), have highlighted the ways in which epistolary exchange is a social practice—an alternative to viva voce conversation—within which letters exist as communicative acts and objects inscribed within the field of elite social relations. I also owe a great debt to recent analyses that have been interested in the ideological dimension of Cicero’s reaction to the collapse of the Roman world and have turned to reading the letters alongside the philosophica in terms of an attempt to

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i­ nfluence the rapidly deteriorating situation. The rhetorical c­ haracter of many of the letters, as studied by Hutchinson (1998: 11 and 199) for example, identifies these as interventions, “devices” and “tactics” in a sociopolitical game. Integrating the broader dynamic of exchange, studies have shown how Cicero transforms his network of epistolary and literary relationships into a field of social and political interactions, wherein forms of opposition and response to the crisis are mediated. The important contribution made by this group of scholars, whether in discussions of the “space” of philosophy by Carlos Lévy (1992) and Clara Auvray-Assayas (2006) or of the mechanisms of distribution of power by Thomas Habinek (1990), has been to show how the political content of Cicero’s reflections is intimately connected to the media within which they are expressed. Treatises and letters, as Auguste Haury (1955: 278) had already indicated, continue the struggle not just by writing about it, but also by (re-)creating an audience for this politically charged discourse, a network of select amici among whom philosophy, in the form of dialogues or epistolary interventions, could circulate. In line with the ideological critique of the politics of Ciceronian literature, Sean Gurd’s 2007 article cut new paths for the interpretation of the letters and their reflection on the philosophica. His original reading of the correspondence lays open the editorial process, as documented in the epistolary exchange, to a nuanced political interpretation. Highlighting the political dimension of the process of composition and revision, Gurd (2007: 50–53) argues that Cicero invites his peers to react to, comment on and influence his work in order to implicate them in a literary practice that is at once social and co-operative. Beyond allowing Cicero to shape a sense of community, “group coherence and stability” around these texts, the process of “collective inscription” or “textual collectivization” created texts that bore the authority of a wider community. According to Gurd (2007: 68), those whom the author calls on to review his work in progress and so participate in his philosophical projects are, in fact, initiated into an alternative form of republican politics, a “paper republicanism.” The emphasis in this politicized approach to authorship is not exclusively on writing about the Republic, its heroes and values, but also on doing it together, mirroring Republican political practices.56 56

Gurd (2007: 57–58) connects the dots between collective restoration, openness to change and improvement by others with the interactive dynamics of Republican institutions through a reading of two passages: the metaphor of a painting in need of retouching used to describe the res publica at Rep. 5.1-2; and, what he (2007: 58–68) describes as the “inchoitionist canon” of orators established in the Brutus, which stands in contrast to Caesar’s oratorical style, characterized as hyper-rationalist, closed off and isolated from communal forms of improvement and correction. In both cases, Cicero seems to stage a

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In turning to the correspondence with Varro and the intense revision of the Academica involving Atticus, Gurd (2007: 70) sees editorial preoccupations and interactions growing between 46 bce and 43 bce. As these concerns gain greater traction in the letters, Gurd senses that Cicero’s appetite for critical engagement is increasing during that period. The epistolary relation with Varro epitomizes the renewed vigor with which Cicero tries to foster a culture of correction and critical exchange, particularly against the background of his labors over the Republic, the political centerpiece of the 50s bce wave of philosophica, that serve as counterpoint to his work on the Academica. Thoughts on editing the Republic are aired in a letter to his brother Quintus sent between October and November 54 bce (Q.Fr. 3.5 [25]). In the letter, Cicero reports an episode that happened after two books of an early draft of the Republic were read out at Tusculum. On that occasion, Sallustius, an audience member and friend, warned Cicero against choosing a historical setting in the style of Heraclides and recommended casting himself as speaker to capitalize on his auctoritas as a consul of Rome and his experience of politics at the highest level (in maximis versatus in re publica rebus). Instead, Sallustius advised Cicero to imitate the form and style of Aristotle’s so called “exoteric” dialogues (Q.Fr. 3.5.1 [25]; see §I.1.2). As we know from the extant fragments, the author does not follow Sallustius’ suggestion. However, neither does the Republic survive in the form discussed in this letter, in which he describes nine books corresponding to a conversation that takes place over nine days. The vignette and the reflections it inspires offer an insight into a work in transition, whose “plan” and “structure,” as Cicero points out in the opening sentence of Q.Fr. 3.5 [25], had changed completely as he was writing (saepe iam scribendi totum consiliumque rationem mutavi).57 Negotiating revisions and editorial advice takes center stage again between March and August 45 bce. The idealized setting of the Republic wins out over the possibility of direct engagement, in part, as Cicero explains at Q.fr. 3.5.2 [25], because he is wary of offending his contemporaries by tackling the catastrophe derailing the republic (maximos motus nostrae civitatis) in his own voice. At the time, Cicero is still keen to pick up the threads of his ­political career after

57

reflection on how literary-artistic perfection is achieved in a Republican context, namely through a long process of continuous revision and adjustment in which a community of citizens across time is actively involved. On the composition of the Republic, see also Q.fr. 2.13.1 [17], Att. 4.14.1 [88] and 4.16.2 [89] with Schmidt (1969: 33–41 and 2001), Boes (1990: 145–200), Zetzel (1995: 3–4) and Gurd (2007: 52–58).

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his return from exile (Rawson 1983: 122–145).58 Pharsalus and Thapsus generate a new attitude towards his writing, announced by the role he assumes in the initial triad of dialogues, Hortensius, Catulus and Lucullus. Suddenly, the author’s voice and that of his living contemporaries break into the philosophica.59 The anxiety about revision, the requests for and sensitivities around inclusion of contemporaries, the battle over format and models, all resurface in the first half of 45 bce. And in both periods, aesthetic and social concerns are linked to political lobbying, brokering a deferred and disrupted exchange with Caesar.60 Varro is the key figure of the transition between the two waves of philosophica (cf. Grilli 1997). Writing him into the Republic was an idea that had already been put to Cicero by Atticus and rejected at Att. 4.16.2 [89]. The rejection was ostensibly based on generic considerations (genus dialogorum). In 45 bce Atticus mentions Varro’s name again, and inclusion becomes something more than an option to be considered. For Cicero Varro becomes an all-consuming fixation. This potential addressee determines the Academica’s form, whose reworking into four books from two is contemporary to the adoption of Varro as dedicatee; it also outlines the way in which Cicero sees his work as being more widely received and read, as the author crafts its political message through the dedication letter. Fam. 9.8 [254] is, by Cicero’s own confession, a work of painstaking complexity, dictated “syllable by syllable” (syllabatim, Att. 13.25.3 [333]), and as such critical to understanding the political orientation of the Academic project and the author’s political activities in the wake of Thapsus. According to Att. 13.25 [333], Cicero shows Atticus Fam. 9.8 [254], the letter that introduces contemporary Republican figures into the latter half of the Ciceronian corpus ­Atticus’ approval (valdene tibi ­placuit?, Att. 13.25.3 [333]) then becomes necessary in order to mediate Cicero’s 58 59

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On Cicero’s continued yearning for a political stage after exile, see, for example, Att. 4.5 [80] or Fam. 1.9.21 [20]. The Laws might present a problem to this dramatic tale of reversal, insofar as the treatise casts Quintus, Atticus and Cicero as protagonists. In other words, the work employs a contemporary—Aristotelian—backdrop, despite indications that it was composed alongside or just after the Republic in the mid- to late-50s bce. While obviously connected to the Republic, the Laws is an anomaly in Cicero’s philosophical corpus, not least because the work is never referred to by Cicero elsewhere, famously disappearing from the catalogue of works in the preface to On Divination book two. Dating has also been the subject of much debate, with some locating the dialogue as late as 43 bce and others arguing it remained incomplete and never saw the light of day. The fullest treatment of the question remains Schmidt (1969); a synopsis can be found in Dyck (2004: 5–7). For the Caesarian orientation of literature in the 50s bce, see Q.fr. 3.1 [21], 2.13 [17], 2.16 [19] and Fam. 7.5 [26].

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treatment of philosophizing in the ­public domain and the publication of a maquette of the public intellectual for the benefit of Varro—Varro, the man whom Caesar will soon appoint as Rome’s first ‘institutional’ intellectual.61 Fam. 9.8 [254] represents the culmination of Cicero and Varro’s epistolary exchange. Any reading of that letter must be placed in the context of the correspondence between the two, collected in the series opening book nine of ­Cicero’s Letters to His Friends, and the history of the relationship it chronicles.62 Between 54 and 46 bce Varro is nowhere to be found in the correspondence, an absence that begs the all-important question of why the connection is revived in the mid-40s bce.63 Focusing on the Academic Books, Lévy (1992: 134 and 135) argues that it is their “culture philosophique commune” that brings them closer again, allowing their amicitia to develop through solidarity in times of crisis. In his view, Varro becomes more than just a companion for Cicero, but a model of intellectual commitment. Although Kazimierz Kumaniecki (1962: 240–242) rejects the idea they were friends, emphasizing the incompatibility of their personalities, he highlights the common “scientific and literary interests” that brought them together (Kumaniecki 1962: 222–223 and Wiseman 2009: 110 and 125). Critics generally argue that the relationship was uneasy and deprived of the familiar tones we encounter in the correspondence with Atticus, ­Brutus, Matius and Cassius, where philosophical ramblings offer a full palette of shades of intimacy. Cicero and Varro’s lives, as seen through Cicero’s correspondence, ostensibly share a similar trajectory through Rome’s turbulent first century bce, particularly towards the beginning and end of Cicero’s political career. A run of letters from 59 bce indicates that both Cicero and Varro enjoy connections to Atticus and Pompey (Att. 2.20 [40], 2.21 [41], 2.22 [42] and 2.25 [45]; cf. Baier 1997: 23); and it is this connection to the world of the optimates that seals their fate in the civil war. They set out pari passu in the world after Pharsalus, both in need of Caesar’s pardon, which Varro receives before Cicero, and because of it, both are subjected to the distrust and suspicion of former enemies and 61

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Caesar commissions Varro to set up Rome’s first public library (Suetonius, Jul. 44; Isidore of Seville Etym. 6.52). The project is brought to completion under Augustus by Asinius Pollio, who, we are told in Pliny’s Natural History 7.51, honors Varro alone of his contemporaries with a bust in its halls. This is a series of letters—and a relationship—that has garnered critical attention in the past, particularly Boissier (1861), Kumaniecki (1962), Baier (1997: 15–27), Rösch-Binde (1997), Leach (1999), Wiseman (2009: 108–129) and Boes (1990: 206–218). My reading of the exchange has many points of contact with Gunderson’s (2016) recent article on ­Cicero’s letters of 46 bce, not least with his “aggressive” reading of these texts. A cursory mention of Varro at Att. 5.11.3 [104] of 51 bce is the exception.

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allies alike. The Dictator’s assassination, which seems to have drawn the two closer (Att. 15.5.3 [383] and 15.26.5 [404]), again puts them briefly in the same position—but this time in relation to Mark Antony. After the Ides of March 44 bce, Caesar’s general launches his campaign against the conspirators and their associates. In the war and persecution that follows, Cicero and Varro are in his sights. He proscribes Varro and seizes his villa, while also giving free reign to his fury against Cicero.64 Across the period, Cicero and Varro cooperate in two fields. Varro appears to be actively helping Cicero during his exile, despite the fact that he disappears after the orator’s return, and is notably absent from the list of those to whom Cicero makes an expression of public gratitude (Att. 3.8.3 [53], 3.15.1 [60] and 3.18.1 [63]). Besides political lobbying, as already touched on above with reference to Lévy, Kumaniecki and Wiseman, they share and collaborate on intellectual projects. Already in 54 bce we find Cicero asking Atticus for access to Varro’s “libri;” and, no more than two weeks later, Varro is promised a place in Cicero’s writing—when the right opportunity arises (Att. 4.16.2 [89]). Thereafter, the exchange between 47 and 45 bce inflects their relationship as quintessentially academic and culminating in the trade of dedications, Academic Books for On the Latin Language.65 Despite the mutual admiration and the brief period of political ­co-operation during Cicero’s exile, the relationship is punctuated by explicit accusations and broken by long silences. Resentment seems to emerge from the way in which their shared predicament generates two distinct, irreconcilable, responses to the political disintegration of Rome. In Cicero’s view, Varro works with Caesar all too readily. In July 59 bce, Cicero explains to Atticus why he turned down Caesar’s offer to replace Cosconius as one of the Vigintiviri agris dividendis:66 during Caesar’s consular year, acceptance of the position entailed implementation of his controversial reform to distribute Campanian land (Att. 2.19.4 [39]).67 Varro, however, accepts the role and sets a precedent of collaboration that contrasts with Cicero’s studied resistance (Wiseman 2009: 117). With all due care for source bias, Caesar’s narrative of Varro’s surrender in Spain during the civil war conforms to the picture just developed, as do his dealings with 64 65

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For the confiscation of Varro’s property see Appian B Civ. 5.47.203 and Phil. 2.103 ff. According to Leah Kronenberg (2009: 79–80), the academic dialogue continues well after Cicero’s death. Kronenberg argues that Varro’s On Agriculture stages a general response to Ciceronian philosophical dialogue, if not directly to the challenge set by Cicero at Fin. 3.4 to write sophisticated prose on the topic of farming. Literally, “Board of twenty men for the distribution of land.” As the name indicates, this is a commission whose objective was to implement land reforms. On Caesar’s lex agraria, see Cassius Dio 38.1-8. I found Goldsworthy (2006: 164–181) useful.

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Caesar after the Republican defeat at Pharsalus (B Civ. 2.17-21). Varro gains his safe return earlier than Cicero and, in spite of Cicero, he meets with Caesar and takes up the offer to become Rome’s first librarian (Kumaniecki 1962: 234–235).68 Personal distrust towards Varro is first encoded in a couple of Euripidean fragments cited at Att. 2.25.1 [45] of September of 59 bce. Recruiting Euripides’ Andromache and Phoenician Women, Cicero profiles Varro’s perverse psychology and its autocratic propensity, voicing concerns that will re-emerge over a decade later. The first reference describes his subject’s “peculiar constitution” (mirabiliter moratus) by activating a line from the Andromache, in which the title character launches a tirade against Menelaus and Sparta. Andromache, now a slave in the Greek city, denounces her captors as “twisted” (ἑλικτὰ καὶ οὐδὲν…, = Andr. 448), duplicitous and violent liars. The second takes a shot at their relationship, with Cicero excerpting a line about how “the madness of rulers” is a thing to be endured (τὰς τῶν κρατούντων…, = Phoen. 393). Both quotations co-opt the parallel situation of Andromache and Polynices, marginalized voices whose newfound status as concubine and exile impairs their ability to communicate with and understand those in power. While the letter implicates Atticus in Cicero’s ruse to manipulate Varro’s behavior (sed ego mallem ad ­ipsum scripsisses mihi illum satis facere, non quo faceret sed ut faceret), Cicero indicts Varro not just for his inscrutable and contorted mind, but also, implicitly, for assuming a tyrannical persona. As Wiseman (2009: 110–112) observes, the Euripidean passages serve to locate Cicero and Varro on “opposite sides of an ideological divide,” with Varro firmly on Caesar’s side and a representative of the monocratic injustice that Cicero (­Andromache/­Polynices) challenges and ultimately fails to comprehend. Varro’s jealousy towards Brutus, often cited as a major preoccupation when Cicero discusses the Academica’s revision, constitutes not just a jeu de moeurs, but another crisis in the history of their relationship. Once Cicero confirms that Varro will be a speaker, he asks Atticus how he learned that Varro was interested in receiving the dedication and of whom he might be envious. Cicero speculates that that someone is Brutus (Att. 13.13-14.1 [321]). A few days later jealousy is back on the agenda (Att. 13.18 [325]), as Cicero works to prize a response from Atticus as to whether he should go ahead with the dedication.69 68

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Once again, it is the exchange of an intellectual product that shapes the politics of the new Roman order: Della Corte (1954: 134), Kumaniecki (1962: 231) and Horsfall (1972) argue that Varro’s dedication of his Divine Antiquities to Caesar leads directly to reconciliation and promotion to ‘Head Librarian’. On Varro’s meeting with Caesar, see Att. 16.9 [419]. The question is repeated at Att. 13.14-15.1 [322], 13.16.2 [323] and 13.18 [325].

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The question ‘why is Varro interested now?’ haunts Cicero and is inextricably linked to his preoccupation with Varro’s jealousy. Now Cicero hypothesizes that this envy might be directed at Hortensius or the speakers he chose for the Republic. All the same, four days after the issue is raised, Cicero mysteriously indicates that the question is best settled “face to face” (sed haec coram). Anxiety over the dedication only intensifies as July comes along. During this period Cicero couches his preoccupations in Homeric Greek in two successive letters that speak of a reverent fear and quick tempers (Att. 13.24.1 [332] and 13.25.3 [333]). In the later of the two letters, Cicero uses Patroclus’ words about Achilles in the eleventh book of the Iliad to describe Varro as “a fearsome man, quick to blame even he who has no blame” (Il. 11.654). Varro’s impenetrability takes center stage even when it comes to an ostensibly straightforward exchange of gifts. However, his inscrutable attitude is mirrored in Cicero’s reaction, who, while convinced of Varro’s hostility, approaches the problem with no more clarity or directness than his antagonist. Intimations of jealousy and the desire to participate in Cicero’s literary production seem to conceal the same social anxieties that emerged in the early 50s bce. These concerns about partnership, support and reciprocity are not just voiced in a literary register, but are also about literature as the currency of exchange. The crisis of exchange is a crisis of language, profoundly connected, as we have seen above, to Cicero’s failure not just to understand Varro, but also to influence him in the political arena. Cicero proves ineffective in delaying Varro’s meeting with Caesar and in cooperating with Varro on the delicate question of how to treat the Julian “youth” (iuvenis) Octavian in 44 bce, when he appears on the world stage as heir to the recently murdered dictator. Against this complex background, key elements of Cicero’s efforts to fashion a community of learning, the societas studiorum, with Varro in the first third of Letters to Friends book nine stand out. The commitment to find common ground upon which to build their collaboration and strengthen their bond is at once encoded within the same intellectual register, cautiously negotiated around backhanded expressions—citations often from Greek sources—that invite, provoke, rebuke. At the same time, that bond is also openly established as an alternative to the political world, even anticipating a return to it. The opening triad, Fam. 9.1 [175], 9.2 [177] and 9.3 [176], sets the tone for the rest of the exchange.70 The first letter of book nine elaborates the relationship 70

Mary Beard’s (2002) argument about the thematic consistency of each book is taken seriously here. In line with her approach, I hope to show that, at least insofar as the first third of Fam. 9 is concerned, the ‘editor’ is sensitive to the thematic texture of the correspondence and that this has led him to eschew chronology.

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through the evocation of several images, tropes and themes that will shape the rest of the correspondence. Beginning the conversation with the directional “ex,” “from that letter of yours” (ex iis litteris), and identifying Atticus as both mediator and instigator of the interaction, Fam. 9.1.1 [175] establishes the themes of homecoming, friendship and literature. An image of reading and epistolary exchange is conjured: three old friends, Atticus, Cicero and Varro, read letters about and to each other, as Cicero holds some hope—in a world where only fools hope for solace or comfort—that Varro might come home soon. In the meantime, Cicero’s return to Rome (postea quam in urbem venerim) is paired with another return, in this case a return to the good graces of “old friends,” his books (redisse cum veteribus amicis, id est cum libris nostris, in gratiam, Fam. 9.1.2 [175]). These volumes are not inert repositories. Cicero’s forsaken books, “our” books, take him back, they speak and comfort him, at once assuming the role of forgiving teachers and celebrating Varro’s wisdom over and above Cicero’s for never straying from the path of “studia” (Fam. 9.1.2 [175]).71 On a metaphorical and metonymical plane, books serve to mediate the renewed association between Cicero and Varro established on the basis of common i­ ntellectual pursuits. Through a complicated relationship with his library, the author criticizes his own past conduct, particularly the “most unreliable comrades” ­(infidelissimis sociis) with whom he had cast his lot during the war; but that didactic relation also provides hope for the future and a sense that Rome is turning a new leaf. Indeed, the future tense and present subjunctive are recurrently deployed in this short text. Alongside references to hope (spem/sperare), they infuse the composition with a sense of potentiality whose realization depends on reunions—between Cicero and his books, between Cicero and Varro (dum modo simul simus). After the figurative orientation of Fam. 9.1 [175], Cicero turns the spotlight back onto the state of affairs and expands the grounds of their collaboration to a common political plight. Bridging the news of Thapsus, Fam. 9.2 [177] is a drawn out and confessional piece, painfully aware that things have changed (“yesterday’s letter is yesterday’s news,” ἕωλος illa epistula Fam. 9.2.1 [177]) and that the time has come to think through plans for the future. Cicero justifies his decision (rationem consilii) to stay in Rome, while he encourages Varro to keep out of sight while the victors’ public euphoria boils over (effervescit haec gratulatio) and the situation has somewhat stabilized (quemadmodum negotium confectum sit and exitus rerum, Fam. 9.2.4 [177]). Cicero’s ratio, his 71

The speaking “libri” become, in Fam. 9.8 [254], none other than the four books of the Academica.

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wider concerns about what Varro ought to do, speak directly to their situation, as members of the vanquished Republicans who surrendered before the last stand: “those who are celebrating the victory look at us as if we are among the defeated; those who find it hard to come to terms with our friends’ defeat mourn the fact that we are still among the living” (qui enim victoria se efferent quasi victos nos intuentur, qui autem victos nostros moleste ferunt nos dolent vivere, Fam. 9.2.2 [177]). Fam. 9.2 [177], like the later 9.5 [179], adopts a range of rhetorical strategies to map Varro’s circumstances onto Cicero’s, matching their trajectory from past commitment to the Republican cause, their appeal to Caesar for a pardon, through to their current predicament as outcasts and the resulting necessity that they follow the same course of action in the future. The frequency of first person plural verbs and pronouns (nostri, nobis) throughout Fam. 9.2 [177] and 9.5 [179] emphasizes the determination with which Cicero seeks to assimilate Varro into his lapsarian fantasy about the civil war. He digs into the past— lightly in Fam. 9.2 [177] and with greater intensity in 9.5 [179]—not only as an exercise in (self-)justification, but also to shape their parallel destinies into a structured narrative. At Fam. 9.5.2 [179] this story takes the form of a descent from “hope” (spes) to “duty” (officum) and “despair” (desperatio).72 As he constantly (re)formulates plans and showers Varro with advice, C ­ icero outlines a “common line of conduct” for them (Kumaniecki 1962: 232) that is firmly rooted in the dilapidated landscape of their past and their common motivations.73 Beyond telling his correspondent how to shun critics and where they ought to meet, the letters enact a constant return to intellectual activity as the linchpin of their shared strategy, where reading and writing is represented as an alternative to and an opportunity for political engagement.74 Fam. 9.2 [177] introduces this double perspective on scholarship. As the ­concluding paragraph of the letter indicates (Fam. 9.2.5 [177]), the shockwaves of yet another Caesarian victory at Thapsus, shortly followed by the suicide of Cato, displaced scholarship from being a source of “pleasure” (delectatio) to a form 72 73 74

See Wiseman (2009: 109) on first person plurals in Fam. 9.2 [177]. Cf. Pieri (1967) and Risselada (1993) more generally on ‘nos’. Stroup (2014: 140) reads the letters as plotting less of a descent and more of a “retreat” into the text. The self-avowedly prolix oratio of Fam. 9.6 [181] performs the same story. “Consilium,” with its wide semantic field extending to “plan,” “course of action,” “intention” and “advice,” is found three times in Fam. 9.2 [177] and 9.5 [179]. Cicero repeatedly expresses his desire to meet Varro over Fam. 9.1.2 [175], 9.3.1 [176], 9.7.2 [178], 9.5.3 [179] and 9.4 [180]. He also declares himself happy to let him pick the location, although he initially resists the idea of travelling to the Bay of Naples at Fam. 9.3.1 [176] and 9.2.5 [177].

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of “salvation” (salus) or preparation for a time when they will be called back to “rebuild the/a state” (ad aedificandam rem publicam). Cicero and Varro’s studia are propaedeutic to the restructuring of the republic in both a concrete and speculative sense. As the comparison with “architects” (architecti) and “craftsmen” (fabri) indicates, the body of knowledge that they would be called on to deploy is both theoretical and practical. Like architecture, scholarship is “opera,” work that exists in the public domain. However, Cicero also recognizes that their “opera” might not be required (nemo utetur) and their studia would then exist as an alternative to politics. “Writing and reading Republics” (et scribere et legere πολιτείας) is a form of service to the state, and a distinguished one at that, enjoying an illustrious precedent in the work of the “wisest men of old” (doctissimi veteres), who replaced the senate house and forum with literature and books (si minus in curia atque in foro, at in litteris et libris, Fam. 9.2.5 [177]). The architectural metaphor is exploited once again, developing a conceptual and syntactical symmetry centered on fulfilling civic duty. Whether Cicero’s and Varro’s theoretical disquisitions will be given room for application or will remain in the abstract, political literature is always already discharging a public office. This theme recurs in much of the philosophica to come, but it specifically ties into the relationship between Cicero and Varro.75 In the same breath as Cicero discusses their potential future as writers of Hellenizing political tracts, he brings together the topics of “customs” (mores) and “laws” (leges) indicating the binary interests shaping the duo’s output: laws, in conjunction with the earlier reference to politeiai, takes in Cicero’s Platonic works on political questions (the Republic and the Laws), while customs indicate Varro’s extensive publications on Roman culture, pointedly perhaps his multi-volume Antiquities on the history of Roman practices. The distribution and collaboration of interests intimated by the phrase is reprised in the exchange that opens the first Academic Book, where Varro’s writings on the institutions, customs and literatures of Rome are celebrated, and Cicero’s plans to (re-)found philosophy at Rome are tagged as complementary (Ac. 1.9; see §II.5.1). Jean Boes (1990: 207–208) highlights the proselytizing appeal of Fam. 9.2 [177], noting that the register of “civic duty” (officium) constitutes the strategy through which Cicero implicates Varro in a partnership founded on philosophizing. Cornered by the final defeat and the waves of detractors condemning them on both sides, Cicero presents studia as the only option worth wishing for: “let’s agree on this one thing: to live as one in our studies” (nobis stet illud, 75

Philosophia as public service is a staple of Cicero’s apologies. For a synchronic and detailed analysis see Gildenhard (2007: 51–63).

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una vivere in studiis nostris, Fam. 9.2.5 [177]). However, references to “­salvation” and “health” (salus) point back to the bellicose Fam. 9.3 [176], which the French critic rightly designates as the first outspoken call to arms. Here, their “scientific occupations” (artes) are treated in terms of agricultural (bearing fruit, fructus) and medical registers (medicinae). Furthermore, in a language that anticipates Fam. 9.2 [177] (note that 9.3 was written just before 9.2), Cicero’s Fam. 9.3 [176] models an opposition between learned correspondents and the hordes of ignorant barbarians (barbarorum inscitia), who “roll around in every kind of perversity and depravation” (in omni genere et scelerum et flagitiorum volutentur). This drama of positions is played out both metaphorically and geographically. If the letters are interested in co-ordinating the correspondents’ movements into and out of Rome, the second half of Fam. 9.7 [178] and the ­opening sections of Fam. 9.6 [181] address the theme of re-/dis-location in connection with ­Caesar’s homecoming. Section two of the earlier letter, in particular, presents conjectures about “where, how and when” (quando, qua, quo) Caesar would land, contextualizing this speculation in Cicero and Varro’s travel plans. A rumor had Caesar travelling by way of Sardinia to land at Baiae. In view of these reports, Cicero admits that he had urged Varro not to go south. The jerky syntax of Fam. 9.7 [178] raises suspicions about Cicero’s motives towards Varro and suggests an attempt to prevent or altogether delay Varro’s meeting with Caesar. This preoccupation with travel is interspersed with another key event in the exchange: Cicero’s socializing with a troop of Caesarians. The anxiety to justify his newfound associations emerges at Fam. 9.6. [181], where the author shares with Varro the opinion of Caesar’s closest (sui), among whom Hirtius, Balbus and Oppius, about the landing site. In this letter, Cicero repeatedly speaks of being “a slave to the moment” (tempori serviendum est, Fam. 9.7.1 [178]), the need to accept circumstances (Fam. 9.6.2 [181]) and the chaotic state of the Republic (Fam. 9.6.4 [181]). All of these pleas frame the question of meeting Caesar not in an openly anti-Caesarian discourse, but in one of adaptation and of a particular mental predisposition to collaborate with the new regime. In other words, this pair of letters epitomizes an evidently fraught negotiation about how to welcome Caesar, mediating Cicero’s efforts to c­ ontrol Varro’s cooperation with the regime (cf. Boes 1990: 210 on Fam. 9.5 [179]). All the epistolary rhetoric and backhanded machinations seem to return empty. Just over a year separates Fam. 9.6 [181], dated to June 46 bce, and Fam. 9.8 [254], sent in July 45 bce, as the dedication letter of the Academic Books. This long separation is punctuated by a single mention of an impromptu meeting with Varro in a letter to Atticus (Att. 13.33a [330]), where the tones are all

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but warm. Over this period of apparent detachment, our only insight into the relationship is provided by those nine letters to Atticus concerned with the dedication of the Academic treatise (about which, see §I.1.2; cf. Kumaniecki 1962: 236). As we have seen, Cicero manufactures a relationship with Varro out of their precarious state as marginal figures, outsiders, trapped between Rome and their country villas, the victors and the vanquished. Sections four to five of the final letter of the exchange in 46 bce (Fam. 9.6 [181]) is a eulogy to Varro, which echoes the praise that opened the exchange (Fam. 9.1.2 [175]). Back then, Varro was admired for having stuck by his studia and litterae, a wiser man than C ­ icero anticipating life’s disasters. In this longer letter of 46 bce, the shameless lofty rhetoric (huc […] fluxit oratio) parades the greatness of “learning” (doctrina) using images of cultivation (looking back to Fam. 9.3.2 [176]) and navigation, and ultimately celebrates Varro as a “great man” (magnum hominem, Fam. 9.6.4 [181]). Cicero works himself into the portrait as comparandum, as he did in Fam. 9.1.1 [175], and so as a reminder to his reader that there are still political duties without. The oratorical timbre of Fam. 9.6.5 [181] is as sophisticated as in Fam. 9.1 [175]. Cicero claims he would give everything up to be like Varro; except he did not find himself in the safety of a literary harbor and so could not withdraw from the struggle. The reasons why he could not retreat to his library are tellingly omitted. Moreover, his wish to follow Varro into literary retirement and imitate his style of living is charged with a hesitant, confrontational tone (pace Leach 1999). Return to studia is endorsed, it seems, by the state itself (concedente re publica): their “homeland” (patria) has no use for, nor does it want to use, their opera. Cicero lands his reader back in the language of alternatives to political life and of the docti viri, as he did at Fam. 9.2.5 [177]. However, in this case he introduces a note of doubt about the model’s legitimacy: the vita contemplativa, Cicero observes, has “many” (multi) advocates among the wise, but he wonders whether they were “right” (recte) in “preferring it to the state” (rei publicae praeponendam).76 In the context of a movement from political “consilium” to philosophia, the final opposition, between politics and intellectual pursuits, challenges (the illusion of) Varro’s position and opens the way for a return to the collaborative paradigm outlined at Fam. 9.2.5 [177]. The language of philosophy is not just presented as an idealized paradigm or aspiration. Cicero employs it to articulate his thoughts about the two sides in 76

Mapping Cicero’s thoughts on the debate opposing vita activa and vita contemplativa, see McConnell (2014: 115–160) on Dicaearchus and Theophrastus; and Bénatouil (2007) on Stoics, Skeptics and Antiochus.

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the civil war, about fate and his circumstances, and submission to the victors. These conquerors he describes at Fam. 9.7.2 [178] as “teachers” (magistrum … διδασκάλων), with whom he dines and converses. Such application of technical language is a practical indication of what that future conversation between correspondents might sound like, testing the register of their dialogue. In that same letter where Dolabella enters the frame as Cicero and Varro’s magistrum (Fam. 9.7.2 [178]), the author pens an elliptical paragraph in which, after “setting aside banter” (ridicula amissa), he speaks of fearful Africa through an Ennian verse and then points out that “there is nothing, which Stoics say ought to be rejected, that I do not fear” (nullum est ἀποπροηγμένον quod non verear). The Greek term keys into the Stoic theory of indifferents, a contentious ethical principle used to label some things that fall between virtue (the only good) and vice (its opposite) as of contingent importance.77 At Fam. 9.7.2 [178] Stoic ethics offers a template for thinking about the aftermath of Thapsus. The letter anticipates the more cryptic note that follows, Fam. 9.4 [180], where Cicero confronts Varro’s indecision about where to be when Caesar lands with reference to the controversy around the Master Argument. According to the ancient tradition, this logical puzzle was first put ­forward by the Dialectician Diodorus Cronus and later famously refuted by Chrysippus. It takes as its starting point the claim that what is possible is either true now or will be true in the future; simply put, the argument concerns the relationship between necessity and possibility, actual and potential. Against this background, Cicero reflects on Varro’s travel plans in terms of the mechanisms of a deterministic universe.78 As Griffin (1995: 339–341) notes, 77

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The Latin translation of the term is debated at Fin. 3.15, and the controversy is outlined at Fin. 3.50 and 4.43, where Cicero responds to the Stoic Cato. A list of indifferents, either good, like beauty, wealth, health, or bad, like death, poverty, ugliness, can be found in Diogenes Laertius’ Lives 7.101-5. See also Long and Sedley (1987: §58); and Ioppolo (1980a) on Aristo of Chios, chief provocateur in this polemic. Diodorus discusses logical modalities by defining what is possible as that which is either true or will be true. Gaskin (1995: 218) interprets this definition, also known as “the principle of plenitude,” in terms of the claim that “all possibilities must at some time be realized.” Chrysippus attacks the premise of this position, that the impossible cannot follow from the possible. By arguing against this proposition, he unlocks the definition of the possible as what is going to turn out to be true, provided that circumstances do not prevent it. In turn, this allows the Stoic’s world “to be governed by fate, but not by necessity” (Sedley 1977: 100). The fullest testimonia on the argument can be found in E ­ pictetus’ Discourses 2.19.1. Denyer (1981 and 1996) and Gaskin (1995: 282–296; 1996) reconstruct the argument differently. Gaskin also conjectures further critiques, by Cleanthes, Chrysippus and Cicero (1995: 297–305 and 306–318). We meet Diodorus and the dialectical school again at Luc. 92-94, where Cicero uses another argument attributed to Diodorus, the sôritês, to attack logic (§II.7.2, §III.9.1, §III.9.2 and §III.10.1).

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this letter is significant not only because the final reference to Chrysippus is ­concerned with encouraging Varro to visit him, to make his trip an actuality. The letter is important also because it puts on the map of the philosophica Cicero’s engagement with determinism, which he pursues after Caesar’s assassination in the booklet titled On Fate; it also shows how deeply rooted in his attitude to events this metaphysical anxiety really is. Boes (1990: 224) goes further, as he establishes a link between Fam. 9.4 [180] and both On Fate and the Academica. Pointing out that both treatises are interested in human agency, he notes that the Academica is concerned with the human ability to act with full epistemological certitude, while On Fate addresses the issue of responsibility in action. At the heart of Boes and Griffin’s approach is a sensitivity to the philosophical texture of Cicero’s conversation with Varro, framed, in this case, in terms of a trans-temporal debate between a Dialectic and Stoic philosopher on the topic of actuality and potentiality. Against the background of philosophia as an idealized activity, Cicero stages the applicability of philosophy to politics, as the substance of that philosophical engagement is political, and the model of political engagement is structured philosophically.79 2.3

The Dedication Letter: ad Familiares 9.8

Fam. 9.8 [254] is the last letter in the Varro series of book nine; in the chronological order of Cicero’s broader correspondence, it emerges out of a volley of letters exchanged with Atticus on the dedication of the Academic Books. This dual context has been largely ignored by scholars, who have regularly privileged one or the other framework. However, Fam. 9.8 [254] draws much of its complexity from its connection to both epistolary sequences and from its relation to the four-volume dialogue it introduces. Many of the themes and images developed in 46 bce inform—and are transformed by—the dedication, in which the political challenge of philosophy is launched against the backdrop of a textual, fictional, environment where Cicero and Varro finally meet and converse. The meandering subordination of the opening passage, along with the ­highly figurative language describing the Academic Books and the Academy itself, barely conceals its confrontational message:

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See Dettenhoffer (1990) for an extreme version of this position. Baier (1997: 30) judiciously observes that philosophy for Cicero is not a “Fortsetzung der Politik mit anderen Mitteln” but the “Grundlage jeder geistigen Betätigung.”

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To press someone for a gift, even though that someone has promised it— well that’s something that not even the populace does, unless they’re put up to it. Still, I am stirred by the expectation raised by your promise to remind you of it. Not to press you. For this reason, I sent you four reminders, which aren’t all too shy; I’m sure you’ll recognize the mien of this teenage Academy. And so I roused these four volumes up from out of the Academy and sent them; I’m afraid they might end up pressing you, but I asked them only to enquire politely. For quite a while now I have been waiting and trying to hold back so that I wouldn’t write something for you before I had received something from you—and in a position to repay you like for like. But you’re being slow about it… Etsi munus flagitare, quamvis quis ostenderit, ne populus quidem solet nisi concitatus, tamen ego exspectatione promissi tui moveor ut admoneam te, non ut flagitem. misi autem ad te quattuor admonitores non nimis verecundos; nosti enim profecto os huius adolescentioris Academiae. ex ea igitur media excitatos misi; qui metuo ne te forte flagitent, ego autem mandavi ut rogarent. exspectabam omnino iam diu meque sustinebam ne ad te prius ipse quid scriberem quam aliquid accepissem, ut possem te remunerari quam simillimo munere. sed cum tu tardius faceres… (Fam. 9.8.1 [254]). The reiteration of verbs of demanding (flagitare), warning (admonere, substantivized in admonitor), soliciting (rogare), repaying (remunerare), all underline the force of “munus” (gift, duty), term which opens and closes the excerpt, and frames the dedication in terms of a reciprocal exchange.80 The erratic syntax emphasizes the extent to which Varro’s delay frustrates the normative rhythms of literary reciprocation. And the semantic force of the verbs, read against Peter White’s (1993: 65–69) study of the idiom of patronage at Rome, locates the letter on the “peremptory,” rather than “deferential,” end of the scale of literary requests.81 Sent as a reminder that Varro had missed a beat, these testy volumes are the very embodiment of that syncopation, a repayment before debt and an imitation without a model. The subversion of such norms conveys the 80 81

Stroup (2010: 66–97) demonstrates the valence of the term in Catullus and Cicero, particularly how it activates “reciprocality” in the exchange of textual gifts, co-ordinating the economy of textual production and dedication in the Middle and Late Republic. Although primarily concerned with poetry, White develops his analytic categories through a reading of Cicero and Pliny. Particularly relevant are his readings of Fam. 3.9 [72], 12.16 [328], 5.12 [22] and 8.3 [79]. White (1993: 67–68) notes the waves of “discomfort” produced by Fam. 9.8 [254]’s aggressive language.

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importance of timing in the overall structure of the Cicero-Varro relationship, and, in so doing, imparts a sense of urgency to the literary dialogue. Reciprocity is a key theme of the letter that works on levels beyond the ties of gift-exchange. In a manner reminiscent of the correspondence of 46 bce, the text fixes itself around the careful use of pronouns. The “ego” and “tu,” initially linking the two through mutual obligation and reciprocation, gradually give way to first person plural pronouns (nostri, nos) that bind them to common pursuits and a shared affection (coniunctio studiorum amorisque nostri). Again, emphasis in the closing section returns to their frustration at the state of the republic (status civitatis) and the wish for a closer collaboration in the realm of studia. Despite the points of contact with the earlier exchange, their relationship is inserted as a footnote to Cicero’s gift: presenting Varro with the Academic Books, Cicero underlines the reasons why he has taken the first step in this round of dedication and, crucially, why he has moved to publicize it.82 This intensely social language of exchange sustains the architecture of the whole piece. The affirmation and regularization of a social bond is a process that looks forward to a moment in the future where the two will meet, explore the subject matter of the books, discuss their own affairs and ultimately pursue Cicero’s musing over the end of the Republic. In letting Varro know the subject matter and genre of the gift, the author hopes the work will lead to a sustained exchange between them: “in the future, dear Varro, and, if you’re OK with it, I’m hoping for many discussions between—and about—us” (quam plurima, si videtur, et de nobis inter nos). Cicero launches the viva voce dialogue as he cuts short his ramblings about studia in a world without politics, “but all this we will talk over together and often” (sed haec coram et saepius, Fam. 9.8.2 [254]). The correspondence continues to feed off the expectation of a future interaction, and the dedication plays up the ways in which the treatise itself should be conceptualized in those terms. Cicero shines an interesting light on his Academic Books, emphasizing the vraisemblance of the work: “I think that once you have read it, you will be surprised that you and I discussed this issue, which in fact we never have discussed” (puto fore ut cum legeris mirere nos id locutos esse inter nos quod numquam locuti sumus, Fam. 9.8.1 [254]). Varro’s surprise is provocatively imagined to draw attention to the power of the fiction as a valid mimetic alternative to real-life conversation.83 However, the parenthetic expression “sero fortasse” (all too late perhaps), tacked onto his hope of future 82 83

Ac. 1.1-3 rehearses many of the same themes and presents important terminological correspondences with the dedication, especially through verbs like “flagitare” and “expectare.” Stroup (2014: 141) is also interested in this passage, a confession of Cicero’s “ventriloquism” and his commitment to falsifying history.

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conversations, projects Cicero’s despair that all this talk will come too late. The value of fiction is thus inflected: ineffectual, deferred and fictionalized disputations may after all be the conversations under the new order. Despite these melancholy tints, the letter plays out a further provocation to its recipient. This is developed over the second half of the dedication and around the theme of political responsibility. As we leave the territory of literary request, a sense of obligation builds out of several subjunctives and conditionals through which Cicero works to bind their desires for the future (sustineat, utinam, possemus, darent and velimus). The hopes of Fam. 9.6.5 [181] return on the notes of a peaceful seclusion, where the two would live side-by-side in the realm of studia; in both passages, however, the reverie is locked in a struggle with civic duty. In 46 bce, the Republic is in disarray (re publica perturbata) and, as we just saw, has no use for Cicero and Varro’s opera (Fam. 9.6.4-5 [181]). The state therefore allows them (concedente) to heed the call of studia, a way out of the duties of civic service (vacationem quandam publici muneris). A year later, Cicero introduces the issue of accountability: their discussions may come too late, he tells Varro, however, “the fate of the republic has to take its share of blame for what has happened” (superiorum temporum Fortuna rei publicae causam sustineat, Fam. 9.8.2 [254]). This absolution lets in the specter of culpability, plotting against that anxiety a clear and urgent direction for the dialogue, as the Academic Books represent the here and now of what they must take responsibility for (haec ipsi praestare debemus). Moreover, in July of 45 bce Cicero does not wish them to be exonerated from serving a state, which anyway does not want or need them. At Fam. 9.8.2 [254] Cicero wishes for political recovery, for a pacified environment and a stable Republic (quietis temporibus atque aliquo, si non bono, at saltem certo statu civitatis), where public duties and occupations (et curas et actiones), in a surprising reverse, become the distraction from studia. An element of uncertainty emerges about the future settlement of the state, opening to the possibility of a return to meaningful politics—a possibility that pins enormous responsibilities on the exchange between Cicero and Varro. The dedication letter, as the series of 46 bce before it, never secures for studia a clear and fixed position, keeping intellectual pursuits suspended over the uncertainties of the ever-evolving political situation. Fam. 9.8 [254] progresses from thinking literature a foil to and substitute for real conversation, through characterizing it as an alternative to political activity, to finally defining it as the occupation that is barely keeping Cicero alive in the circumstances: “as things are right now, why would we want to live without our studies? I’m having trouble coping with them—without them I couldn’t even manage that” (nunc autem quid est, sine his cur vivere velimus? mihi vero cum his ipsis vix,

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his autem detractis ne vix quidem, Fam. 9.8.2 [254]). The drama of the final plea displaces yet again Cicero’s sense of where studia fit in the panorama of his own and the Republic’s fate. The paradox articulated at the end of the letter confounds the two categories of studia and peace, and necessarily engages Varro in the question of their position. The interchangeability of politics and philosophy along the axis of war and stability is formulated as a question. It is precisely this challenge—perhaps the challenge of the philosophica as a whole—that pulls Varro into a debate about the place of studia in their times. And it is this question that closes the piece, accentuating the routine sign-off of “let’s discuss this in person” (haec coram) with “saepius,” “let’s do so often.”84 The four Academic Books are also introduced through the theme of “shame” (verecundia).85 The books, like the school of which both Cicero and Varro are affiliates,86 will not be remembered for their politeness or modesty.87 Rather, this assertiveness underwrites the force of the letter and the four volumes: ­Cicero acknowledges the transgression, yet uses the dedication as an opportunity to invite Varro to look beyond formalities and engage with the revolutionary potential of their respective intellectual output, beginning with the libri enclosed. As he tries to commit Varro to an intellectual exchange, he defends the continuity existing between their works (cf. Ac. 1.9-12). At first this appears grounded in their common practice, as Cicero and Varro are colleagues and eminent contributors to the intellectual landscape of Latin prose. However, the questions asked about the place of that practice within their life and predicament, move the focus onto content, interpretation and reception of their investigations. Cicero defies Varro to join him in charting new territory at the intersection of the public and the private and to reflect on how books may—or may not—constitute that intervention.

84 85 86 87

Comparable signature lines at Att. 1.18 [18], 4.1 [73], 4.4 [76] and Q.fr. 2.6 [10]. See Robert Kaster (2005: 15 and 27) on ‘verecundia’, that which “animates the art of knowing your proper place in every social transaction.” Cicero tells Varro that he gave him Antiochus’ role (partes Antiochinas) because of his support for his views (a te probari intellexisse mihi videbar, Fam. 9.8.1 [254]; see §I.1.2). Cicero recognizes the dangers of his skeptical Academy at Leg. 1.39, where he asks the disruptive school of Arcesilaus and Carneades (perturbatricem … hanc Academiam) to be quiet.

Chapter 3

Effecting Cicero: Fiction, Criticism and Subjectivity 3.1

The Epistolary Cicero: Dialogue, Friendship and the Subject of the Letters

Politics happens within philosophical discourse, and ‘publication’—the public expression of conceptual activity—becomes an avenue of, as well as a resource for, resistance. That resistance, then, becomes the execution of a well-defined political agenda. For many critics, Cicero’s ‘cultural warfare’ is a deliberate campaign with clear objectives and methodology (Gildenhard 2007: 76 and Habinek 1995). However, as we have seen in chapter two, the letters about the Academica and the letters championing the Academica do not presume to locate Varro within a particular strategy. The current chapter furthers the view that Cicero does not enlist his readers in a campaign or outline a specific agenda for them, corralling the epistolary exchanges contiguous to the Academic project. Grief over the loss of Tullia and anxiety over Caesar’s return provide the context within which Cicero emerges as primarily interested in reacting to the anarchy and uncertainties of his world and in situating his philosophy of doubt as a potential response to it. Ciceronian skepticism, as it is staged for his public through the epistolary collection, enacts the pursuit of a way to deal with instability. It sets off in search of that agenda, rather than lays its foundation. Uncertainties, changes of heart, rewritings, modulations of tone and perspectives define the process of composition and distribution, to the point where tracking a particular course entails excluding an array of other aspects and material from the study. The figure of Cicero we find in the studies of Boes, Michel and Lévy thrives precisely on this over-determination. In the same way as the letters are seen as transparent about their protagonist’s intentions, so do they, and the dialogues they refer to, parade a philosopher who is steadily in control of his literary enterprise. A philosopher who is always foreshadowing, intimating, prefacing, organizing, situating, the works to come—and those already completed. Such a Cicero writes as if he were forever revising a closed corpus.88 88

Scholars in the French tradition wage their Ciceronian campaigns under the banner of ‘la grande unité de la pensée cicéronienne’. So Michel (1968: 120), Boyancé (1970: 221), Boes (1990: 5), Lévy (1992) and Auvray-Assayas (2006: 520).

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This section aims to explore two key aspects of the rhetoric of Cicero’s literary criticism, particularly in relation to his own work. First, his inclination to discuss his technica through aesthetic-generic considerations. Cicero conceptualizes his work in a variety of ways, touching again and again on literary models, literary relationships and generic expectations to produce a flexible web of interpretive paradigms. In this context, the letters not only provide the context for the Academica, but they are also continuous with the Academic project of looking for (and failing to find) epistemological stability. Furthermore, the aesthetic inflection of the exchange about the Academica makes a point of raising the question of fictionality, thus foregrounding it as an important element in the dialogues’ reception. The second concerns the—now fashionable—business of self-fashioning, in which John Dugan (2005) has set the pace. Gunderson (2007) and Leach (1999 and 2006) have already pointed the way to a different methodological approach to the letters, studying systems and modes of constructing the self, a process that we might call with Althusser ‘subjectivation’.89 We have already described Cicero’s epistolary activity in terms of performance, and it is precisely the relationship between performance and language that shapes the focus of the second tack of the argument, as we investigate the construction of authorial interiority. During the first half of 45 bce, the letters obsess over writing and editing, the loss of Tullia and Caesar’s return. Studying the writer’s subjectivity consequently involves extending the field of research into letters of the period that articulate and address the other two concerns, with the aim of showing how political anxieties, personal despair and Academic thinking are profoundly connected. Self-fashioning amounts to a strategy of self-­questioning through which Cicero stages his efforts to situate himself and

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Subjectivation—‘subjectification’ or ‘subjectivization’, as the process through which the individual becomes subject in the realm of linguistic and cultural practices—is closely associated with the work of Michel Foucault, particularly in the realm of culture and (bio) politics. For a way in, I found Foucault’s “An Aesthetics of Existence” (1988) useful. Jacques Lacan has made language the keystone of and arena within which the suJEt parlant is constituted, negotiated, negated. His work, especially the first volume of his Écrits (1999 vol. i, in particular pp. 235–321) read alongside Bruce Fink’s (1995) landmark study of the subject in Lacan, has had a profound influence on my approach to the letters. As has Louis Althusser’s work on ideology and the state (2001). Stein and Wright (2005) offers a u ­ seful collection on the linguistic underpinnings of subjectivization. The dialectical mechanisms of subject-formation have been the subject of renewed interest by Slavoj Žižek (e.g. 2009) and Jacques Rancière. Rancière (1992: 60) defines subjectivation as “the formation of a one that is not a self but is the relation of a self to another.” On Cicero and Lacan, see Martelli (2016a).

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his work within the unpredictable fluctuations of the Roman political and institutional universe. In the preface to the first Academic Book, discussion of genre positions Ciceronian philosophy within the evolving field of Latin literature. After a speech in which Varro justifies his view that Romans interested in philosophy should turn to original Greek sources and in which he reveals the presence of philosophy in his Menippean Satires, funeral orations and Antiquities, ‘Cicero’, in his capacity as speaker, turns to a survey of his colleague’s anthropological, sociological, geographical, historical and literary works.90 The sprawling list is ­rhetorically motivated to prepare the way for a return to the criticism that Cicero leveled at Varro at Ac. 1.3: “I want to know why you write so much, yet you miss out this one genre?” (quaero quid sit cur cum multa scribas hoc genus praetermittas?). Varro’s contribution to Latin litterae is both extensive and valuable to Rome’s citizens. Yet, as Cicero points out in acknowledging that Varro experimented with philosophia, the little he has done in this field “is enough to excite students, but too little to teach them” (philosophiamque multis locis inohasti, ad impellendum satis, ad edocendum parum, Ac. 1.9). Varro’s comprehensive bibliography gives Cicero the chance to isolate the gap in his interlocutor’s corpus, comment on Varro’s effectiveness as a teacher of philosophy and outline the field of Latin prose within which his Academica finds its place. Once the scene is set for the dialogue to begin, the reader is under no false impression that the necessary supplement to Varro’s far-reaching antiquarianism is right there in his hands. Cicero promotes his work as collaborative, pedagogical and occupying a well-defined generic position in the literary domain—three considerations that are interdependent and amply foreshadowed in the letters of the period. The prologue to the first Academic Books establishes the principle of ­collaboration. As noted above, Cicero positions himself next to Varro, mapping this proximity in generic language. Complementing the spatial and relational terms within which he frames the issue of collaboration, he introduces a functional element. Varro’s work is praised as a contribution to Roman intellectual life because it provides key guidance to his audience as to fundamental questions, “who we are and where we live” (qui et ubi essemus agnoscere, Ac. 1.9). This pithy evaluation of his colleague’s work strikes a Socratic note for Lévy (1992: 144), who argues that Cicero is branding Varro’s work—and his own, in turn—as oriented by the Delphic maxim, “know thyself” (γνῶθι σεαυτόν; see 90

Ac. 1.4-8. On reading the original Greek, see Fin. 1.1; for philosophy’s spectral presence in Cicero’s own non-philosophical works, see Nat.D. 1.6: “I was philosophizing when you least expected it” (cum minime videbamur, tum maxime philosophabamur).

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also Reid 1885: ad loc). Both writers are concerned with Roman discursive identity, effectively sharing the rights to the field of ‘discussing Rome’. Generic evaluation represents a strategy of discursive assimilation, where the author shares out analysis of Roman culture between Varro and himself, and in so doing he locates philosophy securely within that frame. Furthermore, the teamwork is organized hierarchically. The balanced phrase “ad impellendum satis, ad edocendum parum” underlines a continuity between the typologies of answers to the question of Romanitas that Cicero and Varro are offering. Varro’s historical works, whose feat is to garner attention and elicit questions, fall short when called upon to provide Socratic, or philosophical, answers to Socratic, or philosophical, questions. In the trajectory of Ciceronian pedagogy, therefore, epistemological investigations come to ­occupy a key place in the field of studies of Romanitas, integrating abstraction into the domain of education.91 At Ac. 1.11, Cicero makes these systematic reflections explicit when he justifies philosophical writing as an opportunity to teach Rome, to educate its citizens (“ad nostros cives erudiendos”)—a service provided for Romans that quintessentially concerns Romans. In both prefatory and epistolary forms, the exchange with Varro anticipates the debate in the Academic Books. In the correspondence, Cicero makes the exchange sound as if he approached Varro through philosophical language, and insistently offered openings and invitations to respond, to constitute that dialogue that would be then fictionally reproduced in the treatise. Fam. 9.4 [180] is a particularly relevant example of this strategy as it intimates the historical dimension within which Cicero places that contemporary exchange. In the letter, he shapes the question of their respective movements over the coming days into a philosophical debate between Diodorus and Chrysippus. The question of whether Varro will or will not join Cicero is absorbed into a blunt invitation for Varro to take a position on determinism, to reveal where he stands on the relation between time, necessity and possibility. The mimetic negotiation of their relationship is ever-present in Cicero’s epistolary discussion of the Academic Books, as the two take opposite sides of a doctrinal divide.92 The logic of division and collaboration form the architecture of both Academic editions, as the debate between Cicero and Varro, or ­between Cicero and Lucullus, consciously re-enacts historical disputes between Philo and Antiochus. And this argument is, in turn, a foil to clashes ­between founders of two Hellenistic schools. The recessive frame of ­intellectual 91 92

See §II.5.1 for further analysis of the passage. Their scholastic rivalry is frequently mentioned to Atticus—and once to Varro at Fam. 9.8.1 [254]. See Att. 13.12.3 [320], 13.16.1-2 [323], 13.19.3-4 [326] and 13.25.3 [333].

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e­ xchange links two forms of dialectic: the viva voce engagement of, for example, Antiochus’ refutation of Philo before a group of colleagues in Alexandria (Luc. 11-12), or the arguments between Arcesilaus and Zeno or Carneades and Chrysippus (Luc. 77, 87); and, the written, epistolary in this case, exchange between Philo and Antiochus, and Clitomachus and Lucilius and L. Censorinus (Luc. 102).93 The epistolary exchange must be seen as part and parcel of this desire to cloak relations not only in philosophical role-playing, but as a collaborative form of role-playing that re-enacts the gesture of philosophical interaction. Cicero is careful to insist on the Roman social and political ­evolution of this practice. He and Varro are engaged in an educative process that, as their exchange in Letters to Friends and the first Academic Book confirms, takes place between Romans, who talk about Rome. Furthermore, Cicero advertises the Academic method of “arguing on both sides of a proposition” (disputatio in utramque partem) as his approach to philosophy and, with a few exceptions, as the structuring principle of the dialogues to come (§iii.10.2). Dialogism, as a collaborative attitude to research, is not just an attitude towards philosophical problems, but a specific Academic approach to the genre. As a case in point, the Lucullus opens with a defense of Academic skepticism that emphasizes the collective nature of philosophical inquiry. It does so by highlighting the skeptic’s broader evaluative ­perspective on other schools and the historical continuity of research, an enterprise that began with “the most ancient and learned” (antiquissimi et doctissimi) and whose “enthusiasm for discovery” (studium exquirendi, Luc. 7) will not wane. Through such claims Cicero invites his readers into the Academy and c­ o-opts Roman aristocratic exchange into his school.94 The theme set out in the Lucullus gains greater prominence in the later Academic Books, in which the ­relationship with Varro allows Cicero to explore the political and pedagogical implications of dialectic, situating politics and education in an intellectual exchange between potential allies in the world after Thapsus. 93

94

Clitomachus writes on the topic of assent to Lucilius and Censorinus (§II.4.4 and §II.7.1); Cicero points to a written and deferred debate between Philo and Antiochus, as Antiochus apparently responds to the Roman Books through another treatise, the Sosus (on this work and the schism, see §II.7.2 and §III.8.3). Cicero rejects “argument for argument’s sake” (studio certandi, Luc. 65), insisting on the constructive nature of dispute. The locus classicus for praise of dialogue is Fin. 2.1-6; Or. 1.263 on the philosophers’ ‘consuetudo’; on philosophical method and Academic-­ Peripatetic writing, see Fin. 3.3 discussing book one and two of On Ends; Or. 3.80, Fin. 5.10 and Ac. 1.12 on the origins of in utramque; Fat. 1 and its reflections on the in utramque of On the Nature of Gods and On Divination (also, Off. 1.81); on dialogue and argumentation in Cicero, see Lévy (1984), Inwood (1990), Schofield (2008) and Cappello (forthcoming).

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Another element of the generic perspective, which is treated explicitly in the letters and—fictionally—in the dialogues, is amicitia. On two separate occasions, Cicero discusses with Atticus his anxiety of outperforming Varro in the Academic debate. He expresses his anxiety that the “roles” (partes) are scripted in such a way as to make his case sounder (superior mea causa, Att. 13.19.5 [326]) or defended “more thoroughly” (copiosius, Att. 13.25.3 [333]) than his opponent’s. The truncated form of the first Academic Book only gives us a four-section glimpse into Cicero’s response to Varro (Ac. 1.43-6), making it impossible to evaluate his concern. Nonetheless, if the Lucullus stands as a model for the type of engagement in the later version, Cicero maintains a cordial tone throughout. In fact, more than cordiality or aristocratic deference, the principles that Cicero espouses in his Academic manifesto, liberty—as freedom to choose—and a self-conscious flexibility with respect to dogmas (Luc. 7-9), underwrite his response to Lucullus. Significantly, the apologia for his Academy begins with the skeptic’s duty to be open to and accept frank dialogue and critique: as the skeptic methodically subjects all views to criticism, so s/he cannot object to others holding opposing views (Luc. 7). Cicero then proceeds to measure up the skeptic’s approach to the dogmatist’s, underlining that “the only difference that exists between us and those who think they know” (nec inter nos et eos qui se scire arbitrantur quidquam interest) consists in the skeptic doubting (illi non dubitant) and questioning the certainty of that knowledge. This attitude amounts to (comparative) freedom: “we are freer and less constrained” (liberiores et solutiores, Luc. 8). This “refus d’embrigadement au nom de la liberté” (Haury 1955: 193) ensures the principle of open dialogue that make this idealized amicitia possible. In the letters this is prefigured time and again. Cicero bares the mechanisms and tools of his thinking before Varro, as he does in the longer letters of 46 bce, and to Atticus as an explicit invitation to respond and deliver “the second half” (altera pars) of the conversation (Fam. 9.6 [181]; see also Att. 13.19 [326]). The dialogue represented in the treatises is therefore constructed in epistolary fashion, so that the two are not simply co-extensive or mimetic, but are products of the same philosophical methodology guaranteed by the dialogic commitment to the skeptical Academy. Amicitia in the Late Republic is not a straightforward or readily assimilable social category. It describes a “vast” range of social and political interactions, which Cicero himself, as he reflects on it throughout his career—from On Invention to the Laelius—saw as problematic and, at the very least, in need of clearer definition (Brunt 1965: 20, emphasis in the original).95 Habinek (1990: 95

For an early definition of amicitia in Cicero’s works, see Inv. 2.167. Also, C. Williams (2012: 17–23).

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180 and 170) makes a compelling argument for Cicero’s reformative approach in his late dialogue on the subject. Modeling its thrust on Att. 1.17 [17], Cicero rethinks amicable interaction as one of “openness to rebuke and criticism” not only between two friends of unequal social position, but also between equals. Beyond the political advantages that this “redefinition” offers, it is the focus on the reciprocal structure of friendship, a structure selected from that “vast” array, that is of particular relevance to the fictional construction of the dialogue and its interdependence with the letters (cf. Bellincioni 1970: 179–237). In this light, the position that Cicero takes towards Varro appears as an ideological posture, where frank dialogue towards a living contemporary, candid to the point of offence, marks the treatise out as prescriptive. The self-conscious fictionalization of written and oral dialogue transforms the exchange into an ­interactive paradigm, an idealized model of co-operation that has an aspirational and injunctive force for the reader/correspondent. As part of the ­exchange with Cicero, Varro receives a literary repackaging of real-life exchange. Minimal relief has been given to Cicero’s epistolary persona in relation to the philosophical dialogues. The rhetoric of letters relevant to this p ­ hilosophical period has suffered in the same way as other fictional elements of the philosophica, dismissed as little more than ornamental; and, while prefaces lately have enjoyed a revival of interest, their study is generally insulated from an appreciation of the philosophical or theoretical mechanics of the main body of the text. Although the field of Cicero studies is changing, rhetoric and philosophy are still generally viewed as independent of each other, each appealing to different specialisms and operating within discrete provinces of the text. Blame for this critical blinkering is not solely to be assigned to the discipline of Classics, slow as it may be to engage with paradigm shifts in the humanities. It must also be shared with an attitude prevalent in philosophy, particularly in the Anglo-American tradition, that understands philosophical language as akin to mathematical notation, an instrumental and sanitized form of discourse, insulated from other, expended, historical and permeable forms.96 In the case of the Academica, this attitude seems to lack all justification.97 The epistolary Cicero consistently invites his friend to understand the work as a piece of philosophical fiction, not documentary reproduction of axiomatically formulated positions. Form, choice of characters, models and generic conventions: these dominate his reflections on writing and rewriting, and they must inform any interpretive perspective. Furthermore, his meditations are in 96 97

Derrida (1982: 207–271) is the expression of another tradition in philosophy looking back to, among others, Johann Georg Hamann, Søren Kierkegaard and Friedrich Nietzsche. Norris (2010) offers an interesting overview of the ‘linguistic turn’ in philosophy. Plato, for example, has never needed such an apology.

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themselves far from reductive and monosemic. The great straitjacketing compulsion of the letters—to deduce exactly the (one) way in which to read the work they discuss—is antithetical to the diversity and complexity of perspectives that the orator puts on display. Att. 13.19 [326] is a key instance of this literary-critical shape-shifting and of the way philosophical terminology bleeds into the letters and vice-versa. The letter offers a winding discourse, providing comparanda from Cicero’s older and contemporary works, exploring details of the changes and their rationale, ultimately settling on a judgment of the work in terms of Varro’s role. His new protagonist is best suited to play Antiochus, precisely because of a kind of extreme pleasure he derives from that philosophical position (aptius esse nihil potuit ad id philosophiae genus quo ille maxime mihi delectari videtur, Att. 13.19.5 [326]). Earlier, Cicero had already specified the content of Varro’s speech, “the arguments that Antiochus had woven together in a clear manner to refute akatalêpsia” (quae erant contra ἀκαταληψίαν praeclare conlecta ab Antiocho, Att. 13.19.2 [326]). In the later context, the author observes not just how suitable Varro is, but also how superior his case appears because “Antiochus’ arguments are really quite persuasive” (vehementer πιθανὰ Antiochia, Att. 13.19.5 [326]). The Greek technical terminology is deployed to powerful effect, particularly pithana, which is hardly a neutral adjective when referring to the Hellenistic Academy. When Cicero argues his case in the Lucullus, its constructive thrust is centered on Carneadean epistemology, the replacement of truth with the principle of persuasiveness—pithanon or probabile (Luc. 98-99; §iii.9.2 and §iii.10.1). Looking back to the letter from the vantage point of the Lucullus, the use of pithana is more than paradoxical, posing two substantial challenges to this characterization of the treatise: if, as Cicero declares in his ­endorsement of the New Academy, liberty is the freedom to follow the most convincing argument, how does this admission of the greater persuasive value of Antiochus’ dogmatic position fit into his self-declared philosophical views? ­Furthermore—and no less problematically—he brands Antiochian arguments with the same term employed by New Academics to refute Stoicism and provide an alternative to Antiochus’ views.98 The letter is a point of departure for Carlos Lévy’s Cicero Academicus, as it tackles the socio-political and historical context of the Academica’s composition. Putting his finger on the paradox, Lévy is persuaded by the letter’s sincerity and sees the reasons for adopting a skeptical view as lying outside philosophy (1992: 133). Politics contaminates 98

Cicero introduces Carneadean epistemology with the jingoistic claim that “once [he has] explained Carneades’ position in full, all these Antiochian arguments will collapse” (iam explicata tota Carneadis sententia Antiochea ista conruent universa, Luc. 98).

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the philosophical attitude, turning skepticism, as he later argues, into the instrument of an open, Republican, and anti-Caesarian agenda. This use of the Carneadean term is the disposable platform for Ciceronian philosophical Republicanism. Lévy operates a sophisticated reading of Cicero’s presence as author and character, touching on three significant elements. In the first place, the dialectic between the two “positions:” Cicero’s loyalty to the Academy is a pertinent issue only if the character in the dialogue speaks for the author as well. The emergence of an authorial voice at Att. 13.19.5 [326] side-steps that of the character in the dialogue, when Cicero suggests that he was unable to make his own argument better, yet emphasizes his “trademark oratorical brilliance” (nitorem orationis nostrum) as what makes Antiochus’ “acumen” shine. The premise of Lévy’s interpretation is that admission of his character’s weak arguments is the same as admitting that the author cannot hold the same views; emphasis then shifts from content to method. Second, airing his reflections on the rhetorical qualities of the text legitimizes an open rather than closed interpretive dialectic centered on aesthetic principles—an approach enabled by the distance he puts between his authorial self and the persona of the dialogue. Finally, his verdict on the persuasiveness of Varro’s speech is presented as far from conclusive. At the end of the letter, and repeatedly throughout the correspondence, Cicero invites Atticus to think hard about whether Varro would like the part, with this anxiety translating into the preoccupation that Varro might view Cicero as “defending his position much more assiduously than [Varro’s ­character] over the four books” (meas partis in iis libris copiosius defensas esse quam suas). In other words, Cicero’s hesitation over the gift stems from adopting another critical position on the text: Varro’s (ita mihi saepe occurrit vultus eius querentis, Att. 13.25.3 [333]). Moreover, Lévy silences the allusive dynamics triggered by the letter’s ­philosophical vocabulary. Staging a waltz of Greek technical terms, with akatalêpsia followed by pithana, Cicero introduces key terms of the debate to come, its language and contemporary appeal, through a puzzle. As n ­ oted above, he describes Antiochia ratio through the theory of the pithanonprobabile, which he himself likely uses to attack Antiochus’ dogmatic Platonism (such is the reconstruction that the extant parts of the Academic Books suggest). Furthermore, the connection that is made to the nitor orationis stretches the semantic horizons of this word to include rhetoric. Is this a rhetorical judgment cast in philosophical language or vice-versa? Cicero’s theorizing on the Carneadean pithanon focuses precisely on that liminal zone of rhetoric-andphilosophy (cf. Luc. 32-39 and 98-110).99 99

On the probabile, see Auvray-Assayas (2006: 37) and §III.10.2.

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Att. 13.19 [326] integrates literary-rhetorical analysis with Academic skepticism. As critic of his own work, Cicero assumes a detached position in relation to the arguments themselves, adopting, or re-performing, in the literary field the skeptic’s stance towards philosophical views. The technical register leaves no doubt as to what scholastic framework is applied. Academic terminology is further merged with oratorical agonism. Cicero is not evaluating philosophical arguments, rather the quality of a treatise whose persuasiveness, or lack thereof, might cause offence to another Roman. This elision between the world of rhetoric and philosophy is another key factor in how the letter introduces Cicero’s Academy: insofar as Academic skepticism is concerned with personal judgment—persuading or failing to persuade another—it has a (central) part to play in the social and political world of Rome. Previously, we have touched on the generic reflections orienting Cicero’s rewrite of the Catulus and Lucullus into the four Academic Books (§I.3.1, also §I.1.2 and §I.2.1). Genre provides another literary lens through which Cicero studies his Academica. Involving generic concerns in the conceptualization of the Academica is a strategy parallel to the one analyzed above. From this perspective, Cicero establishes a multifocal approach to the treatise from a literary-critical angle, as well as consolidating the connections between genre and the socio-political sphere out of which the treaty originates and in which it wants to intervene. In §I.2.2 above I underlined the ways in which Cicero’s letter to Quintus on his Republic anticipates many of the concerns expressed in 45 bce in ­relation to the Academica. Sallustius’ advice to participate in the Republic’s discussion is political, based on the value of building an enquiry into the ideal state on the living auctoritas of a Roman consular. Just before Cicero weighs up his friend’s suggestion, he celebrates the “status” and “grandeur” of his cast, which alone “contributes some substance to the speech” (dignitas aliquantum orationi ­ponderis afferebat, Q.fr. 3.5.1 [25]). The section pairs auctoritas and dignitas, merging literary considerations with political ones. In generic terms, Sallustius leads Cicero away from the fictions of Heraclides to Aristotle, ­author and protagonist of a Republic and On the Best Man. The connection between generic paradigms and political influence is foremost in both Cicero and Sallustius, and both associate the manipulation of Greek models with the d­ emands of a Roman voice. In this context, it is interesting to note that in June 54 bce, as Cicero was thinking of finding a place for Varro in his Republic, he mentions Aristotle’s “exoteric” works as a model that would allow for his i­ nclusion (Att. 4.16.2 [89]). Varro links up with Aristotle, while the idealized Republican past retreats to the safe fictionality of a Heraclides. Although ultimately C ­ icero discards Sallustius’ idea, Q.fr. 3.5 [25] is still profoundly valuable ­because it

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e­ xplores compositional possibilities before Quintus. The discussion is the equivalent of a critical performance in front of a literate audience, which, on the model of the internal audience represented by Sallustius, is interested in finding the symmetries between Greek content and Roman form. Cicero’s response to the proposal to find a place for Varro in the treatise echoes the letter to Quintus of 54 bce. Literature and politics interlock as Varro transcends the ignorance of the dead Catulus and Lucullus and becomes a source of social anxiety as to how he will react to being subjected to ­Cicero’s “principatus” (Att. 13.16 [323] and 13.19.5 [326]). Within the context of Cicero’s more “erudite compositions” (φιλολογώτερα), Varro the philologus begins to make sense as a potential character (Att. 13.12.3 [320]). Att. 13.19.3-5 [326] clinches the shift, as the opportunity to involve Varro opens up through the realization that the project is “too logically sophisticated” (λογικώτερα) for Catulus and Lucullus. At the same time, Varro is an appropriate choice for ­Cicero’s new Aristotelian orientation, exemplified by On Ends, where he plays alongside his contemporaries. The fact that the author looks back to the editorial opportunity he missed in the technica of the 50s bce and rejects Atticus’ suggestion of using Cotta as Varro’s adversary precisely because he doesn’t want the “walk-on part” (κωφὸν πρόσωπον, Att. 13.19.3 [326]) places the emphasis squarely on this treatise as the moment of transition and on the transition as centered around his presence in the debate. Crucially, the mixture of literary, social and political considerations outlines a compositional trajectory staged not as a single-minded pursuit, but as a synchronically evolving set of alternatives that form, and derive from, socio-aesthetic axioms. Extending the study of the epistolary context of the Academica to letters that do not explicitly address composition is of critical importance for two reasons: first, the field of Ciceronian studies is shaped by psychologizing approaches. Students of the Academica have consistently addressed this issue when examining motives for composition. Tullia and the inconsolable state of her father come into the picture at this point, as well as anxieties relating to Caesar’s return. Cicero, as the philosophica’s prefaces tell us, does philosophy as a father bereaved of his daughter and a politician bereaved of his state. To investigate the wider context, within which this fragile state of mind develops, offers an opportunity to nuance our critical understanding of it. Moreover, broadening the investigation to other letters of the period allows us to study what was described above as the dialectics of subjectivation, the mechanisms underlying the emergence and staging of Cicero’s authorial persona. Cicero’s theory of friendship in the Laelius profiles the interactive role of the amicus in the formation of the self. Although this is implied throughout the  treatise, describing virtus as constructed within that relational

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space, he explicitly defines a friend as “he who is just like another self” (is qui est tamquam alter idem, Amic. 80).100 The passage confirms the dialectic ­implicit throughout the epistolary exchange—that (definition of) the self emerges through dialogue with the other.101 As Eleanor Leach already noted in a 2006 article studying the correspondence between Cicero and younger Romans, the elegiac ‘I’ is a useful model with which to think about the rhetorical construction of the self in Ciceronian epistolography. A suggestive point of contact between poem and letter is the personal address to the reader, which contributes to “writing the profile of the recipient” into the author’s self-presentation by acknowledging the separation of sender and receiver. This space of disjuncture, within which “identity” surfaces as a literary process, allows the author the specific freedom of writing and controlling the rules of the discourse outside the “straitjacketed tradition” (Leach 2006: 249; cf. J. Altman 1982). Self-presentation was already a concern of Leach’s essay (1999: 140) on ­Cicero’s “most artful” correspondence between Cicero and Varro and Paetus. Against the backdrop of Caesar’s return, Cicero draws two “old friends,” Varro and Paetus, into the process of rhetorical self-styling in order to reason through the possibilities open to them in the wake of Thapsus. As we have seen in the case of Varro in §I.2.1-2.2, Cicero’s letters exploit lengthy analyses of past actions to construct a historical persona. He also punctuates the exchange with sketches of his exilic present and with impressions of future activity, chiefly his return to books and the course of studia. Leach (1999: 145) draws her focus around how litterae shape Cicero’s persona—the very same Cicero that writes Varro a dedication letter—as she writes, “this set of deliberations is not a onetime event to mark the commencement of a career, but a recurrent exercise in which he engages every time he takes up the stylus.” In Leach’s analysis, Cicero emerges as “paradigmatic of the Lacanian subject of desire,” capable only of viewing himself in contrast to Varro, in terms of an “imperfect and incomplete” ego (1999: 145). Caesar’s return from war, she argues, intensifies this complex dialectic, shaking the already problematic relation between Cicero and the “symbolic,” substituting a tyrant for the mos maiorum, leaving him unsettled and struggling to reconstruct a stable universe around himself. The critic is calling on two key Lacanian principles to characterize the pressures on Cicero’s epistolary self. Lacan’s symbolic order d­ esignates the field of cultural institutions and practices within which an individual is born and against (within) which he constructs his subjectivity. As the laws, traditions and culture of Rome underwent a profound and traumatic change 100 Cf. Aulus Gellius NA 13.10.4, “frater est dictus quasi fere alter.” 101 Auvray-Assayas (2006: 137) and Cappello (2016) on Cicero and Atticus before Pharsalus.

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during the first century bce, Cicero’s epistolary testimony stages the parallel drama of an individual looking to reconnect with a stable subjectivity that can be grounded in the world around him.102 The second principle ­concerns the structure of subjectivity, famously explored by Lacan in his description of the so called Mirror Stage. Representations of the self are premised upon a lack that tends towards integration: the infant seeing an image of her/­himself in the mirror at an early stage of psychic development does not recognize her/ himself but an image, an idealized ‘I’, whose wholeness contrasts with the fragmentation of her/his physical body, which is perceived in parts (Lacan 1999: 92–99).103 Accordingly, all discourse of self and other constitutes an attempt to make whole that initial, fundamental, structural lack. In line with this dynamic, Cicero’s imperfection is in a sense historical while at the same constitutive of his effort to write his own self. According to Leach, the dialogic structure of Cicero’s epistolary ego is most evidently constructed in and through the literary exchange with Varro. She argues for the preeminent role of this specific series of letters by connecting it to Varro’s lost satires. At Ac. 1.8 Cicero discusses Varro’s Menippean Satires as philosophical, poetry in which “much is said in a dialectic manner” (multa dialectice). This glimpse into Varro’s corpus, particularly into a section of the satires entitled “Bi-Marcus,” where, Leach contends, Varro converses with his alter ego, evokes a model of introspection for Cicero to adopt. At the very least, this reference indicates that a method of specular identity-building is on the  author’s mind as he composes his Academic Books.104 Furthermore, both the constant deferral of their meeting and the pronominal back and forth of ego and nos in the letters identify the mechanisms of this dialectic. Leach constructs a tropological model for the deferral, wherein she describes Cicero’s letters to Varro as always only anticipatory: of their meeting, of Caesar’s arrival, of their future. This open temporal field corresponds to the grammatical space, wherein the use of pronouns traces the dialectic of self and other. Within this architecture of self-definition, Cicero assigns to Varro the role of stable “model” to which he aspires. Varro is a “better self” (melior ego), who, in Leach’s reading, 102 On the triad of Lacanian registers, “Real,” “Symbolic” and “Imaginary,” see Julien (1994). “In Lacan’s early work, the subject is essentially a relationship to the symbolic order, that is, the stance one adopts with respect to the Other as language or law” (Fink 1995: 13, emphasis in the original). 103 Later in his career, Lacan focused his efforts on decoding the “Real” and in mapping the relationships between the various constitutive elements of the psyche. In this context, he de-emphasized the historical nature of the mirror stage account in favor of its structural value. 104 On the Satires, Boissier (1861), Mosca (1937) and Relihan (1993).

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had always “pursued a better course of action than himself” (Leach 1999: 166; cf. Fam. 9.1.2 [175] and 9.6.4 [181]). Though Leach’s methodology sheds new light on the exchange, her ­interpretation is problematic when viewed through some of our earlier conclusions. Each letter, as I hope to have shown, employs an idealized model for a ­particular purpose. The paradigmatic ‘Varro’ is not (only) an honest reduplication of a Ciceronian fantasy: he is (also) the figurative representation of a ­prescriptive agenda for both. While Cicero binds the two to a common past and a community of intent, he attracts his correspondent to fulfill those parallels in ­action. It is a strategic provocation. The dialectic centered on sharing and co-operation confounds the delimitations of the ego and nos. If Cicero constructs Varro as an improved version of himself, both the dedicatory letter and Fam. 9.4 [180] reconfigure the intellectual priorities of their studia as philosophical, thereby asserting his own merits above those of his colleague. Leach misses the variability of the views and positions that the authorial ego wears with each letter. Just as he does throughout the generic disquisitions and the various attempts to describe or characterize the Academic project, Cicero shows himself ­interested in multiplying perspectives, moving around that relational and self-­definitional space. Erik Gunderson’s (2007) critique of documentary interpretations anticipates the drama of shifting positions just outlined. The article enjoys several parallels with Leach, not least the focus on “the construction of the author-function, and the rhetoric of the self as articulated specifically within the encounter of the absent other” (2007: 8). However, Gunderson’s study keys into the interstitial spaces of subject formation, those areas outside the remit of self-fashioning where a Cicero “obsessed with letters” consistently produces another version of himself. Indeed, Gunderson (2007: 43) constructs the “epistolary Cicero” as one that is not only fragmented, but also “constantly renegotiating how ‘you’ are or are not to read him.” These gestural phrases capture the double perspective of the author constructing himself and providing perspectives on how to interpret that self. From a psychoanalytic perspective, his approach highlights the dual position of author and critic we argued for above and introduces the final movement of the argument in which we study Cicero as he builds impossible scenarios and makes variability the mechanism of self-portrayal. 3.2

On the Horizon: The Shrine to Tullia and Caesar’s Return

The theme of loss, hesitation and anxiety compounds the picture of the authorial Cicero in relation to the Academica. The Ciceronian epistolary subject is

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unstable, playing out its indecisions and doubts across a range of issues, beyond the literary commentary on the treatise, and grounding his scholarly work in the broader context of his life. Alessandro Garcea (2005: 115) had ­already isolated an important aspect of Ciceronian epistolography, identifying select letters as “strutture a dilemma,” in particular a series of exchanges ­centered on ‘pain’ (dolor) that emphasize Cicero’s fragmentation and his incapacity to settle on courses of action. In his survey of Cicero’s letters from exile (58–57 bce), Garcea draws a parallel between dolor, hesitation, fragmentation and his aptitude to conceive improbable situations—a tendency similar to what we find in the first half of 45 bce. The projection of impossible scenarios, the dwelling on desire, lack and alienation are characteristics not only of the exchange with Varro, or the anxiety displayed to Atticus about the dedication of the Academic Books. They give life to two further obsessions that dominate the correspondence of the period: the construction of the shrine (fanum) for Tullia and Caesar’s return. The grief over Tullia, which Cicero compulsively rehearses throughout many letters of 45 bce and in many prologues, has interested critics very little. An integral part of that obsession, the building of the fanum, has warranted even fewer studies.105 Nonetheless, both the fanum and the deep sense of instability that the loss of his daughter causes in Cicero play a key part in his choices and attitudes. The expression of pain found in the prologues and the constant assimilation of studia to the ineffectual medication of dolor in the letters are staple justifications for philosophizing. In John Henderson’s idiom (2006: 173), bereavement produces the stage on which Cicero can test out the “therapeutic ambitions of Hellenistic philosophy,” beginning with the Consolation, in which he presumably plays “the writer writing to himself for ‘us’.”106 The Consolation, the opening of the Lucullus and of the first Academic Book, all tell Atticus that doing philosophy is always already doing something else: medicating. Yet, as is abundantly clear from the first three letters of 45 bce, the therapy is not working (Att. 12.13 [250], 12.14 [251] and 12.15 [252]). Accordingly, philosophy remains an introspective project, a practice always aimed at something other than its subject matter and a distraction that never quite delivers on its promise. This dialectic of search and failure is characteristic of Cicero’s obsession with the fanum. This is a project beset by disappointments and forced changes 105 The notable exceptions are: Boyancé (1944), Appendix iii in volume five of Shackleton Bailey’s collection of Letters to Atticus and W. Altman (2008). Martelli (2016b) provides a long overdue mise à jour of the topic. 106 The theme of loss introduces the Lucullus, the first Academic Book, On Ends, On the Nature of the Gods—and rings through the Tusculan Disputations.

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of plan and it ultimately vanishes out of the letters in June of the same year. The tribulations relating to building the shrine are concentrated in no less than twenty-four letters, clustering around the last ten days of March during which Cicero strives to acquire a particular plot on which to build it (Att. 12.25 [264], 12.26 [265], 12.27 [266], 12.28 [267], 12.29 [268], 12.33 [269], 12.30 [270] and 12.31 [272]). Beyond the real estate considerations, Cicero’s discussion of the shrine’s function and its origins enjoys significant parallels to the labors endured in the process of writing and revising the Academica. As he introduces the idea of building the fanum to Atticus, Cicero emphasizes the role of litterae at the heart of the project, speaking of “several authors” he is “constantly reading,” who recommend the plan (non nullos ex iis quos nunc lectito auctores qui dicant fieri id oportere). These auctores tell Cicero that the project of ­deification is appropriate; they also provide a source of inspiration for the construction and appearance of the monument. He, in fact, promises to “celebrate her with every kind of memorial taken from the genius of Greek and Latin artists” (profecto illam consecrabo omni genere monimentorum ab omnium ingeniis sumptorum et Graecorum et Latinorum, Att. 12.18.1 [254]). The project is formulated in terms of a convergence of bilingual literary-aesthetic influences.107 The hesitations and indecisions about completing the fanum and the Academica run a parallel course; and, in the case of the shrine, desperation and paralysis seem to intensify their hold over the negotiations. We have already tracked the course of Cicero relinquishing responsibility for his Academic Books at the same time as Atticus is commissioned to copy the manuscript (§I.1.2). Although this handover is weakly suggested at Att. 13.23.2 [331], at 13.24.1 [332] Cicero places the four Academic volumes in his friend’s “power” (potestas) and asks him to take responsibility for them, pledging to support whatever choice he makes (sed tu videris; quod egeris id probabo). A comparable register of practical dependence and devolution of accountability over the same period can be found in Cicero’s comments about the purchase of a property. On the twelfth of May, Cicero enumerates problems arising from the acquisition of Otho and Clodia’s property, to the point of blasting his correspondent with exclamations like “do whatever you want” (effice quidvis, Att. 12.43.3 [284]). Without Atticus the project cannot come to fruition, and Cicero is desperate to impress this necessity upon him. But again, different perspectives are brought to bear alongside the alleviatory one. Early on Cicero sees the shrine as a “religious vow” (votum) and “duty” (officium), thereafter going so far as 107 “Omni genere” is problematic. Shackleton Bailey (ad loc.) is confident in translating “different types of literary compositions,” but from our study of the letters in books twelve and thirteen genus has literary-generic connotations.

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to associate it with a form of ritual purification (Att. 12.18.1 [254] and 13.38a.2 [279]; cf. Att. 13.41.4 [283] and 13.43.3 [284].). Like litterae, the fanum occupies a variety of positions in the dialogue Cicero engages in with himself as he tries to re-assemble a stable world of meaning and structure to inhabit. It fundamentally acts on him and, even more so than the philosophica, represents an architectural show of that interior dialogue: hesitant, imperfect, displaced.108 Another important aspect of the shrine’s symbolic power concerns Caesar’s intrusion. Although far off in Spain, Caesar creeps into this project in at least two letters. On the fourth of May, Cicero considers the possibility of acquiring property owned by a certain Scapula, by all accounts an ideal site for the fanum (Att. 12.37.2 [276]). His fondness for this property quickly grows, and by July Cicero’s heart is set on it (Att. 12.38a [279], 12.40 [281] and 13.29 [300]). At Att. 13.33a.1 [330], Cicero draws Capito, an unexpected guest at his villa in Tusculum, into the debate over acquiring this plot of land owned by Scapula. Capito advises his host not to invest because upon his return ­Caesar will expropriate the area for his urban projects. This appropriation is confirmed on the thirteenth of July, when Cicero’s indignation bursts forth, accusing the dictator’s architect of expanding the city (urbem auget), apparently too small for the victor (ei parum magna visa est, Att. 13.35-6 [334]). Caesar’s Rome swells— Cicero’s world contracts. Caesar is a fundamental currency in the economy of Cicero’s self-­fashioning, and analysis of that relationship in the letters indicates the extent to which the author’s exploration of doubt is connected to the political context in which he is writing. Cicero’s anxieties about Caesar are expressed in the censorship of his letter of advice to the dictator, a letter whose composition and review runs from the ninth of May to the beginning of June 45 bce. As discussed in §I.1.2, Cicero’s initiative to write to Caesar is described in the correspondence as a reaction to the Anticato, more specifically to the précis of that work made public by Hirtius. As in the case of the Academic Books, solicitation for wider approval before dedication is a key concern for Cicero, who looks to garner support from the Caesarians before he sends the piece to Caesar. However, as Att. 12.51.2 [293] and 13.27.1 [298] make clear, the explicitly political content of the letter forces his hand to circulate the draft more widely. After an anxious wait, these unnamed amici propose a number of alterations that persuade C ­ icero to abandon the project altogether. His considerations are threefold: causing “offence” to the ruling coterie of Caesarians poses a “threat” (Att. 13.27.1 [298]) during these times. In any way modifying or toning down the letter’s content would be tantamount to a form of “dishonorable acquiescence” (­turpis ­adsentatio, 108 On the philosophica—On Ends in particular—as fanum, see W. Altman (2008).

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Att. 13.28.2 [299]) of Caesar’s regime.109 All the more, Caesar is reportedly expecting the suppliant Cicero to dedicate him a treatise and is not interested in advice; and Cicero confesses to Atticus that he is finding he has little to say (Att. 13.31.3 [302]). Over the letters in which he weighs up his feelings and disappointment about the letter of advice, Cicero even hesitates about withdrawing the letter and abandoning the project. In the earlier Att. 12.51 [293] Cicero quotes and aligns himself with Atticus’ approval of the text, describing it as the work of a “preeminent citizen, at least insofar the times permit” (nihil est in ea nisi optimi civis, sed ita optimi ut tempora). Yet the canon seems to have changed as the optimus civis, from whose perspective Cicero writes, cannot find firm footing within the vacuum of power that Caesar will return to fill. As he d­ ismisses the whole project, Cicero cannot even think of the need to have it published: “there is absolutely no need for any of the letter” (totis igitur litteris nihil opus est, Att. 13.28.2 [299]), he claims as he withdraws further into theoretical ­philosophy—into the Academica. The train of thought in Att. 13.27 [298] characterizes self-censorship as ­generic retrenchment. The letter of advice has no use because it has no function: Cicero has no interest in writing a eulogy of Caesar, any such “fawning” (κολακεία), he concedes, should have been performed before the war. In the present context, Cicero continues, it may appear as if he is imploring the victor and making a “propitiatory offering after the Cato” (Catonis μείλιγμα).110 This consideration underlines the episto-literary context within which this work is created, an exchange of political tracts centered on Cato’s death; specifically in this instance, Cicero’s reaction to Hirtius’ ghost-written Anticato (Att. 12.41 [283], 12.44 [285], 12.48 [289] and 12.45 [290]). In these terms, the author raises some key questions about the work in generic terms: what is the “letter to Caesar” (epistula ad Caesarem)? A Greek “symbouleutikon,” based on a soon to be disavowed model of the letter Aristotle wrote to Alexander, or a Hellenistic disquisition on Eastern kingship? (Att. 12.40.2 [281]; cf. Att. 13.28.2 [299] and 12.38a.2 [279]). The work is also a very Latin response, a direct critique 109 ‘Adsentatio’ (assent) is the epistemological bête noir of the Academica. The point of Cicero’s speeches in both edititions is to argue for the impossibility of ever assenting to anything with any certainty and to castigate the rashness and temerity of those who do. 110 “Μείλιγμα” captures the ambiguity of the situation. Shackleton Bailey (ad loc.) translates the terms as “peace-offering after the Cato,” with the Greek word referring to an offering meant to appease Caesar. The term, an Aeschylean favorite, also has a funerary significance as peace-offering to the dead (Choephori 15 and Eumenides 107). In this sense, the objective genitive takes on a different meaning, turning the letter into a peace offering to the dead Republican.

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of the Caesarian “attack on Cato” (vituperatio Catonis) and the words, as we just saw, of a responsible citizen (Damon 2008: 176). The impossibility of fixing genre translates into the difficulty of defining what exactly the new situation of Rome is. Att. 13.28.2-3 [299] capitalizes on the generic register to expose the letter’s futility: Caesar is no Alexander, eager to hunt true glory and seek advice on how to do it; so Cicero is no Aristotle. Evocation of this illustrious model of politico-philosophical interaction operates as an invitation to comparison, a dialogue with himself about the reigning chaos played through a discourse on genre.111 The campaign Cicero wages through the epistula ad Caesarem is differed and diffused. As we have seen, he speculates on the Anticato’s contents and, through a strategic act of dissemination, he launches an attack on the vitia ­Catonis, Hirtius’ compendium of insults leveled at the Republican hero. In three separate letters, Att. 12.44 [285], 12.48 [289] and 12.45 [290], Cicero encourages Atticus to spread Hirtius’ vituperative pamphlet, second-guessing that their friends, the few Republicans left in Rome, will see and laugh at its faults. Publication becomes an instrument of opposition, and a sophisticated act of critical engagement. After Thapsus, as this subterfuge underscores, Cicero and Caesar limit their exchanges to philological and philosophical litterae. Witness to this relationship is the fact that the worn-out author of philosophical tracts even receives a Consolation from the conquering general in 45 bce (Att. 13.20.1 [328]); and that Caesar, once in Italy and a guest at Cicero’s house, enjoys an evening where “nothing serious [is] discussed, but quite a lot about literature” (σπουδαῖον οὐδὲν in sermone, φιλόλογα multa, Att. 13.52.2 [353]).112 The wincing tone of this famous letter about hosting celebrity reveals the extent to which, on the one hand, Cicero represents an excluded voice from ­Roman politics, while on the other philologa are (still) the language in which one addresses the seat of power. As Caesar’s world looms on the horizon, the letters stage Cicero confronting the uncertainty bred by the ever-shifting political, institutional and cultural paradigms. Literary and cultural models are alternately employed to shore up his world, although these are ultimately shown to fail, to never quite fit the reality they are trying to capture and rationalize. Nonetheless, his reaction to such changes centers on opening alternative avenues of dialogue. His need for others to participate in erecting a shrine or editing a work is not merely 111 McConnell (2014: 201–213) offers a detailed reading of these letters, discussing the ­relevant generic influences, particularly the Aristotelian, and focusing on the politicalphilosophical message. 112 The “consolation letter” (litteras consolatorias) is sent on the thirtieth of April.

