i

A note on this digitised edition

Non-PostScript fonts were used in the composition of this thesis, which complicated conversion toAdobe® Portable Document Format.

Reproduction quality is accordingly compromised in places in comparison with the original printedition. This is most noticeable in the Greek text, but not confined to it.

ARISTOTLE ON HISTHREE ELEMENTS

a reading of Aristotle’s own doctrine

Alistair M. KwanB.Sc. Dip.Sci. M.Sc. (Hons)

A thesis submitted in partial fulfilmentof the requirements for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

in the Department of History and Philosophy of Science,Faculty of Arts,

University of Melbourne.

August 1999.

A digitised edition of the paper original.

iii

Abstract

In light of the long-lived, on-going debate surrounding the Aristotelian doctrines of prime matterand the four simple bodies (or ‘elements’), the general message of this thesis is surprising: thatAristotle’s theory is centred on neither. I argue that Aristotle does in fact have a substantial primematter, but not the single, featureless, immutable prime matter of tradition.

More particularly, the thesis defends three main points:

Firstly, Aristotle’s discussion of pre-Socratic and Plato’s philosophies of nature reveals a commitmentto finding elements in the sense of the most fundamental things knowable. These elements apply tonot just matter, but to the whole of nature. The evidence for Aristotle’s commitment to absolutefundamentals is in his word usage: he speaks of the various kinds of elements (roots, first principles,et c.) as absolute fundamentals, and uses the terms interchangeably. The evidence for his interest innature (rather than only matter) is found within his argument, where the assumptions give away hismotives.

Secondly, since Aristotle considers nature to be, as he puts it, ‘a principle of change’, his elementsturn out to be his familiar three elements of change: form, privation, and substratum. While changeis the focus of this framework, the approach allows matter to be analysed, leading Aristotle to asubstantial substratum underneath each change. Thus, he confirms the existence of the four simplebodies (earth, water, air and fire), and deduces, from the premise that they change, that there isanother substratum beneath them.

And thirdly, since this substratum underneath the four simple bodies is known only by deduction,Aristotle cannot sense its features, and his three-element framework is powerless to analyse it anyfurther. That last substratum is therefore at the edge of his knowledge, and in a purely epistemicsense, it is featureless and prime.

This epistemically prime matter is of no great importance to Aristotle—its primality is not evenimportant enough to warrant extended discussion, and he certainly leaves the way open for furtheranalysis, if ever that substratum turns out to suffer sensible change. In the hands of scholars focussedon the elements of matter, this last knowable substratum was perhaps the inspiration behind thetraditional prime matter.

Many recent works deny Aristotle’s support for traditional prime matter. There is a danger thatrefutations of traditional prime matter refute also my epistemically prime matter, and thus attack theheart of this thesis. However, because they focus on matter rather than on change and nature moregenerally, those refutations in fact prove harmless, their analysis indeed often agreeing with mine inthe course of their discussion.

v

Declaration of authorship

I, Alistair Marcus Kwan, declare that this thesis comprises only my original work, except where dueacknowledgement has been made in the text to all other materials used. This thesis does not exceed22 000 words in length, exclusive of the bibliography and footnotes.

10 August 1999.

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Acknowledgements

My thanks to Dr K.R. Hutchison who, in addition to being my main source of philosophical,historical and rhetorical criticism, so often granted reprieve from a kind of intellectual isolation that,in earlier years, I never believed existed.

My thanks also to the Rev’d Professor D.A. Lee, whose inspection and criticism of my translationsfrom Aristotle’s Greek has ensured their fitness for inclusion here.

I dedicate this thesis to my family.

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Abbreviations

In abbreviating the titles of Aristotle’s works, I have followed the ninth-edition Greek-English Lexiconof Liddell, Scott and Jones, despite the inconsistency of their notation. For the book numberings inMetaphysics, I have followed the Roman numerals in the Revised Oxford translation:

� ≡ I, � ≡ II,

� ≡ III, � ≡ IV, � ≡ V, & c.

