Lev Shestov - Potestas Clavium - Part III

     I cannot, of course, sketch here in any detail the history of how the conviction grew among the Greeks that life must be regarded sub specie aeternitatis, and that, accordingly, only that is to be regarded as true and real which depends on us - eph'êmîn - and not that which does not so depend - to ouk eph'êmîn. I will only repeat once again that even Anaximander was convinced that this was the meaning hidden in Heraclitus' "everything flows, nothing persists" (panta rheî ouden menei); that Parmenides is speaking of the same thing in his "being and thinking are one and the same" (auto esti to einai kai to noeîn), and that consequently the archê (the beginning) of Greek philosophy was indeed the sunaisthêsis tês autoû astheneias kai adunamias peri ta anankaîa - the realization of our own weakness and impotence with respect to the necessary things. The ancient philosophers disputed about every subject in the world, but of one thing they were unshakably convinced: there is in the world an invincible necessity which lays down to man the bounds of the possible and impossible, and which was revealed as the supreme and final principle of the universe after the disappearance of the gods. This seemed to reason so self-evident and indubitable that there could be no two opinions about it. More than this: it seemed that the very possibility of thought itself was founded on this self-evident truth. For if there is no immutable order, how are we to think? How ask, answer, prove, convince? Even the deepest and boldest philosophers among the Greeks, even as among ourselves, still remained naïve realists in their methodological processes and proceeded from the presupposition that truth is an adaequatio rei et intellectus - an equation of object and intellect. Aristotle's famous definition (Met. 1011, b 15), "A false statement is the statement that that which is, is not, or that that which is not, is, and a true statement is a statement that that which is, is, and that which is not, is not" - this definition lived in the souls of the ancients, as it lives on in our souls today, although many times proved untenable by the theory of knowledge.

     It is, however, completely sufficient for the needs of common sense and for those of scientific investigation. Heat expands a body, cold contracts it; the smith putting on a new wheel and the learned physicist deducing the most difficult theory of calories equally admit the truth of this assertion, as framed by Aristotle. It retains its force even in the most complicated scientific arguments, as in those between Copernicus and Ptolemy, Einstein and Newton, Lobatchevsky and Euclid. However much the sages dispute, they will never think of raising the question of what is truth. They are all convinced that they know already what truth is, and that all, Ptolemy and Copernicus, Einstein and Newton, the smith and the joiner, insofar as they seek the truth, are seeking one and the same thing, so that in this respect the sage is no different from the ordinary, common-sense man. This principle has been accepted by science, common sense, and philosophy. Even philosophers argue and prove, and thus start from the supposition that our judgments have, as it were, a pre-existent model which they must resemble if they want to be truths. It is impossible for heat both to expand and contract bodies, for the specific gravity of mercury to be both greater and less than that of iron, for the velocity of light to be a maximum and for there to be velocities of over 180,000 miles a second. Everything is dominated by the law of contradiction for which, again, Aristotle found an excellent expression when he called it the bebaiôtatê tôn archôn, the most unshakable of principles.

     But now an astonishing fact: Aristotle, who told us what truth is and placed this truth under the protection of the all-powerful law of contradiction, heard a rumor that one of the greatest philosophers of antiquity, Heraclitus, refused to recognize the law of contradiction. It appears that Aristotle, for all his assurance, was greatly perturbed by Heraclitus. He returns twice to the subject in his Metaphysics. The first time he contents himself with the mocking remark: "It is not necessary for a man to believe what he says" (ouk esti gar anankaîon, ha tis legei) (Met. 1005, b 25). The second time (1062, a 34) he repeats almost the same words: Heraclitus is talking without really realizing what he is saying: ou suneis heautoû ti pote legei. But this still seems to him insufficient, and he adds another objection - an entirely unacceptable one, since it contains a petitio principii; it proceeds from the supposition that Heraditus did not doubt the law of contradiction. So it comes down to this, that in either case Aristotle can only make one answer to Heraclitus: that what he says is not what he thinks.

     Another example out of Aristotle's Ethics. He is speaking of those who said that the so-called external goods were not necessary for eudaimonia (happiness); one can be happy even inside Phalaris' bull. Now Aristotle declares that anyone saying this is, intentionally or unintentionally, talking nonsense (ê hekontes ê akontes ouden legousin) (Ethics, 1153, b 21). Many philosophers of antiquity, both before and after Aristotle, not only asserted that a man could be happy even inside Phalaris' bull, but actually made this assertion the foundation of their ethics. Epicurus himself, who is clearly not at all the man to make fun of human reason, did not hesitate before this paradox. Aristotle could give no answer either to Epicurus or to Heraclitus; he could only say: ouden legeis - you are talking nonsense.