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a manifestation of frailty and withdrawal. Rather, they express his attitude of co-operation. In this way, Cicero turns his marginalization into an opportunity to institute and expand a network of individuals, a community of the letter. Greek models, in turn, are the language of that dialogue, a dialogue that aims to involve old Republicans and members of the new regime alike, as Cicero looks for new ways of building consensus. 3.3

Conclusion

I hope to have shown that the epistolary collection is an inestimable resource for those interested in Cicero’s philosophical thought, and one deserving of a more sophisticated analysis than has so far been accorded to it. My emphasis in Part 1 has been on studying a nexus of themes, registers and anxieties through which Cicero foregrounds the philosophical concerns of the Academica, rooting these in the reality of his times. The letters intertwine sophisticated literary and rhetorical strategies to reflect on, mediate and connect epistemology and life, as experienced from the margins. Doubt and hesitation, so far simply evaluated as marks of vulnerability, assume strategic importance when considered in relation to the letters and the Academica as key to philosophical discourse. Cicero’s continual perspectival shifts, his mood swings and changes of heart—his volatility—are quintessentially Academic. Our author acknowledges this essence when, surprised by his own relentless about-turns on the issue, he sighs, “oh my dear Academy, volatile and always true to itself” (o Academiam volaticam et sui similem, Att. 13.25.3 [333]). The paradoxical nature of the exclamation, the constant inconstancy of the Academy that will be central to our discussion of Ciceronian skepticism in Part 3, perfectly characterizes Cicero’s voice in the letters. The Academica is accordingly presented as the epistemological investigation of an attitude that emerges from a world in chaos, a fluctuating universe no longer sure of its foundations. While Part 1 has time and again emphasized philosophy’s nature as a passive reflection on the changing political fortunes of Rome, a self-­ defeating voice from the sidelines, there is another important feature that emerges from the correspondence. Philosophy as public discourse asserts ­itself as a way not just to digest, but also to react to the events. Through the ­idiom of philosophy and the exchange of letters and tracts, Cicero finds a ­language and a means to develop a community committed to dialogue and to the use of new conceptual paradigms to address new questions. The tension between these two attitudes shapes the rest of the study, as I examine

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how Ciceronian ­historiography of philosophy and Ciceronian skepticism performs this back and forth, ­asserting new discursive models and priorities and withdrawing into radical auto-­critique. At this early stage of his engagement with philosophy, the question for this nascent Roman discursive practice is, in ­Cicero’s eyes, where and how it can establish itself.

Part 2 The Pedigree of Doubt: Ciceronian Essays in the Historiography of Philosophy

∵ Das Gespräch, das wir sind.

hans-georg gadamer, Hermeneutik im Rückblick (2007: 140)

...

L’histoire de la philosophie, c’est terrible, on n’en sort pas facilement. Y substituer, comme vous dites, une sorte de mise en scène, c’est peutêtre une bonne manière de résoudre le problème. Une mise en scène, cela veut dire que le texte écrit va être éclairé par de tout autres valeurs, des valeurs non-textuelles (du moins au sens ordinaire): substituer à l’histoire de la philosophie un théâtre de la philosophie, c’est possible. gilles deleuze, L’île déserte. Textes et entretiens 1953–74 (2002: 199)

Chapter 4

Historical Philosophy: Cicero and the Academica in Their Historiographical Contexts 4.1

Program Notes

Ciceronian philosophy is profoundly historical. The works of the 50s and 40s bce openly situate themselves within the doctrinal and institutional history of Greek philosophy and draw, just as continuously, on examples from Roman political history, as well as legal and ritual practice. The Academica is no exception. As Cicero sets out to establish his philosophical method, he shows a sustained interest in Academic history and the historical dimension of philosophical problems. Notably, the extant half of the first Academic Book offers a survey of Platonic thought and its history after Plato, while the Lucullus showcases a historiographical debate on philosophy, looking specifically at how Academics use philosophical precedents. The Lucullus also concludes with an overview of the three parts of philosophy parsed as a catalogue of philosophical problems over which practitioners have disagreed throughout philosophy’s embattled history.113 A tight chronological sequence binds the Hortensius, both editions of the Academica and On Ends. Although evidence for the dating of the lost protreptic is slight, references in the two later works make it clear that not only does the Hortensius predate them, but it also establishes itself as their point of origin (Luc. 6, 61 and Fin. 1.2).114 This relationship of interdependence, already touched on in a previous section (§I.1.3), is markedly strong between the Hortensius, Catulus and Lucullus. The triad shares more than just c­ ompositional

113 Ac. 1.19-32 on the “the three sub-fields of philosophy” (tres partes philosophiae) followed by critiques of Platonism from Aristotle to Zeno at Ac. 1.33-42, to which Cicero responds at Ac. 1.44-46; also, Luc. 13–15, 72–76 and 116–146. On the partes philosophiae in antiquity, see P. Hadot (1979). 114 On dating, see Ruch (1958b: 67–69); for the fragment numeration and structural outline I have followed Grilli (1962). Cf. Reid (1885: 29). See also the edition and translation by Straume-Zimmermann, Broemser and Gigon (1990). There are no direct references to the protreptic in the letters. The Hortensius sets up the project by taking care of the apologetic Grundriss. Later references lend further credence to this setup, so Tusc. 3.6, Div. 2.1 and Off. 2.6.

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s­ ynchrony. The dialogues are hosted in sequence by each of the eponymous protagonists at their Campanian villae on successive days.115 With the Republic’s tripartite structure in the background, several critics have used these elements to argue for the artistic integration of the three works. This integration has, in turn, an important effect on the way the intellectual project is interpreted. The German tradition, in the footsteps of Rudolf Hirzel, has insisted on the coherence of the aesthetic frame as indication of the unitary nature of the trilogy, intended from the very start to hang together and to serve as an introduction to the whole cycle of philosophica. While, as we have seen, this interpretation appears somewhat problematic (Griffin 1997: 6; §I.1.3), the key point about continuity of the triad remains the interlocking sequence of apology for philosophy followed by exploration of Academic philosophy. First the Hortensius, as a “eulogy of philosophy” (laudatio philosophiae), cuts out a space for the practice in the landscape of Rome’s intellectual life, then the Academica focuses on the specific form this discursive practice will take: Academic skepticism (Luc. 61 and Fin. 1.2).116 With the protreptic setting out the justificatory rhetoric for the transfer of philosophy from Greece to Rome, the Catulus and Lucullus—and their four-part rewrite—set up another rhetoric that traces the same cultural trajectory: the move of the Academy from Athens to Rome.117 The Academica operates as a manifesto for the institution of a Roman Academy, an act of assimilation that is literary, personal and cultural. Without the Hortensius, critics have been condemned to read the project through the ­program notes that are the epistemological debates of the Academica. Nonetheless, scholarship has by and large sidelined questions of foundation, ­origin and institution in favor of intellectually profiling leaders of the Academy, who act as protagonists and vectors of Cicero’s narrative of translation. Part 2 hopes to throw some light on Cicero’s historiographical approach to philosophy, ­examining the rhetorical agenda guiding the historical orientation of his theorizing, as well as the relationship between philosophy and its history as ­formulated in his Academic project. But before we turn to the text, it is e­ ssential 115 The location is confirmed with respect to all three (Hortensius fr. 2, 3), so: (i) Hortensius @ Lucullus’; (ii) Cat. @Catulus’; (iii) Luc. @Hortensius’. Chronology is more complex to pin down about the fragmentary Hortensius (fr. 1–7), though we are at least on terra firma when placing the dramatic date in close relation to the other two: the late 60s bce. 116 Also, Tusc. 3.6, 2.4, Div. 2.1 and Off. 2.6 with Hine (2016: 14). 117 In the Hortensius, the cultural friction is, as far as we can tell, felt most acutely in the terminological opposition between philosophia and sapientia (fr. 51–53, 54, 93–94 and 106–109), and in the problem of “otium” (free time) and “oblectatio” (pleasure, fr. 33, 35–36, 39 and 55–56).

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to ­understand the literary, intellectual and historiographical ­context within which Cicero wrote the Academica. Chapter four will look at the context from two co-ordinated perspectives, primarily with regard to how the ­author positions the treatise within his philosophical corpus, but also in relation to the ­historiographical orientation of Plato and Aristotle, Cicero’s chief literary models, and of first-century bce philosophers. Cicero’s century, as we shall see, represents a transformative period in the history of Western thought, at the cusp of which he lived and breathed the Greek philosophic tradition. Cicero positions the Academica in an already crowded world. Obstinate ­‘dogmatists’, anti-skeptical polemicists, Stoics and Epicureans are all identified in the introduction to the Lucullus and first Academic Book as having a voice in Rome; the Garden School can even count on a stronghold of Latin publications (Luc. 7–9 and Ac. 1.4–8). Varro, Cicero and Lucullus, however, enjoy only secret affiliations with the Academy. Lucullus keeps his studies private (Luc. 3); Varro hides his philosophy in satires and eulogies (Ac. 1.8); and Cicero finds time to write, celebrate the intellectual merit of Roman politicians and defend philosophy and the Academy against its detractors, only when there is little else to do other than grieve for his daughter and the sorry state of the Republic (Luc. 5–6 and Ac. 1.11). Rawson’s (1985: 282–297) portrait of Roman intellectual life at the time of Cicero points out that Latin philosophy predates Ciceronian philosophica, suggesting that what is circulating in Rome before Cicero is almost exclusively drawing on Greek Epicureanism and Stoicism. As we know from Cicero himself, Amafinius, Rabirius and Catius had by his time written Epicurean tracts in Latin. However, the quality of these works was so poor that even Cassius, a self-confessed Epicurean, makes no attempt to defend them.118 In a letter to his brother Quintus of January 54 bce, Cicero speaks dismissively of an Empedoclea produced by Sallustius, which he believes requires a manly courage but inhuman spirit to get through (virum te putabo si Sallusti Empedoclea legeris; hominem non putabo, Q.fr. 2.10.3 [14]). Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things is mentioned in the same letter, though the extent of Cicero’s appreciation of it is unclear because of textual issues. Cicero may be admitting to his brother that the poem has its moments of brilliance and artistry (multis luminibus ingeni, multae tamen artis); there is also the possibility that Cicero did not like Lucretius all too much either, as the intensifier qualifying “artis” may have the negative “” before it, reading “non multae” (Shackleton 118 At Tusc. 4.7 Cicero tells us that Amafinius was writing before Rabirius, and he goes on to complain about both their style and incompetence at Ac. 1.5, Tusc. 1.6, 2.7 and 4.7. For Catius, see Fam. 15.16.1 [215] and 15.19.1-2 [216], a letter written by Cassius in which he snubs his fellow Epicureans. Cf. Howe (1951).

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Bailey: 1980 rejects the negative). Defending his corner, Cassius makes a similar complaint about “the troops of loutish Stoics” (tot rusticos Stoicos, Fam. 15.19.1 [216]), who are just as bad as Catius and Amafinius. Indeed, Cassius threatens to list these Stoics in his next letter if Cicero continues to complain about Catius, whom Cicero mocks as a small-town Insubrian and Epicurean (Insuber Ἐπικούρειος, Fam. 15.16.1 [215]). The comparison indicates that Stoics also wrote in Latin and enjoyed a reading public at Rome, an impression confirmed in Horace’s Satires, where it seems that a tradition of Stoic Latin authors has taken to the streets.119 Cicero carves out a space for his Academy, shaping the historical context for the establishment of the institution at Rome. The exchanges that open both surviving editions of the Academica serve as representational mechanisms through which the author legitimizes a place for his Academy among other philosophies that have already come to occupy a place in Rome. In addition, by combining this claim to legitimacy with an image of the Academy constructed historically, Cicero shapes both a tradition and lineage within which he locates his thought and writings. The practice of philosophizing he advocates as speaker, and the one constructed authorially through the dialogue, is inevitably developed against the backdrop of his predecessors and those whom he cites as models. As writer and dramatis persona, Cicero acts as the doyen of a tradition that he is charged with transmitting—all the while, however, he reminds his audience that ‘translation’ is both a public service and a creative act. And through this act, the author shapes the Academy and its Hellenistic heritage to his mold. As Andrew Erskine (2003: 15) concludes in his article on this issue, Cicero “turned Hellenistic philosophy into what he wanted it to be.”120 The analytic-style philosophical criticism that has so far set the parameters for investigating Cicero’s Academica has regularly found comfort in the schematization of various skeptical strains in the work, and has thereby drawn firm outlines around the kind of skeptical position adopted by the author. As we shall see over the course of Part 2, the general tendency has been to try to fit 119 No kinder than Cassius, “Professor Snore” (Stertinius) makes an appearance in Horace, Sat. 2.3 (cf. Sat. 1.3, 1.6, 2.1 and 2.4). Nuancing Cicero’s claims to uniqueness and originality, James Zetzel (2016) has uncovered the orator’s footprint in his portrait of contemporary philosophical communities at Rome. The survey we get from Cicero’s philosophica is an “untrustworthy” fabrication (2016: 51), screening the fact that “philosophical thinking and writing of a different kind were widespread before, during and after Cicero’s lifetime” (2016: 54). See also Pierre Vesperini on Roman Epicureans and on philosophy at Rome before Lucretius and Cicero (2012: 249–313 and 323–327). 120 Zetzel (2016: 51) is also keen on the idea of invention, claiming that “Cicero’s portrait of Roman intellectual life is, by and large, a self-portrait.”

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Cicero into a pre-determined classification, working out what kind of Platonist or Academic he is—hyphegetic, zetetic, Arcesilean, Carneadean, MetrodoranPhilonian, or, again, a dogmatic skeptic, a classical skeptic, aporetic, and so forth. However, the position of a skeptic is far from simple, and specific labels are not readily worn. A skeptic is unable to stake a claim, to assert, criticize or defend a theory, forever searching or undermining criteria according to which s/he can interpret or evaluate arguments and ideas. This is an important, if not decisive, point of contact between the philosophical content of the dialogue and the representational choices Cicero makes when writing historically. How does a skeptic write a positive history of her or his philosophical pedigree? Cicero is well aware that his Academy offered, at various points in its history, something akin to a set of doctrines that were both propositive and transmissible, so how does the skeptical vantage point affect the approach to identifying a school, its doctrines and argumentative strategies? Finally, and more generally, to what extent is Ciceronian skepticism important to the construction of philosophy as a historical practice?121 4.2

Situating the Academica: The Corpus

The position of the Academica within the corpus has been discussed with reference to its programmatic function, particularly in order to underline how the kinds of questions Cicero poses in his Academic project are decisive in informing the philosophical project as a whole. The Academica has been shown to be as committed to shaping its inheritance, an institutional and intellectual history within which Cicero, as author and speaker, takes up a position. ­Situating the two editions within the cycle of late works is not only a hermeneutic responsibility placed on the reader through the interlinking frames of the dialogues. In successive works, Cicero looks back to the Academic Books and reflects on its significance for the series. This is a self-conscious contextualization that is both critical to the programmatic punch of his ‘voice’ and to how we study that voice in relation to this foundational text. While the letters characteristically alternate their perspective on the Academica, the treatises display a remarkable consistency insofar as they identify the Academic Books as the bearers of Ciceronian ‘philosophy’, method and beliefs. On Duties provides an unwittingly sophisticated closure to the cycle of late treatises, not least because, as Cicero’s last work dedicated to his son, it 121 Cf. Polito (2007) for an interesting comparandum, exploring whether Pyrrhonian skepticism was in in fact recognized as a ‘school’.

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offers young Marcus a retrospective on the philosophica. In particular, it invites Marcus to look back to the Academic Books, at a time when the young man was in Athens pursuing his education under the Peripatetic Cratippus.122 Prologues to the first two books lay bare Cicero’s reflections on Marcus’ education, as he surreptitiously makes a case for the inclusion of his “manuals” in the Athenian curriculum. He opens On Duties book one by exhorting Marcus to continue his studies under the “the leading philosopher of our age” (princeps huius aetatis philosophorum) for as long as he feels his progress requires it (Off. 1.2). But the “princeps” Cratippus is presented as only one half of Cicero’s ideal educational trajectory. The preface contrasts Cratippus—associated with Aristotle’s school and Athens, “the doctrines and practices of philosophy” (praeceptis institutisque philosophiae), “wisdom” (scientia) and the Greek language (Off. 1.1)— with Cicero himself, who stands for a different yet complementary educative orientation. The author steers his son towards “utility” (utilitas) and the Latin language, encouraging him to cultivate bilingualism as a way to improve the “practice of speaking” (exercitatio dicendi) and the “ability to speak publicly” (facultas orationis). In this field, Cicero poses as being of “great service” (magnum… adiumentum) to his fellow Romans, making both novices and ­experts in Greek literature better speakers and critics (non modo Graecarum litterarum rudes, sed etiam docti aliquantum se arbitrentur adeptos et ad dicendum et ad iudicandum, Off. 1.1). Although emphasis seems to lie on the need to complement (Greek) philosophy with (Latin) oratory, reference to his “books about philosophy” (de philosophia libros) establishes the corpus of Ciceronian writing as an altogether different alternative.123 After mentioning these works, Cicero seeks to direct Marcus’ approach to them: “as you read my works, which endorse a position not so different from that of the Peripatetics—since we both wish to be Socratic and Platonic—you have to apply your judgment” (sed tamen nostra legens non multum a Peripateticis dissidentia, quoniam utrique Socratici et Platonici volumus esse, de rebus ipsis utere tuo iudicio, Off. 1.2). By presenting his views as close to the Peripatos and reminding Marcus that all three of them claim a Socratic and Platonic pedigree, Cicero brings together a Socratic-Platonic tradition, out of which Academic and Peripatetic thought emerged, and situates his philosophy firmly within the Academic current. “Nostra,” as the object of “legens,” l­ abels his philosophical production as Academic, that is, at once distinct from the Peripatetic, while bound to it by a common ambition to be Socratic and Platonic. 122 See Daly (1950) on Romans studying abroad. 123 The relationship of complementarity is framed in terms of Cicero’s Greek influences at Off. 1.4, where Plato and Demosthenes, Aristotle and Isocrates, occupy different sides of the rhetoric-philosophy divide.

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This nod to himself as the Academic voice in the philosophical panorama of the time is picked up and clarified in the prologue to the second book. After the routine apology for philosophy and his own troubled involvement in it (Off. 2.6), Cicero turns to defend his Academic views and the theory that ­impressions/perceptions must be always only held as probable and not certain (probabilia: §III.9.2 and §III.10.1). In language reminiscent of the Lucullus’ prologue, the father’s voice directs Marcus to the Academic Books, the work in which he argues that ‘probability’ rather than certainty must be accepted as a guide and method in life; and that this circumspect and critical approach is underpinned by the disputational strategies of “speaking against every proposition” (contra omnia disputare) and “arguing on either side of a question” (ex utraque parte contentio, Off. 2.7–8; cf. Luc. 7–9).124 As he cuts his defense short, the author underlines once again the common pedigree with Cratippus, Marcus’ “spokesman” (auctore) and a thinker most worthy of the ancient founders of that school (iis simillimo, qui ista praeclara pepererunt); the two theoretical systems are markedly not identical, but close “neighbors” (haec nostra, finituma vestris). Ultimately, Cicero’s Academic project is not only a work that explores Academic epistemology (haec explanata sunt in Academicis nostris satis), but also the vehicle through which he teaches Marcus about his philosophical position. And Cicero is keen for his son not to ignore the Peripatos’ neighbor ­(ignota esse nolui, Off. 2.8). For an apology of philosophy, Cicero sends Marcus to the Hortensius; for a defense of the Academy, to the Academic Books. This bibliographic indexing, elaborated by way of the opposition ­between him and Cratippus, informs a broader perspective on his epistemological treatise. The work represents the only Academic voice in contemporary philosophy; and it represents Cicero’s voice. The preface to the first book of On the Nature of the Gods sets the stage for Cicero’s appropriation of the Academy in the wake of the Academic Books. Once he has deflected the excessive curiosity of those who expect to find out his personal view (qui autem requirunt, quid quaque de re ipsi sentiamus, c­ uriosius id faciunt, quam necesse est), Cicero goes on to justify his philosophical affiliation to the Academy. He characterizes his relationship to that school in two ways. By emphasizing the primacy of powerful arguments over institutional authority (non enim tam auctoritatis in disputando quam rationis momenta quaerenda sunt) and attacking Pythagoreans, who are in the habit of letting auctoritas get in the way of reason (Nat.D. 1.10), Cicero prepares the ground for his personal defense of his Academy (cf. Ac. 1.45; Luc. 8 and 60). The preference is expressed through the superlative appreciation for the school or disciplina (potissimum), whose philosophy he synthesized into four ­expository  books. 124 On the opposition between certainty and ‘probability’, cf. Luc. 101–105.

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Over those volumes, he takes on the challenge of explaining the school’s complex epistemology with “great care” (diligentius). Moreover, Cicero’s adoption of a philosophical method committed to arguing for and against all philosophers in order to discover the truth (veri reperiendi causa et contra omnes philosophos et pro omnibus dicere) is portrayed as an exhaustive and sophisticated task, in contradistinction to contemporary intellectual sluggishness ­(tarditate hominum) and Cicero’s “excessively stubborn and slow readers” (nimis indociles quidam tardique, Nat.D. 1.11–12). Cicero also pursues the ‘institutional’ theme evoked through the reference to Pythagoreanism, as he makes the case for renewing patronage of the Academy, an apparently deserted philosophical cause. Standing up to the accusation that the Academy is bereft of leaders, Cicero articulates a complex response. He denies that he has taken up “the defense of obsolete and unrepresented views” (desertarum relictarumque rerum patrocinium) on the grounds that the death of philosophical leaders does not automatically decree the demise of their views (non enim hominum interitu sententiae quoque occidunt).125 These views, he continues, might perhaps lack the “brilliance of their/an author” (lux auctoris), as they do at the time of writing, when, Cicero notes, this method of philosophy (ratio disserendi) no longer has sponsors in Greece.126 However, several elements offset these pessimistic reflections and introduce Cicero’s voice as a valid candidate for the patrocinium of a cause that does not need one. As he turns to the Academy, in one breath he defines its philosophy in terms of method and produces a hereditary line that starts with Socrates, runs through Arcesilaus and Carneades, and ends in his own age (aetas). Notwithstanding the temporal continuity, Cicero’s comment that the Academy is orphaned in Greece (orbam esse in ipsa Graecia) leaves room for the possibility that the auctor whom readers—and his detractors—are looking for is the one authoring the prologue, defending and perpetuating the position endorsed by those great figures of the (Greek) past. After all, Cicero admits that being an Academic is a tall order (quanto maius), but it is a challenge that he is proud to have faced in his writings (Nat.D. 1.11). This nod to his philosophy and its challenge situates him within that distinguished tradition without forcing him to assume the authoritative position of someone like Pythagoras with respect to his readers. 125 Patrocinium has a relatively broad meaning centered on the notion of protection: it includes the exercise of patronage, as well as pleading in court. See, Nat.D. 1.6. 126 Cf. “nitorem orationis,” Att. 13.19.5 [326]. On Academic doubt plunging the world into darkness—or rescuing it—see Nat.D. 1.6, Luc. 16, 30, 61 and 105.

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Punctuating this constant return to the Academica, references in the Tusculan Disputations and On Divination underline the affection and personal ­relationship to that work and its foundational significance, a place the Academic Books share with the Hortensius (Tusc. 2.4 and Div. 2.1). This return shapes an important dimension of the coherence of Cicero’s late philosophica centered on the Academica. Since at least the time of Rudolf Hirzel’s magisterial Untersuchungen zu Ciceros philosophiscen Schriften (1877–1883), the notion of a philosophical curriculum or encyclopedia has become part of the register with which the philosophica is handled.127 However, the logic organizing the dialogues is far from clear, and it positively lacks a direct illustration by their author. As we have seen in §I.1.3, although the series approximates something like an encyclopedic arrangement, it does not deliver on the promise of being a taut and orderly discussion of the canonical partes philosophiae. Nor do the treatises clearly deliver on the various promises of a methodical explication of Greek philosophy that Cicero makes at various intervals—notably, for our purposes, at Luc. 147, where he hopes for future discussion on the “obscurity of nature” (de obscuritate naturae) and On Ends, but also famously in the preface to On Divination book two. While these structured ways of classifying the corpus disappoint the reader and do not align entirely with the subject and/or treatment of the works themselves, the Academica represents a unifying element across the series. In fact, there are two basic features that bind the philosophica: the presence of Cicero’s authorial voice, which is generally limited to prefaces and frequently becomes the voice of a character in the philosophical drama; and backward looking references to the Academic Books. He consistently sets up these four volumes as the backdrop for the progression of his philosophical agenda. Raphael Woolf (2015: 10) has sought to evaluate the work’s significance in the context of ­Ciceronian philosophy by labelling the Academica a “defense of the methodology [Cicero] employs in much of his philosophical writing.” In these terms the Academica becomes a clef de lecture for the corpus as a whole, placing the ­emphasis on the cycle’s continuity as a series of skeptical interventions on a range of Greek and Roman topics, themes and anxieties: ethics, epistemology, religion, old age, duty. 127 In recent times, the idea of an integrated curriculum was re-introduced by the humanist reading of Hunt (1954). The French tradition has developed and endorsed a version of this approach, with Boyancé’s article (1936) serving as its “manifesto” (Glucker 1978: 391 n. 3). Michel (1968b) writes the program for this movement, which has as one of its culminating achievements Lévy’s Cicero Academicus. Encyclopedism seeps into Rackham (1933: 400), Schofield (1986: 47 n. 2) and Bonazzi (2003: 112). See above §I.1.3 n. 38.

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Situating the Academica: The Tradition

If the Academica constantly reasserts its value from within the corpus and ­develops its foundational significance as the cycle progresses, its generic pedigree is in turn established through imitating the historicizing gesture of its philosophical models. The philosophica is frequently punctuated by references to a pantheon of Greek philosophers, chief among whom are Plato and Aristotle, but also figures closer to Cicero’s time, such as Posidonius and Antiochus. Cicero’s preoccupation with select models of philosophical authorship betrays an interest in thinkers who, as far as the fragmentary evidence allows us to see, have developed their own theories, arguments and pedagogy by openly engaging with the history of the discipline. Accordingly, alongside an understanding of how the philosophica looks to the Academica for its methodological context, it is crucial to contextualize the Academica within the historiographical tradition in philosophy, from Plato and Aristotle through to its revival in the second and first centuries bce. Studies of Cicero’s Plato and Aristotle are numerous, as are the references in which Cicero explicitly praises their vital influence on his work (Gigon 1959, Burkert 1965, Gersh 1986, Long 1995, and Fortenbaugh and Steinmetz 1989). In the case of his Academic project, Cicero activates a number of generic paradigms in the letters and in the historiographical passages of both editions that involve Aristotle and Plato, making the dialogue form a point of contact among the three authors.128 As we have seen, these figures are mobilized in large part to guide Cicero’s reflections on whether and how to write philosophy historically, or rather to help him decide on the kind of historical context within which he can stage his philosophical debates. Despite this exercise, their influence on the historical dimension of the technica has been overlooked.129 Carlo Viano’s article, “La storiografia platonica tra confutazione e interpretazione” (1986), offers a valuable insight into how Plato drafts ­historiography into the service of philosophical reason, as he examines the historical c­ haracter of the Athenian’s works and its influence on Aristotle. Reading the Theaetetus, Viano (1986: 97) suggests that Plato’s Academy was the birthplace of the use of the history of philosophy as a “strumento di argomentazione, sopratutto di confutazione.” When the dialogue’s title character puts forward his 128 On the status of Aristotle’s exoteric works in Cicero, see §I.2.2 and §I.3.1. On Plato’s authorial profile, see Luc. 74 and 123; Ac. 1.16-17 and 46. 129 Levine (1958), Zoll (1962), Fantham (2004: 48–77) and Schofield (2008) are exceptions. Recent discussions on the dialogue form also include Steel (2013a) and Gildenhard (2013). Hösle (2012) offers a worthwhile panoramic of the genre, as a self-confessed update of Hirzel (1895).

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first ­definition of knowledge as perception, Socrates refutes this position ­indirectly by attacking Protagoras’ and Heraclitus’ views, which he sees as underlying Theaetetus’ proposition (151e-183c).130 Plato has Socrates investigate the thought of Protagoras and Heraclitus and show how each is conversant with a different ontological sphere, the intelligible and the sensible. This disputational strategy, in turn, presents Heracliteanism and Protagoreanism as partial aspects of the truth, or distinct moments on the path towards truth. Argument and refutation proceed from Plato’s broad understanding and codification of the opposition between the two philosophers, so that their doctrines are reified and absorbed into a broader movement. So at 152e, for example, Socrates discusses motion, mixture and becoming as related concepts that—with the exception of Parmenides—unify the tradition of philosophical thought from Homer and Epicharmus through to Protagoras, Heraclitus and Empedocles. In this context at 160de, Socrates also shows the potential convergence of disparate positions, those of Homer, Heraclitus, Protagoras and Theaetetus for ­instance, on knowledge as perception. Biographical and doctrinal specificity is elided or lost in the process of outlining and consolidating a generalized idea or position, to which Socrates can address his concerns and critiques. The broader philosophical movement or tradition, which Plato constructs through this approach, is then constituted into a community or tribe (cf. φῦλον, 160d). Heraclitus and Protagoras become Heracliteans and Protagoreans, whose behavior and conduct in life amounts to a satirized representation of the essence of their leaders’ persona and thought. Heraclitus’ pupils are p ­ ugnacious and do not shy away from confrontation, while those who follow Protagoras are compelled to accept and transmit his doctrines (Viano 1986: 88). The different expectations placed on teacher-pupil relations clearly emerge from passages like 168d, where Protagoras is characterized as someone who expects his audience to obey his commands, or later at 179e-180d, where the defense of Heraclitus’ ideas is energetically choreographed by his companions (οἱ γὰρ τοῦ Ἡρακλείτου ἑταῖροι χορηγοῦσι τούτου τοῦ λόγου μάλα ἐρρωμένως, 179d), operating in a philosophical tradition that has no pupils or teachers (180c) and that philosophizes in enigmas and verse (180a). It is not only the relation b­ etween 130 This is a complex and sophisticated dialogue whose central concern, the nature of knowledge, makes it of direct relevance to the Academica. Reid’s commentary is already a ­witness to this relationship—a relationship that Reinhardt’s forthcoming commentary will surely do much to explore. As anticipated in the introduction, I am not interested in treading this ground except for this brief moment in which I sketch out the Theaetetus’ pioneering role in the historiography of philosophy. For the text of the dialogue I have used John Burnet’s Oxford edition (1967; this includes the Sophist, discussed below), with Burnyeat, Levett and Williams’ edition and translation (1992).

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thinkers that is reconstructed, but their persona too, as these philosophers are characters with idiosyncratic behaviors and doctrines. As Plato summarizes the debates, interpreting and adapting the positions he is interested in, he chooses to give an account of the clash between positions by embodying those sets of ideas into speaking characters and tribes, playing out the debate in a historical theatre. Viano emphasizes Plato’s originality in linking refutation and interpretation, a mechanism through which he (re)constructs philosophical views to critique them and so allow the drama to progress. In this way, Plato legitimizes the position of the author as critic and innovator. Although the Theaetetus is an aporetic dialogue, ending with the rejection of the three paradigms of the nature of knowledge, Plato’s methodology heralds the use of the history of philosophy to assert and validate a particular theory (Viano 1986: 98).131 Jaap Mansfeld’s landmark Studies in the Historiography of Greek Philosophy (1990) operates a similar reading on the “survey” of dualists and monists at Sophist 242ce, the locus classicus for scholars interested in Plato’s historiography. With a focus on what is widely regarded as a late dialogue, yet always attentive to the parallels in the Cratylus, Theaetetus and Lysis, Mansfeld (1990: 54) shows how grouping philosophers (and sometimes poets) according to ideas stimulates the creation of “historical pedigrees” that underlie the formation of new concepts. So at 242ce, structuring the discussion of number and types of primary beings (τὰ ὄντα… πόσα τε καὶ ποῖά ἐστιν), the anonymous Stranger, who leads the discussion, runs through schools that posit three and two primary beings, concluding the series with the Eleatic “tribe’s” (ἔθνος) one and the Heraclitean “one and many” (τὸ ὂν πολλά τε καὶ ἕν ἐστιν). In a study of Aristotle’s Metaphysics A, Rachel Barney (2012: 99) casts her eye further afield to 246a-249d, where the Stranger engages in a “critical dialogue” with parties in this historical debate in order to develop a framework for the account of the Forms to come. Barney’s analysis (2012: 100) emphasizes the “refutative and constructive” character of the exchange, linking the elenctic method to the history of philosophy in a process oriented to extracting moments of truth from the current of philosophy’s history and moving the discussion forward. Plato’s key innovation was to recruit past thinkers to his dialogues for the purpose of identifying and resolving issues of a philosophical nature—and to do so systematically.132

131 The reader is left only with what knowledge is not: Theaetetus 210c. See also 183a and 187a. 132 Cf. Mansfeld (1990a: 24): system is what distinguishes doxography from the history of ­philosophy; see also pp. 59–63 on the Sophists, particularly Xenophon, Gorgias and Protagoras, with whom “the early history of doxography” begins.

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Mansfeld and Barney recognize within the historical mechanisms of Plato’s Sophist the source for Aristotle’s foundational contribution to the historiography of philosophy. Mansfeld isolates three key texts in the Aristotelian corpus that develop the dialectical approach to the history of the discipline, Physics 1.2–4, Metaphysics A 3–7 and On the Soul 1.2 (28–45). The preface to the Physics is perhaps the most celebrated survey of past theorists on the question of “first principle” (ἀρχή) and “primary beings” (τὰ ὄντα). The passage is described by Catherine Collobert (2002: 283) as a “critical review,” in which Aristotle refutes the positions of several predecessors—Parmenides and ­Melissus (that all is one), as well as those of the physicists (οἱ φυσικοὶ), including Empedocles and Anaxagoras—in order to achieve the following: establish their mistakes (ἡ τῶν ἀρχαίων ἀπορία, 191a); determine their contributions towards progress, as, for instance, their recognition that “first principles cannot be derived from each other or from anything else, but that all else is derived from them” (δεῖ γὰρ τὰς ἀρχὰς μήτε ἐξ ἀλλήλων εἶναι μήτε ἐξ ἄλλων, καὶ ἐκ τούτων πάντα, 188a); and, finally, present his own account as synthesis and solution. The teleological strategy is articulated differently in the first book of the Metaphysics. In this text, Aristotle’s compilation of the four causes is a journey into the history of philosophy that allows him to compile and offer an exhaustive view of causality from the vantage point of his superior wisdom and later historical position (Met. 983a-993b). After identifying and defining four types of causes, which he claims are widely acknowledged by the field (τὰ δ᾽ αἴτια λέγεται τετραχῶς, 983a), he runs through who—and when in philosophy’s history —privileged certain causes in ontological models of the world. As in the Physics, Aristotle clusters thinkers around shared theories and critiques their position, outlining, in this case, a linear historical narrative that begins with the first philosophers (τῶν δὴ πρώτων φιλοσοφησάντων οἱ πλεῖστοι, 983b) and material ­causality, and ends with a critique of Plato’s Forms (οἱ δὲ τὰς ἰδέας αἰτίας τιθέμενοι, 990b-993a). This passage of the Metaphysics overlays a diaeretic approach, which we have seen at work in the Physics and Sophist, with a ­chronological progress that culminates with Aristotle’s critical overview of causality and his contribution to the question. This dual movement, t­ heoretical and temporal, reflects, in Viano’s terms (1986: 99), a progressive revelation of truth, showing philosophy to be a “goal-directed” practice, each historical ­moment of which pushes the discipline forward towards a greater degree of “clarity” and “distinctness” (Collobert 2002: 285–286).133 The movement is triggered by a necessary dynamic within the theories themselves, which seem to compel 133 On clarity, see also Mansfeld (1990a: 41) and Barney (2012: 101).

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investigators to look beyond them. This is the case for Aristotle’s materialists, who are induced by the matter itself (αὐτὸ τὸ πρᾶγμα, 984a) to pursue their ­enquiry. Over the next section (984b), Aristotle clarifies this mechanism, by identifying truth as the motive force requiring men to continue investigating. Such inevitability, which Barney (2012: 96 and 101) labels the “internal logic claim,” is coupled with the “clarification-dialectic,” the dialectic describing the emergence from poetic obscurity to the lucid expression of philosophical ideas, to profile a complex, multi-layered and dramatic approach to philosophy. As Aristotle makes clear at 993ab, philosophy is both a historical and collective endeavor. Where one thinker might fail individually to approach the truth, something greater (τι μέγεθος) is achieved when a tradition of conjectures is assembled and evaluated. When, in other words, thinkers collaborate across time and space. Significantly, Aristotle situates his own work within the same teleological framework, suggesting that he also is an “instrument of the teleological process of philosophy” (Collobert 2002: 287). These fragments of truth, gathered, reconstructed and put to work in a systematic evolutionary scheme distinguish Aristotle’s understanding of the authority and function of the history of philosophy in the development of philosophical thought—and his place within it. The dialectical attitude of Aristotle’s esoteric treatises offers a further link to the historical method in Plato’s corpus. Through the contraposition of philosophical perspectives, through putting views in dialogue with each other and fashioning connections between them, the historicity of philosophizing emerges as a key aspect of the discipline. Plato and Aristotle insist on history as a gesture of foundation for their doctrinal edifice: their theoretical development relies on tradition for its structure and substance. These founding ­figures of Western thought also deploy past views to construct a space within which to position their philosophy. That space of philosophy, a metaphor which §II.7.3 explores further, is the intended by-product of a process of selection, through which Plato and Aristotle identify and enlist philosophers to populate their tradition. This process, as Barney (2012: 104) rightly points out, is tantamount to the formation of a canon. In §II.6.4 we will revisit some of the key stops on this whirlwind tour, looking more closely at Plato’s and Aristotle’s ­philosophical uses of history and their understanding of the relationship ­between philosophy and history. The key consideration at this stage is to highlight how historiography is part of the Greek philosophical heritage to which Cicero looks back; and how “doing philosophy historically” offers a method of philosophical thinking concerned with locating oneself within a tradition, a practice and canon. In this light, Cicero’s references to Plato and Aristotle announce his programmatic ambition.

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Interest in historical philosophy undergoes a revival at the turn of the first century bce, particularly in the thought of Posidonius and Antiochus.134 The two leaders of the Stoic and Academic school were attentive readers of ­Platonic dialogues, who based their brand of Stoicism and Academicism on a re-­ examination of the tradition before them and of the institutional and doctrinal relationships linking their predecessors.135 One of the Academica’s key figures, Antiochus, is presented as especially proficient in shaping a syncretic Academy based on the notion of a shared identity between early Academy, Lyceum and Stoa. His synthesis, otherwise known as the theory of “correctio,” is outlined at Ac. 1.33–42. In this passage, he suggests that the Academy is succeeded by the Lyceum and finally the Stoa, and each is shown to have evolved as a “correction” of the earlier iteration. This labor of interpretation and identification marks Antiochus’ philosophy out as distinctly historical.136 Pierluigi Donini (1982: 74) goes as far as claiming that Antiochus’ originality lay exclusively in his unique reading of the history of philosophy, and he celebrates the Academic as a brilliant professor of history, an intellectual whose dogmatic Platonism is born of “una reinterpretazione della storia della filosofia greca del iv e iii secolo.”137 Posidonius and Antiochus represent two lenses through which critics have read Cicero’s philosophy since the middle of the nineteenth century, partly also because of their broad, and richly intellectual, outlooks that seem to be reflected in the philosophica.138 While their contribution to Roman—and 134 In an article about Antiochus’ Platonism and the Academic’s relationship to the Stoics Posidonius and Panaetius, Mauro Bonazzi (2012: 314) observes, “a heightened concern with the history of philosophy is one of the hallmarks of first-century BC philosophy in general, and not of Antiochus alone.” Cf. M. Frede (1992b: 316). 135 For the historical character of Posidonius’ philosophy, see Kidd (1997) and the introduction to his commentary on the fragments (1988); on the Platonic Posidonius, see Tarrant (2000: 62–64); on the relation between Platonism and Stoicism throughout antiquity, see the articles in Bonazzi and Helmig (2007). 136 Antiochus’ historical approach emerges from works published much later in the history of Greco-Roman philosophy. One such example is Sextus Empiricus’ Against the Mathematicians (second or third century CE), a polemic in which Sextus appears to quote verbatim from Antiochus’ lost Canonica (Math. 7.202); this Canonica, for Charles Brittain (2012), is the palimpsest, as it were, for Sextus’ doxography at Math. 7.141-260. Tarrant (1985a: 110) had already suggested this influence, extending the field of Antiochus’ influence on the text to Math. 7.89-260. 137 I note that Donini offers an interesting spin on the many accusations that the philosophy of Antiochus lacked original ‘substance’. The fact that critics differentiate between historiography and the ‘substance’ of philosophy is in itself telling, as it seems to deny the possibility that the history of philosophy is the substance of his philosophy. 138 Two phases of the reception of Cicero’s thought could be described as ‘Panposidonianism’, rife in the Anglo-American world from the 1880s, and the later ‘Panantiochianism’,

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­ iceronian—thought is palpable,139 John Glucker’s Antiochus and the Late C Academy (1978) reminds us that the turn to philosophy’s history had already begun in the generation before Posidonius and Antiochus, at the time of Clitomachus and Panaetius. His understanding of the historical movement is founded on a terminological analysis (1978: 166–174), centered on hairesis (αἵρεσις), a word that by the mid-second century bce refers to an “attitude,” “disposition” or “view,” rather than to philosophical “schools” in the practical or institutional sense.140 As Glucker (1978: 159–205) evaluates what the philosophers’ vocabulary tells us about how “schools” and “doctrines” were conceptualized, he highlights two passages in Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of the Philosophers (2.92, 2.87) that, he suggests, indicate hairesis was employed in philosophical contexts to designate works that were exclusively interested in the philosophical theories of various “sects.”141 This intellectual climate, witness to the development of a haeretic literature, seems to have rehabilitated the significance of the “historical” in philosophy.142 As historiographical reconstructions re-emerged as worthy materia of ­philosophy, the return to Plato and Aristotle is not only a recognition of their canonical status and an appreciation of their stylistic brilliance. It is first and foremost an appropriation of a philosophical-textual tradition that looks to the dialogue form and the history of philosophy as resources for the identification, interpretation and development of philosophical problems. Cicero sets the scene for his Academic philosophizing by writing the history of philosophy on the model of two philosophers who formulated its principles. The Academica is therefore not only celebrated throughout the late philosophical corpus as the point of origin for Ciceronian philosophizing; it also lays claim to an intertextual heritage, acknowledging that philosophy begins with its history, that the history of philosophy is the starting point of philosophy.143

139 140 141

142 143

out of which we are slowly—and only recently—emerging. For a history of the latter, see Mette (1986/7: 27–29); for a critique of the former, Dobson (1918). See Ferrary (1988) for an account of their influence at Rome, as well as their intellectual activities and their impact on the Republican cultural scene. For a different view, see Garbarino (1973) and Vesperini (2012). Deeply influenced by New Testament historians, Glucker launches the terminological investigation by looking at Polybius and epigraphic evidence. Hippobotus, mentioned by Diogenes Laertius at 1.18-21, seems to play an important role in the doxographical tradition within which Diogenes operated, as well as perhaps being one of the earlier authors to offer a definition of hairesis. On Hippobotus, see Gigante’s status quaestionis on dating (1983: 156–170) and von Arnim (1913). Glucker (1978: 180) claims that after Aristotle interest in philosophy’s history had waned. Heraclides of Pontus is another major influence acknowledged by Cicero in his letters. Unfortunately, all too little is known about this author, although scholars have advanced

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Setting the Scene: Re-reading the Index

The earliest key sources for the history of the Athenian philosophical schools in the Hellenistic period down to the first century bce are Cicero and three ­papyrus rolls found in the Villa of the Papyri. If we are to believe Diogenes Laertius, the papyri are part of the Treatise on Philosophers (Σύνταξις τῶν φιλοσόφων, Diog. Laert. 10.3) written by Philodemus, an Epicurean from Gadara who had moved to Italy under the patronage of Cicero’s contemporary, Piso; the three volumes are fragments of a History of the Stoics (known as the Index Stoicorum, PHerc. 1018) and a History of the Academics (Index Academicorum, PHerc. 1021 and PHerc. 164).144 Of the two Academic papyri, PHerc. 1021 is the longest and is thought to be Philodemus’ working draft composed around 70 bce—an early version of the more polished PHerc. 164, written at the end of the first century (cf. Cavallo 1984: 12–17). From the complex of three rolls and the round of Ciceronian philosophica, the historian of philosophy is not only offered a rare glimpse of the history of these two schools, with a particular focus on the first century bce, a period that David Sedley (2003: 31) has consecrated as “­epoch-making” for ancient philosophy; they also bear witness to the profound historiographical orientation of those first-century philosophical authors. The paleographic and bibliological studies of the Academic Index by ­Tiziano Dorandi (1991a) and Enzo Puglia (2000) have improved our understanding of Philo and Antiochus’ lives. These developments, in turn, have allowed us to reconstruct in greater detail the specific historical and historiographical context for Cicero’s ­Academica. The Indices provide a window onto the institutional and doctrinal world in which Cicero became interested and developed his ­philosophical thought; some suggestive interpretations of his work. Hirzel believes Heraclitus an anomaly within his account of the dialogue form, which he saw as degenerating from the “true” dialogism of Plato into a monologizing and dogmatizing specter (1895: 321–331). While Aristotle is shoring up the first-person authority (Plato as Socrates), Heraclides seems to be reaching for a more concealed authorial voice (playing up the self-effacing side of Platonic dialogue). Matthew Fox (2009: 65) more recently supported this outline, describing the “practice” of Heraclidean dialogue composition as committed to “abnegating any notion of an authoritative voice.” In Hirzel’s and Fox’s view, Heraclides stands for a Plato that is “aporetic” and self-effacing, while Aristotle promotes the other side of the Platonic legacy, the “dogmatic.” 144 For want of a better title, I will retain index, although I note—with Gaiser (1988: 13) and Barnes (1989b: 140 n. 3)—that it is not attested in antiquity. Mekler (1908) was the standard text for the Academic work until Dorandi’s edition (1991a). Dorandi also published the text, commentary and translation for the badly mutilated papyrus concerning the Stoics in 1994. Gaiser (1988) addresses only the first part of PHerc. 1021, on Plato and the Old Academy. For an overview of the finds and an introduction to Philodemus, see Gigante (1995). Cavallo (1983) remains the finest overview on the papyri to date.

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they also allow us to see the challenges and opportunities he faced when writing about the Academy. Well before the split between Philo and Antiochus, dramatized at Luc. 11–12 and generally dated to 87 bce (Glucker 1978: 13–15), the Academy was undergoing severe internal strain in terms of its theoretical and scholastic integrity. The succession crisis in the wake of Carneades’ death (129/8 bce) seems to have been acute. The chain of succession, also known as the diadochical succession, was not broken after his death and the Academy continued to have a single head: another Carneades took over in 129/8 bce, then Crates, Clitomachus and Philo, who takes over in around 100 bce. Despite the continuity in leadership, throughout the period the Academy is plagued by antagonisms and rivalries, culminating in a period described by Dorandi (1997: 95) as a “crisi profonda, sia come istituzione, sia dal punto di vista dottrinario.” At least that is the story told by the Academic Index and Cicero.145 After Carneades’ death, C ­ litomachus, a thinker whose influence is clearly felt in Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus (cf. Luc. 16, 78, 98 and 102–105), taught in Athens’ Palladium for up to a decade. He then seems to have had enough and one day dramatically burst through the doors of the Academy and claimed the scholarchate (Acad. index 24.32–7.)146 Yet Clitomachus appears not to have been the only pretender to Carneades’ inheritance. Metrodorus of Stratonicea was another claimant, Clitomachus’ rival not just for leadership of the Academy, but also a teacher and scholar who seems to have understood Carneades’ legacy very differently from his contemporary. This philosopher on the margins of Plato’s school never spoke from the “official” halls of the Academy; he may, in fact, have even taught outside Athens’ citadel (Acad. index 32.13–16.). Nonetheless, as far as we can see, Metrodorus’ take on Carneades’ teaching and his philosophy seem to have attracted considerable interest amongst students of the Academy at the time.147 Clitomachus’ coup and his disagreement with Metrodorus both shape the theme of rupture and conflict over the interpretation of precursors that we will 145 For an overview of this phase of Academic history, with some conceptual analysis, see Lévy (2010: 82–89); he also attempts a reconstruction of the marginal characters in a 2005 article. 146 Scholars disagree on the exact length of time Clitomachus taught in the Palladium, but they agree on the range of between eight and ten years. 147 We are only given passing indications of Metrodorus’ standing as teacher in the Academic world in the Index. So we know from Acad. index 35.33-35 and 36.8-10 that he had a following, perhaps a faint clue to his leadership claim; on the matter of where he taught, Acad. index 32.13-16 seems to imply that he never held a school in Athens, a suggestion dependent on Mekler’s reconstruction of [Μητρόδ] ωρ [ος], ‘Metrodorus’, at 32.16). This view of his exclusion from the citadel is supported by De Or. 1.45.

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find throughout the Academica. Clitomachus is a groundbreaking and paradigmatic figure in the intellectual history of the Mediterranean for another reason. According to Luc. 98 and 102, this keen “little Carthaginian” (Poenulus) was strengthening the Academy’s ties with Rome—a process inaugurated by Carneades’ participation in the embassy of 155 bce—through a “flurry of publications” (multitudo librorum, Luc. 16), some of which were known to Cicero and were dedicated to Roman aristocrats, namely the satirist Lucilius and the consul Lucius Censorinus (cf. Diog. Laert. 4.67).148 Even before Philo leaves Athens for the capital in 88 bce, Rome looms large on the horizon of an Academy that was riven by competing intellects. And the practice of circulating books already appears to have been adopted as a strategic vehicle to consolidate and expand Academic networks.149 During Philo’s scholarchate, the First Mithridatic War and Sulla’s sack of Athens in 86 bce accelerate the process of the devolution of Athens as seat of Hellenistic philosophy, a process that was already well under way in the second century bce. The war between Mithridates vi and Rome draws Athens into the conflict and marks the end of Athens’ independent status (Geagan 1979).150 Political and social collapse implicates the cultural sphere as well. Epicureans and Peripatetics support the king of Pontus and are, in turn, rewarded with prominent political roles. The Peripatetic Athenion seems to have played an important role as Mithridates’ ambassador to Athens, who seeks to convince the city to side with Mithridates against Rome in 88 bce, while Apellicon, another Peripatetic, is sent to rein in the still pro-Roman Delos.151 Finally, Mithridates’ general Archelaus appoints the Epicurean Aristion tyrant of the city of Athens, and Aristion’s rule lasts from 88 bce to the city’s sack in 86 bce at the hands of the Roman army. Whether we agree with Ferguson (1911: 338– 339) that lines were drawn between pro-Roman Stoics and Academics against the “Asiatic” Peripatetics and Epicureans, or we accept Ferrary’s (1988: 435– 473) view that by 88 bce Stoics had already abandoned Athens, leaving only Academics to face exile, there is little doubt that philosophers played a leading role in the conflict. And, consequently, philosophy paid the price. Philo leaves as soon as Athenion comes onto the scene and Antiochus follows not long after, reportedly joining Lucullus’ train around 88 bce. Since Antiochus returns in 79 bce, we know of only three philosophers in the city in the wake of the­ 148 On the embassy of 155 bce, see Vesperini (2012: 135–168). On Clitomachus and Rome, see §II.7.1. 149 See Ferrary (1988: 395–433) on Clitomachus and Panaetius and their new Roman public. 150 See Badian (1976) and Appian’s Mithridatica for the ancient narrative. 151 The story is in Athenaeus’ Deipnosophists, Ath. 211d-215b.

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invasion: Antiochus, and the Epicureans Zeno and Phaedrus. Offering a window onto Athenian intellectual life after the sack, Cicero tells Atticus in 51 bce that philosophy at Athens is “in a state of chaos” (sed multum philosophia sursum deorsum, Att. 5.10.5 [103]).152 The troubled and divided voice of Academic skepticism fractures further with the death of Philo. As Acad. index 33.40-42 suggests, Philo dies only four years after his arrival in Italy at the age of 60 under the Archon Nicetes (84/3 bce; Brittain 2001: 66–70). The skeptical Academy then appears bereft of any leadership. Glucker suggests that Charmadas and Heraclitus of Tyre alone shouldered patrocinium of the school beyond the city’s sack in 86 bce. Neither of them, however, is associated with the Academy’s diadochical succession in any surviving document. Heraclitus, who appears as an “orthodox” Academic skeptic at Luc. 11, never shows up as a teacher in Athens in other evidence; and Charmadas, despite drawing significant attention in the works of Cicero and Philodemus, is otherwise a figure on the sidelines of the Academic world, according to the Academic Index. Seven years after beginning his studies in Athens under Carneades, he sets sail for Asia (146/5 bce). He later returns to Athens, obtains citizenship and founds a school that operates out of the exedra in the Ptolemaeum (Acad. index 31.34-32.10).153 The melancholy notes spread throughout Ciceronian treatises—particularly in the preface to book five of On Ends, where he laments the absence of patrocinium supporting the Academy’s skeptical lineage—amplify the institutional reality of Plato’s school in the second half of the first century bce (inter alia, Luc. 17, Fin. 5.4, Nat.D. 1.11 and Att. 5.10 [103]). In this desolate landscape, Antiochus and his brother Aristus emerge as the sole leading figures of the Academy. However Stoic Antiochus’ teaching may have appeared to Cicero and to subsequent generations, he walks into the limelight in the first century bce as the bearer of Platonic thought and the redeemer of true Academic history.154 Furthermore, he is portrayed as a man equally stretched by his educational and political commitments: he f­ ollows Lucullus in the general’s Eastern campaign and heads back to Rome on an 152 Unfortunately, the text is corrupt. Shackleton Bailey emends “” making two sentences: “a lot has changed. Philosophy is a mess” (sed muta. philosophia sursum deorsum). The sense, however, is clear. 153 It is tempting to read “Charmadas” at Fin. 5.4, in which passage Cicero points out that same exedra in his tour of Athens. The philologist Valerius offered this reading as more convincing than the now almost unanimously accepted alternative, “Carneades.” Recently Glucker (1978: 110) has supported Valerius. 154 Antiochus’ clandestine Stoicism is the target of many of his critics, including, as we shall have the chance to discuss at §III.8.3 and §III.8.4, Cicero in the Lucullus. Such accusation is even more heavy-handed at Sextus Pyr. 1.235.

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e­ mbassy later in his life, all the while assembling a significant number of pupils drawn from the Roman and Greek world alike.155 Despite the brothers’ success as teachers and Antiochus’ impact as a thinker, neither is clearly associated with the Academic school in Athens in an institutional sense. Considering the challenges of Charmadas, Heraclitus, Antiochus and Aristus in their positioning vis-à-vis the school in which they developed as ­philosophers, it is worth reflecting on the institutional dimension of ancient ­philosophy. In the instance of the Academy, its leadership was closely connected with a geographical area, the grove of Akademos in a leafy Athenian suburb, and a private property, a house with garden, originally acquired by Plato and used, alongside the surrounding public area, as the place where philosophers would teach and engage in debate. The institutional unity of the school was thus initially defined by Plato’s personality, his charisma and philosophical example, but also by an association with that grove and use of the property.156 Succession was, at least in the period relevant to our study, designated through group consensus and meant, to some extent, maintaining links to the area and estate.157 To teach in the Ptolemaeum or Palladium signals an exclusion from the institutional space of the Academy, although it does not necessarily prohibit that teacher from rejoining as leader at a later date, as in the case of Clitomachus. The issue of continuity and stability in the Academy’s leadership is also in need of demystification. The orthodoxy, born of nineteenth-century obsession with direct filiation—and spellbound by the myth-historical image of a “golden chain” (catena aurea) linking Plato to the Neoplatonists—generally favored an interpretation of Antiochus that saw him not only as heralding a return to dogmatism and the theory of Forms, but as the official heir in the Platonic dynasty.158 Karl Gottlob Zumpt’s hugely influential work on the A ­ thenian schools 155 On Antiochus’ pupils, see Acad. index 35.8-10 and 34.6-16 (also below in this section). For his relationship with Lucullus and Cicero, see Plutarch’s Lucullus 42.3; and Cicero Br. 315, Nat.D. 1.6 and Fin. 5.1. For the embassy to Rome, see Acad. index 34.36-37. See Sauron (2016) on Antiochus the politician. 156 On the early days of the Academy, see Watts (2007). Baltes (1993) is a useful discussion of all aspects of the School. I underline use, not ownership, because it seems that successors did not inherit the property as such, but were only able to access it as a facility. 157 Lynch (1972) is the seminal study on Aristotle’s school. 158 For the catena aurea see Damascius’ Life of Isidore (in Photius Bibl. 242) and Marinus’ Life of Proclus. For the theory of Ideas as finding a new champion in Antiochus, see Theiler (1964), Dillon (1997) and Donini (1982). The myth of continuity hounds the story of ancient philosophy right into the sands of Arabia: Michel Tardieu (1986) and Ilsetraut Hadot (1987 and 1990) have prolonged the Platonic chain into ninth-century CE Baghdad by suggesting that a band of wandering Platonists, exiled after Justinian’s reform of 529 CE, settled in Harran (Carrae) and founded an Academy that repackaged Plato, Aristotle

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and their succession (1844), provides in the appendix a tabulation of the scholarchs and their lineage. This visual cue served to cement and propagate his view, which was soon to become canonical. The table includes Antiochus as an Academic scholarch (1844: 93).159 Following Zumpt’s outline, a long list of historians of ancient philosophy, among them Eduard Zeller, Karl Praechter, Anne-Marie Lüder and Georg Luck, all invested their analysis in the acceptance of this fabled continuity.160 Only recently, building on the works of, among others, Brochard (1969) and Lynch (1972) and on a re-reading of the Herculanean papyri, has the opposite view taken hold. Our earliest source, Cicero, is very careful never to connect Antiochus, or his brother, to the scholarchate. In fact, as we mentioned with reference to On Ends, he insists on the derelict state of the Academy (Glucker 1978: 103). The absence of any evidence linking Antiochus to the official “register” of diadochê is, however, an issue deserving further attention, not least because of the contested reading of the poor state of the passage at Acad. ­index 34.1-6. In the last quarter of the twentieth century, the context of the passage has been read in conjunction with the Ciceronian evidence to suggest that Antiochus’ “school” (διατριβή), inherited by Aristus after his death, is positively not the Academy. Despite his many students and the fact that Philodemus attributes to him a diatribê (Acad. index 35.1), Cicero’s anecdote showing Antiochus lecturing in the Ptolemaeum in 79/8 bce and the absence of any reference to the philosopher as Academic scholarch, convincingly severs the connection between Antiochus’ ‘school’ and the Academy.161 There is yet another element suggesting that Antiochus never belonged to the Platonic line of succession: he is consistently represented on the move. In the five years before his death we find him in the East, around the time of the battle of Tigranocerta (69 bce), travelling in Lucullus’ retinue. At times he seems to be following the Roman general, and at others he journeys and Plotinus for the Abbasid renaissance. See Lameer (1997) and van Bladel (2009) for a sensible corrective. 159 Zumpt (1844: 43–44) is at first tentative in listing Antiochus as a successor to Plato in the body of his argument. Nonetheless, he ends up stating his view clearly: “aber ich sehe ihn doch als Diadochen an.” The table then seals the conversion from hypothesis to fact. 160 For a review of nineteenth-century scholarship on the question, see Glucker (1978: 98–106). Dorandi (1991b) provides a similar table in his work on the chronology of Hellenistic philosophers. Over the first twenty pages he summarizes the Academic Index from Plato to Antiochus, and then ends his short book with a set of tables on Zumpt’s model. These include dates of key individuals and institutional successions (1991b: 59–79). 161 The school may have been suggestively named after the Academy, that vetus Academia we find in the preface to the first Academic Book. Cf. Br. 315, 332 and Ac. 1.14 with Glucker (1978: 102–106).

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i­ ndependently, carrying out ambassadorial duties (Plutarch, Luc. 28.8).162 He was also in Alexandria, where we meet him in the Lucullus, probably between 87 bce and 79 bce, after which period he is back in Athens teaching the young Cicero. It is worth noting that Fin. 5.1 is one of the few passages placing Antiochus in Athens. His brother Aristus, who follows him to Alexandria, appears to be based in Athens when Cicero is composing the Brutus in 46 bce. ­However, Aristus is dead by the time his friend and pupil Brutus visits the city in 44 bce.163 Even though Cicero and the Index provide only indirect and circumstantial evidence, Antiochus’ prolonged absence from Athens must prejudice his ability to fulfil the role of a traditional head of school. Aristus continues in the footsteps of his brother. His school is patronized by Roman aristocrats and broadcasts a similar “Stoicizing” brand of Platonism; it endures for a few years after Antiochus’ death and then vanishes completely from the panorama of ancient philosophy (cf. Sedley 2003: 35).164 So what happens to the Academy in the wake of Antiochus and Philo’s disagreement and Philo’s move to Rome? Although scholars unanimously ­proclaim that the skeptical Academy ends with Philo, Acad. index 34.1-16 tells a different story. The passage seems to detail the handing over of the reigns of a school (τὴν σχολὴ[ν] | αὐτοῦ) to an individual after Philo. This someone is then said to have pupils (μαθ[η]ταὶ), whose names are listed between lines 7-16. This school is emphatically not the diatribê of Acad. index 35.2-3, but it remains unclear whether the term refers to the Academy. If this diadochical passage does concern the Academy, as recent papyrological studies suggest, it is crucial to re-contextualize both Cicero’s claim that the Academy in Athens is “an empty hall” (sedes orbata, Fin. 5.4) and his institutional use of patrocinium (Nat.D. 1.11). For Cicero, once Philo the last “leader of the Academy” (princeps Academiae, Br. 306) flees the war and comes to Rome, Athens and its philosophical world plunges into chaos and empties out into the Mediterranean. The Herculanean papyri, however, extend the lineage beyond Philo and allude to an institutional continuity of the Academy at Athens. Glucker, Dorandi and Barnes agree that neither Antiochus nor his brother ever did lead the Academy in the aftermath of Philo’s exile, the doctrinal schism between them or Philo’s death. Their reaction to n ­ ineteenth-century 162 Sources agree that he died, if not in Mesopotamia (Acad. index 34.39-42), at least in the East (Luc. 61). On his travels, see Acad. index 34.36-39; cf. Plutarch Cicero 4.5 and Aelian VH 12.25. On his ambassadorial role, see Rawson (1989). 163 Note the expression “a friend and guest of mine” (hospes et familiaris meus) at Br. 332. Cf. Plutarch Brutus 2 and 24. 164 Theomnestus of Naucratis is recorded as taking over in only one passage, Plutarch Brutus 24. He is also independently referenced as a Sophist in Eunapius’ Lives of the Sophists 1.6.

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orthodoxy is based on a reading of Cicero and that difficult passage of the ­Index (Acad. index 33-36). The text, carefully reconstructed by Mekler and Dorandi, has recently been subjected to a papyrological survey that has argued persuasively for several emendations. The impact of these on how we interpret the passage and understand the Academy of Philo and Antiochus is significant. Puglia’s article on the last two columns of the Academic Index offers three important clarifications. The first concerns the verb “died[ex]ato” (διεδ[έξ]ατο) read by Dorandi at Acad. index 34.34. The verb is used to denote official succession elsewhere in the Index, at Acad. index 33.2, for instance, referring to Philo succeeding Clitomachus. The verb is employed to the same effect in Diogenes Laertius. But at Acad. index 34.34 it crucially lacks a subject. Following on from the reconstruction in Assent and Argument, Dorandi (1997: 103) suggests that, since neither Aristus nor Antiochus are subjects of the verb, the gap obscures the official successor of Philo, the individual who pushed Antiochus and Aristus into the Ptolemaeum. Re-examining the various hypotheses and reviewing the papyrus, Puglia (2000: 22) puts forward the following corrections: the second “δ” is a misreading, and the “α” before the “-το” is in fact an “ε,” giving us not “diedexato” but “diegeneto” (διε[γέν]ετο). His reconstruction is compelling, also because it accounts for “presbe[u]ôn” (πρεσβε[ύ]ων) and the conjecture “[Athê]nêth[en]” ([Ἀθή]νη | θεν) at Acad. index 34.36. The sentence is no longer about succession, but describes Antiochus’ continued role as Athenian ambassador to Rome and to other cities. According to Puglia, it reads: “for most of his life, [Antiochus] never stopped travelling in an ambassadorial capacity from Athens to Rome and to the governors of the provinces.”165 Puglia offers a solution to the puzzle of “died[ex]ato” and argues that the passage does not address Antiochus’ succession. The mystery of who comes after Philo still haunts the section, since the author of the Index appears to be referring to such a successor at the beginning of Acad. index 34. Philo is the subject of section 33. And the first three lines of 34, as reconstructed by Mekler, indicate someone being appointed or taking up the Academy’s leadership after Philo. This subject cannot be Antiochus, whose diatribê will be inherited by Aristus at Acad. index 35.1-5 and who will return to Athens to lecture in the Ptolemaeum. Someone does however take over Philo’s “school” (σχολή): an individual who either comes forward or is selected by Philo perhaps around 88 bce. The papyrus seems to associate this individual with the impossible moniker “Maikios” at Acad. index 34.3. In his second illuminating observation, Puglia (2000: 20–21) focuses on Maikios as key to the question of the post-Philonian stewardship of the Academy. Maikios, 165 This suggestion would also appease Barnes (1989: 58), who cannot comprehend why Dorandi does not take Antiochus as (possible) subject for the verb.

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in his view, is the ethnonym of a scholarch who has slipped under our radar.166 Finally, Puglia (2000: 24–25) makes a structural observation: the pupils listed at Acad. index 34.6-16 are not Antiochus’, but Philo’s. Since Antiochus’ life is narrated at Acad. index 34.33 ff., it would be against the organizational principles at work in the rest of the Index to list his pupils before he is taken up as the subject of a section. This would corroborate the inference that the successor of Philo was not Antiochus and that Antiochus’ pupils, later inherited by Aristus, are the ones listed at Acad. index 35.8-10.167 Only three of Antiochus’ “many” pupils are mentioned by Philodemus, three philosophers who become protagonists of a doctrinal and geographical diaspora (Acad. index 35.6-7). Dio and Aristo, whom we meet in Alexandria along with Aristus and Heraclitus (Luc. 12), have little if no connection to Athens after their philosophical training under Antiochus. Dio is sent on an embassy from Alexandria to Rome in 57 bce, where he meets an untimely end as the guest of L. Lucceius (see Cicero’s oration For Caelius, 23–4 and 51–57). Dio and Aristo’s stay in Alexandria after Antiochus’ visit has given rise in the past to much speculation about a Platonic school in the Egyptian port city, a school linked to Eudorus and Potamo’s eclecticism and connected to the great commentary tradition to come (Dillon 1997: 61).168 This fable of filiation rests on thin grounds, yet captures the fragmentation of Antiochus’ followers and provides an explanation as to why Dio and Aristo, Alexandrians by birth, chose to remain there (cf. Acad. index 35.7-8). Their repatriation fits into a pattern, identified by Ferrary (1988) and Sedley (2003: 33), of Stoic and Academic centers flourishing in the hometowns of important thinkers, like Rhodes and M ­ iletus. In the context of a broader pattern of dis/re-location, the Peripatetic teacher of young Marcus, Cratippus, follows in the footsteps of Antiochus. Like his teacher, Cratippus has some difficulties in establishing his practice in Athens, teaching for long periods in Mytilene. It is only in 44 bce—and thanks to the intervention of Cicero—that he settles in Athens and is granted citizenship.169 The general move away from Athens is underscored by the strange expression 166 Puglia leaves the question of identity suspended. Otherwise, we would have to deal with the presence of a morphologically Roman name in a first-century bce diadochical list. This presence would upset many of the assumptions underpinning our understanding of Greco-Roman cultural exchange. In this case, I note that Puglia keeps Dorandi’s punctuation. Mekler has Maikios start a new sentence. 167 The papyrus does not explicitly state that Antiochus’ pupils ever were inherited by Aristus, except indirectly as he inherits the diatribê. 168 Barnes (1989: 57) describes this interpretation as “fiction.” 169 Cratippus is in Mytilene in 51 bce (Tim. 1); in 49 bce he welcomes Pompey to the island of Lesbos (Plutarch Pompey 75); and, from 48 bce, he teaches Marcellus (Br. 258). For the intercession, see Plutarch Cicero 24.

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defining those who followed Charmadas, whom Philodemus calls “the wanderers” (οἱ πλανωμένοι), as if this shorthand for itinerant intellectuals was a recognizable brand to his (Italian) readership (Acad. index 34.36). Athens was evidently no longer understood to be the center of Academic scholarship, and indeed the geography of philosophy in the last two centuries bce shows that decentralization was already a reality by the second century and that philosophers moved relatively fluidly around the Mediterranean. This estrangement from Athens finds a microcosmic parallel in the gradual separation between Academics and the grounds of the Academy itself. The vexata quaestio of school property and the implications of its possession for scholarchs has been mentioned above and exhaustively tackled by Lynch and Glucker in the 1970s. In terms of the grove of Akademos, the site of Plato’s garden and house, two details are of interest: Charmadas is the last known ­Academic to teach there,170 and Cicero, whose preface to the fifth book of On Ends turns the Academy’s “area” (spatia) into a memorial, provides “the last piece of evidence, before the age of Proclus, for an Academic or Platonic ­philosopher having anything to do with the historic area of the Academy” (Glucker 1978: 237). The very title ‘Academic’ is never used by second-century CE followers of Plato, the Middle Platonists, in part because of the severed link between locality and philosophy. The diaspora is not just geographic but doctrinal. Both Aristo and Cratippus are described in the Index as abandoning the Academy for the Lyceum. On Duties substantiates the Index’s narrative presented at Acad. index 35.10-16, where Cratippus is identified as a Peripatetic, as well as the sole heir to the Platonic tradition in Athens (Glucker 1978: 113; §II.4.2). Glucker has explained this realignment among Antiochus’ pupils, or Antiochii as they are labeled at Luc. 70, in terms of their teacher’s evocative syncretism: Antiochus’ insistence on the unity of Peripatetics and Early Academy under the nostalgic label of “Old” Academy, seems to produce a drift into Aristotelian territory. This orientation is more conspicuous with regard to his ethics, particularly if we are to believe Antiochus is behind Piso’s naturalism in On Ends book five, as Inwood has argued in his Ethics after Aristotle (2014: 66–71). It is important to point out that the drift leads in the opposite direction too, notably with Aenesidemus, a firstcentury bce philosopher who started his intellectual journey in the Academy. This thinker and contemporary of Cicero looked back to Pyrrho and a radical

170 That is, if Valierus’ emendation of Fin. 4.5 is allowed to stand.

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form of skepticism as a revolt against the dogmatic inflection of the Academicism of his time.171 The vicissitudes of doctrinal affiliation in the first century bce suggest two conclusions. The intellectual environment seems to have oriented philosophies towards a “return to more authentic ancient positions” (Glucker 1978: 120). Although philosophers increasingly inhabit the wider Mediterranean world, away from the ancestral seat of their schools and far from Athens, philosophy is defined by a return to origins: Antiochus looks to Plato, Aristotle and the “Old” Academy; Aristo and Cratippus to Aristotle; Aenesidemus to Pyrrho. The tendency is nowhere more clearly expressed than in Cicero’s reminder to Marcus in On Duties, “we both want to be Socratics and Platonists.” The orientation serves a further particular purpose in Cicero. He structures the Platonic inheritance according to two lineages that survive in his time, the Academic and the Peripatetic. In the case of the Lyceum, he enlists Antiochus and Cratippus as its representatives: he does so by classifying Antiochus’ views as ­Peripatetic, both in the Lucullus and in On Ends, where his ethics is labeled as ta peripatetika; and by setting up a duality with Cratippus in On Duties. While the world of the Lyceum is populated by his contemporaries, the Academy in Cicero’s account seems to have dispersed with the death of Philo. The extinction, however, leaves a space to be filled. Inevitably, Cicero stands alone as the doyen of the Academy in his time. Whatever the reasons for the drift, it is also impossible to ignore the largely Roman support that Antiochus’ teaching draws and the emergence of Rome as an important center for Academic learning—an element we commented on earlier in this section with reference to Clitomachus. Barnes’ (1989: 60–62) list of Antiochus’ “Roman connections” is eloquent enough testimony of the philosopher’s trans-cultural appeal. His intimacy with Lucullus turns into a veritable following, as Varro, Cicero and his cousins Quintus and Lucius, Piso and Brutus enjoy either a close personal relationship with the Platonist or are said to follow his doctrines. The biographies and teachings of both Antiochus and Aristus are representative of three trends underlying the narrative of the last generation of Academics. The magnetic appearance of Rome on the horizon while Athens’ star dwindles, the demise of a sense of official school unity due to the expansion of intellectual networks across the Mediterranean and the multiplication of 171 We will discuss Aenesidemus in relation to the skeptic-dogmatic controversy in §III.8.4. For a biographical overview, see Declava Caizzi (1992) and Mansfeld (1995). Aenesidemus’ work survives in Photius Bibl. 212.

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competing Academic voices within Athens itself. Through the two brothers, as well as through the opposition between Philo and Antiochus in the Academica, we witness the disappearance of institutionally backed positions, which were categorically presented as Academic. New doctrines develop through a—­conscious; nostalgic—return to old names. Finally, the narrative of rupture and collapse plays into a Ciceronian agenda. While the Index suggests continuity beyond Philo, the number of deviations and departures from the skeptical Academy underscores a moment of intense productivity and revision among Academics of Cicero’s generation, with the term ‘school’ itself undergoing a doctrinal and institutional re-evaluation. In Cicero, Antiochus is alternately pushed out to the Lyceum and to the Stoa, so that this period of debate appears to amount to a flight from the Academy, an institution to which Cicero remains solidly anchored throughout. Beyond the walls of the Academy, other schools were undergoing similar stress. The diadochical lists for all schools in Diogenes Laertius end no later than the first century bce. This is so in the case of the Stoa, for instance, in whose succession list neither Cornutus nor Epictetus are recorded.172 The same pattern is notably repeated in the doxographies authored after the first century bce: Seneca, Diogenes of Oenoanda, Plutarch and Sextus never refer to Stoic thinkers active after the last quarter of that century. This is not to say that there were no philosophers left as the Republic emerged into Empire. The evidence is, on the contrary, strong for the continuation of philosophical activity in all the traditional schools, but this seems to be carried out in localized philosophical networks, and outside Athens. Interest in shoring up institutional succession fades.173 With the first century bce a new approach to writing the history of philosophical schools emerges, an approach sensitive to the way these institutes of learning are conceptualized. After the Mithridatic War and Rome’s civil conflict, two historical turning points for philosophy’s survival as an Athenian practice, doxographers write as if the history of philosophy reached a terminus. In other words, the history is a plot with an ending.174 Philodemus’ account is thin on 172 The one exception is the appendix to the Pyrrhonist School, which shows a lineage running all the way to Sextus. Epigraphic evidence indicates official succession at Athens for the Epicureans and the Stoics into the second century CE, though there is still a gap around the age of Augustus. 173 See Diogenes Laertius for the continuation of the Epicurean school (Diog. Laert. 10.9 and 10.25). The commentary tradition for both Plato and Aristotle is fully underway in the early Empire through the likes of Thrasyllus, Eudorus, Ammonius and Alexander of Aphrodisias. Cf. Rawson (1985: 282–297) and Beard (1986: 36–38). 174 Significantly, with exile comes the loss of (personal) libraries. See Lynch (1971: 160–162 and 204–207), Glucker (1978: 373–379), Ferrary (1988: 437) and Sedley (2003: 34).

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Philo and Antiochus, sections that look slight relative to other figures; and, like Diogenes’ biographies, it tails off with the first century bce. The history ends as its interpretation begins. Andronicus of Rhodes undertakes editorial work on Aristotle’s text, famously his Categories, around the same period, just as Thrasyllus is about to re-organize the Platonic corpus into tetralogies.175 Reading and interpreting the words of the ancients becomes the modus operandi of philosophical writing, where both intellectual output and historical personae are reified and subjected to exegesis. The formation of a canon takes centerstage, a process of evaluating and selecting what is important within—what defines—the tradition that runs through all of Cicero’s technical literature. As I have underlined above with respect to Cicero and the history of the Academy, a fine line separates the social and intellectual devolution of philosophical practice over the last two centuries bce and the way in which ­authors shape the narrative to establish their claims. The extensive gaps in our ­knowledge of that crucial century complicates our approach to the issue, ­obfuscating the extent to which philosophers as a group were witness to, or bearers of epochal transformations. Fragmentation, dispersal and decentralization are the structuring conditions of the narrative of the history of philosophy of that century in our earliest sources. But these principles do not necessarily result in a localized crisis after Mithridates leading to the ‘end’ of philosophy. Crucially, all these processes were already under way in the Academy after Carneades. Furthermore, Puglia’s re-reading of key sections of the ­Academic Index implies that Cicero chooses to obscure the course of diadochical succession after Philo. In the same vein, arguments derived from P ­ hilodemus, Diogenes and, for that matter, all the Stoic scholars named in our discussion, are simply ex silentio. Crisis and disappearance are suggestive motifs of the tale, as well as perhaps reflections of a new order. Reviewing the history of the skeptical Academy, Lévy (2010: 102) asserts that Cicero was fully aware of the challenges and risks that Philo’s legacy would meet in a world after Athens. Faced with this scenario, Cicero “took over the succession of the Academy in his own way.” My aim over this chapter has been to provide some context for Cicero’s claim to the leadership of the Academy and its transfer to Rome, as a foundation for the rest of Part 2, where I explore how his “own way” of appropriating the institution relies on and exploits the historiographical momentum of his century, as well as the strategic models furnished by Plato and Aristotle. Central to this discussion is a study of an excerpt from 175 On Andronicus and the birth of the exegetical tradition, see Reinhardt (2007), Chiaradonna and Rashed (2010), and Chiaradonna (2011). On the texts of Plato and Aristotle in the first century bce, see Hatzimichali (2012). Also, Barnes and Griffin (1997) for the context. On Thrasyllus and Plato’s corpus, see Tarrant (1993).

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the historiographical finale of the Lucullus, examining how the passage illustrated Cicero’s awareness of competing historiographical models shaping the field of philosophy and their significance for issues of doctrinal and institutional integrity. In the passage, the contest over the systematization of moral ends echoes the central opposition of the Academica between two histories of the Academy. It also reveals with great poignancy the critical relationship between the individual surveying the panorama of previous philosophical positions and his own philosophical orientation. Why this issue matters in the context of production of the Academica, both in terms of the historical period of intellectual history of Greco-Roman antiquity and in terms of Cicero’s philosophical project is the concern of the rest of Part 2. Cicero turns to the history of philosophy not simply to appropriate the foundational gesture of Plato and Aristotle, or to fall in line with the etiological tendencies of his philosophical contemporaries. Our author is writing in a period of institutional and doctrinal disarray, where thinkers in the Academy, competing over Carneades’ heritage, are pulling in different directions theoretically as well as in their exodus from Athens and the grounds of the Academy. The siege of Athens, although not the event that decentralized philosophical networks, undoubtedly played an important role in dispersing Plato’s school. This was an opportunity for Cicero to lament the ground’s empty classrooms and broadcast the Roman nostalgia for the sapientia that thronged those halls. His philosophica reports Academics occupying new scholastic positions that are not Academic: Antiochus’ pupils, who leaned on Peripatetic and Stoic theory are now Peripatetics or Stoic. At the same time, Cicero’s developing body of work frequently looks back to his original dissertation on epistemology as a distinctive treatise in the Academic tradition and as the statement of his affiliation to the Academy. The Academica is concerned with Cicero’s position in Academic history as well as the Academica’s position in the history of philosophy.

Chapter 5

Philosophy’s Parallel Itineraries 5.1

Where Philosophy Begins: Epistemology and Historiography in the Academica

The preface to the first Academic Book stages an exchange between Cicero and Varro, which, among other topics, is concerned with the relationship between the newly imported disciplines of philosophy and history, and their place at Rome. Cicero challenges what he perceives as his opponent’s almost exclusive interest in history by developing an opposition between writing philosophy and writing in other historically-minded genres, such as political, legal and military history, geography, biography and literary criticism. Whatever Varro’s achievements in those fields, and his success in providing Romans with a better idea of their place in history and a better sense of their social and cultural identity (qui et ubi essemus), Cicero makes it very clear that he considers this kind of social and institutional anthropology only “enough to stimulate the learner, but not enough for a complete education” (ad impellendum satis, ad edocendum parum, Ac. 1.9).176 In launching his challenge to Varro and describing the field of “intellectual pursuits” (studia) and “systematic arts” (artes) within which the genus of philosophy must take pride of place, Cicero employs a significant expression to ­define the substance of his project: what he has recently decided to record for posterity (mandare monumentis) and brighten up in literary Latin (Latinis litteris illustrare) is more than just a theoretical attitude towards knowledge.177 At Ac. 1.3 the genus is described specifically as “that ancient philosophy, sprung from Socrates” (philosophiam veterem illam a Socrate ortam). The etiological orientation of Cicero’s undertaking is foregrounded, emphasizing his task as one of establishing at Rome an intellectual practice with a long history rooted in an originary Socratic—Greek—legacy. Starting with Ac. 1.4, Varro’s ­response mobilizes the same historical register. For the antiquarian, setting up ­philosophy in the canon of Latin letters is a problematic project that entails understanding the history of Latin philosophical publications, hijacked by artless Epicureans, and more generally the history of Greco-Roman ­translation. 176 The passage was discussed in §I.3.1 in relation to Cicero and Varro’s educational collaboration. 177 On monumenta and illustrare, see Vesperini (2012: 381–471).

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Over his speech, Varro rehearses key preoccupations of the philosophica, namely that interested and learned Romans would read philosophy in the original Greek and that adaptations would fail to change the mind of those Romans who are set against Hellenic disciplines (Ac. 1.4; cf. Fin. 1.4-10). However, he frames this double ­impasse in terms of the specific difficulties ­Academics face—as opposed to Epicureans—in modelling an appropriate register to match the complexity of the school’s logic, physics and ethics (Ac. 1.5-8). Varro evades the derivative nature of such enterprises, but capitalizes on his philosophical education by infusing philosophical form and topics into other genres more appropriate to the Roman tongue. His corpus offers an indication of such a strategy, with moments of dialectic and philosophic insight punctuating the Menippean Satires, his funeral orations and the prefaces to the Antiquities (Ac. 1.8). In tackling the question of genre, translation, competing traditions and intellectual exchange, the preface of the first Academic Book associates writing philosophy historically and writing history philosophically, even before the debate opens onto rival interpretations of Academic history offered by Philo and Antiochus. The preface to the Lucullus weaves an even more intricate web of historical elements, into which similar issues are introduced. In the so called “eulogy of Lucullus” (laudatio Luculli) opening the dialogue, Cicero sketches a short ­biography of his protagonist. The profile accentuates Lucullus’ military and political successes against Mithridates vi in the East and offers an apology for the general’s clandestine philosophical interests; Cicero’s defense appeals to venerable precedents of the Middle Republic, namely Cato, Scipio Africanus and Panaetius (Luc. 3–5). Finally, he introduces Lucullus’ telling of the Alexandrian Episode as a response to Hortensius’ desire to hear a more thorough investigation of the issues raised “yesterday” (heri) during the conversation memorialized in the lost Catulus. Against the background of a debate about derivation and source, translation, imitation and repetition, Hortensius pointedly wonders whether Lucullus might be able to go over in greater detail the same topics he had previously discoursed on impromptu (a me enim ea quae in promptu erant dicta sunt, a Lucullo autem reconditiora desidero, Luc. 10).178 Biography, intellectual history and Hortensius’ plea all launch a quest for revision, be it of a life, of a period in history or of a debate; all three elements identify telling a story as a site for contestation and negotiation, a site within which and through which the philosophical subject-matter will develop. 178 The comparative “reconditiora” strengthens the continuity between the two dialogues and has created not inconsiderable issues for reconstructions of the Catulus. Indeed, commentators have forcefully rejected the possibility that different versions of the same speech were offered. Cf. Schäublin (1995: lvii) and Mansfeld (1997: 51–53 and 65).

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The chapters of Part 2 that follow offer a study of Cicero as a “historical philosopher.” The expression is borrowed from Richard Campbell’s Truth and Historicity (1992), where it is used to refer to those philosophers who operate “with a strong sense of his or her own situatedness in history” and engage in a “historically orientated task whose point is precisely to enrich the selfunderstanding of their own historical situation” (1992: 9 and 10). Campbell is interested in analytic philosophy, particularly the work of Gottlob Frege and the Anglo-American tradition, and its emphasis on language over history in its conception of truth, because this tradition understands doing philosophy and doing the history of philosophy as entirely different, even irreconcilable, activities. Quine’s remark (quoted in MacIntyre 1984: 39–40) that “there are two sorts of people interested in philosophy, those interested in philosophy and those interested in the history of philosophy” encapsulates this attitude: an approach that privileges formal logic and semantics as the engines of p ­ rogress in philosophy; and that is founded on the belief that history and philosophy depend on entirely different and irreconcilable methods. While “historical enquiry” aims at “contextual understanding,” or the study of the history of ideas, their context, emergence and development, “philosophy” focuses on the ­singular, eternally-valid truth, devised as the solution to contemporary philosophical problems (Piercey 2003: 781; cf. Campbell 1992: 8–9). The debate about philosophy and its past—whether dismissed as “a false dilemma” (Rée 1988: 47) or understood as a symptom of the growing disparity between “continental” and Anglo-American philosophy (Gracia 1992: 22)—has yielded important reflections on the uses of history in philosophy, exploring, justifying and defining “historical philosophy” or “doing philosophy historically.” This rift in the discipline is somewhat reflected in how we study ­Greco-Roman philosophers, for whom, as Sedley has rightly pointed out (2012: 80), the integral relationship between philosophy and its history has never been in doubt. Partly because of the reconstructive work that must be undertaken in the field, partly also because of the analytic movement’s influence, students of classical philosophy in departments across the US and UK generally have shown limited interest in the historiographical dynamics of ancient philosophy. Interspersed in the vast bibliographies on antiquity and its intellectual history, we find few studies of how ancient philosophers wrote (about) the history of their discipline; several of these seek to address the differences between doxography and the history of philosophy, several others understand whether Plato and, more so, Aristotle could be considered historians of philosophy.179 179 On the controversy, see Collobert (2002: 281, with bibliography). On doxography and the historiography of philosophy, see Mansfeld (1990a) and the articles in Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale (1992, vol. 97.3), particularly the articles by Laks and M. Frede.

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Generally, these studies are not substantive. In other words, they may understand historiography as part of the rhetorical armature of philosophy, but not as something determinative of the ideas themselves, of how philosophical ideas are formulated, developed, debated, and how they are shown to progress from one period to the next or from one thinker to another. Cicero’s Academica offers an opportunity to re-evaluate some of the debate’s central questions, leveraging the original range of approaches developed under the influence of Hegel, who established the essential role of the history of philosophy for philosophy itself. The present analysis draws on many authors who have labored under/resisted Hegel’s historiographical influence, ­including Martial Gueroult (passim), Campbell (1992), Gracia (1992), all the contributors to the volumes edited by Rorty, Schneewind and Skinner (1984) and Hare (1988), as well as post-structuralist and hermeneutic thinkers like Deleuze, Derrida and Gadamer.180 This ongoing dialogue about what the historiography of philosophy means for philosophy as an institution, as practice and as conceptual system is not only relevant to Cicero; it is also a debate to which Cicero can contribute, as a thinker who is searching for a singular eternal truth, while consciously operating within a pluralistic tradition of philosophical enquiry.181 The challenges Cicero’s philosophica faced were of a historical nature: philosophy was a discipline with a history that was Greek, and for Cicero’s translative project to succeed his works needed to link that history to Rome. In this sense the stakes of his historical philosophy were significantly greater and leaned on his rhetorical talents. Cicero needed to co-opt the tradition so as to create an institutional identity for philosophy that would secure its place in Rome, as well as shape the way philosophy was going to be done in this new setting. But, I contend, the historiographical tack offers more than a legitimating, authorizing rhetorical device: Cicero, in the vein of Posidonius and Antiochus, sees no separation between history and philosophy; for his brand of philosophy, thinking philosophically means thinking through the history of philosophy. In this chapter and the next, I investigate the interdependence of system and history (epistemology and historiography) within the framework of the controversy over the Academy’s legacy (Luc. 13-18, 72-76 and Ac. 1.15-45). I also explore the competing models of Academic historiography outlined in §II.4.3, placing them against the broader and richer background of later historical 180 Other important co-ordinates of the contemporary debate are the two special numbers of Archivio di filosofia (1954 and 1974), Passmore (1965) and Piercey (2003). 181 I note here that skepticism is already an established theme of the discussion, and that the only ancient philosophers in Rorty, Schneewind and Skinner’s Philosophy in History are M. Frede and Burnyeat. Both of their contributions discuss ancient skepticism. I found Dmitri Levitin’s remarkable work on the historiographical orientation of late seventeenth-century academic writing in England (2015) an invaluable companion.

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­ hilosophers. I suggest that the author presents competing models of how the p Academy developed since Socrates and Plato with a view to exploring the opportunities that doing philosophy historically offers: namely, the creation of a community of thinkers who delineate the discipline’s field. The shape of the field is drawn first and foremost by formulating the key problems that interest and aggregate thinkers and by identifying models or leaders whose approach to those problems is inspirational. In §II.6.5 I take a step back and look at how later philosophers have written about the history of the Academy. This comparison highlights Cicero’s originality in presenting the history of skepticism as the history of philosophy, a sophisticated strategy of appropriation elaborated by a student of the Academy who sees himself founding Roman philosophy through his philosophica. Over chapter seven, I study the shape and internal mechanisms of this history as the blueprint for Cicero’s style of philosophizing—a method that privileges the subjective or personal experience of the individual thinker; and that celebrates philosophical enquiry as the practice of a transhistorical community. 5.2

The Art of the Beginning: The Epistemological Foundation of Life

The connection between epistemology and historiography is studied early on in Lucullus’ speech, as Cicero discusses their significance as philosophy’s shared point of origin, foundation and keystone. The Lucullus introduces ­philosophy as beginning with a double task: to look into the discipline’s historical origin (Luc. 13 ff.) and to examine the theoretical basis of philosophical knowledge, namely perception and cognition (Luc. 19 ff.). These tasks juxtapose philosophy as system and philosophy as historically situated practice—a contrast Cicero intimated in his criticism of Varro’s corpus (§II.4.1)—in order to invite reflection on their complementarity. As Cicero explores and critiques Stoic views on sense-perception, reason and intellectual development over Luc. 19-39 and 105-111, one of his objectives is to align the two enquiries and show the reader how the speculative and historical orientations of thought integrate as the foundations of Philosophy, as well as of intellectual, ethical and societal life. The question of source, origin and foundation is central to the Academica, not only because the treatise is concerned with the basis of philosophical reason and the establishment of its institutional form; but also because the work addresses the very groundwork of morality, expertise and belief, the (intellectual) building blocks of human existence. There is, in other words, a conscious attempt on the part of the Academica to situate itself as a primary text in the philosophica, as the point of origin of Philosophy and of Cicero’s philosophy.

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Carlos Lévy (1992: 164) interprets the heart of Lucullus’ speech, Luc. 19-39, as offering a “véritable pyramide de la connaissance,” and as tracing an “itinéraire.” This trajectory begins with basic sensation and leads to “wisdom” (sapientia), through the progressive interconnecting of perception, ­experience, memory and reason. The dual images of construction and travel are helpful, insofar as they capture the emphasis on trajectory and interdependence running through Lucullus’ defense of Stoic epistemology.182 The transition from historical controversy to epistemology at Luc. 19 is brought about through an exhortation announcing the speech’s (second) beginning, “let us start with the senses” (ordiamur a sensibus), and is followed by a praeteritio, in which Lucullus dismisses skeptical arguments against perception (cf. Luc. 79) and the Epicurean view concerning the reliability of sight. Confiding in the senses as truthful (maxima in sensibus veritas), clear and certain judgments (ita clara iudicia et certa), while also handling them with caution (si et sani sunt ac valentes et omnia removentur quae obstant et inpediunt), the speaker’s case focuses on the everyman and his daily life: we are content with our sensory experience, Lucullus argues, and our trust in them is demonstrated by the fact that we adjust light, distance and position of objects so that “the sense of sight comes to trust the judgment it forms of that visual percept” (aspectus ipse ­fidem faciat sui iudicii, Luc. 19). The same goes for the other senses, like hearing, touch, taste and smell. All of these can be improved through application and training; indeed, they can be—and are—developed and sharpened “by practice and technical education” (exercitatione et arte). In a highly rhetorical moment of the argument, Lucullus illustrates this point by praising the acute perceptual “discernment” (intellegentia) of painters and musicians in contrast with his audience’s blunted senses (Luc. 20). The argument exploits dramatic images that draw out this developmental arc, from fiddling with objects in the shadows to the world of the arts. Once Lucullus has cleared the ground, rooting the argument squarely in the ordinary experience of perceptual behavior, the Stoic case for human reason and cognitive development is outlined. The explanation is sketchy, but Lucullus moves from perceiving through the senses alone to another kind of ­perception, described as “sense-like” (quodam modo sensibus) and involving “apprehension in the mind” (comprehensa animo). In this context, he identifies ­examples of three types of propositions: (1) “this is white,” (2) “this is a horse” and 182 Note that Cicero has Lucullus defend the validity of sense-perception before he has a chance to attack it, an unusual strategy in the philosophica. This is unlike, for example, the antilogic structure of On Ends. Whatever its rhetorical merit, it does give Cicero something to begin with.