APo. Aristotle, Analytica Posteriora = Posterior Analytics

Cael. Aristotle, De Caelo = The Heavens

Cat. Aristotle, Categoriae = Categories

de An. Aristotle, De Anima = The Soul

EE Aristotle, Ethica Eudemia = Eudemian Ethics

GA Aristotle, De Generatione Animalium = Generation of Animals

GC Aristotle, De Generatione et Corruptione = Generation and Corruption

HA Aristotle, Historia Animalium = History of Animals

Metaph. Aristotle, Metaphysica = Metaphysics

Mete. Aristotle, Meteorologica = Meteorology

PA Aristotle, De Partibus Animalium = Parts of Animals

Ph. Aristotle, Physica = Physics

Po. Aristotle, Poetica = Poetics

Pol. Aristotle, Politica = Politics

Rh. Aristotle, Rhetorica = Rhetoric

SE Aristotle, De Sophistici Elenchi = Sophistical Refutations

DK Diels & Kranz (edd.), Fragmente der Vorsokratiker.

FGrHist Jacoby (ed.), Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker.

KRS Kirk, Raven & Schofield, The Presocratic Philosophers.

LSJ Liddell & Scott, ed. Jones, Greek-English Lexicon.

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Contents

Abstract......................................................................................................................................iiiDeclaration of authorship ............................................................................................................vAcknowledgements....................................................................................................................viiAbbreviations ............................................................................................................................. ix

ARISTOTLE’S ELEMENTS IN NATURE.....................................................................................1

THE MEANING OF ‘ELEMENT’ ...............................................................................................9Elements in Physics I·1-4 ...........................................................................................................11Elements in the early books of Metaphysics.................................................................................15‘So-called elements’ in Generation & Corruption .........................................................................17Conclusion ................................................................................................................................19

THE NATURE AND NUMBER OF ARISTOTLE’S ELEMENTS ................................................23Aristotle’s arguments for three elements in Physics I...................................................................25

ADVERSUS ADVERSARIOS .......................................................................................................43Bolotin: “On the Principles of Natural Beings” .........................................................................44Charlton: “Did Aristotle Believe in Prime Matter?” ..................................................................53Scaltsas: Substances and Universals ..............................................................................................59

CONCLUSION ..........................................................................................................................63

Works cited ...............................................................................................................................65

1

Chapter I

ARISTOTLE’S ELEMENTS IN NATURE

Students of Aristotelian natural philosophy have long maintained that the Philosopher endorses two

characteristic doctrines: that of the four simple bodies, and that of prime matter.1 But in recent

decades, relatively specialised studies have made it clear that this traditional interpretation is not really

Aristotle’s view at all. In relative harmony with such literature, the primary claim of this thesis is that,

if we read ‘elements’ in a strict, fundamentalist sense, it turns out that Aristotle accepts only three—

the form, privation and material substratum that are already familiar from his analysis of change.

Change, not matter, is the focus of Aristotle’s pursuit for elements: his elements are not fire, earth,

water and air, and neither does he choose tradition’s prime matter.

The three elements of change are each genera, immense abstracted classes of numerous individuals.

Of the many material substrata, one particular species is very special, in that it is located at the very

limits of human understanding, and is thus epistemically ‘prime’. Being at the limits of knowledge, it

has no known features, and is not even directly observable: its existence is all that Aristotle knows.2

So despite there being no ontologically prime matter in this theory, this particular substratum looks

and apparently behaves like the single, immutable prime matter of tradition.

Aristotle’s account of change is, of course, well known. In any change, he says, a form and its

corresponding privation are exchanged, while a material substratum remains constant underneath.

That tripartite analysis is felt all through Aristotle’s natural philosophy: it is the language, the method

of inquiry, the template for his final theories. And, as we will see, it governs his theory of matter. So

when Aristotle seeks the fundamental elements (in Physics I), he begins with a study of matter.

Realising the inadequacy of that approach, he quickly shifts his attention to the study of change. The

reason for this is that Aristotle seeks not the elements of matter alone, but of nature in a far broader

1 The traditional view is discussed by, e.g., Dijksterhuis, Mechanization of the World Picture, I:26, p. 22;Lindberg, Beginnings of Western Science, pp. 51-58; Lloyd, Aristotle: Growth and Structure of his Thought, pp. 164-175; Ross, Aristotle, Ch 3.2 It could be argued that many such substrata inhabit the hazy fringes of knowledge. But because they have noknown features, they cannot be told apart. So if there are several, they all appear to be one, and since Aristotle isnaturalistic, he naturally prefers to treat them as such.

2

sense. His search leads to the well-known ‘first principles’ of change. It turns out that these are, in

fact, the elements that Aristotle chooses for the whole of nature.

My argument to the above conclusions will be grounded in Aristotle’s own methods of investigation.