     Now comes the question: is Aristotle's a sufficient answer to Heraclitus and Epicurus? Incidentally, in another passage Epicurus produces an equally glaring paradox. He allowed it "to be possible" that the atoms in their motion - only once, indeed, very long ago, and only to an infinitesimal degree - deviated from their proper motion. What would Aristotle have said if this "possibility" had been laid before him for his approval? Here, again, no proof could be adduced. Nobody was there when, in the infinitely distant past, the atoms assumed the liberty of diverging on their own authority from the universal laws of motion. Aristotle would thus have had no choice but to resort again to ouden legousin, to anger and abuse. And yet he had to take to such an "argument" often enough. Even of Plato he wrote, more than once, kenologeîn esti kai metaphoras legein poiêtikas [those are empty words and mere poetic metaphor](Met. 991, a 21 ff.) Or if he is pressed too hard with objections, he declares (Met. 1006, a 6): "It is simply lack of education (apaideusia) when we cannot distinguish where proof is necessary and where not." I think that if Aristotle were deprived of the right to argue in this way, his philosophy would lose a great deal of its perfection and convincing force. If, for example, we assume that Phalaris' bull simply has to be faced in composing any system of ethics? Or that Heracitus' doubt as to the sovereign rights of the law of contradiction simply cannot be set aside in constructing a theory of knowledge? Or that the idea of the mean, so carefully cherished by Aristotle, an idea with which he surrounded the universe as with a Chinese wall, is by no means so enticing and noble as to enchant all who look upon it?

     Meanwhile, how are we to get away from Phalaris' bull and all the other obstacles which the philosopher encounters on his way, if we make up our minds to abstain from angry exclamations and not pour our moral indignation on everyone who reminds us too often of these things? Moral indignation is not enough; to "repress" such questions, or to answer them, we must take a decision which Socrates took, and after him all the ancient philosophers, Epicurus not excepted. We must make up our minds that morality offers the summum bonum, that it is the source of the elixir of life and death, that here and here alone can man find his last refuge. Socrates, as I said, did this, and here lies the meaning of his assertion that a bad man can do no harm to a good. He who enjoys the secrets of virtue to which wisdom holds the key need not fear Anytus and Meletus, with all the Athenians, nor the fury of the tyrant, be he ever so powerful. No one is lord over virtue. And morality, from which all the virtues derive, has become by Socrates' will a creative principle. Through it the ancient philosophers attained to the summum bonum which they could not find in the world they inherited from the old, dead gods. In the world of the gods were good and ill, which fell to mortals variously and at haphazard. Man, when he attached significance to good and ill as they happened in the world of the gods, placed himself in complete dependence on chance. This seemed fearful even to an Epicurus; it was still more intolerable to a Socrates, a Plato, the Stoics, and after them the Neo-Platonists. "The Good" must not be made dependent on chance. It is autonomous, it takes nothing from anyone, creates everything itself and only gives.

     How, then, could Aristotle assert that a good life needed something more, which is not subject to the good? Or that the good man should fear Phalaris' bull? We see that Aristotle's judgment was too hasty; it is not possible to say of those who faced Phalaris' bull that they ouden legousin [talk nonsense]. There was a deep, a very deep meaning in their words. Thus and only thus can the ethical problem be posed. There is no ethics so long as the good man must tremble before the dreadful face of existence or await the good things of life, like a beggar, from blind fortune. Ethics begins by teaching man to see the nothingness of everything on earth, both of that which is commonly looked upon as good and of that which is commonly looked on as ill. Royal crowns, Alexander's fame, Croesus' riches, a day in May, fragrant lilac, the rising sun, are just as insignificant and despicable as everything else quae in nostra potestate non sunt, ta ouk eph'êmin. On the other hand, ill fortune and oppressions, small or great, do not touch us. Sickness, poverty, ugliness, death, ruin of the fatherland cannot disquiet the wise man. The summum bonum is beyond good and ill. It is conditioned by the termini of good and evil, by a Something which is dependent neither on nature, nor on the gods (who do not exist), but only on man himself. Ancient philosophy created a dialectic which understood how to find in that which has a genesis (origin) and is condemned to phthora (destruction), in that which appears and vanishes, a Something which never began and will therefore never end. It discovered also the katharsis (purification) - the last word of Greek wisdom - spiritual exercises which transform, not the world, but man himself, by elevating him to the consciousness that it is the fundamental duty of the reasonable being to learn to renounce himself, his own ego, as directly cognized, and to transform himself into a simple entity, the ideal entity. Until this is done, until the living man has broken the bond with the visible world, reason does not become free from the intolerable feeling of impotence in the face of necessity, and neither the philosopher nor the ordinary man can grasp Mercury's desired wand.

     Aristotle knew all this just as well as Plato and his Stoic followers. He knew that until ontology is transformed into ethics, philosophy, which had begun with consciousness of man's impotence in the face of necessity, can never come to consciousness of its strength. And if he still evaded Phalaris' bull and preferred altogether to shun the farthest reaches of existence, he had his reasons for it, or rather, he was guided by the just, unfailing practical instinct of a clever man. He naturally trusted reason and was certainly not one of the mislogoi. But he had besides another great gift, that of moderation. It was said of him that he was metrios eis hyperbolên - moderate to excess. In his soul there is something always whispering to him - perhaps, who knows? he had his own demon, like Socrates - that too consistent and careful thought involved the greatest dangers. He, like his predecessors, loved spiritual goods; and he was convinced that there is a moral law above man; he always defended wisdom and praised it. But he never dared pursue reason and the wisdom born of reason to the end, and he was always mistrustful of Plato. The consequences showed that he was not wrong. We shall see this at once in the example of the last great philosopher of antiquity, Plotinus.