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(3) “if it is a human, it is a mortal animal that has reason”; these propositions he connects into a succession or series that is ordered according to increasing ­complexity.183 From this type or genus of percepts (propositions are percepts insofar as they are perceived by the mind), the human mind builds—or is stamped with—conceptions of things (notitiae rerum, translating ἔννοιαι) and so is able to engage in complex intellectual tasks: understanding, researching and debating (sine quibus nec intellegi quidquam nec quaeri disputarive potest, Luc. 21).184 Such conceptions must be a fortiori the stable foundations of the mind’s capabilities and activities. On what basis, Lucullus asks, would we otherwise be able to act, remember or have technical expertise (i.e. theoretical knowledge and practical competence; Luc. 22)? The audience is led back to the arts, and simultaneously to the examples of experts like the geometrician, the musician and the poet. In this brief passage, Lucullus translates and compresses the Stoic view on rational impressions and on the building blocks of the human intellect, a fuller version of which we find in Aëtius’ Placita 4.11.1-4.185 The integration of a propositional element in Lucullus’ take on the senses reflects the Stoic u ­ nderstanding that rational impressions are impressions that have a linguistic counterpart, labeled lekton by the Stoics. Each impression is, in other words, ­accompanied by a corresponding lekton, and the accumulation of partly conceptual impressions makes it possible to refer to the world around us in speech and in thought. The developmental aspect of this picture is significant, although it remains disappointingly fragmentary and obscure. ­According to ­Aëtius, rationality develops through concepts arising in two ways: e­ ither naturally through the senses (prolêpseis, or preconceptions) or through an ­intentional focus of the mind (ennoiai, or conceptions; cf. Brittain 2005: 164 n. 1). As preconceptions are gathered through childhood, they shape reason, with the c­ onstitutive process beginning with simple sensations clustering into memories and then memories into experience. Notoriously, there are gaps in this ­picture, as for example whether preconceptions are solely experiential or what role 183 The content of Stoic concepts has been a matter for debate. It seems to me that in this instance it must be understood as propositional rather than predicative, and I will discuss the concepts accordingly. On the controversy, see Brittain (2005: 173–174) with testimonia and further bibliography. 184 Brittain (2012: 113–115) delivers a judicious review of the passage’s intellectual pedigree, emphasizing its Stoic dna; its function, as Brittain (2012: 114) insightfully puts it, is “to explain the development of the conceptualization that amounts to rationality.” 185 These terms will be introduced in Lucullus’ account at Luc. 30. See also Diog. Laert. 7.63. The reconstruction of the Stoic view that follows is indebted to M. Frede (1994), Brittain (2005) and Vogt (2008).

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language acquisition plays in the maturation of thought. In this instance, however, Lucullus foregrounds the logical shape of concepts, their different stages of complexity and their significance for rational development, as well as for collective forms of knowledge. The route through the following sections charts the trajectory outlined by the participial phrase “linking ever greater things” (maiora nectens), and moves from technical and artistic intelligence (ars, Luc. 22) to the “study of ethics” (virtutum cognitio), “scientific knowledge” (scientia), “wisdom” as the “art of living” (sapientiam, artem vivendi), “steadfastness” (constantia), “duty” (officium), “reliability” or “fidelity” (fides) and “fairness” (aequitas). In Lucullus’ appeal to the “good man” (vir bonus), who would submit to “torture” (cruciatus; supplicium) and endure unbearable pain in order to preserve the above-­mentioned values, community begins to emerge as a concern alongside the individual (Luc. 23). From epistemic certainty as the foundation of (commitment to) societal values, Lucullus transitions to (the self-awareness of) “­wisdom” (sapientia, Luc. 24), rational action (Luc. 25), “reason” and “research” (ratio; quaestio, Luc. 26). The final rung in this particular ladder is philosophia, the centrality of which is underlined through a warning about betraying its canon. Lucullus, indeed, condemns this act of treachery as a depravity (vitium) that is not just identical with, but also the root cause of “betrayals of allies and states” (amicitiarum proditiones et rerum publicarum, Luc. 27; cf. Woolf 2015: 20). Just before Lucullus joins the melee on a specific point made by Antipater (and Hortensius) against Cicero’s Academy (Luc. 28-29), Luc. 22-27 takes us from craftsmanship to systematic abstract thought, orbiting the argument around the social, ethical and political significance of certitude. Over sections 24 to 27, Lucullus shifts from a resolutely passive and ethical image, that of the vir bonus under torture, to the self-awareness of wisdom as keystone of rational action. Sapientia is framed both in terms of this ­condition—that it must know it is sapientia to claim the name—and in terms of activity: wisdom is about “selecting a course of action” (suscipere aliquam rem) and “acting with confidence” (agere fidenter), “following” (quod sequatur) certain knowledge. The latter formulation is soon explored in terms of “impulse” (adpetitio, translating ὁρμή) as that which sets agents in motion (moveri): impulse compels us to act in response to an impression, towards which the impulse moves us (ad agendum impellimur et id adpetimus quod est visum).186 Verbs of motion introduced in the passage (moveri, agere, sequi) anticipate the image of travel and underpin discussion of rational action, 186 On impressions that stimulate action (hormetic impressions), I have found Vogt (2008: 168–174) useful.

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l­ ogic and philosophy. So sapientia must have a “beginning” (initium), following which it engages in action (sequatur); rational action begins with a visum, or impression, the acceptance or rejection of which is followed by action. The same itinerary draws ratio from being the “starting point of enquiry” (quaerendi initium) to its end point, the strengthening of ratio itself through enquiry (ipsa ratio confirmata quaerendo), and maps the arc of research (quaestio), beginning with the impulse towards knowledge and ending with discovery (quaestionisque finis inventio). The progress between two points, an initium and a finis or exitus, structures Lucullus’ adaptation of the Stoic theory of rational action and underscores his view of how speculative thought works. Thinking inevitably involves a process of discovery and of perfecting its capability to reason, perceive and comprehend. Logic is foregrounded once again, but in this case as the structural paradigm of such progression: “logical proof” (argumenti conclusio; ἀπόδειξις) is reason as the movement proceeding from percepts towards something not perceived (ratio quae ex rebus perceptis ad id quod non percipiebatur adducit, Luc. 26). Philosophy, as the highest expression of reason, must progress ­according to the same trajectory (rationibus progredi debet), since philosophia also will have an end point (habebit exitum, Luc. 27). Following discussion of philosophia as culmination of complex thought, Lucullus introduces philosophy as discipline and practice, with its proponents, their positions and controversies. Luc. 28-29 (anticipating Luc. 32-36), serves as a bridge to the technical half of the argument, as the speaker examines the historic dispute between “doctrinaire” philosophers and their Academic critics. In both passages, Lucullus identifies opponents in the dialectic exchange, first citing Antipater and Carneades, then Antiochus and Hortensius, and later the “smarter group” (elegantius), who distinguish between what is “uncertain” (incertum) and what is inapprehensible (id quod percipi non possit), and with whom he picks his fight at Luc. 32-36.187 The reader is given a flavor of viva voce disputes, as objections often are raised in direct speech; concurrently, the technical section provides access to the specialist register in which Stoic theories of human rational development were expressed. An intense work of abridgement and compression takes place in Luc. 32-36, as Lucullus reviews the phased progress of reason explored over Luc. 19-26. The theory is now recognizably in Stoic garb, as physics takes center-stage and natura appears as the ultimate architect of conscious life (cf. Nat.D. 2.147-153). The mechanics of sense-perception are mapped out at Luc. 30 and 37, while 187 See Allen (1997) for a considered analysis of Luc. 32-34. We are told at Luc. 54 that “incertum” translates ἄδηλον.

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the dynamic processes investigated earlier are condensed into pithy accounts, such as: “first impressions strike us, once struck by impressions impulse follows so that we direct the senses to apprehend objects” (prima visa nos ­pellerent, deinde adpetitio ab his pulsa sequeretur, tum ut sensus ad res percipiendas intenderemus); in the summary approach to how visa are stored and systematized; and in the final clarification that apprehension entails assent because sense-perception is a form of activity or “faculty” (potestas) exercised in accepting or rejecting impressions. And this exercise cannot happen without approval (quod fieri sine adsensione non potest).188 Beyond reformulation, the change of pace after Luc. 27 is sustained by the use of Greek philosophical vocabulary, which gives those ideas, previously handled in terms of everyday experience, a Stoic form. Conceptions and pre-conceptions are ἔννοιαι, and προλήμψεις; apprehension is κατάληψις, literally a seizing or grasping (comprehensio, Luc. 30); assent, the Latin “approbatio” or “adsensio,” is συγκατάθεσις (Luc. 37); and that form of instinct, casually described at Luc. 25 as that which draws an animal to seek what is appropriate to its nature, is the Stoic οἰκείωσις (Luc. 38). As Lucullus points out, the second half of his speech builds on the foundations (fundamenta, Luc. 37) he established in the first. The two halves of what traditionally has been described as the pars construens, or system-building part, of Lucullus’ foray into Stoic epistemology are intimately connected. Luc. 27-39 provides a technical philosophical armature for the intuitions about ars, memoria and mens that were examined at Luc. 19-26. The progress of the argument mirrors the theory it develops, connecting insights about increasingly complex aspects of ordinary life—from how we perceive objects to how we construct culture and choose what to live and die for—to the complex, and intensely disputed, meta-critical apparatus that underlies, enables and transmits those behaviors and ideas. Throughout, the focus remains on what makes the individual’s and humanity’s practical and intellectual life possible, anchoring its key co-ordinates in the senses as point of origin, necessary precondition and keystone of the system.189 The rhetorical construction of the passage draws out the negative implications of skepticism, insisting on the theme of stability and foundation. The twenty-one sections are characterized by the recurrence of the preposition “sine,” indicating time and again that intellection, research, dialogue (Luc. 21), 188 Brittain (2012: 117), contra Fladerer (1996: 86–94), persuasively argues for the importance of reading Luc. 30 against the backdrop of “Lucullus’ previous decidedly Stoic reports on impulse and action and on active perception (Luc. 24-25 and 19).” 189 Tarrant (1987: 31–36) condenses Luc. 30 into a “scheme,” which, in his view, shows how Antiochus synthesized influences from the Stoa and Theophrastus.

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conviction (Luc. 27), the ability to act or make positive statements (Luc. 35), perception (Luc. 37) and memory (Luc. 38) are not possible without securing the truth-content of sense-perception. Lucullus also punctuates this segment with several unfulfilled conditionals and open questions. They all express ­despair at the prospect of doing away with certainty in the senses, and so with the distinction between truth and falsehood, light (lux, Luc. 26 and 30), the law (lex veri, Luc. 27), the “canon” (regula) or “criterion” (iudicium, Luc. 33) of truth, the “instruments and tools” of life (instrumenta vel ornamenta, Luc. 31)—in brief, eliminating all “action from life” (actionem e vita, Luc. 39), leaving nothing for the mind, no color, form, truth, dialogue, sensation or clarity (Luc. 34). In fact, all animals would be deprived of mens, soul itself, in the skeptical world picture. The destructive tone balances the otherwise constructive approach examined so far, elevating Lucullus’ conceptual system-building as the only strategy of resistance against the abyss of skeptical relativism and doubt. To stray into uncertainty is a negation of all that is human. To deny the validity of sense-perception is to unravel the whole structure of sensory, intellectual, social and metaphysical experience. Additionally, a stark moral language is used to arraign the skeptic’s position, defining it in terms of “depravity” (pravitas), a “crime” (scelus), “immorality” (vitium) and “betrayal” (proditio, Luc. 26-27). These accusations complement the chromatic coding of skeptics and their doctrinaire targets. The system explicated by Lucullus is coupled with light, primarily because it illuminates and enables ethical life and logic or reason, but also because it presents a useful elucidating method with which to approach problems thrown up in the field of physics and by the dark recesses of the cosmos (Luc. 30). The opposition of light and dark is redeployed to even greater rhetorical effect later on, particularly in Lucullus’ concluding remarks. His peroratio at Luc. 58-62 is founded, as Lévy (1992: 167) notes, “sur le symbolisme de la lumière et des ténèbres.”190 ­Ultimately, the standard apraxia and aparallaxia arguments leveled at Academic Skeptics—that their doubt paralyzed and made it impossible to discern between two percepts—are deployed by Lucullus within a complex framework that takes in all aspects of human life, from the ethical to the cultural and scientific (§II.7.3 and §III.9.2). Two interlinking patterns emerge from a structural review of the passage. The recursive architecture of Luc. 19-39 lends the argument a circular contour.

190 Beginnings and endings are also linked by a return to puzzles dismissed earlier “about the bent oar” (de remo inflexo) and “about the dove’s neck” (de collo columbae, Luc. 19; cf. Luc. 61).

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The second half goes over the ground covered in the first part, with Luc. 30 looking back to Luc. 19-26 and prioritizing the senses and natura’s creative role. Indeed, the later sections refine the intuitions established in the former, reflecting the way in which reason itself is thought to develop. We have seen above how truthful and reliable senses are not just the grounding for complex cognitive and intellectual processes, but that those processes hone and perfect the activity of the senses: certainty in sense-perception is both the beginning and end of the process of concept-building. So, for example, notitiae arise from sensation and the perception of similarity, as well as enabling sensation and perception (Luc. 21 and 30). In relation to ratio, the pattern is readily observable: reason initiates research, which is in turn an activity that perfects virtus and ultimately supports the development of reason itself (Luc. 26). Furthermore, complex cognitive operations, including the “study of virtues” (cognitio virtutum), are both the result of stable sensation and proof of its existence. Sapientia exists as a result—and because of—sense perception (Luc. 23). A linear or progressive movement also drives the argument. The frequency of verbs like sequi (to follow), amplecti (to include) and the term series, all thematize progress and expand on the image of travel conjured by initium and exitus. Overall, sense-perception is identified as the point of origin for an ever-developing number of worldly and intellectual practices. “Craftsmen” (artifices) start from firm percepts in their creative work; “good men” (boni) meet torture and their end because of sapientia; philosophy progresses through reason founded on comprehension (Luc. 20-22, 23 and 27). And Lucullus casts his argument accordingly, introducing a hierarchy of individuals whose practices imply varying degrees of epistemic complexity. The everyman is replaced by the technician (artifex), who is in turn supplanted by wise men, who are introduced at first through the abstract figure of the vir bonus grappling with ­virtutes and sapientia. His activity however is not intellective, but active: it is his behavior, which is under scrutiny. Through the prism of dialectic, Lucullus moves onto philosophy and its practitioners, whom he associates with contemplation, definition and argumentation. Antipater, Carneades and Antiochus come onto the scene arguing about doctrine. Thereafter, the passage takes on a vivid Stoic coloring, against the backdrop of debates with other philosophers.191

191 Luc. 35-36 introduces the Carneadean probabile and the concept of ‘verisimilitude’. As noted above, Luc. 32-34 already draws a distinction between uncertainty and non-­ apprehensibility, which distinction was central to two movements within the skeptical Academy. It is only after Luc. 30 that Lucullus makes intensive use of Greek as the ­lingua

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Close reading of the passage has shown how Lucullus sees sense-perception as the critical grounding of philosophy as a whole, exploring its significance in terms of ethics, logic and physics, the three canonical branches of philosophy. Concern for a correct epistemology therefore implies not simply a robust philosophical theory, but a moral integrity and a productive existence in the world. The same position is taken up by Cicero in his response, during which he trades in the same representational economy as his adversary and crucially keeps the Lucullan conceptual framework intact (Luc. 99-111) only substituting certitude with probabilitas, Carneades’ trademark theory (Luc. 98-105). In dialogue with Luc. 22-39, Luc. 106-111 takes the reader through the same sophisticated cognitive mechanisms, but on this occasion the system is grounded on a percept or impression which is probabile, likely to be true, and not certain. Memory, technical crafts, science, are all dealt with, and shown not to depend on certainty (Luc. 106107). Furthermore, like his sparring partner, Cicero turns to everyday practices, including navigation, agriculture, marriage, childbearing, as well as philosophy, to show that “probability” is just as intuitively correct as certainty (Luc. 109). The scope of this technical dispute about epistemology is anything but technical. Philosophy-as-epistemology is the necessary groundwork for life in all its dimensions, and both Roman philosophers are committed to this attitude. Locating senses in intellection is, in fact, continuously represented as the axiom upon which all of philosophy is based, extending to all of its parts and its mechanisms, and as the principle to which it constantly returns. The debate about epistemology is a debate about evaluative statements, about what the criteria for making judgments are. Iudicium, the construction of boundaries between truth and falsehood, right and wrong, reasonable and unreasonable, emerges as the focal point of the argument between our two protagonists. The term appears twenty-four times in the work, distributed evenly between ­Cicero’s and Lucullus’ speeches. Lucullus insists on this concept as one of two constituent elements of philosophy, “there are two axiomatic principles in philosophy: the criterion of truth and moral ends” (etenim duo esse haec maxima in philosophia, iudicium veri et finem bonorum, Luc. 29). However, iudicium seems to be employed slightly differently, and in a non-technical sense, in Cicero’s speech, where it represents practical “judgments” (iudicia) made on the basis of reasonable and probable evaluations. The issue does not simply revolve around action, and what makes it possible; rather, it evolves around the value of existence as a whole.

franca of philosophy. Specifically, it is the “Graeci” who define the objects of Lucullus’ theory (Luc. 37 and 38).

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The two philosophers are keen to provide a solid foundation for the social, political and moral life that they already inhabit, making sense of it through their epistemological position. The threat of chaos, of the upheaval of life, is the ­adversary of both their positions;192 their conclusions are entirely concerned with social judgment and illustrate the axiological dimension of the ­controversy.193 This orientation is underscored by the historical references punctuating the arguments. Most dramatically, Lucullus raises the specter of Cicero’s consulship and the infamous events surrounding the Catilinarian conspiracy of 63 bce. In Lucullus’ eyes, Cicero’s political activities during that period must have been founded on solid knowledge. Discussing Cicero’s repression of Catiline’s rebellion, Lucullus reminds his opponent that this act was based on facts Cicero publicly swore to have found out (iuratus dixeris ea te comperisse), and that it ended with the controversial decision to sentence Roman citizens to death. Establishing a link with assent, Lucullus speaks to Cicero’s social standing and his auctoritas: because of who he is and what he did, Cicero is the last person who should defend skeptical doubt and, in fact, he should take care to protect his status (Luc. 62).194 Cicero takes a different, less personal route, in his response, which is also emphatically placed at the end of his speech. The senator looks to tradition, Rome’s illustrious forefathers (maiores), whom he shows to be sensitive to the same epistemic reservations as the sophisticated Academics. Rome’s law courts, as Cicero tells us at Luc. 146, were founded on principles reflecting due “care” (diligentia) for the limits of knowledge. Judgments are not a matter for scientia, but the whole practice of public iudicium, as paradigm for reasoned judgment in all areas of life, is a matter for arbitration, of doing one’s best with the available evidence. So various formulae were pronounced by jurors and witnesses alike to denote that they were acting and speaking to the best of their knowledge, i.e. on the understanding that “there is very little that amounts to certain knowledge in life” (inscientia multa versaretur in vita). In Reinhardt’s words (2015: 83), Cicero ends the Lucullus by “enlisting ‘the ancestors’” as Academic proto-skeptics. 192 Note the constant return to “eversio” (overthrow) and “perversio” (distortion) at Luc. 31, 53, 58 and 99. 193 Looking almost two millennia ahead, the science of values, or axiology, encapsulates the ambition of the Lucullus’ treatment of sense-perception. Emerging as a distinct field of study only in the twentieth century with its roots in Franz Brentano’s theory of judgment, axiology is concerned with “the conditions of [man’s] life, the structure of reality, the order of nature and man’s place in it” (Hart 1971: 29). 194 See Woolf (2015: 21) on the dilemma this challenge poses for Cicero: how his skepticism can co-exist with “Roman greatness.”

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The Beginning of the Story/The Story of the Beginning

The privileged position of sense-perception in the epistemological debate is linked to the position it occupies in the dialogue and in the history of philosophy. Being able to distinguish between true and false perceptions is the problem that divides Lucullus and Cicero. However, as the reader is made immediately aware, this is also at the core of the disagreement that gives the field of Hellenistic philosophy its characteristic shape. “This is the whole dispute” (haec est una ­contentio), Cicero exclaims at Luc. 78 when examining how perceptual distinction emerged as a central issue in the discussion between Zeno and Arcesilaus in the third century bce—and from that conversation Cicero surveys the development of the philosophies of Carneades, as well as Metrodorus and Philo. Already at Luc. 16, Lucullus had run through Academic history, linking Lacydes, Carneades, Clitomachus, Hagnon, Charmadas, Melanthius and Metrodorus of Stratonicea as heirs of Arcesilaus. There is no lineage for Stoics in the Lucullus or the first Academic Book, but significantly Varro structures his historical analysis in a similar way, introducing Zeno as a second beginning for the Platonic tradition. The substantial revision of the system (correctio, Ac. 1.35) surveys all three areas of philosophy instituted by Plato, though his earliest and most extensive innovations focused on “logic” (an area comprising what we now call epistemology). In this part of philosophy, the senses and natura come to play a new and decisive role. Varro is here concerned with katalêpsis or comprehensio, defined as a faculty bestowed by natura that ­provides science with a standard and principle; this faculty enables the mind to have concepts (or rather concepts are, through this faculty, able to be i­ mpressed upon the mind) and so undertake the long road to reason and rationality (natura quasi normam scientiae et principium sui dedisset unde postea notiones rerum in animis imprimerentur; e quibus non principia solum sed latiores quaedam ad rationem inveniendam viae reperiuntur, Ac. 1.42). At a further remove from the narrative of Hellenistic rebirth, the question concerning the possibility of knowledge is foundational to the Academy. The contest over the Socratic and Platonic legacy is effectively framed as a dispute over their views on certainty. At Luc. 74, Cicero identifies in “irony” (ironia) the continuity between master and pupil. Plato’s works evidently continue Socrates’ teaching, reproducing, as they all do, that attitude to knowledge that was the master’s trademark. Thereafter, Arcesilaus, Carneades and Cicero follow that philosophy of doubt. Similar to Varro’s view of Zeno in the Platonic tradition, in the first Academic Book Cicero ascribes to Arcesilaus a new breadth to skeptical doubt, eliminating even the single axiom that Socrates held to, that he knew nothing (Ac. 1.45). Lucullus and Varro, however, separate Socratic “­ doubting”

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(dubitatio) from the Platonic heritage as a whole. Ironia is a methodological position, designed to pursue an educative agenda, adopted, that is, to refute others (Ac. 1.16) and to give them more space to trip up (Luc. 15). So Varro reminds us that, despite his admission of ignorance, Socratic dialogues, in particular those written by Plato, are full of praise for virtue and calls to study it (omnis eius oratio tantum in virtute laudanda et in hominibus ad virtutis studium cohortandis consumebatur, ut e Socraticorum libris maximeque Platonis intellegi potest, Ac. 1.16). On the other hand, Plato discontinues this rhetoric in order to establish a field and build a system (disciplina). This disciplina is described as “most perfectly constructed” (perfectissima, Luc. 15) and celebrated as a well-defined “system of philosophy” (philosophiae forma), identical in form to the systematic body of knowledge of a craft (ars), as it entails a “collection of subjects” (rerum ordo) and an “ordered curriculum” (descriptio disciplinae, Ac. 1.17).195 The Academica understands the controversy over sense-perception and its access to truth as the key to theory-building and the foundation for any speculative system; the work also constructs the epistemological dispute as the ­beginning of philosophical practice—that is, as the beginning of philosophical discussion. The question is at the origin of the history of philosophy, and a return to the controversy is the generative moment for its institutional and intellectual evolution. In co-ordinating interest in epistemology and the history of philosophy, both fragments of the Academica exhibit their interest in revisiting origins, returning to the groundwork of philosophy as system of thought, and to Philosophy as institution. Underpinning the historical movement of philosophy is the same conjunction of patterns, recursive and linear, structuring the argument about rational thought. Theories move forward, borne by different individuals acting within certain traditions, but they do so with reference to the same historical question about knowledge: the issue that generated those theories and traditions in the first place. The trajectory of ideas as they build in complexity matches, in Cicero’s account, the progress of their history. Sense-perception occupies a privileged position on that map, as it were, and so in the history of philosophy and in philosophical theory. And it is of no small significance that, like Socrates, Plato, Zeno and Arcesilaus before him, Cicero begins anew in his late philosophical project. With the senses.

195 David Sedley (2012: 103) notes the “modernity” of Antiochus’/Varro’s “reading of the Platonic corpus which separates a historical Socrates, who sincerely disavows knowledge, from a system-building Plato.”

Chapter 6

Progress and Other Stories: Historical Models in Cicero’s Philosophy 6.1

Revision, Imitation and Development in the Academica: The Alternative Paths of Philosophical History

The previous chapter studied the Academica’s historical approach to ­philosophical thinking by focusing on the history’s narrative structure and the ­specific itinerary of theoretical engagement. In doing so, I isolated moments in the journey of thought and its history—beginnings and endings, forward traction—that underpin the profound connection between the Academica’s two major points of contention: epistemology and the history of philosophy. The question of progress surreptitiously came to the surface as a term in the discussion and as an organizing principle of philosophy’s ‘plot’—a device that, in some important respects, makes Cicero’s story appear like one of development and improvement. ‘Progress’ is an explicit concern of the Academica. Early on in his speech, Lucullus complains that skeptical histories of philosophy can’t possibly support the claim that “over so many centuries, the finest intellects and the most exhaustive enquiries haven’t managed to explain anything” (nihilne tot saeculis summis ingeniis maxumis studiis explicatum, Luc. 15).196 The same issue emerges in the opening of the first Academic Book, where Cicero mocks Varro’s separation of Academic history into “Old” and “New.” Because Antiochus ­reportedly left the New Academy and joined the Old, Cicero surmises that he must be allowed to swap the Old for the New. In fact, Cicero exclaims, he is all the more justified in doing so because “the latest theories must be the most correct and free from error” (certe enim recentissima quaeque sunt correcta et emendata maxime, Ac. 1.13). The expression correcta anticipates the principle of Antiochus’ historiography of philosophy, the so called correctio theory. ­According to this view, Stoicism simply amounts to Zeno’s improvement of Plato’s perfect disciplina, and the tradition of disagreements within the Old Academy is nothing but a series of (smaller) corrections to the founding s­ ystem 196 The grievance is picked up in Cicero’s response and rephrased in terms of why, in all the many years of keen study by brilliant minds, “the truth could not be discovered” (inveniri verum potuisse, Luc. 76).

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resulting in an overall development of Platonic philosophy.197 While ‘progress’ is a woolly concept that sits uneasily both with the intellectual history of antiquity and more so with (the history of) philosophy, the two passages just cited underscore Cicero’s interest in how and if, to paraphrase Woolf’s topical observation (2015: 13), philosophy does move forward, transmitted by generations of Greek scholars, and across from Greece to Rome.198 Reading key passages in the Lucullus (Luc. 13-18, 72-76 and 117-143) and the first Academic Book, this chapter will explore this interest, thinking harder about why, how and to what end Cicero uses histories of the discipline in this particular project.199 The various labels that Cicero picks to discuss both extant editions in his letters alert readers to the historical inflection of the project, as they all ­unequivocally refer to the Academy and collecting or synthesizing the views of its exponents (§I.1.2, §I.1.3 and §I.2.1). And the treatises do not disappoint. Plato’s school is at the heart of the two books, where two visions of how ­Academic thought developed are pitted against each other. As we saw in ­chapter five, speaking for Antiochus, Lucullus and Varro identify a break in the school’s history at the point at which Arcesilaus in the third century bce ­professed his radical philosophy of doubt. Arcesilaus claimed a return to Socrates; but in fact, as Lucullus and Varro see it, he broke with an intellectual tradition originating with Plato (and Socrates, according to Lucullus). Hence, these two characters speak of two Academies, the “Old” and the “New” (Luc. 13-16; Ac. 1.13 and 43). ­However, Philo (and Cicero as his spokesperson) believes there has only ever been one Academy. The emphasis is on continuity of ­practice and on the skeptical outlook as the two unifying features of ­Academic 197 To these examples, we could add other moments in the Academica where speakers express the belief that research ought to yield results, and that over time these results ought to have generated some positive momentum. As, for example, when Lucullus wonders whether really nothing had been accomplished after years of investigation (nihilne est ­igitur actum quod investigata sunt, Luc. 16); or, the Academic criticism of Zeno’s “reformed Platonism,” namely that it is little more than a repackaged Academic-Peripatetic system worked out under new labels (Ac. 1.17 and Luc. 15). 198 The first paper in Dodds (1973) is the locus classicus on progress in antiquity. Bowler (1989) is an important reminder of the modernity of the idea. Whether one can speak of “progress” in philosophy is a controversial issue, and one which becomes increasingly relevant in the wake of the industrial revolution and the themes of discovery and innovation on which techno-science predicates its history. Martial Gueroult (1954 and 1979) offers reflections that are sensitive to the fundamental differences between the history of philosophy and the history of science. See Hösle (2003) for an introduction to the issue from a Hegelian perspective. Deleuze and Parnet (1987) and Deleuze (1995) deliver terse and stimulating thoughts on the topic. 199 Dugan (2005), particularly his chapter on the Brutus, has set the bar for how to analyze Cicero’s sophisticated manipulation of the historiography of intellectual practices.

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­ hilosophy since the time of Socrates (Ac. 1.13 and 44-46; Luc. 74-76). These ­rival p understandings of how the tradition developed are central, at least ­insofar as the Academica reports, to the conflict between Philo and Antiochus, and constitute a focal point of the project’s historical drama.200 As a self-professed Academic, Cicero’s decision to write about the school through the lens of a contest between two of its most recent leaders is significant. It is even more striking when that contest hinges both on a philosophical opposition on the foundations of knowledge and on the integrity and structure of the Academy’s history. The disagreement, in other words, has a deep institutional, as well as philosophical, reach insofar as it concerns a challenge to the Academy’s “canon,” practice and the legitimacy of its competing histories. ­Eschewing the simpler geometries of an opposition between Stoic and Academic theories of sense-perception—which is often what the text purports to investigate—the project begins with a moment of crisis in the Academy’s history, namely a dispute between its two leaders who are cut adrift from Athens. This is a quarrel whose dramatic context underlines its broader implications for Academics at the time: how to interpret Academic history and, consequently, which interpretation is authorized and who is authorized to speak (for) it. At first glance, the historiographical dispute in the Lucullus and the first ­Academic Book appears to offer two heuristic models of the history of the Academy, as Luc. 13-18 and Ac. 1.15-42 provoke Cicero’s responses at Luc. 72-76 and Ac. 1.43-46. Lucullus and Varro introduce a break in Academic tradition coinciding with the teaching of the third-century bce scholarch Arcesilaus, while in both his speeches Cicero argues for a harmonious unity linking Academic thinkers across the school’s history. The continuity thesis seems to be one of two “innovations” (nova quaedam, Luc. 18) Philo develops in his Roman Books, a work in two volumes (isti libri duo, Luc. 11), the arrival of which in Alexandria provokes Antiochus to denounce his teacher as a liar (mentitur, Luc. 12) and sparks the debate in the Lucullus. Philo seems to have put forward a revised epistemology (Luc. 18) supported by a view of the history of the Academy that has been labelled by Glucker (1978: 80) the “One-Academy doctrine,” in opposition to Antiochus’ “Two-Academy” theory.201 200 Brittain (2001: 169–219) argues that the “historical thesis” of Philo’s Roman Books is not ­defended by Cicero’s character in Ac. 1. His astute interpretation complicates the established reading that the Academica’s debate is chiefly also a straightforward duel between Philo’s and Antiochus’ views on the school’s history. Whatever the origin of Cicero’s position, both books stage the polemic between Philo and Antiochus as a template for the Roman dispute. 201 Ac. 1.13 suggests that Antiochus was the one to introduce the distinction. Cicero identifies Antiochus as the one who first “made his way back to the old home from the new”

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Over four sections that conclude the extant half of the first Academic Book, Cicero writes his version of the Academy’s history (Ac. 1.43-46). What remains of this design sees the speaker begrudgingly accept the tags “Old” and “New,” which Varro used to parse the tradition. However, the terms are shown to be little more than hollow markers. In Cicero’s view, the Old Academic and ­Stoic systems (ratio) do not amount to two distinct philosophies (disciplinam), ­because Stoicism is a variation of the Old Academy and the two are not substantially different (Ac. 1.43). Moreover, what Varro calls New looks to ­Cicero much like the Old (hanc Academiam novam appellant, quae mihi vetus ­videtur, Ac. 1.46). Continuity in the philosophical tradition depends, according to Cicero, on two elements: the (ontological) obstacle that philosophers have always faced in the form of the “obscurity of things” (obscuritas rerum), and so the darkness within which truth is plunged (in profundo veritatem esse demersam … omnia tenebris circumfusa); and the cognizance of the limits of our perceptual organs, the mind’s weakness and the brevity of our lives (angustos sensus, imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vitae). In this account, impenetrability of the world, inaccessibility of truth and human inadequacy all issue the same challenge to philosophers from across the discipline’s history, including Academics, eminent Presocratics and other illustrious “ancients” (veteres). The unity of the tradition is founded on the philosophers’ reaction to these perceptual conditions, their consequent admission of the difficulty involved in professing anything for certain and the suspension of judgment that inevitably follows such confession. Cicero thus presents his readers with a historical narrative built around two axioms, unknowability or akatalêpsia and the inhibition of judgment that ­results from it, or epochê. In this context, Cicero introduces Arcesilaus’ radical skepticism, the rejection of the possibility that anything can be known. Arcesilaus goes further than Socrates and denies even knowing he is ignorant—he does not know for sure that he does not know anything (negabat esse quicquam quod sciri posset, ne illud quidem ipsum quod Socrates sibi reliquisset, ut nihil scire se sciret); this admission for Cicero is the clearest confirmation of the persistence of the world’s unknowability: “everything lies hidden” (omnia latere … in occulto). Socrates is self-evidently Arcesilaus’ forerunner, as the Hellenistic thinker engages directly with and fine-tunes his confession of i­ gnorance; yet (remigrare in domum veterem e nova). Reconstruction of the historical argument in the opening of the Lucullus seems to imply that Philo’s Roman publication caused Antiochus to draw a dividing line between types of Academic thought (§III.8.3 and §III.8.4). Scholarship generally speaks of Antiochus before and after the Roman Books, so for example, Polito (2012) and Sedley (2012).

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Plato is also appropriated by the speaker, in this case primarily for what his books don’t say. Setting a precedent for Arcesilaus’ discursive approach, Plato’s treatises affirm nothing and establish nothing as certain, weighing up arguments on both sides of a question and putting everything under i­ nvestigation (in libris nihil affirmatur et in utramque partem multa disseruntur, de omnibus quaeritur nihil certi dicitur, Ac. 1.46). Two significant aspects emerge from Cicero’s story: Arcesilaus harks back to both Socrates and Plato; and his extension of Socratic ignorance is presented as an improvement, a more consistent reaction to, the remoteness of “truth” (veritas), an issue Cicero believes was best grasped by the fifth-century bce materialist Democritus (Ac. 1.44). In an article examining the New Academic claim to an affiliation with Presocratic thought, Charles Brittain and John Palmer offer a sensitive reading of Arcesilaus’ doubt. They interpret his ­position as the third and final stage of a process that saw philosophical doubt gaining in self-awareness across philosophy’s history. In Cicero’s narrative, the Hellenistic doubt of Arcesilaus represents the “culmination of a more gradually reflective turn” (2001: 43–44). Much is made of the logical connective “itaque” (therefore), which opens Ac. 1.45 linking Arcesilaus’ declaration of ignorance to the Presocratic context; and of the parenthetic reference to Socrates, which shows him still hanging on to a scrap of certainty (sibi reliquisset) and so to a limited form of doubt. Brittain and Palmer argue that Cicero’s Arcesilaus takes a further step along the road of skeptical Academic thought. Accordingly, the ­historiographical sketch also hinges on a correction, much like Varro’s and Antiochus’ account, and presents a history of philosophy oriented developmentally. In the Lucullus, Cicero offers a historiographical discussion that is entirely conversant with—if not “identical” to—the discussion in the corrupt final section of Ac. 1.202 At Luc. 72-76 Cicero lists several seemingly disconnected philosophers, among whom we find the Presocratics Anaxagoras, Democritus, Metrodorus, Empedocles, Parmenides and Xenophanes, as well as the Cyrenaics Diodorus, Stilpo and Alexinus and the Stoics Cleanthes and Chrysippus. All of these disparate thinkers are recruited to demonstrate a broad historical agreement on the skeptical principles that “nothing can be known” (sciri nihil posse). As Cicero runs down the ages, emphasis is placed on sensation and its failure to provide adequate access to truth, much as he does in the first Academic Book. From Anaxagoras’ black snow (Luc. 72) to Chrysippus’ arguments “contra sensus” (Luc. 75) through Democritus’ clouded senses (tenebricosos), we are shown around a gallery of pessimists, who rail against certainty in view 202 Brittain (2001: 175) argues that the content of Ac. 1.44-46 and Luc. 72-78 is “identical.”

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of the feebleness of our sense-perception. There is little that speaks of an intellectual evolution in the sketch; rather, there are models or paradigms, to which Cicero looks up and follows (imitari, Luc. 75). Something akin to a community of practice is set up by the speaker: much like in the corrupt Ac. 1.43-46, thinkers are described as drawn to the same issue and, consequently, committed to the same methodological caution.203 Nonetheless, when we read Luc. 72-76 alongside the beginning of the debate between Zeno and Arcesilaus at Luc. 76-78, we begin to see a development similar to the one identified by Brittain and Palmer in Ac. 1.43-46. Brittain and Palmer (2001: 49–50) outline a three-phase development of skepticism, beginning with the dogmatic skepticism of the Presocratics, followed by the “more reflective (and methodological) skepticism of Socrates and Plato” and ending with the “radical skepticism of Arcesilaus.” The two critics persuasively identify the same movement in this excerpt of the Lucullus by arguing that the expression “that’s enough about authorities” (satis de auctoribus) at Luc. 76 far from concluding the passage must be read as a part of Cicero’s response to Lucullus’ question about whether such a thing as “progress” and the discovery of truth has a role in Arcesilaus’ Academy. In this Hellenistic context, Cicero imagines Arcesilaus engaging his contemporary Zeno in a discussion (­quaesivit de ­Zenone fortasse). Urged on by his desire for truth (verum invenire voluisse), the skeptic homes in on what is described as Zeno’s original position: that it is possible for a man not to opine and that it is the wise man’s duty not to do so (posse hominem nihil opinari, nec solum posse sed ita necesse esse sapienti). Arcesilaus wonders, “what would happen if the wise man could not perceive anything, and yet opining was not something a wise man could do?” (quid futurum esset si nec percipere quicquam posset sapiens nec opinari sapientis esset). Reference to an inability to know anything grounds Arcesilaus in his skeptical roots, while the question pointedly connects ignorance with the ideal of the wise man. According to Zeno, perception is possible and what can be perceived is a “an impression” (visum) that meets the following three conditions: it is impressed from what is; it is stamped, fixed and molded just as it is in reality (ex eo quod esset sicut esset impressum et signatum et effictum); and that an impression from something that is cannot be the same as an impression deriving from what is not (nullum esse visum quod percipi posset, si id tale esset ab eo quod est cuius modi ab eo quod non est posset esse, Luc. 77).204

203 On “imitari,” see Auvray Assayas (2005: 211). 204 My translation of this dense and complex passage is indebted to Brittain’s version (2006). Cf. Luc. 112 where “ex eo quod esset” becomes “e vero.”

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The definition constitutes the framework for debates to come. Arcesilaus takes on the argument first (incubuit autem in eas disputationes), and, following him, Carneades, Clitomachus, Metrodorus, Philo—and Cicero in the Lucullus—all adopt different strategies to tackle one or more of the definition’s three constituent parts. In Cicero’s tale, Zeno and Arcesilaus inaugurate a new stage in the development of skepticism that is nonetheless reflective of key ­issues debated in the intellectual theatres of Archaic Greece. The attitude that nothing can be known is interlinked with the moral imperative not to assent to anything (numquam adsensurum esse). And in the language of Hellenistic skepticism, these themes translate into the principles of akatalêpsia and ­epochê.205 Although Brittain and Palmer’s “developmental” reading draws out an important element of the historiography, namely the heightened awareness of the implications of doubt evolving across the history of skepticism, the focus seems to remain firmly around practice and iteration. Arcesilaus plays the part of Socrates in his dialogue with Zeno. The theatrical register is germane not only because of the dramatic nature of the passage, but also—indeed, precisely because—Cicero writes the script for his protagonists’ roles. The pattern of questioning is palpably Socratic.206 The Hellenistic thinker identifies a position original to Zeno (nemo umquam superiorum), sets it up at the heart of the enquiry by expressing his agreement with it and then explores its implications, with the intent of forcing his interlocutor to admit an inconsistency in his reasoning. While the dialogue is introduced as an exercise in seeking the truth (verum invenire) from the very beginning, its adversarial nature clearly emerges when Zeno intuits and tries to prevent Arcesilaus from pressing him into a corner. Zeno stands by the reality of perception; yet if there is no difference between a true and false impression—the topic Arcesilaus’ question aims to investigate—that reality is gravely challenged. Accordingly, the third clause differentiating these two classes of impressions is characterized as a preemptive response. Zeno, we are told, clearly saw in advance (vidisse acute) the need to strengthen the armature of perception by introducing this third element. Furthermore, the figure of the wise man channels another fundamental dimension of Socrates’ persona, namely his emphasis on the human and ethical dimension of philosophy (cf. Ac. 1.15). Sense-perception and epistemology are not a matter of impersonal reasoning but have ethical 205 This connection is made explicit in the last sentence of Luc. 78, where Cicero argues that “clearly, once you remove the possibility of opining and perceiving, it follows that one must suspend all assent” (certe opiniatione et perceptione sublata sequitur omnium ­adsensionum retentio). 206 Socrates is nothing if not a debater in the Academica’s surviving fragments, see Ac. 1.16 and Luc. 15 in particular.

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significance (vera … honesta), because they apply to an individual, however much of an idealized construct the wise man is. In this script for the origins of Hellenistic philosophy, Cicero offers a sophisticated re-reading of the Socrates we find in Lucullus’ and Varro’s histories: Arcesilaus is Socrates redivivus, and his exchange with Zeno represents another Socratic moment in the history of philosophy. The relationship between past and present in Cicero’s historiographical speeches is shaped by the theme of emulation or imitation (imitari), more so than by the notion of a gradual skeptical development as put forward by Brittain and Palmer. I hesitate to offer a starker counter-argument to that 2001 ­paper, not least because the critics are interested in the source of Cicero’s history, a tradition of skeptical historiography, and because one of two key passages is corrupt. However, with the focus firmly on the Ciceronian project, his protagonists in the Lucullus and first Academic Book are not mere signposts along the road of philosophical history, but paradigms: Democritus stands as an incomparable (conferre) talent and genius, by far superior to Cleanthes, Chrysippus and other later thinkers (anteponit; collatis), a figure admired by Metrodorus of Chios, whose skepticism is inscribed so provocatively in the very first line of his On Nature (Luc. 73). Similarly, the verses of Empedocles set a standard scarcely matched by Parmenides and Xenophanes (minus bonis quamquam versis, Luc. 74). And Socrates offers yet another model whose doctrines and method (ironeam) were followed and written down (persecutus; persequi) by Plato and later imitated by Arcesilaus.207 Cicero’s history is recursive not just in terms of thinkers, but of problems and approaches to them. The weakness of the senses, the opacity of nature, humanity’s epistemic surrender—a cohering space of challenges and authorities (auctoribus, Luc. 76) that expands beyond the Academy, to the Presocratics, Stoics and Cyrenaics. In contrast to the linear plots of Varro’s and Lucullus’ histories, Cicero’s view of the tradition is characterized by a horizontal orientation.208 History’s alternative plot is articulated in the speeches delivered by Lucullus and Varro, both of whom draw on Antiochus and his correctio theory. In the case of Varro’s historiography, this progressive approach organizes the narrative around a select number of thinkers, philosophers that are differentiated from each other but are otherwise described as contributing to the overall forward movement of the discipline. Over Ac. 1.17-42 philosophy is instituted 207 For this sense of persequor, see also Varro’s meditation on philosophy in Greek: “if we were to follow the Old Academy” (si vero Academiam veterem persequemur, Ac. 1.7). 208 M. Frede (1992: 320) exploits the language of “horizontality” and “accumulation” to ­describe skeptical historiographies.

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and driven forward by a set of practitioners, with each thinker portrayed as enjoying a degree of autonomy, whether that is operating in a particular field, ­addressing different concerns, critiquing a past position or offering a different perspective. Significantly, apart from the symmetry linking Plato and Zeno, Varro takes care never to construct the lineage in terms of a group of individuals facing the same eternal challenge(s), as do the protagonists of Cicero’s ­narrative.209 Varro begins with Plato, whom he celebrates as “complex, prolific and eloquent” (varius et multiplex et copiosus); in the shadow of his “authority” (auctoritate), early Academics and Peripatetics, including Speusippus, ­Xenocrates and Aristotle, shaped a “single and congruent system of philosophy” (una et consentiens […] philosophiae forma instituta est). Varro then describes the foundation of a speculative system with a well-defined profile (forma), which those early successors of Plato “instituted as fixed form and, indeed, comprehensive and complete” (certam quandam disciplinae formulam composuerunt et eam quidem plenam ac refertam); “a philosophy articulated and carefully ordered in the same way as a technical body of knowledge or a curriculum” (ars quaedam philosophiae et rerum ordo et descriptio disciplinae, Ac. 1.17). In Varro’s story, the richness and complexity of the founder’s thought provides philosophy with the basis on which to establish an institution, the clear and positive systematicity of which banishes the founder’s teacher, Socrates, from its confines. Before we hear of Plato and his followers, Varro discusses Socrates and the revolutionary impact his teaching had on the nascent field of philosophy, as he moved the focus away from the natural world and its abstruseness and onto everyday life (primus a rebus occultis et ab ipsa natura involutis […] avocavisse philosophiam et ad vitam communem adduxisse). Socrates’ legacy is connected to this radical shift, as well as to the spotlight he placed on ethical questions—virtues, vices, good and evil—and his methodology. The ­Socratic turn concerns the need to explore the fundamentals of an ethical life and the discursive practice this search entails: research, argument, refutation and the admission of ignorance. Varro notes that “in almost all his debates […] [Socrates] argued in such a way as to never affirm anything himself, but ­refute his interlocutors, and state that he knows nothing except the fact that he knows nothing” (hic in omnibus fere sermonibus […] ita disputat ut nihil affirmet ipse, refellat alios, nihil se scire dicat nisi id ipsum) The recurring m ­ otif is nihil adfirmare. In the same way as Plato’s followers transmit and interpret Plato, it is Socrates’ pupils who make this practice known to posterity and 209 According to M. Frede (1992: 316), Antiochus understands past philosophies as “formant une série, un dévéloppement, une évolution.”

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his injunctions to pursue virtue as a way of life. Varro mentions the Socratici, Socrates’ followers, who shape Socrates’ legacy through their “articulate and complex reporting” (varie copioseque perscripti, Ac. 1.16) of his conversations and speeches. Among these ­Socratics is, of course, Plato; yet, in spite of this association, Socrates’ affirmation of ignorance stands in stark contrast with the system-building character of the Platonic tradition after Plato. His is an approach that, we are told in no uncertain terms, Socrates would not approve (minime Socrates probabat, Ac. 1.17). Once Plato’s story has been told, the narrative proceeds in discrete segments beginning with a cursory review of the Platonic system, a list of Peripatetic critiques, a mention of Academics succeeding Plato in the Academy, and it culminates in Zeno’s systematic innovation. The tripartite Platonic system (philosophandi triplex ratio, Ac. 1.19) is developed at Ac. 1.19-32 and is followed by a history of changes (immutationes, Ac. 1.33-34). The Forms (species) are demolished by Aristotle; the authority of Plato’s theory (auctoritatem veteris disciplinae, Ac. 1.33) is further shaken by Theophrastus, who attacks the integrity of its ethics; while Strato shows no interest in the disciplina at all, taking philosophy back to natura, the enquiry from which Socrates had rescued it (Ac. 1.34). Thereafter, in a single sentence, the Academy is distinguished as the unquestioning guarantor of Plato’s philosophy: However, the first to take up Plato’s system and authority, Speusippus and Xenocrates, and those who succeeded them in the Academy, Polemo, Crates, as well as Crantor, all were engaged in upholding the doctrines that were handed down from their predecessors. Speusippus autem et Xenocrates, qui primi Platonis rationem auctoritatemque susceperant, et post eos Polemo et Crates unaque Crantor in Academia congregati diligenter ea, quae a superioribus acceperant, tuebantur. (Ac. 1.34) Despite the drive to conservation, it is from within that group that the seeds of reform were sown. Polemo’s two pupils, Arcesilaus and Zeno, give rise to something new and different. Zeno launches a correctio of the Platonic system explained at Ac. 1.35-42, while at Ac. 1.43 Arcesilaus is identified as introducing innovations (quae ab Arcesila novata sunt) to the Academic tradition. As we have already seen, despite the history of critiques and dissidence, in Varro’s and Antiochus’ eyes the Lyceum remains firmly within the Platonic family: Peripatetics and Academics form a community (Ac. 1.17, 18 and 22). It is with

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Zeno that the disciplina is revolutionized—a revision presented as a correctio of the Platonic tradition and a catalogue of departures and disagreements.210 In ethics, for example, the tyranny of reason displaces the middle ground of morality, leaving no place for “worldly goods” (commoda) but only virtus. Virtus consists of the “honorable” (honestum) and represents the “consistent, single and unique good” (quod esset simplex quoddam et solum et unum ­bonum, Ac. 1.35). In physics, fire emerges as natura itself, the parent of all things, and matter becomes a condition of causality (Ac. 1.39).211 Finally, on the topic of epistemology and logic Varro sheds the conceit of Zeno merely changing Old Academic and Peripatetic “terms” (verba). The radical theory that sense-­perception is a conjunction of the impact of an external object on the sense and the voluntary act of assent to that impulsion is expressed “in many new terms” (plurimisque … novis verbis) because Zeno, Varro acknowledges, was talking about new ideas (nova enim dicebat). In this original framework, the senses, once ineffectual and slow, become reliable criteria and principles of knowledge (normam scientiae et principium sui), closely connected to virtue and wisdom (Ac. 1.40-42). Lucullus and Varro chronicle the history of philosophy according to a markedly different pattern from Cicero’s. Their historiography leans on a clearly ­defined sense of system and development; it is a doctrinal history built around Antiochus’ correctio, a theory that describes a kind of critical collaborative evolution. Conversant with the first Academic Book, Antiochus’ model in the Lucullus is shown to approach philosophy as “structured system” (constitutam philosophiam) and “a complete body of knowledge” (perfectissimam disciplinam, Luc. 15), within which framework intellectual progress takes place. Varro’s story of philosophy develops within the tripartite scheme of Platonic disciplina, with Peripatetics tuning into one of three fields and Zeno making substantial revisions to each part, yet leaving the overall structure in place. The same principle is at work in Lucullus’ tale, so much so that the Antiochian Lucullus suggests to Cicero that a similar mechanism may be at work in the skeptical Academy. As the Roman general runs through a list of leading Academic skeptics at Luc. 16, he notes that many, like Evander, Hegesinus and Lacydes, only preserved (retenta) the teachings of Arcesilaus. However, Carneades perfected (confecta) what is characterized as Arcesilaus’ ratio. Although there is less of an evolutionary character to this narrative, Lucullus still identifies historical 210 Note the repetition “corrigere … correctionem” (Ac. 1.35) and of words emphasizing change and revision, like “commutatio” and “dissensio” (Ac. 1.42). 211 See Ac. 1.26 for the theory of four or five elements.

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succession with variation or a change in approach to the system one inherits. And his treatment of Socrates and Plato at Luc. 15 is indicative of the same perspective on philosophy’s history as that offered by Varro in the later edition. The framework in the Lucullus is dialectical, as the Roman general seeks to withdraw both Socrates and Plato from the list of skeptics that populate ­Cicero’s notional lineage. In doing so he refers to Plato’s perfectly accomplished system (perfectissimam disciplinam) and defines it in terms of the philosophy of Academics, Peripatetics and—with some cosmetic change—Stoics. In his overall picture, Socrates is still characterized as the ironic disputant. Plato’s teacher is a dissimulator, someone who practices irony and is committed to refuting others more than offering his own views on any subject. Accordingly, Socrates repeatedly “says something other than what he thinks” (aliud diceret atque sentiret, Luc. 15). Notwithstanding what appears to be an allusion to a more dogmatic Socrates than the skeptic profiled by Varro, Lucullus proposes the same discontinuity between the two founders. A break that, when viewed in light of correctio, offers an etiology to this principle as it writes into philosophy’s history the opportunity for a pupil to differentiate himself from the authority of his teacher, while continuing to operate within a clearly defined tradition. 6.2

Embedded Narratives, Narrative Inconsistencies and the Inclusivity of Cicero’s History

Taken together, the construction of these two lineages yields certain common themes that govern the Academica’s historiography. Inclusivity is one such key principle. As Brittain notes in his monograph on Philo, no interpretation of historical figures is rejected as false. Remarking on the difference between historical “disagreement” and “fabrication,” Brittain (2001: 179) argues that no speaker or thinker cited in the Academic fragments is accused of the latter. The contrastive historiographies trace different paths for the history of philosophical discipline and thought, but the difference appears to be one of emphasis. In both the Lucullus and the first Academic Book, Cicero insists that the skeptical position is taken up not in order to criticize, rival or refute an opponent, but as a path to truth (verum invenire) in the context of the unknowable and obscure world around us (earum rerum obscuritate, Ac. 1.44; cf. Luc. 76). Similarly, Lucullus introduces the historical debate initially by presenting it in a political light: skeptics enlist physicists to their cause like populists claiming a long heritage for their ideology. However, unlike these seditious ideologues, Lucullus admits that physicists do anticipate skeptical thought in their expression

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of ignorance and their reluctance to assert any kind of knowledge (Luc. 14-15). What we find across the fragments is an expression of preference and approval for particular models or interpretations, and this is an attitude that translates even within the skeptical world, where the divide between interpretations of Carneades do not generate accusations of fabrication or falsehood (§III.8.4). Indeed, the Academica’s extant fragments never preach that there is a correct or incorrect reading of Carneades (cf. Luc. 78). The same openness characterizes the contest over origins. Socrates and Plato, and their relationship, are read in very different ways, yet neither perspective is directly attacked as a fabrication. In both editions, Cicero portrays continuity as a key factor in the skepticism of Socrates and Plato, with the former practicing in writing what the latter performed in conversation (Ac. 1.44-46; cf. Luc. 74). Lucullus and Varro, however, sever this connection by interpreting Plato’s legacy as an elaborate and systematic philosophy. No attempt to address uncertainty in the Platonic texts is made at all, and in the outline of Platonism at Ac. 1.1534, no claim whatsoever is made to Socratic authority (cf. Tarrant 2000: 65–66). On Socrates, in fact, Varro and Cicero agree: his belief “that he knew nothing” (nihil se scire) amounts to his modus philosophandi, in the same way that ironia (εἰρονεία/dissimulatio) is an attitude that will be exploited by both Lucullus and Cicero to define Socrates’ contribution to philosophy. Followers of Antiochus suggest this methodology conceals deeply held doctrines, while Cicero prefers to highlight the absence of assertions (Ac. 1.16 and 45; Luc. 15 and 74). Even Lucullus’ grand rhetorical condemnation of Academic skeptical history as a travesty does not suggest that the pedigree is a fabrication (Brittain 2001: 179 n. 14). Lucullus catalogues ancestors whom “insurgent citizens” (cives seditiosi) enlist as precedents for their activity as “populares,” populist r­ evolutionaries. The ranks of this genealogy are filled by many (in)famous leaders of old, including Rome’s first consul Publius Valerius, and extending to Gaius Flaminius, Lucius Cassius, Quintus Pompeius, Publius Africanus, Publius Crassus, Publius Scaevola, Tiberius Gracchus, Marius and Saturninus. Membership depends on these ancestors’ legislative activity favoring the Roman populus. The speaker outlines the lineage without contesting it; and on the subject of Marius he goes so far as to concur with the populist pedigree: “when it comes to this man, they are not lying at all” (et de hoc quidem nihil mentiuntur). What is at stake is not policy, but moral fiber. The issue for both Lucullus and Cicero is collapsing the category of “clari viri” (illustrious citizens) with that of the “seditiosi,” those who ­respect and value the integrity of Rome’s institutions and those who “are up to no good” (res non bonas tractent, Luc. 72).212 It is not, in other words, a 212 I borrow Brittain’s translation here (2006).

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debate over whether certain agrarian laws, in some instances, were populist or not; rather, as the moral register of the two passages indicates (calumnia; verecundia; boni viri), the dispute concerns the spirit with which political and philosophical activity is undertaken.213 Difference—plurality, inclusivity—is an accepted, or at the very least uncontested, part of the families within which great men stand as the traditions’ inspirational resources. On display are not just different philosophies or different philosophical schools (or, indeed, legislative programs), but different ways of looking at the tradition. This emphasis on variation and plurality can be felt complicating the texture of the protagonists’ positions. Cicero’s treatment of Antiochian correctio offers an interesting case in point. As mentioned above, in a provocative aside at Ac. 1.13, Cicero introduces a view similar to that underlying correctio and seems to espouse it: philosophical theories change and develop, and, in their latest shape, they are “correcta et emendata maxime.” The statement sits uncomfortably alongside his opposition to Varro’s Antiochian view that such a thing as the Old Academy exists; it strikes an even more discordant note when read alongside the so called ‘doxography’ concluding the Lucullus (112-146), where the central tenet of correctio—the harmony of Peripatetic, Academic and Stoic philosophy—is contested. Again and again, this catalogue emphasizes division and difference between these schools on matters of e­ pistemology, physics and ethics. Undoubtedly, the use of corrigere at Ac. 1.13 is a powerful rhetorical appropriation of the opposition’s register, linking correctio with what is “new,” the nova Academia, and so with skepticism, over and against what is Antiochian and “old,” the vetus Academia. Corrigere here also raises a key question about Cicero’s attitude to progress in philosophy and his debt to Antiochus. The text raises similar questions as to how faithfully Cicero follows Philo’s teachings. The geometries of the debate, often presented as a clear opposition between two pre-assigned roles, the Philonian Cicero and the Antiochian Lucullus or Varro, are in fact rather muddled. The letters, Fam. 9.8 [254] and Att. 13.19 [326] above all, prepare Atticus and Varro for a debate in which the fictional interlocutors voice the position of their teachers (§I.1.2). Introductory passages in both fragments reinforce that impression, especially Luc. 11-12 and Ac. 1.13-14, which frames the conversation, and the preamble to Cicero’s response at Ac. 1.43. We know precious little about how Cicero’s thought develops in the first Academic Book and over the three books that follow; yet, in the Lucullus we have his character openly distancing himself from Philo (Luc. 78), and in both editions the focus is on the opposition between the ­skepticism of 213 Note the use of “calumnia” (slander) and “verecundia” (scruples) at Luc. 14.

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Arcesilaus and Carneades and the Stoicism of Zeno and Chrysippus. Scholarship has studied the question closely, offering a smorgasbord of sophisticated explanations, not least addressing the possibility that Philo’s position underwent different phases and that one such phase is behind Cicero’s view in the drama (Brittain 2001: 180–181 and Barnes 1989: 71 n. 82). While I am sympathetic with this reading and will explore it in due course (§III.8.4), it is ­important to point out at this stage the significance of the question being raised: is C ­ icero’s position coherent, does it accurately reflect ‘Philo’s teachings’, as some passages in the work and in the literature surrounding it suggest? The specter of inconsistency hovers over the fragments and has fanned the flames of the intense scholarly debate around Cicero’s Academic views.214 The Antiochian position is no less vulnerable to discrepancies and inconsistencies. Much has been written on the difference between Lucullus’ and Varro’s readings of Socrates in the context of the Academica’s historiography.215 Two passages in particular, Ac. 1.15-17 and Luc. 15 (§II.5.3 and §II.6.1), are the source of the controversy. Varro’s Socrates is an out-and-out skeptic, acknowledging his ignorance and adopting a fully dialectical attitude in ­accordance with that doubt. Varro’s account clearly distinguishes between Socrates’ and Plato’s philosophy, to the point that he hypothesizes Socrates’ displeasure at Plato’s legacy. This distinction, however, is not as evident in the Lucullus. The difference between method (dubitatio) and system (perfecta disciplina) is present in the earlier edition, yet here Socrates stands close to his pupil in the history of philosophy. The separation is diaphanous—one of emphasis—with Socrates’ doubt written up as a performance, a conceit (dissimulatio) adopted for disputational purposes and not representative of his skeptical commitment or of his thought at all. Socrates, indeed, appears to hold opinions (cum aliud diceret atque sentiret) and must be removed from the crew of would-be skeptics, along with Plato (quorum e numero tollendus est, Luc. 15; cf. Glucker 1997: 68; Long 1988: 157 n. 28). Whether the inconsistency reflects, as Sedley (2012: 84) suggests, Antiochus’ use of more than “a single historical model” to think through the tradition or represents an instance of Varro diverging from the Antiochian script (Brittain 2001: 182–183), the text complicates the correspondence between Lucullus/Varro and Antiochus. Out of these discontinuities and inconsistencies, a picture begins to emerge that evidences the complex interweaving of influences at work in each speech. 214 On the issue of Cicero’s lifelong allegiance to one form of Academic philosophy, see Glucker (1988), Steinmetz (1989) and Görler (1995). 215 For the broader debate on Socrates in Hellenistic thought and Socrates in Cicero, see Gorman (2005), Ioppolo (1995) and Long (1988).

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The text, as many other works of Ciceronian philosophy, seems to capture a multitude of voices and currents just below the surface of each philosophical position. Compressed and embedded in the antagonistic speeches of the Academica are arguments and ideas drawn from philosophy’s history, voices that many of its readers, particularly in the Anglo-American tradition, have labored to isolate and analyze. Examples of this compression are numerous. So, scholars have teased out different periods in the philosophical careers of Philo and Antiochus in order to explain certain discrepancies (§III.8.3 and §III.8.4). However, this method of painstaking analysis and deduction opens onto a wider panoramic of philosophical history, to evince how that history o­ ccupies an active and dynamic position in the texture of Ciceronian philosophy. An instance of this dense interplay can be seen at Ac. 1.18-42, where Varro sets out the philosophy of the Academy and its subsequent transformations leading up to and including Zeno’s revision. As noted earlier in the chapter, his plot develops in three movements: the “original shape” (prima forma) of the Academy’s philosophy (Ac. 1.18-32) transitions into Zeno’s correctio (Ac.1.35-42) through an intermezzo, in which the audience is shown around a gallery of “changes” (immutationes) made to Plato’s “inherited theory” (tradita ratio, Ac. 1.33) by early Academics and Peripatetics (Ac. 1.33-35). From Ac. 1.33 Varro’s account engages directly with historical figures, selecting and summarizing the contributions of key thinkers to the development of Academic philosophy. While we are given the briefest of introductions to Aristotle, Theophrastus, Strato, Speusippus, Xenocrates, Crates, Crantor and Polemo, and only a loose sense of how they fit into that historical development, the longer excerpt discussing Zeno’s revision provides the audience not just with an overview of his system, but with an awareness of his voice, the language and structure of his thought. This vivid portrayal depends on verbs of saying, naming, teaching, arguing and numbering—almost exclusively in the imperfect—that introduce the thinker’s redefinition of critical terms in ethics and logic.216 So, for example, Zeno’s honestum is a new and unique type of good (bonum), dominating a moral theory wherein other elements are reclassified as things to be sought or rejected (Ac. 1.35-37).217 In the last part of philosophy, logic, Varro handles Zeno’s original Greek, introducing tentative translations for both “impression” (φαντασία, Ac. 1.40) and “graspable” (καταληπτόν, Ac. 1.41). Significantly, the 216 Beyond verbs of thinking (putare), teaching (docere), disagreeing and arguing (discrepare; disserere), the most frequent verbs include: appellare, which appears five times; ­dicere, appearing four times; numerare, three times; and nominare twice. 217 See Cato’s speech in On Ends book three for a fuller account of Stoic ethics, reviewing the question of value (Fin. 3.20-25 and 50-61), honestum and the challenges of translating Zeno’s language.

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speaker reminds his audience that his version of Zenonian philosophy is none other than his teacher’s. Indeed, Varro introduces the account by indicating that he will proceed “just as Antiochus used to” (sicut solebat Antiochus, Ac. 1.37) and immediately draws on an Antiochian theme, the difference between the labels used to define a system and the content of the theory itself (Ac. 1.37; cf. Ac. 1.18 and 43, Luc. 15).218 The third part of Varro’s exposition mirrors the first, as Antiochus’ Platonic system and Zeno’s correction follow the same order of presentation, ­linking in sequence ethics, physics and logic. The parallel arrangement, an issue whose significance has been addressed by Lévy (1992: 148–150 with references), ­indicates the deep connection between Platonism and Stoicism; it also draws attention to how philosophy, as a systematized subject, is organized. In this respect, Aristotle, Theophrastus and Strato threaten more than just the content of Plato’s disciplina. Aristotle shakes the foundations of his teacher’s epistemology, outlined by Varro only a few sections earlier (Ac. 1.30), by “undermining the Forms” (species … labefactavit, Ac. 1.33); Theophrastus is equally disruptive in his approach to ethics (n.b. fregit); while more docile, Strato departs entirely from the teaching of his predecessors (dissedit a suis) to the point of focusing his efforts solely on natura (Ac. 1.34; cf. Ac. 1.17). Together, the trio seem to exemplify a tradition going astray, in which thinkers work within the Platonic system, albeit selectively, and collectively rearrange it to reflect a new order of logic, ethics and physics. While the Academic-Peripatetic tradition develops through the discrete voices of its earliest protagonists, its “prima forma,” from which all subsequent departures and corrections arise, is ostensibly Plato’s. Varro’s account underlines the direct nature of this legacy by introducing and concluding the ­account with the parallel expressions, “taken” or “inherited from Plato” (accepta/tradita a Platone, Ac. 1.19 and 33).219 Nonetheless, few scholars have doubted that what is set out in the passage represents Antiochus’ philosophy, not least because a major theme of its presentation is the view that the Academy and Lyceum are doctrinally one and the same (Ac. 1.17 and 22); and because on two occasions it is labeled by Cicero as the philosophy of the Old Academy (Ac. 1.14 and 43), associated both with Antiochus and his Roman pupil Varro.220 In the first 218 Books four and five of On Ends touch on the same theme. 219 At Ac. 1.17-18 Varro speaks of Platonism as a philosophy heavily influenced by Plato’s thought, but shaped in conjunction with his early successors. 220 Numerous studies of Antiochus co-opt the passage as an exposition of his philosophy, so do the reconstructions of Görler (1990b), Fladerer (1996) and Barnes (1997). Recently Polito (2012: 38) has indicated that the system set out by Varro under the heading “Old Academy” “refers to the philosophical outlook of the faction led by Antiochus.” The ­Antiochian

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­ cademic Book, Varro acts as the mouthpiece for his teacher Antiochus, who, A in turn, is trying to pass off his views as those of Plato. Moreover, these views are substantially the same as those of his earliest successors, the ­Academics and Peripatetics. Differently from the section enumerating the Peripatetic immutationes, this first overview compresses and synthesizes a number of voices. Not all of these influences are clearly marked out or directly allocated to a philosopher; but all of them are put to work in an articulated system. Tarrant (2000: 66) provides an elegant description of Ac. 1.15-34 in terms of “an account of Platonically inspired philosophy over a particular period.” The Platonic forma deploys open references to the Peripatetics, Aristotle and Plato, and pegs a discrete element of the overall theory onto each of them.221 The passage is also populated by verbs of saying, thinking and attributing in the third person plural, the subject of which is rarely explicitly mentioned, and that seem to carry through the reference to Antiochus’ Old Academy (cf. Ac. 1.18 and 22). Despite the occasional name and the vague use of third person plural verbs, this philosophy appears nowhere as clearly a composite of diverse and thinly veiled influences as in this passage, in which critics have been able to identify specific traditions, thinkers and texts. There is a broad scholarly consensus, for example, that the section on physics is representative of just such a mixture, a “blend” of theories “roughly midway between Platonic and Stoic physics” (Dillon 1977: 81; Sedley 2012: 102). David Sedley’s article on Stoic theology (2002) offers a careful interpretation of Polemo’s influence on Ac. 1.24-29, teasing out aspects of the physical theory that look back to Plato’s Timaeus, Xenocrates’ interpretation of the dialogue and anticipate Stoic corporealism. Emphasis is on continuity and harmony, rather than confusion and contradiction (cf. Donini 1982: 78).222 Above all, the Timaeus sits behind key parts of the model, such as the division of natura into active and passive principles (efficiens/vis—praebens/materia, Ac. 1.24), the appropriation of Plato is signposted in the major English-language translations of the Academica: Rackham’s Loeb marks each sub-section as “Antiochus’ Ethics,” “Physics” or “Logic.” Brittain indexes Varro’s speech into two major components, “Old Academic philosophy” and the “changes” made to it. 221 So in ethics, Peripatetics are said to be responsible for the tripartite division of goods, “tripartita … ratio bonorum” (Ac. 1.21). Aristotle’s fifth element makes an appearance in the section on physics (Ac. 1.26). Plato’s forms are the starting point for the section on logic (Ac. 1.30). 222 Before Sedley, critics emphasised the Stoic coloring over the relationship to the Platonic tradition and the Timaeus. See, for example, Lévy (1992: 553–554) and Dörrie (1987: 477–478).

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argument about qualities (qualitates, Ac. 1.24-25), the identity of “first ­principles” (initia) and “elements” (elementa, Ac. 1.26), and the concluding reflection on the rational, provident world-soul (Ac. 1.29).223 The Platonic text anchors the passage, and around it Sedley fits Xenocrates’ reflections on the classification of elements, the fundamental principles of reality and the question of divisibility. All the while, he seeks to cohere these Academic ideas with Stoic causality and understanding of the divine, the seeds of which he identifies in the Timaeus. If at first sight the passage offers an indication of its historical texture through the use and translation of Platonic terminology or the expression of materialist ideas that echo the Stoic worldview directly, Sedley’s work gives us a more nuanced insight into the (possible) specific negotiations at work in what he understands as Antiochus’ physics. The synthesis of positions is, in his (2002: 76) view, an accomplished maneuver by “an unexpectedly scrupulous historical reporter.” Whether we see this as Antiochian or Varronian, or whether that makes a difference at all, the focus is on systematicity and historical depth. The appetite for both can be read in the aside on Aristotle’s fifth element. This ­concept is thrown into the discussion of the four elements, neither fitting in with nor contradicting it: we are just told that Aristotle believed such an element ­existed and formed the stuff of stars and mind. We are also told that this ­quintum ­genus is unlike the four just mentioned (singulare eorumque quattor quae supra dixi dissimile, Ac. 1.26), and this observation connects Aristotle to the wider tradition, even if that connection takes the form of a departure. The historical attitude is also evident in the spectral presence of Polemo. Here is a historical figure, whom Varro will locate at the crossroads of the Old Academy and Zeno’s revision (and Arcesilaus, Ac. 1.35; cf. Luc. 131), a figure who reads one of the canonical works of the Platonic tradition in such a way as to lay the ­foundations for Zeno’s physics. The passage relays a complex history of negotiations within the Academy that continues into Zeno’s later modifications of this part of philosophy. Pointedly, Varro limits Zeno’s review to two corrections: the first explicitly rejects Aristotle’s fifth element and the second moves away from Xenocrates and his position on incorporeal entities (Ac. 1.39-40). Varro’s speech adds two ingredients to our discussion of the Academica’s historiography. The first concerns his engagement with texts. Following Sedley, we touched on the encounter between Academic, Peripatetic and Stoic 223 See Sedley (2002: 53 ff.) for comparative references to the Timaeus. On the afterlife of the Timaeus in the Greek Academy and beyond, see Reydams-Schils (2002), especially Lévy’s contribution.

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t­ hinkers with the Timaeus. The passages on Old Academic and Stoic ­epistemology (Ac. 1.30-32 and 40-42) would have offered an equally instructive example, with Tobias Reinhardt’s (2018) analysis of the centrality of the ­Theaetetus to the discussions concerning the Forms and sense-perception ­serving as a guide.224 The second is the role of disagreements, critiques and deviations in the construction of what, in contrast to Cicero’s community of ­practice, appears as an articulated system. Varro’s history of philosophy presents a single integrated tradition, encompassing a succession of thinkers operating in fields whose boundaries were drawn by Plato and his immediate successors. Unity, however, does not imply identity, as the evolution of Platonic thought up to and including Antiochus contains a network of differences. As we have seen, the expository style itself depends on citations, translations, refutations and departures. Differences and rejections of past positions are integral parts of the system, namely the Platonic and Stoic, that Varro brings to life before his listeners. If we step back from the networks and narratives studied in the four major historiographical passages considered above, one important aspect of the picture comes into focus: dialectic is not merely a feature of the stories we are told about philosophy’s history. Dialectic provides the context within which the competing historiographies are deployed. Our speakers tell a story in order to argue their position on how the history of this intellectual practice developed, how, through its history, the system of Academic philosophy came to be refined, in one instance; or how it sharpened the focus around key philosophical problems and principles, in another. The implication of this argumentative determination is twofold: the account of philosophy’s history changes to suit the debate, and this adaptability means that the tradition’s historiography reflects the speaker’s current concerns. The lineages presented by Varro and Cicero in the first Academic Book, or those of Lucullus and Cicero in the Lucullus, freely redraw the lines of scholastic relationships to highlight particular themes and demonstrate the mechanics of their version of ‘progress’. These conclusions are particularly germane to the New Academic histories of Cicero, centered on the rejection of dogmatic positions. As Brittain and Palmer point out in the conclusion to their 2001 article, skeptics from within the Hellenistic academy were unlikely to have agreed and repeated the same uniform version of their history, preferring, as in all other matters, to deploy it as a flexible tool for debate. From this vantage point, the stories retold by Cicero in the two editions appear as reactions to Lucullus’ and Varro’s Antiochian narratives. 224 The article builds on a rich interpretive tradition seeking to understand the Nachleben of Plato’s metaphysics, specifically with regards to Antiochus’ approach to the Forms.

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F­ urthermore, the overall impression delivered by the author of the Academica is of a historiography that is adaptable, connected to the philosophical outlook of its narrator and responsive to the argumentative context. Another key aspect of the picture is the way in which Cicero uses Academic history to serve as a map on which to chart the course of the history of philosophy in general. Cicero’s histories of the Academy, both those purportedly originating with Antiochus and those emerging out of the skeptical tradition, are not restricted to thinkers who were educated, debated and philosophized within the perimeters of the Academy, intended as the institutional and geographic boundaries of the school. Presocratics, Socratics, atomists, Megarian dialecticians, Cyrenaics, Epicureans and Stoics are all, as we have seen, integral to the fabric of Academic history. Cicero is casting an even wider net, as he seeks to pin down co-ordinates of philosophy as a field of study and to construct a historical community. The author does so by deliberating on what the (common sense) origins of philosophical problems are, who the key figures are and, crucially, how they—and their ideas—relate to each other. This appropriation of the discipline’s history on the part of Cicero undoubtedly has a bearing on his broader mission to ‘translate’ Greek philosophy for his audience of displaced Romans. However, this is not a matter of simply establishing an etiology of authorities and questions. Cicero’s sophistication lies in his parallel treatment of the origin and foundations of philosophy and the institutional history of philosophy (§II.5.1-5.3). His ingenuity also lies in his reflection on the concepts that structure philosophical historiography: origin, relation, consequentiality, influence, problem, solution, imitation (cf. Woolf 2015: 10–14). 6.3

Organizing the Field: The Disagreement of Philosophers and the Carneadea Divisio

That philosophy is an open and unified field of inquiry, focusing on a given set of problems and offering the possibility for multiple positions to coexist, is conveyed in the review of the disagreement of philosophers at Luc. 118-146. The final third of Cicero’s speech offers an exploration of past views on physics, ethics and logic that puts disparate views from across the history of philosophy in conversation with each other. Within this systematic architecture, the speaker catalogues discordant voices (sometimes described in the critical literature with the Greek diaphoniai) to demonstrate the multiplicity of dogmatic positions that populate the field. As Cicero explains in the introduction to the diaphoniai (Luc. 112-117), this inventory of “truths” undermines the ­exclusive nature of each dogmatic claim, because “there cannot be many

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truths that ­disagree with each other” (plura enim vera discrepantia esse non possunt, Luc. 115). The overt function of the set-piece is dialectical, deploying historical ideas and characters in a clearly defined order of presentation as a response to the pressure of following one of the many dogmatic “truths” out there, not least Lucullus’ Antiochian “truth.” In a competitive space, where each philosopher is out to market his system, Cicero wonders whether it is more shameless to resist, avoiding the possibility of choosing the wrong one (labi nolimus) as do Academic skeptics, or to give in to arrogance, allowing oneself to be persuaded of the unique truth of one of those systems (scire se solos omnia). The dilemma, which promptly leads Cicero to seek the authority of the “wise man” (sapiens) over “wisdom” (sapientia), pointedly speaks of sapientia as a structured unity, while making room for historical dissent and difference as constitutive elements of its study. Indeed, approaching philosophy from this wider angle—and underpinning the useful trope of space—Luc. 112 introduces the wide-ranging discussion of disagreements in terms of a “field in which the ­debate can roam freely” (campus in quo exsultare possit oratio). With a clear rhetorical goal, the space of philosophy is re-imagined at the end of the Lucullus in a way that is conversant with our discussion of the Academica’s historiography so far. However, with few exceptions, scholarship has seldom connected those passages concerning the history of the Academy with what is generally labelled as the dialogue’s doxographical conclusion.225 This is in large part due to doxography’s poor reputation among philosophers and historians of philosophy as an inferior historiographical genre or type. Doxography, in the critiques of John Passmore (1965) and Richard Rorty (1984), emerges as a superficial way of writing philosophy’s history. It boils down the complexity of a thinker’s context and development to a tag-line, and proceeds to enumerate these ready-made definitions according to an order governed by concerns relevant to the doxographer. In Rorty’s (1984: 62) damning words, doxographies “decorticate thinkers.”226 While the approach to the individual’s thought is considered reductive, the framework within which these lists are deployed is significant. Notwithstanding the—more or less sophisticated—­ interpretive work it entails, underpinning the catalogue of opinions is a specific understanding of the history of philosophy that qualifies past thinkers as providers of opinions valuable to current debates. Doxographies also identify 225 A notable exception is Michel (1968b). 226 Graham (1988: 167) speaks of “laundry-lists of doctrines in Diogenes Laertius” before explaining that “doxography fails to be philosophy because it does not address philosophical questions; it fails to be history because it lacks a diachronic perspective and hence cannot address historical questions.” Cf. Gracia (1992: 247 ff.).

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and build relations between ideas, shaping the field into a clearly defined set of co-ordinates.227 It is precisely the question of relationality in the history of philosophy that comes to the fore in the passage, in particular through the ­deployment of different organizing principles, and connects the doxography to the Academica’s other histories. In the context of our argument about variable historiographies, the value of the passage lies not just in the fact that it contributes another approach to philosophy’s history, rethinking historical depth in connection to the discipline as a field of study, but in showing different ways of understanding relations within that field. A case in point for this self-conscious adaptability in writing and re-­ writing the shape of the tradition is put on show in the section on ethics, Luc. 128-141. As Cicero centers the discussion on “moral ends … measured against the highest standard of good and evil” (fines … ad quos et bonorum et malorum summa referatur, Luc. 129), he draws on two discrete ways of structuring the debate around fines (Greek telê). These two approaches rely on different organizing principles. The first (Luc. 131) lists a set of seven simple and complex telê, including “pleasure” (voluptas), “pleasure and the honorable” (voluptas + ­honestas), “absence of pain” (vacare omni molestia), absence of pain and moral rectitude, and so on. The catalogue bears a strong resemblance to On Ends 5.16-21, where the classification is attributed to Carneades and is ­introduced with the label Carneadea divisio (Fin. 5.16). In both the Lucullus and On Ends, the skeptic is included in the catalogue as the author of a telos: that of enjoying objects which are claimed primary according to nature (fruendi rebus iis quas primas secundum naturam esse diximus, Fin. 5.20; Luc. 131).228 After a sustained attack on the supposed conformity of Antiochian and Stoic ­ethics (Luc. 132-137), Cicero lands on a second approach to the panorama of ­ethical theories, which is taken from the Stoic Chrysippus. Over Luc. 138-141, the speaker follows Chrysippus’ map, populated by three simple ends, namely: the ­honorable, pleasure and absence of pain, and three complex ends. Compared to ­Carneades’ earlier division, the Stoic treatment of ethics is lengthier and proceeds by identifying which of these six options are worth defending (Luc. 138) and which are essentially identical. 227 See M. Frede (1992b) for a recuperation of the genre. His re-evaluation reads ancient doxography in terms reminiscent of twentieth-century critiques of analytic histories of philosophy, on which see Ayers (1978), Rorty (1984: 49–55), Curley (1986) and Janaway and Alexander (1988). For a more recent treatment of the topic, see Sorell and Rogers (2005) and Glock (2008: 89–114). 228 For the scholarly debate on the Carneadea divisio, its origin, function and recurrence in Cicero (and Varro) see Giusta (1964), Rawson (1978), Lévy (1980 and 1992: 388–372), Algra (1997), Annas (2007) and Schofield (2012).

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Ostensibly, the two arrangements are incompatible. Both are enlisted by Cicero to display irreconcilable positions in the history of ethics, as well as different ways the discipline can be organized. The rhetorical effect of the Carneadea divisio relies on a compressed succession of ends attached to discrete thinkers and ultimately shapes, in Brad Inwood’s expression (2014: 63), “a grand synoptic framework.”229 The catalogue offers little color, using the lightest of touches to provide some context; so, for example, we are told that Aristippus was a pupil of Socrates, founder of the Cyrenaic school and precursor of Epicurus, with whom the Cyrenaics actually disagree on the subject of voluptas. In a similar light, we are told who is a Peripatetic, who an Old Academic and that Zeno was the founder and first leader of the Stoics. Unlike the divisio in On Ends book five, which is introduced by a summary of the philosophical basis on which Carneades built this model, the list in the Lucullus offers no explicit rationalization.230 In contrast, Cicero follows Chrysippus closely, discarding many ethical positions in his effort to show, in the first instance, that only three theoretical ends are defensible (tres solas sententias quae defendi possint, Luc. 138): voluptas, honestas or a combination of the two. Once these three positions are singled out, the work of rationalization continues. Chrysippus engineers a conflict between two key ends, voluptas and honestas, that leaves him with “no great struggle” (non magna contentio, Luc. 140) to select which of the two must be followed. The initial reasoning is free from attributions, until Cicero reflects on the elimination of the complex end, honestas + prima secundum naturam, that he had felt “most probable” (probabilius) and that he assigns to Polemo, the Peripatetics and Antiochus (Luc. 139). This observation introduces a highly personal dilemma for the speaker, who tries to steer a course between Epicurus and Aristippus (voluptas) and Zeno (virtus)—a course called Callipho. All we are told about this middle-ground figure (medius) is that his position was defended by Carneades, who, much as at Luc. 131, does so out of no conviction and without approval. The vividness of the excerpt, however, lies less in its historical depth than in its prosopopoeia of virtus (Luc. 139) and veritas and 229 Lévy (1992: 339) describes the digest as being delivered at a “rapidité étourdissante.” 230 Fin. 5.16-17 explains that Carneades reviewed all historical and current philosophical positions on moral ends, as well as hypothesizing ends that had not been voiced but were possible. The context of his divisio is further grounded in the notion that the systematic study of ethics (ars) has to be directed towards something outside of that system, on the model of medicine and health or navigation and sailing a ship. Carneades reasoned that it is our natural appetite or an impulse within us (appetitus animi; ὁρμὴ) that directs us to that end. The divisio that follows at Fin. 5.18 runs through the ends towards which our earliest impulse draws us. Cf. Annas (2007: 190–192).

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recta ratio (Luc. 139-140)—voices who dissuade Cicero from following voluptas or ends connected to the body (corpus), in any of its forms. The contrastive vein is underscored by the central passage connecting the two divisiones, which constructs the positions on the “ultimate good” (summum bonum, Luc. 132) held by Antiochus’ Old Academy and the Stoics as ­diametrically opposed. Cicero challenges the claim that Antiochus was an “out-and-out Stoic” (germanissimus Stoicus) by arguing that, in fact, his view and that of the Stoics on this fundamental ethical question are incompatible. In the footsteps of Academics and Peripatetics before him, Antiochus values elements other than virtue in the pursuit of a “happy life” (beata vita) and acknowledges that emotions have a place in the life of the sapiens, since emotions are both natural and useful (Luc. 133-135). The “harsh yet necessary” position adopted by Zeno holds that nothing but honestas is to be counted as a good (durum sed Zenoni necessarium cui praeter honestum nihil est in bonis, Luc. 135). This ­“severity” (atrocitas) leaves little room for compromise and therefore precludes Antiochus’ (and Lucullus’) attempts to integrate Stoic with the more forgiving Old Academic theories (Luc. 136). Expressions of disagreement articulate the opposition—note: “contentio,” “dissident,” “dissentiunt,” “dissentit,” “dissensio,” “discrepant”—that is at the heart of Cicero’s dilemma, principally his attraction to the quasi-divine ideal of the Stoics (n.b. cupio sequi Stoicos) and to the eloquent and moderate position of Academics and Peripatetics. Over the course of this segment, Cicero delivers a complex historical ­description of the Old Academy. While the Stoa can count on Zeno alone, ­Aristotle, Polemo, Theophrastus, Crantor, Xenocrates and Socrates all offer counterpoints to the Stoic position on ethics. Their names are not reeled off in catalogue format, as we see in the two divisiones, but often introduce more colorful insights into the tradition. Crantor, for instance, is the author of the ­“golden little book” On Grief (non magnus verum aureolus). This is a libellus that a Stoic, the second-century bce Panaetius, advised the Roman Tubero “to learn by heart” (ad verbum ediscendus, Luc. 135; cf. Fin. 4.23).231 Similarly, when Cicero wonders about how the ruthlessness of Stoic ethics fits with Academic mediocritas, he discusses the legacy of Socrates in Stoic philosophy, namely how Stoicism inherited Socrates’ paradoxes (mirabilia, παράδοξα, Luc. 136).232 This reflection leads to a brief vignette, quoted from Clitomachus, of a conversation between Carneades and the praetor Aulus Albinus that took place during the 231 On Tubero, see Br. 117. 232 For the sake of argument, Cicero seems to embrace the view that Socrates was not part of the Old Academy, such as the school is described by Varro at Ac. 1.17-18.

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Athenian philosophers’ embassy to Rome in 155 bce.233 Somewhat against the grain of the argument, common to all three instances is a closer relationship between Stoa, Academy and Lyceum. Albinus interrogates Carneades, mistaking a Stoic position for an Academic one; Panaetius recommends an Academic book; and, the paradoxes, a key differentiator between Old Academy and Stoa, turn out to belong to the forefather of Plato’s school. Along with the rhetorical point Cicero scores by showing his opponent the extent to which Stoic philosophy appropriates or depends on the Platonic tradition, the passage uses these scenes from philosophy’s history to intimate a more complex dialogue between these schools. And these moments of contact suggest an alternative approach to the two divisiones, one that brings the two closer. The fact that the two systems book-end Cicero’s discussion on ethics ­stimulates comparison. Both represent variations on the same approach to philosophy’s history, extracting discrete fines and relating these to individual thinkers and to each other. The first expansive overview at Luc. 131 contains and builds on Chrysippus’ three ends (Luc. 138), pushing the Stoic honeste vivere into an “outlier” position (Annas 2007: 205 n. 21) and describing the motivations of the divisio’s originator in terms of challenging Stoics (ut opponeret Stoicis). The dialectical orientation is a key element aligning the two classifications. Both are used to guide Cicero in his efforts to settle on a telos, yet they end up confirming the difficulty of reaching any conclusion at all. Furthermore, as Julia Annas (2007: 206) has observed, the systems seem to move in parallel towards “two simple oppositions,” Old Academy Vs Stoicism in the first and virtue Vs pleasure in the second. The literature on the Carneadea divisio is extensive, as is the use Cicero makes of the scheme in his late philosophica, especially in On Ends and the Tusculans.234 Yet, reflecting on Cicero’s wider application of the system, Giusta, Lévy, Algra and Annas agree that the divisio’s original function and its function in Cicero’s ethical works was as a tool for debate, which could be tailored to each argumentative context (cf. Algra 1997: 130).235 Against this background, the two systems seem to play into the agonistic relation between their originators, with the skeptic Carneades possibly aping the dogmatism of Chrysippus’ classification in order to undermine it. So argues Carlos Lévy in his Cicero Academicus (1992: 356, albeit in relation to On Ends), making the interdependence of the two schemata historical.236 233 On the embassy, see Vesperini (2012: 135–168). 234 Beyond those instances already mentioned, see Fin. 2.31-43, 3.30-31, 4.48-53 and Tusc.D. 5.83-89. 235 Giusta (1964: 259) speaks of a “schema polemico,” while Lévy (1992: 360) draws attention to its flexible structure, “sans cesse modifié au fil des débats.” 236 Giusta (1964: 224) acknowledges that the Carneadea divisio was developed by the second-century bce skeptic following “precedenti famosi e abbastanza antichi” and that the

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In light of a possible longer chronological reach of the relationship, the mirroring staged in the Lucullus points to a complex exchange and one that confounds the boundary between the two. In the article quoted above, for example, Annas seems to imply that the divisiones are two instances of the same Carneadean classification; in an earlier discussion, Algra (1997: 118) criticized Lévy for confusing the two in his interpretation of Fin. 3.30-31 and 2.35. In other words, the Carneadea divisio’s protean form in Cicero and its antilogic positioning to the Chrysippean version in the Lucullus shape a fluid dialogue between consilient strategies to map the field of ethical ends. And one of the effects of such fluidity is to emphasize the diverse range of approaches to the tradition and how that tradition can be put to the service of various types of discourse: expository, dialectic, personal.237 Pushing the interpretation of the divisiones further in the context of our discussion of historiographical approaches to philosophy, one important—if ­obvious—observation relates to the shared problematic posited by Cicero at the heart of the field. We have already seen the extent to which the divisiones share several elements, such as the focus on fines, the construction of the catalogue according to a rhetorical agenda, their reference to historical figures, as well as their appeal to Cicero to persuade him of a particular position. The catalogue of issues at stake is expanded in the passage linking the two classifications, as it takes in topics beyond the fines, such as the definition of the wise man, the theory of indifferents and the role of emotions. However, the argumentative drive and classificatory approach links the passage closely to its frame. The result of this concordance of elements was persuasively described by Alain Michel as outlining a common set of problems and objectives for all ethicists involved, despite the argument’s emphasis on irreconcilability and antagonism. In his landmark 1968 article on the Lucullus, Michel argues that Cicero was aware of and responded to a key problem in the historiography of philosophy, namely how to engage with different philosophical positions and initiate a conversation between them that would be both meaningful and useful. In order to show the logic and sophistication of Cicero’s response, the ­ assage in the Lucullus presents two distinct classificatory traditions. Nonetheless, he p hesitates to ascribe the alternative divisio exclusively to Chrysippus. 237 I have avoided describing the classification as doxographical, echoing concerns voiced by Giusta regarding the argumentative, rather than expository, nature of the divisio. Giusta (1964: 259) contends that the tool was designed by Carneades as an aid to debate. Only later was it adapted by doxographers to organize philosophical material. Although I am not convinced by some of the argument’s implication—principally the suggestion that doxographies do not endorse philosophical positions and are free from argument—the distinction drawn is significant insofar as it underlines the link between how and why the history of the tradition is written.