Some traditional interpretations, by contrast, read as if Aristotle proceeds synthetically, positing four

elements without defense, blindly accepting the word of Empedocles, before moving up the scale of

nature.3 The fact is that Aristotle generally does not work this way. Rather than positing elements

(and primary qualities too), he deduces them, by analysing change in higher-level phenomena.4

Accordingly, Aristotle’s whole discussion of matter is bluntly reductive, as tradition freely admits. He

analyses complex materials into their ‘homoeomerous’ components (� � � � � � � � �

);5 then analyses the

changes suffered by the homoeomerous materials, deducing that such materials are composed of four

underlying ‘simple bodies’—the four elements of tradition (earth, water, air and fire). But he does

not stop here. Recognising that the simple bodies themselves undergo changes, albeit invisible ones

that must be revealed by deduction, he concludes that they too possess a deeper substratum.

This is what tradition calls the ‘prime matter’—the final result of Aristotle’s analysis, a single,

featureless and unchanging matter that underlies all other material things.6 Tradition is correct to

identify this endpoint as featureless and unchanging, but it is wrong about the reason. Its

featurelessness is not because it has no features; its changelessness is not because it does not change.

It is denied features because Aristotle cannot detect any feature; it is denied changes because Aristotle

cannot detect any change. This substratum is deemed primary, but not because Aristotle knows that

there is nothing prior to it. It is primary because Aristotle is unable to observe or deduce anything

prior to it. This primary substratum lies on the very fringe of human knowledge; Aristotle can

3 For such portrayals, see e.g. Dijksterhuis, Mechanization of the World Picture, I:26, p. 22; Taton (ed.), Ancientand Medieval Science, pp. 231-232.4 On the deduction of primary qualitites, see GC II·2, 329b5-330a30. There, Aristotle deduces a minimal set ofthem from human sensation.5 � � � � � is variously translated as ‘homoeomers’, ‘homoeomerous materials’, ‘homogeneous materials’ and‘uniform materials’. The Greek term (literally ‘same stuff’) captures the intended meaning better than either‘homogeneous’ (‘same kind’) or ‘uniform’. Hence, I will, despite its clumsiness, use ‘homoeomer’ and‘homoeomerous’ here.

The meaning is ‘materials whose parts are the same material as the bulk’. A homoeomer is to Aristotle, verymuch what a ‘substance’ is to a chemist of today, except that it includes physical properties (such as springiness,rigidity, texture) that are lost by reducing matter to the molecular scale.6 A natural consequence of my view is that it is possible for the primary substratum (close to what tradition callsthe prime matter) to have features that are beyond the grasp of human sense, language and intellect. Aristotle’snaturalistic tenets would consider the study of such features as groundless speculation, good reason for notinvestigating them.

3

discern nothing more than its existence: he does not know whether it is absolutely fundamental, and

indeed he cannot, since he has no means by which to find out; it is a mysterious and impenetrable

substance that yields nothing to Aristotle’s methods of interrogation.7 Unlike the traditional prime

matter—a single immutable material that underlies all else—this new stuff is only tentatively prime;

it is, in principle, still analysable. It is possibly even of multiple kinds, though since it shares the

traditional property of having no detectable features, Aristotle is unable to separate and count them.

Aristotle, the naturalist that he is, expresses no expectation that there is a matter more prime. Neither

does he expect that no such matter exists: these questions are not for natural philosophy to answer.8

As well as dealing with these fundamental levels of matter, the three-part analytic framework applies

equally well on large scales, but it always leads us down to the same impenetrable substratum. Within

the theory of chemical combination (� � � � � and � � � � � � ),9 Aristotle reduces combination of different

materials to interactions on the level of the simple bodies. From there, it is a natural step to the final

substratum. Admittedly, we do not have many details of the theory of chemical combination. In

particular, we have nearly nothing on the intricacies of how homoeomers interact, and only a small

range of examples—the scant texts mostly concern the underlying theory at the level of the simple

bodies.10 But we have enough to make a reductionist motive clearly plausible.

7 My position is that this substratum is one special case in a grand hierarchy; it is the lowest level that Aristotlecan know. Aristotle does not even attempt to rule out the possibility of substrata beneath this one. But theexistence of these is of no importance to his physics, since they cannot be determined through observation.Indeed, this substratum is a ‘substance’ or � � � � � in Aristotle’s technical sense. The reasons for concluding thiswill be explained more fully in Chapter III. Briefly, it is substantial because all material substrata aresubstantial, and this is just a special case of material substrata overall.8 This approach to the subject—defining physics so as to exclude purely speculative questions—is indeedAristotle’s; see the discussion in Chapter III below.9 Strictly speaking, � � � � (Latine ‘mixtio’) is chemical combination, as opposed to mechanical. It involves morethan just physical juxtaposition; there must be a destruction of the ingredients to create a material with a newidentity. ! " # � � is the � � � � of liquids. At Top. IV·2, 122b25, Aristotle is doubtful that solids are capable ofchemical combination. But in Mete. IV·9, 385b10-30, he states that microscopic porosity will allow waterparticles (sic— $ % � & � ' ( ) * + ) to penetrate into a solid and soften or dissolve it; it therefore seems thatdissolution should qualify as a kind of � � � � , even though Aristotle does not say so.

The word ) " # � � is used especially for the mixing of wine and water for drinking (classical custom being todilute it first); it is clearly related to the word ) " � & , " , denoting the vessel used for this purpose.

For details of the � � � � - ) " # � � theory, see e.g. Dijksterhuis, Mechanization of the World Picture, I:28, pp. 28-29;Joachim, “Aristotle’s Conception of Chemical Combination”. See also Freudenthal, Aristotle’s theory of materialsubstance, which book is devoted almost entirely to issues of chemical combination.10 The ) " # � � of wine and water is mentioned in e.g. GC I·10, 328a25-30. The � � � � of soil or ash into freshwater is mentioned in e.g. Mete. II·3, 359b1-15; the result is to impart a salty, acidic or bitter taste to the initiallyflavourless water.

4

Using his ideas of mixing and transmutation of the simple bodies, Aristotle reduces large-scale

phenomena—e.g. the water cycle, comets and rainbows—down to changes at the lowest levels of

matter. Within the theory of concoction (- . / 0 1 ), he analyses the chemistry of macroscopic changes

involving heat and cold. These too are reduced to the terms of the simple bodies, and naturally then

to the final substratum. Conjoining concoction with soul, he expands his analytic method to fill the

chasm between ‘physics’ and ‘biology’. Aristotle’s work on concoction effectively completes the

reduction of the whole terrestrial world to basic processes. He reveals a buzzing exchange of forms

and privations at all levels: the primary substratum and opposites, the simple bodies, the

homoeomers, composite objects.

These three elements—form, privation and substratum—are absolute fundamentals, ‘chemically’,

linguistically, cognitively and epistemically (but perhaps not ontologically). Their function is narrow,

yet pervasive: during every change, the substratum remains constant, while a form is replaced by its

corresponding privation. This, a central theme of Physics, is Aristotle’s key to understanding all

change and all matter. Moreover, these three elements are elements of change, not elements of stuff,

intentionally so. For, as re-reading and re-analysing Physics and Metaphysics will confirm in the

coming chapters, Aristotle does not study matter directly. He watches it changing, and uses those

changes to deduce what lies beneath the surface. His focus on change and harnessing thereof is an

innovation—perhaps the innovation—that really sets Aristotle apart from his predecessors in this

field.11

The notion that form, privation and material substratum are the elements of change has met with

general agreement for centuries. Prime matter, however, is no longer secure in its medieval throne.12

Its claim to primality, and even the question of whether Aristotle supports it at all, has provoked

11 Cf. Parmenides, Melissus and Zeno, for whom change was problematic, and Heraclitus, for whompermanence was problematic. See Barnes, Early Greek Philosophy, Chapters 8-11, on these four philosophers.We should also note Aristotle’s observation that, apart from Democritus, none before him had made anyseriously attempt to define and explain the difference between alteration and generation-corruption. GC I·2,315a33-35.12 Instead of ‘prime matter’, I will write of ‘ultimate’, ‘final’ or ‘primary substratum’ ( 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 6 9 4 9 ). This is forreasons of etymology and simplicity, and because ‘substratum’ lacks certain overtones from which we must soondistance ourselves. For good reason, ‘substratum’ is also Aristotle’s preferred term, as we shall see in ChapterII.

Traditionally, the Greek term for prime matter is 3 : ; < = > ? = . But Aristotle rarely uses it—Bonitz’s IndexAristotelicus lists only Ph. 193a29; GC 729a32; Metaph. 1015a7-10, 1044a15-25, and 1049a24-7. Charlton (“DoesAristotle Believe in Prime Matter?” pp. 129 ff.) also points out Aristotle’s apparently synonymous use of‘primary substratum’ ( 3 : ; < 4 9 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 6 9 4 9 ) and ‘constituent’ ( @ 9 A 3 B : C 4 9 ) at Ph. 192a31-35, 193a10.