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French critic develops a reading of the passage that unifies the issues, which the classificatory systems, and the disparate thinkers it enlists, hope to address: the moral end as determinative of a moral life, the sage, emotions and so on. ­Michel (1968b: 114 and 117) does so by shaping a “problématique commune” or “cohérente” that focuses the debate so that its heirs can evaluate each position in turn, comparing their merits and shortcomings, their appeal and defects, with the objective of selecting and adopting one of the options. Cicero dramatizes such dialogue over the course of the section, staging his character as being pulled in one or the other direction as he presents the key theories in the field and weighs them up—a dramatization reminiscent of Plato’s dialogues, according to Michel. Emphasis on dialectic as the harmonizing framework in the exposition of past doctrines shows Cicero adapting “les lois du dialogue platonicien à la philosophie de l’histoire” (1968b: 120). Notwithstanding the coherence of the problems and voices brought to bear over the course of the ethical argument with Antiochus, the dialectical framework leaves a certain impression of disarray, an impression of systematic confusion, as it were, created by the disorienting speed at which names are dropped and topics discarded. Reflecting on the challenge of identifying a structure in Cicero’s review of ethics, Michel and Lévy comment that the chaos is calculated: Michel (1968b: 118) offers the term “désordre,” seeing this strategy as part of the attack on Antiochus’ principle of cohering the Stoa with Academics and Peripatetics; Lévy (1992: 341) echoes Michel, describing a “désordre […] très soigneusement organisé.” Contrasting a disorderly surface with a systematic core reflects the parallel movements, identified in our discussion so far, that tug at Cicero’s exposition: contrast and irreconcilability between approaches, philosophers and traditions, married to the recognition—creation, even—of a shared problematic centered on “the concept of goods and evils” (ad bonorum malorumque notionem, Luc. 128). The point of this extensive ‘doxography’ concluding Cicero’s speech is to put on show the paralyzing diversity of views and arguments populating philosophy’s history. In the speaker’s review, the discipline emerges as a succession of heterogeneous schools, some of which are affiliated to each other, some not, whose representatives in many cases offer persuasive insights into philosophical problems. The vast gulf between some of these ideas and approaches leaves the ­observer surveying the landscape in a profound crisis as to which path to follow. This is particularly true if, as in Cicero’s case, s/he wants to be sure s/he is not making a mistake. Nonetheless, what Cicero constructs as he labors at this dilemma is not just heterogeneity and diversity, but a sense of internal cohesion shaping the landscape: here are philosophy’s key questions arranged within a tripartite scheme; the discipline’s authorities, and minorities; views

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expressed and worth defending; views no longer defended, but worth considering; views never expressed, but appropriate within a particular schema of historical interpretation. There is an attempt, in other words, to make sense of philosophy’s history, without reducing its complexity to simpler geometries; an attempt, furthermore, that wants to preserve not just ideas and their bearers, but an awareness that histories of philosophy are themselves multiform and part of that heritage. As Clara Auvray-Assayas (2006: 36) has observed in her interpretation of what it means for Cicero to present the conflict between Antiochus and Philo on the Platonic tradition, this kind of open-ended ­approach to philosophy’s history offers an “occasion de réfléchir à ce qu’est un héritage philosophique.” Finally, past philosophers and their ideas have an immediate and vibrant impact on the observer of philosophy’s landscape. Focusing in on the section on ethics again, we note that some characters are merely listed in the catalogue—famously, for instance, those that introduce the debate associated with views no longer held (sententiae relictae/explosae).238 However, certain other historical positions tempt Cicero, lead him astray and work to persuade him. The same applies in the case of Antiochus and his follower Lucullus, who throughout the review of philosophers are heard cajoling Cicero into accepting the syncretism of Old Academy and Stoa. The drama of the dialogue ­depends on the vivid expression of this impasse, not reduced to an abstract set of sententiae or systems that one is expected to adopt; rather philosophical views are linked to individuals (as well as schools and lineages, in some cases) and one must recognize oneself as a Stoic, or as agreeing with Aristotle or P ­ olemo, for example. Tradition in this passage is decidedly alive and valuable to its interpreter, because to do ethics is to do the history of ethics. 6.4

Structure and Meaning: Hegel, Gueroult and Cicero

So far in chapter six, I have reviewed in some detail the critical passages that explore the Academica’s engagement with philosophy and its history. One of my principal concerns was to rescue some of the complexities on show across the extant fragments from the tendency, present in contemporary Ciceronian studies, to fit passages of the philosophica within constrictive set models, whether derived from a specific source or school (e.g. Platonism), or linked to a political or social agenda. This reduction has often happened with regard to the philosophica’s historiography, in those rare occasions when the topic has 238 See Lévy (1980) for an important study of this type of sententiae.

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found favor among critics. The first three sections of this chapter sought to underline a number of themes and strategies deployed by Cicero in writing the history of philosophy as he evaluates, among other issues, the different attitudes to the historical integrity of the Academy put forward by Philo and Antiochus. Chief among Cicero’s achievements in this respect is to bring to the attention of his audience—initiated and uninitiated to the world of Greek philosophy—the idea that the shape of philosophy’s history is significant. Key to its significance is how we construct that form, how each speaker (re)connects with, uses and adapts the discipline’s tradition, engages with notions of community, authority, origins, difference, unity and identity. Cicero’s stories of philosophy have much in common with Plato’s and ­Aristotle’s (§II.5.3). The correspondences range from the shared attempt to converse with characters and ideas extracted from the history of philosophy, to the use of that history each author makes to guide and shape his philosophical thinking. The dialectical orientation, crucially, is common to all three, and Plato’s ­influence on Cicero in this respect is profound, as argued extensively by both Michel and Lévy. Aristotle’s collaborative and developmental perspective can also be felt across the Antiochian-inflected speeches, as well as in the ­exploration of the skeptic community undertaken in Cicero’s speeches and, to some extent, in the catalogue of thinkers that makes up the last third of the Lucullus.239 Against the background of such illustrious influences, what the Academica’s author brings to the table is first and foremost a self-conscious ­negotiation with different historiographical models. Cicero develops a sophisticated relationship with a broader set of philosophies, mentioning them not just because they are directly functional to the construction of a particular position, but for several other reasons, such as to conform to a particular construction of the philosophical field itself, to explore the tradition’s forgotten scholars, to identify sources of inspiration or repulsion and to provide counterpoints to other historical views. The logic of selection, inclusion and exclusion, sets a more complex challenge to the reader than either of Cicero’s predecessors. His approach is perhaps more conversant with ideas and strategies emerging out of the turn to philosophy’s history developed in the more immediate context of the second and first century bce. But of this period, unfortunately, we know precious little. Despite Cicero’s distinctive contribution to the historiography of philosophy, the Roman author is often overlooked in narratives and discussions of 239 On Cicero and Aristotle, see Gigon (1954: 140): “Die Grundlage seiner Diskussionen zu einem guten Teil in einer bestimmten philosophiegeschichtlichen Konstruktion besteht.” Also, Gigon (1955 and 1972b).

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the topic. Where relevant, I have drawn on the modern conversation about the uses and abuses of the history of philosophy that has come to occupy scholars’ interest in the wake of Hegel’s historically-rooted Idealism and which ­enjoyed a brief renaissance in the Anglo-American academy in the 1980s, when the ­analytic movement rejected the idea that one can learn philosophy from studying its past. The reading presented above owes a much greater debt to those conversations than illustrated in the occasional citation, and to conclude the present segment of my argument I address the extent of the debt and broaden the context of the discussion. In offering some observations on Cicero’s place in this intellectual tradition by way of conclusion, I also mean to bring into greater relief the originality of his Academic project. At the heart of the modern debate on the historiography of philosophy is Hegel, the theoretician who turned the history of philosophy into a subject worthy of philosophical consideration. Whether one dismisses or accepts the claim that to study philosophy’s history is to do philosophy, the introduction to Hegel’s Lectures on the History of Philosophy offers perhaps one of the clearest expressions of the critical dilemma at the heart of historical philosophy: on the one hand, history deals with things that are transient, perishable and subject to change; on the other, philosophy is concerned with truth, unchangeable and eternal.240 With this challenge, which may or may not be necessarily pertinent to ancient historiographers, Hegel opens his lectures on philosophy’s history: why bother engaging with past philosophers if they were wrong and superseded? This is not the venue for a detailed evaluation of Hegel’s answer, but it is worth highlighting several key aspects that are conversant with Cicero’s work. In the first instance, as mentioned above, the question itself invites the audience to reflect on what constitutes a philosophical heritage.241 If it’s worth doing, the history of philosophy must make some sense and the principles that shape it must be philosophically sound. Hegel, like Plato, Aristotle and Cicero before him, sets up the history of philosophy as ground-zero of his own 240 Hegel first offered the course at Jena (1805–1806) and later every other year in Berlin, until his death in 1831 cut short its ninth iteration. See Westoby (1978: 67) for a timeline. For the translation of the lectures I have used Brown and Stewart (2006 and 2009), who base it on Jaeschke’s critical edition of the Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie. Rée (1978) offers an excellent overview of the work’s eighteenth- and nineteenth-century context, with particular reference to Brucker’s landmark Historia Critica Philosophiae (1742–1744). 241 I have found the contributions to Duquette (2003) useful, as well as the discussion in Schmitz (1988) and Lawler and Shtinov (1988). Inwood’s study of Hegel (1983) helped me see the profound relation between these lectures and Hegel’s thought, particularly with reference to the Phenomenology of the Spirit and the Encyclopedia Logic.

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a­ pproach. This is a foundational gesture, as it were, that begins with locating his thought in a specific relationship to the heritage he takes on in his work. The other significant issue raised by the ostensible contradiction between history and philosophy is that of reconciling multiplicity and unity. The ­specter of Aristotle hovers over Hegel’s response to this aspect of the ­challenge, as the German Idealist posits that every successive configuration of ­conceptual thinking is “bound together” in thought, and through this unifying concept of thought “a whole comes about and a totality is formed” (Hegel 2009: 47). In other words, like the process of reasoning or thinking, which in Hegel’s logic is a regimented method, there is a manifold element, namely opposing reasons, critiques or propositions, that are nonetheless all equally part of the same systematic and relational process. Like thought, the history of philosophy is both a “totality” and a “system,” and just like that system, history follows a developmental progression. Hegel (2009: 47–54) describes this journey in terms of a self-realization or “concretization,” whereby tensions that are inherent to ideas or philosophical systems lead to their change from the inside. In this crude appraisal of the premise of Hegel’s historiography, we can already notice the seeds of a possible conversation with the Academica’s historiography. In the first place, the process of concretization and the mirroring between logic and history offer Hegel a way to preserve past philosophies without compromising the integrity of (his search for) truth. The act of negating a proposition or refuting a philosophy—of superseding it—preserves that philosophy, because the refutation is always the negative image of what it refuted. What comes after depends on what has been superseded, and remains in the genetic memory of that system (2009: 58).242 Negation is to be understood in an inclusive sense, as Victor Hösle (2003: 186) emphasizes when describing Hegel’s truth as “encompassing, i.e. must contain alternative theories as moments of itself.” When a philosophy is negated by another, Hegel rejects the idea that this amounts to an exclusion of the refuted philosophy from the field of history or of thought. The negated philosophy continues to define the philosophy it has been n ­ egated by, it is contained within it, and, as such, both exist within the same field.243 Inevitably, discussion of negation leads to a consideration of the relationship between history and dialectic. The connection between the two is c­ entral 242 Refutation relies on exhibiting the negative side and the limits of the other system. It is therefore intrinsically an act of preservation. See also Hegel (2009: 58–62). 243 “The negative relation of one philosophy to another is intrinsic and constitutive in the first instance as a relation of the difference in meaning of one philosophy to another within the unity of philosophy as such,” Schmitz (1988: 254, emphasis in the original).

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to the way in which Hegel encompasses and reconciles philosophy and its ­history; it is also the subject of a longstanding debate about Hegel’s Idealistic notions of Spirit and pure thought. Without straying too far into this territory, the parallels between thought and philosophy, specifically between the history of thought and of philosophy, is foregrounded in the Lectures to highlight the extent to which philosophy’s history mirrors the structure of thinking and is subject to the same developmental logic.244 As mentioned above, Hegel sees concepts evolve according to the same laws through which the history of philosophy evolves, changing dialectically in history, though not necessarily ­dependent on contingent events in that history to change.245 Shaping the history of philosophy according to the structure of his dialectic does more than just associate logic and history, it elides the primacy of the subject or the thinker in the development of philosophy’s history. There is a metaphysical aspect to this argument in Hegel, insofar as it is objective pure thought that pushes that history forward as it realizes itself; but, as Schmitz (1988: 256–259) has pointed out, historical communities have an important role to play because groups of people are the bearers of this dialectic as they engage in the act of thinking. Thinking is a social activity, and it is precisely the community rather than the individual that comes to the fore as a key component in Hegel’s design.246 As I wrestled with what I understood to be the challenge Cicero faced in writing about epistemology and the history of philosophy in the Academica, I was struck by the originality of that parallel itinerary analyzed in chapter five above. My efforts were focused on untangling the analogous patterns of thought and historical development, through which Cicero seeks to shape his narrative of appropriation of Greek philosophy and its tradition of thought. In this way, Cicero sets an important precedent in (reflecting on) the linkage between history and philosophy. Similarly, the question of unity and multiplicity recurs in my study of several passages, specifically in my evaluation of the extent to which Cicero presents competing systems without necessarily reconciling them, or embeds diverse approaches, voices and ideas into certain arguments or expositions, again leaving signs of the diverse influences at work. 244 “The history of philosophy follows the course of logic,” Inwood (1983: 307). 245 Angela Nuzzo’s reading of the Berlin introductions to Hegel’s lecture course has been invaluable and stimulating reading. With respect to the logical form of Hegel’s history, Nuzzo (2003: 27) notes that “the succession of the systems of philosophy in its history is the same as the succession that takes place in the logical deduction of the conceptual determinations of the idea.” 246 Hegel’s (2009: 88–93) story of philosophy connects two points in history, beginning with a given historical moment in Greece and evolving to the Germanic philosophy of spirit, of which Hegel is the ultimate expression.

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His search for a polished and synergetic unity is not as assiduous as it is in Hegel (or Plato and Aristotle), but there is nonetheless an attention shared by both to preserving whole the rich tapestry of philosophy. Inclusiveness is also a point of contact when we consider the question of community and its place in history. Although guided by a different perspective, both Hegel and Cicero shape their view of the past in a way that locates each individual within a context, whether that means sublimating the philosopher into an instance of a logical stage in philosophy’s history or situating him in a community of practice. In the final analysis, the history of philosophy matters because it is an unescapable component of doing philosophy in the present. This relation between past and present in the activity of philosophical thought informs the importance that both Cicero and Hegel attribute to not just studying the past, but thinking about why it is legitimate and valuable to do so. One of Hegel’s largely forgotten successors in the philosophical study of philosophy’s history is Martial Gueroult. Working in the second half of the twentieth century, Gueroult is part of the long history of engagement with Hegel’s grand historical design for philosophy, and one of many who sought to overcome the difficulty of accepting an Idealist account that saw in Hegel the culmination of a process that self-evidently did not end with him. Gueroult offers one of the few book-length treatments of the histories of the history of philosophy, and a preface in which he outlines his philosophy of the ­history of philosophy.247 Although his ambitious project is almost exclusively concerned with modern philosophy, and Cicero is but an afterthought in his ­treatment of syncretism and the rise of doxography (1984: 23–70, especially ­50-53), Gueroult’s approach to the challenge of writing philosophy’s history ­provides another ­important comparandum to this study of Cicero. Correspondences between Gueroult and Cicero turn on the former’s attention to the aesthetic appeal of past philosophies, his endowing the philosopher with the power to intervene creatively in the landscape of philosophy’s history and his heightened awareness of the implications of defining the essence of philosophy as a critical ­question that must be tackled before mapping the discipline’s field. Almost twenty years before his study, Gueroult published an article that ­reflected on the legitimacy of the history of philosophy in terms that were not so different from those discussed with reference to Hegel above. However, 247 The four-volume project was never finished and was published posthumously. The second part, Philosophie de l’histoire de la philosophie, was published in 1979 and the remaining three histories appeared in the 1980s. Several important collections and book-length studies have appeared since, some openly engaging with Gueroult. So, for example, Hare (1988), Gracia (1992), Campbell (1992) and the collection edited by Giovanni Santinello, the first volume of which appeared in 1993.

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for Gueroult one of the risks of historiographical approaches to philosophy ­centers on the distorting effect that any such historiographical approach will have on the philosophies whose stories it is interested in retelling: past theories are selected and evaluated only insofar as they are considered relevant and interesting to the philosopher who is writing the account. This is precisely the threat posed by Hegel (and Aristotle before him) insofar as past philosophies are not autonomous objects of study but comply with Hegel’s (or Aristotle’s) definition of what philosophy is, and their “truth” or insights are valuable only because they are part of the dynamic that will eventually be resolved in Hegel’s (or Aristotle’s) system. For Classicists, this distorting effect often comes to the fore when we attempt reconstructions of Presocratic philosophies negotiating Aristotle’s agenda in the Physics and Metaphysics. Accordingly, Gueroult reflects that while there is an explicit attempt by such historians to pose as guardians of historical multiplicity, their histories set out with a predetermined concept of what counts as philosophy and engage with other systems only to the extent that they comply (or are made to comply) with that concept.248 The problem of closure (exclusion or reduction) is tackled by Gueroult in a manner that is reminiscent of Cicero’s approach to diverse historiographical models in the Academica. Surveying the history of philosophy, he notes that philosophy has no endpoint like science—a clearly defined goal to which all efforts tend; philosophy is constituted by a number of approaches to “truth” that stand in an equal relation to each other. There is no hierarchical organization to the field, with one system being closer than the other to “truth,” the field is rather a “cosmos indéfiniment en équilibre de possibilités spéculatives,” in which all philosophies continue to be of value as a source of philosophical reflection (1954: 43 and 59). While these speculative possibilities are said to exist matter-of-factly in the discipline’s historical field, Gueroult suggests that it is the work of the philosopher to engage with and evaluate older philosophies. Furthermore, he ­suggests 248 “On commence par poser son concept et sa définition pour valoriser l’ensemble des systèmes passés au moyen de leur réduction à ce concept.” In the same breath, “l’histoire illustre in concreto, de façon subsidiaire quelques unes seulement des formules que la philosophie fournit a priori de façon précise,” Gueroult (1954: 47). Gueroult leans on a parallel between the history of philosophy and the history of art to develop his argument: as Winckelmann proposed an idea of beauty before he began cataloguing artistic objects, so Hegel established his Idea first and then fitted all other systems around it. Cf. Hegel (1986: 171), “Wie die Idee schöner Kunst durch die Kunstkritik nicht erst geschaffen oder erfunden, sondern schlechtin vorausgesetzt wird, eben so ist in der philosophischen Kritik die Idee der Philosophie seblst die Bedingung und Voraussetzung, ohne welche jene in alle Ewigkeit nur Subjektivitäten gegen Subjektivitäten, niemals das Absolute gegen das Bedingte zu setzen hätte.” For further discussion of this parallel, see Dorfles (1974).

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that it is precisely in this activity of analysis and interpretation that these ­systems become worthy of objects of study and part of that history (1954: 46 and 49, 1979: 49–52). Significantly, in Gueroult’s thought history is not just a given, something out there for the philosopher to contend with, but it is something that the critical spirit of the interpreter has a creative duty to shape. ­Conversely, the effect of these philosophies on their interpreter is aesthetic. In his Philosophie de l’histoire de la philosophie, Gueroult discusses the psychological impact that historical philosophies might have on a thinker beyond the system’s possible truth-content. Certain doctrines, Gueroult (1979: 52–55) reflects, stimulate thought, eliciting interest and motivating this kind of intellectual pursuit. At this point, the monograph picks up on the comparison between the history of philosophy and the history of art to put forward his notion of “dianoematic,” the conceptual tool he puts forward as a method for the study of the history of philosophy. Shaped on the model of an aesthetics, dianoematics is a science that is attentive to the transcendental idea of Philosophy (or Beauty) as it is present in each philosophy (or work of art), while also accounting for the historical contingency of each philosophy or artistic object. It is precisely this aesthetic dimension that merits comparison with Ciceronian historiography as it is developed in the Academica. Gueroult’s description of a field in equilibrium or a field of possibilities is already conversant with Cicero’s approach. However, this emphasis on the creative license of the thinker combined with a focus on the aesthetic appeal of philosophies takes us back to the numerous passages in the Academica (and elsewhere in the philosophica), where Cicero praises the eloquence and rhetorical seduction of certain predecessors, chief among them Plato, Aristotle and Theophrastus. In this comparative sketch of the Academica’s historiography in relation to two leading figures in the field, I hope to have shown Cicero’s sophistication in handling several critical issues in writing philosophy historically. Undoubtedly, Cicero is responding to a set of immediate challenges in his approach to the tradition, not least the need to ‘translate’, as he will often say, the discipline for a Roman audience. But the notion of re-creating or staging that h ­ istory as an act of appropriation seems to me, in light of careful literary analysis and comparative study, not to be the whole story; neither is the explanation that imputes his continuous shifts of historiographical models and incoherent (self-contradicting) positions to his skepticism satisfactory. Cicero is negotiating all these pressures, including the skeptical outlook he purports to adopt and the need to position his thought within the Greek tradition. He also shows that the history of philosophy matters, and that it offers both the Roman youth and his older audience, possibly already invested in a view like Varro, space to roam freely and engage creatively. Certainly there is a degree of ­manipulation

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and reductionism in his strategy, committed above all to establishing what ­philosophy is, its register, community and concerns, as it shapes up as field of enquiry. Yet the tensions we have examined over the course of the reading afford a great degree of autonomy to the enquirer, who is in a position to ­understand the principles at work in certain ways of modelling the history and is given access to a wide range of schools and thinkers, from whom s/he can take inspiration and launch her own investigations. 6.5

Interpretation, Position and Segmentation: Arcesilaus and Carneades in the Lucullus

The final section of chapter six zeroes in on Cicero’s approach to the history of the Academy, in particular that which he outlines in the Lucullus. Leaning on other Classical historiographies of Plato’s school, I seek to draw out two idiosyncratic aspects of Cicero’s historical perspective: first, the way in which the author reels other traditions into Academic history, showing them to participate, emulate or anticipate certain methods or practices characteristic of his Academy. This strategy contrasts with other extant histories of the Academy appearing in the work of Sextus Empiricus, Diogenes Laertius, Clement of Alexandria and Numenius. In light of this strategy and picking up on an idea that emerged in the concluding paragraphs of §II.6.4 above, I chart the emergence in the Academica of a tendency to challenge the reader to engage with leading figures of the tradition, and to make this interpretive encounter an exercise of self-positioning within that history. To interpret the history of the Academy for ancient historians is to interpret the contributions and work of its leaders. What philosophers make of Socrates, Plato or Arcesilaus determines how they view Academic history and their own philosophical position. The difficulties that prevent scholars from agreeing on a straightforward story of how the Academy developed as an institution, from the dialogic treatises of Plato, through the numerological-ontological inflection of his immediate heirs, to Arcesilaus’ radical skepticism and the ­onto-­mysticism of the Neoplatonists, can be partly explained with reference to the hermeneutic foundations on which each discrete moment of that history is built. As far as the sources allow us to see, each new philosophical position seems to be defined by the interpretation of how that theory fits into the history of the institution—of how, in other words, it interprets its predecessors.249 249 The secondary bibliography on this question is enormous. For an overview of the grand narrative, see Dillon (1997 and 2003), Donini (1982), Ioppolo (1986, 1995 and 2009), Krämer

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So the New Academy poses a complex historiographical problem, since its history is known to us only through the interpretations of, for example, Cicero and Augustine; and the New Academy appears to be in its own right an interpretation of the Socratic inflection of Platonic philosophy: to quote Lévy (1992: 11), the history of this school “est en grande partie celle des interprétations dont elle a fait l’objet.”250 Ancient historians of the Academy have associated phases of its history with the leadership of certain individuals, developing a chronological frame based around continuities and discontinuities between leading figures. The historiography offers a model that parses the history of the Academic school into either three or five Academies. All these sources depend on the names of school leaders in order to fix a moment of doctrinal re-orientation. However, they vary significantly in their choice of protagonists and suggest the existence of at least two parallel traditions, each of which is marked out by the labels it chooses for the relevant phases. Writing in the second century CE, Sextus Empiricus discusses both these traditions. He aligns the numerical ordering of the history to the chronological tags: Old, Middle and New, with the New phase employed to cover both the fourth and fifth Academies in the so called Five-Academy theory. As his account goes, Plato belongs to the first and Old Academy, Arcesilaus represents the second, or Middle Academy, while Carneades and his pupil Clitomachus constitute the third and, according to some readings, the final stage. Sextus adds that some critics lengthen the breadth of the history to include a fourth movement under leadership of Philo and Charmadas, and a fifth under Antiochus.251 Clement of Alexandria and ­Diogenes ­Laertius, writing in the second and third century CE respectively, present (1971), Lévy (1978), Long (1988), Opsomer (1998), Tarrant and Baltzly (2006), Tarrant (2000) and Theiler (1964). This impulse to reconstruct the ‘storyline’ of philosophy according to interactions between individuals is not alien to modern historians of philosophy, who are almost exclusively committed to the search for patterns of theoretical filiation. 250 Lévy (1992: 5–6) argues that the appeal to past skeptics is one of three unifying characteristics of the skeptical tradition. 251 Sextus reports that “some, however, claim that Academic philosophy is the same as skepticism; for this reason, I should deal with this topic. Most people think that there were three Academies. The first and oldest was that of Plato and his followers. The second or middle Academy was that of Arcesilaus, the pupil of Polemo, the third and new Academy was that of Carneades and Clitomachus. Some people put forward the idea that there was a fourth under Philo and Charmadas and others yet think a fifth existed under Antiochus” (Φασὶ μέντοι τινὲς ὅτι ἡ Ἀκαδημαϊκὴ φιλοσοφία ἡ αὐτή ἐστι τῇ σκέψει· διόπερ ἀκόλουθον ἂν εἴη καὶ περὶ τούτου διεξελθεῖν. Ἀκαδημίαι δὲ γεγόνασιν, ὡς φασὶν οἱ πλείους ἢ, τρεῖς, μία μὲν καὶ ἀρχαιοτάτη ἡ τῶν περὶ Πλάτωνα, δευτέρα δὲ καὶ μέση ἡ τῶν περὶ Ἀρκεσίλαον τὸν ἀκουστὴν Πολέμωνος, τρίτη δὲ καὶ νέα ἡ τῶν περὶ Καρνεάδην καὶ Κλειτόμαχον· ἔνιοι δὲ καὶ τετάρτην προστιθέασι τὴν περὶ Φίλωνα καὶ Χαρμίδαν, τινὲς δὲ καὶ πέμπτην καταλέγουσι τὴν περὶ τὸν Ἀντίοχον, Pyr. 1.220.).

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v­ ersions of a Three-Academy theory using the labels Old, Middle and New. However, they select different leaders for each phase. Diogenes conscripts Lacydes to take the place of Carneades as leader of the final period; Clement, who only alludes to the New school in connection with Carneades, comments that the Old phase began with Plato, its founder, and ended with Crates and Crantor. He also makes Hegesinus partner of Arcesilaus in the Middle.252 These brief narratives outline a different approach to the tradition from the  ones we studied in the Academica. The question of the Academy’s unity in the Lucullus is, for one, defended from an eccentric perspective. At Luc. 72-76 Cicero responds to the accusation of sedition, and in particular to the indictment of Arcesilaus as agent provocateur, not by justifying the assimilation of Presocratics, Academic scholarchs and Socrates to a single doctrinal position. On the contrary his argument turns on two theses: the first concerns the precedent of skeptical claims and their appeal. The Academic skeptical position is introduced both as a moderate version of Presocratic theoretical “madness” (furor) and as shared, at least in part, by a dogmatist like Chrysippus. Second, within this picture of continuity, Cicero makes it clear that Arcesilaus and Zeno shared the role of modernizers in the matter of opining. Indeed, Arcesilaus and Zeno together defined what it means to opine and why it is dangerous. Comparing this claim and Arcesilaus’ role in the premise-building dialectic with Zeno at Luc. 77 and 112-113, the picture of the maturation and change of p ­ hilosophical concerns is re-affirmed: it is only with Zeno, and by implication Arcesilaus, that sense-perception and opinion become central ­issues in philosophy. Accordingly, Cicero breaks down barriers between ‘schools’ in order to evoke a type of philosophizing or intellectual activity that operates according to skeptical parameters and is shared amongst individuals, from Anaxagoras to Chrysippus. Within this framework, Arcesilaus is introduced as an innovator, responsible for shaping a new direction for both the Academy and philosophy as a whole. We have noted before that the internal history of the Academy The same order can be found in Numenius, although he does not offer the alternatives Old, Middle and New to the numeration, apud Eusebius Praep. evang. 14.4.15-16. 252 For Diogenes, “the leader of the old Academy was Plato, Arcesilaus was the leader of the middle Academy and Lacydes of the new” (Ἀκαδημαϊκῆς μὲν οὖν τῆς ἀρχαίας προέστη Πλάτων, τῆς μέσης Ἀρκεσίλαος, τῆς νέας Λακύδης, Diog. Laert. 1.19). Clement writes that “the disciples of Polemo were Crates and Crantor, with whom the old Academy founded by Plato ceased to exist. Arcesilaus was a colleague of Crantor, and after him and until Hegesinus the middle Academy flourished. Carneades succeeded to Hegesinus, and others came after him” (Πολέμωνος δὲ ἀκουσταὶ Κράτης τε καὶ Κράντωρ, εἰς οὓς ἡ ἀπὸ Πλάτωνος κατέληξεν ἀρχαία Ἀκαδημία. Κράντορος δὲ μετέσχεν Ἀρκεσίλαος, ἀφ’ οὗ μέχρι Ἡγησίνου ἤνθησεν Ἀκαδημία ἡ μέση. εἶτα Καρνεάδης διαδέχεται Ἡγησίνουν καὶ οἱ ἐφεξῆς, Strom. 1.14.63-64).

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amounts to a history of philosophy as a whole (§II.6.2-6.3). This equivalence depends on a historical approach predicated on a network of individuals who collaborate and drive the discipline forward, even if from conflicting standpoints. Just like in the later Academic historiographies, where phases are ­connected to the leadership of certain thinkers, Cicero’s design hands pride of place to the individual. When Cicero discusses the institutional history of the Academy from the vantage point of someone who identifies as an Academic, he does so through a contest over the legacy of Socrates and Plato. Plato’s ironia sustains the only allusion to doctrinal continuity in the whole of Cicero’s defense of the unity of the Academy. This occurs as a complex echo of the Lucullan thesis presented at Luc. 15, in which irony is attributed to Socrates as proof of his clandestine dogmatism. Whereas Lucullus discusses irony or dissimulatio as pedagogic, implying that it amounts to a strategy of concealment, Cicero attributes it to the work of Plato operating under the influence of his teacher, Socrates. Irony is a Platonic reading of Socrates, which digests the Socratic view that “there is nothing that can be known” (nihil sit visum sciri posse) for literary (re)production. This logic or rationale (ratio) provides a rhetorical defense for the originality and intimate relation between the two thinkers. In fact, by associating irony with Plato rather than Socrates, Cicero harmonizes their teaching and strengthens the relation, on the robustness of which Lucullus’ argument obliquely casts doubt. Emphasis on the role of individual actors in the history of the Academy is not limited to the treatment of the founders, but extends to the role Carneades plays as a nexus of innovation and debate in the field. At Luc. 98 Cicero uses the second-century bce scholarch as the turning point of his speech. Before this section, the discussion develops a polemic attack on Antiochus’ persona (Luc. 69-71), responds to Lucullus on the question of Academic history reaffirming the principle of unknowability (Luc. 72-77) and explores, through a set of empirical examples, the weakness and deceitfulness of sense-perception and logic (Luc. 79-98). With Luc. 98 begins what some rhetorical interpreters of the dialogue describe as the pars construens or confirmatio (cf. Ruch 1969): ­Cicero turns to Carneades and the constructive economy of the probabile, a term whose translation is far from straightforward but is generally linked to what is likely, probable or persuasive (§III.10.2). The probabile is succinctly defined in Luc. 98-99 in connection to perception. Impressions, Cicero claims in this passage, can be divided into ones that can be perceived and others that cannot be perceived. The reader will know from the earlier half of Cicero’s speech that Arcesilaus maintains that nothing can be perceived; at this point, however, Carneades proposes a secondary categorization of impressions: he

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posits the existence of impressions that are probabile and those that are not probabile. As the term suggests, the threshold of certainty involved in this second category is much lower than the first, making it possible to believe that some impressions are just probably, likely or persuasively true. Overcoming the stark contrast of the first-order division, Carneades seems to put forward from the skeptical camp a more propositive approach to philosophy. At Luc. 98, Carneades offers Cicero the opportunity for a change of pace, he is the juncture at which Cicero is able to free himself from “barbed retorts and that kind of convoluted strategy of argumentation” (omnes istos aculeos et totum tortuosum genus disputandi) that had focused the debate so far. This is the moment to put on a show for Lucullus, presenting who Cicero’s sort of Academics really are (ostendamusque qui simus). The transition to “Carneades’ position” (Carneadis sententia) structures ­Cicero’s speech in line with two historical phases of the Hellenistic Academy, centered on the work of Arcesilaus and Carneades respectively. The rhetorical significance of this move was captured by Woldemar Görler’s contribution to Assent and Argument (1997: 38–39). Arcesilaus’ contribution to Academic history consists in an innovative perspective on opinion and perception, a deepening of the conditions of unknowability. Carneades, on the other hand, seems to shape a new direction for Academic thinking, one that establishes the opportunity for constructive thinking. According to Görler, the two halves of Cicero’s speech, the rhetorically inflected pars destruens and pars construens, are co-ordinated with a type of argument or position assumed by each scholarch: Arcesilaus embodies the paralyzing akatalêpsia and this concern focuses Luc. 66-98, while Carneades speaks from a “probabilistic” position, which is at the heart of Luc. 99-115.253 As tantalizingly reflected in the architecture of his speech, Cicero’s Academy develops through historically circumscribed ­moments, in which individuals transform the course of the debate. These leaders bring about these changes against the background of shared skeptical preoccupations and a common philosophical register. One important difference between these two sections is the treatment of their protagonists. Arcesilaus is introduced to the audience in a d­ ramatic ­Socratic fashion. When he participates in Cicero’s argument, he does so principally through direct engagement with Zeno, with whom he agrees at Luc. 66 253 As Görler notes, this reading depends on making the expression “isti aculei et tortuosum genus disputandi” (Luc. 98) refer to destructive philosophizing as a whole and not just to logic, which Cicero just discussed at Luc. 91-98. This interpretation is corroborated when reading Luc. 98 in conjunction with another instance of the “thorny” simile at Luc. 112. At Luc. 112, the philosopher wishes to escape the straightjacket of anti-Stoic dialectic, and in this case he is not speaking of logical puzzles.

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but whom he challenges at Luc. 77 ff. Carneades, however, is a ­mediated figure. Immediately after Cicero announces the Carneadis sententia at the core of the second half of his speech, he discusses this sententia through Clitomachus’ account of it in his four-book treatise “On Suspending Assent” (de ­sustinendis ­adsensionibus). Ostensibly, this choice is motivated by a desire for accuracy and to deflect suspicions that Cicero might be making it up (nec vero quicquam ita dicam ut quisquam id fingi suspicetur). As a close companion of Carneades throughout his life and as a sharp, devoted and attentive student (usque ad senectutem cum Carneade fuit, homo et acutus ut Poenus et valde studiosus ac diligens, Luc. 98), Clitomachus is exploited to guarantee Cicero d­ irect access to Carneades’ thought (cf. Ioppolo 2007). In light of our discussion of Luc. 131 and 138-141 in §II.6.3, we know that Carneades voices and ­defends views that he does not support. This problem is mentioned at Luc. 59 and 78, where Carneades is accused by Lucullus and later defended by Cicero for endorsing a mitigated form of skepticism. Although only treated parenthetically in those passages, the issue at stake is the scholarch’s apparent move away from Arcesilaus’ severity and towards a position that allows the wise man to opine (opinaturum/opinari). Conceding that the sapiens may hold mere opinions is offensive to both speakers because profoundly inconsistent. Cicero claims that this view is held only for dialectical purposes and not endorsed or approved with any degree of certainty or “probability” (hoc magis ab eo disputatum quam probatum puto, Luc. 78). Crucially, however, Cicero draws this issue out as a point of interpretation. His own reading follows Clitomachus, who maintains that Carneades only ever was a true skeptic and dialectician. In contrast, the teaching of Philo or Metrodorus seem to have offered a different characterization of their teacher, one which suggests that Carneades did have a readily identifiable philosophical position and one that softened the skepticism of Arcesilaus. When over Luc. 98-105 we are presented with Clitomachus’ Carneades, we are explicitly given one of at least two versions of the scholarch and his teaching. Consequently, we have to refine our view of Carneades’ significance in the history of the Academy, which is tied not to the concept of the probabile, but to the debates that this theory gave rise to. Did Carneades endorse or approve the probabile positively and set up a philosophical system around it, or did he develop it to serve a particular anti-Stoic purpose?254 The legacy is the interpretation of the intellectual activity of an individual, whose work sparks debates and gives rise

254 On the probabile and the controversy, both ancient and modern, surrounding it, see §III.10.2.

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to a movement. This is not a matter of exploring the content of a theory or system, as was the case for Varro’s Plato in the first Academic Book. This section of Cicero’s speech exploits the ambiguity of the status of ­Carneades’ probabile to show that interpreting this theory is at the heart of understanding what Academic skepticism after Carneades wrestles with, what this philosophy is about. The probabile, according to one interpretation, represents the founding moment of a different type of skepticism altogether. This is a skepticism that gives rise to the constructive turn in the history of the Academy and that opens the way to Philo’s innovations and Antiochus’ Stoicism, and ultimately leads to Middle Platonism, with its Platonic tenets and curriculum. Yet the Clitomachean interpretation, endorsed by Cicero’s character in the Lucullus, rejects this particular trajectory with its promise of a form of certainty and dogmatism, staying the course of Academic skepticism as a purely dialectical endeavor. Both the Clitomachean and the Philonian-Metrodorian interpretations are concerned with understanding what Carneades meant, the objectives and motivations that led him to develop and argue for a particular meaning. Both are, in other words, interested in Carneades the thinker.255 In this way, post-Carneadean movements shape Academic history, in particular the phase that constitutes the subject of the Academica, as a journey into the personal dimension of theorizing; both show that the contest over the ownership of a thinker’s contribution is the stuff of philosophy. Moreover, Cicero’s discussion of the relationship between interpretation and historiography is more than a structural and chronological device. The meaning of Carneades’ skepticism is constructed as a dilemma that the reader must address. Through pondering this particular question, Cicero makes the reader become invested in Academic history and in the tradition of philosophy. The way in which the text achieves an almost performative quality is through the presentation of Catulus’ view. The Catulus, whose protagonist in all likelihood was the Roman aristocrat and consular who gives the dialogue its name, is the first book of the Academica’s first edition. A book which is now lost, but to which the Lucullus occasionally refers.256 Catulus says little in the Lucullus, leaving the floor to the title character of the second book to fulfil his promise and report what he had learned from Antiochus (ab Antiocho audita, Luc. 9). He is drawn into the conversation at the very end, when asked to share his opinion on the discussion. The view or sententia that he articulates at the end has been the subject of much debate, in large part because he 255 The compound “Philonian-Metrodorian” is borrowed from Brittain (2001). 256 For a reconstruction of the Catulus, see Mansfeld (1997), who lists all the references at pp. 46–51.

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claims to ­follow Carneades, engaging directly with the question of whether the ­Academic ­offered a substantive position or a dialectical one. Catulus declares, For my part […] I go back to my father’s view, which he believed to be the same as the one held by Carneades: I think that nothing can be perceived, yet I also think that the wise man will assent to something that is not perceived—the wise man, I reckon, will have opinions. But he will opine in such a way that he is aware that he is opining and knows that there is nothing that can be apprehended or perceived. While I accept/can’t ­accept the universal suspension of assent, I certainly do give my approval to that other view, that there is nothing that can be perceived. ‘Egone’ inquit, ’ad patris revolvor sententiam, quam quidem ille Carneadeam esse dicebat, ut percipi nihil putem posse, adsensurum autem non percepto id est opinaturum sapientem existumem, sed ita ut intellegat se opinari sciatque nihil esse quod conprehendi et percipi possit. per epochen illam omnium rerum conprobans [/non probans/improbans] illi alteri sententiae, nihil esse quod percipi possit, vehementer adsentior, Luc. 148. For Carlos Lévy (1992: 275), Catulus harmonizes the Philonian-Metrodorean interpretation and the Clitomachean, endorsing an inflexible epochê while acknowledging that opinion is inevitably a part of even the wise man’s life. The expression of Catulus’ thought is puzzling for several reasons, not least because of the apparent contradiction between epochê and opinion. But even before the reader delves into the intricacy of Catulus’ epistemology, what s/he is being asked to do is of great significance. Indeed, Cicero sets his audience an interpretive challenge: to figure out where Catulus fits in the debate over Carneades’ legacy as a way to understand his philosophy. The task of understanding Catulus implicates Cicero’s audience in the contest over Carneades’ inheritance, a contest that situates within a particular Academic lineage those who engage with it. Of these perplexing elements, Catulus foregrounds the debt to his father, to whose position he claims to return (revolvor).257 Catulus adopts another’s 257 For references to Catulus senior, see also Luc. 10. On the relation between the Catuli on the matter of their philosophical preferences see Mansfeld (1997). The notion of a “return” to a position is an important aspect of Mansfeld’s argument (cf. 1997: 57). At Luc. 59 Lucullus sends the reader back to the Catulus, to the “yesterday” (heri) of philosophical d­ iscussion, when the group “heard about” (audiebamus) Carneades’ relationship to a moderate form of skepticism that contemplates acceptance of the wise man holding opinions.

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view, which is in turn said to be Carneadean. This view, as we have seen, states that nothing can be perceived and that the wise man does opine, albeit conscious that he is merely opining and thus that nothing can be perceived or comprehended. This uneasy formulation associates epochê and opinion; it also strikes a jarring note when it uses the standard skeptical formulation, “nihil esse quod percipi possit,” alongside a clear and categorical statement of ­accepting and assenting to a view: “vehementer adsentior.”258 This potential confusion of two methodologies and epistemological positions makes it even more difficult to address the textual problem, a corruption that occurs at a critical m ­ oment of the declaration: is Catulus “approving” (comprobans) or “rejecting” (non probans) epochê? Plasberg’s edition, with the manuscript tradition, reads “comprobans.” Approving epochê, as we saw, is problematic, how can Catulus a­ ccept epochê and opinion simultaneously? So, textual critics and translators, among them Davies, Madvig and recently Brittain, emend to the negative “non probans.”259 Because of their line of work and the restraints of modern publishing, such critics must make sense of and—more ­importantly—produce a text. However, the grace of interpretive work means that we can dwell on this ambiguity, particularly in light of the rest of Catulus’ formulation. This textual imperfection complicates an already difficult passage and inevitably adds to the semantic challenge. Indeed, the philosophical frame itself may have alerted transcribers and editors alike and so may have played a part in the corruption of the text. The stress on the verb probare leads to a reflection on how the term functions in the context of Cicero’s epistemology with reference to, for instance, passages where different types of apprehension or assent are discussed. This includes discussion of “assent” (adsensus) and “approval” (adprobatio), r­ espectively held absolutely and provisionally (Luc. 104). Whatever we make of this dilemma, it is clear that the problem speaks directly to the nature of ­Carneades’ ­legacy and its profound effect on the shape of the Academy’s theoretical and institutional history. The phrasing of Catulus’ view and the ­confusion it 258 “Adsentior” is used at Luc. 101, to indicate Cicero’s agreement with Lucullus on the limts of the senses. Adsensus translates the Greek Stoic term συγκατάθεσιs (Luc. 37), and forms the counterpoint to the more epistemologically tentative verbs used by Cicero, including probo (I approve) and teneo (I hold temporarily as true), throughout his speech. 259 Among editors of the text, Plasberg (1922), Reid (1885), Rackham (1933) and Schäublin (1995) keep “comprobans,” which derives from the A family “probans” (the reliable ninthcentury Vossianus 84, and the later Florentinus Marcianus 257 and Monacensis 528). The eighteenth-century scholar Johannes Davisius added the suffix “in”—to the participle, while a century later Madvig emended to “non probans,” which correction is accepted by Brittain (2006).

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raises represents a fitting finale to Cicero’s speech and to the Lucullus. Whether Catulus supports the Philonian-Metrodorian position alluded to at Luc. 78, as Brittain (2001: 80–81) and Bonazzi (2003: 106–108) have recently suggested, or whether that position has little to do with Luc. 78 and a Philonian brand of A ­ cademicism, as Opsomer (1998: 58 n. 125) and Lévy (2005: 74 n. 57) have argued, the ambiguity is played up in the finale by the phraseology used to a­ rticulate it. This ambiguity invites the reader to participate in the contest over interpreting an individual’s position, in this case Catulus.’ This is a quintessentially Academic activity, only this time the object of study is a Roman aristocrat.260

260 Speaking of Cicero, Sextus Empiricus and Numenius, Opsomer (1998: 15) observes that “the reconstruction of the history of their ‘school’ appears to belong inextricably to the core of the Academics’ philosophical activity.”

Chapter 7

The Practice and Tradition of Philosophia: Debate, Critique and Community in the Academica 7.1

The Academy as Theatre

The personal and psychological dimension of philosophy is a central concern of Cicero’s late literary production. To cite a famous example, Beard (1986) and Schofield (1986) have underlined the way in which On the Nature of Gods leaves one rather perplexed as to what Cicero ultimately thinks. Partly this is because of the lack of what Beard (1986: 33) calls “directed conclusions,” and partly also because of statements such as the puzzling one made by Cicero’s character to the effect that he, a New Academic, believes Balbus’ Stoic view to be closer to what might be true (ad veritatis similitudinem videretur esse propensior, Nat.D. 3.95). If in the preceding chapter we have commented on the problem of understanding the philosophical thought of the discipline’s leaders, this chapter hopes to concentrate on how this issue plays out in the arena of Republican Rome, where the cast of characters selected to engage in debate and translate the tradition poses a similar challenge for Cicero’s audience. From the outset, the Lucullus speaks to the audience’s expectation of Lucullus as a Roman soldier and politician, underlining Cicero’s interest in the character’s thoughts and private pursuits. The characteristics that made Lucullus such a celebrated leader of Rome’s Republic, Cicero tells us, are external, public and known to all (externa, Luc. 4). However, Cicero draws back the curtain and shows us the ‘interiora’, namely Lucullus’ personal interests in literature and philosophy. Reading select passages concerned with the views of the Academica’s speakers, I aim to explore points of contact between philosophical and Republican history, evaluating how Cicero draws his audience into the drama to engage with his characters. One of the rhetorical strategies designed to accentuate the open-­endedness and ambiguity implicit in Catulus’ opinion at Luc. 148 is its proximity to Hortensius’ contribution to the debate (§II.6.5). In bringing the dialogue to a close, ­Cicero asks Hortensius for his opinion. In response, Hortensius offers a ­brilliant, evasive and skeptical exclamation: “tollendum!” The gerundive is pointedly equivocal: on the one hand, as Cicero reads it in his reaction, this is an out-and-out Academic view (ista Academiae est propria sententia, Luc. 148), referring to the fact that assent must be withdrawn, taken away—“away with © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:10.1163/9789004389878_009

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assent!” in Brittain’s (2006) translation; on the other, “tollendum” also refers to lifting the sails and is therefore a call to board the ship and depart.261 Hortensius’ playful rejoinder may well align him with a profoundly skeptical Cicero and Catulus in upholding epochê, yet it is worth reflecting on this obliqueness in light of his earlier intervention in the dialogue (Luc. 63). At the debate’s midpoint, Cicero comments on the gesticulation with which Hortensius greets Lucullus’ speech and on Hortensius’ exhortation to let himself be persuaded by Lucullus and give up his opposition. On this occasion, Cicero introduces the idea that Hortensius is difficult to read, because, as he explains in an aside, Cicero cannot understand whether his fellow interlocutor was joking or spoke seriously (iocansne an ita sentiens non enim satis intellegebam, Luc. 63). With a lightness of touch, the two vignettes about Hortensius contribute to the problems of interpreting Lucullus’ and Cicero’s positions in the Lucullus. In their case, however, the puzzle is carefully constructed over several paragraphs. As discussed in §II.6.2, the author weaves into each voice enigmatic and allusive elements in order to stimulate debate and signal to the reader the complex dynamic at work in each philosophical persona. At the start of the dialogue, Lucullus assumes a clear rhetorical pose as he mounts his attack on the skeptical Academy. This posture is presented as an effective platform from which to critique skepticism in the Academy, in large part because Lucullus is a close friend of Antiochus, a witness to his debating skills and a reader of his books (Luc. 10-11). Catulus expects Lucullus to fulfil his promise and discuss the theories and arguments he heard from Antiochus. This contribution will, in Catulus’ view, provide a missing element to the previous day’s discussion (Luc. 10). Hortensius chimes in, claiming that while in yesterday’s debate (Catulus) he had touched on some of the topics Lucullus might discuss now, he did so superficially. Therefore, Lucullus’ speech is welcome because it represents an opportunity to delve deeper into the question, offering a more in-depth and technical treatment (reconditiora). Lucullus is initially guarded, stating that all he will do is repeat what he learned from Antiochus, “I will proceed as Antiochus used to” (agam igitur sicut Antiochus agebat). Indeed, Lucullus is clear that the words or doctrines are not his (nec mea) and that he is not invested in them insofar as he doesn’t care whether they carry the day in the debate (non laboro quam valde ea quae dico probaturus sim, eo minus conturbor), or whether they win the argument or are refuted (nec ea, in quibus non si non fuerint vinci me malim quam vincere, Luc. 10). In no uncertain terms Lucullus admits that he is playing a role, and the question of his relationship to the arguments he will present in the dialogue is immediately put in question. 261 At Att. 13.21.3 [351] Cicero explores the appropriateness of nautical terminology to translate the Carneadean concept of suspension of assent (§I.1.2).

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Although this introduction is somewhat disconcerting and provocative, not least because the dialogue is about commitment to ideas and ‘dogmas’, ­Lucullus’ critique of Academic skepticism and his elaboration of an Academic system of thought based on Antiochus’ syncretism of Stoa and early Academy seems to offer a consistent and integrated philosophy.262 Over chapters five and six above, we have examined the systematic nature of Lucullus’ (and Varro’s) presentation, as well as certain patterns that structure the historical and logical design of his arguments. It is, however, difficult to say the same about Cicero’s position in the second half of the Lucullus. In that speech, a philosophical perspective emerges out of a plurality of thinkers who, in terms of Arcesilaus and Carneades for example, exert their influence at discrete points of the speech. Critical to understanding Cicero’s Academic view is the interpretation of whether he belongs to the Clitomachean camp, committed to dialectic and unknowability, or to the Philonian, Philonian-Metrodorian camp, characterized by a tentative epistemological positivism. In one ­respect, the text does seem to provide a straightforward answer. At the moment when Cicero introduces the different interpretations of Carneades (Luc. 78), he unreservedly sides with the dialectical perspective of Clitomachus.263 The ­participle “credens” (trusting in; believing) gives an explicative sense to the subordinate clause establishing that Cicero is convinced by Clitomachus’ view of Carneades. Cicero appears to declare that he is persuaded by the reading which has Carneades merely holding the sententia as a “position relative to the context of the debate” (­ disputatum) rather than “approved in any absolute sense” (probatum). Cicero’s relationship to Clitomachus goes well beyond Luc. 78. As we have seen, “the whole of Carneades’ position’” (tota Carneadis sententia) is ­expounded over Luc. 98-104 with reference to Clitomachus’ writings. The Academic ­author and pupil of Carneades is mentioned three times, and as many different Clitomachean treatises on the topic of withholding assent are quoted. The first mention of Clitomachus ushers in the probabile (Luc. 98), while ­several sections later, Cicero responds to a point made by Lucullus by quoting another of Clitomachus’ works on the matter (scripsisset isdem de rebus)—one of two volumes that he wrote for and dedicated to illustrious Romans of the time, the satirist Lucilius and the consular Lucius Censorinus (Luc. 102). While outlining the role of the probabile as a practical criterion (Luc. 99-101), Cicero quotes and openly agrees with three books by Clitomachus, even ­describing the 262 Before Lévy’s Cicero Academicus (1992), orthodoxy deemed Lucullus’ speech far more convincing than Cicero’s because more structurally sound. 263 The dialogue touches on mitigated and absolute skepticism beforehand in Lucullus’ (Luc. 59) and Cicero’s (Luc. 66) speeches.

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last one cited as the authoritative and comprehensive handbook on the whole ­issue of Carneades’ probabile: the work dedicated to Censorinus is ­celebrated as containing “the first principles for teaching and close to a doctrinal exposition” of that theory (prima institutio et quasi disciplina, Luc. 102); Clitomachus alone in the Academica is singled out as writing an authoritative primer on Carneades.264 Further along (Luc. 108), Cicero revisits the Clitomachean gospel and uses again the verb “credo” to express his agreement with Clitomachus, claiming that his teacher “had accomplished a Herculean feat once he had expelled assent—that is opinion, rashness—from our mind, as if it were a wild and fierce beast” (credoque Clitomacho ita scribenti, Herculi quendam laborem exanclatum a Carneade, quod ut feram et inmanem beluam sic ex animis nostris adsensionem id est opinationem et temeritatem extraxisset). Clitomachus draws firmer contours around his portrait of Carneades as a scholarch who rejects both assent and opinion. Taken together, Luc. 102 and 108 underscore the dialectical character of Carneades’ approach to philosophy. “Dialectic” here is not employed merely as a synonym for critique or dispute; the term is meant to underline the extent to which Cicero capitalizes on the dramatic register to show Carneades’ participation in viva voce debates (Luc. 102). Indeed, Cicero uses “diceret” to describe Carneades’ response to Stoic objections. The same disputational lens is adopted at Luc. 108, when Cicero frames discussion of the “Herculean labor” in terms of Carneades refuting assent as the first necessary step to arguing for the possibility of a practical criterion. That Cicero identifies with Clitomachus’ dialectical reading of his teacher is also made clear by his rejection of the possibility that the wise man can opine. The tenor of Luc. 66-67 is devoted to the construction of an uncompromising position against opinion. Cicero even creates common ground with his opponent on this matter, as he notes that Lucullus would concede the point that the wise man never opines (quem quidem nihil opinari tu quoque Luculle concedes, Luc. 66). And this agreement mirrors the agreement between Arcesilaus and Zeno on the same point.265 Arcesilaus’ approach to 264 On Clitomachus, see Ferrary (1988: 429–433), who points out that “le traité de Clitomaque dédié à Censorinus reste en tout cas le plus ancien ouvrage de philosophie dont nous sachons qu’il fut dédié à un Romain” (cf. §II.4.4). 265 “Arcesilaus thought that the best quality of the wise man—and in this he agreed with Zeno—is that he avoids being taken in and avoids being deceived. For there is nothing further removed from our view of the dignity of the wise man than error, foolishness and rashness” (sapientis autem hanc censet Arcesilas vim esse maximam Zenoni adsentiens, cavere ne capiatur, ne fallatur videre; nihil est enim ab ea cogitatione, quam habemus de gravitate sapientis, errore levitate temeritate diiunctius, Luc. 66). Note the link between “temeritas” and “opinio,” which we see again at Luc. 87, 108 and 114.

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philosophy is ­established at Luc. 67 through a simple “syllogism” (conclusio), whose major and minor premise are as follows: (i) “if the wise man assents to anything, then he is opining” (si ulli rei sapiens adsentietur umquam, aliquando etiam opinabitur); (ii) “the wise man never opines” (numquam autem opinabitur). In conclusion, Cicero offers (iii): “therefore the wise man will never assent to anything” (nulli igitur rei adsentietur). Playing on this model, Cicero elaborates Carneades’ philosophy—Gisela Striker’s (1996a: 139) “corollary argument”—modifying the second premise to the effect that the wise man sometimes opines (Carneades non numquam secundum illud dabat, adsentiri aliquando, ita sequebatur etiam opinari, Luc. 67). In this instance, Cicero offers Carneades’ view only to disagree with it and remain close to Lucullus on the subject of opinion. Significantly, Carneades’ alternative anticipates the division between Clitomacheans and Philonians expressed at Luc. 78, and Cicero immediately stakes his support for any view that rejects the possibility of opinion as an absolute position. Despite this dialectical leaning, at times Cicero appears to operate within what Harald Thorsrud (2002: 14) has described as a “Philonian framework.” In our discussion of the probabile so far, Cicero has been shown to be open to the possibility of different interpretations of this practical criterion, which interpretations we might class as ‘skeptical’ or ‘dogmatic’. I have argued that this sophisticated play of interpretations is linked to the wider question of how Cicero’s position throughout his speech is to be read. Just before embarking on his crusade against opinion, Cicero posits the existence of truth and the possibility, however remote, that this truth or something akin to it (veri simile) can be approached. And it is this hope that one can come closer to truth that sparks his investigative curiosity. At Luc. 65-66 he speaks of burning with desire for study directed at the discovery of truth (ardere studio veri reperiendi); later he will employ a nautical metaphor of navigating by the stars to indicate the extent to which his own research (wonderings and roaming) is guided by truth as an intangible, heavenly point. However, in the same breath Cicero ­describes himself as “a great opiner” (magnus opinator). A disappointed admission of weakness is used twice in the passage to show Cicero’s distance from wisdom (non enim sum sapiens … non sum sapiens) and cast doubt on his ability to ever become wise. Nonetheless, he still posits an epistemological basis for progress towards truth and, most importantly, he states that he stands by the arguments he will put forward. He assures his audience that what he will say will represent what he really thinks (ea sentire quae dicerem, Luc. 65).266 266 Note the contrast with Lucullus’ parroting Antiochus discussed above (Luc. 10) and the similarity with Arcesilaus’ philosophical motivations (Luc. 76).

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This aspiration to engage with truth is at the heart of why Cicero writes the treatise. A similar spirit of commitment to research and critical thinking ­oriented towards truth is described at Luc. 7-9 in relation to Cicero’s Academy. Through a register anticipating Luc. 65-66, the preface discusses the Academy’s appetite for research, its desire to examine, study and engage in debate, as well as its commitment to preserve an unhindered ability to judge. Here too Cicero posits the existence of truth or something similar to it, either of which might result from such enquiries (Luc. 7). The constructive principle underpinning these passages is connected implicitly to Philo’s philosophy. In line with his approach to the probabile, Philo’s epistemology seems to have campaigned for a less virulent skepticism and to have introduced a form of apprehension (Luc. 17-18).267 In his discussion of the Philonian frame, Thorsrud (2002: 14) looks beyond the Lucullus to Fam. 9.8 [254] and Ac. 1.13 where Cicero identifies explicitly with Philo. Nowhere more clearly than in the text of—and letters concerning— the second edition does Cicero seek to merge his voice with Philo’s in a way that corresponds to Lucullus’ and Varro’s relation to Antiochus. Confrontation with the second edition raises a different order of question: is Cicero closer to Philo in the Academic Books, but closer to Clitomachus in the first edition? Or, perhaps, is Cicero suggesting that the predominant source of his ideas changes in different segments of the same edition? Because of the Academica’s fragmentary state questions of this nature will continue to elude us. However, both Clitomachean and Philonian tendencies seem to co-exist across the fragments, and Thorsrud (2002) has operated a close reading of Luc. 78 that seeks to reconcile them. In his view, Carneades is not able to assent to either proposition, namely he cannot state that the sage can opine or that he cannot opine, because of his skepticism; Clitomachus therefore shows him arguing for both, and so for neither. Philo, on the other hand, makes a “mistake” when he approves one position. But for Thorsrud (2002: 17), Cicero does not consider this approval “important,” and so the orator is able to engage with both without committing an “intentional” or “unintentional misrepresentation.” Whatever the merits of Thorsrud’s philosophical analysis, the point of interest raised by comparing the Cicero of the introduction to the dialectical ‘­Cicero’—or the Philonian Cicero in the Clitomachean version—concerns the way in which the contrast rehearses the problematic nature of Carneades’ legacy: how extreme and uncompromising is Cicero’s skepticism, and is it coherent across the Academica and why does it matter if it coheres? From ­another 267 According to Tarrant (1985a: 26), Cicero saw Philo’s Academy as a “group of ‘examiners’.” See also Bénatouil (2007: 15–21).

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perspective, one might suggest that as author of the dialogue, Cicero needs to offer material for debate, put forward propositions and profile ideas for ­discussion; however, commitment to any one position poses the threat of closure on the dialogue, so Cicero’s inconsistency is, paradoxically, a consistent dialogic position. In words that might describe this particular experience of reading the Lucullus, the speaker reassures his audience that Carneades “is not afraid of appearing to throw everything into chaos and make everything uncertain” (non metuit ne confundere omnia videatur et incerta reddere, Luc. 110). Trying to make the authorial Cicero and Cicero the speaker cohere would require a more far-ranging analysis that would take into account how, for instance, Cicero engages with and alludes to Plato, Aristotle and Antiochus, as well as other figures in those intellectual traditions and beyond. Taking Aristotle as an example, at Ac. 1.6 Varro is looking for common territory with Cicero in order to explain the impossibility of writing philosophy in Latin. He invites Cicero to contemplate the Academy’s natural philosophy (physica), which he describes as “ours” (nostra). This natural philosophy is reminiscent of Aristotelian physics, since it treats causation in terms of matter (corpusculorum: “bodies;” materia: “matter”), form (fingere, formare: “to mould” or “shape”) and ­effect (effectio, efficiens: “the efficient cause”).268 At this stage, Varro and Cicero are in agreement, operating under the aegis of the same school before Varro severs the connection by dividing Academy into Old and New. Cicero seems to recognize himself in that “nostra,” and his reply to Varro does not contradict or otherwise take issue with this commonality. Cicero even shares the same ambition as his interlocutor when he suggests that the models to imitate are Plato, Aristotle and Theophrastus (Ac. 1.10). The same aspiration to imitate earlier Academic and Peripatetic philosophers is at the heart of the passage introducing Cicero’s “doxography.” At Luc. 112-113, Cicero appeals to these Athenian schools, both of which he believes offer a better way of going about philosophical enquiry than their Hellenistic heirs. Cicero complains about the constraints imposed on the arguments so far, about the “cramped spaces” and “dense brush” of Stoic thought (angustias et Stoicorum dumeta). Yet up to this point, Cicero has taken this philosophical nit-picking seriously and adhered to its methods. As he tries to widen the field of philosophy for his speech to roam freely (campus in quo exsultare possit ­oratio, Luc. 112), he goes back to the conditions of sense-perception that characterize the Hellenistic debate on the impression (visum, cf. Luc. 77). For C ­ icero, Aristotle, Theophrastus, Xenocrates and Polemo would not be interested in the 268 As Ruch (1970b: 78–80) suggests, the fourth and final cause may be alluded to in the rejection of the fortuitous nature of atomistic physics that motivates the passage.

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condition that an impression is apprehensible only if it is impressed “in such a way that it could not come from something false” (quo modo imprimi non ­posset e falso)—the provision that emerged out of the dispute between Arcesilaus and Zeno (Luc. 77). Unhesitatingly, Cicero admits that he would not dredge up that thorny Zenonian concession to Arcesilaus in conversation with a Peripatetic. Rather, he would prefer to meet the Peripatetic on his own terms (cum simplici homine simpliciter agerem) and be satisfied with the condition that the impression must be formed from a true object. Furthermore, he would put forward the skeptical view, which we have heard on numerous occasions, that nothing can be perceived; yet he would not fight this notional Peripatetic, were he to state that the wise man does occasionally opine (Luc. 112). Philosophy before Arcesilaus and Zeno is presented as a simpler affair, unconcerned with finicky conditions and unrealistic expectations of the wise man’s capabilities. Cicero straightforwardly indicates that he has not met impressions that fulfil the Hellenistic condition (nihil eius modi invenio) and matter-of-factly acknowledges that he will “end up assenting to something he doesn’t know at all, that is he will hold an opinion” (incognito nimirum adsentiar, id est opinabor, Luc. 113). That is something the great leaders of the past will allow him to do; not Antiochus. Significantly, when Cicero claims that he would not press a Peripatetic on the subject of opinion, he says that he would happily do so “especially because even Carneades would not be overly keen to fight for it” (praesertim ne Carneade quidem huic loco valde repugnante, Luc. 112). This position appears to be in line with the alternative conclusio at Luc. 67 and Carneades’ softer attitude to the Arcesilean approach. However, we are also here shown a Carneades conversant with the spirit and tenor of early Academic and Peripatetic philosophy: that the wise man can assent, and that an impression can be acted upon even if it does not offer cast-iron guarantees of its truth are the suggestions of an anonymous Peripatetic with which Cicero is happy to go along because Carneades is too.269 Cicero maneuvers both himself and Carneades into alignment with the tradition of the old leaders, the veteres, pointedly assimilating his voice to that of the vetus Academia and Lyceum—the syncretic tradition that Antiochus reconstructs as the source for his philosophy. Luc. 112-113 strikes a jarring note in the construction of Cicero’s position. This disturbance is recorded first in the passage through the adverb “valde,” which casts doubt on the harmony between Carneades and Cicero. Such expression emphasizes the distance between Hellenistic skeptics and their forefathers. ­Integration with the older philosophical tradition is further complicated by 269 This involves, according to Görler (1997: 45), no minor “doxographical distortion.”

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the last sentence of Luc. 113, where Cicero asserts that while no Academic or Peripatetic ever voiced the two theses in question (about the conditions of ­perception and opinion), he stands by them: he thinks that “both are true” (utrumque verum puto), openly approves both (plane probo) and does so not in any provisional or dialectical sense (nec dico temporis causa). This final phrase alone, with its reference to truth, and probable and provisional approval, puts Cicero in conflict not just with his nostalgia but also with the dialectical persona he has so carefully constructed over Luc. 99-104. So the passage adds more models for Cicero to integrate into his intellectual profile; Carneades remains an important—if ever-shifting—co-ordinate, while Cicero himself ends up almost dogmatically attached to the “truth” contained in the newfangled ideas about perception and opining developed by Zeno and Arcesilaus. When observed in this light, Cicero’s philosophical persona appears fragmented, difficult to pin down and unfamiliar. All along we have alluded to the twin tracks of the issue, namely the difference and convergence between ‘Cicero’ the dramatic character in the debate and Cicero the author. In his contribution to the Assent and Argument volume, Görler (1997: 36) confidently remarks that Cicero’s philosophical position is the same as that “reported and defended” by ‘Cicero’ in the dialogue. His analysis takes Cicero’s claim that he speaks out of conviction seriously and dwells on the personal and confessional register adopted when Cicero declares himself a magnus opinator and launches his defense of skepticism (Luc. 65-66). Inevitably, this interpretation commits the German critic to downplay those ­tensions I  have noted above. In one instance, with regard to the problematic declarations about truth at Luc. 113, Görler (1997: 46–47) hears a “subdued voice,” forced to “tail the line.” This is a voice that is cornered into eliminating Arcesilaus altogether because of its dislike for the destructive side of skepticism. In this respect, the impulse to level differences and rein in incoherences derives in large part from the fact that Cicero is a social and political actor, and his philosophy—skeptical, Stoic or Platonic as it may be—must be made to speak to those real-world responsibilities (e.g. Strasburger 1990 and Lévy 1992). While his philosophy can be provocative, it seems that there are many more things that it cannot be, precisely because their author is rooted in his political existence. Chief among these prohibitions is the prohibition of inconsistency. The trope chosen by Görler in his analysis, that of hearing the voice of Cicero speak to him from the text, illustrates the extent to which Cicero’s political persona, so extensively defined in letters and speeches, interferes with the philosophy. Despite this interpretive issue, about which I shall have more to say in the Conclusion, the purpose of this section is to read ‘Cicero’ in the context of the characterization of Catulus, Hortensius and Lucullus, and the ambiguities that

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beset their characterization. Ambiguity is purposefully built into the text by Cicero, who wishes his readers to play the part of the historian of ­philosophy and, in this role, negotiate interpretations not just of the Greek doyens of the discipline, but of the new cast of philosophers at Rome. Unlike Catulus and Hortensius, ‘Cicero’ is a more fully developed persona; and the author draws attention to it and to the relationship between that persona and the views it expresses. When evaluated against the background of Lucullus aping Antiochus, the author suggests that what ‘Cicero’ thinks is central to his argument.270 The connection between dialogue and prefatory frame further complicates the fictional nature of the characters, in particular Cicero’s. Beyond the challenge of using historical characters, the interplay of narrative and authorial voice produces a number of significant effects.271 In the first place, the debate is given a historical grounding so that each character elicits interest not simply for his view, but for the personal connection between ­individual and philosophy. The example of the Lucullus, which begins as an exposé of the eponymous hero as a closet philosopher, is effective in directing the reader’s attention to philosophy as a constituent of his historical personality. The introduction to the first Academic Book offers a suggestive treatment of these same issues. Ac. 1.13 opens the debate on Cicero’s philosophical position by providing what appears to be an historical observation on the fact that he changed allegiance. Varro questions the Ciceronian migration from Old to New Academy, an accusation which significantly is neither accepted nor rejected by Cicero. Varro reports news that Cicero “abandoned the old Academy and is dealing with the new” (relictam a te veterem Academiam […] tractari autem novam). One of the clues analyzed by critics is the verb “tractari,” and whether it refers to a perspective held in writing rather than personally. Görler (1995), for instance, presses the authorial sense of the verb to exclude the possibility that Cicero’s position ever did change.272 However, Cicero first invokes his right to change by comparing himself to the renegade Antiochus (Antiocho id magis licuerit), and then discusses the possibility that such difference between New and Old does not obtain, at least in so far as the Philonian reading of history suggests.273 The crucial debate over the One- or Two-Academy theses is immediately characterized as one of (self) positioning. 270 ‘Cicero’ himself is no stranger to role-playing, cf. Rep. 3.7; Nat.D. 3.51, 3.95 and Tusc. 3.46. 271 On the literary regime of Ciceronian dialogue, see Dyck (1998), Schofield (2008), Gildenhard (2013a and 2013b) and Steel (2013a). 272 Reid (1885: ad loc.) sees the verb as a clumsy disruption of the literary illusion. Also, Rudd (2001). 273 On Antiochus switching see also Luc. 69-71.

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In sum, Cicero provides an incisive and original response to key issues in historiographical philosophy. If anything, the Academica’s author avoids what Faurot (1969: 646) has identified as the unhistorical nature of philosophical history, namely that it schematizes a thinker’s work into a compilation of doctrines, with no room for the difficulties one encounters in precisely defining a philosopher’s thought. Philosophers often engage in the practice of ­defusing intricacies of interpretation by de-personalizing thought and conjecturing a consistent movement out of a single (or series of) work(s). But Cicero ­preserves the historical texture by showing thought and doctrine in their historical becoming, letting the reader glimpse just below the surface how the tradition can act upon a philosopher, pulling him in different directions at different times and in different contexts, as well as showing the tensions inherent in thinking. This strategy also leaves open the possibility of active engagement with past masters and offers an interesting attempt at preserving philosophy as a live historical tradition. The situatedness of Cicero’s Academica is inextricably linked to the personal, individuated dimension of philosophy that shapes Cicero’s ­historiography, and which he puts at the heart of how the reader ­approaches his text. The objective of this live tradition is to bring philosophy to Rome. Cicero’s translative project aims to do so by exploiting historical characters and a brand of rational thinking that is both abstract and aware of its new surroundings.274

274 The rhetoric of self-positioning and the construction of philosophy as a personal practice both also make sense from the perspective of the hermeneutical tradition. Gadamer’s work, Truth and Method (2010) in particular, offers a valuable template to think about the significance of Ciceronian engagement with individuals. Philosophy is for Gadamer intimately linked with the mechanics of Verstehen, a term indicating a form of cognition different from the objectivizing and rule-based engagement of Erklären, a form of research belonging to a scientific context. Verstehen is connected to an immediate sense of subjective participation in the world and is not rule-bound. Gadamer takes this mode of cognition as a starting point for his treatment of the historiography of philosophy, as a solution to the challenge with which the philosopher is faced when put before another philosophical text. Reflecting on the impossibility of escaping the constraints of interpretation, understood as the impossibility of attaining a completely a-historical and objective position vis-à-vis the object of one’s study, the German philosopher cautions the interpreter to fully realize his position within his own historical moment, and so gauge the distance—chronological and cultural—from the work he is reading. As the subjectivizing constituent of philosophy, Verstehen defines the discipline as a personal practice, fundamentally identified with moving oneself into a place, taking up a position, within a continuing tradition (Gadamer 2010: 246 and 2001: preface, and Bianco 1974).

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Critical Philosophy, or Philosophy at the Limit

The model of debate Cicero adopts in his dialogues centers on associating participants with given philosophical positions, for which they speak and from which they argue. In the case of the Academica’s fragments, the form of the conversation depends on one speaker setting up a case, with which the second speaker takes issue and argues against (cf. De Or. 3.80, Tusc. 1.8, Fat. 4 and Fin. 2.3). In the Academica, as in many of his other works, Cicero establishes early on which character will voice the philosophy of which school or thinker. So, Philo and Antiochus are the sources for Cicero’s, Lucullus’ and Varro’s views. This approach to dialogue, as Schofield (2008) argues, is a significant innovation on the Socratic model, because it offers the opportunity to explore in greater depth established and articulated theories, as well to evaluate and critique them. Following on from our analysis of the tensions within each discrete voice with regard to how these negotiate influences and engage with philosophy’s past, in this section I look more closely at the role dialogue plays in the Academica and what the implications are for Cicero’s use of the dialogic form in his historiography. I argue that, as far as the Academica is concerned, Cicero sets out a kind of philosophy that is quintessentially critical: through his characters and their use of rhetorical and philosophical devices, Cicero does not simply criticize philosophies, but shows an interest in criticism itself as a central concern of philosophy. My argument complements the usual round of close readings with a more explicit theoretical orientation than the one employed so far. My thinking on this issue is guided by Jacques ­Derrida’s remarks on Immanuel Kant, which he develops in his Right to Philosophy. Originally published in 1990, the work is a collection of the philosopher’s writings on institutional aspects of philosophy, its teaching and place in the school syllabus, and its relationship to other political bodies. Through this lens, I explore the ways in which Cicero’s philosophy is a “philosophy of limit,” a label that Derrida applies to Kantian Kritik. With Derrida and Kant in mind and speaking to the well-worn trope of the philosophical discipline as a field, the figure of the ‘limit’ in philosophy will orient my investigation—reflecting on debate, criticism and the search for the limits of a position as activities that define the boundaries of philosophy. Central to the discussion is the setting of limits/ boundaries as lines to be crossed, and thus closely related to the problem of progress in philosophy. The clearest instance of the connection between criticism and progress is Varro’s speech in the extant Academic Book—a speech studied at length in chapter five above. Building on that earlier analysis, I first underline the

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i­ nterplay between school and thinker in the progression of the piece: as Varro sets out the Antiochian version of Platonism, he only names Plato (Ac. 1.30) and Aristotle (Ac. 1.26). Once the system is in place, philosophical schools are replaced by individual thinkers, who lead the criticism. Over ten paragraphs, Varro lists the major figures of the Academy and Lyceum down to ­Arcesilaus, and then describes the Stoic departure exclusively in terms of Zeno’s critique. Despite the disappearance of their name, schools remain an important ­reference point in Ac. 1.33-42 as a structural device. Philosophers are listed ­according to their affiliation: Lyceum, Old Academy and Stoa.275 Forward movement of philosophical traditions is operated by individual critics, and criticism is implicitly identified as the vehicle for philosophical development. If nothing else, the reader is left with a sense of Platonism’s limitations. However impressionistic, Varro’s sketch shows every thinker after Plato—­except the few veteres that call themselves Academics—attacking an area of the Platonic doctrine with which he takes issue. Zeno ultimately rethinks the substance of the entire structure, leading to something that sounds, despite Varro’s best efforts, like a new comprehensive system. The Lucullus offers a different approach to the role of criticism in the history of philosophical ideas and schools. While Varro may not provide a fair comparandum insofar as his speech centers on a historical narrative, with respect to how critical responses work an examination of Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus does give rise to an alternative view. Focusing on the exchange between the protagonists, the debate on whether Cicero’s speech is an adequate reply to Lucullus’ has been a point of scholarly controversy at least since the publication of Hirzel’s three-volume Untersuchungen zu Ciceros philosophischen Schriften (1877–1883). The technical and tightly organized system propounded by Lucullus and the attack he delivers against skepticism are both met by what prima facie looks like a melodramatic outburst. As examined by Michel Ruch in his 1958 monograph on aspects of Cicero’s art du dialogue, the opening sections of Cicero’s reply deploy a barrage of seemingly ill-connected rhetorical strategies. According to the French critic, between Luc. 64 and Luc. 98, the intensity of exclamations, rhetorical questions and ad personam attacks does not provide a pointed or articulate response to Lucullus’ technical critiques, but are devices otherwise concerned with rhetorically constructing Cicero’s persona (ethopoeia, Ruch 1958a: 320–321). What emerges from this defense is an emphasis on the rhetorical dimension of the speaker’s involvement. Furthermore, a sense of “désordre concerté” haunts Ruch (1958a: 322), who uses this ­expression to deal with the constant alternation of rhetorical techniques, 275 Only the Academy is named as a place of congregation (Ac. 1.34).

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including rhetorical questions, prosopopoeia, exclamations, syllogisms and confessions. The superficial sense of chaos has led scholars to agree that Lucullus’ speech is a more polished product than Cicero’s. Hirzel (1883: 279–341) is an important voice in the debate. His analysis ultimately suggests that the problem with the speech is its content, which he understands to be entirely drawn from a work by Philo that had already been refuted by Antiochus in the Sosus. The Sosus is the source of Lucullus’ speech (cf. Luc. 12), so Cicero is at an insurmountable disadvantage from the outset.276 Reacting in part to Hirzel, Glucker’s Antiochus and the Late Academy (1978) disagrees with the Untersuchungen, providing, among other objections, a different view of the sources behind the speeches.277 Glucker also offers a nine-point study of Luc. 64-147, in which he reviews in turn Cicero’s inadequate historical discussion of Academic ancestry and his incompetence in matters of logic and sense-perception (cf. 1978: 399 and 400). The focus here is not the sources, but the way in which Cicero offers (in)sufficient responses to points raised by Lucullus. For Glucker, Cicero’s efforts are passable, but riddled with oversights. In one instance, Cicero fails to defend Arcesilaus from the accusation of sophistry pinned on him by Lucullus (Luc. 16). Cicero stands up for Arcesilaus at Luc. 76 when he claims that his challenge to Zeno was motivated by a search for truth and not for the sake of a­ rguing (Arcesilan vero non obtrectandi causa cum Zenone pugnavisse sed verum invenire voluisse sic intellegitur). But the interrogation of Zeno that follows, and the impasse it leads to, tells a different story (Luc. 77). In another case, Cicero never responds to the accusation that skepticism negates the possibility of progress in philosophy. On this point Glucker (1978: 400) admits it is impossible to determine where exactly the reply can be found in the text, although the promise to deliver one comes as early as Luc. 76. For Glucker, Cicero simply forgets.278 Cicero’s forgetfulness raises other problems, especially in connection with his attack on sense-perception (Luc. 79-90) and reason (Luc. 91-98). At Luc. 19, Lucullus begins his defense of the senses by separating himself out from 276 As Burnyeat (1997: 277) points out, Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus is presented as “a refutation of a refutation.” 277 Glucker (1978: 413) tries to show that Cicero’s response is satisfactory and that the source for his speech is a Philonian response to the Sosus. This theory was anticipated by ­Plezia (1937) and Philippson (1939). On Hirzel’s idea that Cicero deliberately penalizes himself, Glucker believes Cicero is far too intelligent to commit such a “howler.” Accordingly, Glucker (1978: 405) argues that Cicero must be using a book that refutes the refutation. 278 Reid (1885: ad loc.) believes the response begins at Luc. 91, while Plasberg (1908) points to Luc. 116.

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­ picurus’ doctrine that all perceptions are true. He states in no uncertain E terms that he is not defending that position and that therefore stock arguments about deceptive sensory data (the bent oar and the dove’s neck) are not applicable. Opening his critique of “truthful senses” (Luc. 79), Cicero refers to Epicurus and those standard arguments, hoping to show how close Lucullus is to the Garden School in matters of sense-perception. His aim is to ­demonstrate that Epicurus is at least more consistent on this point than Antiochus or the Stoa (Luc. 79-80). A similar tune is played in the discussion of hallucinatory experiences (Luc. 88), where Cicero repeats almost verbatim an argument that was raised and refuted at Luc. 52.279 In the final analysis, Glucker (1978: 403) believes that Cicero “forgot a promise” and “forgot a detail,” but he was not unaware of his shortcomings. Enlisting Att. 13.19.5 [326], the critic suggests that Cicero acknowledges the “confused” nature of his response and so ends up commending Antiochus’ arguments as the more convincing. As ever with regard to the Academica and its critics, Carlos Lévy provides a welcome counterpoint to the scholarly tradition. In Lévy’s (1992: 170) view, ­Cicero’s speech is not only “sans aucun doute supérieur” to Lucullus’, but its superiority depends on its rhetorical brilliance. In the tradition of Michel Ruch and Alain Michel, Lévy investigates the rhetorical texture of Luc. 64-147, ­beginning with a study of the correspondences between the two speeches. The result is a diagram (1992: 168) demonstrating the “très grande recherche de la varietas” on display and the complex way in which Cicero does actually provide answers to Lucullus’ points.280 Lévy re-evaluates an aspect of Cicero’s r­ eply that is prominently used as a structuring device for the speech: Cicero o­ ften quotes or paraphrases Lucullus as a way to introduce his arguments. Large parts of Cicero’s speech, particularly Luc. 79-98, are structured accordingly.281 Notwithstanding this network, Cicero’s speech is not a specular copy of his opponents with a matching architecture and clearly organized point-by-point refutation. There is a chaotic and staccato rhythm to it that endows the speech with a different kind of sophistication. His speech consists of interventions, co-ordinating philosophical and rhetorical devices to identify problem areas. Furthermore, while unconcerned with the systematic dismantling of a theory, these devices aim to destabilize Lucullus’ philosophical picture, show up its inadequacy and cultivate in the reader a sense of dissatisfaction with the 279 For Glucker (1978: 403) there is nothing else to say on the matter. 280 The table illustrates at the most basic level the “résau très dense” of correspondences and its “intensité.” 281 A quick way to get a sense for this technique and its extensive use is to flick through Charles Brittain’s (2006) translation, which italicizes the quotes taken from Lucullus.

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grounds of philosophical certainty. Thus far, I have capitalized on ­Glucker’s work to raise some of the issues conspiring to undermine the cogency of ­Cicero’s reaction to Lucullus, chief among which are the omissions, the i­ neffective or unsophisticated responses and the structure. Scholars have identified many more. Two further incongruities stand out and are worth considering in greater detail. An examination of these leads to a better understanding of how this superficial display of incompetence is not only deliberate but effective in creating the kind of dissatisfaction with philosophy I just mentioned. Take first Cicero’s attack on Antiochus’ decision to abandon Philo and the skeptical Academy. After he has harangued the audience (and himself) with questions, pleas and exclamations, he turns the light onto Antiochus with whom he wants a few words (sed prius pauca cum Antiocho). Cicero denigrates his former teacher in the following terms: [Antiochus] studied for so long under Philo those arguments which I am now defending here, that everyone agrees no one had studied them for longer. He also wrote about them with great acumen. Yet this same man, now in old age, attacks these views with no less intensity than when he used to defend them. Therefore, although he was sharp—and indeed he was—his authority is diminished by his inconstancy. qui haec ipsa quae a me defenduntur et didicit apud Philonem tam diu ut constaret diutius didicisse neminem, et scripsit de iis rebus acutissime, et idem haec non acrius accusavit in senectute quam antea defensitaverat. quamvis igitur fuerit acutus, ut fuit, tamen inconstantia levatur auctoritas. (Luc. 69) The speaker makes the case that abandoning Philo, rejecting the training and reading of his youth, weakens Antiochus’ auctoritas. He accepts that Antiochus was and remains an astute philosopher, but his switch ends up taking something away from his achievement and harming his reputation. This position is problematic for two reasons: Academic skeptics, according to Cicero, are free to follow whatever views they find most persuasive. They are not bound by constant adherence to one position. Specifically, freedom from auctoritas is a necessary condition of enquiry and what enables him to review ideas, change his mind and select the best arguments. Cicero affirms this clearly at Luc. 7-9 and stages a dramatic re-enactment of this principle throughout the ethical section of the doxography. Auctoritas is the enemy. Accordingly, his attack on inconstancy seems odd and contradictory. After Cicero accuses Antiochus of inconstantia, he intensifies his assault, posing a series of rhetorical questions that aim to deride this philosophical

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volte-face. Over Luc. 69-70, the speaker wonders at what time of day Antiochus changed his mind, why he didn’t join the Stoa, why he left Philo only ­after he began attracting his own students. On this last point Cicero muses on why Antiochus chose to invent the Old Academy, or rather hark back to the nobility of that name (nominis dignitatem), when his philosophy is nothing like it; according to some, Cicero surmises, he was motivated by fame (­gloriae causa) and the hope that one day his pupils would be called “Antiochii,” not “Academici.” Cicero paints the portrait of a manipulative teacher, closer to the Stoa philosophically but overall driven by self-interest.282 However, the vicious tone of the attack is left behind at Luc. 113, where Cicero celebrates Antiochus as “the most sophisticated and the sharpest philosopher of our time” (polissimum et acutissimum omnium nostrae memoriae philosophorum). He still objects to Antiochus’ position and seeks to demonstrate its inconsistency with older ­Platonic thought, but he drops the personal blows.283 Antiochus is presented in a slightly different light, and Cicero even concedes that Old Academics and Peripatetics do share an attitude to philosophical problems—an attitude, however, that is more in tune with Carneades. The passage rescues Antiochus and his project, inflecting the teacher’s personal relationship with his erstwhile pupil, Cicero. Antiochus was an influence on Cicero’s life and thought, and Cicero had a great affection for him, as Antiochus had for Cicero (qui me valde movet, vel quod amavi hominem sicut ille me, Luc. 113). This proximity forces a comparison between Cicero and Antiochus. Criticizing Antiochus raises questions about Cicero’s own legitimacy as another philosopher who, as we are told elsewhere in the Academica, changed his mind, changed school and developed something of an audience (at least in the ­fiction of his dialogues). He is also a philosopher whose pessimistic views on certainty are at odds with the certainty that guided him in his political career. This superficial contradiction between theory and life appeals to Lucullus, who capitalizes on it to draw into the debate the matter of Cicero’s personal auctoritas. In concluding his oration, Lucullus warns Cicero not to “diminish 282 A similar accusation is levelled at Antiochus again at Luc. 132: “[Antiochus] used to be called an Academic, although he was indeed an out and out Stoic had he made even very minimal changes to his doctrines” (qui appellabatur Academicus, erat quidem si perpauca mutavisset germanissimus Stoicus). 283 A textual problem at Luc. 113 has led Reid (1885), Rackham (1933) and Brittain (2006) to read the expression “qui minor est” (someone smaller) as referring to the individual who is supposed to answer Cicero’s question, “what is there that can be apprehended?” (quod comprendi possit). That person is identified negatively, as not being Theophrastus, ­Xenocrates or Polemo. Behind the expression, the three translators have no doubt in seeing Antiochus. Plasberg (1922) and Schäublin (1995) retain “minores,” which then implies that Cicero is appealing to the Stoics as respondents.

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the auctoritas of his achievements” by arguing that he didn’t act on secure knowledge (Luc. 62; §II.5.2). Leaving Antiochus, another complex treatment of critique and critical voices can be found in the section on logic at Luc. 91-98 (§II.7.3). Over this passage, Cicero reviews two logical paradoxes that have puzzled thinkers ­before him. One is the sôritês, or heap paradox, that concerns vague predicates. In its original formulation, the paradox interrogates what happens when someone adds grains of sand to other grains of sand and when that collection of grains ­becomes a heap (can be called a heap; Luc. 92-94). The second is the liar ­paradox (pseudomenos) about disjunctive propositions. In this case, the ­dilemma underlines the paradoxical status of someone claiming “I am ­lying” (Luc. 95-98). Through treatment of these two problems, Cicero attacks ratio—the same ratio that Lucullus places as the keystone of his system, the foundation of intellectual progress and constructive philosophizing. Reason, in the first half of the Lucullus, secures and stabilizes the epistemological ground that makes life possible. At Luc. 26, ratio is connected to the regimented structure of thought (logic, described through the technical terms conclusio or ἀπόδειξις); it is the mechanism by which perception develops into cognition and thereafter ­blossoms into memoria, ars, virtus and philosophia (§II.5.2). Cicero does not directly reject the structure of Lucullus’ theory, nor does he try to solve the paradoxes. On the contrary, he holds onto them, as glitches in the system, problems that cannot be circumvented or ignored. Ultimately, he contends, they make ratio anything but a solid foundation for philosophy. Emphasis in the passage lies equally on the destructive impact of logical aporiai and on the necessity to confront them. In the case of the two problems Cicero uses as examples of insoluble paradoxes, he anticipates Lucullus’ ­response, or a potential response from the Stoa. With respect to the sôritês argument, he stages a scene in which Chrysippus is asked when few things (pauca) become many (multa), if we progressively add an item—like a grain of sand— to another; Chrysippus is faced with a version of the paradox. The Stoic’s stock reaction (placet), Cicero tells us, is simply to go quiet or rest (ἡσυχάζειν, Luc. 93). Another way the scholarch responds to someone interrogating him in a captious manner (captiose interroganti) is through the simile of a charioteer. Like a charioteer coming to the end of a course (ad finem), especially if that end is marked by a sheer drop (locus […] praeceps), when the precipice is in sight he pulls on the reins to halt the gallop. In the course of the debate, the philosopher/charioteer simply stops replying (nec diutius … respondeo, Luc. 94). With reference to the pseudomenos, Cicero encourages Lucullus to apply for an “exceptio” in order to save face and avoid admitting to his inability to solve the problem. Exceptio is the legal procedure by which a plaintiff can apply to a

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tribune to have his case heard, even though the praetor, under whose jurisdiction this decision generally falls, has decided that the case is not to be pursued in a court of law (Luc. 97). Employing these images—even replaying a snippet of conversation between Chrysippus and Carneades—draws attention to the rhetorical significance of what is otherwise a fairly arid technical discussion. All three reactions are unsatisfactory for Cicero (and Carneades), only reaffirming that these paradoxes endure and corrode the system of reason. Not only are they there to be confronted, but, as the discussion of the sôritês highlights, they also set the limits (fines) of reason. It is Cicero who describes the paradox in these terms: “the nature of things has not provided us with an understanding of limits or ends” (rerum natura nullam nobis dedit cognitionem finium, Luc. 92). Using Chrysippus, Carneades, Antiochus and Lucullus, Cicero points out to his audience the inescapable limits of philosophical discourse (§III.9.1-9.2 and §III.10.1). Cicero’s challenge to ratio is not principally an evaluation of how dialectic does or does not enable life; rather, he uses the paradoxes to show up its inconsistencies, identifying its limits and revealing how it contains within itself its own undoing. In nuce this is the logic that governs many of his dialogues: identifying speakers and a topic, allowing one speaker to explicate the view of his preferred school and another to attack it. In doing so, the critic isolates, exposes and confronts that philosophy’s limits. This regime operates in On Ends, written at the same time as the Academica, and in the later On the Nature of Gods and On Divination.284 Proceeding by identifying issues and constituting them as problems to be dealt with is a method employed by both Lucullus and Cicero. One of the first moves that Lucullus makes at Luc. 12 is to shift the subject of debate away from Philo and onto Arcesilaus and Carneades. Then immediately after the historiographical excursus, he proposes to discuss the senses (Luc. 19). On three distinct occasions, Cicero explicitly discusses what he thinks the real topic of debate is and concentrates his efforts on that proposition (Luc. 68, 77 and 83). So, at various moments of the Lucullus, we are ­reminded of the challenges we have to face, what the point in question or the problem is. The dialogue highlights the critical process by which the limits of 284 On the Nature of Gods and On Divination are described in the preface of On Fate as “continuous discourse exploring both sides of the question” (in utramque partem perpetua ­oratio, Fat. 1; cf. Div. 2.3). The same formula, in utramque partem, is used at Luc. 7 to describe the method used by Academics to guide their enquiry into truth. Although I acknowledge the structural significance of the formula in Cicero’s philosophica, my focus at this point of the argument is narrowly around the minutiae of criticism. On in utramque, see Ruch (1969), Auvray-Assayas (2005), Gorman (2005), Schofield (2008) and Cappello (forthcoming); further referencs at §I.3.1 n. 94. Cf. §III.10.2.

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theories are exhibited, while also identifying those limits and defining them as philosophical problems. My use of the figure of ‘limit’ and my attempt at disentangling images and themes linked to it (boundaries; shortcomings) was aimed at reading Cicero’s Academica in light of aspects of Jacques Derrida’s reading of Kant. More ­specifically, my principal interest is in Derrida’s reflections on what it means to quote or refer to Kant in post-Kantian philosophy and how these reflections can guide our understanding of the Academica’s treatment of philosophy’s institutional history. By way of introduction, the preface to Derrida’s Right to Philosophy investigates the themes of memory, legitimation, origin, history, language and authority that will occupy Derrida in the rest of the work.285 The author acknowledges that the crisis in the humanities felt acutely in France in the mid-1970s prompted him to think about why and how philosophy should be taught, and the role it should play in the curriculum. Derrida is writing during what is fundamentally a crisis of identity for modern philosophy—what is philosophy?, why is it relevant?, who can speak for it? And this crisis sets him off on a search for the discipline’s institutional and intellectual roots, and for the elements that legitimize its study. As Derrida confronts the issue of how philosophical discourse legitimizes itself, he finds in Immanuel Kant the towering figure in modern philosophy and in Derrida’s own oeuvre, whose influence constructs a kind of “enclosure” for philosophical thinking. Referring back to Kant, both in the b­ anality of ­everyday teaching and essay writing, as well as in specialist publications, is an act of intellectual engagement. However, the French philosopher also sees in the act a quasi-bureaucratic function of admitting the discussion to the philosophical standard. Derrida (2002: 48–50) characterizes citing Kant as a ­“major and authentically philosophical gesture,” a gesture that is “necessary and interesting from a philosophical point of view in the strict (proper, internal, ­intrinsic) sense” and as something that “guarantees, authenticates, ­legitimates 285 The anthology, published in English in two volumes (2002 and 2004a), collects texts written by Derrida in an effort to defend the teaching of philosophy. Many of these articles are a response to the loi Haby, an educational reform that was perceived at the time as a frontal attack on the role of philosophy in secondary education and gave rise to widespread debates in France on the role that philosophy could and should play in school. The États généraux de la philosophie were convened by a group of philosophers, including Derrida, in 1979. Pierre Bourdieu’s Homo Academicus is another example of a studied reaction to this watershed moment in the history of French state education. Derrida’s work includes the inaugural address delivered at the Etats généraux de la philosophie (1980) and documents concerning discussions held at that meeting, as well as relating to the charter of the Collège international de philosophie (1982), founded by, amongst others, Derrida, and the Commission de Philosophie et d’Epistémologie (1990).