5

much debate. Ross, for instance, sees the prime matter as a true fundamental, maintaining that the

four ‘elements’ are not really elements at all.13 This interpretation centres on Aristotle’s calling them

not simply ‘elements’, but ‘so-called elements’ ( D E F G H I J K E L M G N O J P E ). Ross very plausibly explains

that this is “because Aristotle believes Empedocles’ ‘elements’ to be really complex, composed of

prime matter + the contrarieties hot or cold, and wet or dry.”14 The standard four elements are also

accepted as a sort of composite by Düring and Lloyd, who conclude that Aristotle positions them as

the most basic kind of matter in actual existence, while formally constructing prime matter as an

abstract and logical necessity.15

Another camp opposes prime matter altogether. Their arguments are characterised by subtle re-

analysis of passages from all over Aristotle’s corpus, especially Metaphysics, Physics, and Generation

and Corruption. Charlton, in examining passages where Aristotle appears to discuss prime matter,

concludes that the alleged support for it is illusory.16 Gill is bolder again, claiming that “the text

provides no evidence for Aristotle’s commitment to prime matter.”17

I am going to probe the fringes of this debate, and defend a position that does not fit neatly into any

of these three categories. Like Ross, I do not believe the four ‘elements’ to be absolute fundamentals.

But I cannot agree with Ross’ interpretation of Aristotle’s phrase ‘so-called elements’, because

Aristotle does not usually use the term ‘elements’ in the fundamentalist sense that we, and Ross, have

traditionally thought. Ross takes the words very literally, not mentioning the wide range of uses to

which Aristotle applies ‘element’. Aristotle often means merely a ‘component’ or ‘part’, neither

ultimate nor fundamental. Moreover, he often uses other words for the same idea. The word

‘element’ applies to many items—including the traditional four ‘elements’. In referring technically to

these traditional ‘elements’, Aristotle prefers to call them ‘simple bodies’ ( Q R F E L S I T M E ).18

13 See Ross, Aristotle, Ch. 3, especially pp. 63-66 and pp. 104-106.14 Ross, Commentary on Ph. 187a26, p. 484.15 See the introduction to Düring, Aristotle’s Chemical Treatise, pp. 12-16; Lloyd, Aristotle: Growth and Structure,p. 59. I strongly suspect that Düring’s view is better represented in his Aristoteles: Darstellung und Interpretationseines Denkens, to which I have not had sufficient access to use here.16 We will deal with Charlton (“Does Aristotle Believe in Prime Matter?” pp. 129 ff.) in Chapter IV, but bythen, the issue of terminology will already have been sufficiently resolved.17 Gill, Aristotle on Substance, p. 46, my italics.18 The problems of etymology, ambiguity and synonyms will be discussed in Chapter II.

6

Charlton too disagrees with Ross on the meaning of ‘so-called elements’.19 According to Charlton,

the ‘so-called elements’ are ‘so-called’ not because they are actually composite, but simply because of

the newness of the word: the word U V W X Y Z [ W \ (element, component, phoneme) had never been applied

to the context of matter until Plato did so, a few decades earlier.20 With this argument, I have much

sympathy. But Charlton also concludes that these four elements are the absolute fundamentals, and

that Aristotle did not believe in a more fundamental prime matter. With that, I disagree. However,

the prime matter that I support receives primality as an epistemological artefact—it is a special case of

‘substratum’, its existence established by deduction alone. My stance is thereby allied somewhat with

that of Düring and Lloyd, who find the prime matter to be a purely logical device. Going further

than them, I re-position also the traditional four elements to a logical standing. Even tradition accepts

Aristotle’s statement that, like prime matter, they also never exist in pure form; they too must be

deduced rather than observed. And finally, I observe that Aristotle chose two further abstract

constructs as fundamental elements alongside the abstract substratum, in accord with the well-

entrenched theory of change.

My re-interpretation views Aristotle’s three elements of change not just as a set of three stand-alone

elements of nature, but as the elements which constitute his method of investigation and analysis.

This interpretation allows us to see that these three elements are general enough to work on all

observable scales—regardless of complexity—while the four traditional elements are mostly confined

to low-level matter alone. In contrast, the change-based approach allows Aristotle to select any

observable thing in nature, and analyse it into its parts. He does this with a view to achieving deep

and complete understanding—which, he says, is impossible without thorough analysis. At least in

principle, such an approach does not presume, or even hypothesise, what the elements will turn out to

be. Unlike his predecessors, who postulated their elements of matter, Aristotle’s analysis of change

invites Nature to speak for herself.

For Aristotle, the elements of change, and those of matter, are separate, but closely inter-related. But

since Aristotle seeks the most fundamental elements, we need to know which system is prior to the

other. The answer is simple: since the elements of change are used to deduce those of matter, it must

be the change elements that are more fundamental. It is upon these that Aristotle bases his whole

study of matter. The result of choosing these three elements is, according to Aristotle, of great

19 Charlton, translation of Physics I and II, textual note to 187a26.20 We shall deal in detail with the meaning of ] ^ _ ` a b c _ d in the next chapter.

7

advantage. For he felt that none before him had correctly explained change and substantial

generation. In addressing that, Aristotle makes change paramount, and leaves matter to be dealt with

afterwards.

It is a mistake to suppose that his ultimate material substratum is necessarily the foundation of the

material universe, or even that there does exist some form of absolutely fundamental matter in

Aristotle’s system.

Most, if not all, traditional accounts strike a sharp cleft between Aristotle’s theory of matter, and the

means by which he arrives at that theory. The re-interpretation given here attempts to fill in that cleft,

and thereby to arrive at an understanding somewhat fuller than what a narrow, matter-only focus can

provide. For it will be seen that, while the four traditional elements are confined to matter and

materials alone, our three-element standpoint applies also to the natural-world things that are made

from matter, and can even be applied to the abstract study of mathematical things that are not

material. When applied to material entities, this three-element approach progressively resolves them

into ever-finer component parts. But Aristotle’s approach does not assume a singular prima materia,

nor does it genuinely find one.

Even though the traditional prime matter does not arise, the three-element mode of analysis does get

Aristotle as far as the traditional four material elements, and further still, to something that looks

remarkably like the prime matter of tradition. But this is not the traditional prime matter; it is at best

a reason—admittedly an extremely inspiring reason—for the commentators to come up with their

prime matter interpretation. The primality of this matter is purely epistemic, since it arises out of

Aristotle’s inability to analyse ad infinitum. In following his method, one analyses one change at a

time, always identifying a persistent substratum that does not vary. By watching for changes at a

deeper level, one can analyse that substratum too, and thereby peel back the layers of structure,

peering into the less obvious depths of matter. But, apparently due to the finiteness of human ability,

one gets only so far: there is a substratum lying just beyond our senses, and thus beyond our ability to

detect its changes. And since Aristotle relies on known changes, this substratum is unanalysable,

impenetrable. It is only in this epistemic sense that the last substratum is prime.

Lest I give the impression that this epistemically prime matter is also ontically prime, note also that

Aristotle does not preclude its further analysis, if ever there were to arise some means to do so. In this

regard, his method is curiously similar to that of more modern materials physics, where ‘indivisible’

atoms were eventually resolved into electrons and nuclei, nuclei into nucleons and W-particles,

8

nucleons into gluons and quarks. And like Aristotle’s epistemically prime matter, some of our

present-day fundamentals are known only through studying the higher-level changes that they

underlie.

The two systems of elements—four elements of matter, and three of change—thus exist alongside

each other. They are conceptually distinct, yet inextricably linked because Aristotle uses the change

theory to justify the matter theory. The elements of change thus underlie the elements of matter, so

following Aristotle’s rules for priority, there is no doubt that the three elements of change are more

fundamental, indeed a priori.

The priority of these three elements of change is reflected in Aristotle’s claim that they are the only

solution to the ancient problem of substantial generation.21 No philosopher before him, he feels, had

managed to solve this perplexity, even though many had grappled hard with it, and in particular with

the abhorrent possibility of generatio ex nihil. Aristotle’s solution, in choosing to emphasise change

instead of matter itself, cleverly sidesteps the issue raised by his predecessors: he observes (on

primarily linguistic grounds, thus revealing his mode of thought) that change occurs only when there

is something that persists, something that does not change. Matter, therefore, does not arise from

nothing, nor does it vanish thereto. Aristotle thus renders the problem solved; he shows that he does

not have to solve it.

Of equal importance to our interpretation is that Aristotle seeks not nature itself, but an

understanding of nature. In other words, his project is an epistemic one, with the ontology taken for

granted. It should therefore be no surprise that he ends up with elements of not nature itself, but of a

way to analyse nature, and thereby to understand it. Naturally, such a claim, so far removed from the

traditional approach of Aristotelian studies, necessitates justification. So the next two chapters will

establish firstly that absolute fundamentals are indeed what Aristotle seeks, and secondly that, for

these absolute fundamentals, he chooses the three elements of change.