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the ­philosophical dignity of an argument.” Ultimately, “Kant is the norm;” ­Kantianism is the norm precisely because it is a philosophy of criticism, ­committed to investigating the critical idea itself, of beginning from the possibility of philosophy and developing a system, with all the structural qualities of a system (boundaries, architecture, oppositions). Kantianism, in short, offers an “efficient machine to judge and institute” (2002: 53). Because Derrida’s own ­philosophy deals with oppositions, limits, and so with the thinking of the ­possibility of philosophy, he is offering a reflection on certain institutional mechanisms and aspects of philosophy, while also thinking his project in terms of Kant. In this reading, Derrida situates his own brand of philosophy within a methodological tradition reaching back to the roots of Idealism. In doing so, he also outlines a broad framework within which philosophy operates and reminds his reader of the “responsibility” philosophy has to operate in that particular way. “Every philosophy,” Derrida (2002: 53) goes on to claim, proceeds by “systems of conceptual delimitations and oppositions.” Kant’s system is paradigmatic because it presents itself as “the essential project of delimitation: the thinking of the limit as the position of the limit, the foundation of legitimation in view of these limits” (emphasis in the original). The value of his contribution to philosophy is in this respect understood to lie not just in the system it delivers to posterity, but in terms of its project—what it set out to do, how it operates and how it wants to be seen. This system is defined by the term Kritik, by the construction of boundaries within which it makes (its brand of) metaphysics possible. These boundaries are limits, demarcating it off from other systems and ideas, oppositions. The author’s task, as described by Kant (1999: 11) in the introduction to his Critique of Pure Reason is none other than to establish the foundations of philosophy: “Gründe vorzulegen.” This foundation is articulated against what he perceived as the limits of empiricism and rationalism. Derrida’s (view of the Kantian) Kritik offers some suggestive echoes of elements of Cicero’s philosophy discussed thus far in Part 2. We explored C ­ icero’s interest in questions of origin, his quest for the beginning of philosophy; e­ arlier in this section, we also studied Cicero’s interest in criticism, limits and the question of legitimacy. Taking into account these readings, Ciceronian philosophy emerges as an attempt to establish the foundations of a project that thinks of itself in terms of a critique of its tradition. The structural pattern of rupture and critique is deployed in the way Cicero imagines the h ­ istory of philosophy as proceeding: critique is, in other words, characterized as the ­privileged mechanism for understanding intellectual engagement. An important voice in the historiographical debate of the 1980s, Alasdair MacIntyre (1984) examines the connection between criticism, groundwork and progress from a ­different perspective. Central to his contribution is the problem of ­continuity in

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the history of philosophy. Histories of philosophy, he contends, often employ strategies that aim to “mask difference, to bridge discontinuity and to conceal unintelligibility” in order to provide a coherent historical narrative. ­Citing Thomas Kuhn’s notion of incommensurability deployed in his Structure of ­Scientific Revolutions (1962), MacIntyre wonders whether theories are, in fact, able to speak to each other and so be compared. For MacIntyre (1984: 33 and 42), the issue is to identify the “framework of continuity” within which differences and alterations can still take place without deserting the boundaries of the discipline. In this respect, the history of science poses a slightly different challenge because of the “essentially historical” character of its theories. As he puts it, there is no transhistorical “theory of gases,” but a theory as it was, for example, in 1650 or in 1850. Therefore, such theories progress or fail to progress because of their ability to provide for their failures and limits: these “incoherences and inadequacies,” judged against the standards of the body of the theory itself, are constituted as problems, the solution to which becomes the foundation for a change in direction of the theory itself. The natural sciences offer MacIntyre (1984: 42) an important paradigm of progress, in the sense that they construct a model in which theoretical weaknesses and shortcomings become “points at which [a theory] provides itself with problems, those problems in dealing with which it shows itself capable of growth.” Continuity in this case is provided by the interaction between small-scale theories and the larger body of theories within which they are contained. MacIntyre finds an important commonality between philosophy and the natural sciences. Philosophical theories speak to each other through a process of transcending critique, imitative in many ways of the growth and theoretical reformulation that characterizes the history of science. The reason why all ­philosophers are not Platonists, in MacIntyre’s (1984: 45) example, is that philosophers after Plato have met the challenge of differentiating themselves from Plato’s position. This differentiation involves identifying the limits of Platonic philosophy (or what these are taken to be by the interpreter) and thereby creating “sufficient reason for failing to recognize [oneself] as a Platonist.” Although his emphasis is on the transcending critique, the primary duty of a thinker is to identify those inadequacies and inconsistencies that constitute problems. These problems are, in turn, what set the goals of philosophical investigation. According to Varro, Antiochian correctio is an account of philosophy that depends on the identification of problems as creating the conditions for a form of intellectual progress. Similarly, the Lucullus’ interest in isolating difficulties in the Stoicism of certain Academics, for example, or in skepticism, exemplifies the first part of the process, the moment at which progress in research is

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made possible. Both fragments stage philosophers identifying problems and challenges that they must confront; both fragments also ask us to think about the critic himself, and his legitimacy to speak. Philosophical critique is always already the search for the possible foundations of philosophy. Critique also sets the agenda, shaping philosophical ­problems and their solution. Philosophy at the limit is not a negative economy of thought, but a productive one. Cicero’s Academica is concerned with taking up a legitimate position within philosophy as an institution and an intellectual tradition. The ambitious project described within the fragments entails reviewing the theories, arguments, schools and oppositions that make up Greek philosophy—a process of mapping that involves at its core identifying and articulating the tradition’s boundaries, its failures and shortcomings. The limits of this tradition are exhibited and performed in his dialogues, and this performance is legitimized by the fact that the Greek intellectual tradition ­itself is shown to be characterized by a narrative of re-thinking, a story of problem and solution. Cicero plays into this model of progress, presenting himself as being in line with this narrative structure, but also as the ultimate arbiter of what has gone before him. His philosophy is not the moment of ­transcending, but a moment in Roman history during which the Greek tradition of philosophy reflects on itself, finds its limits and begins to police its boundaries—a point in time when it constitutes itself into Philosophia. The Academica also represents a juncture for Cicero’s literary project: the beginning of a frenzied spell of writing, at a time when Rome was on the brink of collapse.286 7.3

Community: Reason, Canon and Philosophy

With reference to Hegel in §II.6.4, I noted the importance of society as bearer of philosophical ideas; in §II.6.5 and §II.7.1 I discussed the gesture of interpreting history as a marker of belonging to the Academy; and the institutional dimension of philosophy came to the fore in §II.7.2. At discrete intersections of the argument, what makes a community of philosophers emerge as an ­issue 286 David Hoy’s commentary on Martin Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit provided a useful background to the development of the ideas at work in this chapter. Hoy (1978: 331) focuses on the rupture and rethinking of the past that stimulates Heidegger’s work: “rethinking a tradition if it is genuinely thoughtful involves a criticism, deconstruction, or ‘destruction’ of traditional ways of thinking and of the traditional history of philosophy.” However, he continues, criticism is also made possible by tradition: “the destruction is not of the tradition or of the past per se, but of a present way of thinking that has become merely traditional, losing sight of the genuine goals and real historical potency of the tradition.”

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of interest to Cicero, whose philosophy seeks to create continuities between a network of Greek thinkers, going back to Plato and beyond, and his own times. This effort is prominently on show in both fragments of the Academica, where Cicero, Lucullus, and a host of minor characters are described as close to the philosophers, principally Antiochus and Philo, whose disagreement sparks the debate.287 Underlying this overt weaving together of Greece and Rome are strategies designed to institute a philosophical community and shape the field of philosophical enquiry. These mechanisms are part and parcel of the act of identifying and selecting Greek ‘sources’ and speakers, and pitting them against each other in arguments over given philosophical problems. In what follows, I explore in greater detail Cicero’s interest in communities and groups with a view to elucidating the Academica’s institutional agenda, an agenda that is principally concerned with delineating this foreign discourse and field of study for members of Cicero’s Roman audience. The Academica generally characterizes thinkers as belonging to a group, school or movement; they either follow someone as their student, or belong to a community defined by geographical location. In this respect philosophical practice is unthinkable without labels, and in some cases it does not matter how far individuals, operating under a particular school, depart from the views of that school’s founder or its given orthodoxy. Looking back to Varro’s speech in the first Academic Book, for instance, we have seen that thinkers belong to one of three schools. Their thought is linked to those schools, even though they disagree with aspects of the school’s teaching. Strato is a case in point: though a pupil of Theophrastus (auditor), he is totally divorced from the teaching of the Lyceum (ab ea disciplina omnino semovendus est). In fact, Strato does not engage nor is he even interested in aspects of that tradition, but is only concerned with natura (totumque se ad investigationem naturae contulisset, Luc. 34); yet he belongs to the list of Peripatetics. The Academic Book’s reader is not told what it means to be a member of a school; Varro just writes him onto the list, as he does for the other philosophers who respond more or less critically to the tradition to which they belong. And this prompts the question: what is the relationship between these contingent categories and their members?288 287 See Gildenhard (2007) for a close reading of the philosophical prefaces that seeks to understand Cicero’s motivations for ‘translating’ Greek philosophy and the challenges he faced; also Habinek (1995). 288 Zeno’s corrective approach to Platonism begs the same question about group identity (Ac. 1.34 and 35-42). The unity of Peripatetics and Academics is especially interesting in this sense: at Ac. 1.17 Varro tells us that the different names derive from the space where they practice philosophy, but that the practice itself was identical because steeped in Plato (cf. Luc. 15). However, the rest of Varro’s speech, like a large part of the Lucullus,

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Luc. 112-146 provides another perspective on this question of membership and the fluid approach to locating thinkers within categories. The section on physics (Luc. 116-128) offers an interesting test case. As Cicero begins to detail the disagreement over natura, he first ushers in the “geometricians” (geometrae), among whom he names only Archimedes (Luc. 116) as a foil for the “­ natural philosophers” (physici, mentioned at Luc. 117). Thereafter, Cicero begins a long roll-call of philosophers, starting with what we now call the Presocratics and including, among others, Plato, the Pythagoreans (Luc. 118), Aristotle (Luc. 119), Strato (Luc. 121) and the Stoics, Zeno and Cleanthes (Luc. 126). Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first philosopher named on this extensive list is Thales. Thales is introduced as “one of the seven sages” (unus e septem) and recognized as the “best among them” (princeps); he is, in other words, identified as a member of a group. After him comes a chronological succession of philosophers mentioned by name and discussed with reference to how their physical theory differentiates them from the previous one (Luc. 118). Each theory is afforded a one-line description and in rare cases we are given a glimpse of a social relationship (Thales and Anaximander) or a temporal one (Xenophanes); treatment of the thinkers named after Luc. 118 is more extensive, but follows the same principle. The section on ethics stages a different organizing principle. In the first instance, we are introduced to theories that are no longer defended (relicta, Luc. 129) and endorsed by philosophers whose influence has waned (abiecti, Luc. 130). These views are presented in contrast to those that have contemporary voices (defensa, Luc. 131). Within the abiecti, we have further groupings: the geographic (Eleatici, Eretriaci, Elii, Luc. 128; cf. Cyrenaici at Luc. 129) and those affiliated to Plato. Place names have a role to play in the constitution of certain Socratic and Platonic groups, as they do for certain Presocratics and affiliates of the Stoa. In the category of currently defended views, we have ­already seen how groups are established according to their fines (§II.6.3); we also examined the extent to which the ethical section is directly concerned with how ­philosophers identify or mis-identify themselves as belonging to a certain school (§II.6.1-6.3 and §II.7.2). Cicero contends that Antiochus is a Stoic and not an Academic or Peripatetic; and the Stoic views are not the same as those of the early Academy or Lyceum. This tendency to pull together networks of allegiance or opposition runs through the Academica. From the historical landscapes produced by ­Lucullus, insists on the Peripatetic correctio of Platonism and the second life of philosophy after Arcesilaus and Zeno. This is not to argue that the Academica denies any identity between the schools, but that the question of essential identity or unity is raised as a complicated issue.

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Varro and Cicero, as they imagine conversations between former leaders of the Academy, Zeno and Arcesilaus, Chrysippus and Carneades, and those who follow them, to the debates over whether the Academy is, in fact, one or two schools, institutional identity emerges as a crux of the dialogue. More specifically, institutional identity is a matter for debate among Cicero’s fictional ­Roman philosophers, who are asked to reflect on the integrity of the Greek Academy. This sense of division and competition is also relevant to Cicero’s ­Roman audience, whom he divides into several broad categories in the prefaces to both fragments: in relation to his project, Cicero imagines those that are not interested in Greek literature, those not interested in philosophy, those who think philosophy inappropriate for men of state, and those who are ­interested in philosophy but prefer to read it in the original (Luc. 5 and Ac. 1.4). Philosophy has a divided audience at Rome. Furthermore, in the Academica, particularly in the Lucullus, Rome is a divided political body. Challenging Philo’s unitarian interpretation of Academic history, Lucullus provokes Cicero by casting him in the role of a subversive citizen (seditiosi cives) and “popularis” (Luc. 13). By implication, Lucullus is identifying himself with the opposite faction, the “optimates.” Cicero meets this accusation with equal vigor, calling Lucullus a seditious tribune who drags Cicero before a “public assembly” (contio) in order to bring him into disrepute. Within this agonistic context, Cicero reminds Lucullus that it would not be difficult to turn the people against him, since according to Zeno’s uncompromising epistemology, the populace is made up of “exiles, slaves and fools” (exules servi insani, Luc. 144).289 Finally, responding to the accusation of fabricating history, Cicero operates the same distinction as Lucullus, dividing Roman society between the good men (boni) and those who are not concerned with the good (res non bonas tractent, Luc. 72). For both, Saturninus is the epitome of Roman sedition. The mirroring of Greek and Roman philosophical communities is a topic revisited with a more sophisticated approach when Rome is brought to bear on the final stages of Cicero’s argument in favor of the probabile. At Luc. 146 Cicero uses Roman court-room practice to show his audience how something similar to Carneades’ practical criterion is already at work in Roman law (cf. II.4.2). “The caution of our Roman ancestors,” Cicero argues, “led them to approve this practice” (quam rationem maiorum etiam comprobat diligentia). With this expression Cicero is referring to three distinct legal formulae, which identify judicial ratio with the philosophical-methodological ratio of Carneadean skepticism. In the first instance, those who swear oaths must state that they do so “according to their own opinion” (ex sui animi sententia) and 289 On the contio at Rome and its use by populares, see Tan (2008).

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are liable “if they knowingly lie” (si sciens falleret). This formulation recognizes the possibility of error and admits that an oath is sworn from a personal and not an absolute perspective. Cicero then refers to witnesses who must give their testimony stating what they believe to have happened (arbitrari), even if they had directly seen the event they are reporting (etiam quod ipse vidisset). ­Finally, jurors under oath rule not according to facts (facta) but on what appears to have happened (videri). They do so acknowledging that they speak from their perspective, again even in the case they have first-hand knowledge of the event. Judges comment on what appears to them as true, not on “facts” (facta). According to Cicero, these stock phrases of the courtroom underlie a skeptical attitude, in full recognition that life is beset by unknowns (quod inscientia multa versaretur in vita).290 In the passage just before this comparison, Cicero reminds Lucullus of ­Zeno’s uncompromising epistemological position. According to Zeno and Antiochus no one knows anything except the wise man (scire negatis quemquam rem ullam nisi sapientem, Luc. 144); however, this sapiens remains an ideal: who he is or ever was, neither Zeno nor Antiochus ever discuss (sed qui sapiens sit aut fuerit ne ipsi quidem solent dicere, Luc. 145). Consequently, Cicero turns the case on its head by claiming that it is Zeno’s extremism that abolishes knowledge, and not (just) Cicero. Academic skepticism agrees with such a position (scientia nusquam esset, Luc. 146); but it also provides a foundation for practical existence in the probabile. This theory is just about “enough” (satis) to enable the development of technical knowledge and it underlies Rome’s legal system—it offers practical sufficient grounds for communitarian existence. ­Cicero embeds the language and mechanism of the skeptical philosophical community in the history and social ritual of the Roman state, as well as in the technical know-how of humanity. This is a striking observation in light of our previous argument about ratio. If, indeed, one of the concerns of Cicero’s and Lucullus’ speeches is the search for the grounds of ratio, for the establishment of solid foundations for intellectual and philosophical enquiry, then it is all the more significant why Cicero might want to draw a parallel with the foundations of Roman life. At Luc. 146 Cicero is not merely describing juridical protocol, he is clearly explaining that the formulae exist by design, developed by the maiores in full cognizance of humanity’s epistemic predicament. Wittgenstein’s late philosophy provides a suggestive backdrop to the ­discussion of reason and community. Both David Bloor (1973 and 1983) and Stanley Cavell (1979) emphasize the importance of community and society 290 On videri in a judicial context see Daube (1956: 73–77) and Powell (2001: 466–474). On the use of videri in the Lucullus, see Reinhardt 2015.

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in ­Wittgenstein’s later work, particularly the Philosophical Investigations, On ­Certainty and the Blue and Brown Books. In these posthumous works, concepts like “rules,” “criteria,” “language games,” “belief” and “common sense” underlie a commitment to philosophical thinking as a social, collective, practice (Bloor 1983: 168). Stanley Cavell’s The Claim of Reason sees Wittgenstein’s appeal to common sense and everyday speech, to the “we” or “us” of the quotidian, as an attempt to align reason and community. It is not necessary to delve much deeper into these difficult concepts running through Wittgenstein’s ­philosophy after the Tractatus to see the importance he ascribes to social uses of language in evaluating philosophical concepts. Nor is an extensive reading indispensable to understand the weight such use has in his arguments. At one point in the Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein (1.116) famously states, “What we do is to bring words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use.” This task of reconnecting reason and community is expressed by Cavell (1979: 20) in the following terms, “the philosophical appeal to what we say, and the search for our criteria on the basis of which we say what we say, are claims to community. And the claim to community is always a search for the basis upon which it can or has been established.” He continues, “the wish and search for community are the wish and search for reason.” The image of the courtroom is intimately connected to ars as/or technical knowledge. Luc. 144-146 and 106-107 respond to Luc. 21-29, principally to the claim that only grounding perception in truth and certainty would secure ars and memoria in such a way as to make human existence possible, in the social, political, practical and intellectual sense. According to Cicero, apprehension cannot be the cornerstone of life (vita). However, the probabile offers a viable alternative: it provides stable enough grounding for society to operate and for humans to act in a meaningful and effective way. Both Lucullus and Cicero posit the existence of a functioning society and reflect on the kind of epistemology that makes the mechanisms of society possible. The Lucullus develops two accounts of the foundations of the Roman community, exemplifying philosophy’s (Socratic?) focus on society, as a living, producing, thinking, ­functioning thing—and not on society as utopia or ideal. Although I have not given much room so far to the investigation of the Academica’s sources, on the topic of epistemology and community the influence of Philo is too tantalizing to overlook. Particularly the Philo that has emerged out of two recent monographs, Harold Tarrant’s Skepticism or Platonism? and Charles Brittain’s Philo of Larissa. Both scholars characterize Philo’s late “revolution” in epistemology in terms of an integration of philosophy into everyday life and an attempt to take into account certain widespread or popular forms

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of knowledge in the framework of Hellenistic epistemology (§III.8.3-8.4).291 Their reading of this controversial figure broadens our understanding of the influences on the Academica and, specifically, develops the context within which to evaluate the themes touched on in relation to Wittgenstein’s late thought. Philo’s innovations are notoriously difficult to isolate in both editions of the Academica. He is named infrequently, and when his views are discussed they are treated in a highly allusive manner. Along with mining those passages, critics also face the issue of the extent to which Cicero’s speeches draw their inspiration and material from Philo’s philosophy, as we have seen above with Thorsrud’s suggestion of a “Philonian framework.”292 Luc. 18 and 11-12 are our main source for Philo’s “nova,” the Roman theses that provoke Antiochus’ anger and rebellion. Luc. 18 is the longer treatment and identifies the nova with an epistemological view. These new ideas are initially explained as a reaction to the critical harassment against Academic intransigence (contra ­Academicorum pertinacia), a persecution that Philo could scarcely withstand (ea sustinere vix poterat).293 After making this observation about Philo’s motivations, Lucullus reminds us that Philo used to agree with the skeptical principle that there was nothing that could be apprehended (cum enim ita negaret quidquam esse quod comprehendi posset (id enim volumus esse ἀκατάληπτον)), ­provided that such impression (visum) followed Zeno’s rigorous conditions. He then explains the prerequisites for Stoic katalêpsis, detailed in §II.5.3 and §III.9.1. Once he has established these, in an aside he expresses his belief that such definition is “absolutely correct” (id nos a Zenone definitum rectissime dicimus). Nonetheless, Lucullus tells us, “Philo weakens and eradicates it altogether, and in doing so he eradicates the criterion separating what is knowable and unknowable; and this leads to the conclusion that nothing can be grasped. So Philo winds up where he did not want to be” (hoc cum infirmat tollitque Philo, iudicium tollit incogniti et cogniti; ex quo efficitur nihil posse conprehendi. ita imprudens eo quo minime volt revolvitur); this shift was intended to overthrow the definition (definitionem […] evertere). Lucullus seems to suggest that Philo created a form of apprehension that was not kataleptic. He eliminates part of Zeno’s definition (that the impression must derive uniquely from its source, and not from anything else), and 291 See Mette (1986/7) for a collection of Philo’s fragments and Glucker (1978: 70–74) for a review of nineteenth-century scholarship on Philo. Important in the twentieth century are Brochard (1969) and Dal Pra (1975). 292 Among those who believe Cicero’s speech is a reprise of one or more of Philo’s works, see Hirzel (1883), Goedeckemeyer (1905), Fritz (1938) and Brochard (1969). 293 Buckling under pressure is an accusation made against Antiochus as well (Luc. 70).

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so makes a different sort of apprehension possible, one that for Lucullus dismantles the whole edifice of sense-perception. What Philo’s re-definition also accomplishes is to suggest the possibility of accessing truth. According to this interpretation, the philosopher abandons skepticism completely, and he does so by re-thinking the whole standard of the Hellenistic debate and infuriating Antiochus. Tarrant (1985a: 53–62) underlines the seismic effect of the passage, reading Philo’s position as shifting the ground on Hellenistic epistemology because it offers a third way or a way out of the standard apprehension/nonapprehension dichotomy.294 Tarrant understands the roots of this move to lie in Philo’s interpretation of the probabile, traces of which can be seen in the Lucullus. As Cicero defines the probabile, he notes at Luc. 99 that an impression commands our approval if nothing presents itself that is contrary to that impression being approved (si nihil se offeret quod sit probabilitati illi contrarium). The same concept is expressed later (Luc. 101): an impression is probable if nothing hinders it (neque ulla re impeditum; cf. Luc. 33). The idea of removing hindrances to a percept’s probabilitas interposes an instant between the appearance of an impression and its acceptance or cognition as something probabile, and Luc. 36 shows what happens in that instant. Albeit satirizing the concept, Lucullus tells us that there is a work of examination and careful evaluation (ex circumspectione aliqua et accurata consideratione) that takes place in order to remove those hindrances. Taken together, these passages allude to what Tarrant describes as Carneades’ concept of “consistency,” according to which impressions are probable if all objections to them being held as such are eliminated. The critic also links consistency to another concept we meet in the Lucullus, that of the “evident” (perspicuitas). Luc. 33-36 suggests an e­ pistemological ­regime adopted by certain unnamed skeptics that allows them to claim that certain impressions are perspicuous: they are a “true imprint on the mind or intellect, but that these still are not grasped or apprehended” (verum illud ­quidem et impressum in animo atque mente, neque tamen id percipi ac comprendi posse, Luc. 36).295 Tarrant observes that, because skeptics reject the possibility that something is “observably true,” evidence for Carneadean philosophers must involve a degree of investigation on the part of the observer (cf. Luc. 45-46). The impression is thoroughly examined to eliminate possibilities that it is false, so that it can finally be accepted as “persuasive” and ­utilized as 294 According to Tarrant (1985a), by revising Zeno’s visum Philo cuts a path back to a “dogmatic” reading of Plato. Cf. Sextus Empiricus Pyr. 1.3 and Aenesidemus apud Photius Bibl. 170a29-30. 295 On “evident or obvious clarity” in the Lucullus, see Tarrant (1985a: 49–53).

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a basis for judgment and action. In his reading, Tarrant (1985a: 15–20) is c­ areful to clarify that this system does not aim at infallibility, but at identifying “reliable” impressions. He goes on to infer that this approach cannot reasonably affect “sensible particulars,” one-off percepts that engage our senses in our daily lives, but that it must apply to “what is either universally or generally or f­requently the case.” Taking a step further and in consideration of the Stoic ­theory of common notions (§II.5.2), Tarrant underlines the importance of agreement of ­witnesses as a key condition for the positive epistemology of Philo’s (Fourth) Academy. When a community of individuals over time maintains a particular impression or idea, then the agreement, consolidated in the judgment of many individuals, acquires the status of knowledge. If that impression had been wrong or false, objections would have arisen to eliminate it. In Tarrant’s (1985a: 12) model, particulars pose a challenge for Philo and his Academy. When impressions of a similar kind are gathered, experienced and examined by a number of witnesses, the guarantee of their probable status increases. Sense-perception is moderated and made less prejudicial to the probability of an impression through the confirmatory participation of witnesses. The community plays a critical role in this epistemological system, a position whose implications are felt in the investigative register of the Academica. Differentiation between particulars and universals with reference to the stability of knowledge anticipates that return to Plato and his Forms—a return predicated on the rational examination of particulars and emphasis on universals. Charles Brittain (2001) studies the same relationship between epistemology and community in his interpretation of Philo. For Brittain (2001: 166), the Academica alludes to three stages in Philo’s thought, the evolution of which is marked by his desire to “insulate ordinary experience from skepticism.” In the first phase, Philo is a Clitomachean, embracing both akatalêpsia and epochê. The second phase sees him adopting a position he had a hand in shaping, the Metrodorian-Philonian, which amounts to a mitigated form of Carneadeanism. During this phase he rejects universal epochê yet insists on akatalêpsia (Luc. 78, 148, 32-6). Dwelling on phase two, Brittain (2001: 94–128) notes that the ­Metrodorian-Philonian skeptic has a particular approach to concepts and concept-formation, an approach that echoes Tarrant’s treatment of universals. In relation to this period, Brittain is sensitive to the way ratio is involved in the acquisition of beliefs. Unlike Arcesilaus and Carneades, for the Philo practicing around the turn of the first century bce, to interrogate an issue on both sides (in utramque partem dissertatio) does not necessarily lead to epochê. Rather, it constitutes a rational approach to knowledge. Accordingly, the impression under scrutiny must be subjected to a coherence test (i.e. it needs to be in agreement with other experiences and beliefs of the examiner) and must be measured

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against the degree of acceptance such concept has acquired in society. Brittain’s (2001: 127) second test, evocative of Tarrant’s agreement of witnesses, relies on “identifying the degree of entrenchment of the concept within the community of (imperfectly) rational persons;” put differently, if the concept shares the trait of “universality” or if it obtains because of its “status as a postulate of common sense,” then its epistemic validity grows, and it has a better chance of being assented to. Concepts acquire epistemic legitimacy in time and through social diffusion. The third phase, linked to the Roman Books, overturns epochê and akatalêpsis. The position is cursorily explained at Luc. 18, where Lucullus relates that Philo rejects Stoic perception but holds onto a form of katalêpsis. Brittain inflects this argument in terms of cognition. Unlike the readings of Brochard (1969: 192–208), Glucker (1978: 64–88) and Sedley (1981: 69–75), which focus on the passage as claiming that things are knowable in themselves, but not to the human observer, Brittain emphasizes the perceptual quality of things. Objects and concepts can be kataleptically perceived, if the perceiver exercises his judgment under correct perceptual conditions. Brittain (2001: 151) states that “a subject who assents to a true, ‘clear’ impression has katalêpsis of the object it represents” However, this does not automatically imply that the kataleptically perceived object is also truly perceived: Philo reportedly differentiates between truth and katalêpsis. Brittain thinks through this differentiation with reference to the case of identical twins (Luc. 84-7). One of the more effective arguments underlying akatalêpsia depends on demonstrating that two or more impressions are identical or perceptually indistinguishable. These impressions do not possess any “mark” (nota) by which they can be individuated and would therefore trick the observer into thinking they are identical. In Cicero’s example, if one sees Publius Servilius Geminus and thinks he is his twin brother Quintus, then the observer has assented to a wrong impression. It matters not at all whether ontologically Publius and Quintus are or are not the same person: the issue is epistemological, and as such the two impressions must be qualitatively different, or it will be impossible for the observer to tell them apart. If so, the whole existence of a mechanism by which one can distinguish true from false impressions is undone: “if one example of such resemblance holds then everything is thrown into doubt” (et si una fefellerit similitudo, dubia omnia reddiderit, Luc. 84). Philo, however, does think that the impressions differ qualitatively under the correct perceptual conditions. Because he “weakens” the third provision of sense-perception, Brittain (2001: 152) believes Philo is able to claims that it is a kataleptically valid impression, even if the observer sees the wrong twin. Under certain conditions (perceptual/coherence-testing) and (so) at a given

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point in time, katalêpsis is possible. The prospect that the epistemic status of such a kataleptically validated impression can be reassessed at a later point in time and so is temporal, makes the impression a no less stable form of knowledge. Philo accepts the possibility of error, but this does not jeopardize ­apprehension of the object or of the status of apprehension in general. According to Brittain (2001: 166), enabling katalêpsis is a “radical change” that has significant implications for Philo’s philosophical orientation. Everyday life is now grounded in a cognition that is stable and secure, insulated from the impossible demands of Stoic scientia (cf. Luc. 146). The opposition to dogmatism is then entirely transferred to the plane of philosophical theorizing and abstractions. Philo is still a skeptic in relation to philosophical knowledge, as he doubts knowledge-claims based on empirical evidence. Experience is, in other words, “adequate” for ordinary life, but cannot be a stable foundation for “claims about theoretical wisdom.” In this context, Brittain (2001: 163) contends that ars stands as a paradigm for Philo of systematic knowledge as a practical yet “effective ‘system of cognitions’.” Because of its diffusion and successful application tested over time, ­Philo’s approach to technical knowledge is at the root of his ethics and rhetoric. As a case in point, Brittain suggests that his ethics is a non-metaphysical, prescriptive encounter with morality (reading Stobaeus Ecl. 2.7.39-41). Philo seems to deliver a non-dogmatic, yet systematic set of prescriptions for the attainment of a happy life. Through an analogy with empiricist medicine, B ­ rittain (2001: 258–261) emphasizes Philo’s philosophy as being entirely committed to supplying the student with practical means to achieve a happy life. Such means consist in prescriptions that derive not from knowledge, but from principles that have proved empirically effective in the past.296 Similarly, Philo’s rhetorical theory is based on a body of generalized techniques distilled from the history of the practice. Brittain sees Philo behind Cicero’s formalization of oratorical practice in On the Orator, especially in Crassus’ definition of ars and in Cicero’s analysis of theseis (De Or. 1.109 and De Or. 3.111-118). The theory is a codification of the successful experience of past orators and is therefore unconnected to ontological claims to truth.297 Philo’s innovation in this field ­follows in the footsteps of Hermagoras and his method in deliberative oratory 296 For Brittain (2001: 261 and 295), Philo avoids “metaphysical and psychological postulates on which dogmatic ethics depends” and his treatment of ethics is non-dogmatic “in virtue of its method and its avoidance of theoretical postulates.” The connection with ancient medicine of the first century bce is entirely analogical. 297 “The experience of successful orators gives rise to a body of operationalized techniques sufficient for a methodical procedure to develop,” so rhetoric is understood as “an empiricizing art” (Brittain 2001: 330).

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(De Or. 3.110; cf. Brittain 2001: 328 and Reinhardt 2000: 537). This ­second-century bce Greek rhetorician understood political oratory to be subdivided into thesis, general abstract questions, and hypothesis, concerned with details, facts and particulars. For Philo, as Brittain argues, the two levels are connected in so far as the hypothesis is the foundation of the thesis. Philo’s take on Hermagoras achieves two objectives, connecting oratory and epistemology analogically, and opening up political and ethical issues to rhetorical treatment. Brittain’s Philo grounds theory, rhetorical, epistemological and ethical, in the experience of the collective, on what can be shown to work empirically. Community is an integral part of the way philosophical reason and practice are conceptualized. And if this profile is right, his influence on Cicero’s project is palpable. In the Academica and especially in the Lucullus, the argument is never far from the Roman civitas. This is a political community that represents Cicero’s desired audience for the work, as well as lending important co-ordinates against which ideas presented in the treatise can and must be evaluated. The orientation of Ciceronian epistemology is congruent with this Philonian portrait. The prefaces and the letters connecting the fragments to different real-life contexts impress on the debate a contemporary relevance; the speeches of Cicero and Lucullus begin and end with images drawn from Rome’s everyday life. Especially powerful in this respect is the conclusion to Lucullus’ oration, where he speaks directly to Cicero the politician (Luc. 61-62; cf. §II.5.2 and §II.7.3). The elaboration of an interconnected system of ars, ethics (virtus and sapientia), action, intellectual investigation and philosophy is connected by the speaker to the definition of humanitas. Stable unimpeded sensation is the cornerstone of the system; it accounts for all aspects of human life and is punctuated by reminders of the “aberrations” that following Academic skepticism would lead to: a denial of community, with all its beliefs and practices (Lévy 1992: 164). Interpenetrating this discussion is the imagery of light and dark, aimed at contrasting Stoic sense-perception, which illuminates truth, and the skeptical method, which keeps things in darkness.298 At the end of the speech, Lucullus turns to Cicero and redeploys this trope to challenge his opponent. Alluding to the Catilinarian affair, the conflict that defined Cicero’s consulship, he reminds his interlocutor that in 63 bce he had exposed “a deeply hidden plot” (res occultissimas) and had brought these matters to light (in lucemque protuleris). He did so at that moment when he proclaimed under oath that he had uncovered them (iuratusque dixeris ea te comperisse, Luc. 62). These were glorious actions (rerum pulcherrimarum), the auctoritas of which would 298 “Lux:” Luc. 26, 30, 31 and 46; “lumen:” Luc. 19, 26 and 63.

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be undermined if Cicero upholds the skeptical view that nothing can be apprehended or known. The relationship between the political and philosophical dimensions of Cicero’s life, between theory and practice, is expertly constructed to interrogate the implications his views have with regard to his political activity. The section combines eight second person singular verbs, two imperatives, three instances of the second person singular pronoun and striking visual and moral language with a technical summary of one of two standard charges levelled at skeptics, namely that universal suspension of assent leads to a form of inactivity or paralysis: apraxia. This section of the speech reviews Lucullus’ attack on skepticism, and links the critique to the political circumstances of Cicero’s life. By doing so, it grounds the debate in a communitarian perspective and champions the importance of epistemic certainty against those of Cicero’s audience who believe Greek philosophy does not befit a statesman (Luc. 5-6). Lucullus reminds the reader that the edifice of human knowledge, constructed and defended in his speech, enhances auctoritas and offers a framework for political and social participation in the Roman state and its society. Cicero’s speech begins and ends in the law-courts, a point of reference that he states at Luc. 64 is drawn from his own experience. At the start of the speech, he makes the comparison: “I was moved no less than what I am used to when I undertake important court cases, and I started my speech in the following way…” (tum ego non minus conmotus quam soleo in causis maioribus huius modi quadam oratione sum exorsus). At Luc. 62 and 64, we get a glimpse of Cicero’s world and his past life. But this attention to experience has a much more immediate presence in his argument, as he often reflects on sensory experience and asks Lucullus, Hortensius and Catulus to do the same within the dramatic context of the dialogue. On the weakness of the senses, for example, Cicero wonders why he can see Catulus’ house at Cumae or Puteoli from where he’s standing, but not Pompeii or Gaius Avienus (Luc. 80); in the same breath, he invites his interlocutors to look at a ship on the horizon and at the sun (Luc. 81-82). As Lévy (1992: 179) points out, interest in the surroundings, both natural and societal, distinguishes Cicero’s approach from Lucullus’. This frequent invitation to confront empirical data from his friends with theoretical doubt on sense-perception stages an argument that appeals directly to common sense and experience. Furthermore, both Lucullus and Cicero keep returning to observable features of their lives and circumstances, namely that there is such a thing as society, human interaction, technical and artistic accomplishments. The existence of all these elements must be explained and grounded in some form of knowledge. In sum, there is a social and communitarian orientation to philosophical thinking; furthermore, this orientation speaks to Cicero’s efforts

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to create a philosophical community through the work. And it is to this community building that I will turn now. Richard Rorty’s contribution to Philosophy in History (1984) tackles the problem of how to approach the historiography of philosophy by suggesting, somewhat reluctantly, that canon-formation is a process that is both historical and central to philosophical investigation. Rorty suggests that a crucial activity of the philosopher’s engagement with the discipline’s history is to set up a canon of authors that shapes and informs a set of problems. Precisely in tackling these questions or problems, which Rorty (1984: 58) underlines must be identified as “philosophical problems,” the thinker participates in philosophy.299 Selecting a canon and defining philosophical questions are inextricably linked tasks in the institution of Philosophy. In order to demonstrate this connection, Rorty discusses two uses of the phrase “philosophical question.” The first is a “descriptive” use, referring to contemporary problems and issues that interest philosophers (questions of the age); the second is a “honorific” use, designating questions that have come to define the discipline, i.e. issues that seem timeless and that must be taken into account. The initial differentiation is problematic, not least because Rorty wonders how the two uses interrelate: whether a descriptive use guarantees connection between historical periods, or whether canons, which by definition are timeless, are always relevant. He points out that it is an anachronism to presume that the whole breadth of the history of philosophy is interested in the same questions and that equally any group can “legitimize” itself as a group of philosophers so long as they agree on certain points. These might include a common set of premises for their debate or the identification of a shared objective, such as the pursuit of knowledge. Rorty (1984: 67) is describing a “self-conscious community of philosophers” existing at a discrete point in time; the problem is to understand the link between these historically determined communities. “The existence of such a community,” he goes on to specify, “is however irrelevant to the question of whether anything links that community to Aristotle, Plato” and so forth. Despite his misgivings, Rorty (1984: 73–74) acknowledges that philosophy cannot do without a canon. This admission rescues the history of philosophy and leads the critic to illustrate three reasons why the study of philosophy’s history has still something to offer. The first of these reasons was hinted at earlier (§II.4.3 and §II.6.1): canons are aspirational, as they set up 299 Rorty (1969: 203–218) is thinking of Heidegger’s dismissal of Kierkegaard as a “religious” writer in his essay “Nietzsche’s Word: God is Dead,” and Ayer’s dismissal of existentialists as a group of thinkers who misunderstood the grammatical ambiguity of the noun “nothingness.”

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s­ tandards to be surpassed. They also focus on the “honorific” type of philosophical questions, and so are crucial to shaping a community of thinkers interested in the same texts or problematics—a community that exists across time. Finally, the fact that these communities have to justify why certain texts are selected or excluded from the canon is a conversation that institutes and polices the boundaries of that community.300 Philosophy’s history participates in setting up goals for the contemporary community, it guarantees a sense of continuity in terms of the issues that are at stake, and it offers precedents and alternatives, against which the present community defines itself. In the Academica a recurring trope performs exactly this search for canon and community. As critics interested in the underlying sources to the philosophica—the Quellenforschung of old, which keeps returning in one guise or another (cf. Glucker 2004)—tirelessly scour the text for evidence of which thinker is represented at which specific point, their analysis yields a catalogue of attempts made by Lucullus and Cicero to construct a canon of reference for their brand of philosophizing. Lucullus opens the debate by isolating Carneades and Arcesilaus as key problematic figures and by openly excluding Philo. Cicero rehearses this process of selection in two distinct moments, where he characterizes the question of the Academica in terms of an original debate between Zeno and Arcesilaus. The philosophical question characterizing ‘Hellenistic’ epistemology emerges from that debate and concerns the twin issues of the third clause enabling sense-perception and the sage’s ability to opine. Significantly, at Luc. 112 the Hellenistic philosophers are distinguished from the Peripatetics and Old Academics, towards whom Cicero shows an emotional attachment, but whom he chooses to exclude from the debate.301 Rorty’s paper can be read in conjunction with the historical sections of both editions of the Academica, where acceptance or exclusion of certain thinkers within the Academic canon is an integral part of whether we are persuaded by Antiochus or Philo as to how many Academic philosophies existed. The problem of canon-formation is not a marginal feature of Ciceronian philosophy but is presented as a theme that Cicero urges his reader to reflect on. He asks, concluding his overview of divisions in logic, “why are we called Academics then?” (quid ergo Academici appellamur, Luc. 143). Who belongs or does not belong to 300 See MacIntyre (1984) for the idea of progress as a goal-based evolution. Also Gracia (1992: 140) and Rée (1988: 58). 301 The Academica has a hand in shaping the contours of Hellenistic philosophy contributing to the periodization that is common currency in studies of ancient philosophy. More than one critic evaluates the contribution of Philo in terms of whether he escapes the strictures of Hellenistic epistemology by dropping the third Stoic clause or whether he remains fully within it.

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the debate, the logic of inclusion or exclusion, is an issue that explicitly defines the course of both Lucullus’ and Cicero’s arguments. Indeed, long passages in both speeches fail to mention schools, groups or individuals whose views are put forward, analyzed or criticized. Luc. 17-18, for instance, discusses certain philosophers who do not believe that arguing with Academics is a worthy occupation. At Luc. 32 the speaker addresses two separate groups of “Academics,” those who seem to stick to a categorical suspension of assent and others who differentiate between what is uncertain (incertum) and what cannot be apprehended (id quod percipi non possit). This distinction allows Lucullus to dismiss the first group and take on the second (cum his igitur agamus). In both cases, the audience is told what these groups think, but not who they are; in both cases, Lucullus uses the device to identify—and so include—a particular group in the dialogue to the exclusion of the other. This is a problem of sources for many critics, who find these allusions puzzling and accept that they may have been less so for contemporary readers. However, if we take into consideration a readership that is less well-versed in Greek philosophy, a different dynamic is observable. The audience is invited to identify who is being excluded, and not just why. A degree of investigation and recollection is involved for readers who, like Varro, are characterized by Cicero as experts in the field. A similar mechanism of identification of group and thinker applies even when we are given names. Lucullus is modelled on Antiochus, who in turn looks to Peripatetics, Old Academics and Stoics; Lucullus is also defined against the philosophy of Arcesilaus and Carneades. Cicero’s epistemology depends on an integration of the Hellenistic scholarchs with Plato and Aristotle, and its contours are negatively defined by Stoics and Epicureans.302 Openly and self-consciously, their positions are affirmed as systems of allegiances and networks across time. Especially evident in relation to the nameless groups at Luc. 17-18 and 32, this kind of grouping depends on several elements: principally, how collectives fix on and are interested in certain questions and approaches, and whether the speakers on their part think that a specific position or question is worth grappling with. In an echo of how Varro’s diverse cast of philosophers operates within the Platonic tripartite regime, Lucullus and Cicero are keen to identify the unifying questions of the debate. The dialogue is repeatedly punctuated by efforts to isolate what the point of contention is between the two positions and specifically what the issues worth discussing are. In his speech Cicero seems to lay bare the mechanisms of this search for a question, as he attempts to redefine the parameters of the debate. At both Luc. 302 On Cicero’s use and abuse of Epicurus, see D’Anna (1965) and Maso (2008).

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68 and 78 he opens the case on epistemology by identifying in no uncertain terms that it is the final condition of apprehension set by Arcesilaus and Zeno that sits at the heart of the debate. Yet, again at Luc. 80, 83 and 115 he seeks to focus the course of the debate and dramatize the search for the central question around which the history of the dispute developed. He does so through words and phrases such as “controversy” (controversia), “the whole question” (tota quaestio), “the whole debate” (omnis pugna) and “the whole question” (omnis quaestio). All of these expressions remind the audience of the historic dimension of the argument, bringing together that community across time and space and focusing the discussion at hand. Alongside the final section, this attempt to isolate a set of common issues gives the philosophical tradition its shape in the Academica. To be sure, the reader will leave the pages of the work with a clear idea about who the key participants are in the Hellenistic debate on epistemology, and, more importantly, what they talked about. Together these strategies inform the distributive economy of the Lucullus by apportioning the philosophical space around particular thinkers and groups who come together around specific questions and problems. The effect of such representation of the space of philosophy is to inflect the dynamic role of questions in creating and defining a sense of collectivity.303 In this light, Cicero is not only encouraging his peers to philosophize, an agenda that has garnered a long-overdue critical attention in recent decades; he is also shaping a community of philosophers, by setting in motion the search for a definition of the space in which they operate. The two speeches in the Lucullus, as well as the fragment of the first Academic Book, attempt to ground philosophia. For Lucullus, reliance on the senses leads to philosophia. At Luc. 29 he explicitly articulates sense-perception as the “pre-condition for all philosophy” (regula totius philosophiae), and as he turns to a sect of Academics who accept the difference between “clear” and “unclear” percepts (Luc. 32), he reiterates this point negatively by claiming that without a stable epistemic foundation there is no “research” (quaerendo) or “debate” (disserendo). Cicero responds by characterizing philosophy as a search for a possible, persuasive, position in the opening sections of his speech. He concludes by suggesting that it is indeed through reason and investigation that one can find at least a temporary grounding for it (cf. Luc. 7, 99 and 146). The debate returns to the question of how the discipline of philosophy is to be grounded. The Academica pits two views of what philosophy consists of, and what it has to offer human life, against each other. As so often in Cicero’s philosophica, he offers no answer. 303 On the space and practice of philosophy, see the constructivist model in Randall (2000).

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Derrida’s Right to Philosophy is also concerned with understanding and describing what he calls the philosophical “space.” Before arguing about the institutional role of philosophy in the university and in educational programs as a whole, he observes the way in which philosophy operates within its boundaries and how its operations and its boundaries are mutually articulated. Derrida takes a step back from problems and premises, as discussed with reference to Rorty and Cicero above. He argues that it is not an agreement of what ­philosophy is, with its problems, methods and objectives, that creates that sense of community. According to Derrida (2002: 12), the community is a “community of the question”—that is, a community that is “constituted as and from the question of philosophy” (emphasis in the original). Derrida inflects disagreement and debate as the constitutive process, not agreement or concurrence. His observations are complementary to Rorty’s on the topic of community. The fact that a(ny) historical community is given in his analysis does not mean that it should not be, or always already is, open to re-examination as to what fundamentally holds it together. Derrida concedes that “not every community will be called philosophical from the moment it practices skepsis, epochê, doubt, contestation […], irony, questioning and so forth, regarding its constitutive bond, and thus the properness of what is proper to it. But no community will be called philosophical if it is not capable of re-examining, in every possible fashion, its fundamental bond.” 7.4

Conclusion

Over Part 2, I have explored several aspects of Cicero’s approach to and use of philosophy’s past. One of the central concerns of the Academica’s extant fragments is the history of philosophy, specifically the institutional and doctrinal history of the Academy. Competing views on the continuity of that history set Philo and Antiochus against each other, leading their Roman interpreters to formulate historiographical accounts of the Greek philosophical tradition whose structure, themes and organizing principles differ markedly from each other. A focal point of my analysis was to demonstrate that these historiographical segments of the argument are not isolated from the wider epistemological and philosophical project, but are an integral part of its texture. Sensitive to the primary position the Academica has in Cicero’s late cycle of philosophical works, I sought to study how the author’s historiographical approach to this foreign discourse grapples with the notion of philosophy as an institution and philosophy as an intellectual practice. At the heart of debates on the history of philosophy and theory of knowledge is an interest in the origins of and the

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grounds on which the discipline and the systematic knowledge it is concerned with are built. From this starting point, I examined the Academica’s efforts to adopt Greek philosophy and re-institute the ‘Academy’ in/as a Roman space. I sought to do so by capitalizing on a variety of perspectives and drawing on a range of modern and contemporary authors. Cicero’s agenda is first and foremost inscribed in the multi-form histories he stages for his audience. The chief aim of these narratives is to demonstrate the extent to which the tradition itself is and always has been flexible and adaptable. This view of Greece’s philosophical heritage is one of the ways in which the author invites readers to reflect on that heritage and participate in its ­re-interpretation, re-formulation and, ultimately, development. Close readings of the text have time and again sought to emphasize inconsistencies and interpretive puzzles, precisely because it is through these difficulties that the Academica’s audience is made to participate in the construction of Cicero’s Academy and in the Academy as a historical community. In §II.6.5 and §II.7.1, I argued that interpreting the thought of past Academic leaders is a quintessential Academic gesture, and that interpreting the thought of its Roman ­exponents translated that gesture of participation and assimilation for Cicero’s audience. Furthermore, this strategy captures more than just the Academy but encompasses the whole of the discipline, before and after Socrates, within its boundaries. This participatory and institutional framework provided the starting point for §II.7.1 and §II.7.2, in which I interpreted the dramatic frame and Cicero’s emphasis on criticism as features of the Academic project that the author deploys to preserve a live tradition of engagement. The Academica does not merely describe or debate philosophical history, but it inflects the role of criticism in that history and uses a cast of Greek and Roman characters to keep that history open-ended. Across all these mechanisms of debate, reflection and engagement, Cicero is never far from the theme of community, and how this collective of thinkers from across time and space converges with the fictional audience of the dialogue and that of his work around questions about philosophy’s identity as a practice and institution (§II.7.3). Over the pages of the Academica, the shape of philosophy is determined by a sophisticated agenda set by Cicero’s project to integrate traditions and to make his Academy the privileged vehicle for assimilating Greek philosophy and the site of Roman philosophical discourse.

Part 3 Skeptical Strategies: Dialectic, Assimilation, Rhetoric

∵ Philosophy would repeat itself and would reproduce its own tradition as the teaching of its own crisis and as the paideia of self-critique in general. jacques derrida, Who’s Afraid of Philosophy? (2002: 101)

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Style in philosophy is the movement of concepts. gilles deleuze, Negotiations 1972–1990 (1995: 140)

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Re-Configuring Conflict: Looking for Philo and Antiochus 8.1

Who Speaks in the Academica

In his contribution to Assent and Argument, Miles Burnyeat (1997: 277) laments the extreme “allusiveness” of the Academica. For the critic, the complexity of the work is in no small part dependent on Cicero’s expectations that the reader is able to navigate allusions to Greek philosophy, especially to those Hellenistic philosophers who have a bearing on the dispute. The density reflects the intricate history of the debates that the project claims to review and evaluate. He comments on the self-reflexive nature of the positions adopted by the speakers, offering as examples Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus, which he describes as a refutation of Lucullus’ refutation of the Academic skeptic refutation of the possibility of knowledge; or Varro’s in the first Academic Book, in which he repeats Antiochus’ refutation of Philo’s refutation of the Two-Academy thesis. Moreover, Burnyeat (1997: 279) reminds the reader that the two-hundred years of epistemological argument and counter-argument between Stoics and Academics, on which the Academica draws, is largely only available through Cicero. This makes the text not only obscure but unavoidably “truncated.” It is to the unravelling of these traces, to the work of reconstruction, that the historian of ancient philosophy turns in order to accomplish the interrelated tasks of better understanding the text and the context which informs it.304

304 The Anonymous Commentary on the Theaetetus might count as a second source, depending on dating. This is a controversial issue, with Brittain (2001: 249–252) arguing for a late second-century CE dating against Sedley and Bastianini’s (1995) case for an earlier one. Whatever the date, the Anonymous Commentary is interested in working out its theories as distinct from Academic skepticism and closer to a dogmatic form of Platonism; the commentary is not overtly concerned with the evolution of Academic skepticism. See also Diels-Schubart (1905), Glucker (1978) and Tarrant (1983). Similarly, Sextus Empiricus, who in the third century CE returns to the Academic skeptical tradition as foil to his own brand of skepticism, does not adopt a dialogic or historical perspective. He aims at reconstructing Academic skepticism as a monolithic dogmatism, emerging as such out of the Hellenistic period. Both sources offer suggestive glimpses of how this form of Academicism might have evolved, as do the later fragmentary testimonia on Philo (in Stobaeus and Numenius), Aenesidemus (in Photius), Carneades and Varro (in Augustine). These texts

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The question of who ‘speaks’ in the Academica is central to the way we have understood, and continue to understand, the project’s sources and purpose. This is as true of Assent and Argument as of Hirzel’s Untersuchungen zu Ciceros philosophischen Schriften. From the moment when the nineteenth century switched on to the enigmatic figure of Antiochus of Ascalon, study of the Academica has been synonymous with profiling Antiochus and Philo and with how their doctrines evolve in dialogue with each other and with the Classical and Hellenistic traditions out which they emerged.305 In light of this interest, the reader’s task has been to map the Academica’s statements, paragraphs, sections of a speech—even a speech in its entirety—back onto an original source. The relationship between the arguments in the Ciceronian drama and the history of Hellenistic epistemology is cemented, as the former serves as documentary evidence for the latter. Nonetheless, as Burnyeat points out, the dialogue is the continuation of Hellenistic debates and not just their representation and re-presentation. The conversation extends the epistemological controversy down to Rome’s first century bce and translates them into a Roman context, by mimetically reiterating the arguments that proceeded by refutation and counter-refutation. The Academica’s complexity and obscurity emerge from the interference of the drama’s aesthetics with its ostensible documentary purpose. In Antiochus and the Late Academy, Jonathan Glucker (1978: 68–97) presents a detailed argument reconstructing the sources used in writing the Academica, as he seeks to establish an original source for the speeches and thereby explain the crisscrossing levels of refutation. The monograph stands as an admirable study of Cicero’s Academic project and is an admirable example of documentary approaches to the text. By way of introduction to Part 3, I review some of the key steps of Glucker’s work and reflect on some of the challenges faced by his methodology. Two of these challenges ground his study, namely: that the episode narrated at Luc. 11-12, the Sosus Affair, reconstructs a historical event; and that the speeches in the Academica reproduce the opinions of Antiochus and Philo.306 Glucker (1978: 391–421) disagrees with his predecessor Hirzel on the source of Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus. The nineteenth-century critic present similar challenges as Cicero’s philosophica to historians of ancient philosophy. See Bonazzi (2003: 112), Brittain (2001: xxxvi) and Ioppolo (2009: 11). 305 This has been the case since the nineteenth century. On Antiochus and Philo, see, for example, Grysar (1848–1849), Hermann (1851 and 1855) and Chappius (1854). 306 Glucker (1978: 14), from whom I borrow the title “Sosus Affair,” asks “why doubt the historicity of the story?” The rhetorical question concerning Att. 12.52 [294] speaks volumes for Glucker’s (1978: 407) attitude to the philosophica: “are we to be allowed to ascribe to Cicero greater originality than he has claimed for himself?”

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argues that Cicero draws on Philo’s so called Roman Books, which Antiochus received when in Alexandria with Lucullus (Luc. 11; §II.7.2). Cicero’s arguments in the second half of the dialogue, Hirzel observes, are incongruous with ­Academic skepticism and his refutation of Lucullus lacks cogency and persuasiveness. He explains these shortcomings by pointing to the fact that Cicero’s propositive views are derived from the later and d­ ogmatic-leaning Philo, and that he is drawing on arguments that had already been refuted by Antiochus. Glucker (1978: 399–405), however, finds both these critiques implausible. He contends that Cicero’s speech is, in fact, a sophisticated reply to Lucullus’ and that the Philo of the Roman Books cannot be its source because the principles, on which the long description of the d­ isagreement between philosophers (Luc. 112-146) rests, hark back to the orthodox skepticism of figures like Carneades and Clitomachus. For Glucker, ­Cicero’s speech derives in its entirety from Philo’s response to the Sosus, the book Antiochus published “against his teacher” (contra suum doctorem l­ ibrum, Luc. 12). This reply, written and circulated after the Roman Books, marks a return to Clitomachean and Carneadean views—a position he defines as “traditional”—from which he can launch a refutation of Antiochus’ Stoicism. There is nothing new in this book, according to Glucker (1978: 415), just a revival of Academic strategies deployed against Stoicism.307 The conversation between Hirzel and Glucker highlights several interpretive issues, all of which center on the order of presentation of the arguments in the Academica’s fragments and the possibility that the schism in Alexandria may structure the Lucullus, rather than just provide its occasion. This question has implications for whether the disagreement between Philo and Antiochus materialized in the heat of the moment, or whether it extended over a longer period; it also confronts the extent to which Philo’s ideas are identical with or continuations of the skeptical views of his predecessors, chief among whom Clitomachus. Both Hirzel and Glucker understand the Philo of the Alexandrian Episode to be no follower of Clitomachus. This view is problematic in light of Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus—a speech that draws heavily on Clitomachus’

307 Precedents for this view are set by Plezia (1937: 2.29–30, 3.169–170) and Philippson (1939: 1132–1134). Glucker’s view is a nuanced version of the orthodox source analysis of the Academica that emerged in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Brochard (1969), Goedeckemeyer (1905) and Fritz (1938) had already attributed parts of Cicero’s speech to a work of Philo postdating the Roman Books, although they maintained that such treatise replicated the same arguments as that earlier controversial work. What did not make it into the Philonian parts, they divided out amongst other Academics who were named in the speech and whose supposed outlook matched the tenor of Cicero’s dialectic.

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books (§II.6.5). Glucker’s solution is to posit a further publication by Philo, a work circulated as a response to the Sosus and drawing on a dialectic tradition that reconnects him to the canonical doubt of the skeptical Hellenistic academy. Whatever we make of this suggestion, it surely points to an underlying need to interlink the performance of Philo’s and Antiochus’ views, as represented in the Lucullus, to the broader history of the tradition that stands behind them. The critical literature on the Academica has always been attentive to the complex relationship between ‘Philo’ and ‘Antiochus’, characters in the philosophical drama and historical figures whose views stimulate the debate at the heart of the work, as well as being sensitive to the broader history of Classical and Hellenistic philosophy. When looking at the scholarly controversies around the author’s historiographical approach, the disagreement among critics itself bears witness to the opaque and intricate way in which Cicero’s Academic project is woven together. But in this long history of interpretation and counter-interpretation what seems to have lost out, perhaps until recent times, is an analysis of why Cicero ­reconstructs—read: shapes—the arguments in the way that he does. As Quellenforschung scholarship has bypassed the Roman author to look for Philo, Antiochus, Posidonius, Clitomachus, it has overlooked not just the ­intellectual and political program informing Cicero’s historiography. It has also largely ignored an important aspect of its epistemology, namely how the theory of knowledge presented by Cicero across the fragments relates to the form through which it is presented.308 It is to this second issue that Part 3 turns. We now focus more closely on the epistemology. I argue first that Cicero develops a specific skeptical position, intimately connected to the way in which the debate is represented. Starting with an analysis of the ­self-conscious ­fictionalization of the Alexandrian dispute, moving through a study of the characterization of Antiochus and Philo, the evolution of their thought and the thematization of viva voce debate, we end with reflections on doubt as an experiential method in philosophy. Throughout we train our sights on the two principles at the heart of the epistemological debate, akatalêpsia and epochê. While reexamining several passages with which we have become acquainted in Part 2, I aim to shed a different light on these. In so doing, I hope to build my case for adopting convergent approaches to Cicero’s Academic project in order to understand its position in the intellectual history of the Greco-­Roman Mediterranean and in the history of skepticism. The type of dialectical skepticism Cicero embraces in the Academica develops in conversation with his broader objective of importing and assimilating (the whole spectrum of) 308 On Quellenforschung, Kleywegt (1961: 1–9) offers a useful commentary.

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Greek ­philosophy into Roman litterae. I contend that Cicero’s skepticism is an original philosophical position, responding to particular tensions within the Academic tradition since Socrates and Plato. His originality is not, however, restricted to the philosophical substance of his work. Just as Part 2 sought to show that Cicero’s historiographical approach had a rhetorical finality, namely to legitimize his brand of skepticism and position himself as heir to the Academy, so Part 3 suggests that the radical doubt Cicero endorses constitutes an astute representational strategy through which the author, exploiting a farranging critique of philosophical ideas, incorporates Classical and Hellenistic philosophies under the aegis of his Academy. In the same way as Part 2 claimed that Cicero expresses the kind of philosophy he wants to transmit by creating a historical precedent for it, so in Part 3 I argue that Cicero shapes the way his Roman readership should philosophize by laying down certain principles of philosophical discourse, chief among them that philosophy is and must be a critical and self-reflective intellectual practice. 8.2

Framing the Dialogue: The Rhetoric of Philosophy

Cicero raises expectations about the Academica’s sources and its subject matter in the dialogues’ frames, understood lato sensu as both prefaces and letters (§I.2.1). Within that liminal space, the author seems to offer a straightforward answer to the question, what is the Academica about?—namely, a dispute between Antiochus and Philo. While we had the opportunity to review in some detail aspects of this ‘paratext’, it is worth thinking further about the Academica’s framing devices in order to analyze the rhetorical and aesthetic texture of the work’s epistemology. As we shall see, nowhere are the rhetorical and philosophical elements of the project more closely and explicitly allied than in Cicero’s prefatory reflections on the work. The letter dedicating the work to Varro, as well as the prologue to Varro’s and Cicero’s speeches in the extant fragment of the first Academic Book, state in no uncertain terms that the protagonists speak for Antiochus and Philo. On leaving the floor to Cicero, Varro calls on him to perform his “role” (partes) and comment on the “split” (discidium) and “defection” (defectio) that, according to Antiochus, had divided Academic history into two distinct periods. Cicero had just complimented Varro on his short and clear summary of Antiochus’ view on the relationship between the Old Academy and Stoa (breviter sane minimeque obscure, Ac. 1.43). While Philo is not mentioned in the transition between the two speeches, the passage echoes Ac. 1.13, which introduces the dialogue by framing the debate in terms of a discussion between Philo and

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Antiochus on the subject of Academic history. The term partes activates a reference to Fam. 9.8 [294], in which Cicero celebrates the four-volume Academic Books as an accomplishment. However, the letter does not discuss the work’s content. Cicero simply points to the Academy’s youthful, provocative nature as a way to introduce the unruliness of skeptical doubt and, through this allusive gesture, to draw Varro into the dispute—Varro, who is the target of the provocation and not at all approving of that confrontational attitude.309 In the case of the Lucullus, the letters and the introduction to Cicero’s speech never mention Philo by name. Although Philo features in Cicero’s ad hominem attack on Antiochus (Luc. 69), where the latter’s defection is a target of vitriol, the immediate counterpoints to Lucullus’ Antiochus are Arcesilaus and Carneades (Luc. 64-68). In those paratexts, many references define the subject matter as Academic, but these remain general observations, giving little away about the specific content or methodology of the treatise itself.310 In four instances, Antiochus is brought forward as the focal point of the project. The adjective “Antiochia” appears in one of the earliest letters discussing the subject matter of the treatise and the reason why Varro may be a workable choice as speaker in the new edition. Indeed, this is precisely because he is a follower of Antiochus in real life (Att. 13.12.3 [320]). The adjectival form “Antiochia” appears again three times and in each it underlines the close relationship between Varro and Antiochus, re-affirming in every instance that the arguments presented in the two editions would be Antiochus’. So at Att. 13.16.1 [323] Cicero talks about the “Antiochia ratio” (Antiochus’ system) as more suited to Varro (aptior); the comparative “aptius” is used again at Att. 13.19.5 [326] to justify the selection of Varro. In two paragraphs of this letter, Cicero indicates that Varro will play Antiochus and that he will respond to those arguments.311 The clear division of roles between Varro’s Antiochus and Cicero’s response is underlined in paragraph five by the use of “partes.” The term, which is used in the first Academic Book and the dedicatory letter, links the philosophical ­opposition to the rhetorical framework through which Cicero views the dialogue. The author admits that he could not make his case “sound superior” to that of Varro (easque partis ut non sim consecutus ut superior mea causa videatur), 309 The theme of novelty and youth interlinks the letter and the dialogue. Cicero discusses the adolescent spirit of his Academy (adulescentioris Academiae, Fam. 9.8.1 [294]) and emphasizes the correctness of what’s new as he sets up the argument (Ac. 1.13), putting the old-timer Varro on the back foot even before he has engaged his arguments. 310 References often consist in provisional ‘titles’ (§I.1.2 and §I.1.3). The key letters are Att. 13.12 [320], 13.13-14 [321], 13.16 [323] and 13.19 [326]. 311 “Nothing can be more appropriate to this type of philosophy” (aptius esse nihil potuit ad id philosophiae genus).

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because Varro’s “Antiochia are really quite persuasive” (sunt enim vehementer πιθανὰ Antiochia). He goes on to explain that their persuasiveness derives from the fact that the arguments are “carefully articulated” by him, combining the sharpness of Antiochus’ philosophical mind with the brilliance of Ciceronian oratory (quae diligenter a me expressa acumen habent Antiochi, n ­ itorem orationis nostrum si modo is est aliquis in nobis, Att. 13.19.5 [326]). This passage offers an aesthetic reflection on the dialogue, reminding the reader that, more than a ‘translation’ and encomium of Antiochus, the Academic project has an ­important rhetorical orientation, as a competitive and eristic exchange that sets out to persuade its audience. When read in the context of earlier letters, specifically Att. 13.19 [326] and 13.12 [320], the Greek terms describing the Academica as “more logical” (λογικώτερα) and “more philological” (φιλολογώτερα) connect the technical philosophical content to an erudite, allusive, literary form. Looking closely at Att. 13.19 [326], Cicero bares his reflections on the project, sidelining Philo in favor of Antiochus. In defining the subject of the four books, he states that they deal with an “Academic controversy” (Academica quaestio) and contain “the arguments that Antiochus famously collected against akatalêpsia” (quae erant contra ἀκαταληψίαν praeclare conlecta ab Antiocho). Cicero merely brings these together and reports them accurately/verbatim (accurate, Att. 13.19.3 [326]; expressa, 13.19.5 [326])—lines of enquiry that, by implication, have a history going beyond Cicero and constituting the basis of a genus philosophiae which Varro admires. Furthermore, these arguments against apprehension are labeled pithana (πιθανά), a term that defines Carneades’ contribution to the history of the Hellenistic Academy. Accordingly, Att. 13.19.3 and 5 [326] deploy specialized terminology, akatalêpsia and pithana, that in the Lucullus defines the philosophy of Arcesilaus and Carneades respectively. Moreover, the register that emerges from a New Academic skeptical context not only foreshadows key issues of the dialogue but is also used to define the content of Varro’s Old Academic speech. The connection between philosophy and rhetoric is underpinned by the use of the Greek comparative λογικώτερα. The term underlines the connection between logic (λογική), or the part of philosophy that deals with the theory of knowledge, and rhetoric, the science of (public) speaking. This link is clearly established by the earlier comparative, φιλολογώτερα. As noted by Barnes (1997), the first Academic Book offers a rare instance in the Ciceronian corpus of a definition of logic, the branch of philosophy comprising what we might recognize as formal logic, theory of knowledge (epistemology) and rhetoric (Ac. 1.19 and Ac. 1.30-33). This delineation is also at work implicitly in the criticism levelled at Epicureans, who have no rhetoric (ars dicendi) and no method of argument (ars disserendi, Ac. 1.5; Barnes 1997, especially pp. 140–144).

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The Academic project’s broader epistolary frame does more than suffuse the treatise with a sense of doubt and hesitation emerging from Cicero’s political and personal situation. The author plays with the reader’s expectations about the confrontation to come between Philo and Antiochus, Cicero and Varro. In doing so, he underlines the significance of the dialogue’s rhetorical and literary qualities, while drawing attention to its historical depth; and ultimately, he places at the center of the drama the rebellion against Academic orthodoxy, the question of Philo’s departure and Antiochus’ Stoicism. The figure of Antiochus, in particular, polarizes and produces the crisis at the heart of the Academy, and the crisis itself is replayed by contemporary Romans as a fictional debate. Cicero frames the Academica with a keen interest in the tension these two temporal orders create when set side by side, as the dispute in the present both imitates and extends the arguments that caused it in the first place. 8.3

Antiochus versus Philo: Fictionalizing the Drift

The Alexandrian Episode, or Sosus Affair, is recounted in vivid detail at Luc. 11-12, where Cicero stages Antiochus of Ascalon’s reaction to two volumes of a work by his teacher, Philo, which had come into his possession during his stay at Alexandria in the retinue of Lucullus (Glucker 1978: 13 and Hatzimichali 2012). As Antiochus receives the books, his reaction is not only immediate and spontaneous, visceral and emotional; it is also public. Heraclitus of Tyre, the Selii brothers Publius and Gaius, Tetrilius Rogus, Antiochus’ brother Aristus, Dio and Aristo form an audience of Greek and Roman “friends” (familiares) who are present when Antiochus picks up Philo’s Roman Books. The Roman party is even able to confirm the origin of the work, whose content, we are told, they have heard in lecture form at Rome directly from Philo (illa audivisse Romae de Philone) and whose text they have copied (ab eo ipso illos duos libros dicerent descripsisse, Luc. 11). Antiochus’ audience looks on when he first opens the books and participates in the debates that take place in the days following this event. This is the period during which Antiochus develops his case against Philo’s heresy. Antiochus’ initial rejection sparks a discussion lasting several days (complures dies, Luc. 12) and engaging Romans and Greeks alike, philosophers and soldiers, in Alexandria. The rejection also leads Antiochus to write and circulate the Sosus (§III.8.1). Reading the Alexandrian Episode alongside other sections of the dialogue in which the disagreement between Antiochus and Philo is addressed (Luc. 69-70), as well as select letters and the later edition, critics have wondered about how

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plausible the narrative is in terms of capturing the conflict between Antiochus and his errant teacher. One key area of controversy concerns timing, and ­specifically whether the relationship broke down at the point at which the Roman Books found their way to Antiochus in Alexandria or whether the two had been cultivating differences for a longer period. The theme of deferral is written into the Ciceronian vignette at Luc. 11-12. Significantly, in fact, deferral frames the account. The quarrel is held across the Mediterranean, mediated by an exchange of books and stand-in audiences. The conjecture, widely shared by students of the Academica, that the split between Philo and Antiochus was in reality a drift over an extended period of time is intimated by the dramatic form of the exchange; as is the fact that the protagonists’ philosophies are not a static set of beliefs, held unwaveringly throughout their life. Rather, Philo’s and Antiochus’ philosophies are shown as evolving, and this evolution offers Cicero the opportunity to show the complex entwining of different currents within the Academy as Plato’s school emerges into the wider reality of the Roman Mediterranean. The intellectual distance between the two philosophers gives rise to questions about the authenticity of Philo’s manuscripts once they arrive in ­Alexandria and about who Antiochus’ adversary really is, if the Roman Books sound neither Philonian nor Academic. On the one hand, the myth of a clean and instantaneous break between two absolute and fully established heterodoxies exercises a powerful pull over the reader, and over Lucullus as its first ‘reader’. On the other, by drawing attention to the mythical status of the debate, the Academica invites the reader to see its significance in terms of the philosophical content of the work. The conflict between Philo and Antiochus provides more than a dramatic context, it frontloads an anticipation of the epistemic importance of dialogue in research. In line with the expectations raised in the letters and with the invitation issued by, for instance, Catulus to hear what Lucullus learned from Antiochus (tamen expecto ea quae te pollicitus es Luculle ab Antiocho audita dicturum, Luc. 10), the figure of this philosopher from Ascalon comes into focus as the direct source of Lucullus’ views. Lucullus presents himself in no uncertain terms as Antiochus’ understudy, a role for which, as he is careful to tell us, he ­prepared through attentive listening over a long period of time. In the opening eulogy—the laudatio Luculli—Cicero foregrounds Lucullus’ godlike ability to ­remember facts. His “divine memory” (habuit enim divinam quandam ­memoriam rerum) is a characteristic that primes him for the role he will play in the dialogue in which he will report on a philosophical incident and a series of intellectual conversations (§II.5.1). According to the author, not only was his capacity for memorizing outstanding even compared to Classical Greek

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standards, namely Themistocles’ memory (and besides more useful than Hortensius’); it also enabled Lucullus to become a successful general by methodical application of that memory while reading and listening to military experts over a single voyage: “therefore, because his voyage to the East he had spent partly questioning men with experience and partly reading about military history, he arrived in Asia an accomplished military leader, having left Rome ignorant of military matters” (itaque cum totum iter et navigationem consumpsisset partim in percontando a peritis partim in rebus gestis legendis, in Asiam factus imperator venit, cum esset Roma profectus rei militaris rudis, Luc. 2).312 Now, as the general is about to become a philosopher, a homologous process is described in his own words. Lucullus’ ability to perform (as) Antiochus is underpinned by his attention to the teacher’s words. The passage constantly refers to the act of listening—audire appears seven times over Luc. 11-12. We are also told by way of introduction that the controversy is known to Lucullus precisely because he used to listen to Antiochus with a mind free from distraction and very attentively, and the same views were expressed on more than one occasion (nota enim mihi res est; nam et vacuo animo ilium audiebam et magno studio, eadem de re etiam saepius, Luc. 10). In addition, Cicero creates the impression that Lucullus participated in a long-running discussion about Antiochus’ case against Philo. The debate on this single issue was reportedly held over an extended period of time (multum temporis in ista una disputatione consumpsimus, Luc. 12) and involved Aristus, Aristo and Dio. The arguments were not only long, they were repeated (note “item” at Luc. 12 and “saepius,” cited above). Just as Lucullus is about to go over what Hortensius said in the previous day’s dialogue, but supplying a more detailed treatment (reconditiora). The significance of all this careful study, repetition and exposure to the same ideas is ultimately to distance Lucullus from the views of Antiochus, showing how he seeks to withdraw from being personally invested in the dialogue and laying emphasis squarely on accuracy of reproduction. Even before the reader is given the opportunity to reflect on the rhetorical shades of the vignette, the theme of memorization and imitation comes to the fore in light of the authorial preface (Luc. 7-9). Cicero’s case for an Academic skeptic methodology precedes Lucullus’ retelling of the episode and inevitably informs its reception. Posing as warden of the Academic system (Academiae ratio), Cicero sets out certain key elements of the position that his character will go on to defend in his speech. In the first place, the impossibility of epistemic certainty resulting from the many difficulties frustrating all attempts to gain knowledge (omnis cognitio multis est obstructa difficultatibus). These 312 On the use of “percontando” in Cicero’s Academy, see also Fin. 2.2.

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difficulties are pinned on “the darkness shrouding all things” (in ipsis rebus obscuritas) and the weakness of our ability to form judgments (in iudiciis ­nostris infirmitas). Second, he emphasizes intellectual exchange—the method of arguing both sides of a case—as the only course towards truth or whatever comes closest to it (neque nostrae disputationes quicquam aliud agunt nisi ut in utramque partem dicendo et audiendo eliciant et tamquam exprimant aliquid quod aut verum sit aut ad id quam proxime accedat, Luc. 7).313 The injunction to participate critically in all philosophical arguments is expressed repeatedly in the preface in terms of rejecting auctoritas in matters doctrinal and the childish attitude to defend a position without having subjected it to critical examination. In a muscular tone, Cicero insists on freedom as a defining characteristic of the Academic: the difference between those who think they know (scire se arbitrantur) and the skeptics of Cicero’s color is that Cicero’s Academics admit they are not in a position to assert anything (adfirmare vix possumus). These Academics are “freer and without restraints” (liberiores ac solutiores) because their “power of judgment is unimpaired” (quod integra nobis est iudicandi potestas). This libertas is understood as a freedom from “the compulsion to defend views laid down and virtually imposed as a decree by some others” (nec ut omnia quae praescripta et quibus et quasi imperata sint defendamus necessitate ulla cogimur, Luc. 8), as well as a freedom to pursue “truth,” loosely defined as the possibility of such a thing—the freedom, in other words, to criticize or to exercise one’s critical mind.314 The methodology section is framed by the characterization of Lucullus as an uncritical memorizer. Read against this fervent defense of Academic practice, the general’s reliance on Antiochus emerges as inadequate and un-­Academic. Temporality and repetition focus the contrast between the ­Ciceronian and Lucullan approach to philosophizing. While Lucullus adopts a studious and silent attitude towards the re-performance of intellectual scenarios, seeing them as an opportunity to assimilate arguments, Cicero understands continuous participation in debates as a necessary form of philosophical ­maturation. 313 The description of the in utramque method of philosophizing has the odd addition of the gerund “audiendo,” not found in other descriptions of the practice in Cicero. The editions of Reid (1885), Rackham (1933) and Brittain (2006) eliminate it, although three important manuscripts preserve it (including Madvig’s favorite fifteenth-century Erlangen 847). The pointed contrast between this introduction and Lucullus’ self-presentation has not been adduced as a reason for deletion or retention, but my analysis leans towards the latter, following Plasberg (1922) and Schäublin (1995). 314 Walter Burkert (1965) was the first to point out that ‘freedom’ as an aspect of skepticism is not something we see in the Greek tradition. See also Görler (1997: 54–55). Cf. Luc. 120 and Tusc. 5.33.

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Sustained investigation of viewpoints is not only what preserves the ability to judge unimpaired. It also prevents the individual from prematurely a­ ttaching herself to received opinions. Blind attachment is an issue that ­Cicero ­addresses in terms of two questions: establishing the identity of the wise man and the patronage of philosophical opinions, or sententiae. The image of philosophers “chained to” (adstricti) or “captured by” (capti) certain views, on which they settle on at “a very young age” (infirmirmissimo tempore aetatis), is born of Cicero’s concern that the decision to endorse a particular position occurs before one’s critical faculty is mature. These sorts of philosophers comply with whatever view their friend picks (amico cuipiam) or adhere to something they heard said only once in a lecture (aut una alicuius quem primum audierunt oratione). Cicero describes a sense of despair in their clinging to a system (disciplinam), like shipwrecks clinging onto a cliff-edge against which a storm has taken them (quasi tempestate delati ad eam tamquam ad saxum adhaerescunt). What turns thinkers into children and shipwrecks, spellbound by the ­authority of an individual teacher (ad unius se auctoritatem contulerunt) or confused by the storm of their emotional attachment to a philosophy (­sententiam quam adamaverunt), is misjudging how important that first decision to follow someone or some idea is. To claim to follow a wise man, one must be able to know (what) wisdom (is), what it looks like. And to do so, one must be a wise man: “for to decide who is a wise man seems to be above all the department of—well—a wise man” (statuere enim qui sit sapiens vel maxime videtur esse sapientis, Luc. 9). Cicero’s methodological program not only introduces central issues from an Academic skeptical perspective, such as the problematic of sense perception, the ontological inaccessibility of truth, Carneadean probabilia and the identity of the sapiens. It also connects this perspective with the historical staging of disputes. The philosophica is inserted within the Academic temporality of continuous research, and the Lucullus is specifically introduced as an instance of this pursuit. The two frames, the Ciceronian preface and Lucullus’ prologue, are interlinked by the recurrence of philosophical exchange where rival attitudes are constructed as contrary to each other. The debate in which Cicero, Hortensius Lucullus and Catulus engage is not a one-time occurrence, but a recurrent occupation for these aristocrats, who, we are told, investigated these methodological issues—as they are now about to do in Hortensius’ villa (quibus de rebus et alias saepe nobis multa quaesita et disputata sunt et quondam in Hortensi villa…, Luc. 9). The contrast between Cicero’s manifesto for Academic philosophy and the characterization of Lucullus opens a dialogue between two different ­models of

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intellectual engagement. The distinction echoes across the opening ­paragraphs of the work through, for instance, the adjective “rudis” (ignorant or uncultivated). In the laudatio, the term is employed to mark the transformation of Lucullus from urbane lawyer to respected general: he had become a commander by the time he landed in Asia, but in Rome he had been unacquainted with military matters (rei militaris rudis, Luc. 2). This developmental trajectory offers a useful myth in Lucullus’ biography, illustrating the significance and real-world consequences of study. “Rudis” is found again at Luc. 7-9, but here it underlines the rashness of those who claim to be able to adjudicate who is wise. Cicero points out that “uncultivated and ignorant people” (rudes et indocti) are not in a position to exercise such judgment. When the general turns to Antiochus and promises to read from this script alone, Cicero has already set up his audience to disapprove of Lucullus’ approach as undermining the attitude that had turned him into a general and a Roman success story in the first place. The homology between practical and theoretical life serves both to integrate philosophy into real life and to argue for the advantages and common sense appeal of the skeptical method. Over Luc. 7-9, Cicero mounts his defense of the Academy so as to divide the field of philosophy between the Academy and its detractors, a class of critics of the Academy who are not persuaded by its ratio (genus reprehensorum, quibus Academiae ratio non probatur, Luc. 7). Significantly, while Lucullus is the protagonist of the first part of the apology, in which Cicero parries the reproach that philosophy is not for responsible social individuals like Roman citizens, he is not mentioned in this second part, which concerns knowledge. The debate largely centers on the philosophical attitude to how we hold views, and seems to pit Cicero’s Academic research against an approach to philosophy similar to the one Antiochus will be made to represent in the rest of the dialogue. In contrast to some of the letters to Atticus or the preface to the first Academic Book, what we miss here is any reference to an Old or New Academy, a distinction that locates the debate securely within the same institution. In the preface to the Lucullus, there is only one Academy and Cicero is its representative. The preface shapes the authority of the Academy as a specifically skeptical Academy even before the debate takes place. Before the arrival of the Roman Books, Antiochus is already shown as engaged in a dispute. At Luc. 11 the Roman general mentions Heraclitus of Tyre, a friend of Antiochus and an Academic, whose position is identified with the teaching of Clitomachus and Philo, and with a philosophy that, as the tense of “revocatur” implies in contrast to the perfect participle “dimissa” (abandoned), “is in the process of being revived” or “called back” by the Roman debate we are

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about to eavesdrop on.315 The impact of Philo’s newest writings sent from the capital only intensifies an already existing antagonism between him and his former pupil, making Antiochus, a usually calm and composed debater, begin to lose his temper (et homo natura lenissimus—nihil enim poterat fieri illo mitius—stomachari tamen coepit, Luc. 11). The scope of the dialogue is thus ­immediately identified not in terms of a narrow opposition between Philo and Antiochus, but as encompassing Antiochus’ conflict with the Academy, Heraclitus, and later Cicero, who responds to Antiochus. We learn that Lucullus heard “Heraclitus assiduously arguing against Antiochus and again Antiochus arguing against the Academics” (Heraclitum studiose audirem contra Antiochum disserentem et item Antiochum contra Academicos); we are also told that arguments against Philo must be dropped from the debate altogether because the Roman Books are not genuinely Academic texts (ea pars quae contra Philonem erat praetermittenda est); and because the disagreement is with Arcesilaus and Carneades (ad Arcesilan Carneademque veniamus, Luc. 12).316 In this light, the Alexandrian Episode’s documentary value is undercut by the broader remit of the dispute as it is now understood by Lucullus. A divergence of views had existed before the arrival of the Roman Books, as Antiochus seems to have taken up an ex-centric position with respect to the Academy before that fateful day—an Academy whose fortunes, we are reminded, were fast waning. A closer study of the section complicates matters further. When Lucullus prefaces his speech by declaring his uncommitted attitude towards the position he is about to voice, he uses a terminology we will become familiar with in Cicero’s speech. His words inhabit an Academic skeptic register, suggesting that Lucullus thinks of his speech in terms of how persuasive the words might be (probaturus sim) and that his view only seems to be true—however strong that impression is (videtur verissima). The fact that the words are not admittedly his own is linked to an indifference as to whether they persuade his audience or not. Yet he expresses his provisional assent to them in terms entirely reminiscent of Academic skepticism. Lucullus implicitly shows himself to be open to persuasion, putting himself in play in this dispute and doing so to an even greater degree than his skeptic rival, who takes center-stage with 315 “Homo sane in ista philosophia, quae nunc prope dimissa revocatur:” the relative clause describes Heraclitus’ philosophia as a system or school that “is now being revived, but was once almost abandoned.” The “nunc” suggestively reaches back to Cicero’s apology and introduces the Lucullus itself as part of that revival. 316 Soon after, Lucullus confirms that the true target of his critique are Academics (ut contra Academicos disseramus, Luc. 17; and: omnis oratio contra Academiam suscipitur a nobis, Luc. 18).

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a strong assertion of personal investment in the tenets of the Academy: “the position I am about to set out, I endorse” (Ea sentire quae dicerem, Luc. 65). Furthermore, while Lucullus may well be opening the debate with the caution and ­circumspection of an Academic skeptic, Philo is identified with a position that is not quite Academic. Although he is initially paired with Clitomachus and Heraclitus, the latter is questioned by Antiochus not only on whether he thought the Roman Books were Philonian, but also on whether he had ever heard such views expressed by Philo or any other Academic (ille Heracliti memoriam implorans quaerere ex eo viderenturne illa Philonis aut ea num vel e Philone vel ex ullo Academico audivisset aliquando, Luc. 11). Heraclitus says no. The form of the question clearly distances Philo from the Academy. In doing so, the author introduces a separation that will re-center the focus of the disagreement around Antiochus and the Academics, namely Arcesilaus and Carneades—not Philo. The effect of this shape-shifting opposition is as complex as it is essential to the understanding of what is at stake in the Academica. The notion of fixity of philosophical positions is challenged. Philo’s heresy makes him not at all dissimilar from his former pupil, whom Cicero shows as also having exited the Academy some time before. Lucullus is also implicitly excluded from the school, although his tentative self-abnegation re-integrates him into Academic methodology. This trajectory is, however, reversed in the case of Cicero, who introduces the position he intends to defend as one he fully endorses, and who concludes the Lucullus with the extensive illustration of how and why it is impossible to choose any position, when the field of philosophy is populated with so many philosophical positions that appear persuasive, logical, intuitively correct, conflicting, weak or simply unconvincing. As we shall see, our protagonists inhabit more than one position or philosophical perspective during their career, and these shifts are almost imperceptibly treated in the Academica (§III.8.4). The virtue of skepticism, its freedom, is presented in this paradoxical vein as the condition of examining, perhaps even occupying, different positions. Inclusivity emerges as the single distinctive characteristic of Cicero’s skeptical project, and it is this logic of assimilation that introduces the debate. On the one hand, Cicero explicitly accepts criticism as the necessary counterpart of the Academic methodology of “debating with everyone” (contra omnes dicere). Dissent is a calculated part of the philosophical game, and it is woven into the fabric of Academic philosophizing, as well as being the key element of the manifesto of the project itself. On the other hand, by blurring the boundary between inside and outside, the Academy develops a fluid understanding of what it means to operate within the institution. In this sense, other doctrines

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and institutions, such as Antiochus’ views or Philo’s heretical Academy, are ­incorporated within the Academy, (as) the school in whose name the discussion takes place. Cicero reserves the same aggression, given full vent in reactions to Philo’s heterodoxy, to Antiochus’ doctrinal position, which Lucullus mentions as ­being in opposition to Heraclitus’ Academy—i.e. the Academy of Arcesilaus, Carneades and Clitomachus. So at Luc. 69, Antiochus is portrayed as exchanging old beliefs for new, and most shockingly, Stoic ones. Following on from this introductory salvo, Cicero’s speech brings to light several other elements profiling Antiochus’ thought. These dismantle the historical credibility of the Alexandrian story by underlining the rhetorical artifice of the account and reminding the audience of the link between narrative frame and philosophical subject matter. One such key element concerns dating. Cicero places the Antiochian secession from the Academy before the reception of the Roman Books. The barrage of rhetorical questions with which Cicero criticizes Antiochus’ betrayal at Luc. 69 satirizes the very idea of positing a precise date for the switch: “what day was it then,” Cicero asks Lucullus, “that shone on him and illuminated that criterion of truth and falsity, which for many years he had denied even existed?” (quis enim iste dies inluxerit quaero qui illi ostenderit eam quam multos annos esse negitavisset veri et falsi notam? cf. §II.7.2). However, Cicero pins down the historical period during which the erstwhile Academic spoke as a Stoic, when he mentions Mnesarchus and Dardanus’ leadership of the Stoa in Athens (principes Stoicorum, Luc. 69). Allusions to the geographical and chronological context for Antiochus’ switch places the conversion in the 90s bce, so ­before the Sosus Affair.317 By 87 bce Antiochus was already a Stoic. The presence of an audience of Romans and Greeks in Alexandria, which convenes around Antiochus before he comes into contact with the Roman Books, implicitly corroborates the earlier secession date. In his personal attack on the philosopher, Cicero mentions that Antiochus “would never have left Philo until after he had acquired his own students” (numquam a Philone discessit, nisi postea quam ipse coepit qui se audirent habere, Luc. 69). The temporal sequence, which Cicero carefully constructs in order to undermine Lucullus’ narrative of the break, is also characterized by what we might describe as a causal approach to the schism, or the lack thereof. As Barnes (1989: 69) s­ uccinctly puts it, there is no explicit link made between the “affair” and the “conversion,” or the two sections Luc. 11-12 and 69-70. In view of the absence of any connection, Dorandi 317 Cf. Acad. index 34.3-6 and Ind. Stoic. 21.2-7. Glucker (1978) suggests the early part of that decade; Barnes (1989: 69) agrees.

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(1997: 98) deems both sections hopelessly un-historical, as neither Antiochus’ conversion nor the Roman Books are mentioned in the prefatory passage, nor is the Sosus mentioned in the later one. Cicero “non è interessato a una rappresentazione ‘storica.’” Luc. 69-70 does not acknowledge the impact or the ­existence of the Roman Books, and Cicero discusses the lives of Philo and Antiochus during their time in Athens as already afflicted by divergence and conflict. Most critics have commented on the challenge of reconciling the Sosus ­Affair—the moment of secession between Philo and Antiochus—and Antiochus’ earlier move towards a syncretic philosophy merging Stoicism and Platonism. A ‘realistic’ account, underwritten by the majority of scholars, involves inserting the Alexandrian Episode within an extended narrative of drift between the two.318 Nonetheless, the documentary approach underestimates, if it does not altogether overlook, the rhetorical force of Cicero’s response to the Alexandrian Episode, especially in its relation to Luc. 11-12. The fact that the so-called secession anticipates Antiochus’ reaction to the Roman Books is not an isolated reflection on Lucullus’ story. Rather, the observation integrates a thematic response to the passage as a whole. Citing the Stoic principes Mnesarchus and Dardanus re-introduces the problem of school allegiance. At Luc. 69-70, Antiochus operates within the Academy, and Cicero emphasizes the ­connection by portraying Antiochus as an assiduous defender of Philonian philosophy—a characteristic that defines Cicero’s own affiliation in the Lucullus. Cicero tells us that “Antiochus studied the same views he is defending with Philo and did so for such a long time that everyone agreed no one had studied them for longer. Antiochus even wrote about them most perceptively” (qui haec ipsa quae a me defenduntur et didicit apud Philonem tam diu ut constaret diutius didicisse neminem, et scripsit de iis rebus acutissime, Luc. 69). Furthermore, Antiochus continues to work as an Academic even when he preaches Stoicism. The speaker comments on the rumor that while uttering the same views as the Stoics (eadem dicit quae Stoici), he did not join them (non se 318 So Glucker (1978: 15–31), Barnes (1989: 68–78) and Dorandi (1997: 93–105). They lead a longer list, in which we find Hirzel (1883: 337–338), Goedeckemeyer (1905: 111), Sedley (1981: 67–75), Tarrant (1985a: 91), Donini (1993: 93–105), Mansfeld (1997: 68–71) and Bonazzi (2003: 112–117). This reading has evolved against the orthodoxy of interpreting the reception and critique of the Roman Books as the cause of their separation, an orthodoxy endorsed by, amongst others, Lüder (1940: 3–4) and Luck (1953: 15), but perhaps most influentially by Mette (1986/7: 22) and Dillon (1997: 54). In this group, Glucker, Tarrant, Inwood and Mansfeld, Lévy’s Cicero Academicus and Brittain, all raise questions about the orator’s approach to the schism, trying to make sense of the problematic description of events. Brittain (2001: 6) is an assiduous schematizer of these phases, dating the Roman Books as coming after the “notable defections” of Aenesidemus and Antiochus.

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transtulit ad alios, et maxime ad Stoicos), preferring to retain the illustrious title of Academic (nominis dignitatem videtur … retinere voluisse, Luc. 69). Even if the reader presumes, as does Tarrant (1985a: 93), that Cicero willfully misinterprets Antiochus’ thought—perhaps correctio itself—as Stoic, the misreading itself is valuable in understanding Cicero’s approach to the debate.319 It also raises again one of the fundamental questions about school identity, namely who speaks legitimately as an Academic in its history—whether Clitomachus, Arcesilaus, Carneades, Heraclitus, Cicero or Lucullus; and what speaking from within a school, as opposed to without it, means (§II.6.5 and §II.7.3). The act of switching doctrinal viewpoints is treated as a complex issue on two levels. The ironic “quis iste dies” of Luc. 60 refers back to the awkward instantaneity of Lucullus’ story. The expression underlines the continuous nature of the debate that the story, through the figure of Heraclitus, already posited. Cicero is teaching us how to read the Sosus Affair. Implicitly, however, Cicero’s sententious judgment that “authority is weakened by inconstancy” (inconstantia levatur auctoritas—the premise of the ad personam attack we are currently analyzing) must necessarily appear problematic not only for the surprising importance given to the term auctoritas, painted as deleterious to the search for truth in the preface, but also for the very inconstancy ascribed to the Academic method endorsed by Cicero. In sum, the opposition between Philo and Antiochus is nuanced and deconstructed, as is that between Cicero and Lucullus, and each antagonism veils a more complex and parallel pair of intellectual biographies. A study of the biographical introductions to each speech in the Lucullus makes an initial and strong case for reading the dialogue with all due sensitivity to its aesthetic properties. I hope to have established the need to read through the superficial oppositions developed by Cicero not just as a contemporary heuristic imperative on the reader’s part, but as an intelligent response to Cicero’s own presentation of the philosophical material. The issues introduced through these framing devices link epistemology and sense-perception to institutional problems of the period, such as the crisis of the Academy; they are also relevant to broader questions of how and where philosophy is meant to be conducted, and how schools legitimize or outlaw doctrines and individual voices.

319 Donini (1982: 74) shares this view as he portrays Antiochus as a “brillante professore di storia della filosofia:” an Academic able to manipulate texts in order to highlight the essential identity of views between Platonists, Aristotelians and Stoics (§II.4.3). Antiochus is as good an interpreter of Stoicism as Long (1974) and Rist (1969), whose works Donini uses to defend as reasonable the foundations of Antiochus’ Platonism.

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Philo and Antiochus: Profiles in Conversation

The Lucullus scripts an elaborate intellectual trajectory for its Greek protagonists. The author weaves elements of Philo’s and Antiochus’ philosophical biographies into the dialogue, unveiling the ever-evolving life of their mind. Their profiles are characterized by incisive attempts at rethinking the assumptions underlying the Hellenistic dispute between skeptics and Stoics, by a commitment to try on different theories and engage with the doctrinal evolution of the Academy in new ways. These narratives interconnect with the history of the institution that, at one time, the two thinkers claimed to represent. The Greek heroes of Cicero’s Academic story offer more than glimpses into the ­history of Plato’s school through their understanding of the continuities or discontinuities of its doctrines; Philo and Antiochus embody that complex history in their lives as scholars. Focusing closely on Philo’s thought, this section will explore this relationship between biographical and institutional history, with a view to demonstrating how different phases of his intellectual development correspond to different periods of the Academy.320 Cicero’s allusions to different stages in Philo’s career are not simply incidental to the progress of the dialogue, but represent a concerted strategy to use this biography as a way to narrate the Academy’s complex history. A history riven by internal tensions and enriched by a welter of approaches to the same philosophical problems. Before embarking on this profiling exercise, it is important to note that, just as this section will seek to untangle Philo’s (and to a lesser extent Antiochus’) inconstant life in Academic thought, one of the central concerns raised in the authorial prefaces, particularly in the first Academic Book, is precisely the issue of changing one’s mind. We have read the relevant excerpts several times before, yet it’s worth reminding ourselves here that to change allegiance with ­respect to the scholastic tradition one purportedly belongs to, whether it is criticized as diminishing one’s authority or celebrated as proof of one’s freedom to think and critique, is always a loaded theme for Cicero’s Roman audience (§II.7.1). It is equally important to underline that, despite those programmatic statements concerning what the Academica is about, there is no passage in the extant fragments that expressly describes the evolution of either philosopher. Their progress is often alluded to and not always presented in any chronological or logical sequence, to the extent that readers must piece it together for themselves. This inevitably stimulates the reader to piece together the intellectual evolution of what Cicero portrays as the last institutional voices of Academic thinking, so that s/he finds her or himself reconstructing the genealogy of Plato’s school, from the founder and his teacher to its Roman incarnation. 320 For a collection of the fragments see Mette (1986) and Brittain (2001).

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Crisis and renewal go hand in hand, as each individual voice is made the bearer of the entire tradition.321 Philo’s nova, which reached Antiochus in Alexandria in the form of his twovolume Roman Books, provide a chronological and doctrinal hook for his biography. These books, we are told, provide an insight into the thought of the Academy’s scholarch as he engages with new theories at a precise time and place: at Rome in the early 80s bce. The episode promises to deliver a record of his change of mind and heterodoxy, yet it ends up doing the opposite of that, explicitly sidelining Philo in favor of centering the debate around Clitomachus and the Hellenistic leaders, Arcesilaus and Carneades. To be disappointed by the absence of Philo is the predicament of every reader of the Lucullus—a disappointment shared by readers of the later edition, where not only Academic history but also the last of the New Academic texts both end before Philo is given the opportunity to speak; and to cap it all, the work’s fragmentary status forever prevents us knowing whether such opportunity was ever granted. In §III.8.1, I conducted a focused review of the scholarly debate around the sources for Cicero’s speech in the Lucullus. One of the aims of that evaluation was to reflect on Philo as just such a source, particularly in light of Cicero’s outspoken efforts to name philosophers other than Philo in his speech (Clitomachus for instance, cf. Luc. 99, 102 and 104) and in his candid assertion that he sides with Clitomachus against Philo in his interpretation of Carneades (Luc. 78). The strategy puts some distance between Cicero and his teacher’s late doctrines, and it is difficult to see the views attributed to his character in the Lucullus as deriving from or related to that phase of Philo’s philosophy coinciding with the Roman Books.

321 One objection immediately springs to mind in the context of the allusive nature of the Academica, namely that Cicero’s audience would not have needed to piece anything ­together, since they would have been acquainted with the intellectual vicissitudes of Philo and Antiochus. I suggest that a response to this objection might develop along these lines: on a theoretical level, allusion, as elegy teaches the Latinist, is an (inter-)active process involving both remembering the history of a phrase, word, theme and so on, and its place in a tradition, as well as shaping that tradition or text to which the allusion refers. Allusion does not operate as a glorified card indexing system. And even if it did, thinkers like Foucault, Derrida and others, who have written about catalogues and archives, have shown that the most automatic form of indexical organization implicates the user in a complex discourse. Besides, the question of Cicero’s readership remains just that: a question. It is not clear or obvious to me that Cicero wrote exclusively to and for experts. Varro, Brutus, Atticus might be expected to be versed in Academic history, but the objectors whom Cicero addresses in his prefaces are characterized as new to the discipline as a whole.

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Accordingly, the quest for Philo in the Academica must begin with the sections that explicitly reference the scholarch and address the theoretical positions connected to Philo. In the first instance, the Roman innovations seem to be more clearly labelled than the other phases and are constituted, at least as far as we are given to see, by two views: the belief in the unity and continuity of the Academy throughout its history, linked to the historical controversy at Luc. 13-17, 72-8 and Ac. 1.13; and, connected to the historiography, a new epistemology (nova quaedam) that deals with the “inapprehensible” (ἀκατάληπτον) in a way that distances Philo from the three-clause definition of katalêpsis established by Zeno (§II.5.3).322 These two concepts are the culmination of a lengthy intellectual career. Across the distinct periods of Philo’s thought—Brittain (2001) counts three, where Sedley (1981) saw only two—the philosopher contemplated different epistemologies. He began as a loyal follower of Clitomachus, under whom he studied and alongside whom he endorsed a strong skeptical stance towards sense-perception and knowledge claims in line with Arcesilaus and Carneades’ thought; Philo then seems to temper that critical attitude, particularly with respect to the legacy of Carneades’ teachings. Finally, in his later life Philo winds up distancing himself from the skeptical orthodoxy of the Hellenistic leaders. Effectively, he drifts away from a radical form of skepticism to a softer position, one that entertains doctrines or, at the very least, the possibility of positive knowledge. The Academy’s reported drift to ‘dogmatism’ in the first century bce, on which we commented at §II.4.3-4.4, seems to have been lamented in the works of Philo’s contemporary Aenesidemus. As we shall see, Aenesidemus complains that Academics in his time had become nothing but “Stoics attacking Stoics.” Charles Brittain’s (2001) study of Philo’s thought offers a detailed evaluation of this late Academician that breaks down the evolution of his philosophy into three distinct stages. His painstaking analysis of the scant textual evidence has shed new light on the Academica as a witness to that scholarch’s career, and it has certainly exerted a profound influence on my own reading of Cicero’s work. Over this section I will follow Brittain’s tripartite account and seek to show that his argument about Philo actually tells us something important about how Cicero puts his teacher’s profile to use in his Academic project. In terms of the structure or plot of the story, Brittain (2001: 73) takes issue with the thesis of 322 Catulus senior, Antiochus, Cicero and possibly the whole Academic establishment—­ depending on how we read the first person plural “nos” in the statement “we/I believe that Zeno defined comprehension in the most correct way” (id nos a Zenone definitum rectissime dicimus, Luc. 18)—seems to have accepted the definition.

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a glide into “dogmatism,” the “drift” narrative of Sedley (1981: 71) and Tarrant (2011: 67), and sees “radical discontinuities” characterizing the moves from the Clitomachean phase to the Metrodorean-Philonian phase and then onto the Roman period. Early Philo is a follower of Clitomachus, his teacher of fourteen years in Athens and from whom he inherited the leadership of the ­Academy. On two separate occasions Glucker (1978: 88 and 77) suggests that Philo was a safe choice because of his lack of originality and the promise his mediocrity implied to “toe the line” and behave as if “under contract.” This represents an extreme form of a widely accepted view that Philo surely must have had a Clitomachean phase, connected with his studentship and succession (cf. Lévy 2010: 85). This phase corresponded with the endorsement of two ­theses, akatalêpsia and epochê, and was, accordingly, dialectical, rejecting all claims to the possibility of certain knowledge. Earlier we read Luc. 98-104 emphasizing the extent to which Cicero uses ­certain works by Clitomachus to explain and engage with Carneades and his concept of probabilia or persuasive impressions (§II.6.5). The impossibility of perception is developed throughout this segment of the speech. Cicero begins by distinguishing between two types or classes of impressions (genera visorum): the perceptible and non-perceptible, and the persuasive and non-persuasive (alia visa esse quae percipi possint, alia quae non possint; in altero autem alia visa esse probabilia alia non probabilia, Luc. 99). There follows a critique of the “mark of distinction between truth and falsehood” (veri falsique nota, Luc. 101), and the section ends with an argument about “similarity” (similitudo, Luc. 103). Cicero guides the reader to the Clitomachean conclusion that no commitment of the kind underpinned by “assent” (adsensus) takes place in response to impressions, but that nonetheless certain impressions, probabilia, move us and compel us to act.323 Emphasis on the “persuasive” aspect of percepts and the theory’s expediency, insofar as it allows humans to act and live in the world, leads Brittain (2001: 73) to define Carneades’ position as one that is “truth-indifferent.” Epochê and akatalêpsia are not introduced as doctrines, views developed with the ambition of being true or exerting a claim to truth; both concepts are 323 Cicero explains that “according to this view, he who withholds assent from any impression nonetheless must still be moved and must still act and that certain impressions must remain, through which we are aroused to act; and again other impressions that allow us, when questioned, to respond on either side of the question, following them only insofar as they seem to be the case and doing so without assent” (nam cum placeat eum, qui de omnibus rebus contineat se ab adsentiendo, moveri tamen et agere aliquid, relinqui eius modi visa, quibus ad actionem excitemur, item ea, quae interrogati in utramque partem respondere possimus sequentes tantummodo, quod ita visum sit, dum sine adsensu, Luc. 104).

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established reactively, as responses to the conditions elaborated by the Stoics on sense-perception (cf. Luc. 103). The Carneadean probabile is similarly a further reaction, in this instance to the need to make choices, perform actions and generally navigate existence. In this respect, the point of Carneades’ position is to provide solutions to the dire perceptual conditions in which man lives (cf. Luc. 100). Clitomachus’ admission that he was never able to ­understand what Carneades approved (cf. Luc. 139) confirms the extent to which Carneades’ contribution to philosophy was tentative and cautious, amounting to nothing but the complete removal of assent from our minds (ex animis nostris adsensionem, id est opiniationem et temeritatem, extraxisset, Luc. 108; cf. Luc. 139). Clitomachus followed and promoted this interpretation of a circumspect Carneades, as we presume did Philo while studying under Clitomachus. According to Brittain (2001: 76–128), by 95 bce Philo had taken up a new ­position, which he labels Philonian-Metrodorian skepticism. This form of skepticism is characterized by a continued defense of akatalêpsia and the gradual abandonment of epochê.324 At Luc. 78 Cicero attributes a mitigated form of skepticism to Metrodorus and Philo because of their interpretation of Carneades’ probabile. According to Metrodorus and Philo, Carneades positively approved this concept rather than merely using it for the purpose of a­ rgument, as Clitomachus claimed. In other words, their interpretation opens the way for a form of weak or provisional assent that does not, however, challenge akatalêpsia. As we have seen earlier, Luc. 77-78 is connected to the argument between Zeno and Arcesilaus about having opinions and the establishment of the three conditions of katalêpsis. However, in the continuation of that exchange, the focus is squarely on the third condition—“nullum esse visum quod percipi posset, si id tale esset ab eo quod est cuius modi ab eo quod non est posset esse”—an emphasis that allows Cicero to study akatalêpsia and overlook, at least initially, the question of opinion. The last clause of the section sharpens the distinction between Clitomachus’ skepticism and the PhilonianMetrodorian acceptance of a weak form of assent. The speaker drops the ­question of Carneades’ approval or commitment to the probabile: “let’s just leave this issue out of it” (sed id omittamus), he exhorts Lucullus. He then states in no uncertain terms what the objective of his argument will be: “once opining and perception are removed, this must follow: the withholding of all assent so that if I’ll have shown that nothing can be perceived, you would have 324 The Philonian-Metrodorian phase is already in Brochard (1969: 198). While the relation between Philo and Metrodorus is only mentioned at Luc. 78, Brochard understands “perspicuitas” (clarity) at Luc. 34 as an earlier sign of Metrodorus’ influence on Philo’s thought.

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to ­concede that one can never assent” (illud certe opiniatione et perceptione sublata sequitur, omnium adsensionum retentio, ut, si ostendero nihil posse percipi, tu concedas numquam adsensurum esse, Luc. 78). Two further passages examine Carneades and his relationship to the probabile. These include the obscure formulation of Catulus’ opinion at Luc. 148 (§II.6.5 and §II.7.1) and Luc. 59, where Lucullus draws a distinction between Arcesilaus’ epochê and Carneades’ “approval of a non-cognized impression” (adprobare non cognitum) in order to criticize the later Academician for being inconsistent. If nothing can be perceived, argues Lucullus, then assent must be removed; Carneades’ form of approval is a nonsensical compromise. There are two specific elements of the section that link it to Luc. 78 and 148. In the first place, the implication that Carneades asserts the possibility of opining as a theory that he endorses, as “he states that the sage will opine, i.e. he will commit a sin” (ut diceret opinaturum id est peccaturum esse sapientem). Lucullus here seems to be attacking the Philonian-Metrodorian interpretation of Carneades. Also, Lucullus discusses Carneades’ view as something the group heard about “yesterday” (heri), tying his critique to the content of the Catulus, so that when we come to Luc. 148 it is tempting to read Catulus’ claim of a “return to his father’s view” (ad patris revolvor sententiam) as a return to an opinion voiced in the first volume.325 The fact that Catulus seems to stand by akatalêpsia while weakening, if not outright abandoning, epochê suggests that a Philonian-Metrodorian position underlies his view. Significantly, Cicero presents the inheritance of Carneades in terms of two branches, the Clitomachean and the Philonian-Metrodorian. Brittain (2001: 102–105) pushes his interpretation of this phase further by identifying other possible sources for Philo’s epistemology, namely Luc. 32-36, 59-60 and 61-62. According to the critic, this period of Philo’s thought is characterized by a mitigated skepticism that takes Carneades’ probabile (pithanon) seriously as a “rational discriminatory mechanism.” A persuasive impression or percept is not just something that is subjectively persuasive and is only to be used in the immediate circumstances of its reception; it is an impression that takes into account the clarity of perceptual conditions and coherence with other percepts, is rationally verifiable and so enjoys some objective validity. Philonian-Metrodorians subject perceptions to coherence tests, rationally evaluate them and use what is persuasive as having some objective value, in theoretical as well as practical matters (Brittain 2001: 107; cf. §II.7.3). Lucullus discusses this expanded sense of the concept when he refers to a group of skeptics whose probabile offers a guide in life as well as an intellectual bedrock 325 See Brittain (2001: 77–78) and Mansfeld (1997) on the two Catuli.

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of sorts (probabile aut veri simile et in agenda vita et in quaerendo ac disserendo, Luc. 32). This type of skepticism confronts the ontological problem of the claim that no distinction between true and false can be perceived, yet it exploits the same distinction to build a case for akatalêpsia. Such a contradiction is described by Lucullus as he asks, “what is this rule that enables one to tell true from false, when we have no concept of true and false, precisely because they are indistinguishable?” (Quae ista regula est veri et falsi, si notionem veri et falsi propterea quod ea non possunt internosci nullam habemus). It is evoked again later as he decries the fact that by abolishing such a distinction certain skeptics abolish every possible way to come up with and express judgments (quo enim omnia iudicantur sublato reliqua se negant tollere, Luc. 33; see the whole passage at Luc. 33-34). For Lucullus, such doubters accept the distinction as ontologically and rationally valid—they approve it—and believe that perspicuitas and ratio do offer the possibility for an individual to operate with epistemic confidence in the real world, or in the domain of objective reality (Brittain 2001: 108). Nonetheless, the impression taken to be true in this skeptical way is only provisionally or tentatively held to be so. The proviso added by Catulus to the sage’s activity of opining is essential to avoid any presumption that such ­assent corresponds to knowledge. The one who opines must be aware that the impression is not received kataleptically, and that no conditions exist within which it is rational for the opiner to claim knowledge of such impression. Perception is tentative and limited because incomplete in what it can obtain as knowledge and because of the recognition that what it has obtained might be false. Accordingly, akatalêpsia remains a keystone of this attitude, and the single provisional belief to which it is reasonable to presume that PhilonianMetrodorians may have assented or agreed to.326 The third phase of Philo’s thought, the one we are supposed to find distilled in the Roman Books, involves a further break with the skeptical Academy. On this occasion, the break oriented Philo’s philosophy to the extent that it ­involved a rethinking of the concept of knowledge itself.327 Harold Tarrant’s 326 See Glucker (1978: 75–87), Tarrant (2011: 66–97 and 1985a: 15–19) and Sedley (1981) on this positive Carneadeanism, an epistemology built around the pithanon as a criterion to evaluate truth or what is closest to it. 327 Not all historians of the late Academy see this either as a break with the second phase or even distinguishable from it. Sedley (1981), for example, maintains that such a position is nothing but the continuation of the gradual drift away from skepticism. Inversely, Glucker (1978) suggests that the third phase coincides with a return to orthodox skepticism, or at least to a reiteration of old arguments against Stoic katalêpsis, and the Roman Books simply reiterate the Philonian-Metrodorian epistemology. Interpreting the Roman Books as a

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monograph Scepticism or Platonism? The Philosophy of the 4th Academy (1985a) makes much of the Roman phase, elevating the Roman Books to the transitional moment of Academic Skepticism into Middle Platonism. Philo prepares the way for a return to dogmatic Platonism through his cautious yet positive approach to epistemology, which depends on what Tarrant (1958a: 53) labels the “limited non-apprehensibility doctrine.” According to his interpretation, the doctrine in Philo’s late epistemology offered a way out of the strictures of akatalêpsia, opening the possibility of apprehension of a non-kataleptic kind. Tarrant ­suggests that Philo eradicates altogether that infamous third condition of katalêpsis, changing the structure of sense-perception on which Academics and Stoics had agreed and around which the debate was centered. In doing so, Philo makes katalêpsis possible within new simplified parameters. Between the two poles of the Hellenistic debate, namely the possibility and impossibility of katalêpsis, Philo elaborates a third position that we see him take up, and be vehemently criticized for, in the Academica.328 At Luc. 18, we are told that Philo “weakened” (infirmat) Zeno’s definition of an “impression” (visum), adopting an approach to the Stoic position that suggests a further disagreement between Philo and Antiochus about the need for Stoic katalêpsis as the only condition for apprehension. Later passages seem to allude to this radical position against the straightjacket of Hellenistic epistemology. So, for instance, we sense this rebellion when Cicero distances himself from P ­ hilo while accepting Zeno’s definition of a visum (cf. Luc. 77-78; Tarrant 1985a: 55); or, again following Tarrant, at Luc. 112-113, where Cicero betrays Philo’s influence by complaining about how Stoics have limited the debate on sense-­perception by imposing the third condition. Although Philo’s name is not mentioned in this context, the possibility of making out the contours of his late epistemology is tantalizing. Cicero contrasts the way in which the Stoic a­ pproach to sense-­perception drives the conversation into the “cramped spaces” (tantas in angustias) and “thickets” (dumeta) of technicality, over and against the open “field” (campus) of an older attitude represented by Aristotle, Theophrastus, Xenocrates and Polemo (§II.7.1). The exchange he imagines with a Peripatetic identifies the problem as the third condition of apprehension. In Cicero’s view, a Peripatetic “would not saddle the definition with this further cumbersome addition—that an impression cannot be formed in a manner in which it could derive from a false impression” (neque adhiberet illam magnam accessionem—“quo modo imprimi non posset a falso,” Luc. 112). The platform for that epistemology is accepted by a long list of scholars, with Tarrant (1985a: 42) celebrating them as a “handbook of Academic theory.” 328 “The Academica display Philo taking up this third position” (Tarrant 1985a: 57).

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speaker is arguing that sense-­perception would not constitute a philosophical problem in the terms set out by the Stoics. Stepping outside the constraints of katalêpsis, it would still be possible to apprehend objects, ideas, percepts in the real world, though without that degree of certainty expected in the Stoic theory. Significantly, the issue of doubt is not eliminated, but as Tarrant (1985a: 61) remarks, “absence of that kind of knowledge does not entail absence of ­apprehension.” Furthermore, in Tarrant’s interpretation there is a symmetry between Cicero dissociating from this weak position—as he does from Philo at Luc. 77-78—and the strength of Cicero’s reaction, shared with Antiochus, to this shocking and revolutionary move by Philo. Cicero concludes Luc. 112-113 by reminding his audience that, as a skeptic, he endorses the conceptual structure of Stoic epistemology. Referring to the third condition of katalêpsis and the principle that the sage does not opine, he states “I nonetheless believe both to be true, and I do not say so provisionally, but I fully approve both” (ego tamen utrumque verum puto, nec dico temporis causa, sed ita plane probo, Luc. 113). According to Charles Brittain (2001: 130–138), Philo’s Roman epistemology is a form of fallibilism. In the Academica, two principles come to define his Roman phase, namely that Stoic katalêpsis poses an unsurmountable challenge to epistemology and that katalêpsis of a non-Stoic kind is possible. He dissects these two principles into what he sees as four distinct claims made by Philo late in his philosophical career. By way of this anatomy, Brittain (2001: 146 and 147–158) shows how the claims developed in the context of the Academy after Carneades. These are as follows: there is no Stoic katalêpsis; the Stoic definition of katalêpsis is false; katalêpsis is, in fact, possible through assent to true impressions with “an appropriate causal history:” and, katalêpsis is possible. For the ancient philosopher (2001: 159), parsing the two major epistemological axioms into four discrete points shows that the “radical change” expressed in the Roman Books is actually conversant with the Philonian-Metrodorian phase. Philo shifts the ground of the debate on epistemology and redefines Academicism, all the while reassuring his audience that his philosophy continues to operate within the Academy of Arcesilaus and Carneades. A key element of this interpretation is the distinction between true belief and kataleptic impression. In order to appraise this distinction, Brittain turns to Luc. 40-44, a passage in Lucullus’ argument where he purports to summarize the foundations of the Academic skeptic view (totius eorum rationis quasi fundamenta, Luc. 40) and Antiochus’ objection to them. As the summary draws to an end, the speaker isolates a contradiction in the skeptical view that true impressions cannot be distinguished from false ones, breaking down their argument in the following way: skeptics “are completely refuted when they take the following two premises to be consistent (premises that are, in fact, utterly

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inconsistent): first, they say that false impressions exist (and accepting this means conceding that true ones exist); and, second, that there is no difference between true and false impressions. But you had accepted the first premise as if there were a difference. The first premise is undermined by the second and the second by the first” (maxime autem convincuntur, cum haec duo pro congruentibus sumunt tam vehementer repugnantia, primum, esse quaedam falsa visa (quod cum volunt, declarant quaedam esse vera), deinde ibidem, inter falsa visa et vera nihil interesse. At primum sumpseras, tamquam interesset: ita priore posterius, posterior superius convincitur, Luc. 44). Lucullus takes issue with the kind of skepticism that posits a distinction between impressions as a premise—however tentatively or provisionally that premise is held. In one of the rare intrusions of Philo in Cicero’s speech, Cicero tells us that this attack on Philo was mounted by his former pupil Antiochus and that it was taken extremely seriously by Philo, who was “greatly upset by it” (maxime perturbatum, Luc. 111). So carefully Cicero wants to address the argument that he recapitulates it first, establishing the premises and showing how, in Antiochus’ view, they contradict each other. Once the objection is formulated, the speaker clearly states that the skeptical extremes reflected in Antiochus’ criticism are not accurate representations of his—and Philo’s, we presume—thought. Using the first person plural, Cicero reassures Lucullus-Antiochus that they (“we”) do not get rid of truth altogether (si nos verum omnino tolleremus: non facimus), but do see as much that is true as false (nam tam vera quam falsa cernimus). Ultimately, for Cicero and Philo it seems to be a matter of how that distinction is approached. They select appearance (species) as a basis for approval (probandi) over and above the elusive sign or mark (signum) as a basis for sense-perception (percipiendi). Now, the fact that an object may be truly perceived does not necessarily mean it is kataleptically perceived. The case of identical twins illustrates the distinction: seeing Publius Servilius while thinking him to be Quintus means that the impression was non-kataleptic, not fulfilling all three conditions of katalêpsis, but that does not imply that the impression was not true (Luc. 84; cf. Luc. 55). In such cases the visum is true insofar as it faithfully reproduces the object, so that the truth of the belief for Philo is not related to the object that causes the impression. However, for the impression to be kataleptic, it requires examination and further coherence-testing alongside other visa, as well as more in-depth rational evaluation. Study of the impression needs to be extensive, analyzing its objective qualities through a more critical subjective scrutiny (Brittain 2001: 152).329 Crucially, the katalêpsis Philo contemplates 329 Brittain draws on the terms internalism and externalism to define the change from ­Philonian-Metrodorian to the Roman phase: externalism defines cognition as what

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at this stage of his career is totally different from its Stoic counterpart. As Brittain (2001: 153, 155 and 159) states, it diverges from the Stoic canon insofar as it is neither “self-evident” nor “infallibly criterial of [its] own truth.” Rather, it acts as the criterion for apprehending other impressions: it occupies the same position as the Philonian-Metrodorian “clear impressions” and presupposes an “internalist” methodology. But it is now called kataleptic. There are two important consequences to this epistemological shift. The first involves the sage. Considering the observation that infallibility is a remote ideal and the possibility that the sapiens could rationally assent to something false, the Philonian wise man is eo ipso fallible and liable to error. In another sensible turn of phrase, Brittain (2001: 160) describes this figure as “the erring sage.” Second, sense-perception is re-integrated as a safe basis for holding true beliefs. Since Philo grounds cognition in true belief, he makes assent possible for the Academic philosopher, while preserving the same critical stance towards the percept (visum or impression) that must always be subject to review. The effect of this second point for Brittain (2001: 165) is to insulate the world of experience from that of theoretical discussion. While sense-perception works to establish firm foundations for the conduct of life, evaluation of philosophical propositions and concepts could at best yield probable results or results that approximate truth. Ultimately, Philo remains a skeptic in the arena of philosophical abstractions, and this attitude may underpin Cicero’s own insistence throughout the Academica on the need for and importance of continued research. This is a leitmotif we have investigated earlier in the chapter both in terms of the prefaces and Cicero’s own speech in the Lucullus (§II.7.3). It is also a theme that informs key studies such as Harold Tarrant’s (1985a: 26), which characterizes Philo’s Academy as a “group of ‘examiners’,” or Carlos Lévy’s (1992: 180), which underlines “le seul authentique enseignement du Lucullus” as being “la nécessité de la recherche.” Doubt is relocated at the level of speculative thought where, as the Academica seems to suggest, thinkers must reject received views and pursue an exacting analysis to reach what is most persuasive or closest to the truth. Above all, Philo moves the Academy away from both epochê and akatalêpsia, which had for so long framed everyday life, its beliefs, techniques and practices, in an impossible negativity. The Academy, to quote Tarrant (1985a: 63), now “dogmatized.” Philo’s Roman innovations seem to be referenced in works of later philosophical thinkers, with students of this Academic scholarch reading traces ­ appens in the relation between the subject and the object when the impression is true h and accurately represents its object; internalism refers to the rational examination of cognized objects, like coherence testing. On externalism and Philo see also Hankinson (1998: 118). I found Alston (1986) useful.

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of his final phase in Aenesidemus, Sextus Empiricus, Augustine and Numenius. In the context of our current discussion, it is worth considering two of these figures, the roughly contemporary Aenesidemus and the second/thirdcentury CE Sextus Empiricus. Both are skeptics of the Pyrrhonian school. In his description of Pyrrhonian skepticism, the Outline of Pyrrhonism, Sextus accuses Academic skepticism of endorsing views, assenting, in other words, to ­propositions, albeit negative ones like akatalêpsia, and so of ultimately being dogmatic. He opens his Outline with a broad overview of the field of philosophical enquiry and offers the following classification, “insofar as philosophical investigations are concerned, some have said that they have discovered the truth, others have declared that it is impossible to comprehend it and others are still investigating” (διόπερ ἴσως καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν κατὰ φιλοσοφίαν ζητουμένων οἱ μὲν εὑρηκέναι τὸ ἀληθὲς ἔφασαν, οἱ δ’ ἀπεφήναντο μὴ δυνατὸν εἶναι τοῦτο καταληφθῆναι, οἱ δὲ ἔτι ζητοῦσιν). These three groups are immediately identified as dogmatic, Academic and skeptic respectively (ὅθεν εὐλόγως δοκοῦσιν αἱ ἀνωτάτω φιλοσοφίαι τρεῖς εἶναι, δογματικὴ Ἀκαδημαϊκὴ σκεπτική, Pyr. 1.2), thus associating the Academy with a philosophy that has reached a conclusion and posited something, namely that katalêpsis is not possible. Sextus goes further in linking this claim to a specific group, “the pupils of Clitomachus and Carneades and other Academics” (οἱ περὶ Κλειτόμαχον καὶ Καρνεάδην καὶ ἄλλοι Ἀκαδημαϊκοί, Pyr. 1.3). The point of his criticism of Carneades, Clitomachus and others in that genealogy of thinkers is to bracket them with dogmatics (δογματικοί) like Epicureans, Peripatetics and Stoics because they represent two sides of the same coin: what one proclaims the other negates, but both imply forms of assent that skeptics (σκεπτικοί) reject outright. As Sextus pursues his critique of Academics as a false kind of skeptic, he singles out Philo as a case in point, contrasting his epistemology with that of the Stoics. At Pyr. 1.235, he concludes his reflection on the differences between Pyrrhonian and Academic skeptics with a brief analysis of Philo’s and A ­ ntiochus’ epistemologies. Before he repeats the critique we already heard from Cicero— namely, that Antiochus imported the Stoa into the Academy—he indicates that Philo’s position consists in the claim that “as far as the Stoic criterion is concerned, that is as far as kataleptic impression is concerned, things are not apprehensible; however, as far as the nature of things themselves is concerned, things are apprehensible” (ὅσον μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ Στωικῷ κριτηρίῳ, τουτέστι τῇ καταληπτικῇ φαντασίᾳ, ἀκατάληπτα εἶναι τὰ πράγματα, ὅσον δὲ ἐπὶ τῇ φύσει τῶν πραγμάτων αὐτῶν, καταληπτά). The expression “ἐπὶ τῇ φύσει,” translated above as “with respect to the nature of things” is ambiguous and has given rise to scholarly disagreement. The adverbial phrase can be taken to articulate a division between the epistemic ability or capacity of the subject and the objective

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knowability of things themselves. In principle things can be known (as far as their nature is concerned), but our cognitive weakness means that in practice we cannot know them.330 Harold Tarrant operates a different reading of the passage. He suggests that the phrase refers to the possibility of katalêpsis in terms of the demands nature makes of the perceiver. Things are apprehensible in an everyday, self-evident sense that does not require the degree of certainty of the Stoic definition. Charles Brittain (2001: 139–140) criticizes Tarrant’s reading from a philological perspective and tries to temper the controversy by claiming the phrase is “straightforward.” In his version, Philo thinks like the Stoics that there is such a thing as katalêpsis, only not in the terms stipulated by his rivals. Leaving scholarly disagreements behind, Philo clearly seems to allow for the possibility of apprehension on a general level and as an alternative to the Stoic one. The symmetrical structure of the sentence, dependent on the adverbial “ὅσον,” the balancing particles “μὲν … δὲ” and the apo koinou hinging on the predicative “εἶναι τὰ πράγματα,” all indicate that “things” (πράγματα) are in some way “apprehensible” (καταληπτά) for Philo. In Sextus, his epistemology is still anchored in its Hellenistic roots and tied to the original terms of the debate between Stoics and Academics. However, Philo turns the tables on Stoic epistemology by rejecting their katalêpsis and presenting an alternative kataleptic model. The phrase “τουτέστι τῇ καταληπτικῇ φαντασίᾳ” in apposition to the noun “κριτηρίῳ,” highlights the central motif of the passage: the criteriological transformation of perception from a Stoic to a Philonian model. The claim that Academic skeptics were nothing but dogmatists had already been established by the first-century bce Pyrrhonist Aenesidemus. The philosopher, whose words are preserved in the anthology of the Byzantine bishop Photius, saw little difference between Academics and Stoics. He reportedly states that “philosophers coming out of the Academy, especially those that are around now, sometimes agree with Stoic opinions and, if I must speak the truth, they appear as Stoics fighting Stoics” (oἱ δ’ ἀπὸ τῆς Ἀκαδημίας [φησί] μάλιστα τῆς νῦν, καὶ στωϊκαῖς συμφέρονται ἐνίοτε δόξαις, καὶ εἰ χρὴ τἀληθὲς εἰπεῖν, Στωϊκοὶ φαίνονται μαχόμενοι Στωϊκοῖς, Bibl. 212.170a). Elsewhere Aenesidemus asserts that they “dogmatize on many subjects” (περὶ πολλῶν δογματίζουσιν, Bibl. 212.17). Central to his critique of the Academy’s doctrinaire thought is stressing the contradiction that things are apprehensible in some general way. In his view, “to posit something while rejecting it without hesitation and at the same time to claim that things exist that are commonly apprehensible 330 The view gained a wide consensus in the nineteenth century, and more recently it is represented by Brochard (1969: 196), Glucker (1978: 80) and Sedley (1981: 72–73 and 2012: 85–86).

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and also deny that, all this amounts to a glaring contradiction” (τὸ γὰρ ἅμα τιθέναι τι καὶ αἴρειν ἀναμφιβόλως, ἅμα τε φάναι κοινῶς ὑπάρχειν καταληπτά, μάχην ὁμολογουμένην εἰσάγει, Bibl. 212.29-30). With reference to the expression “κοινῶς … καταληπτά,” to know things in a common or general way, Tarrant (1985a: 61– 62) contends that Aenesidemus is describing the fourth Academy and that the adverb “κοινῶς” in this instance refers to common or non-philosophical cases. According to this Pyrrhonian, Philo’s epistemology affirms that apprehension is possible, but in a limited way. Apprehension, which he seems to describe as kataleptic, takes place in a direct—non-theoretically mediated—encounter with objects of experience.331 Aenesidemus and Sextus share a Pyrrhonist agenda: to distance themselves from the skeptical Academy and assert their school’s claim over skepsis. The rhetoric of their arguments is driven by the desire to emerge as the only true skeptics and they both exploit Philo’s relationship to the Stoa in order to do so.332 Philo’s katalêpsis is presented as hinging on Stoic terminology, while ­escaping its limitations. He turns to a form of ‘dogmatism’ that eschews the certainty of Stoic perception so that his version of apprehension appears imperfect or a watered down adaptation of the Stoic one. It is, nonetheless, ­anchored in a relation to the object of perception and so to an ontological sense of truth. Doubt and fallibility still play an important role in the architecture of his epistemology, but within a structure that is now positive as far as the perceptual capabilities of man are concerned.333 In Cicero’s Academic project, the author draws on the different phases of Philo’s thought by linking them to the development of Academic doctrinal history. There are two indications that Lucullus is discussing the Roman phase at Luc. 18. First, the reference to nova framed by a clause interspersed with six verbs in the present (commovet, mentitur, infirmat, volt, tollit—which is repeated). Second, the contrast between nova and the Academic skeptical position that Lucullus singles out for his attack. In the same section, Cicero draws 331 Tarrant (1985a: 61–62) also draws a connection between “κοινῶς” and the Stoic koinai ennoiai, perceptions kataleptically comprehended on which humans agree and which determine the concept-formation mechanism in Stoic epistemology (§II.5.2 and §II.7.3). 332 Aenesidemus may have influenced Sextus in this respect. We may therefore not be looking at two independent interpretations of Philo, but putting our ear to a Pyrrhonist echo chamber. 333 Two further testimonia that indicate a similar overture to a constructive epistemology are found in Numenius, where Philo relinquishes epochê as a reaction to “the clarity and agreement of affections” (τῶν παθημάτων […] ἐνάργειά τε καὶ ὁμολογία, Praep. evang. 14.9.1-2); and in Augustine, whose mysterious claim that Philo was an Academic “who had already begun to open the doors to the enemy—and this enemy was already yielding” (qui iam veluti aperire cedentibus hostibus portas coeperat, C. Acad. 3.41).

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a distinction between Lucullus’ reflections on certain philosophers’ contempt for those who argue against Academics, like Antipater, and Philo’s recent epistemology. At Luc. 17, he observes that some philosophers do not think it worth their time to develop proofs for “either cognition or perception” (cognitio aut perceptio), because no argument can be clearer than “clarity or evidence” (perspicuitas aut evidentia). He also identifies another group who will respond to criticisms of apprehension, but make no propositional effort to define it. Over these two paragraphs, Lucullus aims to justify why it is important to debate with skeptics, yet he distinguishes this worthwhile activity from arguing against Philo. By confirming the object of his disagreement in this way, he refers back to Luc. 11-12 where he first focused the debate away from Philo and onto Arcesilaus and Carneades. While at Luc. 11-12 Philo was identified as the schismatic Academic and dismissed, at Luc. 17-18 we get a real sense of his epistemological revolt. Philo is first implicitly distanced from those skeptics who reject “self-evident clarity” (perspicuitas) and is also dissociated from those who require a definition of the conditions for perception. It is this element that dominates the next paragraph, in which a remote conditional reveals Philo’s thoughts on katalêpsis at this late stage in his career (Luc. 18). That is, apprehension is not possible “as Zeno defined it” (sicut Zeno definiret). Lucullus then parenthetically lists the three conditions of the definition to show how Philo “weakened and destroyed it.” Once Philo had eliminated that condition, he “removed the criterion of what is known and unknown, and it follows that nothing can be apprehended” (iudicium tollit incogniti et cogniti; ex quo efficitur nihil posse comprehendi, Luc. 18). Unlike in Aenesidemus and Sextus, no positive doctrine is ascribed to Philo. Instead, we have a rejection of apprehension that crucially does not claim apprehension is impossible. When Antiochus is drawn into the debate, claiming that by this epistemological repositioning his teacher had wound up contradicting himself, Lucullus is addressing the positive side of Philo’s theory. In the view of Antiochus and his Roman spokesperson Lucullus, by re-instating the possibility of cognition Philo ended up subverting the possibility of telling true from false impressions.334 Being able to tell true from false is precisely what makes cognition possible. 334 “As Antiochus taught, [Philo] wound up taking that position which he was afraid of adopting. For when he denied that there was anything that could be apprehended (which is how we translate akatalêpton), if that presentation meets the definition that Zeno outlined […] once Philo weakens and does away with this, he does away with the criterion separating what can be known and what cannot be known” (ut docuit Antiochus, in id ipsum se induit, quod timebat. cum enim ita negaret quicquam esse quod conprehendi

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Philo’s opposition to the definition of katalêpsis is underscored by the repetition of the verb “to define” (definio) and its cognates, as well as the summary of that definition offered at this early stage of the debate.335 The rest of the philosophical field, including Lucullus, Antiochus, Cicero and the Academics referred to in Luc. 17, sees Philo as challenging and operating outside the precise terms of Hellenistic epistemology. Outside the conditions of visum, for the Stoics there is no judgment (iudicium) and no road to apprehension (comprehensio). The Academics also depend on this definition since it guarantees an underlying conceptual rigor in comprehensio, the parameters or conditions of which cannot be met. The definition that Philo abandons is at the heart of both schools’ epistemologies. Philo’s intellectual insubordination separates him not only from the ­history of the Academy, but also from his own previous positions. As he presents these phases, Cicero traces his teacher’s intellectual journey alongside that of his school by discussing the Roman phase just after he talks about the recent history of the Academy (Luc. 16). In the passage, Philo is doctrinally and institutionally close to the Academy, whose “patronage” (patrocinium), Cicero tells us, suffered a blow with his death. According to Cicero, Philo was heir to Carneades and Clitomachus; after Philo, Academic skepticism is described as bereft of a leader.336 Luc. 16 inserts Philo in a direct lineage going all the way back to Arcesilaus. In the next paragraph, Luc. 17, Cicero casts a negative light on Academics, reflecting on how some refuse—or hesitate—to join in the debate with these thinkers on matters of perception. Finally, Luc. 18 sees Philo’s nova as a dismissal of the terms of the debate altogether and a retreat from Academicism. At the end of the Academy, its last institutional leader emerges as a complex and schismatic figure, both the culmination of Academic history and its destabilizer. The author is not merely reflecting on the relationship between the intellectual developments of one individual and the history of an institution, but also on the boundaries of the debate on epistemology. The phases of Philo’s intellectual development receive oblique yet important attention in the Lucullus, even though Lucullus claims not to want to take him seriously. As the dialogue progresses, there is a sense of forward posset (id enim volumus esse ἀκατάλημπτον), si illud esset, sicut Zeno definiret, tale visum […], hoc cum infirmat tollitque Philo, iudicium tollit incogniti et cogniti, Luc. 18). 335 Derivatives of definio occur four times over the two sections, and we have the same number of translations from Stoic terms (katalêpsis, evidentia, phantasia and akatalêpton). 336 Lucullus uses the expression operam dare (to pay attention to) to describe the relationship between Philo and Clitomachus. He also uses the phrase to indicate his adoration for Antiochus (Luc. 12).

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­ ovement towards or slippage into crisis. Brittain’s three-stage narrative dem signs this progression, where crisis is the moment at which the terms of the debate are re-evaluated. This can also be seen in terms of an intensification of the controversy. Taking this on board requires a review of the profound linkage between Stoics and Academics, and so too a review of the whole field of Hellenistic epistemology. This is key to our understanding of not only the genesis of the debate, but of what exactly is at stake. I chose to focus on Philo in order to examine how the intellectual biographies of these Greek figures is used by Cicero, but Antiochus would have offered similar opportunities to study Cicero’s approach to profiling. Indeed, the same strategy of representing phases of an intellectual’s thought is deployed in the figure of Antiochus. As with Philo, doctrinal inconstancy appears to be a central theme in his characterization. However, Antiochus’ thought draws a sharper focus around scholastic identity. His Stoic tendencies raise the question of whether he is, or should be thought of as, a Stoic; or whether he is simply a different sort of Academic (see Barnes 1989, Sedley 2012, Görler 1990b and 1994, and Fladerer 1996). Study of Antiochus’ philosophy as represented in the Academica shows that, although his reaction to Philo’s innovations seems to spring from a Clitomachean camp—or at the very least it resembles the reaction of that group of Academics337—he is repeatedly sectioned off, listed as a member of his own version of the Academy (vetus Academia) alongside his band of followers (Antiochii, Luc. 70; cf. Acad. index 35.10-16). Central to this portrait is Antiochus’ relationship to the Stoa. At times Cicero portrays Antiochus as a Stoic. He is a “supporter” (adstipulator, Luc. 67) of Zeno’s school or an “out-and-out Stoic brother” (germanissimus Stoicus, Luc. 132).338 At other times, he characterizes him as closer to early Academics and Peripatetics, like Aristotle, Theophrastus and Polemo. This connection, in Cicero’s disparaging reading, is not fully understood by Antiochus. Ethics is shown to be the main point of contention between Antiochus and the Stoa, as we have discussed above. In short, Antiochus understands virtus to be enough for a happy life but not for the happiest—a position founded on the acceptance that there are certain goods found in the everyday conditions of existence that improve an individual’s life. This view

337 Antiochus’ reaction is identical to that of the Clitomachean Academics, Heraclitus and Cicero (Luc. 18 and Luc. 11-12). In both cases, disbelief at Philo’s innovations is aligned with reactions of orthodox Academics and culminates in the accusation of fraud. 338 A skim through Lucullus’ or Varro’s Antiochian speeches lends support to this identity, as they consistently deploy Stoic vocabulary, construct their epistemology and their philosophical historiographies on Stoic foundations and deploy stock Stoic critiques against Academic skepticism. Cf. Obdrzalek (2012) and Striker (1997).

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brings Antiochus closer to Xenocrates, Aristotle and Polemo and situates him firmly within the Academic tradition (Luc. 137-138). Like Philo, Antiochus’ thought defines a trajectory that associates him with Clitomachean skepticism, Platonism and Aristotelianism, and Stoicism. In his case the author inserts a fascinating critique of Antiochus’ ignorance, as the Greek philosopher confuses boundaries between schools, seeing himself as Stoic but all the while professing views conversant with the immediate heirs of Plato’s school. Representing technological, cultural or intellectual development in terms of human maturation is, for sure, a well-attested strategy, ­observable in, for example, Platonic maieutics or Aristotle’s child-like early philosophers in the first book of his Metaphysics. The author of the Academica, however, is not keen on elaborating a historiographical paradigm, as his use of biography is sporadic, allusive and not strictly chronological. Rather, his focus is institutional. Through Philo and Antiochus Cicero is able to re-tell and shape the history of the Academy. In Jorge Gracias’ formula (1988: 151–152), ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny in the history of philosophy. 8.5

Parallel Trajectories and the Myth of Crisis

As Cicero breathes life into the careers of Philo and Antiochus, the conflict between them gradually appears less clear-cut and loses some of its intensity. Their hostility does not self-evidently mirror or fit in with the geometries of the debate between Academic skepticism and Stoicism. As presented in the Academica, Philo is not exclusively attached to the dialectical Academy, just as Antiochus’ biography speaks of more than just a thinly disguised Stoic. Teacher and pupil are figures who have at one point or other in their career operated outside the Academy—yet never fully within the Stoa. Their epistemology shares the same starting-point, the corrosive skepticism of Arcesilaus and Carneades, and ends up with a more constructive approach to sense-­perception. The Lucullus maps the philosophers’ intellectual trajectories as parallel, showing them to consist of a movement from a dialectical interpretation of ­Carneades to a doctrinaire or constructive approach to akatalêpsia. While Philo makes it possible to apprehend by rejecting the limits of the Stoic-Academic conditions, Antiochus endorses those conditions unreservedly and underlines that it is not only possible to meet them, but necessary to do so on two grounds: because katalêpsis is conversant with (if not at the heart of) Academic theory, as elaborated by Plato and those who immediately succeeded him;339 and, because, as Lucullus 339 On Plato as the source of Arcesilaus’ critique of materialist sense-perception, see Ioppolo (1990: 438 ff.).

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recurrently argues, without katalêpsis the very fabric of knowledge, society and morality would collapse.340 The similarities between Philo and Antiochus also extend to the intellectual climate within which they abandoned the extremes of Hellenistic skepticism. In Cicero’s view, the philosophers’ conversions are both reactions to the same pressures the duo was subjected to by their so called ‘dogmatic’ critics. The Academica’s account of their philosophical evolution suggests that teacher and pupil were compelled to abandon skepticism and seek refuge in a reformed Academicism, which embraced a form of positive assent. The institutional and doctrinal divorce between Philo and Antiochus is not simply a conceit orchestrated with a view to dramatizing the confrontation, but constitutes the culmination of a long history of attacks on the skeptical Academy. The crisis faced by that institution is characterized both in terms of internal disintegration and a collapse caused from the outside. Two key passages explicitly refer to Philo and Antiochus shifting their philosophical positions, Luc. 18 and 70. In both instances we find the verb “to withstand” (sustinere) explaining their reasons for changing their views and indicating that this change comes as a result of a concerted attack against Academics.341 In the earlier paragraph, Philo’s “quaedam nova” are interpreted as the direct result of his inability to weather arguments levelled at the obstinacy of Academics (quod ea sustinere vix poterat quae contra Academicorum pertinaciam dicebantur), while in the later passage we see Antiochus unable to withstand the “onslaught of all philosophers” (non potuisse sustinere concursum omnium philosophorum). Cicero goes on to describe Antiochus’ escape from criticism as a Roman shopper who seeks refuge under a portico as he is hounded by the sun beating down on the New Shops; refuge in this case materializes in the form of the shade of the Old Academy (et ut ii qui sub novis solem non ferunt item ille cum aestuaret veterum ut maenianorum sic Academicorum umbram secutus est, Luc. 70). The play of light and darkness in the simile answers the charge of intellectual fraud made by Lucullus at Luc. 18—that Philo lied or was untruthful (mentitur). In his concluding remarks, Lucullus re-affirms this charge and the opposition between truth and falsehood in terms of light and darkness. In particular, he draws on the darkness and obscurity that suspension of assent casts on the possibility of any form of knowledge. The philosophers, whom Cicero follows, 340 Mansfeld (1997: 61) explains that the whole debate is about un-Academic stances, with each participant accusing the other of “heterodoxy.” 341 On sustinere and the “epistemological isolation” of the Academy, see Barnes (1989: 68). The critic also notes the parallelism between the reasons to abandon the Academy and those to innovate.

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have spread such darkness over everything that they have not left even the dimmest of lights to enable us to make out any of the contours of the world around us (tantis offusis tenebris ne scintillam quidem ullam nobis ad dispiciendum reliquerunt). This damning statement is preceded by the mythic example of the Cimmerians, a people deprived of the sun who resorted to fires in order to get by with some light (ignes tamen aderant quorum illis uti lumine licebat, Luc. 61). A few sections later, Cicero looks to the “sun” (sol) to describe the contradictory position of Antiochus, who shelters from the impossibly hot light of skeptical philosophy under the artificial cover of his Old Academy. This school provides shade, a darkness of sorts that offers Antiochus a welcome relief from the heat (cf. Lévy 1992: 167–168). Narrating the duress under which Academic skepticism had fallen by the first century bce and portraying Antiochus as a marginal figure and Philo as the last guardian of the Academy draws attention to the institutional situation of the Academy at the time. Cicero gives the leaders’ innovations a political spin when he compares their activity to populist rabble-rousing (Luc. 13, 62, 72 and 97; cf. §II.6.2 and §II.7.3). He foregrounds the question of leadership and the challenge to institutions, letting the contest over ideas slide into the background. The issue of why Antiochus and Philo are engaged in this dispute is presented in terms of a broader antagonism than an isolated disagreement over epistemological models, an antagonism centered on the integrity and direction of the Academic legacy itself. When we look to the text of the Academica to widen the focus beyond the master-pupil tension, elements of the institutional framework come to the fore. Glucker (1978), for instance, offers a persuasive reflection on the need to understand Antiochus’ claim to the vetus Academia in light of Philo’s exile and in parallel with the influence of Panaetius, a second-century bce Stoic whose work showed a renewed interest in Platonism and the Platonic roots of Stoic physics.342 Antiochus is institutionally linked to Panaetius through Mnesarchus (Luc. 69), under whom, according to the testimony preserved in Numenius, Antiochus studied (Praep. evang. 14.9.3). At the same time, Philo is in Rome and so away from the institutional center of the Academy. He joins the debate about the origin and historical pedigree of Academic theory against the threat of Stoic appropriation, represented by a former pupil who is still in Athens. At stake in the controversy is the succession to Plato and the legitimacy of his position within that institution. Glucker’s Cicero emerges as an author interested in thinking about the philosophical 342 Glucker (1978: 29) points to the fact that one of Panaetius’ works is listed by Diogenes Laertius (2.87) under the title, On Past Doctrines (περὶ αἱρέσεων)—if nothing else an indication of the philosopher’s interest in the past.

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institution of the Academy at a time of crisis and as an emerging philosopher prepared to capitalize on the conflict between the Academy’s leaders to write philosophy at the end of time. Their parallel trajectories within the broader narrative of a school under duress offer a suggestive frame within which to discuss how and why to philosophize in Rome. Cicero manipulates Philo and Antiochus in diverse and sophisticated ways throughout the Academica. The author never openly elaborates on the reasons for the schism between Philo and Antiochus; he is careful to extend the temporality of the debate from the Alexandrian Episode, a single clearly defined incident, first to the wider frame of the Hellenistic controversy between Arcesilaus and Zeno; and, in a second instance, to the whole field of philosophy, reticulated into ethics, physics and logic. Cicero leads his readership on a lateral exploration of the context and history of the debate held in villas at Bauli and Cumae, therefore projecting that sense of temporality onto a Roman present. Continuity is perhaps the most essential aspect of the mythological treatment of the institutional crisis, linking Cicero’s senatorial actors to Aristotle, Plato, Socrates and the whole history of Greek philosophy. Even the open-endedness of the debate participates in this architectural motif. There is no sense of an agreement or resolution at the end of the Lucullus. The dialogue is drawn to an abrupt conclusion by a sailor that signals to the party that it is time to go, heeding the subtle call of the west wind rising (non solum nauta significat sed etiam Favonius ipse insusurrat navigandi nobis … tempus adesse). Cicero acknowledges the gesture and, conscious that it is time to bring the discussion to a close (mihi perorandum), his first concern is not to identify possible solutions or test how persuasive the arguments have been. Rather, he states that the group will continue its investigations in the future (posthac tamen cum haec quaeremus), extending their focus to “the obscurity of nature” (de obscuritate naturae) and “the mistakes of so many philosophers who disagree so vehemently about goods and their contraries” (de errore tot philosophorum qui de bonis contrariisque rebus tanto opere discrepant, Luc. 147). Lucullus echoes the promise of continued research, encouraging the group “to meet more ­often” (saepius enim congredientes) and investigate whatever seems worth looking into (si quae videbuntur requiremus, Luc. 148). Antiochus’ and Philo’s parallel journeys lead us from the Academy in Athens to Rome. Varied as it may be, the story of the Academy provides a consistent backdrop for a Roman claim to Plato’s school. Temporal continuity ­between the school’s Greek past, its Mediterranean present and Roman future is an important aspect of how Antiochus’ and Philo’s stories legitimize Cicero’s inheritance claim. Just like his teachers and close friends, Cicero’s philosophy is inclusive of a variety of phases and compresses a greater temporal spectrum

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than the ostensible subject of the treatise requires. It purports to present a comprehensive and far-reaching picture of the philosophical tradition; it also authorizes Cicero to repeat debates by illustrating how philosophical discourse consists in re-presenting positions, working over and critiquing arguments already expressed and finding new contexts for them—a ­representational logic that lies at the heart of the philosophica as a whole. Antiochus embodies this pattern as he is locked into repeating his critique of Philo from Egypt all the way to his grave. According to Lucullus, he “put forward these sorts of arguments both at that time in Alexandria and even many years later he expressed these much more strongly, when he was with me in Syria just before his death” (haec Antiochus fere et Alexandreae tum et multis annis post multo etiam adseverantius, in Syria cum esset mecum paulo ante, quam est mortuus, Luc. 61).343

343 The Lucullus is introduced as another study of the arguments of the Catulus at Luc. 10.

Chapter 9

Dialectic and Self-Definition: The Sense of Arguing in Cicero’s Academica 9.1

Debate and the Philosophical Tradition

The Lucullus is constructed out of a series of interlocking dialogues that take place across the history of philosophy after Plato, and whose occurrences are dramatically represented and re-enacted by Cicero’s Roman protagonists. This aspect is more than simply an indicator of that continuity in tradition, but it comes to define Cicero’s philosophical agenda prescriptively. The author shows his audience that the practice of philosophy has always depended on dialogue and through this presentation of an intellectual convention he builds an authoritative and historical framework for his Academica. The connection between a historicizing approach and the prefatory insistence on debate as the appropriate vehicle for philosophizing is precisely what anchors Cicero’s account to an epistemological position, thus giving his theoretical engagement a specific philosophical significance. The debate between Arcesilaus and Zeno narrated at Luc. 76-77 epitomizes this approach to philosophy, as it underscores not only that viva voce dialogue is the way in which philosophy progresses, but it also illustrates how dialectic is ultimately the creative dynamic of Hellenistic epistemology. The passage is a direct response to Lucullus’ claim that skepticism does not allow for p ­ rogress in philosophy (§II.6.1). Luc. 15-16 articulates a preoccupation with the purported absence of progress since the time of the Old Academy and ­Peripatetics that resulted from the establishment of akatalêpsia. Cicero’s response integrates Lucullus’ epistemological premises to argue for how the field of epistemology was established in that conversation between Zeno and Arcesilaus at the dawn of Hellenistic philosophy. Cicero begins with a praeteritio, claiming that what has been “discovered” (inventum) over the course of the history of philosophy down to his time will be dealt with at a later stage (Luc. 91 onwards). He then offers an interpretation of that dialogue between the founders of Hellenistic philosophy, celebrating that episode not only as a critical development in the discipline’s history, but also as the keystone of future philosophy. The theme of beginnings and foundations is here closely associated with a constructive, and not destructive, approach to philosophizing. Arcesilaus is cast as part of the Hellenistic experiment, a revolutionary figure who © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:10.1163/9789004389878_011

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e­ stablishes the two fundamental principles of the new epistemology together with his adversary: a wise man cannot opine, and the addition of a third clause to Zeno’s definition of a visum. The passage portrays the Academic skeptic as the active partner, over and against Zeno’s reactive approach, by showing him as the one driving the conversation, asking the questions and picking up on the originality of Zeno’s position on the wise man. Cicero observes that “none of his predecessors had ever articulated—not even put in words—the principle that it is possible for an individual to hold no opinions; and not only that it is possible but that, in the case of a wise man, it is necessary” (nemo umquam superiorum non modo expresserat sed ne dixerat quidem posse hominem nihil opinari, nec solum posse, sed ita necesse est sapienti, Luc. 77). Arcesilaus draws on this momentous statement to shape the debate that will institute the framework of Hellenistic epistemology, a statement that, until then, seems to have gone unnoticed. The author is keen to link the debate to the issue of progress, despite ostensibly deferring his response. Indeed, as this tribute to Arcesilaus makes clear, he promotes the exchange as a constructive and original moment of that progress. An episode that resets philosophy; that breaks new ground.344 In this dramatic show of co-operation between Zeno and Arcesilaus, the skeptic helps his opponent define the principles of Stoic epistemology, with their interaction suggesting a collaborative relationship and a harmony of intent underpinned by a set of shared concerns and preoccupations. The Academic scholarch triggers two innovations in Stoic theory relating to opinion and the difference between true and false visa. Zeno originates the view about opining, and the term “superiorum” leaves no doubt that this discovery sets him apart from his predecessors. It also draws the interest of the skeptic Arcesilaus, who finds himself in agreement with his antagonist. Zeno also understands and anticipates Arcesilaus’ line of inquiry concerning impressions. The founder of the Stoa, in fact, establishes the third clause as an afterthought, separately from the first two elements, as he intuits and reacts to his understanding of where Arcesilaus may spot a weakness in the definition. The interrogation begins by identifying what it is that can be perceived. The answer to the question is: an impression (quoniam esset quod percipi posset. quid ergo id esset? “visum” credo). Arcesilaus is then interested in what a visum is and a two-part definition is provided by his interlocutor: an impression that derives from what is, impressed, molded and shaped, and as a true likeness of that real object (“quale igitur visum?” tum illum ita definisse: ex eo quod esset sicut esset inpressum et signatum et effictum). A further question opens the 344 See Ioppolo (2008) on Arcesilaus’ philosophical profile in the Lucullus.

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road to the third condition, namely whether a true impression could take the same form as a false one (post requisitum etiamne si eius modi esset visum verum quale vel falsum). Zeno understands that if he concedes the existence of such an impression, no impression could be perceived, because to suggest that an impression deriving from what is could be the same as an impression deriving from what is not is to suggest that it is possible to perceive what is not (hic Zenonem vidisse acute nullum esse visum quod percipi posset si id tale esset ab eo quod est cuius modi ab eo quod non est posset esse). The addendum to the definition is accepted as correct by Arcesilaus (recte consensit), as he agrees that it would not be possible to perceive any impression at all, were it true or false, if true and false impressions were indistinguishable (neque enim falsum percipi posse neque verum si esset tale quale vel falsum). The exchange is punctuated by two moments in which the skeptic is in agreement with his opponent: that the wise man cannot opine is a statement that appears to be true, honorable and worthy of a wise man to Arcesilaus (visa est Arcesilae cum vera sententia tum honesta et digna sapienti, Luc. 77); and the possibility that true and false impressions are indistinguishable is for both Zeno and Arcesilaus not consistent with the possibility that impressions can be perceived (Ioppolo 1990 and Sedley 2002b). Cicero had already suggested that Arcesilaus and Zeno, pitted against each other in Lucullus’ version of that relationship (Luc. 16), were tied by more than a bitter enmity. At Luc. 66, the speaker anticipates the skeptic’s endorsement of Zeno’s position on the sapiens. Before launching his defense of Academic skepticism, Cicero establishes as a guiding principle of his enquiry the search for truth and truth’s uncompromising standards. However, in celebrating truth as a heavenly ideal, he finds those unattainable standards well beyond his reach and so has to call himself out of the picture as someone who inevitably errs and wanders, led astray by false impressions (eo fit ut errem et vager latius). Over these introductory paragraphs, the speaker frequently reminds us that he is not a wise man (magnus quidem sum opinator; non enim sum sapiens; non sum sapiens). Who or what a sapiens is was agreed at the dawn of Hellenistic philosophy, when “agreeing with Zeno, Arcesilaus expressed his belief that the greatest strength of a wise man was to avoid being taken in and to take care not to be deceived” (sapientis autem hanc censet Arcesilas vim esse maximam Zenoni adsentiens, cavere ne capiatur, ne fallatur videre, Luc. 66). The skeptic’s relation to this position, and the view’s broader treatment in Cicero’s speech, is relevant to how Cicero understands the mechanics of philosophical discovery and progress. In both passages, it is the skeptic’s desire to discover truth that encompasses the question of the sapiens; in both instances, Arcesilaus identifies Zeno’s view as correct and adopts it, even ­re-formulating

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it in his own words—the oratio obliqua at Luc. 66 and the “sic intelligitur” at Luc. 76 offer a window into Arcesilaus’ thought process. Although the ownership of the non-opining sage is established clearly in favor of the Stoa, the Academy has a not insignificant stake in the third condition of apprehensibility. If nothing else, Luc. 77 underlines the collaborative interaction between two philosophers in shaping the premises on which they will build the schools’ dissent.345 In terms of the tripartite definition of katalêpsis we see a similar logic at work. Luc. 18 attributes the description to Zeno alone, but it also suggests that skeptic orthodoxy rested on the very same premise. Hence the heterodoxy of Philo, whose revolution consisted in abandoning the Stoic version of katalêpsis (§III.9.1). The verbal and thematic correspondences between Luc. 18 and 77 once again underline this shared territory between Stoics and Academics. These passages intimate a collective ethic at the origin of Hellenistic epistemology, a collaborative attitude engaging Arcesilaus and Zeno (although we see it from the skeptic’s perspective). Cicero’s treatment of this approach has the effect of eliding, if not preventing, a marked distinction between their positions, as the duo set out the parameters within which sense-perception is (im)possible. Moreover, the dialogue staged at Luc. 77 is not a closed-off episode, but shapes the future of philosophical exchange. The debate between Arcesilaus and Zeno structures the premises of the argument and continues along the same interdependent lines that made it a productive and original exchange in the first place. Cicero immediately identifies this proposition as the starting point for, as well as the framework of, their disagreement: Arcesilaus “pressed this argument in order to show that no impression could come from something that is true such that an impression from something that is not true could take the same form” (incubuit autem in eas disputationes ut doceret nullum tale esse visum a vero ut non eiusdem modi etiam a falso possit esse, Luc. 77). In ­Cicero’s first-century bce eyes, the skeptic pins all his ­differences from Zeno on this clause, “the sole point of contention, which continues to cause disagreement to this day”—to the time of Cicero and Lucullus (haec est una contentio quae adhuc permanserit).346 Their agreement on the sage, the 345 Sextus presents a different historical analysis, suggesting that the third condition is postZenonian. He nonetheless keeps hold of the idea that it is a reaction to Academic pressure, Math. 7.247-252. For an analysis of the development of this position see M. Frede (1987b) and Ioppolo (1990). Ioppolo shows the extent to which Arcesilaus’ criticism of the ­Zenonian “sensualist” theory of sense-perception, as reported in Sextus, was instrumental to the development of later Stoic theory. See also her chapter on “Le critiche di Arcesilao a Zenone” in Ioppolo (1986). 346 For a discussion of the translation of this sentence, see Ioppolo (2008: 22 n. 3).

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author continues, means that their views on this topic were not part of the debate (nihil ad hanc controversiam pertinebat, Luc. 78). Inaugurating Hellenistic philosophy, Zeno and Arcesilaus agree on three principles underpinning sense-perception, the third element of which leads directly to a centuries-long conflict. Arcesilaus sets out to argue for the possibility of confusion between impressions that derive from something true and ones that derive from something false. Fear of assenting to something that is not true necessarily leads to the suspension of assent. Suspension is a consequence of Zeno’s definition. Akatalêpsia depends on the existence of indistinguishable impressions, a possibility that represents a limitation at the heart of katalêpsis. Cicero extends the temporal framework of the debate further by connecting this disagreement, on whether such an impression can or cannot exist, with the discussion at Bauli. The continuity between the line of enquiry pursued by Arcesilaus and Zeno and the conversation between Lucullus and his character is circumscribed by that disagreement. As author of the Lucullus, he rarely lets that divergence out of our sight, reminding us time and again about what constitutes the “whole question” (omnem quaestionem, Luc. 40), the sole reason for the contest (tota quaestio, omnis pugna, Luc. 83; omnis haec quaestio, Luc. 115). Emphasis on continuity is demonstrated by the relationship between the vignette discussed above and the logical exposition of the controversy on the  impossibility of perception, which anticipates the debate (Luc. 40-42). Luc. 77-78 offers a dramatic etiology for Hellenistic epistemology, which is also ­afforded a technical and theoretical treatment in two separate passages. Lucullus and Cicero both reproduce the Academic “core argument,” in Brittain’s (2006) translation, by setting out its “key points” or “principles” (fundamenta; capita) at Luc. 40-42 and Luc. 83.347 Over these sections, the speakers explain katalêpsis in syllogistic form. The capita spell out the definition of visum, specifically with regard to the differentiation between a “true” and “false” visum. Positing the existence of a false impression, and conceding that a false impression is incomprehensible, creates the conditions for the Academic claim that if one cannot tell the difference between a true and false impression, what follows is incomprehensibility. And this (potential for) confusion leads inevitably to the suspension of assent. These two passages, which constitute the Academic proof, depend entirely on the conditions developed at Luc. 77. The principles are therefore presented as the starting point of the dialectic. They are the

347 These terms are employed by way of introduction to the syllogisms. See Brittain (2005: 26 n. 24).

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b­ eginning of the debate and are characterized as an integral part of that same conversation. Significantly, Luc. 40-42 and 83 also express the same collaborative approach to debate that we find at Luc. 77. In the first excerpt, two premises are defined as being in common not just with the Stoics but with all philosophers, “for no one disputes them” (neque enim quisquis repugnat). The first (1) is that “false impressions cannot be apprehended” (quae visa falsa sint, ea percipi non posse); the second (2), that when there is no difference between two impressions, it is impossible that one is such that it can be apprehended, while the other is such that it cannot be apprehended’ (inter quae visa nihil intersit, ex eis non posse alia talia esse, ut percipi possint, alia ut non possint). Two further premises shape the architecture of the skeptical attitude and set the Academy apart from other schools, as they labor to defend these in different ways (multa et varia oratione, Luc. 41), elaborating their implications with assiduous precision and focus (ita dilatant ut non mediocrem curam adhibeant et diligentiam, Luc. 42). So the third (3): “some impressions are true, while others are false” (quae videantur, eorum alia vera esse, alia falsa); and fourth (4): “every impression that is from something true is such that it could also be from something false” (omne visum quod sit a vero tale esse quale etiam a falso possit esse, Luc. 41). Two of these four capita are rephrased later in the same passage (Luc. 44), when the speaker identifies a contradiction between stating that false or true impressions exist and that there is no difference between true and false impressions (cf. Luc. 111 with Ioppolo 2008). The argument is restated by Cicero at Luc. 83, with the four premises arranged differently. The new presentation allows the speaker to comment on how the various Hellenistic factions approach each element. All philosophers (omnes) grant that false impressions cannot be apprehended and that where there is no difference between impressions, it is not possible to claim that one can be apprehended and the other cannot (secundum non posse id [sc. visum falsum] percipi, tertium inter quae visa nihil intersit fieri non posse ut eorum alia percipi possint alia non possint). Of the remaining two, Epicurus will not concede the first, namely that false impressions exist—but Stoics do (vos… id quoque conceditis); yet the fourth, concerning a false impression arising from the senses being indistinguishable from a true one, is singled out as the point of contention between Cicero and Lucullus, and the stronghold of Academic doubt. Across these three reconfigurations of the debate between Stoics and skeptical Academics, the author emphasizes the areas of agreement as well as difference, echoing that original conversation between Arcesilaus and Zeno during which the argument was constructed and the dispute took shape. Over two hundred years from that encounter, Academics

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continue to rehearse, in their wide-ranging speeches, that debate as linchpin of their doubt. Pierre Couissin’s 1929 articles on Academic skepticism are the cornerstone of a critical approach to the Hellenistic Academy that understands this movement as resolutely dialectical and entirely parasitic on Stoic doctrine (Hankinson 1998: 77 and Görler 1997: 43). Lévy (1992: 18) summarizes this modus philosophandi as a “jeu destructeur à l’intérieur des dogmes stoïciens,” a description that emphasizes the way in which Arcesilaus shapes his ideas of akatalêpsia and epochê entirely from premises set up by his Stoic interlocutors. In this light, the skepticism of Arcesilaus merely draws on the ideas or propositions of his adversary in order to critique them. Skepticism is dialectical and reactive, unable to orient a discussion constructively and so put forward propositions. Whatever the plausibility of this reading in terms of the history of philosophy, Cicero seems to tell a different story in the Lucullus. That conversation between the founders of Hellenistic philosophy does not show Arcesilaus reacting to Zeno, but as actively leading a penetrating line of inquiry whose immediate outcome is the establishment of premises they both agree on. Furthermore, the exchange stages the leaders of two opposing schools collaboratively identifying an arena within which the debate is to be confined. They also define common ground and a common objective: the infallibility of the sage (Ioppolo 1986: 13–20 and 2008: 38).348 Historians of ancient philosophy often explain these passages in terms of the skeptical Academic necessity of isolating the basic premises of the position they want to critique and adopting them precisely so that they can demonstrate their inconsistency. This is particularly evident at Luc. 40-42 and 83, where the speakers parse sense-perception into its logical constituents and analyze the relationship between them. While the overall dialectical reading of this form of skepticism is persuasive (as we will discuss below), the way in which Cicero chooses to write the development of Hellenistic debate is significant. The dramatization of Arcesilaus’ and Zeno’s search for shared premises is an emphatic way of drawing the reader’s attention to the co-operative and constructive nature of that interaction. The debate on sense-perception progresses from the precise formulation of the premises that guide Arcesilaus to akatalêpsia and epochê—a technical-­ logical exposition of the argument’s building blocks. The philosophical 348 Henry Maconi delivers an insightful reflection on Ioppolo’s Opinione e Scienza (1986). He briefly refers to her argument that adoption of the other school’s ideas was not a one-way street, with Arcesilaus nurturing and developing philosophical concepts that were then used by Chrysippus. Maconi writes (1988: 238), “Arcesilaus was not a parasite on the Stoic body; rather, he provided it with sustenance—and later Stoicism fed fat on the conceptual enquiries of the New Academy.”

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e­ xchange that characterizes the Hellenistic period is the elaboration of the conversation held between Zeno and Arcesilaus. Cicero’s speech is organized ­chronologically, beginning with a philosophical profile of Arcesilaus and then shifting to Carneades (Görler 1997; §II.6.5). The order also follows the progression of the argument. Zeno and Arcesilaus identify two general areas of interest, the first concerning opinion, the second the possibility or impossibility of perception. They agree on the first and argue exclusively about the second. As Cicero tells his audience by way of introducing the argument about the reliability of the senses, “whether a wise man will assent to anything—this point was not relevant to their quarrel” (nam illud, nulli rei adsensurum esse sapientem, nihil ad hanc controversiam pertinebat). As the speaker foreshadows in the same paragraph, Carneades re-focuses the argument onto the second point, exploring perception and opinion with a view to allowing more latitude to the sage’s ability to have opinions (licebat enim “nihil percipere et tamen opinari”; quod a Carneade dicitur probatum…, Luc. 78). The Arcesilean first phase follows on from the conversation between Zeno and Arcesilaus, and explores akatelêpsia (Luc. 78-98). The section is broadly divided into two halves. The first seeks to demonstrate the failure of the senses to ground epistemic knowledge in truth (Luc. 79-90); the second takes issue with logic and aims to undermine its validity and consistency as a tool for rational discovery (Luc. 91-98).349 The later section responds to Lucullus’ point that reason is constructive and, in its careful and age-long development under the guidance of philosophers, it has been able to shed light on matters that were unclear and shape useful, robust, concepts (§II.6.1). At the start of the section Cicero identifies dialectica, “dialectic” or “formal logic,” as the principle his Stoic opponents have established as a kind of arbiter and judge of truth and falsehood (dialecticam inventam esse dicitis veri et falsi quasi disceptatricem et iudicem).350 Dialectica is the mechanism through which reason is able to perceive, as he makes clear in the opening question, “what is it that reason can perceive?” (quid est quod ratione percipi possit?, Luc. 91). Addressing the section in which Lucullus underlines the importance of placing trust on logical proof (conclusi argumenti fides) as the cornerstone of philosophia and sapientia (Luc. 27), Cicero attacks the core of L­ ucullus’ ­argument. 349 Graesar and Schäublin’s (1995: lxxvi–lxxvii) “Analyse des Aufbaus” sets out a specific question focusing each segment. The first part revolves around the premise “durch die Sinne kann nichts erfaßt werden;” the second, around the parallel observation “durch die Vernunft kann nichts erfaßt warden.” 350 At Luc. 92, dialectic is described as an ars that encompasses the classification of parts of speech, the ability to resolve ambiguities and syllogistic logic (tradit elementa loquendi et ambiguorum intellegentiam concludendique rationem).

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The connection between perception/sensation, reason and ­ethics/societal values is central to Lucullus’ speech. By disavowing the fides that ­participates in the rational process through which we arrive at “principles, which the philosophers call dogmas” (decretis, quae philosophi vocant δόγματα), we would ­commit a crime, “a betrayal of more than just philosophical principles, but of the (moral) law of truth and rectitude. And from that evil, betrayals of friends and of the state are usually born” (cum enim decretum proditur, lex veri rectique proditur, quo e vitio et amicitiarum proditiones et rerum publicarum nasci solent, Luc. 27). In his affected description of dialectic as an arbiter and judge, Cicero responds to the ideal portrait of philosophy and wisdom: the former must (debet) progress by arguments; the latter must (debet) not doubt itself. He simultaneously downgrades logic to something “inventam,” an instrument devised and applied by humans.351 As Cicero points out soon after adopting that definition of dialectic, formal logic shares the task of judging with the dialecticus, the human practitioner of logic, and its authority to judge is restricted to the field of its specialism, logic. “Dialectic makes judgments about itself” (de se ipsa iudicat, Luc. 91). Ultimately, the speaker questions the foundations on which Lucullus grounds his notion of progress and knowledge. What Cicero offers in return is a view of philosophical advancement that is centered on the articulation of evermore sophisticated approaches to akatalêpsia; throughout the Arcesilean section of his speech, he links these developing lines of argument to that original moment in which Arcesilaus interrogates the visum and its third condition. The second phase of Hellenistic epistemology concerns the question of the relationship between the sapiens and opinion. On this issue, it is Carneades who moves the conversation forward. The second-century bce scholarch makes an appearance in Cicero’s treatment of the sôritês and the pseudomenos (Luc. 93 and 98 respectively) in order to help the speaker expose the limits of logic (§II.7.2). Anticipating Carneades’ constructive contribution to the Hellenistic Academy in the form of the probabile, the skeptic adopts his predecessor’s determined critical stance towards his Stoic opponent; and he does so, following the same approach, by engaging in live debate with C ­ hrysippus, his rival in the Stoa. As the lines of enquiry cross into new territory, the methodologies remain symmetrical. The first stumbling block of logic—“a slippery 351 On the ironic undertones, see Reid (1885: ad loc.). Bächli and Graesar, in Schäublin (1995: 247 n. 211), explore the relationship between the two passages, “die emphatische Ausdruckweise ‘Was man gefunden hat’ scheint in ironischer Absicht verwendet zu sein. Dies würde auch durch den Zusammenhang in 91 insofern bestätigt, als dort die Dialektik im engeren Sinn von formaler Logik als Disziplin charakerisiert wird, die nichts mit der Erkenntnis der Wirklichkeit zu tun hat.”

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and dangerous spot” (lubricum sane et periculosum locum)—is the sôritês (cf. §I.2.2 n. 78). As discussed in §II.7.2, the argument centres on the difficulty of establishing when the addition of single grains of wheat to a pile makes a heap. As the interrogator continues to add grains of wheat by an increment of one, her or his partner is unable to identify the one grain of wheat whose addition would transform the grains into a heap. This argument, as Cicero reminds us, derives its name from a heap of wheat (unde nomen est, Luc. 92) but applies to any indeterminate predicates of the same kind, when we add things “little by little” (minutatim interrogati). As represented in the section, the sôritês entails an exchange between two interlocutors. However, Chrysippus takes precautions to cut the dialogue short before he is cornered into having to admit whether “three things are few or many” (tria pauca sint anne multa), so “he prefers to rest” (quiescere) and lie quiet. This intransigent posture does not constitute a solution to the paradox in Carneades’ eyes, and he therefore disparages Chrysippus’ failing by dismissing him in the following terms, “you can go ahead and snore for all I care” (per me vel stertas licet, Luc. 93).352 At Luc. 98 Carneades re-enters the stage to demand his money back from Diogenes the Stoic should logical proofs let him down because inconsistent: “he used to say, ‘if my conclusion holds, I’m happy with it; if it’s unsound, ­Diogenes will refund me the mina I spent on it’” (Carneades solebat, “si recte conclusi, teneo; sin vitiose, minam Diogenes mihi reddet”). The purpose­ of this segment of the argument is clear: Cicero challenges “the foundation of dialectic, namely that that which is asserted (what they call a proposition because it is put forward) is either true or false” (fundamentum dialecticae est, quidquid enuntietur (id autem appellant ἀξίωμα, quod est quasi ecfatum) aut verum esse aut falsum). He does so also through the pseudomenos: “‘if you say that you are lying and that what you say is true, are you lying or saying something truthful?’” (“si te mentiri dicis idque verum dicis, mentiris, verum dicis?”, Luc. 95). This paradox is then captured through the syllogism, “‘if you say that you are lying and you are telling the truth, you are lying; but you are saying that you are lying and what you are saying is true; therefore, you are lying’” (“si dicis te mentiri verumque dicis, mentiris; dicis autem te mentiri verumque dicis; mentiris igitur,” Luc. 96). In both instances, the speaker is inviting his opponent to respond: is this a true or false proposition? Will his interlocutor approve the syllogism? As with the sôritês, Cicero’s impatience with the Stoics is due to their lack of response, their unwillingness to engage with or explicate 352 Carneades is reportedly no stranger to the paradox, which he is said to have employed to argue against Stoic theology at Nat.D. 3.43-44. See Burnyeat (1982a).

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the paradoxes—which are, after all, considered “inexplicabilia” (Luc. 95 and 97). Carneades’ intervention serves as a reminder that Academics paid a fee for the privilege of having a specialist explain dialectic to them (merces dialecticorum), but have ultimately been sold a defective product. Moreover, Carneades’ two interventions serve to remind the reader how the debate on epistemology, inaugurated in the third century bce, develops. The history of Hellenistic philosophy is the history of two sets of conversations between the major scholarchs of the Academic and Stoic traditions, Zeno and Arcesilaus and Chrysippus and Carneades. Before Carneades is celebrated as the protagonist of a positive form of Academic skepticism—a section in which his pupil’s books are cited and his theory of persuasive impressions becomes the subject of an exposition—Cicero reminds us of the critical tradition within which he emerged. Carneades interrogates Chrysippus and borrows from Diogenes an argument, the form and content of which he refutes; he is an integral part of that Academic tradition of borrowing from the Stoa and pressing its leaders to explain the weakness of their theories. Cicero uses the figures of Arcesilaus and Carneades to establish the paradigm of a co-operative form of philosophy and secure a place for viva voce debate as the philosophical method par excellence. At Luc. 77 Cicero sidelines the problem of the sage opining as he focuses on the issue of katalêpsis and sense-perception. Nonetheless, his belief in the principle that the sage never opines is what leads him to explore the question of perception in the first place. The centrality of this question for Academic thought is scrutinized in a variety of ways throughout the text. It is, for instance, the defining aspect of Carneades’ contribution to Academic tradition, which is founded on the conditional acceptance of opining; it is central to how he presents his character in the work, as Cicero introduces himself to the audience as a “great opinion-holder” (magnus opinator, Luc. 66). It is also around the problem of opining that Cicero first explores the relationship between the two great leaders of the Hellenistic Academy. At Luc. 67, the speaker summarizes the difference between Arcesilaus and Carneades in terms of how they approached the same syllogism: “’if the wise man will ever assent to anything, he will at some point hold an opinion; the wise man will never hold an opinion; therefore, he will therefore never assent to anything’. Arcesilaus used to find this syllogism persuasive, for he used to accept both the major and minor premises. However, Carneades occasionally did not grant the minor premise, claiming instead that the wise man did sometimes grant assent. And so it followed that he held opinions” (“si ulli rei sapiens adsentietur umquam, aliquando etiam opinabitur; numquam autem opinabitur; nulli igitur rei ­adsentietur.”

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hanc conclusionem Arcesilas probabat; confirmabat enim et primum et secundum. Carneades non numquam secundum illud dabat, adsentiri aliquando; ita sequebatur etiam opinari). This brief passage foreshadows the architecture of Cicero’s speech, which in turn structures the continuity between the two philosophers. The condition of impossibility of knowledge inflects Arcesilaus’ attention to akatalêpsia, which in turn gives rise to progress founded on shifting assaults on sense-perception and gnoseology. Imitated and furthered by Carneades, Arcesilaus’ attack on knowledge then transforms into the re-institution of the sage’s relationship to assent. The shift is effected through the probabile and the introduction of the concept of “approval” (probatio), the link between opinion and the epistemic integrity of the sapiens (Luc. 99). By way of this mechanism, Carneades effects a return to and exploration of Arcesilaus’ intuition at Luc. 77, as well as Cicero’s pithy distinction between the two scholarchs at Luc. 67. The epistemological project of Academic skepticism evolves from the same starting point and progresses in the same way as it started: through dialogue. Luc. 77 represents both the genesis and structure of Cicero’s history of ­epistemology.353 Once we recognize the rhetorical importance of this dramatic moment, the whole treatise appears as an interlinking and recessive set of philosophical exchanges. Lucullus and Cicero, then Varro and Cicero, stage the debate rehearsed by Philo and Antiochus. In the case of the Lucullus, we have Heraclitus and Antiochus directly anticipating the debate between the general and his younger friend, Cicero. It is in Cicero’s response that this drive to direct engagement is furiously pursued, not just in its etiological explorations, but also through the continuous—prodding, purposive, ongoing—use of rhetorical and direct questions (Lévy 1992: 168–180). Furthermore, the author uses his protagonists and, in particular, the structure of their speech to retell the story of Hellenistic philosophy. The strategy not only has the merit of introducing the reader to philosophy’s complex past through Academic history, but also presents a normative view of how philosophy happens. 9.2

The Academy and the Stoa

One of the effects of Couissin’s (1929) interpretation of the philosophy of ­Arcesilaus and Carneades has been to focus attention on their dependence on Stoicism. His analysis of both thinkers, and in particular of concepts and 353 Brittain (2006: 45 n. 110) comments that we should read Luc. 77 as a “‘philosophical reconstruction’ rather than the record of an actual debate…”

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­ hilosophical arguments like akatalêpsia, epochê, as well as eulogon and p pithanon, is concerned with studying how their philosophy borrows from Stoicism not only “les matériaux de leurs discours contradictoires” but also their terminology.354 According to Couissin (1929a: 242), Academic skepticism thinks in the Stoic conceptual register and consists entirely in refuting those concepts. Doctrines are only adopted to be refuted and therefore skepticism ­exists as a philosophy which is purely dialectical, “drawing consequences from others’ positions” and “seeking only the elimination of belief” (Thorsrud 2001: 1). The canonization of this view in the work of, among others, Michael Frede (1987), Gisela Striker (1980, 1996a and 2001) and Myles Burnyeat (1980) has contributed to defining Academic skepticism and its evolution in antiquity in terms one might describe as Hegelian.355 Hegel, who saw little substantial difference between the skepticism of Arcesilaus and Carneades and of the Pyrrhonists, understood ancient skepticism as the “negative totality” of Stoicism. Ancient skepticism, in his view, was a movement whose expression could only be characterized as pure negativity and, by virtue of its emphasis on method, could only be concerned with the contingent, as it refuted what was presented to it.356 The antithetical position ascribed to skepticism is not, however, occupied statically. In the 1802 essay “Verhältnis des Skeptizismus 354 The eulogon, translating as something like the ‘reasonable’, is associated with Arcesilaus in broadly the same terms as the pithanon is attached to Carneades, as a criterion of practical action. Sextus Empiricus is the earliest source for this attribution, commenting that for the Academic skeptic, “he who suspends his judgment about everything governs his choices and refusals and generally all his actions according to the reasonable, and proceeding on the basis of this criterion he will act rightly” (Math. 7.158). See Ioppolo (1986: 121–156 and 2009: 109–130) for an analysis of Arcesilaus’ criterion. Couissin (1929a: 249) is quick to argue that the eulogon is yet another Stoic concept highjacked by the ­Academic, particularly as he sees it employed by Diogenes Laertius in his treatment of the Stoic theory of ethical duty (7.107-108). With my focus squarely on Carneades and the pithanon, I preferred not to burden the argument with reflections on the eulogon, interesting though the debate on its originality is. 355 The argument will focus on the skeptical aptitude for dialectic—a practice which, in one form or another, has been judged the patrimony of Plato’s school. Gourinat (2000) offers an excellent challenge to this preconception, returning to the Stoa the dignity of being considered patrons of dialogue and not just practitioners of logic. 356 “Der Skeptizismus ist die Realisierung desjenigen, wovon der Stoizismus nur der ­Begriff,—und die wirkliche Erfahrung, was die Freiheit des Gedankens ist; sie ist an sich das Negative, und muß sich so darstellen,” (Hegel 1986c: 202). See also Hegel (1986a: 197 and 2006: 13 and 303) with Forster (1989). On the proximity of Academic and Pyrrhonist skepticism, see Hegel (2006). Forster (1989: 198 n. 57) observes that “Hegel holds that the ­skepticism of the Academic skeptics Arcesilaus and Carneades is either more or less the same as, or has its logical completion in, the skepticism of the Pyrrhonists.”

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zur Philosophie” (Hegel 1986b), the Lectures on the History of Philosophy and Phenomenology of the Spirit—all works in which Hegel grapples with the question of ­development in the history of philosophical thought—he describes, in Michael Forster’s (1989: 12) words, the “gradual degeneration into dogmatism of the skeptical tradition through history.” Hegel saw skepticism as a coherent methodology that progressively weakened in time, until it not only came to compromise with dogmatism, but turned into it. His evolutionary design was concerned with tracing the gradual deterioration of ancient into modern forms of skepticism and with the way in which strict application of an evaluative method by early Pyrrhonists (the so called ‘modes’ or ‘tropes’) was replaced in his time by approaches predicated on dogmas. In “Verhältnis des Skeptizismus,” he singles out Berkeley’s “veil of perception” problem, the insurmountable epistemological barrier between mind and the external world the mind cognizes, as ­evidence for the dogmatic infrastructure of modern skepticism, founded on the unflinching conviction that the mind knows.357 In the microcosm of interpretations of Hellenistic skepticism, we have already seen a similar pattern emerge. The history of the Hellenistic Academy to the time of Cicero is a familiar story of decline from Arcesilaus’ deep-rooted uncertainty and doubt to the dogmatic appeal of Carneades’ pithanon. ­Michael Frede’s (1984) story of descent into what he calls “dogmatic skepticism” outlines the movement from the “classical” form, which corresponds to the doctrineless, non-aligned picture we just discussed, into an intellectual practice that allows assent to certain propositions, including the proposition that nothing can be known.358 In a register reminiscent of Hegel’s study, and incorporating the criticisms of Academic skepticism leveled at the school by Aenesidemus and Sextus Empiricus (§III.8.4), M. Frede (1984: 277 and 268–271) calls dogmatic skepticism a “degenerate form of skepticism;” and he identifies Carneades’ thought as the moment at which this involution begins. Carneades’ practical criterion, the pithanon or probabile, in-and-according to Cicero’s translation, reinstates ways in which a skeptic could actively adopt a view. This implies a drift away from unbending negativity of Arcesilean doubt to flirt with the possibilities of assent—however temporary, provisional or weak in form. In Cicero, Carneades emerges as the dividing line between two phases of Academic epochê. Arcesilaus inaugurates the first, turning Socratic doubt 357 See, for instance, volume two of his Lectures (2006: 12–13). Hegel is fascinated with the methodical nature of Pyrrhonian tropes or forms of argument, and these are his gateway to ancient skepticism in general. See Foster (1989: 36–41). Ancient skeptics, he perceptively claims, would reject the Berkeleyan question of perception because of its reliance on the objectivity or truth of the mental state of the doubter. 358 Striker’s (1996a: 138) dogmatic skeptic is a “skeptical Stoic.”

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against itself and admitting that assent must be suspended even with regard to the admission of ignorance. In the second phase, Carneades appears to ­offer skeptics a way to circumnavigate epochê by identifying in the pithanon/ probabile a weaker form of assent.359 What persuasive impressions tell us about Carneades’ philosophy and its place in the skeptical tradition is a vexata quaestio for modern, as well as ancient scholarship. Some contemporary historians of Academic skepticism adopt a “weak” interpretation of the pithanon, as ­Suzanne Obdrazalek (2006: 244–245) describes it. According to this interpretation, in assenting to a persuasive impression, there is absolutely no commitment to its truth value, but a passive acceptance of it as an impression that has come along and is thought to be convincing. This reading of the pithanon has lately lost ground to a revival of the “strong” interpretation, according to which assenting to a persuasive impression involves accepting that it is likely to be true.360 James Allen’s studies of Carneades offer a substantive and sophisticated argument in favor of the weaker perspective, in light of Sextus’ (1994) and Cicero’s (1997) testimony. Allen (1997: 239) claims that the pithanon constitutes a “response to Stoic certitude, and one that proposes an alternative account of the [Stoic] epistemological framework.” Carneades remains grounded in Arcesilaus’ philosophical attitude (n.b. in eadem Arcesilae ratione permansit, Ac.1.46), uncommitted to the premises or the conclusions of his arguments, including the argument about the pithanon. The critic explores the ways in which Carneades’ intellectual project is a reaction to Stoicism by presenting the Academic’s thought as nothing but the demonstration that alternatives to the Stoa’s integrated system are possible. The probabile ranks as a theoretical impression as securely held as Socrates’ knowledge of his ignorance. In this light, the Lucullus is discussed as a set of “virtuoso variations” on Stoic arguments: Carneades concedes that action is impossible without assent, only to stage the probabile as grounds for the possibility of action without assent. Furthermore, the probabile offers a substitute “basic unit” for Stoic katalêpsis, shifting the epistemological edifice onto a different cornerstone. 359 That Arcesilean skepticism is the extreme phase, closer to Pyrrho’s school, seems to have already been widely acknowledged in antiquity. At Pyr. 1.3 Sextus excludes Arcesilaus from the list of Academic skeptics, whom he otherwise groups with the dogmatists. 360 Obdrazalek’s list of those supporting the “weak interpretation” of Carneades includes Couissin, M. Frede, Striker and Burnyeat in the articles quoted above. We could add to the list Allen (1994, 1997), Bett (1990), Brittain (2001), Hankinson (1998) and Schofield (1999). On the “strong” side of the divide, originally Brochard (1969), lately Stough (1969), Thorsrud (whose views we will discuss in this section) and Obdrazelek. For a philosophical profile of Carneades, see Nonvel Pieri (1978); for a collection of the fragments, see Wiśniewski (1970).