21 Ph. I·8, 191a23. This is the problem, discussed widely in pre-Socratic fragments, of accounting for generationand destruction without violating the principle that nothing can be generated out of (or destroyed into) nothing.

9

Chapter II

THE MEANING OF ‘ELEMENT’

When reading Aristotle’s writings on the elements, it is difficult to be sure of what the word ‘element’

means. Certainly, an element ( � � � � � � � � � ) is a component part. But is it a fundamental part, or a

composite item in its own right? The answer to this question is not immediately clear—the situation

is complicated by several other ancient Greek words with similar meanings, and also by the several

possible meanings of � � � � � � � � � . The primary meaning of this word relates to phonetics, where� � � � � � � � are consonants and vowels, the most basic sounds, i.e. elements, of speech.22 There are times

when Aristotle uses the word in this way, making “indivisible sounds” the � � � � � � � � of diction.23

With the development of language and culture, words are of course subject to change. Plato referred

to phonemes as the � � � � � � � � of speech,24 yet he also describes syllables as � � � � � � � � , despite

acknowledging them as being divisible into finer parts. So for Plato, elements are component parts,

but not necessarily the most fundamental. We might expect then, that Aristotle would also think

more broadly about elements, and in fact he does use the word in this broader sense. But we shall see

that when he does so, the specific meaning that Aristotle has in mind is often easily determined from

context. By Plato’s and Aristotle’s times, � � � � � � � � � had become a fairly loosely applied word. But the

meaning of � � � � � � � � � had begun to broaden long before.

� � � � � � � � , by extension, came early on to signify also the basic parts of things other than speech. In

mathematics for instance, these are the elements of proof. Euclid, Hippocrates and others used the

word in this sense to title works on geometry.25 For the geometers, � � � � � � � � are propositions whose

proof is involved in the proof of further propositions. Like Plato’s elemental syllables, the geometers’� � � � � � � � need not be absolute fundamentals. They need merely be relatively fundamental parts, since

all provable mathematical propositions can be resolved into more basic propositions, ultimately

22 See LSJ. Other meanings are also given therein; some of these are dealt with below. Strictly speaking, the � � � � � � of speech are not the elements of written language.23 Metaph. III·3, 998a23. Poet. 20, 1456b22.24 E.g. Plato, Cratylus 424d; Theaetetus 202e.25 Before Euclid, the title � � � � � � � was used by Hippocrates of Chios, Leon, and Theudios of Magnesia,according to Proclus in the introduction of his Commentary, pp. 66-67.

10

(perhaps) into such things as axioms and definitions. However, when Aristotle explicitly defines what

he means by the elements of mathematical proof, he is referring to the absolute fundamentals, in the

sense of being the most universal.26 For he declares that the elements of mathematical proof are those

definitions and axioms which can be broken down no further. In demonstrative applications of logic,

Aristotle takes � � � � � � � � to be the basic syllogisms. As we will see, Aristotle uses the word to indicate

various levels of primality in different contexts, though his preference is towards ultimate elements,

the final results of analysis.

According to Eudemus, � � � � � � � � only comes to mean ‘fundamental parts of matter’ in the works of

Plato.27 In fact, Plato’s use is very clearly metaphorical. Rather than mentioning matter directly, he

describes the elements as the “alphabet of all things”. Such a simple analogy could hardly be

necessary if ‘elements’ is what the fundamental parts of matter (or anything else) were commonly

called.28 Earlier philosophers inquiring into the composition of matter wrote of such varied things as

seeds (� � � � � � � � , Anaxagoras), roots (� ! " � � � � , Empedocles), atoms ( # � � � � , Epicurus), the

principle ( $ � � % , Thales) and the boundless ( # � � � � � & , Anaximander).29 Obviously, these can each be

treated as a specific and distinguishable term. But the distinctions are not always made.