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A key passage for Allen’s argument is Luc. 32-34, the point at which Lucullus differentiates between two types of skeptics, namely the kind that believes ­everything is as uncertain as whether the number of stars is odd or even (qui omnia sic incerta dicunt ut stellarum numerus par an impar sit); and, those who make a crucial distinction between that which is uncertain and that which cannot be perceived (quantumque intersit inter incertum et id quod percipi non possit, Luc. 32). Dismissing the hopeless first class of skeptics (desperatos), Lucullus turns to confront the epistemology that he connects to Carneades, at least insofar as he associates it with the “probabile” or “verisimile” at Luc. 32 and openly links a refined version of the concept to the scholarch at Luc. 33 (probabilem et quae non inpediatur, ut Carneades volebat). The way in which the speaker describes this group’s epistemology, as something “that can be used as a rule for living, as well as arguing and philosophizing” (eaque se uti regula et in agenda vita et in quaerendo ac disserendo, Luc. 32), “a criterion to distinguish true from false” (regula est veri et falsi, Luc. 33), sounds a note of “optimism” as Allen (1997: 219 and 239) puts it. This note resonates all the more loudly throughout Cicero’s defense of the probabile at Luc. 98-111, particularly when he reaffirms that “in uncertainty, there is nothing persuasive; yet when there are persuasive impressions, the wise man will not be at a loss about what to do and how to respond” (in incertis enim nihil est probabile; in quibus autem est, in iis non deerit sapienti nec quid faciat nec quid respondeat, Luc. 110). For the American critic, this confidence is part and parcel of Carneades’ specular response to the Stoa. Where the doctrinaire philosophy gave its opponents two choices in cognition, katalêpsis or akatalêpsia, the skeptic states in no uncertain terms that not everything is unclear.361 At the same time, the Academic introduces an alternative, a concept that borrows the structure of Stoic sense-perception, making it possible to think and act outside it. What Stoics speak of in terms of impressions perceived or apprehended, the same things Academics call persuasive (ea quae vos percipi conprehendique eadem nos, si modo probabilia sint, videri dicimus, Luc. 105) The spirit of optimism sharpens Carneades’ provocation, and perhaps for this reason Cicero does more than parry the charge that without assent the skeptic cannot act, a charge generally known as the apraxia argument. He underlines the probabile’s constructive orientation, defining it as the building block of certain cognitive functions, principally memory, and of science (Luc. 106-107). Furthermore, Cicero reminds us of the provisional nature of Carneades’ approach to the pithanon. Cicero looks to Clitomachus, and not Philo or Metrodorus, to suggest that their teacher may not have even found 361 See Luc. 99, 102–103 and 110 for references to “incerta” (ἄδηλα).

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the concept persuasive, merely instrumental for the purpose of the argument (hoc magis ab eo disputatum quam probatum puto, Luc. 78; cf. Luc. 104). This is Carneades’ modus operandi in other fields, as we have seen in the section on logic just preceding Luc. 98: borrowing views, methods and arguments without committing to their content or the conclusions to which they have led him. Carneades merely operates an ingenious and attentive reversal of Stoic thought. Harald Thorsrud has published four key studies on Academic skepticism (2002, 2009, 2010 and 2012), all of which provide a sophisticated counterpoint to Allen. In essence, Thorsrud reappraises and moderates the extreme cynicism attached to Carneades’ criterion. Moreover, he provides an argument in favor of the “strong” interpretation through an emphasis on Cicero’s Academica as source.362 In his monograph on ancient skepticism (2009), the ancient philosopher Thorsrud contends that Carneades’ view was closer to what we might call probabilism: according to him, Carneades acknowledges the possibility that a persuasive impression might be true and so consequently he softens or relaxes epochê. The persuasive impression offers more than a cogent response to the apraxia argument, enabling active deliberation and a form of certainty. Thorsrud (2009: 72) analyzes Carneades’ thought in terms of a distinction between whether impressions are true or false, and convincing or not. The first difference, central to Stoic thought, addresses the impression’s relation to its object; the second, Carneades’ innovation, concerns the impression’s relation to the agent. Inhabiting the second category, Thorsrud’s skeptic does not automatically eliminate the possibility that impressions are true. Cicero reminds us throughout his treatment of the probabile that skeptics in the wake of Carneades do not abolish the distinction between true and false, reassuring Lucullus at one point that skeptics “see as many true as false things in the world” (non facimus; nam tam vera quam falsa cernimus, Luc. 111). On the contrary, for Thorsrud (2009: 82) the work of evaluation and scrutiny ­involved in “getting things right” suggests that the impressions accepted as persuasive at the end of the process are probably true. As the comment on C ­ arneades’ 362 This approach owes a great debt to the work of Ioppolo (passim, though 1986 is the locus classicus). See also Maconi (1988), Bett (1989 and 1990), D. Frede (1996) and Obdrzalek (2006). There are, of course, significant differences between each reader, although the debate is firmly centered on what one is supposed to make of the epistemic status of practical criteria. It is also worth pointing out that this ‘revisionism’ is perhaps best defined as ‘counter-revisionist’, as it actually effects a return to Hirzel’s nineteenth-century orthodoxy supporting the Philonian-Metrodorian view of Carneades as the correct one. See Hirzel (1883: 162–180), Brochard (1969: 134–135), Goedeckemeyer (1905: 64), Robin (1944: 99), Dal Pra (1975: 298) and Stough (1969: 58).

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version of the probabile at Luc. 33 reminds us, his approach ­involves active assessment before an impression is accepted as persuasive. I­ mpressions, in ­other words, are actively involved in the rational economy of belief. ­Evaluation, in Thorsrud’s view, shapes a positive and constructive ­attitude to sense-­ perception, implicating the agent in a form of cognitive activity that encompasses deliberation as well as action. Citing Clitomachus, Cicero admits that many persuasive impressions may turn out to be false (multa ­probabilia falsa sint, Luc. 103). By implication, many can turn out to be true (2009: 60–83). According to Thorsrud (2009: 14), Cicero performs two roles in the development of Academic skepticism. He represents the culmination of the “slide” into dogmatism. endorsing what the critic labels a “fallibilist” or “mitigated” form of skepticism. Cicero is also the earliest extant narrator of the history of that “slide.” As the critic observes in the introduction to his Ancient Skepticism, Cicero is “the most extensive and sympathetic source” for the Hellenistic Academy and someone who “stands at the end of this history.” From the vantage point of his position in the history of the Academy, as well as because of his investment in bringing philosophy to Rome, Thorsrud’s (2009: 11–14) Cicero is an author with an agenda: “emphasizing, or perhaps constructing, a methodological continuity” from Socrates to him and “establishing an authoritative genealogy” for his fallibilism. Before turning to his use of this narrative, it is worth considering his interpretation of Cicero’s “mitigated skepticism.” Thorsrud’s (2009: 84–88) Cicero “enlarges the scope of skeptically appropriate assent” because his form of assent, unlike his predecessors’, rests on the belief that “Academic method allows for progress towards the truth.” Sections like Luc. 7, 60 and 66 are representative of this promise of the truth to come at the end of the enquiry.363 The critic (2009: 95) defines Cicero’s brand of skepticism in terms of “fallible justification,” namely that one must “adopt the most rationally convincing, probable view because it is the most likely to be true, and because it is worth risking error in order to believe what is true.” The shadow of error still inhabits Cicero’s philosophy, but reason offers a sure footing in the search for something that Cicero is fully committed to as existing: truth.364 Thorsrud’s (2009: 95– 96 and 99) description encompasses the ancient author’s confidence in “expertise,” the fact that “study and practice” in philosophy, ethics and other technical forms of 363 In his study of the Academica, Thorsrud (2012) seeks to square radical with mitigated forms of skepticism that seem to co-exist in Cicero as “actually consistent.” 364 According to Thorsrud (2012: 134), “competing desires to avoid error and believe truth” underpin Cicero’s method as described in the Academica—a method that describes the “road to wisdom” as “paved with cautious opinion.”

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knowledge secures belief in persuasive impressions as close to truth. The critic looks to Luc.146 as an indication of the sufficiency of the probabile for the arts. However, already at Luc. 110 Cicero argued that on many issues, including on the issue of duty or appropriate action, the sage will not just say that he doesn’t know because he is practiced in and has experience of these matters (si de ­officio multisque aliis de rebus, in quibus versatus exercitatusque sit, nescire se dicat). Ultimately, Thorsrud (2009: 101) views Ciceronian fallibilism as a “synthesis of skeptical caution and Stoic confidence.” Cicero establishes certain positions and assumptions as stable points of reference for his theorizing—ideas that seem not to be held merely for the purpose of arguing, but as guiding principles. Among these ideas, Thorsrud lists the infallibility of the sage (2002: 10–1, 2009: 91 and 2012: 139); belief in a virtuous and ethical life; the role truth plays in orienting the individual towards that life (2009: 94); and, his position on the epistemic value of the probabile and the method by which these impressions are identified, verified and accepted (on method, see also Nat.D. 1.11 and Tusc. 5.11). Cicero’s take on the probabile grounds his commitment to enquiry and investigation as the way to truth, an approach Thorsrud (2002: 13–14) describes in terms of the Academica’s “Philonian framework,” foremost at Luc. 7-9 and 66.365 It is Cicero’s mitigated form of skepticism that justifies the far-reaching philosophical project; it also underpins the reason why Cicero rallies around the same key topics, namely ethical normativity, social responsibility and the pointed insistence on method introducing each discrete chapter of the philosophica. The possibility of truth is foregrounded at every juncture of Cicero’s exploration of the tradition. Thorsrud’s work is sensitive to potential inconsistencies and pitfalls in ­seeking to interpret Cicero as a fallibilist. One of the principal challenges to the interpretation outlined above is, as Thorsrud notes time and again, that the Academica seems to defend a categorical skepticism. This is in contrast to the many methodological passages found elsewhere in the philosophica, including the introductions to the Lucullus and first Academic Book, both of which are underpinned by a positive and hopeful epistemology (Nat.D. 1.11, Tusc. 2.4, Div. 2.1 and Off. 2.8). In his contribution to Walter Nicgorski’s collection Cicero’s Practical Philosophy (2012), Thorsrud articulates the perceived ­tension 365 Although presenting alternative interpretations of Carneades at two points of the Lucullus, Thorsrud (2002: 15; cf. 2012: 143–147) argues that the views of Clitomachus and Philo are “consistent and mutually supportive.” Tarrant (1985a: 29) also extracts two doctrines from the Academica: (i) things are non-apprehensible; (ii) one should not assent to something which one has not ascertained to be true.

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b­ etween the two orientations of Ciceronian philosophy in the following terms: in many of the works that follow the Academica, key among which the ­Tusculan ­Disputations, On Divination and On Duties, Cicero looks back to the Academica as a reference point for his method (§II.4.2). The critic (2012: 133) rejects as “confusing” the possibility that Cicero argues for a mitigated skepticism across his later works, but defends something altogether more aggressive in his work on epistemology. Accordingly, he builds on his studies of the Academica to demonstrate that the two philosophical attitudes are consistent with one another. One of the interesting ways Thorsrud approaches the challenge is to argue that Cicero’s historiography of the Hellenistic Academy rests on the belief that Arcesilaus, Carneades and Philo all posit the same uniform methodology. He contends that Cicero is not philosophizing under Philo’s spell when he retrojects a form of fallibilism onto Arcesilean and Carneadean dialectic at On the Nature of Gods 1.11 or Tusculan Disputations 5.11 (cf. Thorsrud 2002: 4–5). Cicero offers a lens through which to read the history of the Academy that abolishes the narrative of degeneration, as well as eliding the difference—opposition, even—between forms of Academic doubt. Accordingly, Thorsrud’s priority is to absolve Arcesilaus and Carneades from an uncompromising skepticism and to ascertain their doctrinal attachments. Thorsrud (2002: 5–6 and 12– 13) does so by contextualizing their method in Socratic pedagogy, so as to show that dialectic is meant to hide, not eliminate, opinion and inspire a keener search for the truth. He also argues for a unified approach to Carneades that embraces both the Clitomachean and Metrodorian interpretation. Arcesilaus is not only associated with positive doctrines, but his understanding of epochê is shown to be prophylactic, i.e. not an absolute “ban on belief” but a preventive measure to avoid falling into improbable beliefs (2002: 5–12).366 According to Thorsrud (2002: 12), Carneades continues the work of Arcesilaus in preventing rash assent by his extensive and sophisticated use of a “negative dialectic.” With regard to persuasive impressions, Thorsrud offers an original perspective that reconciles the two interpretations of Carneades’ pupils, which have been otherwise defined as incompatible. His approach affirms a positive foundation underlying the probabile, as Thorsrud (2002: 16–17) believes Carneades established an epistemology that sits halfway between taking an impression to be true (assent) and complete indifference. Written into Clitomachus’ dialectic is the “modest attitude” at the heart of Carneades’ take on epistemology: Carneades, in Thorsrud’s view, is unable to prove or disprove the possibility of 366 To be clear, Arcesilaus’ two doctrines are the unknowability of things and the infallibility of the sage, Ac.1. 44-46, Luc. 66-67 and 76-78 respectively.

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katalêpsis. Accordingly, he argues on both sides of the question about whether the sage can or cannot assent, giving rise to the Metrodorian (Philonian) and Clitomachean traditions. Focusing on Luc. 78, Thorsrud shows how Cicero comes to understand Philo’s view as a “mistake.” Philo erred in suggesting his teacher approved the view that the sage opines as a positive view, since the argument contingent on katalêpsis had not been resolved. Carneades might look as if he is assenting to the possibility of opining, but he is in no position to assent to anything, as that part of the dispute had not been decided, nor could it be. In his 2012 article, Thorsrud (pp. 143–146) focuses his efforts on showing how the probabile aligns the two traditions, functioning both in terms of Philo’s “fallibility” and Clitomachus’ “truth indifference.” For Cicero it is a matter of emphasis. On the one hand, Clitomachus outlines a “positive attitude,” as the sage can respond negatively or positively to an impression without committing to its truth; on the other, Philo, whose view is identified in the 2012 paper with Catulus’ position, “describes a consciously fallible judgment,” namely that an impression is probably true. There is no substantial difference between these two poles, as responding positively can be taken to be the equivalent of approving something as “convincing,” so possibly true. Across his studies of Cicero and ancient skepticism, Harald Thorsrud enshrines the Academica as a central work in the history of skepticism. Cicero’s Academic project is a chronicle of the tradition’s development and a translation of Cicero’s understanding of his school’s philosophy as it evolved from Socrates to his day. The Academica functions as the handbook of Ciceronian methodology—a process from which he never substantially deviates throughout the philosophica.367 Furthermore, Thorsrud (2002: 18) underlines time and again that the Academica is a unique testimony, drafted by our “most extensive, most sympathetic and best-informed source” on the Hellenistic Academy, a student with the right “credentials” to write about this philosophy. In light of these considerations, Thorsrud (2002: 18) concludes his earliest ­article on Cicero’s Arcesilaus and Carneades by arguing that the Academica must be read as a study of the skeptical tradition that, if not “accurate,” was at least written by “someone who knew what he was talking about.” It is in these terms that the critic defends Cicero’s interpretation of his predecessors as moderate skeptics: previous leaders of the Academy ultimately offer variations on the fallibilist position that Cicero himself endorses across many of the philosophica’s prefaces. To argue otherwise is to open the door to several 367 Thorsrud (2012: 134) broadly agrees with the thesis famously put forward by Woldemar Görler in his contribution to the collection Cicero the Philosopher (1995), namely that ­Cicero’s philosophical position was consistent throughout his life.

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d­ ifficulties in reading Cicero’s Roman doubt as a unified and consistent philosophy, since the author attaches its orientation and drive to different members of that tradition at different times. For Thorsrud, Cicero cannot be intentionally or unintentionally misrepresenting his sources, not least because to do so would undermine the foundations subtending our understanding of the Hellenistic Academy. Thorsrud’s body of work is interesting to think with not only because of the critic’s attention to Cicero as a source for Academic skepticism; Thorsrud is a historian of philosophy who is sensitive to the rhetorical texture of the Academica and Cicero’s agenda in chronicling and exploring that tradition. This sensitivity comes to the fore in the way that he draws out the difficulties and paradoxes raised by a superficial reading of the fragmentary treatise. Some of these we have touched on already. For instance, Cicero describing Arcesilaus’ ban on belief just after formulating what looks like a commitment to unknowability; the author’s disagreement with Philo’s view of the probabile in a work in which he purports to speak for Philo; and, perhaps most significantly, the extent to which he defends a truth-indifferent view of the probabile in the Lucullus in a way that seems to contrast fundamentally with the epistemology defended elsewhere in his treatises. This attention to the intertwining of text and history extends also to the relationship between Ciceronian skepticism and the Stoa, an area on which Thorsrud focuses in his chapter on Cicero and the end of the Academy in Ancient Skepticism (2009: 84–101). Over this short chapter, the scholar contends that Cicero models his optimism and his yearning for truth as essential to an ethical existence on the Stoa. Like Arcesilaus and Carneades before him, Thorsrud’s Cicero is deeply connected to, if not dependent on, his Stoic adversaries. Thorsrud’s interpretation is as original as it is sophisticated in drawing the Academica back into the spotlight. However, it also displays limits that are representative of the broader critical tradition on Cicero’s philosophica. While sharp in identifying interpretive challenges, Thorsrud often openly resorts to elements outside the text to explain away or resolve tensions. He reflects explicitly on the privileged position occupied by Cicero as one of our earliest and richest narrators of the history of skepticism, as well as on the rhetorical elements orienting his narrative. But this acknowledgment often blinds him to the possibility that the authorial agenda may have a distorting effect on his account, and that, in turn, the image of skepticism’s history may be diffracted through such a lens. Thorsrud’s sensible view is that Cicero’s authority as a historian of the Academy depends on his sympathy for the school and the fact that both this leaning and his philosophical interests make him a wellinformed source.

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Nonetheless, his commitment to Cicero’s honesty—an assurance on which he predicates the resolution of key tensions in Cicero’s philosophical outlook as expressed in his works—bears out an approach that presupposes Cicero’s intentions and persona in order to tackle textual questions. There simply cannot be misrepresentation, misunderstanding or disharmony in the philosophica because Cicero is not that kind of author. His accuracy and authority derive from the circumstances, his proximity to the history he retells, his admiration for the school’s theory and the impossibility that he might engage in discordant discourses. An echo of a much broader approach inhabits Thorsrud’s interpretations, namely the necessity felt by many a Ciceronian scholar and ancient philosopher to square Rome’s great politician and advocate with the image of the doubter that occasionally appears in the philosophica, principally in the Academica.368 From the vantage point of Thorsrud’s repositioning of the Academica in the history of ancient skepticism, his attention to the complexities of the text and the limits he exhibits in overcoming these, the contours of an alternative view of that Ciceronian project emerge. Drawing together some of the intuitions of chapter eight and the first section of chapter nine, in what follows I contend that the Academica develops a dialectical and radical form of skepticism. This extremist doubt is not the product of a misunderstanding, modern or ancient, but a cornerstone of the work. Not least because Cicero explores withdrawal from assent and its resulting critical posture for a specific purpose: to introduce the reader to Hellenistic philosophy and give this tradition a well-defined structure founded on inter-personal debates and antagonisms. Throughout the Academica’s fragments, Cicero emphasizes the dialogic attitude of his 368 Commentators of Cicero’s philosophy since at least the time of Rudolf Hirzel have been spellbound by Cicero’s historical persona, his achievements as a writer and his ­successes—and failures—as a politician. Whether out of adulation or antipathy, critics have had a hard time looking beyond this pragmatism. Accordingly, Cicero’s philosophy is simply an expression of socio-political strategizing, aimed at doing rather than thinking. Needless to say, this perspective is philosophically limiting and prejudiced; it also reflects the age-old image of Romans as the muscular cousins of the intellectual Greeks (§I.1.1 n. 4). In the first place, this biographic stimulus to find Cicero in the philosophica should open and not preclude interpretations. Furthermore, it is precisely this auctoritas that ­Cicero expressly wishes to interrogate, if not altogether discard in the philosophica. ­Finally, there is an uneasy anachronism in reading Cicero post Pharsalus as the chronicling of a political and social success story, of Republican resistance to autocracy. While Cicero is writing and revising the Academica, Caesar is putting out the last embers of resistance and his dictatorship for those Republicans left in Italy represents still a distant anxiety (§I.3.2). Moreover, at this stage in life, Matthew Fox (2007: 18) is not too far off the mark in describing Cicero’s career as one of “political failure.”

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s­ keptical protagonists, locked in contests with their Stoic opponents. Cicero’s skeptical ideas, whomever they may be attributed to, are in symbiosis with the Stoa. So the Stoa lives within the Academy, both through certain Academic figures, like Antiochus, or in the form of ideas borrowed, mirrored or perverted by the great Academic scholarchs of the Hellenistic period. From whichever angle we look across this Hellenistic landscape, Cicero demonstrates that critiques and counter-critiques to both doctrinaire and skeptical positions emerge from and are contained within the Academy itself—Hellenistic philosophy is nothing but an expression of Academic debates. Divisions, discord and tensions are a quintessential part of that Academic fabric. Accordingly, this centripetal doubt, the philosophical architecture of which I will discuss in chapter ten below, has a significant rhetorical function. Principally this consists in spinning out the narrative paradigm of continuous debate and self-contradiction that offers a strategic position from which to embrace—absorb, even—the history of philosophy. One of the areas in which the Academica pursues the project of critical doubt is in the way it articulates the relation between Academy and Stoa. We have discussed this aspect of the work at various points both earlier in this section and elsewhere. Among the key points raised above is Antiochus of Ascalon and the extent to which his philosophy is presented as quintessentially Stoic. Antiochian correctio allows Varro to introduce Zeno onto the philosophical scene as the culmination of Academic and Peripatetic philosophy (§II.6.1 and §II.6.2).369 In the first Academic Book, the correctio thesis and the Two-­Academy theory characterize the skeptical phase of the Academy as a heterodox graft on a unified tradition, whose identity was otherwise resolutely doctrinal. Varro eliminates Arcesilaus and Carneades from the picture altogether. Similarly, Lucullus’ speech offers a parallel understanding of the Academy in light of Stoic philosophy. The Antiochian Lucullus delivers an oration signposted by Stoic terms, and his attack on skepticism is founded on making skeptics look like Stoics. The author not only assimilates Antiochus’ Academy to the Stoa, but in adopting the Antiochian view through Varro and Lucullus, he presents skepticism in terms of an incoherent Stoa or a confused form of dogmatism. Luc. 40-44 notably represents the skeptical positions as a “system” (ratio) based on “principles” (fundamenta). This system is described in terms 369 According to Cicero, Antiochus was committed to remaining in the Academy’s orbit in spite of all the similarities with the Stoa (Luc. 69). With Polito (2012: 40), we note the use of the present continuous “dicit”—“he says the same things as the Stoics”—at Luc. 69 indicates that at the dramatic date of the dialogue Antiochus was still an Academic speaking the philosophical language of the Stoa.

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of an “articulated body of knowledge” (ars) used to classify impressions that is similar to how the Stoics classify percepts: in Lucullus’ analysis, the skeptics build a c­ lassificatory system for impressions, according to nature and kinds (et vim et genera definiunt), “including what can be perceived and grasped—and they do so to an extent directly comparable to what the Stoics do” (in his quale sit id quod percipi et comprendi possit, totidem verbis quot Stoici, Luc. 40). According to Lucullus, Academic skeptics are not responding to a Stoic provocation, but rather a shared project built around a common set of propositions. From these propositions the Academics articulate their position and derive their method. Reflecting on the skeptical argument, Lucullus celebrates it by claiming that “there is absolutely nothing wrong with this form of philosophy” (dignissimam philosophiam), but wonders whether such confidence in the power and method of reason sits comfortably alongside their dogged doubt. Formulating a theory in precise and sophisticated detail suggests to Lucullus someone who stands by those ideas and the method employed to refine them: “for the use of definitions, partitions and other technical dialectical figures, along with comparisons, distinctions, and their subtle and sharp discriminating, is the method of thinkers who believe that what they are defending is true, stable and certain, not an approach adopted by those who claim that they are no more true than false” (definitiones enim et partitiones et horum luminibus utens oratio, tum similitudines dissimilitudinesque et earum tenuis et acuta distinctio fidentium est hominum illa vera et firma et certa esse quae tutentur, non eorum qui clament nihilo magis vera illa esse quam falsa, Luc. 43). The parallel with the rational world-building of Luc. 26 ff., discussed in particular at §II.7.2, is clear: both Stoic and Academic thought is oriented and driven by structure and well-ordered principles, and is upheld by an articulated method. The effect of Lucullus’ attack, and the fact that it precedes Cicero’s speech, raises questions about how that caution initially advocated by Cicero in the preface will play out in the use of ratio and in the articulation of skepticism as system (disciplina). The reliance on reason and a clear methodology—the risk of the skeptic sounding as if he is outlining a position—are foregrounded in Lucullus’ critique so that by the time the reader gets to Cicero’s rebuttal, the author of the Academica has drawn attention to this crucial paradox in skepticism, namely a philosophy that does not articulate a philosophy. At Luc. 83-87, Cicero approaches the dispute with a disciplined logical exposition of four “premises” (capita) to match Lucullus’ (§III.9.1). The use of a syllogistic method early on to shape skepticism into a theory anticipates certain ways in which Cicero will characterize this philosophy. Dialectic and doctrine co-exist as the author seeks to show where Stoicism and Academic skepticism differ and where they follow the same intellectual trajectory.

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Like Arcesilaus and Carneades before him, Cicero apes the Stoic method of reasoning and exposition to delineate an altogether different philosophical view. In doing so, he borrows the Stoic philosophical register and the sensualist premises of its epistemology. Cicero’s treatment of logic in the Lucullus epitomizes this mirroring and situates the theoretical dependence alongside the personal nature of the debt skeptics owe the Stoa. Not only is Cicero’s logic in the Academica “essentially Stoic,” as Barnes (1997: 145) contends, despite being described as Platonic in two passages of the surviving first Academic Book (Ac. 1.33 and 40-42), but his tirade against this form of structured ratiocination is punctuated by reminders that he and Carneades learned dialectic from Stoic thinkers, principally Chrysippus, Diogenes and the crypto-Stoic Antiochus. At the end of his critique of logic, the speaker states in no uncertain terms that the sôritês and pseudomenos have little to do with him. In his florid language Cicero admits that he started a fight around the reliability, and so validity, of disjunctive propositions, but he then steps out of the ring, so to speak, inviting the “dialectici” (logicians), among whom he names Antiochus and the Stoics, to fight it out (cum hoc igitur dialectici pugnent, id est Antiochus et Stoici, Luc. 97). The point is reiterated shortly afterwards, when Cicero wonders why the Stoics pick an argument with him, when all he is doing is following their direction (mecum vero quid habent litium, qui ipsorum disciplinam sequor?). In one last salvo before he turns to the probabile, Cicero insists on this theme through his declaration that in this area of philosophy he is merely following the ways and methods he learned from Antiochus (sequor igitur eas vias quas didici ab Antiocho, Luc. 98—note the repetition of “sequor”). The same is true of Carneades, who appears as a comparandum in the passage. Carneades’ teacher, however, was Diogenes, who we are told sold the trick for a “mina.” These concluding provocations bring out three key aspects of Hellenistic logic, as seen by Cicero. In the first instance, Cicero suggests that Stoic logic was taught, or at the very least was known to and debated by Academicians. In this light, it is suggestive to read the expression “disciplinam sequor,” which Rackham translates as “[I] am a disciple of their own school,” alongside Varro’s history of philosophy, which characterizes Stoic logic as a culmination of the Platonic tradition. Cicero seems to be describing more than an occasional borrowing, rather he alludes to the extent to which Stoic dialectic pervades the Academy’s thinking through the period. With regard to inter-personal ­relations and the history of that intellectual exchange, the speaker structures an interesting parallel: Carneades and Chrysippus, seen arguing at Luc. 93, anticipate the argument between Cicero and Lucullus; similarly, Carneades and Diogenes provide an explicit precursor for the relationship between Cicero and ­Antiochus. These interlinking panels help to contextualize Cicero within

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a tradition of anti-Stoic disputes going back to one of the Academy’s sharpest advocates. Our author, however, does more than borrow the disciplina or system in order to subvert it. He also draws on Chrysippus’ attitude to the impossible challenge of the sôritês. Cicero quotes Carneades’ dissatisfaction with the way in which the Stoic scholarch resolves the paradox, namely how, before he gets trapped by the puzzle, he “comes to rest” or “imposes silence” (placet enim Chrysippo […] quiescere (id est quod ab his dicitur ἡσυχάζειν), Luc. 93; §II.7.2 and §III.9.1). Cicero’s imaginary Stoic interlocutor then breathes new life into this approach, by developing a sporting metaphor: no longer responding to the interrogator, the context is now seen through the eyes of “an expert charioteer” (agitator callidus), who pulls up his horses before he approaches the end of the road, particularly if the end of the road is a precipice (ut agitator callidus priusquam ad finem veniam equos sustinebo, eoque magis si locus is quo ferentur equi praeceps erit, Luc. 94). The action of resting or falling silent now becomes that of holding back (sustineo). And holding back—sustinere—is the verb most frequently associated with epochê or suspension of assent. Elsewhere, in fact, Cicero utilizes the equestrian metaphor of holding up horses with reference to epochê. It is in a letter dated to August 45 bce, soon after the final draft of the Academica was completed and sent to Varro, that Cicero mentions Lucilius as the source of the charioteer’s image—an image that perfectly explains the philosophical complexity of the skeptic’s resistance (§I.1.2). Carlos Lévy’s work follows in the footsteps of Pierre Couissin and provides an embattled counterpoint to those interpreters who have identified a substantive philosophical position in the skeptical Hellenistic thought of the Academy. In the wake of Couissin, Lévy (1992: 283 and 259) understands Academic arguments, in particular the practical criteria Academics put forward, as a reductio or manipulation of Stoic views (cf. Couissin 1929a and Krämer 1971: 59). Anti-Stoic polemic dominates Lévy’s account of the Academy right up to Philo. In his review of Tarrant’s Scepticism or Platonism?—a critique published in 1985 and many of whose ideas model his 2010 contribution to the Cambridge Companion to Ancient Skepticism on Philo and the end of the Academy—he argues that Cicero’s teacher did not relax epochê or enable a form of non-­kataleptic katalêpsis that radically shifted the grounds of Academic epistemology onto more secure grounds. Sticking to the text of the Academica, Lévy (1985: 38) argues that it is difficult to tell what is being said by Philo dialectically and what expresses a real conviction. The French critic (2010: 36) is not persuaded by Tarrant’s or Glucker’s interpretation of Philo, wondering, for instance, where these historians found evidence that the first-century bce scholarch abandoned skepticism.

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According to Lévy, Philo is deeply committed to challenging Stoics in the tradition of his Academic predecessors. Even in the passages usually adduced to show that Philo constructed the possibility of perception outside katalêpsis, namely the “things-are-knowable-in-themselves” position expressed at Pyr. 1.235 (regularly matched with Luc. 18 in the scholarship), the Academic is still formulating a critique of Stoicism in Stoic terms. Philo is presenting an alternative, and Sextus’ phraseology—ὅσον μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ Στωικῷ κριτηρίῳ […] ὅσον δὲ ἐπὶ τῇ φύσει τῶν πραγμάτων αὐτῶν—stages this parallel construction (Lévy 1985: 36 and 2010: 87; §III.8.4). Furthermore, this alternative grants epochê a status relative to katalêpsis, so that the epochê of the Academic skeptical tradition is read exclusively in terms of an “anti-Stoic weapon” (Lévy 2010: 87). Rereading Philo with Lévy brings the question of the scholarch’s Roman inheritance into focus, particularly in relation to Cicero. On several occasions, Philo is identified as the source of Cicero’s views in the Academica. More generally, scholarship has often accentuated Philo’s part in the foundation of Cicero’s Academy in order to demonstrate the Roman’s softer, aspirational brand of skepticism. However, by underlining the dialectical continuity linking Arcesilaus to Philo, Lévy challenges the assumption that a Philonian Cicero is a doctrinaire Cicero. Indeed, within the world of the Academica, the critic’s challenge makes it harder to differentiate between tactical and substantive claims in our reading of the Academica’s authorial voice—what is ultimately borrowed, manipulated and perverted, and what is endorsed. The theme of appropriating, mirroring and perverting fastens the link between Cicero and his skeptical predecessors. In the Lucullus, Cicero’s speech does something similar to Lucullus’ insofar as he too seeks to make his opponent, in this case the Stoa, look like a garbled and un-self-conscious version of the school he is defending. This family resemblance between Academy and Stoa is established through two elements. In the first instance, there is an institutional aspect to the connection. Both schools undergo the same kind of historical fragmentation, as members disagree, deviate or even critique the received or established views of their teachers. Another aspect of this similarity, and the one we will focus on first, is the shared dialectical impulse at work in both philosophies—overtly so in skepticism and covertly in the Stoa. Cicero shows not just how the seeds of Academic thinking are to be found in Stoic philosophy, but that skeptical attitudes themselves are developed within the Stoa. Academic skeptics manipulate ‘dogmatic’ arguments, while also parroting and amplifying the—occasional—skeptical notes sounded by the Stoics. We have just isolated echoes of Chrysippus’ silence, his “quiescere” and “ἡσυχάζειν,” and his “sustinere” in skeptical epochê. Chrysippus is also singled out as the source of the pseudomenos. At Luc. 96, Cicero again deflects the

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pressure of responding to the paradox by stating, “this is Chrysippus’ problem, and not even he managed to solve it” (haec Chrysippea sunt, ne ab ipso ­quidem dissoluta). This is not an isolated claim either. Already at Luc. 75, Cicero had found in Chrysippus an illustrious precedent for Academic skepticism, a thinker who came up with “many arguments against the senses and many arguments against everything that is simply accepted in ordinary life” (quam multa ille contra sensus quam multa contra omnia quae in consuetudine probantur). On both occasions, Cicero goes on to observe that the Stoic scholarch had failed to refute or resolve the objections and puzzles in a satisfactory manner, thus demonstrating to his audience that this enemy of the Academy was sympathetic to skeptic thought. The simple fact that Chrysippus collected many sophisms and arguments against the senses is proof enough for Cicero that sensory and intellective problems not only exist, but pose a difficult and worthwhile challenge to those who predicate their philosophy on certainty (certe tam multa non collegisset quae nos fallerent probabilitate magna, nisi videret is resisti non facile posse). The Stoic anthologizer, Cicero reminds us, is the philosopher whose thought is believed to prop up the Stoa (Chrysippum, qui fulcire putatur porticum Stoicorum, Luc. 75). Several sections after Cicero celebrates Chrysippus’ anthology, he refers again to this work of compilation. In the later instance we are reminded that the scholarch “carefully sought out and gathered all the arguments against the senses, against clarity, against the totality of common experience and against reason” (dum studiose omnia conquisierit contra sensus et perspicuitatem contraque omnem consuetudinem contraque rationem). Reflecting on the list Cicero insinuates that other “Stoics are in the habit of complaining” about the fortress of Stoic philosophy that Chrysippus represents (de quo queri solent Stoici). Their complaint is founded on two issues: Chrysippus provides his skeptical adversaries, Carneades in particular, with a compendium of arguments to be deployed on all the topics listed above. He also does not manage to respond to these puzzles and critiques in a way that resolves them or re-asserts his superior reason over them (ipsum sibi respondentem inferiorem fuisse). Accordingly, the Stoa believes Chrysippus armed Carneades with an array of cogent and piercing arguments against certainty (itaque ab eo armatum esse Carneadem, Luc. 87). Significantly, Stoics after Chrysippus are disappointed with his legacy, in large part because they recognize the dangerous proximity between this towering figure and the Academics. During his treatment of Carneades’ probabile, Cicero revisits the Academic appropriation of Stoic arguments against the senses. He reminds his audience that, when it comes to attacking the integrity of sense-perception, Academics use the same arguments as the Stoics—“the

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Stoics who claim that many things are false and that what they are in actuality differs considerably from the way they appear to the senses” (neque nos contra sensus aliter dicimus ac Stoici, qui multa falsa dicunt longeque aliter se habere ac sensibus videantur, Luc. 101). Chrysippus is not alone among Cicero’s cast of divisive Stoics. At Luc. 107, Panaetius is introduced as another discordant voice in the Stoic chorus. This thinker, celebrated as a “leader of the Stoics” (princeps prope meo quidem iudicio Stoicorum), is another member of the Stoic opposition who occasionally adopts a skeptic posture. In fact, we are told “he suspends his assent” (seque ab adsensu sustineat) with reference to a subject that is presented as relatively uncontroversial in his school. Panaetius “claims that he hesitates to agree with his fellow Stoics on a topic that all Stoics, with the sole exception of himself, are most certain about, namely that the utterances of diviners, auspices, oracles, dreams and prophecies are true” (ea de re dubitare se dicat quam omnes praeter eum Stoici certissimam putant, vera esse responsa haruspicum auspicia oracula somnia vaticinationes).370 Disagreement among philosophers is, of course, the theme of the final third of the Lucullus, and the Stoa was no less affected by internal divisions than other schools. At Luc. 126, for example, the speaker points out that Stoics are known to disagree with each other (Stoicis ipsis inter se disceptare) and indicates the difference between Zeno, almost all the Stoics and his pupil Cleanthes on who or what the supreme deity is— whether it is the aether or the sun.371 One of the more disruptive figures within the Stoa that the Academica is interested in is Antipater of Tarsus. Antipater is the pupil of the Diogenes who taught Carneades logic, and was his successor at the helm of the Stoa in the middle of the second century bce. We met him earlier in §III.8.4, when we studied the way in which Lucullus situates his critique of skepticism in the tradition of Stoic attacks on Academic doubt. In detailing this context, Lucullus mentions two groups of critics: those who do not think it worth 370 As he introduces the subject matter of On Divination, Cicero identifies Panaetius as the thinker who “deviated from the Stoics” (a Stoicis… degeneravit). According to Cicero, Panaetius did not go as far as to deny the power of divination, but he expressed his doubts about it (nec tamen ausus est negare vim esse divinandi, sed dubitare se dixit, Div. 1.6). The passage as a whole includes further echoes of Luc. 107, in particular the observation that the Academic tendency to doubt was “approved of by the judgment and through the testimony of one of the most formidable philosophers” (praestantissumi philosophi iudicio et testimonio comprobata est, Div. 1.7). 371 Across philosophy’s three major fields, Stoics disagree with each other almost as much as Academics. We mentioned Panaetius, Zeno and Cleanthes, and will address Antipater at greater length. Another divisive figure is Aristo of Chios, who emerges from both the passage on ethics and physics as a unique voice in the Stoa.

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their time arguing with thinkers who do not assent to or approve any impression at all, and those who did respond to this kind of aggressive skepticism. Antipater, who falls into the second category, is revered by Cicero as the connection between Diogenes and Panaetius and one of the “sharpest thinkers” in the Stoic tradition (homini acutissimo, Off. 3.51). He features prominently in the Lucullus and likely also in the parts of the Academic Books that are no longer extant, appearing three times in the first edition and once, at least, in the first Academic Book. With the exception of the reference to Anitpater mentioned above, the remaining three appearances are in the context of his sparring with Carneades. A fragment from the first Academic Book—a citation from Nonius—suggests that the duel with Carneades occupied Antipater for much of his philosophical life, and certainly left a mark on his publication record (quid Antipater digladiatur cum Carneade tot voluminibus?).372 Scholarship has not been all too interested in Antipater, with the exception of Myles Burnyeat (1997: 282) who studies Antipater’s “major project,” namely his war with Carneades. Cicero’s care for this bookish Stoic relates to the fact that Antipater offers an indication of the level of dissent within the ranks of his school. The disagreement concerns what is or is not important to state, explain or explore about Stoic sense-perception, the cornerstone of their materialist philosophy. In the Lucullus, Antipater emerges as a solitary voice, reproached for his dialectical engagement with skeptics and recuperated by Lucullus’ undertaking. Alone out of the ranks of philosophers, he takes up the challenge of doing what certain Stoics did not think ought to be done at all, giving katalêpsis a linguistic philosophical definition. His detractors “claimed there was no need to define what cognition or perception is, or even apprehension, a literal translation of what they call katalêpsis” (nec definiri aiebant necesse esse quid esset cognitio aut perceptio aut, si verbum e verbo volumus, conprehensio, quam κατάλημψιν illi vocant). These critics believed that “no argument” can do justice to clarity and “used to think that what is absolutely clear does not need defining” 372 Expanding on the reference to the volumes Antipater filled with anti-Carnedean arguments, Plutarch corroborates that the Stoic preferred to write critiques than confront Carneades in person. In his On Talkativeness, he tells us that “the Stoic Antipater, it seems, was unable and unwilling to come to grips with Carneades and the full force of the attacks the skeptic aimed at the Stoa. Antipater used to resort to filling whole books with replies to his opponent, and this earned him the nickname ‘Bawlpoint’” (ὁ μὲν γὰρ Στωικὸς Ἀντίπατρος, ὡς ἔοικε, μὴ δυνάμενος μηδὲ βουλόμενος ὁμόσε χωρεῖν τῷ Καρνεάδῃ μετὰ πολλοῦ ῥεύματος εἰς τὴν Στοὰν φερομένῳ, γράφων δὲ καὶ πληρῶν τὰ βιβλία τῶν πρὸς αὐτὸν ἀντιλογιῶν “καλαμοβόας” ἐπεκλήθη, De Garr. 514d; all credit for the translation of Antipater’s nickname is due to John Henderson).

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(orationem nullam putabant inlustriorem ipsa evidentia reperiri posse, nec ea quae tam clara essent definienda censebant, Luc. 17). However, Antipater was part of a group of Stoics who were not averse to definitions (definitiones), even of what was clear, and who believed sense-perception was “a subject worth investigating” (rem idoneam de qua quaeratur, Luc. 18). This thinker represents yet another counterpoint to Carneades in Cicero’s map of Academic-Stoic debates; he also serves to remind Cicero’s audience of different currents within the Stoa. Perhaps most significantly, he furnishes a precedent for Lucullus’ commitment to debating Academic skepticism.373 With regard to Antipater’s interest in definitions, and the necessity he saw in drawing clear lines around Stoic thought, his work anticipates the project of the Academica as a whole. Furthermore, Antipater is shown as a precursor to a particular line of ­enquiry adopted by Antiochus and Hortensius. According to Luc. 28-29 (and 109-110), one of Antipater’s duels with Carneades was based around the question of self-refutation, namely what the status of akatelêpsia was in the economy of skeptical thought. Antipater and Hortensius place the same demand on skeptics (Luc. 28). For the Roman orator, skeptics might concede that “that at least this one proposition is perceived by the wise man, that nothing can be perceived” (id ipsum saltem perceptum a sapiente […], nihil posse percipi). Antipater expands on this request by suggesting that “it was consistent” (consentaneum esse) for the skeptic to claim that although nothing can be perceived, this principle can be perceived. The Stoic is keen to allow for an exception to the Academic regime of doubt—an exception that is vehemently rejected by Carneades (acutius resistebat). Conceding the point for the Academic was far from consistent (tantum abesse dicebat ut id consentaneum esse, ut maxime etiam repugnaret): there could be no exception to nihil percipi posse, including that same determination.374 As Cicero tells us in the following paragraph, another Academic took up Antipater’s line of questioning and pursued it more forcefully: Antiochus (Antiochus ad id locum pressius videbatur accedere, Luc. 29). Antiochus looked on at his skeptical colleagues in the Academy and saw a group of philosophers who held akatalêpsia as a decretum or dogma. For him, the axiom nihil percipi posse was unlike any other principle expressed by the skeptics because it held a central position in their thinking (in eo summa consisteret). He attempts to translate this view into a Stoic register by suggesting that this view was the equivalent of the skeptical “principle 373 Lucullus aligns himself with Antipater by declaring his aim in the debate: “that which we are about to undertake, our refutation of Academic philosophy…” (sed, quod nos facere nunc ingredimur, ut contra Academicos disseramus…, Luc. 17). 374 Burnyeat (1997: 290–300) links the question of self-refutation to Socrates.

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g­ overning every philosophy, that which discriminates truth from falsehood, what is known from what is unknown” (hanc enim esse regulam totius philosophiae, ­constitutionem veri falsi; cogniti incogniti). Antiochus goes on to suggest that they adopted akatalêpsia as a method (rationem susciperent), on the basis of which they wished to teach (docere vellent). Accordingly, for Antiochus his Academic colleagues ought to at least admit that this is their criterion (iudicium, Luc. 29) and that they therefore apprehend it.375 Antipater’s and Antiochus’ versions of this critique are said to be different, although it is difficult to characterize that difference in any specific way. This is principally because Antipater’s thought survives only in rare secondary references. Yet according to Cicero, the disagreement was substantial. Antiochus echoes the view of his Academic predecessor Carneades, when he describes Antipater’s attack on skepticism as “stupid” (pingue) and “self-contradictory” (sibi ipsum contrarium, Luc. 109). The Academica’s Antipater seems interested in resolving a potential contradiction in skeptical thought by enabling skeptics to hold onto their doubt as a single positive idea. This is reminiscent of the Socrates we meet in the first Academic Book, a skeptic with a view. Antiochus, however, begins with an empirical observation concerning how skeptics philosophize. For this renegade Academic, his colleagues’ philosophy treats akatelêpsia like a decretum, and as such, they must perceive or apprehend it. Antipater’s final appearance is reserved for the third and last section of the catalogue of disagreements between philosophers. At Luc. 142-146, Cicero explores the substantial divergence in matters of logic between schools and between members of the same school. The speaker uses the topic of logic to demonstrate the extent to which Antiochus has little in common with those illustrious philosophers, whom he claims as ancestors (maiores). Cicero reminds us that Antiochus’ criterion is not drawn from Protagoras, the Cyrenaics, Epicurus and Plato, and that he doesn’t even follow Xenocrates and Aristotle on this matter (Luc. 142-143). Antiochus is an acolyte of Chrysippus through and through (a Chrysippo pedem nusquam, Luc. 143). Reference to the Stoa leads Cicero down one of his favorite themes in the diaphoniai, specifically disputes within schools. He begins by wondering whether it makes sense to describe the Academy as a coherent philosophical position on matters of logic. After all, its leaders seem to disagree with each other (inter se dissident), and even the basic principle of arguing taught by the dialecticians (quod in elementis dialectici docent)—how to judge whether a statement is true or false—is the subject of significant conflict (quanta contentio). The Stoics are no less victims of this type of internal dissent: Chrysippus is listed among the “dialectici,” along with 375 On ancient self-refutation, see Castagnoli (2010).

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the Megarians Philo and Diodorus. He is then contrasted with Cleanthes, his teacher, with whom he disagrees on many topics (cum Cleanthe doctore suo quam multis rebus Chrysippus dissidet?). In conclusion, the speaker enlists Antipater and Archidemus, both pupils of Diogenes, as “leading dialecticians” (principes dialecticorum) and “extremely opinionated thinkers” (opiniosissimi homines, Luc. 143) who also differ on many issues. Suggestively, much like Clitomachus and Metrodorus in the Academy, these two Stoics are contemporaries who share a teacher, yet do not see eye to eye in their philosophy. In this segment of the diaphoniai, Cicero explicitly targets the use of labels or “nomina” of philosophical schools as guarantee of a coherent intellectual project. He develops his criticism of this practice over a series of rhetorical questions, which begin by asking his audience, “why do we therefore call ourselves Academics?” (quid ergo Academici appellamur?). He then draws attention not to the label itself, but rather its gloria or renown, which he insinuates philosophers are abusing (abutimur). He concludes the critique by wondering why students, among whom he ranks himself, are “compelled to follow” (cur cogimur […] sequi, Luc. 143) leaders who themselves do not follow the same path. The key preoccupation is to understand who or what he and his Roman friends are following when they claim for themselves the label of Academics, Stoics, Epicureans and so on. Significantly, this reflection is articulated around the figure of Antiochus, who earlier on in the diaphoniai was presented as far from a Stoic in matters of ethics (Luc. 132-134), yet in the logical part is branded as a disciple of Chrysippus. This liminal figure weaves into and out of the Academy and Stoa across the Academic project, so offering an invaluable paradigm for the fluidity and mutability in institutional self-positioning that Cicero is interested in. Moreover, Antiochus’ correctio draws connections the Hellenistic rivals outside the dialectical relationship described so far. In his attempt to highlight the similarities between the Academy and Stoa, Cicero exposes the fact that disagreements exist across the spectrum of philosophical schools, and they do so even in the Athenian institution that, in Cicero’s view, trades on a unified, systematic, propositive philosophy. The Academica’s account of philosophy’s fractious history makes Cicero’s school appear conversant with the realities of how this discipline developed, openly adopting and expressing the mechanisms of frank and critical exchange that operate even within its “dogmatic” opponents. The author is staking a claim about the Academy’s methodological superiority, that skeptics are aware of what it means to borrow, exchange and critique ideas and arguments. Cicero’s Academy emerges as a school of thought that is attentive to the issues and challenges at the heart of philosophical self-definition.

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Cicero’s attack on intellectual branding turns on the abuse of “nomina” and on the compulsion of following groups of philosophers who are divided by internal disagreements. This is a startling consideration. On the one hand, as I have just noted, it challenges what it means to adopt an institutional position and operate from within a school. On the other, it invites further reflection on what is repeatedly presented in the scholarship as a dichotomy between ‘­dogmatism’ and ‘skepticism’, embodied in the institutional division between Stoicism and the Hellenistic Academy. Cicero’s overview of the field of philosophy is characterized by a collection of thinkers, some more insubordinate than others, called to contribute their original view on specific philosophical problems rather than being catalogued according to school. In mapping the field, it is evident that the author privileges subjective over collective forms of thinking, sharpening the picture of the tradition as individuals coming t­ ogether to reflect on philosophical subjects, rather than proselytizing for a particular school or simply acting as an echo chamber for the views of its founder. Cicero’s Academica cultivates a portrait of the Academy as the privileged locus for debate. Its open-ended, shifting identity provides an ideal setting for thinking about and recreating the Greek philosophical tradition. However, this same openness forces a rethinking of that tradition in terms of school affiliation. When observed under the light of dialogue and exchange, Stoics have as much to disagree about amongst themselves as they do with Academics and Epicureans. The first century bce is undoubtedly a watershed period in the history of ancient philosophy, as David Sedley has shown in his “Philodemus: The Decentralisation of Philosophy” (2003). The material changes in the practice of philosophizing have often been used to explain why the Academy appears so fragmented by the time Cicero is writing about it. Harold Tarrant is another student of ancient philosophy who is interested in understanding Cicero and his testimony on the late Hellenistic Academy in terms of the institutional and historical context. His 1985 monograph proposes that the Academica narrates conflicts within the Academy as a historical refraction of the events that shook Athens in the wake of Sulla’s siege. The war had a significant impact on the institutional life of the city-state’s philosophical schools, and scholarship seems to agree that they ceased to function as centres of learning, not least because they appear to stop appointing new scholarchs (§II.4.4). According to Tarrant (1985a: 127), the end of the Athenian schools spelled the end of the co-­ dependence between Stoics and Academics; and in the pages of the Academica we witness “the emergence of the enemy from within.” The kind of normative critical relationships established by Arcesilaus and Carneades with their opposite number in the Stoa were no longer possible in this context. This view falls in line with interpretations that observe, over the course of the first ­century

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bce, a switch from philosophy as a practice of dialogue between schools and their teachers to the solipsistic backward-looking practice of commentary writing on Platonic and Aristotelian texts. Contemporary to the birth of the ancient commentary tradition and this revolution in philosophical method is the dispersal and fragmentation of the philosophical community.376 Cicero’s Academica inhabits this world of institutional dissolution; it is a work that also has an important part to play in shaping that narrative of fragmentation. One of Cicero’s objectives in writing the Academica is to remind his audience, more often than not covertly, just how similar the Stoa and Academy are. Both are schools driven by thinkers who, in many cases, were committed to critically evaluating views, theories and arguments developed within, as well as without, their schools. Cicero’s Academy, however, is portrayed as conscious of this diversity. The author places emphasis on the philosopher as an independent thinker operating within an institution, but rarely a slave to a founder’s diktat. From this angle, the “enemy-from-within” narrative appears less a historical observation on the conditions of philosophy than a description of the normative mechanisms according to which philosophy as a set of ­institutions and a co-ordinated field of study developed and functioned. Philosophical thinking always already tends to fragment and diffuse, and in acknowledging this tendency, the Academy has become in Cicero the privileged vehicle through which to translate and continue that tradition in a new intellectual context. The assimilative principle governing Cicero’s account of philosophy creatively structures the philosophical landscape not just in order to assert the superiority of one school over another, but to secure for ­Roman philosophy a place within that intellectual lineage, precisely because in ­re-evaluating ­everything and reflecting on what it means to adopt a position it behaves no differently than Academics. 376 On this transition, I have found Baltussen (2007) and the articles in Schofield (2013) useful introductions. Randall Collins’ Sociology of Philosophies (2000) offers a fascinating, if unusual, perspective on the period. His comprehensive sociological analysis of the history of philosophy seeks to map changes in philosophical thought against transformations in the institutional and broader social context. In the constructivist register of his approach— and aided by tables connecting thinkers in discrete philosophical eras—he reflects on several elements that I hope to have brought out in my discussion of the Academica. Collins (2000: 108) notes the extent to which Academics and Stoics “lived in symbiosis” and how porous the border between the two schools was. The sociologist (2000: 109 and 94) also studies the collapse that took place after 86 BCE and how it brought about an “intellectual realignment,” as scholastic organizations disappeared and were “replaced by purely personal followings of philosophers.” However, it is when reflecting on the controversy between Philo and Antiochus, through which he is clearly guided by Tarrant (1985a), that Collins (2000: 111) provides a suggestive key through which to read the role of skepticism in the century: “skepticism,” he argues, “has the peculiarity of acting as a meta-school above the clash of positions in intellectual space, and thus has a special appropriateness for times when intellectual lines are chaotic.”

Chapter 10

Dialectical Trajectories of Ciceronian Skepticism 10.1

Academic Skepticism in Cicero’s Academica

One of the objectives of the last chapter was to highlight the extent to which Cicero tracked the Stoic polemic and stayed the anti-Stoic course set by his skeptical predecessors. Canonical interpretations of Ciceronian philosophy, commonly based on a reading of the corpus as a whole, underestimate this continuity, preferring to focus on Cicero’s relationship to Philo or Antiochus (or both). In those readings that situate Cicero within the development of Academic history, he is portrayed as coming ashore on the dogmatizing drift of late Hellenistic skepticism. Furthermore, Cicero’s dependence on and borrowing from Stoicism is studied with great care, but often in relation to his philosophy of natural rights (principally expressed in the fragments of the Republic and Laws), his treatment of the social question of duties and obligations, unashamedly copied from Panaetius (On Duties) or his exploration of emotions, pain and death (Tusculan Disputations). To admit even the shadow of a dialectical structure to that relationship is to allow for the possibility that Cicero’s position is altogether too profoundly skeptical for a man of Cicero’s social and institutional standing, an author who avowedly (re)turns to philosophy again and again as a substitute to political life. Across the landscape of Ciceronian studies, that substitution implies equivalence, as theoretical discourse is interpreted as socio-political performance. There is undoubtedly a case to be made for reading the philosophy expressed in other treatises and their prefaces in this doctrinaire key, on the basis that they serve positive political and pedagogical ends, as well as on their own account as works of propositive philosophy. Building on the critique of Harald Thorsrud’s work on the Academica and the analysis of Cicero’s treatment of the relationship between the Academy and Stoa, over this chapter I argue that Cicero’s epistemology in the Academica is anything but weak or mitigated. Cicero’s philosophy as articulated in the Academica is both an original and radical expression of Academic skepticism, formulated in such a way as to respond to historical challenges posed by that tradition, namely how to write and practice skepticism.377 For many scholars 377 See Brittain (2016) for a similar approach to Ciceronian skepticism applied to On Ends. Charles Brittain’s article appeared as I was well into the revision stage of the present monograph, and after the ideas underpinning it had been successfully defended before

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Cicero’s philosophy is ‘dogmatic’. This well-established approach is derived in particular from the philosophica’s perceived emphasis on the practical dimension of its application. We see this inflection often enough in the Lucullus, where Cicero’s thinking is what we might call in contemporary terms ‘­situated’—that is, profoundly connected to action in the real world. A ­ ccordingly, we find ­Cicero orienting his reflections to navigate the challenges of skepticism, keen to find a compromise with perception, and exploring a principled or structured approach to lived life in passages like Luc. 109-110 and 146, over which a positive Carneadean skepticism seems to cast its shadow. In what follows, I contend that when we place these passages in their broader context and read the Academica as a philosophical dialogue on its own terms, the originality of Cicero’s position lies in his idiosyncratic dialectical Carneades—the articulation and exploration in written form of a doubt that is uncompromising, corrosive and all-encompassing.378 Several important studies of skepticism in Antiquity begin with a salutary reminder that the language of ‘skepticism’ and ‘dogmatism’ is anachronistic when used in reference to the Hellenistic Academy and the work of Cicero ­(Introduction n. 2). Among the more cautious—with respect to this issue— students of ancient philosophy, Gisela Striker, Charlotte Stough, Jan Opsomer and Carlos Lévy all note that the term σκεπτικός and the verb σκέπτεσθαι (to consider, study or reflect carefully) were not established technical labels for Arcesilaus, Carneades and their followers. Although a fragment of Timon of Phlius indicates that the verb may have been adopted as early as the Hellenistic period in connection with Pyrrho and Arcesilaus, we find it first in Aulus Gellius’ second-century CE Attic Nights describing the philosophy of the A ­ cademy and Pyrrhonism.379 With Sextus Empiricus σκεπτικός is widely used to define a doctoral committee. I was unable to address the study’s methodology and conclusions in the detail that they warrant, but I am nonetheless indebted to it because it breaks the mold of canonical interpretations of Cicero’s epistemology and it does so by bringing to bear close analysis of the dialogue’s structure on the philosophy. 378 My approach in this section is particularly indebted to students of the dialogue form, beginning with Ruch (1958a), Bonazzi (2003), Gildenhard (passim), Goldhill (2008) and Hösle (2012). An important source for comparative reflection was provided by Platonic ‘third way’ studies, for which see Gonzal (1995) and Press (2000). 379 On Pyrrho’s pupil Timon and fragment 55 of his poetry, see Stough (1969: 3) and Lévy (1993: 141). Gellius’ short paragraph addresses the difference between the New Academy and ­Pyrrhonism, sharing with his readers that “this has been a longstanding and much discussed issue among Greek authors, namely what is the nature and extent of the difference between Academics and Pyrrhonians. Both groups are known as skeptics, ephectics and aporetics, since they both assent to nothing and think that nothing can be apprehended” (vetus autem quaestio et a multis scriptoribus Graecis tractata, an quid et q­ uantum Pyrrhonios

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a discursive attitude in contrast to non-skeptical, doctrinaire or ‘dogmatic’ forms of thought (Striker 1996: 92 n. 1 and Opsomer 1998: 12). As Jan ­Opsomer (1998: 67) points out, skepticism and dogmatism are not two categories according to which “participants in the Hellenistic epistemological debates defined their own position.” This is certainly true of Cicero’s Academica. I have sought to avoid the ­label ‘dogmatist’ (trying to neutralize it through the use of quotation marks ­wherever it has made an inevitable appearance) and the construction of a categorical opposition precisely because I hope to leave open the question of how ­Cicero articulates his philosophical attitude throughout this fragmentary work outside ready-made schemes. His philosophical position has so far been read in terms of a rhetorical and institutional agenda and as continuous with the skeptical tradition in the Academy. Beyond the legacy of technical terminology, institutional self-definition and the claim to an intellectual inheritance, that continuity is principally grounded in the pursuit of an anti-Stoic polemic and interdependence between Academic skepticism and Stoicism. In the context of this animate conflict, Cicero’s relationship with dogma or decreta betrays a radical skeptical outlook in the pages of the Academica, developed in large part through an equivocal treatment of certain knowledge—a treatment that alternately intimates and denies the possibility of its existence. An instance of this ambiguity occurs at the end of the Lucullus and is centered on the use of the adverb “nusquam.” At Luc. 146 Cicero is responding to Lucullus’ claim that without apprehension the systematic arts could not exist and that firm knowledge alone, not the probabile, grounds them (artem sine scientia esse non posse). He turns to the example of three great artists of the past, Zeuxis, Phidias and Polyclitus, and imagines how they would react to skeptics diminishing their prodigious abilities (tanta sollertia) by informing them that they, in fact, knew nothing. Cicero suggests that the way to assuage their anger (desinerent irasci; suscenserent) is to explain the impossible epistemic requirements underpinning Stoic scientia; and capitalizing on this account, to reassure them that what the skeptics are proposing leaves their talent intact. He concludes this reflection by stating that the Hellenistic Academy “took away that which nowhere existed” (id tollere nos quod nusquam esse). What looks at first sight like a straightforward statement, acquires a more complex gradation when viewed in the context of Cicero’s argument. The variation in English-language translations is testament to the ambivalence. In the

et ­Academicos philosophos intersit. utrique enim σκεπτικοί, ἐφεκτικοί, ἀπορητικοί dicuntur, quoniam utrique nihil adfirmant nihilque comprehendi putant, NA. 11.5.6).

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s­ ection preceding this statement, the speaker produces the well-known image of Zeno explaining different levels of Stoic knowledge by way of gestures: fingers progressively contracting into a fist to demonstrate the ever-firmer grasp of scientia. He then wonders who this Stoic sage is or whether he has ever existed, since Stoics themselves have never named one (sed qui sapiens sit aut fuerit ne ipsi quidem solent dicere, Luc. 145). The “nusquam” at Luc. 146 can be read in relation to this passage, pointing to a dismissal of scientia relative to the Stoic theory—skeptics reject that which exists nowhere (in Stoic theory), as Harris Rackham’s (1933) translation indicates. However, the statement can be read in an absolute sense: skeptics remove that which, in Charles Brittain’s (2006) words, “never existed.” “Nusquam” is poised between the relative and categorical impossibility of certainty, with each interpretive orientation determining an altogether different epistemology. The passage is representative of the challenge of pinning down Cicero’s position and offers an echo of the challenge set by Carneades. The Academica’s originality lies in the engagement with Carneades’ legacy. Carneades is held up as the watershed moment in the history of the Hellenistic Academy after Arcesilaus, because it is around his dialectic that a form of compromise with doctrine, a softening of doubt, seems to emerge. At Luc. 98, the probabile gives a totally different imprint to Academic thought and action in Cicero’s account, and one that has a significant and divisive impact on the school’s history. The practical criterion is also of critical importance to the shape of Cicero’s thought. Several passages we have studied in Part 3 so far have shown the probabile at work, shaping what looks like a positive Ciceronian epistemology. This is especially palpable in the prefatory inflection on research and truth (Luc. 7-9), the desire for truth to orient enquiry as ­constellations guide the sailor in the night sky (Luc. 65-66), the concept of verisimilitude and the defense of the practice of jurisprudence and the ­systematic arts (Luc. 146). The probabile is a theory that keeps the architecture of katalêpsis, substituting the keystone with a less self-assured foundation. An impression, whether ­apprehending a percept or engaging with a concept, is held as persuasive and (so) provisional; and, in Cicero’s estimation, the same speculative procedures are open to the skeptic as to the Stoic in the domains of both quotidian decision-making and occasional philosophizing. Significantly, the key framing passages of the Lucullus, such as the preface and the concluding paragraph of ­Cicero’s speech, draw the focus around Carneades. So at Luc. 8 Cicero ­exchanges the unhesitating “truths” (vera) of Stoics for the “many ­persuasive impressions” (multa probabilia) of his school. Similarly, he assures his rival in the conclusive Luc. 146 that the probabile leaves enough of a robust

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e­ pistemology for the arts to operate and flourish (id quod probabile esset satis magnam vim habere ad artes). Anticipating and recapitulating the centrality of the probabile as cornerstone of Ciceronian skepticism, these two references take us back to the figure of Carneades and Luc. 98-111. The kind of epistemology the probabile underpins—the concept that invests Cicero’s thought with some solidity and trains his enquiry—is far from clear-cut. Ancient and modern commentators have elaborated different interpretations of the probabile, broadly divided into two camps: those who see Carneades as a radical skeptic and attach no positive or definitive significance to the pithanon; and, those who see in the pithanon a significant shift towards epistemic certainty and a compromise with dogma (§III.9.2 n. 360). Modern interpreters follow in the tracks of Carneades’ ­polemic students, some of whom, like Metrodorus and Philo, understood “probabilism” to involve positive propositional content; and others who, like Clitomachus and Cicero after him, accepted this outlook as devoid of any epistemic value at all, and considered Carneadean notions as disposable controversial perspectives. The purpose of this chapter is not to assess the correctness or legitimacy of either interpretation. My intention is to examine the pithanon as it is translated into the Academica’s probabile, to see Carneades in the context of Cicero’s Academic project. In §III.8.5 I discussed the significance of the author’s decision to construct the treatise around a crisis internal to his school and how the heterodox dispute replays a history of crises that involve the legacy of Carneades. Cicero’s approach to this scholarch and his philosophy seeks to preserve, rather than simplify or resolve, the interpretive difficulties to which his teaching gave rise. He also sets out to explore the extent to which his polemic molded the intellectual and institutional history of the Academy after him. Cicero’s choice to recreate in dialogue form and stage—rather than report or explain—the ambiguities around Carneades’ thought makes the Academica a fundamentally skeptical text in the history of that school. A work that stimulates rather than merely describes the speculative caution and hesitation that was original and intrinsic to the texture of the scholarch’s attitude. And so the way in which Cicero articulates the elusiveness of Carneades is a critical aspect of how skepticism is transmitted to his Roman audience. Cicero unequivocally claims to follow not the Philonian position, which positively endorses Carneades’ pithanon as a concept that was confidently posited by its creator, but Clitomachus’, which denies this theory any epistemic status at all. Around this clear admission of where on the spectrum of Carneadean interpretations he sits, Cicero offers different perspectives on his relationship

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to this complex dialectician. At Luc. 67, the speaker seems to distance himself from Carneades. Carneades, he informs us, concedes that the wise man sometimes assents to impressions (adsentiri aliquando) and therefore does have opinions (ita sequebatur etiam opinari). In the same breath, Cicero anticipates Lucullus’ resistance to this concession and agrees that it is altogether to be rejected (quod tu non vis, et recte ut mihi videris). Several paragraphs into the argument, while introducing Philo’s and Clitomachus’ views on Carneades, Cicero returns to the matter of opining. For Carneades the sage can at one and the same time apprehend nothing but still have an opinion (licebat enim nihil percipere et tamen opinari, Luc. 78). The speaker first tells his audience that Carneades was said to have found this statement persuasive or approved it (dicitur probatum), only to then specify that Philo and Metrodorus employed the expression “probatum” in relation to Carneades’ position view. For Clitomachus, whom Cicero tells us he trusts more than the other two, the view is simply polemic (disputatum). In the context of an ongoing debate with the Stoics, Carneades manipulated a set of arguments to suggest it was a logical possibility and a philosophically sound view not to apprehend and to opine. The distinction between “probatum” and “disputatum” provides a formidable opportunity for the philosopher: the ability to deliver statements and arguments in a self-effacing way. The notion of philosophizing in a purely dialectical fashion is profoundly destabilizing for the epistemological solidity of the propositions this approach delivers and it produces considerable interpretive issues, as is evident in Carneades’ legacy. The relationship between Carneades and his polemical proposition is further explored in other parts of Cicero’s speech. The debate with Chrysippus and Diogenes on the issue of logic is an egregious example of this attitude, of using and discarding borrowed methods (§III.9.1). A parallel denial occurs later in Carneades’ response to Aulus Albinus, a Roman praetor who, in welcoming Diogenes the Stoic and Carneades into the senate on Rome’s Capitol Hill, asked the Academic, “in your eyes Carneades, am I not a real praetor, nor is this city a real city and its citizens not real citizens?” (ego tibi Carneade praetor esse non videor, quia sapiens non sum, nec haec urbs nec in ea civitas?). Although the reasons for which Carneades does not take responsibility for this claim are different from those used at Luc. 98 to deflect the critique back onto Diogenes, the scholarch again points to his Stoic adversaries: “it’s in the eyes of this Stoic here that you’re not” (“huic Stoico non videris”, Luc. 137; §II.6.3).380 In both

380 Aulus Albinus wants to challenge Carneades’ refusal to make claims and winds up formulating a series of Stoic paradoxes.

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c­ ases Carneades impersonates—or is thought to impersonate—­another’s voice while at the same time rejecting any doctrinal affiliation to it. Twice in the ethical section of the doxography he puts forward a view, only for the speaker to raise the question of whether he approved or endorsed it in any significant way. At Luc. 131 and 139, Carneades’ activity of defending a position is put into a polemic context, with the verb probare playing an important role. In the earlier passage we are reminded that Carneades defended the view that “the highest form of good was to enjoy the primary objects recommended by nature” (summum bonum esse frui rebus is quas primas natura ­conciliavisset) not because he found it persuasive (non quo probaret). The Academic merely expressed this view to argue with the Stoics (ut opponeret Stoicis). Several paragraphs later, we are provided with a more intimate insight into Carneades’ work in ethics, since he strives to defend Callipho’s position to the extent that he appears to have actually found it persuasive and endorsed it (sententiam ita studiose defensitabat ut eam probare etiam videretur). But in this key moment of the portrayal of the ­Carneadean legacy, the speaker reports an admission by Clitomachus, that not even he, Carneades’ pupil who was close to his teacher until old age (qui usque ad ­senectutem cum Carneade fuit, Luc. 98), was ever able to understand what Carneades ­approved or found persuasive (quamquam Clitomachus ­adfirmabat numquam se ­intellegere ­potuisse quid Carneadi probaretur, Luc. 139). Significantly, Carneades’ ­skeptical heir appears in the Academica to make a single knowledge claim, and this assertion (adfirmabat) concerns his understanding of Carneades. Clitomachus is an essential part of Cicero’s understanding of and perspective on Carneades, at least insofar as the Lucullus is concerned. He uses Clitomachus throughout his argument (a Clitomacho sumam, Luc. 98), citing directly from the author on four distinct occasions and deriving the explication of the probabile from the first of the four-volume On Suspending Assent (Luc. 98, 102, 108 and 137). At Luc. 98, the movement away from refutation to confirmation is made by the adversative “sed” and the hortatory mood of “relinquamus” and “ostendamus.” The speaker creates the impression that the philosophical landscape has opened up, and a constructive approach has been made possible. Cicero embarks on a systematic exposition of Carneades’ impressions (visa), elaborated on the basis of a distinction between apprehension and approval. Many aspects of this description have a propositional character, and the theory as a whole rests on an ontology grounded in the existence of truth. The use of verisimile as synonym for probabile underlies this concept (multa sequitur probabilia non comprehensa neque percepta neque adsensa sed similia veri, Luc. 99). It is not just the argumentative coherence of Clitomachus’ or Cicero’s

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exposition that demonstrates that the probabile is a viable—and persuasive— practical alternative to perception. It is nature and life itself that demand its existence. Before Cicero even refers to truth, he tells his audience that “natura” exists and that it is “contra naturam” not to have “probabilia.” The persuasive impression is a necessity and it is both the key to life and the system that governs it (omnis ratio vitae gubernabitur, Luc. 99). Clitomachus’ confession at Luc. 139 inevitably invites the audience to reflect on, if not outright challenge, the foundations of this system. Furthermore, the parenthetical nature of this revelation lends it a generalizing force, a sense that abstracts it from the immediate context. It is significant that through all these attempts to understand Carneades’ relationship to the philosophical views he expresses, the verb probare is used. We have taken the connection between probabile and probare for granted so far, yet the importance of Cicero’s translation of the technical Greek pithanon with an adjectival form of the verb probare should not be underestimated. In the author’s interpretation, the verb underpins the limited and provisional concept of assent formulated by Carneades.381 The verb is also deployed at critical stages of Carneades’ profile to show that the inventor of the persuasive impression is never really persuaded by it.382 In light of this approach to the probabile, any authoritative interpretation of Carneades’ philosophy is beset by the problem that the philosopher may not have meant what he said in any conclusive or probative way. The fact that the theory was designed in such a sophisticated and persuasive way says less about the concept itself and more about its prominence in the Academy’s anti-Stoic polemic. Moreover, Clitomachus never claims in the pages of the Academica that Carneades did not approve or was not persuaded by anything. Such a claim would have allowed certainty to take root in his teacher’s thought. Clitomachus simply admits he did not know what he approved, and this ambiguity appears to be precisely what left the door wide open to interpretations of Carneadean skepticism. Clearly the reassurance that Carneades’ system provides a natural and solid enough basis to live a rational and productive life is weakened by emphasis on the dialectical character of his thought. Cicero’s audience in the debate is often reminded that social, political and technical life is made possible by the probabile. They are just as often reminded, however, that the probabile’s ­forefather 381 See §III.10.2 for further comments on the different verbal inflections of probabile and pithanon. 382 Probare and its derivatives occur over fifty times in the Lucullus alone. Twelve of those incidences belong in Lucullus’ speech, and the Antiochian uses the verb to describe Academic activity in five occasions. The contamination of the concept is felt right across the work and is used on both sides of the argument.

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and several skeptics after him did not set much store by it. The wavering and uncertainty around the persuasive impression strikes at the heart of what many critics see as the centerpiece of Cicero’s philosophical project: ethical life. Carneades appears twice in the ethics section of the doxography, where Cicero is discussing conflicting positions on life and moral ends. This area of philosophy constitutes a significant part of the project as defined by Cicero in the prefaces to the surviving fragments of the Academica and by Lucullus in his explanation of the aims of philosophy. When it comes to offering an overview of the field, partisan as that panoramic may be, Carneades does not only weigh in, he structures the discussion through his divisio (§II.6.3). The method ostensibly arranges other thinkers’ ethical views, ordering the plurality of voices in a way that shows similarities and differences in emphasis. The divisio is a schematization of positions, within which Carneades is free to introduce views in order to complete the arrangement. This is exactly what the scholarch does on two occasions in the doxography, and in the second Clitomachus voices his doubts about what his teacher actually thought. The division, which may have been borrowed from Chrysippus, does not deliver an impression of positive doctrinal advancement on the part of its author, as it merely suggests a way to co-ordinate others’ views for a specific dialectical end. In doing so, it shows the field of ethical studies in a discouraging light, a series of propositions that can be easily manipulated by an interpreter capable of identifying their basic components. Carneades’ contribution to this area of philosophy, and his probabile in particular, is not concerned with lending stability to life. The brilliance of this skeptical textual artifice is precisely its avoidance of pure negativity, of constructing universal categories or oppositions, and so defying any form of certainty. There is no denial that a proposition is valid or invalid, as there is no negation or refutation of a philosophical position in the Carneadean passage of Cicero’s argument. Carneades develops and explores a rational system, he advocates its coherence and usefulness. He also questions its status. And this attitude inevitably attracts further examination. Cicero’s use of Clitomachus is therefore of crucial importance to the project because it translates the Carneadean legacy, the legacy of the skeptical Academy, into a challenge, an interpretive quest, that is anything but prescriptive or exclusive. The Academic inheritance, to which Cicero lays claim, is one that does not offer a serialization of positive doctrines or even intellectual strategies. It offers nothing at all, in sum, but an ethics of doubt, counter-examination and questioning, whose scope is alarmingly extensive. Logic also plays a fundamental role in the skeptical economy of Cicero’s text. The same self-undermining strategy operates in the use of Clitomachus as in the repeated use of definitions and syllogistic exposition. With dialectic, this

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issue is raised early on at Luc. 91-98. The passage begins with Cicero contesting the domain in which logic obtains, limiting its applicability to a self-enclosed area involving what is now known as propositional logic, namely disjunction and inferentiality. The Stoics position dialectic as an instrument that enables its users to judge between truth and falsehood (dialecticam inventam esse dicitis veri et falsi quasi disceptatricem et iudicem), yet the speaker fails to see how it can judge in matters of geometry, literature or music, as well as other areas of philosophy, such as physics and ethics. Dialectic is not familiar with those subjects, it does not know anything about them (ea non novit, Luc. 91); dialectic is concerned with disjunctions and conjunctions, ambiguous statements and what is coherent or incoherent. This area of philosophy is competent only in judging its own mechanisms (si haec et horum similia iudicat, de se ipse iudicat) and that is not enough to assist in examining the many other critical issues in the field of philosophy (haec quidem iudicare ad ceteras res, quae sunt in philosophia multae atque magnae, non est satis, Luc. 91). After defining the object of his critique, he proceeds to invalidate those mechanisms. This he achieves through the sôritês and pseudomenos, each of which aims at the modus ponens, integral to inference and to disjunctions respectively. His conclusion is clear, “this is not a science” (ars ista nulla est, Luc. 96). Without the ability to resolve these paradoxes, dialectic is worthless: an unreliable and inconsistent instrument, whose utility is circumscribed to its own segment of the philosophical discipline. The significance of this critique lies in its attack on reason as a formalized process. Throughout Luc. 91-98, Cicero quotes propositions in order to critique them, giving examples and reflecting on the connection between major and minor premises, and between elements of a disjunction. From Luc. 96 onwards, he articulates the complications that the pseudomenos gives rise to in terms of a challenge to Lucullus to evaluate a simple syllogism (hoc conclusum). Once this establishes the dogged Stoic attachment to the form of the argument, he produces another syllogism, this one presenting the audience with an impossible puzzle: the pseudomenos. In Cicero’s view, either both syllogisms work or they both fail, and the class of proof is flawed. In the following paragraph, the same treatment is afforded to disjunctions: if a single disjunction is false, none of them are true and the whole edifice of dialectic is overturned (totam enim evertit dialecticam, Luc. 97). Cicero attacks the reliability of the system as a whole, a method his Stoic opponents obstinately continue to teach. However, the Stoics are not the only ones relying on the rules of thought. A cursory glance over Charles Brittain’s recent translation of the Academica, which adopts the standardizing notation of informal logic, is the most immediate way to observe the extent to which Cicero also deploys logic in his

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a­ rguments (Luc. 64, 67, 68, 83, 96 and 128). The way in which both Lucullus and Cicero describe Carneadean epistemology capitalizes on a regimented propositional approach: both speakers indicate that the epistemology is built around a systematic division of impressions, a classification that riffs on the Stoic model. More importantly, the probabile borrows the epistemic architecture of katalêpsis (§III.9.2). Of the passages just listed, we can see how Academic thought is distilled into four premises at Luc. 83 and how at Luc. 101 the speaker borrows premises from the Stoa and the Garden School. Cicero’s critique of Antiochian views on memoria is also delivered as a syllogism (Luc. 106), as is his attack on ars in the following paragraph (Luc. 107), which breaks down his opponent’s argument into two “lumina” or key objections and then responds to each point in turn. Carneades’ probabile, as presented by Cicero, is characterized by these two profoundly contradictory elements, appearing simultaneously in the Lucullus as propositive and polemic, constructive and destructive. Even the rational mechanisms that shape the concept—which hold it together and make the concept persuasive—are undermined. At Luc. 142 Cicero turns to logic as a field of philosophical study. This passage of the doxography is introduced by a reflection that concludes the previous section on ethics, in which Cicero ­reminds Lucullus of the fundamental difference between their positions (tantum interest, Luc. 141). Challenging his interlocutor directly, Cicero claims that once Lucullus is moved by an impression, he yields to it, assents to it and approves it, holding that impression to be true, certain, apprehended, perceived, established, firm and fixed. No reason can shake him from that conviction (tu cum es commotus adsciscis adsentiris adprobas, verum illud certum conprehensum perceptum ratum firmum fixum vis esse, deque eo nulla ratione neque pelli neque moveri potes). On the opposite end of the spectrum, Cicero will never give his assent, because he does not see any distinction between true and false impressions (quoniam vera a falsis nullo discrimine separantur, Luc. 141). The term “discrimen” and the ability to judge true from false recalls the earlier treatment of logic, judge and arbitrator of impressions, and leads Cicero to conclude that the impossibility of telling truth from falsehood is attributable to the fact that logical criteria are of no use (praesertim cum iudicia ista dialecticae nulla sint). The echo of the dismissal at Luc. 96, “ars ista nulla est,” is hardly insignificant. At Luc. 142, the speaker links the third and final part of philosophy (logic) to the question of criteria (iudicium), listing Protagoras, the Cyrenaics, Epicurus and Plato as key figures in the field. The use of iudicium operates a subtle shift, connecting the shape of logical argumentation to its ontological foundation. So, for instance, Platonic dualism establishes a connection between criteria

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(iudicium veritatis) and truth (veritatem ipsam), both of which he locates in the realm of the mind (mens; cogitatio). Epicurus operates in an altogether different framework, situating iudicium in the materiality of the senses, the conception of things and pleasure (omne iudicium in sensibus et in rerum notitiis et in voluptate constituit). Cicero grounds these broader epistemological theories in the simple ability to judge true and false impressions and propositions, what he calls the building blocks (elementa) taught by dialecticians. This starting point is the evaluation of the truth content of inferences in the form, “if it is day, it is light” (quo modo iudicare oporteat verum falsumne sit si quid ita conexum est ut hoc “si dies est lucet”, Luc. 143). The conditional, like the rejection of iudicia at Luc. 141, looks back to the critique of logic, and in particular Luc. 95-98, where Cicero takes aim at the system of judging true and false conditionals—the word “conexum” appears twice (Luc. 96 and 98). The reference highlights Cicero’s reflection on the difficulties of employing rational argumentation to build a positive doctrinal system, even for the purposes of practical life. The tension at the heart of Cicero’s rhetorical strategy is established from the outset of his speech, where he contrasts the aspirational impulse of his philosophy to the self-conscious limitations of his own capability as a thinker. He makes it clear that he is broadcasting from the halls of the Academy. This is a philosophy that sets out before him the possibility of “discovering the truth” (verum invenire) and at the same time sternly cautions him against premature assent, the risks of “error,” “inconstancy” (levitas) and “rashness” (temeritas). The vocabulary binds this segment to the preface, reaffirming the same preoccupation with error and the possibility of attaining truth as the ambition that motivates enquiry. The significance of truth as object of research, as guiding light of the speculative discourse, is explored in poetic language through citation of Aratus’ Phaenomena, a widely-read Hellenistic didactic poem concerned with astronomy and meteorology that Cicero translated in his youth.383 The speaker resolves to set the course of his thinking (meas cogitationes sic derigo) not by the small constellation Cynosura, used by the Phoenicians for sailing, but by the dominant Helikê constellation and the brightest stars in the night sky, the Septentriones (Luc. 66). Cicero employs the figure of sailing to 383 In On the Nature of the Gods, Balbus recites some verses of Cicero’s translation from memory, sharing with his audience his appreciation for the Latin version written by Cicero as a young man (adulescentulo, Nat.D. 2.104; passages from Cicero’s Aratea intersperse his prose until Nat.D. 2.114). Ancient biographies of Aratus identify him as a student of Zeno of Citium and so educated in the ideas of the early Stoa. Generally, scholarship has seen these materialist ideas inflecting the cosmos of the Phaenomena. For the landmark study evaluating this philosophical influence, see Hunter (1995).

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describe the possibilities of philosophical discourse. At this stage, the image serves a complex function: it aims to counterbalance the self-abnegation that emerges in Cicero’s admission that he is a “magnus opinator,” approves falsehoods, even assents to false impressions and consequently errs, with the grand ambition of being guided by truth and the hope that comes with positing truth as something that exists and that one can set one’s course by. The excerpt from the Phaenomena brings to bear on the argument more than a cosmetic literary flourish; it translates an emotional and poetic need to orient his philosophy, when that philosophy itself falls short of stably positing certain objectives as legitimate and rational ends of speculative enquiry. Cicero defines himself against the sapiens throughout the introduction to his speech, acknowledging the epistemic gulf between the wise man and himself. Against this background, he insists on the propositive nature of this opposition—indeed, there is no more fiercely guarded claim in Cicero than that the sage cannot opine (Luc. 67). The paradox is thinly veiled: Cicero the opinator had already contested the ability of an individual to pass judgment on things unknown to him, especially in the case of the choice of a sage. He delivers this view in his capacity as author in Lucullus’ preface, where over he emphasized the absurdity of those doctrinaire philosophers who, though “ignorant beginners” (rudes et indocti) in the world of philosophy, feel they are in a position to decide who is wise and follow that person’s authority (Luc. 8-9). His criticism pointedly questions the competence of a non-sapiens to know anything about, and be in a position to judge, a sapiens. Cicero expresses his belief that “to decide who is wise appears to be very much the task for the wise” (statuere enim qui sit sapiens vel maxime videtur esse sapientis, Luc. 9). From the outset of the treatise, the reliability of Cicero’s voice, as author and speaker, to tell us anything about the sage, to tell us anything philosophical at all, is in doubt. Seafaring is a figure to which Cicero returns twice more in his speech, manipulating the image differently and in a way that connects it to the epistemology of the probabile. Early on in Cicero’s exposition of Carneades’ thought, he moves from the theoretical outline of the probabile to the everyday practical reality that the concept reflects. For Carneadeans of all colors, skeptics are able to live and act in the world because they use probabilia. However, this “ratio vitae” (approach to life) is not exclusive to the skeptic but governs all lives, including that of the Stoic sage. Cicero warns Lucullus that even his school’s sapiens in certain everyday situations inevitably resorts to probabilia and similia veri, rather than the certainties of apprehended, perceived and assented-to impressions (comprehensa, percepta, adsensa). Were the Stoic sage not to act on impressions he found to be merely persuasive, his whole life would be subverted (omnis vita tollatur, Luc. 99). An example of such a practical situation in

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ordinary life is navigation. “When the sage steps onto a ship,” Cicero asks, “how can he have secure and firm knowledge that the voyage will go according to his plan?” (quid enim conscendens navem sapiens num c­ onprehensum animo habet atque perceptum se ex sententia navigaturum?). Cicero then examines the conditions of navigation with reference to the dramatic context of the dialogue, presuming that with a reliable vessel, a competent helmsman and a calm sea, it will appear only probabile to the sage that he will arrive safe and sound (sed si iam ex hoc loco proficiscatur Puteolos stadia triginta probo navigio bono gubernatore hac tranquillitate, probabile videatur se illuc venturum esse salvum). This reflection on the reality of navigation leads Cicero to institute the probabile as a principle guiding the decision of whether to act or not to act in given situations (et agendi et non agendi, Luc. 100). The principle is furthermore connected to an empirical observation concerning the situatedness and embodiment of the human condition. At Luc. 101, Cicero reminds Lucullus that the sage is “not sculpted from rock or carved from oak” (non enim est e saxo sculptus aut e robore dolatus) but that, like other humans, “he has a body, a soul, he is moved to think and perceive” (habet corpus habet animum, movetur mente movetur sensibus). It is imperative, Cicero argues, to recognize this susceptibility that comes with existing in the world, just as it is crucial not to give into this imperfect condition and accept as true what might not be. Several paragraphs later, Cicero refers again to navigation, characterizing it as an investment in the unknown, like agriculture, marriage and procreation. In those areas of life, any human, wise or not, will have only probabilia to go on (in navigando et in conserendo, in uxore ducenda in liberis procreandis, plurimisque in rebus, in quibus nihil sequere praeter probabile, Luc. 109). All these activities are representative of the realities of day-to-day existence, to which, in Cicero’s view, even the sage has to bow. Carlos Lévy (1992) alone has commented on the orator’s use of the realities of life to illustrate how his thought is rooted in the quotidian and in nature. He notes, for instance, the extent to which Cicero refers to the landscape in which the dialogue is set, the Bay of Naples, to evidence problems of perception. His analysis of this aspect of the Academica is illustrated by his argument about the sailor and zephyr, mention of which concludes the Lucullus. These two figures, according to Lévy (1992: 179) act as “symboles de l’enracinement de la reflexion dans le quotidien et dans la nature.” His view summons a return to the figure of Cicero as Roman, as a man of praxis, whose thought is functional in so far as it is oriented towards action and shaped by an attention to the practical. The trajectory of the figure of navigation is significant. What emerges from the first reference to sailing is its association with the tragic epistemic condition of humanity. This condition is picked up in the two later references and

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grounded in the reality of technical, marital, productive life. Doubt taints the power and possibilities of thought, a doubt that characterizes Cicero’s philosophy less as springy activism than as brooding meditation on the difficulties, hesitations and fragile expectations that beset life. The hopeful orientation of this philosophical spirit, as it emerges at the end of the Roman Republic, posits truth and certainty somewhere off in the distance, as an object that, if not attainable, must determine the direction of human enquiry; indeed, makes enquiry itself an imperative. However, time and again Cicero undermines even that hope, showing certainty in philosophy to be little more than an aspiration. As exemplified by the protagonists of his Lucullus, the human condition is to be out at sea in life. We are introduced to the title-character Lucullus as he sails to Greece, and is transformed by that voyage, becoming an accomplished military commander and coming into contact with Hellenic culture. At the end of the dialogue, Lucullus, Cicero and Hortensius set sail, abandoning the site of their conversation with the promise of further debate and further travel. These vignettes, to which one might add the suggestive self-portrait of Cicero re-reading his Academic Books while on board a ship (in navi legerem Academicos, Att. 16.6.4 [414]) in July of 44 bce, intimate a dramatic immediacy to that changeability and uncertainty into which life is plunged. The Academica is a sophisticated textual artifact of an original skeptic thinker. Doubt permeates Cicero’s voice across both his roles as author of and participant in the dialogues. His strategy orchestrates philosophical and poetic registers, co-ordinating rhetorical explication, lyrical treatment and emotional exhortation. Recorded voices, as well as speaking parts, in these fragments act as vectors to a broader and more complex tradition; they are allusive, self-­ effacing, undermining their own foundations. And they do so in the context of an exploration of the Academy, in a work that positions epistemology as the cornerstone of Cicero’s philosophical project as a whole. This dialectical play culminates conceptually in the probabile and semantically in Catulus’ confession of faith. Cicero’s contribution to the debate constructs an epistemological theory that can ultimately be said to parody Stoic katalêpsis. Cicero’s probabile shares with katalêpsis a logical shape, philosophical register and application, working as its bona fide substitute. However, in terms of its epistemic status, it is corroded by doubts about the logic that holds it together and the support it enjoys among its creators and users. The Academica proves an important moment of negotiation between author and audience, as the reader is at one point offered inviolable principles to ground philosophical enquiry only for these to be interrogated and obscured. This r­ epresents a work of interpretation, and decoding it amounts to the performance of the vitality of Cicero’s skepticism. Moreover, this is a cardinal challenge in the

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case of a tradition in philosophy that copes uneasily with the written word. Arcesilaus and Carneades, like Socrates before them, wrote nothing. Cicero’s response to this issue is at the heart of how he writes in the Lucullus—and elsewhere in the philosophica—shaping a dialectical mode of philosophy centered on encouraging a doubting attitude without prescribing it.384 Cicero faithfully translates a tradition by disputing it. 10.2

Into Subjectivity: Doubt and/as Experience

So far, Part 3 has circled around a key aspect of Cicero’s thought, namely its attention to the thinking subject or the individual philosopher as s/he emerges at the intersection of theory and experience. This section examines the extent to which the paradigm of doubt presented in the Academica underlines the nature of philosophy as practice, an attitude firmly belonging in the realm of the subject. Terms such as ‘experience’ and ‘doubt’, alongside ‘choice’, ‘criterion’, ‘judgment’ (iudicium) and ‘suspension’ or ‘withholding’ (retentio), have animated my study. Taken together, they paint an ominous portrait of Academic epistemology as something of a provocation, with little by way of a stable theory of knowledge. Nonetheless, this elusive discourse fundamentally re-orients the practice of philosophizing. Against the backdrop of Stoic cosmic unity and systematicity, Cicero’s brand of skepticism centers the debate back onto the individual. Strongly reminiscent of the Socratic revolution, this move is effected by Cicero through a number of rhetorical and philosophical strategies. A suggestive perspective from which to understand Cicero’s reaction to Stoicism comes from a much later stage in the history of philosophy. The dialogue, on which I would like to pin some of the concluding reflections of Part 3, is that between Hegel, already an established figure in the development of some of the monograph’s themes, and Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish thinker whose works offer a sustained engagement with and struggle against Hegel and his legacy among Copenhagen’s intelligentsia.385 Dialogue with Hegel shapes 384 And elsewhere in the philosophica. Cf. Beard (1986) and Schofield (1986). 385 The pervasive influence of Hegelianism among Danish intellectuals is registered in his Concluding Unscientific Postscript, perhaps Kierkegaard’s most overtly philosophical work written in his early thirties. Kierkegaard reflects on the damage Hegel had wrought on his contemporaries, the “enthusiastic youths who believed him” (97). They are portrayed as victims of the “objective tendency,” of the “idea that from now on to the end of the world nothing should be said except what would suggest a further improvement in a nearly finished system” (102).

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­ ierkegaard’s thought as early as his doctoral dissertation On the Concept of K Irony with Constant Reference to Socrates (defended in 1841), and informs the deeply personal, subjectivist and pietistic nature of his Christian belief.386 The comparison between the project of the Academica and Kierkagaard’s critique of Hegelianism suffers from many faults, not least the theological preoccupations at the heart of Kierkagaard’s misgivings about Idealism and its promise of absolute knowledge. However, this relation offers an interesting paradigm with which to think about the tension between lived experience—subjective encounters with knowledge—and the system-building tyranny of rationalist and objective forms of speculation. Especially because alongside Christianity, Greek philosophy, the figure of Socrates and the skepticism of the Pyrrhonists in particular, shape Kierkegaard’s attitude to contemporary society and modern philosophy (Maia Neto 1995: 65–82). Under the pseudonym Johannes Climacus, Kierkegaard authored several works, most famously Philosophical Fragments (1844) and its afterword, Concluding Unscientific Postscript to the Philosophical Fragments (1846). In both volumes, he draws on the tradition of ancient philosophy as a form of critical thought emerging from and grounded in experience: “the Greek philosopher was an existing person, and he did not forget this” (7.265). It is the Postscript that introduced me to Kierkegaard’s philosophy and his “methodology of the anti-system,” in Paul Ricoeur’s pointed expression (quoted in Furtak 2012b: 106), and the treatise in which he overtly explores the contrast between subjective and objective perspectives in philosophy with a focus on Hegelian Idealism. At the heart of this work is less an emphasis on Christian doctrine than a commitment to investigating the ethical dimension of philosophy and its foundations in the existence of the individual: the becoming subjective of the individual. The Postscript arguably amounts to a celebration of the moral timbre of ancient doubt over and against the disengagement and hubris of contemporary thought. Hegel’s philosophical Idealism is founded on a profound interconnection between thought and reality. The formalized structure of Hegel’s reason, his logic, governs human thinking and organizes the conceptual realm; more ambitiously, logic is co-extensive with the system of philosophy and is identical

386 Wahl (1931: 321–2) argues that by 1836 Kierkegaard had only known Hegel indirectly, through the private lectures and pamphlets of Johan Ludvig Heiberg. A leading figure of Copenhagen’s literary scene, Heiberg attended Hegel’s lectures in Berlin in his early thirties and thereafter campaigned to introduce the Idealist’s work to Denmark. Kierkegaard parodies his friend’s conversion, when he became “an adherent of Hegelian philosophy through a miracle at Hotel Streit in Hamburg on Easter morning (although none of the waiters noticed anything)” (7.153).

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with metaphysics (§II.6.4).387 This shared architecture of idea and world is ­explored most famously in his Science of Logic, the final edition of which appeared in 1816. In the introduction to the second edition, in particular, Hegel refers to the cornerstone of his ontology as an “intellectual view of the universe,” about which he argues its fundamental or “pure shape […] must be logic” (21:34; di Giovanni 2010: 29). What he seeks to abolish over these pages is the (mis)understanding that logic or the system of philosophical thinking provides only guidance on the road to obtaining truth, and so is external to it— that logic has merely to do “with forms meant to provide markings of the truth” (emphasis in the original). On the contrary, Hegel contends that “the necessary forms of thinking, and its specific determinations, are the content and ultimate truth itself.” Mapping method onto substance underlies an ambitious project of systematization. Hegel’s philosophy is totalizing, encompassing all forms of human thought and cultural production and accounting for their transformation and development. In the history of intellectual thought, his philosophy is synonymous with system, with a perspective on truth and knowledge that is essentially panoptic, objective and established on the interdependence of all its discrete constitutive elements: from logic to aesthetics, from historiography to metaphysics and theology. The meaning of each logical proof, each conceptualization and analytical reflection derives from its place within the whole. Such is the ambition of Hegel’s “speculative” or “systematic” philosophy.388 In the broad swathe of responses to Hegel in the mid to late nineteenth century, Kierkegaard represents one of the more polychromatic, complex and engaging counterpoints.389 This Danish intellectual, who famously preferred to think of himself as a satirist and religious author, was keenly sensitive to the draw of Hegel and Hegelianism, responding to its appeal in the idiosyncratic and deeply personal register of his literary-philosophical output: literary criticism, biblical commentary, novelistic diatribe, social critique and psychology, to name a few. Whether written as direct critiques of Hegel, as scholarly orthodoxy has hitherto claimed, or elaborated as a fundamentally different ­project sharing little in the way of approach, objectives and method with Hegel (cf. Stewart 2003; Westphal 2012: 132–133), the oeuvre develops a philosophy

387 Hegel famously states in the preliminary notes to the first book of his Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences (1830.24), “Die Logik fällt daher mit der Metaphysik zusammen, der Wissenschaft der Dinge in Gedanken gefaßt, welche dafür galten, die Wesenheiten der Dinge auszudrücken.” 388 See Part i of Hegel’s Encyclopaedia Logic with Inwood (1998: 259–519). 389 On Hegelianism in the first half of the nineteenth century, I have found Toews (1980) a reliable companion, especially Part ii.

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of  the  subject in constant dialogue with the uncompromising rationalizations of the Hegelian—and Romantic—tradition.390 In the footsteps of Hegel, the academic (and to a great extent, the nonacademic) world across Europe was committed to the project of total objectivization and subscribed to its eschatology. In his most outspoken challenge to this philosophical current, the Postscript sets out to persuade its readership that truth and knowledge lie not in abstraction but in the living, experiencing subject. “All essential knowing,” Climacus tells us, “pertains to existence, or only the knowing whose relation to existence is essential is essential knowing” (7.165). The critic contends that truth is experiential and particular, it is something firmly rooted in the paradoxical world of becoming; it is also, perhaps above all, “passionate” insofar as it affects a human being’s state, the “striving” and “the pain and crisis of decision” (7.72 and 104).391 Set against this pathetic vision of knowledge and reason is the Hegelian tradition. According to Climacus, this discursive form of thinking distracts people from lived life, “it disregards the concrete, the temporal, the becoming of existence, and the difficult situation of the existing person” (7.258). A sure sign of this detachment is the jargon employed by Hegel’s disciples to conjure their reality. This is a language impervious to everyday speech: “even if a man his whole life through occupies himself exclusively with logic, he still does not become logic; he himself therefore exists in other categories. Now, if he finds that this is not worth thinking about, then let him have his way. It will scarcely be a pleasure for him to learn that existence mocks the one who keeps on wanting to become purely objective” (7.73). The system in all its elements is, according to Jon Stewart (2003: 2), “incommensurable with experience as lived by the human subject.”392 Satirizing the language of Hegelians and their logic in particular, and censuring their “forgetfulness” and “absentmindedness” with regard to individual concerns and the trials and tribulations of the quotidian, Kierkegaard 390 On Hegel and Kierkegaard, the orthodoxy is Thulstrup (1980), though extensively revised by Stewart 2003. Wahl (1931: 326) observes that “hégélianisme et anti-hégélianisme sont unis dans plusieurs passages d’une façon inextricable.” 391 Climacus explains truth in the following terms: “an objective uncertainty, held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness, is the truth, the highest truth there is for an existing person” (7.170, emphasis in the original). The definition connects truth to the Postscript’s keen interest in pathos and passion (see 7.335-490) and to the treatise’s religious agenda, principally to explore how to become a Christian (“the difficulty is not to understand what Christianity is, but to become and be a Christian,” 7.488). With reference to truth, Climacus notes that the definition he offers “is a paraphrasing of faith” (7.170). On paradox, the author observes, “truth as a paradox corresponds to passion, and that truth becomes a paradox is grounded precisely in its relation to an existing subject” (7.166). See Carlisle (2012). 392 On the conflict between subjectivity and system, see Westphal (2012).

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c­ enters his thinking on lived life. Accompanying his reflections, especially in the Postscript, is a constant nostalgic return to the Greeks and Socrates, whose ­philosophy he believes was firmly oriented towards the ethical and sensitive to the existential condition of the thinker.393 Another way in which Kierkegaard challenges the Idealist tradition is through the formal structure of his texts, not least the idiosyncratic ramblings of the Postscript. The author eschews a systematic exposition of philosophy’s canonical topics and methods. There is no symmetry to the Postscript, unlike for instance the triadic structure of Hegel’s Science of Logic. In addition, Kierkegaard infuses philosophical critique with references to contemporary literature, picaresque narratives, lists and vignettes from his life, his experience and meditations on anxieties and doubts of a personal nature.394 Significantly, the existential struggle at the heart of this treatise, as well as of many other writings, stresses the paradoxical and the contradictory. Kierkegaard’s thinking develops as a discontinuous tapestry of voices in which he rarely appears as author or speaker. This allows him to evade any authorial commitment to the claims evaluated or stated in his works; it also allows him to play the part of spectator to the rhetorical performances he choreographs.395 A comparison with Cicero and the Hellenistic battle between Academy and Stoa might at first sight seem implausible. As noted above, the Postscript makes no secret of its Christian agenda.396 Nonetheless, Kierkegaard’s c­ onversation with Hegel offers a fascinating example of a thinker seeking to reconcile the ambition of a systematic and theoretical approach to knowledge and the daily struggles of an individual. On either side of the balance, as Jon Stewart and Jean Wahl have argued, it is not a matter of denying (the validity of) reason, but of exploring and challenging its application. The broad context ­illuminates 393 References to Socrates and the Greeks as guiding lights are ubiquitous. See Ferreira (2012). 394 So much so that Stewart (2003: 640–641) contends that “for whatever it was that Kierkegaard was doing, he was not a philosopher in the nineteenth-century sense of the term and had no pretensions to being one.” 395 This approach is particularly vivid in the Postscript. In an appendix to Part ii titled “A Glance at Danish Literature,” Climacus assumes the mantle of literary critic and delivers a lengthy review of Kierkegaard’s works (7.212-257). 396 His philosophy of subjectivity is generally seen as a form of fideism, including by Kierkegaard himself in the self-reflective The Point of View for my Work as an Author (1848). In that experiment of philosophical autobiography, Kierkegaard offers a reading of his works as an effort to reconnect philosophy and faith, to tackle philosophical issues in terms of how they relate to Christianity and the problem of becoming a Christian. “But the difference is simply that science and scholarship want to teach that becoming objective is the way, whereas Christianity teaches that the way is to become subjective, that is, truly to become a subject” (7.106).

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Cicero’s adaptation of Greek philosophy for his Roman audience as a ­dialectic of reduction, a reconsideration of the possibilities, as well as the aspirations, of philosophy when it comes up against the limits—political, social, ­epistemological—of the thinking subject. A complementary perspective on the issue of skepticism and subjectivity is provided by Stanley Cavell, who is also deeply influenced by Kierkegaard’s philosophy of ordinary life. Similar to Kierkegaard’s project and just as essential in shaping many of the broader ideas at the heart of the monograph, Cavell’s The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and Tragedy is invested in the relationship between doubt and common experience, existential doubt and philosophical doubt, all the while remaining attuned to the relation between fiction (literary discourse) and philosophical discourse. In conversation with Wittgenstein’s philosophy, The Claim of Reason examines the nature and origin of skepticism. Cavell (1979: 130, 140) does not see doubt as the antidote to extreme and wholesale rationalism. Instead he comments on the “reasonableness of doubt,” which he sees as emerging from the particular experience of a creature “burdened by language.” It is precisely in the everyday experience of not knowing anything about what surrounds us, of having been wrong and of going through a crisis of one’s claim to knowledge, that skepticism takes shape as a rational, if self-doubting and tragic, perspective on the world. Emerging as a sustained resistance to the ambition of the Stoa and from the encounter with a world whose certainties were steadily dissolving, Cicero shapes his skepticism in the first half of 45 bce using the mold of Carneades’ epistemology. The probabile in Cicero’s Lucullus constitutes an attempt on the part of the Hellenistic Academy—an effort that may be interpreted as drawn up for the occasion or committed and serious—to make sense of and operate in the world. This Ciceronian (re-)construction begins and ends with the thinking subject. Its instrument, the probabile is concerned with an individual’s response to impressions, as well as the practical need to orient oneself in life. Clara Auvray-Assayas’ (2006: 22) introduction to Cicero’s thought foregrounds the probabile as more than just a translation of Carneades’ pithanon. She argues that Cicero’s interpretation shapes an original concept—“un espace conceptuel nouveau”—and one that is critical to the understanding of his philosophical project. In her survey, the profound transformation that the orator brings about in the domain of Academic philosophy and in the creation of a Latin philosophical vocabulary is centered on inflecting the rhetorical ­elements of philosophy’s register and practice.397 397 On the probabile as the compression of the Carneadean pithanon and Arcesilaus’ euologon, see Lévy (1992: 290). Gourinat (2016) offers an interesting discussion of the

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Focusing on the two passages in the Lucullus where Cicero studies Carneades’ probabile (Luc. 32-34 and 98-110) and drawing on the use of probare in two early first-century bce rhetorical treatises (Cicero’s On Invention and the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium), Auvray-Assayas reflects on the subtle semantic shift that occurs in translating the Greek pithanon. Derived from peithô (πείθω), to persuade, the verbal adjective—and its substantivized form—pithanon has an active voice, designating what is pithanon as what is capable of persuading somebody. This is the force of the pithanon that we find in Aristotle’s definition of rhetoric in his treatise on the subject: “rhetoric is the faculty of discerning that which is persuasive in any given case” (ἔστω δὴ ἡ ῥητορικὴ δύναμις περὶ ἕκαστον τοῦ θεωρῆσαι τὸ ἐνδεχόμενον πιθανόν, Rh. 1.2.1). “What is persuasive,” as Aristotle reminds his readers further along in the ­discussion, “is always persuasive to someone” (ἐπεὶ γὰρ τὸ πιθανὸν τινὶ πιθανόν ἐστι, Rh. 1.2.11). In the same voice, but dressed in philosophical garb, Sextus Empiricus defines the pithanon—more frequently “persuasiveness” (πιθανότης) or “persuasive impression” (πιθανὴ φαντασία) in his account of Carneades in Against the Logicians (Math. 7.159-189)—in terms of an impression that acts by telling the truth.398 Both uses exemplify the efficient and active sense of the verbal adjective. On the other hand, Cicero’s probabile derives from probare. This Latin verb has a relatively wide semantic range centered on the act of approving of ­something (or somebody), to judge something as fit or serviceable, as well as showing something to be fit or serviceable, i.e. demonstrating that something or somebody is credible or good. Furthermore, the verbal adjective and its substantive use in Latin has a passive voice, referring to that which may be approved or be worthy of approval. In Cicero’s youthful treatise On Invention, for instance, the probabile is classified as an idea or argument that is likely to win the approval of or convince the audience (Inv. rhet. 1.46). ­Indeed, this is a recurring organizing principle of the first book, where ­arguments and other rhetorical figures are either logically connected or are presented in such a way that they appear likely to be connected or follow from each other (aut probabilis aut necessaria).399 Ultimately, the probabile denotes r­ elationship between the two Greek terms, highlighting Cicero’s proximity to the Stoics in using probabile as an original philosophical concept. 398 In his discussion of Carneades’ criterion of action, Sextus emphasizes the effect and impact that the impression has on the perceiving/cognizing subject. Sextus’ Carneades is deeply indebted to the structure of Stoic sense-perception, accepting that an impression (φαντασία) is that which acts on the soul and affects it (Math. 7.161-162). In comparing light to impressions, Sextus suggests that sometimes even light can be deceptive (Math. 7.163; cf. Pyr. 1.226-231). On Sextus’ account of the pithanon, see Ioppolo (2009: 141–189). 399 For example, see Inv. rhet. 1.28 on the persuasive narrative.

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something that is presented to an audience in such a way as to elicit their approval or appear demonstrable to them. The change from active to passive brings about a radical transformation in perspective. At Rome, it is up to the subject to judge whether the impression—the percept, argument or idea—deserves approval and to be considered persuasive; it is not the impression that persuades the subject. ­According to ­Auvray-Assayas (2006: 40), the Roman persuasive impression privileges the “rôle actif du sujet,” reflecting the agentive theory of sense-perception of the Stoics, for whom to perceive is always already to act. The responsibility is squarely placed on the perceiving subject to first and foremost evaluate any impression and evaluate whether to approve it or not (2006: 41). Cicero’s probabile sits at the intersection of rhetoric and philosophy, providing the conceptual framework that Auvray-Assayas understands to be the cornerstone of Cicero’s thought: the human as s/he exists in the political, social and cultural context. For Auvray-Assayas (2006: 46), the concept underpins the “activité de jugement” linking philosophy to other areas and practices central to Cicero’s political and social life, namely Rome’s law courts, forum and senate. The connection to these civic domains serves as a reminder of the probabile’s subjective and social dimension and the fact that it is something “exercé collectivement, dans un espace civique précis.” Further on in her study, Auvray-Assayas (2006: 121) returns to the probabile in her discussion of the r­ elationship between ethics and aesthetics in Cicero. In evaluating the construction of the self in Cicero, with its emphasis on persona or character ­(literally, mask) developed above all in On Duties of 43 bce, she defines persona as the “champ d’action du probabile.” In doing so, she frames the question of Ciceronian subjectivity in terms of the individual’s freedom to choose the part s/he will play. The choice is made possible by the persona’s free judgment. In her reading (2006: 121–6), what ties the persona and the probabile together is precisely its attention to the subject grounded in her or his immediate environment and obligations. Auvray-Assayas offers an account of a radical adaptation of a Greek theory to a new context, a thoroughly political and social one, linked to a dramatic shift in perspective. Cicero houses the pithanon in Roman everyday practice, he humanizes it and so emphasizes the reflective subject over the objective influence of the external world.400 400 Lévy (1992: 158) agrees with the view that Cicero’s thought “privilégie le subjectif et le singulier.” The connection to the external world is not at all severed, and it is salutary to remember that at Luc. 32 the speaker connects the probabile with verisimile, positing a relationship between impression and the truth of the object it represents. See Görler (1992) and Glucker (1995).

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The transition and the semantic tension between pithanon and probabile can be seen at work in the Lucullus, particularly in the use of the verb probare. I have previously noted the importance of not insulating the probabile as a philosophical term from the many and varied uses of the verb from which it derives (and is explicitly connected to), especially in the dialogue in which the concept comes to be defined. Over the two paragraphs in which the probabile is presented as a Carneadean construct (Luc. 98-99), “probo” is associated with several other verbs, including “teneo” (I consider), “utor” (I use) and “sequor” (I follow).401 These verbs outline a different paradigm for the relationship between impression/percept and thinker/perceiver, emphasizing the free agency of the subject to hold in consideration, use and follow each impression. At the risk of stating the obvious, all these verbs are also made to inhabit both the technical environment of Carneades’ theory of sense-perception and the register of everyday life. They are general terms, used to described how, for instance, students follow their teacher, and the broader relationship between an idea or percept and the subject that meets it. This cross-pollination serves an important agenda, to secure a place for lived experience in philosophy and to show the experiential grounding of skeptical epistemology. The individual in Cicero is accountable for her or his judgment. This theme of personal responsibility runs right through the Academica, as the project labors to situate the subject-who-approves in the ethical realm. The issue is raised as early as the preface, when Cicero holds the doctrinaire philosopher responsible for his assent, given rashly and unwisely to the first guru the superficial dogmatist has chanced upon (Luc. 8-9). Ring-fencing the Lucullus, Cicero revisits the question of how to pick from the doxography a philosophy to follow. The conceit over this concluding passage stages an interlocutor accusing Cicero not of refusing to assent to his view, but of not assenting to any views at all (me accusas non quod tuis rationibus non adsentiar sed quod nullis, Luc. 125). At the heart of this strategy to mark out the divided field of philosophy as proof of the arresting diversity of philosophical views is the speaker, acting out the psychological drama of engaging with the field’s historical figures. From the preface onwards, the author celebrates the freedom of his school in contrast with the Stoic’s abdication of personal responsibility. The doctrinal thinker is characterized as subject to a form of compulsion, bending to the necessity of choosing a role, as well as being childish and immature—read: 401 These verbs will be familiar to the reader of the Academica. Teneo can refer to both keeping hold of an impression and to suspending judgment (se tenere at, e.g., Luc. 12); sequor, with its broad semantic horizon stretching from pursuit to coming after, is more frequently found in Cicero’s response to Lucullus.

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less able to enjoy the freedom to choose. Preserving an “unimpaired faculty to judge” (integra iudicandi potestas) depends on being free from compulsion, not being under obligation (adstricti) or held captive (capti), constrained by and bonded to someone else’s auctoritas (Luc. 8-9). It also depends on making those doctrinal decisions at a time when one’s ability to take responsibility for them is developed, and so not “at the most impressionable time of one’s life” (infirmissimo tempore aetatis). In light of these reflections on accountability in philosophy, Cicero’s voice stands out as constantly struggling with the perceived need to approve ­impressions, offer negative or affirmative responses, take decisions. The rhetorical conceit, as we have seen, colors the doxography, especially the ethical section, with a sense of urgency, implicating the speaker personally in what has otherwise been seen as an impersonal schematization of philosophy’s history. Several questions about the cosmos leave Cicero perplexed and wondering about matters closer to home, principally the human “soul and body” (­ animum et corpus). This leads to a series of questions: do we know enough about our physical body?, do we know what the soul is and where it is?, is it divided into three parts or is it a single unity, possibly made of “fire or soul or blood or number?” (ignis an anima an sanguis an… numerus), mortal or immortal (Luc. 124)? The move to a physiology of the soul then takes yet another turn. Cicero acknowledges that many diverse arguments on all side of the question carry “equal weight” (paria momenta), so much so that even the skeptic sage cannot identify a view that is more persuasive than the others. Nonetheless, the speaker yields to his imagined opponent, who pressures him to take a position in physics: “I will overcome my disposition and I will assent so that I might agree with someone. But who do I think is right, who? Democritus?” (vincam animum cuique adsentiar deligam—quem potissimum? quem? Democritum?, Luc. 125). As mentioned in the preceding paragraph, Cicero is imagining his interlocutor arguing that it is better to assent to something than to nothing at all. So Democritus springs to mind for no other reason than the high esteem in which he is held by fellow philosophers. Accordingly, Cicero picks the atomist because he is drawn to his fame (studiosus nobilitatis) and forces the audience to evaluate whether this socio-political attitude works in the context of philosophical arguments. Putting himself and his personal preferences on the line, the speaker manages to elicit a reaction from his fictional audience. The Stoic embarks on a lengthy protest, taking Cicero to task personally through a string of second person singular verbs, and denouncing Democritus’ ­atomism as a folly. The tirade ends with a warning to the recently converted Democritean Cicero that “‘it is better not to think anything than to think such

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deranged thoughts’” (nihil sentire est melius quam tam prava sentire, Luc. 125). On this final note, Cicero observes that the Stoic is ultimately indifferent as to whether he adopts just any position, but is committed to win him over to Stoicism. The realization is followed by a protest that he does not find Stoicism persuasive, and Cicero reasserts his right to ignorance. He does not understand the reasons for this animosity towards him (cur rapior in invidiam?, Luc. 126) and challenges his opponent to allow him the freedom to not know what he does not know. Cicero performs this dispute in order to censure the restrictive approach his adversaries apply to philosophical discourse. The psychological drama driving Cicero’s doxographical excursus is representative of his philosophy’s tentative character. Philosophical discourse is not abstracted from the individual; the thinking subject sifts through the tradition looking for views, ideas or philosophies that he finds persuasive. The approach astutely aligns the schematic impulse of philosophical historiography and the rhetorical sensibility of a Roman citizen. In the examples above, the method of arguing on both sides of a question (in utramque partem disserere) underpins how Cicero defines the skeptic’s practice. This evaluative method is referenced in several passages across ­Cicero’s technical treatises (§I.3.1, §II.6.3, §II.7.2 n. 284 and §III.8.3). In the pages of the Academica, he clearly adopts in utramque and its relative contra omnia disserere, arguing against any given proposition, as an Academic technique. At Ac. 1.45-46 and Luc. 7, Cicero describes the skeptic’s approach to debate in terms of examining opposing sides of an issue or question. The two passages cast in utramque in a different light: the first Academic Book connects it to contra omnia, the philosophy of Arcesilaus and the suspension of assent. According to this account, Hellenistic skepticism was driven by Arcesilaus, who took a position against views put forward by anyone (contra omnium sententias disserens), leading his hearers to accept epochê. The dialectic demonstrated the persuasiveness of suspension, because it identified equally weighty arguments on both sides of the same subject, “making it easier to withhold assent from ­either side” (facilius ab utraque parte adsensio sustineretur, Ac. 1.45). The Lucullus’ preface associates the method to the search for truth: the only objective of Academic discussions is to explore each side of the argument in order to draw out and give shape to the truth or whatever comes closest to it (nostrae disputationes quicquam aliud agunt nisi ut in utramque partem dicendo et audiendo eliciant et tamquam exprimant aliquid quod aut verum sit aut ad id quam proxime accedat, Luc. 7). These differences notwithstanding, both passages connect the method to a pervasive and aggressive form of questioning, as well as rooting it in the hopeless epistemological conditions that make in utramque a necessity. Luc. 7, in

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particular, sets up this Academic approach in order to bring it to bear on the question of sense-perception. Indeed, two speeches follow, adducing arguments for and against the possibility of sense-perception. The paragraph also establishes the method according to which the speaker will shape the tradition of Greek philosophy in the dialogue’s final third. In utramque in the Lucullus produces a drama that does not seem to take its audience any closer to the truth; rather, it drives the audience to the kind of resolution proposed in the definition of the method at Ac. 1.45: a readier acceptance of the impossibility of selecting any one philosophy or view. The dialogue sets up oppositions without resolving them and so becomes an exercise in intellectual paralysis. When a decision is taken about whom to follow, it is taken out of personal desire—an aspiration, we might say, “I want to follow the Stoics” (cupio sequi Stoicos, Luc. 132). Hardwired into this process of evaluation, the progress from the promise of a possible truth to the disappointment of suspension, is another important subjective dimension of skepticism. The relationship between skeptical methodology and personal commitment to ideas defines the skeptical philosophy as experiential. As Mauro Bonazzi (2003: 136) points out, because of the impossibility of constructing doctrines or adopting an explicative discourse, the skeptic can only proceed by effectively plotting the experience of his evaluations, “narrating the story of his research.” Akatalêpsia dictates a discursive regime that sustains and promotes the engagement of an individual, her or his hesitations and indecisions, as the starting-point of philosophizing; akatalêpsia also inevitably concludes the journey of speculation with (a hardening of) suspension. This sensitivity to the individual and practical dimension of philosophy has a key role to play in the New Academy and constitutes an important line of argument in Cicero’s understanding of the history of sense-perceptual problems. When we look back at the tripartite conditions set down by Arcesilaus and Zeno as the foundations of the field (Luc. 77; see §III.8.4, §III.9.1 and especially §II.5.3), the third and most divisive point inserts the subject in what is otherwise a specular relationship between an object and the impression it creates. The first two points, that a visum must come from a real object and be in conformity with it, define a direct relation between the impression and the object it emanates from. They articulate what we might call a phenomenology of appearances. The third clause, as Görler (1997) has pointed out, introduces the epistemological subject because it focuses on the potential identity of true and false impressions. This implies discernment, discretion, differentiation. The impression now requires a judge to certify its existence and its status in relation to truth.

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Academic skepticism institutes, in its most fundamental, epistemological critiques, an attention to the thinking subject around which a Roman consular and lawyer, raised in the world of Rome’s political and judicial institutions, is able to construct a philosophical discourse that matters to his r­ eadership. Cicero’s Academica structurally replicates this close interweaving of philosophy and lived life through a trajectory that links historical context and ­philosophical discourse. The discussion, as so often in the philosophica, arises from and looks back to everyday interactions, whether that interaction is mediated through the fictional drama of a preface or determined by an epistolary exchange. Cicero’s correspondence with Varro influences the shape and content of the Academic Books (§I.2.2-2.3). In the case of the second book of the first edition, the author’s reflections on the historical Lucullus prompt a discussion about that fateful Alexandrian debate during which Lucullus’ retinue ­witnesses Antiochus dividing Academic history into Old and New schools. This episode sits at the juncture of philosophical and political history, and the narrative treatment it is afforded frames philosophy as a performance or activity, thereby opening it up to interpretations of context. In studying the challenge that reading the work of “dead philosophers” poses for a certain kind of contemporary thinker, Ian Hacking talks about the importance of engaging with a text’s context. In this passage of Historical Ontology, Hacking (2002: 56) coins a succinct expression that captures the position I have argued Cicero expects his readers to adopt, an exhortation to the practice of philosophy: “We must become hermeneutical.” 10.3

Conclusion

Part 3 has developed a detailed reading of Cicero’s skeptical philosophy, seeking to align a literary-rhetorical analysis of the Academica, the first edition in particular, with a study of the historical and institutional pedigree of Cicero’s doubt. Sensitivity to the relationship between rhetoric and philosophy has, I hope, allowed for a nuanced understanding of how and why Academic skepticism is an appropriate and effective conduit for Cicero’s translation project. Skepticism offers Cicero a discursive methodology through which he can ­appropriate and critique the polyphony of Greek philosophical traditions, without committing to any of them or sacrificing the instrument of his intellectual resistance. The first chapter of Part 3 set up the argument for why the critic should read the Academica through a literary-critical lens and analyzed the intense rhetorical work underlying the characterization of Philo and Antiochus.

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Their ­portraits, I argued, are exploited to put the history of the Academy on display for a Roman audience. They also serve to legitimize the school’s skeptical branch as the ideal vantage point from which to do so, and to teach this new audience what philosophical knowledge consists of and how it progresses. ­Cicero is authorizing his approach to philosophical discourse by pointing to its secure foundations in the tradition, as well as in the dialogic and iterative nature of philosophy—an intellectual practice that evolves, like his treatise, by going over old ground and making debate its key method. In chapters nine and ten the argument turned to Cicero’s philosophical skepticism, grounding and developing the rhetorical approach of the first half in the exercise of Academic doubt. I extended the assimilative economy of the Academica by arguing that while Antiochus and Philo serve as viewpoints on the history of the skeptical Academy, the dialectical nature of this Academy allows Cicero to survey and critique the whole of Hellenistic philosophy. To study Academic philosophy is to study philosophy as a whole. Beyond the literary agenda, close rhetorical examination of the text revealed a further, and no less important, aspect of the author’s philosophy, namely its emphasis on the individual and her or his responsibility to engage with the tradition. Over chapter ten, I have contended that the originality of Ciceronian skepticism, as expressed in the extant fragments of his Academic work, depends on two fundamental aspects of his doubt: its radical, pervasive and uncompromising force, and its grounding in the individual and her or his experience of the world.

Conclusion Although focused on two fragments of a single treatise, The School of Doubt has explored a wide variety of themes and issues. Over the three parts, much of the analysis has centered on the social and political aspects of Cicero’s work, broadly defined as the preoccupation with the immediate civil war context and the crisis of the Roman Republic. The discussion paid equal attention to issues of a cultural and institutional nature, above all the place of Plato’s Academy in Roman society and literary production, and the ‘translation’ of philosophy from Greece to Rome. Throughout, our project has been to calibrate the method and practice of Cicero’s philosophy with its intellectual substance. In the introduction and at various stages along the argument, I have insisted that the Academica constitutes an intense reflection on the socio-political conditions of the time and on Cicero’s personal situation; that this fragmented set of dialogues is nothing if not a product of its time; and that on the horizon of even the most technical analysis of logic or epistemology the author always draws us back to Rome, to the drama of elite exchange and the reality of the interlocutors’ lives. The aim of this conclusion is less to recapitulate readings already presented at length in the body of the book than to draw the threads of the argument together by exploring how they contribute to our understanding of Cicero’s s­ ocial and political theory. To be specific, the final objective is to set my interpretation of the Academica against the backdrop of recent approaches that view the philosophica as a form of social and political intervention.402 To this end, I first set the stage for my reading of the Academica as a valuable insight into the social and political dimensions of Cicero’s technical treatises by reviewing recent scholarship on Cicero’s political thought. Drawing on parts 2 and 3, I then argue that Cicero’s Academica balances the creative and destructive impulses of skeptical philosophical discourse to produce a particular kind of text—one that responds to a specifiable set of historical stimuli. Paying close attention to those passages in which Cicero openly assigns an interventionist agenda to the philosophica, this conclusion emphasizes the ways in which the Academica shapes a distinctive and prescriptive style of philosophizing. 402 All prefaces to his dialogues of the 50s and 40s bce are aimed at justifying his philosophical activity as either therapeutic, educative or as patriotic service to improve Roman culture. See for example Fin. 1.10, Nat.D. 1.7-9, Div. 2.4-7 and Off. 2.3-6 with Gildenhard’s exhaustive analysis (2007: 46–62). His reading extends to the Tusculans’ prefaces over pp. 89–206. See also Cambiano (2002).

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Cicero’s literary strategy seeks to justify philosophy’s position within Roman intellectual practices and the institutional history of Greek philosophy. There are several elements to this strategy, which I have surveyed over the preceding chapters, and together these deliver a sense of the Academica’s complex agenda. Having recovered his historiographical map of Hellenic thought and the construction of philosophy as a field, I outlined this vision while developing two core arguments, namely that: (1) Cicero manipulates philosophy’s history to construct an irreducible polyphony of philosophy’s past voices; and, (2) that the philosophical outlook governing the Academica’s philosophy is a continuation of Arcesilaus’ and Carneades’ radical dialectical doubt—a view which has recently gained traction in Charles Brittain’s (2016) study of philosophical method in On Ends. From this perspective, the Academica comes into view as a text concerned with the social, political and ethical chaos and the personal sense of doubt and uncertainty that emerges from it. A doubt that is paralyzing in its auto-critical and aporetic deadlocks, but committed before all else to dialectic and open-endedness. Interpretations of Cicero’s political thought since the middle of the twentieth century have displayed a remarkable degree of homogeneity. Often finding their justification in the magnitude of Cicero’s influence on modern political philosophy, from civic humanism to contemporary forms of American communitarianism, these studies draw on a limited clutch of texts. From these, critics endeavor to extract a uniform portrait of a man of state whose works express a largely consistent ideological program informed by his experience of government and civil strife, as well as by his extensive readings in Greek political theory.403 Since Neal Wood’s Cicero’s Social and Political Thought (1988), this hermeneutic pattern has been all the more visible.404 Critics have admired the wellarticulated agenda that Cicero developed throughout his works—a program for the recovery and renewal of an older aristocratic form of government based on a prescriptive and normative set of reflections concerning laws, institutions and leadership of state. Studies of Ciceronian political philosophy by 403 For an example of this justificatory practice, see Wood (1988: 2–8) and Radford (2002: 71–86). Studies in the tradition of the so called ‘Cambridge School’ ground modern political thought in the Ciceronian leanings of scholasticism and humanism. For the hymn sheet see Skinner (1978); Baron (1966) for Cicero in the Quattrocento. In terms of Cicero’s sources, whether the emphasis lies on experience or theory has been the subject of much debate over the past two centuries. On the controversy, see Ettore Lepore, who writes about it with admirable even-handedness in the introduction to his Il princeps ciceroniano (1954: 1–19). 404 “The first book on [Cicero’s] social and political thought in English” (Wood 1988: 4).

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Luciano Perelli (1990), Robert Radford (2002) and Jed Atkins (2013) underline the status of Wood’s concluding remarks as central to the interpretation still prevalent today among intellectual historians in the field. For Wood (1988: 206), the major aspects of Ciceronian thought are “natural law and justice; a theory of the state to which a notion of private property is central; a doctrine of constitutionalism entailing a limited and responsible government through a mixed constitution, and a justification of tyrannicide; and an emphasis on politics as means.” Despite differences in emphasis, scholars agree that Cicero’s views (must) form an integrated and coherent ideology, that this ideology is to some degree formally expressed in a selection of his works and that it is grounded in a metaphysical position that is quintessentially Stoic.405 All these interpretations build on the fragments of Cicero’s Republic and Laws: Atkins focuses exclusively on this pair; like Perelli, Radford includes On Duties and the rhetorical treatises On the Orator and Brutus; Wood tackles On Duties and the oration On Behalf of Publius Sestius.406 The set playlist inscribes two co-ordinated viewpoints. First, the founding of law and justice in “reason” (ratio) and “nature” (natura). This is extracted from two passages, Leg. 1.18-19 and at Rep. 3.33, both of which represent the hallmark of Cicero’s Stoicism.407 As Perelli (1990: 114) claims, the author finds in Stoicism “un principio filosofico universale” on 405 Wood (1988: 62) does express reservations as to the extent to which Cicero writes “systematically,” reflecting that we cannot expect from his works a “greater logical consistency and coherence than they warrant.” I have preferred not to burden this particular review by taking into account Francophone Cicero studies. French Ciceronianists, from Alain Michel to Carlos Lévy, are exponents of the unity of Cicero’s thought and have deeply influenced many of the ideas and methods adopted in The School of Doubt (cf. Introduction, §II.4.3 n. 88, §II.6.3 and §II.7.2). 406 Wood (1988: 61) describes them as the “four major social and political writings.” 407 “Law is highest reason established in nature, which commands what must be done and forbids what cannot be done. This same reason, when it is strengthened and perfected in the mind of man, is law” (lex est ratio summa, insita in natura, quae iubet ea quae facienda sunt, prohibetque contraria. eadem ratio, cum est in hominis mente confirmata et perfecta, lex est, Leg. 1.18). For the continuation of the definition, see Leg. 1.19 where Cicero connects this view to both “ius” (justice or rights) and the “state” (civitas). Dyck (2006: ad loc.) finds comparanda with Stoic literature and explores how each of the three elements in Cicero’s definition are Stoic. See also Rep. 3.33, “indeed true law is right reason in accordance with nature, present in everyone, consistent, eternal. It calls one to duty by its command and deters people from crime by its veto” (est quidem vera lex recta ratio naturae congruens, diffusa in omnes, constans, sempiterna, quae vocet ad officium iubendo, vetando a fraude deterreat). Lex naturalis is already on the books as far back as Inv. rhet. 2.66-68, 160. See Atkins (2013) for a critical re-evaluation of the relationship between these terms in Cicero’s political thought.

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which he can found his state and its laws. Accordingly, the Stoa provides “una validità assoluta al sistema politico,” raising the notion of the state “al di sopra della relatività delle varie e contraddittorie istituzioni empiriche” (Wood 1988: 47, Radford 2002: 28 and 43). Second, Cicero’s program is generally interpreted as ferociously conservative. From his choice of aristocratic oligarchs in many of the dialogues, especially the overtly political Republic and Laws of the 50s bce, to the constitutionalism he contrives out of Republican institutions, scholarship agrees that Cicero’s efforts in this sense were committed to preserving and reviving the status quo. The few innovations that he proposed, like the controversial figure of the princeps that emerges from the Republic, were in turn designed to shore up the Republic of the veteres in the face of imminent collapse.408 Wood’s (1988: 206–208) view that Ciceronian social and political thought is “archetypal” of the “conservative mentality” is strongly echoed by Perelli (1990: 1–2), and diffused through all the studies that treat Cicero’s speculative project as one of re-education and re-vitalization.409 Discussions of Cicero’s political philosophy have been limited in three principal respects. The first two limitations depend on the methodological approach of intellectual historians who have shaped the field. In the first instance, Cicero is seen as a midpoint between the Greek political theories of Plato, Aristotle and the Stoics and modern political thought. Whether we think Cicero’s speculations led directly to the Augustan principate and thus shaped Western political ideologies through Empire, or we inflect his contribution as the civic liberalism which informed humanist politics, Cicero is either an anticipation of the modern world or the corruption of the ancient. In turn, this diffraction is conducted by reading Cicero selectively and through particular texts. So for example, the success and circulation of On Duties throughout the Renaissance—its political interpretation by the poet Petrarch, the discovery of the letters by Petrarch and the fourteenth-century humanist Coluccio Salutati, and of his speeches by Poggio Bracciolini—shapes a particular view of Ciceronian political philosophy as based on private virtus and public gloria within a civic context.410 Another example of this backward-facing hermeneutic is the great natural law tradition. Running from Aquinas to Hobbes, Montesquieu and beyond, this tradition sets its own particular agenda on Ciceronian Stoicism, 408 On the princeps see Rep. 1.45 and Rep. 6.1 with Lepore (1954) and Radford (2002: 36–40). 409 Lepore (1954: 383) offers an elegant articulation of this view in his reading of the Philippics. Gildenhard (2007 and 2013b) is an influential exponent of the “re-educative” view. 410 Petrarch came across Cicero’s Letters to Atticus in 1345, Salutati contributed to this revival by discovering the Letters to his Friends in 1392. In 1415 Bracciolini found a complete set of forensic orations at Cluny.

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especially in reading certain passages of his Laws.411 Finally, and on the issue of sources, reducing the study of Ciceronian political philosophy to a select group of texts is problematic. This approach only provides a partial impression of a vast opus, made up of ever-changing reactions to specific political events. Selection not only excludes a potential range of pertinent reflections, indirect though they may be, on Rome’s decline. Placing the focus of political studies squarely on the works of the 50s bce creates a static picture of what is otherwise a dynamic and, as I hope to have shown in Part 1, constantly evolving set of personal, economic, social and political circumstances. One the major aspects of Ciceronian thought that is consistently sidelined is his skepticism. With the limelight fixed on Stoicism and on the texts that showcase its relevance for Ciceronian theorizing on politics and society, few scholars have found space for the Academy. As early as On Invention of 85 bce and all the way to On Duties of 44 bce, through the Academica and On the Nature of the Gods, Cicero situates his philosophical methodology and outlook firmly within the grounds of the skeptical Academy. It is from this viewpoint that he studies all the branches of philosophy, and from this perspective that he surveys the institutions, religious, political and judicial, of Rome. Nonetheless, scholars have found very little of worth in this affiliation for the study of Cicero’s political philosophy, beyond a token recognition that skepticism was “congenial to a lawyer and politician of a pragmatic and empirically tentative temperament” (Wood 1988: 58).412 This Cicero, a political actor and a public voice in the drama of the end of the Republic, sensibly borrows from the Academy the concept of pithanon/probabile in order to preserve a certain flexibility in evaluating and selecting a course of action, and in order to maintain an open and humble approach in the discursive arena of Roman politics.413 Michelle Zerba’s Doubt and Scepticism in Antiquity and the Renaissance (2012) has now provided a fresh approach to the question, exercising greater sensitivity towards Cicero’s epistemology and, specifically, in relation to the 411 On the pre-history of natural law, see Striker (1986); for a modern history of the tradition, see Haakonssen (1996). 412 Radford (2002: 25) dismisses the whole issue by claiming that Cicero never links Academics with political philosophy except for one passage in Fin. 4.5. Ancient skepticism on the whole has been overlooked in terms of its political and political philosophical aspects, with the exception of Laursen (1992) and Lom (2001). Both studies are interested almost exclusively in Pyrrhonism. 413 For a direct application of this philosophical framework to the complexities of political decision-making during the civil war, see Att. 9.4.1-3 [173]. Cicero sets out conflicting views about whether to stay in Rome or join Pompey’s camp, staging the dilemma as a philosophical examination according to the Academic in utramque partem dissertatio method.

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Academica.414 Skeptical epistemology is for Zerba (2012: 20–22) an important tool for “political success” insofar as it informs Cicero’s rhetorical activity. Criticizing the “‘over-Stoicization’” of Cicero’s political thought as a “misreading,” she hails his works as an anticipation of Niccolò Machiavelli’s Realpolitik. ­Cicero provided a paradigm for the use of “effectual truths,” expressed in rhetorical performances, as a way to intervene in politics. Skepticism, she contends, is the “cognitive framework” within which this kind of political life is possible. Reading the Republic and the Laws alongside both the rhetorical treatises and in light of Cicero’s political activity, Zerba develops a portrait of Cicero that casts him as someone reactive to political circumstances and whose interventions, be they speculative reflections or oratorical displays, are ­founded on ­expediency and utility. Accordingly, rhetoric as the art of dissimulation not only allows effective participation in political life through its opportunistic creation of personae and ideologies, but is in turn made possible by the “skeptical gesture” of distancing oneself from truth. In Zerba’s (2012: 178) view, the moderate and probabilistic epistemology developed in the Academica “facilitates” the construction of rhetorical fictions invaluable to political activity. This return to the Academica, welcome though it is, is still predicated on an instrumental view of Ciceronian epistemology. It puts philosophical theory at the service of rhetorical finality. Speculative theorizing on sense-perception has little substantive value in and of itself and has no implications for Cicero’s political philosophy; philosophy is directed to something other than itself. For Zerba, this ‘other’ is to establish the foundation of a rhetorical theory of political action. Prefacing her study by announcing that Machiavelli “demystifies” Cicero (2012: 168), she seems to imply that the speculative elements of Cicero’s corpus are confusing and ultimately superfluous. She casts a cursory glance on the Academica, looking further back to root Cicero’s “moderate” skepticism in On the Orator. However, the Academica is notably more concerned with institutional, social and political issues than scholars have so far acknowledged. Critiques of cognition, perception, truth and doubt persistently situate themselves in the speakers’ world. The prefaces are key moments in the transaction between theory and historical reality. Comparing the range of Varro’s anthropological and cultural studies, which define the contours of Roman ‘national’ identity, with Ciceronian philosophica in the first Academic Book raises questions about the 414 Jonathan Zarecki’s Cicero’s Ideal Statesman in Theory and in Practice (2014) has also shown a similar sensitivity, introducing his study of Cicero’s political thought with a chapter on his skepticism. His study leans on Woldemar Görler and Harald Thorsrud for its interpretation of Cicero’s skepticism as moderate and fallibilist.

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position of philosophical discourse in terms of its socio-political utility (Ac. 1.9, §I.3.1 and §II.5.2). On a more remote historical plane, the Academy’s relevance to the political world of aristocratic Rome is grounded in the close relationship between Lucullus and Antiochus, explored in the eulogy of Lucullus that opens the work. The general’s historical profile implicitly reflects on the protagonist’s philosophical leanings alongside his military and forensic excellence (Luc. 1-4; §III.8.3). Within the internal frame of the Lucullus, the exchange that separates the two speeches directly addresses the implications of radical doubt for Cicero’s political achievements. Summarizing his case, Lucullus decries once again the darkness and paralysis within which skepticism plunges humanity and demands that his opponent reflects on how professing that darkness would affect his auctoritas. Lucullus strikes at the heart of Cicero’s political career in wondering whether his actions during the Catilinarian crisis in 63 bce were carried out not on the basis of truth and principle, but on an insubstantial likelihood (Luc. 62, §II.5.2 and §II.7.3). Cicero’s response to this critique of the insubstantiality of rhetoric and its likely political implications conclude his exposition. His rejoinder is packaged as a final reflection on how technical and institutional practices work (§II.7.3). The Roman juridical system, he claims, was founded on the intuition of Rome’s veteres who recognized the unknowability of the world (quod inscientia multa versaretur in vita). Accordingly, “witnesses under oath” (iurati) can only assert that events or facts “appear” to have occurred (videri), or that they “believe” them to have occurred (arbitrari), not that they “simply have occurred” (esse facta, Luc. 146). Cicero is analyzing institutional mechanisms through a skeptical “cognitive framework,” to use Zerba’s expression. In fact, he is addressing the situation in which he found himself in 63 bce, as Lucullus described it: a ‘iuratus’ in the senate. It is clear how this aspect of the debate impinges on Ciceronian political thought, with skepticism finding a place at the heart of Roman institutional practice. Yet, in view of Cicero’s silence on the ethical and political repercussions of accepting this status quo, the reader is still left facing the larger puzzle of how the Academic probabile can ground Rome’s hallowed institutions in anything like a grand onto-theological design to match up to what we find in the Republic and Laws.415 415 In his speech, Cicero attacks Stoic ethics in a similar way, for producing paradoxes that destabilize the foundation of the Roman commonwealth. Since they believe that only the wise man is free, a true citizen and only his edicts are valued as true laws; consuls, praetors, military commanders are all turned into a bunch of maddened exiles and slaves. This observation on the infamous paradoxa at Luc. 136 is illustrated with an episode from Roman history taken from the embassy of 155 bce at Luc. 137 (§III.10.1).

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Furthermore, the argument about rhetoric is personal. The dissimulating elements of Cicero’s political performance are challenged, and the author stages himself in the opening of his rejoinder as an orator taking up the case of Academic skepticism as if he were in the forum. He embarks on his “oration” (oratio) using himself as subject of discussion (de fama mea, Luc. 63) and wraps up the doxography by pointing to Lucullus as the true seditious citizen, ­stirring the  craftsmen of Rome against him, and calling him to a “public debate” (­contio, Luc. 144). The same argument applies to the historiographical sections, which assimilate Academic skeptical historiography to a populist history of Rome. Lucullus equates subversive “populares” (cives seditiosi), whose political goals and principles (institutum) are said to originate in the legislation of Publius Valerius in the sixth century bce, with Cicero’s Academics (Luc. 13). This passage and its response (Luc. 72-76) allow the reader to reflect on claims to ideological pedigrees through the prism of an institutional contest between two visions of the Academy. Neither Lucullus nor Cicero supports populist manipulations of history. While Lucullus sees such claims as fracturing the historical continuity of Rome, with Tiberius Gracchus playing the part of Arcesilaus in destroying the “peace” (otium) of a “perfectly functioning Republic” (optuma republica), Cicero limits himself to dismissing the narrative of crisis all together. Crucially, Cicero does not refute Lucullus and refers to Saturninus alone among those seditious citizens he claims not to hold as valid examples (Luc. 14 and 75). Again, as in the case of the law courts, Cicero’s view confirms the relation between philosophical discourse—in this case philosophical-historiographical—and its political and rhetorical elements. What epistemology means for the political and ethical dimension of Rome is at the heart of the Academic project. Lucullus begins and ends his proof of Stoic katalêpsis by stressing its role as guarantor of civic ethics and personal morality, as well as the keystone of technical knowledge (artes) and wisdom cardinal to the foundation and continuation of civilized life. Similarly, when Cicero makes concessions to Lucullus’ argument, namely his explication of the probabile in response to the charge of apraxia, his concern is with making life possible, in its technical, ethical and political dimensions. The overriding preoccupation of his speech is, nonetheless, with intellectual and moral integrity, and especially with the diabolical sin of “rashness” (temeritas). While politics for Lucullus is ultimately ontology, for Cicero those human evaluative mechanisms that underlie society and politics represent a practical response to our impossible perceptual condition. The case for hailing Cicero’s Academica as an invaluable text in shedding light on the evolution of Cicero’s philosophy is further supported by taking a

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closer look at the use of two terms: libertas and ratio. These are recurring keywords in the scholarship on Ciceronian political thought. Over the past century studies have carefully defined Cicero’s uses and abuses of libertas, so fluid and malleable a political concept-turned-slogan, to suit his conservative ends. There are two main aspects to Ciceronian libertas. The first is negatively inflected, defining the concept of freedom as a freedom “from” servitude and as a state of “non-subjection,” in Valentina Arena’s words (2012: 8).416 The contrast between freedom and servitude (servitus) employed throughout the Philippics and Cicero’s view that the rise of the tribunate protected the Roman populace’s individual rights and freedoms against senatorial abuse, are examples of the deployment of this concept in Cicero’s work.417 The negative aspect underwrites the restrictions Cicero puts on libertas for the proper functioning of the state. Both Wood and Perelli rightly note that Ciceronian freedom is to be understood in relation to dignitas (social rank) and auctoritas (political authority). The populus enjoys only limited freedom in the form of restricted voting rights, and an obligation to show deference to the auctoritas of the aristocrats, owed them because of their dignitas. While Wood’s interpretation of two passages in On Invention lead him to emphasize the restrictive role of auctoritas in the discourse on liberty and in the political structuration of society (1988: 148–149 on Inv. 2.160 and 166), Perelli (1990: 76) goes further in claiming that “favorevole alla libertas come difesa dei diritti giuridici individuali, [Cicerone] restringe al massimo la libertà come esercizio di reali diritti politici, e se talora fa delle concessioni su questo punto, le fa solo per dare al popolo l’illusione formale della libertas.”418 Freedom offers the populace a right to vote but demands their acquiescence to the executive and legislative power of the upper classes.419 Ratio also plays a fundamental role in Ciceronian political philosophy, although in a decidedly more positive and constructive sense. Not only does ratio bind humanity together, since men have a responsibility towards each 416 See her two articles (2007a and 2007b) together with the first chapter of Arena (2012). Wirszubski (1950), Bleicken (1972) and Cogitore (2011) for the Begriffsgeschichte. Also Brunt (1988: 281–350). 417 Cf. Rep. 2.57-9 with Perelli (1990: 78) and Ferrary (1982). 418 Perelli is commenting on Leg. 3.33-39, especially the phrase: “the semblance of freedom is relinquished, while the aristocrats hold onto authority” (species libertatis datur, auctoritas bonorum retinetur). 419 Ronald Syme (1960: 155) famously differentiated two typologies of freedom at Rome: the freedom to vote of the lower class and the freedom to rule the masses of the upper class. Populares politicians advocated a more extensive view of the rights of the people, while the optimates, among whom Cicero is sometimes counted, pressed for a more restrictive policy. Cf. Ferrary (1982: 764–765).

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other insofar as they are rational beings, but it also binds the individual to the world, sanctioning humanity’s laws and customs. According to Claudia Moatti’s (1997) interpretation of Ciceronian social and political thought, mos maiorum, along with Roman laws and institutions represent the concretization and perfection of reason. The historical expression of this metaphysical rationality is mediated by the political process itself: the mechanics of civic existence involve participation in political life through rational processes like deliberation and decision-making. The consistency and value of reason as instrument are seldom questioned, and never in the context of analyses of Cicero’s political philosophy.420 The Academica does not fit comfortably into this picture. Libertas is introduced early on in the Lucullus as a defining characteristic of Academic methodology. At that stage of the dialogue, libertas is identified as a positive freedom to think, and its integrity is viewed in contraposition to doctrinaire approaches to deliberation that shackle the researcher to the auctoritas of another (Luc. 8). The tension between libertas and auctoritas is not only played out in the field of speculative thought, but it also directly impacts Cicero’s ability to respond to Lucullus later in the dialogue. Catulus pleads with Cicero not to let Lucullus’ auctoritas limit his response, and Cicero, in turn, exploits the tension between the contrasting authorities of Catulus and Lucullus as a ruse to turn up the oratorical temperature in his refutation. As he embarks on his rejoinder, Cicero admits that his interlocutor’s momentous authority was clearly beginning to influence his response—up until the moment when Catulus set his own no less weighty auctoritas against it (auctoritas autem t­ anta plane me movebat, nisi tu opposuisses non minorem tuam, Luc. 64). The opposition between these two terms is developed further throughout the body of the argument. Cicero insists on the primacy of ratio over auctoritas as a principle of his school (in the preface and Luc. 60) and through his portrayal of Carneades as difficult to pin down as author of/authority for any views (auctor).421 Lucullus, however, is bound to the authority of Antiochus, whose views he parrots, and later questions the consistency of claiming no authority in philosophical discourse (Luc. 60).422 Ultimately, libertas is portrayed as an unrestrained ability to employ reason, even within a political context and beyond the diktats of authority. 420 See Atkins (2013) for a salutary critique. 421 “Enough about these authorities/authors” (satis multa de auctoribus, Luc. 76), Cicero exclaims as he pushes on from the historiographical debate. 422 Cicero himself seems unable to escape the spell of intellectual authority when he attacks Antiochus’ loss of auctoritas at Luc. 69. On the passage, see §II.7.2.

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Radically different from the conservative caution expressed elsewhere with regard to freedom, dignitas and auctoritas, Cicero is here positing a type of libertas without limits, whose ambition is to evade the force of authority. Gildenhard (2013: 267) has recently suggested that the dialogue form brings “together two traditions of pedagogy fundamentally incompatible with one another,” the Greek, privileging rationality and the best argument (logos), and the Roman, fettered to auctoritas.423 In this context, Cicero’s Academica appears to come down on the side of theory and to connect its Greek educative ethic with the Roman political realm. In terms of rationality, Part 3 examined Cicero’s critique of Stoic ratio and its grounding in a systematic ontology. Released from the rationalist tyranny of this world-picture, ratio turns against itself and is shown to be either defective or as a cognitive process that necessarily trades in likelihoods (Luc. 91-99). This is not to suggest that Cicero dismisses reason altogether or renders it inoperative through a critique of logic. On the contrary, reason is celebrated as central to “judgment” (iudicium) in his apology for the Academy in the Lucullus’ preface. Indeed, the essence of Cicero’s skeptical Academy is above all a ­commitment to safeguarding the integrity of reason and the ability to judge (integra iudicandi potestas, Luc. 8). Examining libertas and ratio as deployed in the Academica against the background of their use in works read as overtly political supports the view that the Academica is not only interested in political ideas but also furnishes a radical critique of these concepts. Through a technical discussion of philosophical method and epistemology, Cicero ­addresses the conceptual pillars of late Republican ideologies and of his own earlier speculations on the subject, infusing his late philosophical works with a (re)visionary political significance from the outset (cf. Fox 2007: 15). Having made a case for the broader intellectual context of my argument and broached the workings of doubt and the critique of authority, I now draw together my readings of the Academica to specify three ways in which this complex and fragmentary text should nuance our understanding of Cicero’s intellectual development. Parts 1 and 2 proposed that the position of the Academica within the early evolution of Cicero’s late philosophica was of crucial importance. Whether situated in the triad Hortensius-Catulus-Lucullus, or later conceptualized as the methodological point of origin for his philosophical works (witness the prefaces of On the Nature of the Gods and On Divination), the Academica is in a sense the prologue to a radically innovative project: the introduction and adaptation of Greek philosophy to Roman culture. In this context, the corrosive and pervasive doubt, which I argued Cicero develops and endorses throughout both 423 See Anthony Corbeill (2001) on memorization and the tirocinium fori.

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extant versions of the Academica, accounts for more than just a methodological maquette for works to come. Rather, his far-reaching and uncompromising skepticism has the effect of clearing the ground for the work of philosophy. The apparent aim of this first step into the philosophical production of the 40s bce is to take on the ideological and institutional edifice that is Rome. Cicero begins by contesting all aspects of the world around him and in which he grew up, rose to power and fell from favor. His attack extends from the law courts, the integrity of political rhetoric to the conventional discursive modes of constructing one’s identity. Cicero begins in and from doubt. Critics have overlooked the radical nature of his skepticism and disclaimed its potentially paralyzing implications and sweeping effects in favor of a moderate, constructivist version. This has allowed scholarship to stand by the reassuring historical portrait of Cicero as Republican man of action, whether by ‘action’ we understand his oratorical performances or philosophical publications. By positing the need to understand Cicero’s works as somehow directive or prescriptive, these interpretations—among which I count Carlos Lévy’s view that the Academica is a Republican manifesto endorsing dialogue over and against the monolithic authoritarianism of Caesar—seem to me to blank, or obscure, anyhow to miss, the preliminary experimental dimension of ­Cicero’s thought. The first task of philosophy as it is drawn up over the pages of the Academica is to question and to contest, razing all certainties to the ground (those that remain upstanding in the wake of civil conflict) and subjecting all aspects of existence to a critical re-evaluation. The Academica does not put on show a politics of conservative legitimation. Cicero’s philosophy is first and foremost anti-systematic, anti-theoretical and descriptive in its approach: it is concerned with critique. If we think of the Academica as expressing a form of metaphilosophy, a wide-angle snapshot of the mechanisms and presuppositions employed in the tradition of Hellenic philosophy, the work will appear rarefied, ineffectual, irrelevant to politics and to Cicero’s world—it “leaves everything as it is” (Wittgenstein 1973: 1.124). To the contrary, this metaphilosophical orientation informs the function of the Lucullus and the first Academic Book: investigations that prepare the reader to address conceptual problems through a self-reflexive approach. If Gildenhard’s (2007) Tusculans are a pedagogic text, the Academica, I suggest, are a ground-clearing and propaedeutic exercise in philosophy. This is not at all to claim that Cicero’s philosophy, both before and after the Academica, did not develop according to, or express, propositive and constructive views. Throughout all three parts of the monograph I have sought to highlight the ways in which Ciceronian philosophy does provide the reader with a number of firm discursive co-ordinates. In Parts 2 and 3, I found reason and dialogue as

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the basis for shaping a network of readers and philosophers into a community. The relevance of new, Greek, intellectual paradigms is also a fundamental part of the project, as Cicero pleads his case for enshrining the skeptical Academy as the privileged viewpoint from which to survey, understand and assimilate the Greek philosophical world. This emphasis on the polyphony of the tradition and on community is counterbalanced by the subjective dimension within which his philosophy operates. Doubt as an anti-systematic tool of critique and research consists in the experience of the thinker examining different positions, evaluating arguments and reaching conclusions. Implicit in Ciceronian philosophy is an attempt to adapt a rich and diverse intellectual tradition to a reading public scattered across the metropolis and dispersed throughout the Empire. The Roman world is politically and geographically fragmented, and its actors—Cicero’s audience—necessarily engage with each other and with philosophy through texts.424 At the same time, around this exchange of texts and ideas Cicero looks to integrate the political community of the present with the philosophical tradition of the past. Balancing the task of laying the groundwork for a Roman philosophical tradition with the challenges of translating Carneadean skepticism into a hermeneutic instrument for rethinking the paradigms of Roman political and intellectual life deserves recognition as Cicero’s great achievement in the Academica. Exploring Cicero’s debt to Philo in Part 2 and to Carneades in Part 3, the monograph tried to present these two potentially incongruous philosophical styles as correlative. On the one hand, Cicero looks to the idea of persuasive impressions as a positive framework, drawing on it to elaborate certain positive normative concepts like community and practice, and the promise that Academic philosophy offers a productive approach to reality and institutional life. On the other hand, as I suggested above, it is important to insist on the critical nature of his philosophy. In addressing certain elements of Philo’s Roman epistemology, such as his communitarianism or acknowledgment of the possibility of truth, Cicero enshrines philosophy’s meaningful aspirations to build (on) knowledge and engage the wider community. Even these flashes of optimism, however, are dampened by the relentless ethic of scrutiny and doubt. Moreover, in the Academica Cicero never effectively rescues the persuasive impression as the firm footing on which to build an ambitious project of virtus. The shallow practicality of the probabile leaves the reader to reflect on what the point of philosophy is—or might be. Finally, my insistence on the historicity of the text is also connected to the way in which the Academica expresses a sense of personal disarray and 424 See Blyth (2010) on Cicero’s philosophy as text and Fletcher (2016) on Pollio’s letters.

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­ ncertainty. The Republican world of Cicero cannot see beyond Pharsalus and u Thapsus. Circling Rome in the first half of 45 bce, Cicero is one of many fallen politicians waiting to see what is to become of the old world once Caesar returns from Spain. In the context of the perverting violence of the civil wars, Cicero’s epistemic certainties have fallen by the wayside, taking with them the social, political, economic and cultural foundations on which Rome was founded. His reflections in the Lucullus often seem to echo his despair in facing the impossibility of making meaningful distinctions: “for thus false things are so close to true things, and things that cannot be perceived to things that can be perceived […] that the wise man must not commit himself to such a steep precipice” (ita enim finitima sunt falsa veris eaque quae percipi non possunt iis quae possunt […] ut tam in praecipitem locum non debeat se sapiens committere, Luc. 68; cf. Zerba 2013: 175 for a different take). This aspect of withdrawal, alongside his tentative reconstructions of epistemic meaning, stand as coping responses to the socio-political uncertainty. The correspondence between life and thought brings me to two concluding observations. The ideal unity of Ciceronian thought, with its sustained grand narrative, needs to be re-evaluated and doubted, since the Academica emerges as a text so closely bound to the chaos of the months during which it was written. It signals a point of radical reflection in Cicero’s thought. It is in this light that skepticism—to echo Cavell once more—seems to take shape out of the tragedy of life. Cicero’s philosophy is rooted in experiential concerns and the promise of theoretical deliverance, and the Academica represents the fine balancing act between an expression of private despair and the search for a ­collective way out.

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Index of Ancient Authors Aelian VH 12.25 107 Aëtius Aët. 4.11.1-4 121 Appian B Civ. 5.47 203n Aristotle De an. 402a 97 Metaph. 983a-993b 97–98 Phys. 184-189a 97 Rh. 1.2.1 318 Rh. 1.2.11 318 Athenaeus Ath. 211d-215b 103n Augustine C. acad. 3.41 252n Aulus Gellius NA 11.5.6 298 NA 13.10.4 72n Cassius Dio Cass. Dio 38.1-8 47n Caesar B Civ. 2.17-21 48 Cicero Ac. 1.1-3 58n Ac. 1.3 63, 115 Ac. 1.4 115–116, 202 Ac. 1.4-8 63n, 87 Ac. 1.5 87n, 227 Ac. 1.5-8 116 Ac. 1.6 183 Ac. 1.7 138n Ac. 1.8 73 Ac. 1.9 63, 115, 332 Ac.1.9-12 60 Ac. 1.10 183 Ac. 1.11 64, 87 Ac. 1.12 65n Ac. 1.13 131, 133n, 182, 186, 225, 226n Ac. 1.13-14 144 Ac. 1.15-17 145 Ac. 1.15-34 143, 148 Ac. 1.15-42 133 Ac. 1.16 142

Ac. 1.16-17 94n, 130, 137n Ac. 1.16-22 140 Ac. 1.17 132n, 139–140, 147, 200n Ac. 1.17-18 147n, 155n Ac. 1.17-42 138–139 Ac. 1.18-42 146 Ac. 1.19 147, 227 Ac. 1.19-32 85n, 140 Ac. 1.21-30 148n Ac. 1.22 147 Ac. 1.24-29 148–149 Ac. 1.26 141n Ac. 1.30 147 Ac. 1.30-32 150, 227 Ac. 1.31 29 Ac. 1.33-34 140, 147 Ac. 1.33-42 85n, 99, 140, 189 Ac. 1.34 189n Ac. 1.35 129, 141, 149 Ac. 1.37 147 Ac. 1.39 141 Ac. 1.40-42 141, 150 Ac. 1.42 129 Ac. 1.43 140, 144, 225 Ac. 1.43-46 66, 133–135, 143 Ac. 1.44 142 Ac. 1.44-46 85n, 135 Ac. 1.45 129, 143 Ac. 1.45-46 322–323 Ac. 1.46 94n, 275 Amic. 80 Att. 1.17[17] 67 Att. 2.25 [45] 48 Att. 3.8 [53] 47 Att. 3.15 [60] 47 Att. 3.18 [63] 47 Att. 4.14 [88] 44 (n) Att. 4.16 [89] 21, 44 (n), 45, 70 Att. 5.10 [103] 104 Att. 7.11 [134] 39 Att. 8.3 [153] 39 Att. 9.4 [173] 330n Att. 12.13 [250] 16, 75 Att. 12.12 [259] 17 Att. 12.14 [251] 16, 39 (n), 75

373

Index of Ancient Authors Att. 12.15 [252] 75 Att. 12.16 [253] 17 Att. 12.18 [254] 76–77 Att. 12.20 [258] 17 Att. 12.21 [260] 18 Att. 12.28 [267] 19, 39 (n) Att. 12.27 [276] 77 Att. 12.38a [279] 19–20, 77 Att. 12.40 [281] 19–20, 32, 39 (n), 77–78 Att. 12.41 [283] 20, 39 (n), 78 Att. 12.43 [284] 76 Att. 12.44 [285] 13, 39 (n), 78–79 Att. 12.45 [290] 78–79 Att. 12.48 [289] 78–79 Att. 12.51 [293] 77–78 Att. 12.52 [294] 13–14, 18, 222n Att. 13.1-2 [321] 21 Att. 13.10 [318] Att. 13.12 [320] 21–22, 24, 28, 31, 71, 226–227 Att. 13.13-14 [321] 24, 28, 48 Att. 13.14-15 [322] 21–23, 31 Att. 13.16 [323] 20–22, 28–29, 31, 48n, 71, 226 Att. 13.18 [325] 24–25, 31, 48 Att. 13.19 [326] 20–21, 24–25, 29, 32, 66, 68–71, 92n, 144, 191, 226–227 Att. 13.20 [328] 79 Att. 13.21 [351] 26–27, 35, 178n Att. 13.21a [327] 25, 35 Att. 13.22 [329] 25–26, 35 Att. 13.23 [331] 76 Att. 13.24 [332] 26, 49, 76 Att. 13.25 [333] 31, 37, 45, 49, 66, 69, 80 Att. 13.27 [298] 77–78 Att. 13.28 [299] 78–79 Att. 13.31 [302] 78 Att. 13.33a [330] 53, 77 Att. 13.35-36 [334] 77 Att. 13.38 [341] 37 Att. 13.42 [354] 32 Att. 13.43 [284] 77 Att. 13.44 [336] 26 Att. 13.51 [349] 32 Att. 13.52 [353] 79 Att. 15.5 [383] 47 Att. 15.26 [404] 47 Att. 16.5 [410] 37

Att. 16.6 [414] 27, 311 Att. 16.9 [419] 48 (n) Br. 258 109n Br. 306 107 Br. 315 105 Br. 332 107 Cael. 23-24 109 Cael. 51-57 109 De Or. 1.45 102 De Or. 1.263 65n De Or. 3.80 65n Div. 1.6-7 290n Div. 2.1 28, 33, 93 Div. 2.4 33 Div. 2.1-4 34 Fam. 2.4 [48] 36n Fam 7.5 [26] 45 Fam. 9.1 [175] 49–50, 54, 74 Fam. 9.2 [177] 49–54 Fam. 9.3 [176] 49, 51n, 53–54 Fam. 9.4 [180] 51n, 55–56, 64 Fam. 9.5 [179] 51, 53 Fam. 9.6 [181] 51n, 53–54, 66, 74 Fam. 9.7 [178] 53, 55 Fam. 9.8 [254] 39–40, 45–46, 50n, 53, 56–60, 144, 182, 226 Fam 11.27 [348] 39 Fam. 15.16 [215] 87n, 88 Fam. 15.19 [216] 87n Fat. 1 65n, 195n Fin. 1.1 63n Fin. 1.2 85–86 Fin. 2.1-6 65n Fin. 2.2 230n Fin. 2.35 157 Fin. 3.3 65n Fin. 3.4 47 Fin. 3.15 55n Fin. 3.20-25 146 Fin. 3.30 55n, 157 Fin. 3.50-61 146 Fin. 4.5 110n, 330n Fin. 4.43 55n Fin. 5.1 105, 107 Fin. 5.4 104, 107 Fin. 5.10 65n Fin. 5.16 153 Fin. 5.16-18 154n

374 Cicero (cont.) Fin. 5.20 153 Inv. rhet. 1.46 318 Inv. rhet. 2.66-68 328n Inv. rhet. 2.160 328n Leg. 1.18-19 328 Leg. 1.39 60n Luc. 2 230, 232 Luc. 3 87 Luc. 3-5 116 Luc. 4 177 Luc. 5 202 Luc. 5-6 87 Luc. 6 85 Luc. 7 65, 195n, 278, 322–323 Luc. 7-9 66, 87, 182, 192, 230–233, 279, 300 Luc. 8 66, 335 Luc. 8-9 309, 320–321 Luc. 9 173 Luc. 10 31, 116, 174n, 229–230 Luc. 10-11 178 Luc. 11 31, 232, 235 Luc. 11-12 65, 102, 133, 205, 222–223, 228–230, 234, 236–237, 253 Luc. 12 109, 195, 254n, 320n Luc. 13 119, 202, 333 Luc. 13-18 133 Luc. 14 144n Luc. 14-15 143 Luc. 15 130–131, 132n, 137n, 141–143, 145, 170 Luc. 15-16 261 Luc. 16 102, 129, 132n, 190n, 254 Luc. 17 104 Luc. 17-18 182, 214, 234n, 253–254, 291–292 Luc. 18 133, 205, 208, 241n, 246, 252, 257, 264, 288 Luc. 19 29, 119, 190n, 195 Luc. 19-29 119–126 Luc. 21-29 204 Luc. 26 194 Luc. 26-39 124–126 Luc. 27 268–269 Luc. 28-29 292–293 Luc. 29 215 Luc. 30 121, 123, 124n Luc. 32 214, 215

Index of Ancient Authors Luc. 32-34 276 Luc. 32-36 123, 126n, 244–245 Luc. 32-39 69 Luc. 33 278 Luc. 33-36 206 Luc. 34 243n Luc. 37 123, 175n Luc. 40-44 247–248, 265–267, 284–285 Luc. 45-46 206 Luc. 58-62 125 Luc. 59 172, 174n, 244, 244 Luc. 60 278, 335 Luc. 61 85–86, 258, 260 Luc. 61-62 210, 244 Luc. 62 128, 193–194 Luc. 63 178, 333 Luc. 64 189, 211, 335 Luc. 64-68 226 Luc. 65 65n, 235 Luc. 65-66 181–182, 300 Luc. 66 171n, 172, 263–264, 278–279 Luc. 66-67 180–181, 271, 308–309 Luc. 66-98 171 Luc. 67 184, 255, 272, 302 Luc. 68 214–215, 339 Luc. 69 192, 226, 236, 258, 284n, 335n Luc. 69-71 170, 186n, 228, 236–238 Luc. 70 110, 205n, 255, 257 Luc. 72-76 133–136, 138, 169, 170 Luc. 74 94n, 129, 143 Luc. 75 289 Luc. 76 131n, 142, 190n Luc. 76-77 261–264 Luc. 77 65, 183–184, 190n, 266, 271–272, 323 Luc. 77-78 243–244, 247, 265 Luc. 78 129, 137n, 143–144, 172, 176, 179, 181–182, 215, 240, 277, 281, 302 Luc. 79-80 191 Luc. 79-90 268 Luc. 79-98 170 Luc. 80-82 211 Luc. 80 215 Luc. 83 215, 265–267, 307 Luc. 83-87 285 Luc. 84 248 Luc. 84-87 208 Luc. 87 65, 180, 289 Luc. 88 191

375

Index of Ancient Authors Luc. 91-98 194, 268–270, 305–306 Luc. 92 195, 268n Luc. 92-94 55n Luc. 93-94 286–287 Luc. 95-98 308 Luc. 96 288–289, 307 Luc. 97 195, 286 Luc. 98 103, 170–172, 189, 277, 286, 300, 302 Luc. 98-99 68, 170, 30–305, 320 Luc. 98-104 179, 242–243 Luc. 98-105 172 Luc. 98-118 69, 301 Luc. 99 206, 272 Luc. 99-101 309–310 Luc. 99-104 185 Luc. 99-115 171 Luc. 101 175n, 206, 289–290 Luc. 101-105 91 Luc. 102 27n, 65, 103, 179–180 Luc. 103 278 Luc. 104 175, 242n Luc. 105-107 276 Luc. 106-107 204, 307 Luc. 107 290 Luc. 108 180 Luc. 109 310 Luc. 109-110 292, 293 Luc. 110 183 Luc. 111 248, 277 Luc. 112 136n, 152, 171n, 213 Luc. 112-113 183–185, 246–247 Luc. 112-117 151 Luc. 112-146 143, 223 Luc. 113 193 Luc. 114 180n Luc. 115 215, 265 Luc. 116-146 33n Luc. 116-128 201 Luc. 118-146 151 Luc. 123 94n Luc. 124-126 320–322 Luc. 126 290 Luc. 128 158 Luc. 128-141 153 Luc. 129-31 201 Luc. 131 156, 172, 303 Luc. 131-141 153–154 Luc. 132 193n, 255, 323

Luc. 132-136 155 Luc. 133-134 294 Luc. 136-137 332n Luc. 137 17, 302 Luc. 138 156 Luc. 138-141 172 Luc. 139 303–304 Luc. 139-140 155 Luc. 141-143 307–308 Luc. 142-146 293–294 Luc. 143 213 Luc. 144 333 Luc. 144-146 202–204 Luc. 145-146 299–300 Luc. 146 332 Luc. 147 93, 259 Luc. 148 128, 174–175, 177, 244, 259 Nat.D. 1.6 63n, 92n, 105 Nat.D. 1.9 33 Nat.D. 1.10 91 Nat.D. 1.11 28, 104, 107, 279–280 Nat D. 1.11-12 92 Nat.D. 1.11-13 33 Nat.D. 2.104 308n Nat.D. 3.33-34 270n Nat.D. 3.95 177 Off. 1.1 90 Off. 1.2 90 Off. 1.4 90n Off. 2.7-8 91n Off. 2.5 91 Off. 3.51 291 Orat. 237 34 Phil. 2.103 ff. 47n Q.fr. 2.10 [14] 87 Q.fr. 2.13 [17] 44n, 45n Q.fr. 2.16 [19] 45n Q.fr. 3.1 [21] 45n Q.fr. 3.5 [25] 25n, 44, 70 Rep. 1.45 329n Rep. 3.33 328 Rep. 5.1-2 43n Rep. 6.1 329n Tim. 1 109n Tusc. 1.6 87n Tusc. 2.4 28, 93 Tusc. 2.7 87n Tusc. 4.7 87n Tusc. 5.11 33, 279–280

376 Diogenes Laertius Diog. Laert. 1.19 169n Diog. Laert. 2.87 100 Diog. Laert. 2.92 100 Diog. Laert. 4.67 103 Diog. Laert. 10.9 112n Diog. Laert. 10.25 112n Eusebius Praep. Evang. 14.4.15-16 169n Praep. Evang. 14.9.1-2 252n Hesiod Op. 350 22n Horace Sat. 2.3 88n Philodemus Acad. index 24.32-7 102 Acad. index 31.34-32.10 104 Acad. index 32.13-16 102 Acad. index 33-36 108–110 Acad. index 33.40-42 104 Acad. index 34.1-16 106–107 Acad. index 34.6-16 105n Acad. index 34.36 110 Acad. index 34.36-37 105n Acad. index 34.36-39 107n Acad. index 34.39-42 107n Acad. index 35.1-3 106–107 Acad. index 35.10-16 110 Acad. index 35.8-10 105n Acad. index 35.33-35 102n Acad. index 36.8-10 102n

Index of Ancient Authors Photius Bibl. 212 111n Bibl. 212.17 251 Bibl. 212.29-30 252 Bibl. 212.170a 251 Bibl. 242 105 Plato Soph. 242ce 96 Soph. 246a-249d 96 Tht. 151e-183c 94–96 Tht. 187a 96n Tht. 210c 96n Plutarch Brut. 2 107 Brut. 24 107 Cic. 4.5 107 Cic. 24 109n De garr. 514d 291 Luc. 28.8 107 Luc. 42.3 105 Pomp. 75 109n Sextus Empiricus Math. 7.89-260 99n Math. 7.107-108 273 Math. 7.158 273 Math. 7.159-189 318 Math. 7.247-252 264n Pyr. 1.1-3 250 Pyr. 1.3 275n Pyr. 1.220 168n Pyr. 1.235 104n, 250–251, 288

Index of Names and Subjects Academica Caesar and 32 Catulus and Lucullus 20–21, 104, 174–175, 176, 178, 231, 244, 311, 335 Cicero’s defense of skepticism Eulogy of Lucullus (laudatio Luculli) 116, 229–230, 233, 332 Genre and 19, 21, 23–25, 45, 63–64, 66, 70–71, 115–116 Lucullus’ critique of skepticism  106–107, 125 See also Aparallaxia and apraxia Methodology and 89, 93, 279, 311, 333–334, 336–337 On Ends and 22, 25, 35 Revision 20–23, 28–32, 43, 61, 70 Sources 2, 13–14, 24, 29–30, 144–146, 160, 188, 190–191, 204–205, 223–224, 288, 321 Timeline of composition and revision 16–26 ‘Titles’ 1, 18–19, 28, 34 Academy See also Hellenistic Academy; History of the Academy First century bce ands 104, 110–113, 257–258, 295–296 Harran and (Carrae) 105n Lyceum and (Academics and Peripatetics) 147 New and Old Academy (nova et vetus Academia) 106, 110, 131–132, 134, 144, 147–150, 155–156, 168, 186, 257, 323–324 Rome and 86, 90, 103, 114, 259–260 Succession and (diadochê) 102, 106–109, 113, 129 Defense of (patrocinium) 92–93, 107, 111, 113, 127, 233, 254 Aenesidemus 110–111, 241, 251–252, 274 Akatalêpsia 1, 69, 134, 137, 171, 207–208, 227, 230–231, 242–243, 245, 250, 256, 261, 265, 267–268, 272, 276, 292, 323 Alexandria 107, 109 Amafinius and Rabirius 87 Andronicus of Rhodes 113 Anonymous Commentary on the Theaetetus 221n

Antiochus of Ascalon 30, 69, 104, 106, 108–110, 170, 184, 186, 192 Akatalêpsia and 292–293 Athens and 103–104 Antiochus’ ethics 153–154, 159, 255–256, 294 Canonica 99 Lucllus and 178–179, 234–235 Old Academy and 111, 193, 258, 294 See New and Old Academy Philo and 1–2, 31, 64–65, 112–113, 132–133, 160, 188, 222–230, 233–239, 247–248, 253, 256–257, 259, 324 Plato and 99n Rome and 111 Sosus 190n, 223–224, 228, 237 Stoicism and 104, 124n, 155, 192–193, 236–238, 255–256, 286, 294 Theory of correction and (correctio)  131–132, 138, 141–142, 144, 147, 149, 198, 200n, 238, 284, 294 See also Zeno; Systematic philosophy Antipater of Tarsus 123, 290–293 Antisthenes 20 Aparallaxia and apraxia 125, 211, 276–277, 333 See also Lucullus’ critique of skepticism Apprehension (comprehensio), see Impression Aratus Phaeonomena 308–309 Arcesilaus 1, 129, 133, 136, 145, 280, 282 Carneades and 240, 272, 295 Plato and 135 Socrates and 134, 137 Zeno and 137, 169, 171–172, 180, 185, 215, 261–268, 271, 323 Aristo of Alexandria and Dio of Alexandria 109, 111, 230 Aristo of Chios 290n Aristotle 147, 149, 183, 246, 318 Letter to Alexander 20, 78–79 Metaphysics 96–98 Philosophical Dialogues 24–25 Physics 97 Aristus 30, 106–109, 111–112, 230

378 Assent (adsentatio) 78n, 124, 175, 234, 242, 275, 308 Athenian Embassy to Rome (155 bce) 17, 103, 155–156, 302–303, 332n Athenaeus 103n Athenion 103 Athens Philosophy and 104, 107, 109–110 Sack of (86 bce) 103, 295 Atticus Dedication of the Academica and 22, 25–26, 45 See Dedication of the Academic Books The “publication” of Cicero’s works and 21, 26 Unauthorised distribution of Ciceronian philosophica 25, 28, 35 Auctoritas 128, 192–194, 210–211, 231, 238–239, 309, 321, 334–336 Brutus 22–23 And Varro 48 Caesar And Varro 46–48 Anticato 20, 39, 77 Caesar’s Rome 18, 77 Caesar’s lieutenants (Balbus, Hirtius and Oppius) 20, 53 Consolation 79 Callipho 154, 303 Carneades 102, 114, 123, 126, 143, 170–175, 180–182, 184, 195, 242–244, 275–277, 280–282, 291–292, 300, 302, 304 Carneadea divisio 153–157, 303, 305 Chrysippus and 269–271, 286, 289 Catilinarian consipiracy (63 bce) 128, 210, 332 Cato 20, 30, 51 Cavell, Stanley 203–204, 317 Charmadas 104, 110 Chrysippus 138, 169, 194–195, 288, 290, 293, 302 Carneades and, see Carneades and Chrysippus Chrysippus’s ethics (Chrysippea divisio) 153–157 Senses and 135

Index of Names and Subjects The Master Argument and 55n, 56 Cicero Authorial persona and 35, 62–63, 71–75, 77, 88, 283, 319 As critic 34, 62, 69–70 Caesar and 35, 45, 53, 72, 77–79, 337 Brutus 43n, 107 Catulus 28, 31, 33–34, 85–86, 116, 173, 244 Cicero’s philosophical views 179, 180–187, 281n, 282–283, 286, 288, 298–301, 311–312, 325, 337–339 Cicero’s social and political thought 327–332 Consolation 16, 75 Cato 20 History of Philosophy and, see Historiography of Philosophy and Cicero; Historiography of the Academy and Cicero Hortensius 33–34, 85–86, 93 Laws 45n, 297, 328, 329, 331 Letter to Caesar (symbouleutikon) 77–79 On Divination 34, 45n, 93, 195, 290n On Duties 33–34, 89–90, 110–111, 297, 319, 329–330 On Ends 85, 93, 104, 110–111, 120n, 146, 153–154, 156, 195, 297, 327 On Fate 34, 39n, 56, 195n On Invention 318 On the Nature of the Gods 92, 177, 195, 308n, 330 On the Orator 209 Philo and 144–145 Plato and 94, 160 Republic 25n, 44, 49, 70, 86, 297, 328–329, 331 Tusculan Disputations 33, 93, 156, 297, 337 Varro and 35, 39, 42, 44–60, 63–64, 66–67, 71–74, 115–116, 183, 214 Cicero’s Letters Academic skepticism and 66–70 As literature 32, 34, 36–40, 57–59, 62 Philosophy and 39, 41–42, 55, 67, 70, 225–227 Politics and 20, 37, 42–43 Publication 37–38 Cicero’s Philosophica As encyclopaedia 32–34, 93

379

Index of Names and Subjects As translation of Greek Philosophy 13, 146, 296, 312, 324–325 Prefaces 27, 326n The community of learning and (societas studiorum) 49–53 See also Philosophical community Cicero Studies 3–4, 33n, 61n, 67, 88 Cleanthes 135, 138 Clement of Alexandria 168–169 Clitomachus 65n, 100, 102–103, 111, 155, 172, 174, 179–182, 223–224, 240–243, 278, 280, 301–305 Crantor 155 Cratippus 90, 109–111 Criterion (iudicium) 125, 127–128, 179–181, 202, 205, 236, 245, 249–254, 273n, 276– 277, 293, 300, 307–308, 312, 318n, 336 Cyrenaics 135, 154 Dedication of the Academic Books 39–40, 45, 56–60 See also Atticus and the dedication of the Academica; Cicero and Varro Derrida, Jacques Margins and 40–41 The institution of Philosophy and 188, 196–197, 216 Dicaearchus 18 Diodorus Cronus and Master Argument 55 Diogenes Laertius 168–169 Diogenes of Babylon 302 Disagreements among philosophers (diaphoniai) 144, 150–152, 223, 290, 293–294, 323 Dolabella 55 Doubt In Cicero’s Letters 80–81 Philosophical doubt 92, 135–137, 145, 284–285, 305, 311–312, 317, 325, 337–339 Doxography 144, 152, 157n, 158, 320–321 Epochê 1, 26, 134, 137, 174–175, 178, 207–208, 216, 242–244, 257, 267, 274–275, 280, 287–288, 290, 312, 322–323 Epicureanism (Garden School) Athens and 103–104 Rome and 87–88

Freedom (libertas) 66, 131, 231–232, 235, 239, 320–321, 334–336 Friendship (amicitia) 23, 26, 66–67, 71–72 Genette, G. 40–41 Gueroult, M. 164–166 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich History of philosophy and 118, 162–164 Kierkegaard and, see Kierkegaard Skepticism and 273–274 Logic 314–316 See also Systematic philosophy Hellenstic Academy 213, 261, 264, 266, 269, 271 Dialectic and 267–268, 272–273, 275–277, 283–288, 290, 297, 299, 305–306, 311, 337 See also Philosophical debate Freedom and (libertas), see Freedom Mitigated skepticism and 277–281 The Academica and The Stoa and 1–2, 284 Heraclides of Pontus 24, 100–101n Heraclitus of Tyre 104, 109, 235–236 Hippobotus 100 Historiography of philosophy 151, 198 Aesthetics and 166 Analytic philosophy and 117 Ancient historiography of philosophy 94–100, 112–114, 117 Canon and 98, 212–213 Cicero and 118–119, 157–166, 197, 199 Dialectic and 150 Epistemology and 119–120, 162–163 Hegel and, see Hegel and history of philosophy Hellenistic philosophy and 138 Plato and Skepticism and 118n, 138 Historiography of the Academy 239, 256, 260, 324–325, 333 See also Academy; Hellenistic Academy Cicero and 167, 170–171, 187, 280, 282 Five-Academy Theory 168 One-Academy Theory and Two-Academy Theory 132–142, 186

380 Historiography of the Academy (cont.) Roman politics and 142–144, 202 Sextus Empiricus and 168, 250–251, 274, 298, 318 Three-Academy Theory 168, 169 Hortensius 31, 116 Imitation 136–138, 183, 230 Impression (visum) 184 Action and 122 Eulogon 273n Evident or clear impressions 206, 243n, 245, 253–254 Language and (lekton) 121–122 Kataleptic impression 1, 136–137, 205–206, 208–209, 241, 246–254, 257, 262–265, 271, 274, 276, 280–281, 291, 307, 311, 333 Persuasive impression (pithanon and probabile) 68–69, 126n, 127, 170–173, 175, 180, 202–204, 206–207, 227, 242–244, 269, 272, 274–281, 286, 289, 300–303, 307, 309–311 Difference between pithanon and probabile 304–305, 317–320 Interpretation 167–168, 173, 187n Irony (ironia) 129–130, 142–143, 170 Kierkegaard, Søren 312–317 Lacan, Jacques 62n, 72–73 Logic (logikê, dialectica) 33–34, 55n, 117, 122–125, 129, 146–147, 148n, 162–163, 171n, 194, 227, 267–271, 285–286, 302, 305–308 See also reason Lucilius 27n, 103 Lucius Censorinus 103, 180 Lucretius 87 Maiores (ancestors) 128, 203, 332 Marcus Cicero 89–90 Memory (memoria) 120, 125, 127, 229–230, 276, 336n Methods of Arguing Arguing on both sides of a question (disputatio in utramque partem)  65, 92, 207, 231, 281, 322–323, 330n

Index of Names and Subjects Arguing against everyone/all positions (contra omnes/omnia) 91–92, 235, 289, 322 Metrodorus of Scepsis 102 Mithridatic War, First (Mithridates vi) 103, 112, 116 Moral or ethical ends 153–158 Navigation (sailing) 54, 127, 154n, 308–311 Opinion (opinio, doxa) 172, 180n, 181, 184–185, 245, 262–264, 269, 271, 302, 308–309 Panaetius 100, 155–156, 258, 290–291 Paradoxes (paradoxa) 271, 332n Pseudomenos 194–195, 269–270, 286, 288–289, 306 Sôritês 55n, 194, 269–270, 286–287, 306 Perception Perceptual conditions 142, 208–209, 254 Propositions and 120–121 See Stoic epistemology Sense-perception 121–127, 128n, 130, 134–135, 169, 183, 190–191, 208, 215, 232, 246, 256, 265, 267, 289–290, 323 Peripatetic School (Lyceum) 90, 140 Athens and 103 Peripatetic ethics 154–155 Pharsalus and Munda (battles of) 2, 15, 283n, 339 Philodemus 106 History of the Academics 101 History of the Stoics 101 Philo of Larissa 107, 109, 112, 181–182, 192, 204–210, 279, 281, 287–288 Athens and 103–104, 108 Antiochus and, see Antiochus and Philo Metrodorus and 172–176, 207, 243–245, 247, 248n, 249, 280, 301 Philo’s innovations (nova) 234–236, 240–241, 245–247, 249–254 Roman Books 31, 65n, 133, 223, 228–229, 233–237, 240, 245–247 Philosophy As a field of enquiry 151, 153, 165–166, 188, 233, 246, 255, 296, 305, 320, 323, 327 As therapy 16–19, 75 Critical philosophy 188–189, 193–199

Index of Names and Subjects Law courts and 128, 194, 202–204, 332–333 Philosophical community (community of philosophers) 65, 136, 150, 199–201, 204, 207, 211–216, 337–338 See also Cicero’s letters and the community of learning Philosophical debate (dialogue, debate, disputatio) 136, 159, 177,  182–184, 186, 188–189, 191–192, 195, 202, 214–215, 261, 265–266, 272, 284, 288, 295–296, 322 Politics 18, 51–52, 54–56, 59–61, 65, 69, 177, 210, 326, 333 Rhetoric and 227–228, 319, 332–333 Rome and 87–88, 185–186, 200, 202, 204, 211, 217, 283n, 332 The individual and 187, 312, 315–317, 319–324, 338–339 The tripartite division of philosophy (partes philosophiae) 33, 85, 93, 147, 307 Scholastic labels and 294–295 Plato Socrates and 95, 129–130, 132, 136, 140, 143, 170 See also Socrates Platonic philosophy 129, 139–141, 146–148, 189, 198 Sophist 96–97 Theaetetus 94–96 Timaeus 148–150 Polemo 140, 148–149, 154–155, 159, 168n, 183, 246 Posidonius 99 Presocratics 95, 135–136, 138, 169, 201 Progress 131–132, 136, 141–142, 150, 188, 199, 261, 263, 269 Pyrrhonism 110–111, 250–252, 273–274, 298, 313 Quellenforschung 13n, 213, 224 Quintus Cicero 70–71, 87 Reason (ratio) 123, 126, 190, 194–195, 203, 245, 268–269, 285, 334–336 Research 231–232, 249, 300, 308, 311 Rhetorica ad Herennium 318 Ruch, Michel 38–39

381 Sallustius 44, 87 Skepticism Dogmatism and 298–299 Political thought and 330–331 Radical skepticism, see Hellenistic Academy and dialectic Use of term in Greco-Roman philosophy 2n, 298 Socrates 63–64, 138–139, 145 Socratics dialogue 130 See Irony Speusippus 140 Stoicism Plato and 156 Rome and 88 See also Amafinius and Rabirius Conceptions and preconceptions (ennoiai and prolêpseis) 121, 124 Critique of skepticism, see Lucullus’ critique of skepticism Indifferents 55 Stoic epistemology 120–127, 141, 150, 262–264, 266, 269, 299–300 See also Impressions Stoic ethics 146n, 153, 156 See also Antiochus and ethics Stoic theology 148–149 Strato 147, 200 Systematic philosophy 130, 139, 141–143, 146– 149, 151, 209, 284–285, 312–315, 337–338 See also Platonic philosophy; Hegel’s logic Thapsus (battle of) 18, 50–51, 65, 72, 79, 339 Theophrastus 140, 147, 200, 246 Tubero 155 Tullia 2, 15, 19, 35, 61–62, 71, 74–77 Varro 189 Academic Books and 21–23 Antiochus and 21, 145–148, 226–227 Brutus and, see Brutus and Varro Correspondence with Cicero, see Cicero and Varro Exchange of treatises with Cicero 14 Menippean Satires 73, 116 On the Latin Language 14, 47 Wisdom (sapientia) 87n, 120, 122–123, 126, 152, 268

382 Wise man (sapiens) 137, 152, 155, 172, 180, 181, 203, 232, 249, 262–265, 269, 271–272, 292, 300, 309–310, 339 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 203–205, 337 Xenocrates 140, 148–149, 246

Index of Names and Subjects Zeno of Citium 131, 136, 140–141, 149, 155, 202, 253, 290 Arcesilaus and, see Arcesilaus and Zeno Definition of an impression, see Kataleptic impression