Aristotle was himself party to this blurring of terminology: he often mentions Empedocles, but what

Empedocles called a root (� ! " � � ), Aristotle calls the boundless ( # � � � � � & ) and an element

( � � � � � � � � & ).30 Moreover, he sometimes describes Empedocles’ elements as ‘so-called’ ( ' � ( � ) � � & � )

elements.31 This could be taken to mean that some philosophers call the Empedoclean roots

‘elements’, i.e. that ‘elements’ is a general term for the Urstoffe of past philosophers. It could also be

interpreted as an effort by Aristotle to distance himself from the notion that these things are elements

26 Metaph. V·3, 1014a30-1014b1.27 Plato, Theaetetus 201e. Plato, Statesman 278d. LSJ gives the testimony of Eudemus apud Simplicius, inAristotelis Physica commentaria, 7.13.28 As noted in Chapter I, Charlton agrees with this, saying that ‘so-called elements’ are ‘so-called’ only becausethe usage is new. But he concludes that this is the only reason that they are ‘so-called’; which I will come toreject throughout this chapter. Ross, in contrast, thinks that ‘so-called’ is purely an indication of irony. Overall,the evidence presented in this chapter suggests that there is some partial truth in both interpretations.29 See, e.g. KRS. In many cases, the words that we now ascribe to the philosophers are not supported by theprimary fragments, and may well have been chosen by later writers (such as Aristotle). It does not matter herewhether the terms correctly distinguish their original users, but only that they are diverse and have differentmeanings.30 E.g. Ph. I·4; 187a25-30; I·6, 189a15-20.31 E.g. GC I·6, 322b1-5.

11

at all.32 This view is bolstered by the term, ‘simple bodies’ ( * + , - . / 0 1 2 - ) that Aristotle uses to

describe his own conception of fire, air, water and earth. In this term, there are notions of relative

baseness, but not of absolute fundamentality.

In general usage, an element need not be anything more than relatively fundamental. Relative

elements could conceivably produce an infinitude of levels of structure and composition. So in asking

how many elements Aristotle believed in, we have to decide what sort of element we are asking

about—absolute fundamentals, or merely a level of structure intermediate between the sensible world

and the most basic things that underlie our understanding of it? As far as is possible, I will delegate

the answering of that question to Aristotle, by inquiring instead into what kinds of elements—

absolute or relative—he felt he was looking for. The words he uses to describe Empedocles’ four

elements are alone enough to show that no literal reading will give the whole answer to that

investigation. Instead, the contexts of Physics I, the opening books of Metaphysics and GC provide

relatively straightforward evidence on what Aristotle thought he was doing. By the end of this

chapter, it should be clear that when Aristotle is searching for the elements of matter, he is looking

for the Urstoffe, the absolutely fundamental principles that underlie material behaviour.

ELEMENTS IN PHYSICS I·1-4

The introduction of Physics, the main text for this thesis, states Aristotle’s well-known aims in

studying nature—to determine the “principles or causes or elements” ( 3 4 5 - 6 7 - 8 2 6 - 7 . 2 9 6 5 : ; - ,

184a10) of things. Acquaintance with these, he says, constitutes understanding. And to understand

something, he insists that we must carry our analysis “as far down as its elements” (0 < 5 4 6 2 = >. 2 9 6 5 : ? / > , 184a15). Having read that and no more, one could reasonably think that Aristotle is

speaking of elements, first principles and primary causes as three different things. Unfortunately, he

does not tell us much about what they are at this point, so it also remains possible that he is thinking

of elements, (first) principles and (primary) causes as being synonymous, or nearly so. They have

certainly not yet been distinguished from each other. It is as if there is some meaning in these words

that we do not now understand as readily as did Aristotle’s original audience. His examination of

theories already offered by others shows how the usage is inextricable from the historical aspects of

the discussion. Aristotle’s discussion is itself couched in history. By analysing it, we can see how he

32 Charlton expresses preference for an interpretation more akin to the former, saying that the elements are so-called because they had only recently been collected together under the name, ‘elements’. See Charlton’stranslation of Physics I & II, textual note on 187a26. But note the broad usages to which Aristotle subjects theword ‘element’. This alone is enough to suggest that Charlton’s claim is not applicable to all cases.

12

applies a wide range of words to the ‘elements’ of his predecessors, as if they were all loose synonyms.

We will also see that, even though the words are themselves imprecise, the goal of Aristotle’s

search—irreducible, ultimate elements—is consistent.

Our analysis begins with Aristotle’s consideration of whether there is but a single ‘principle’, as

expounded by Parmenides. Parmenides wrote that ‘what is’ is unchanging, perpetual, uncreated and

perfect.33 This One or Being, as it came to be called, has neither sensible qualities, nor functions.

Parmenides’ message is not immediately obvious. There does exist a ‘standard’ interpretation, but

this is not particularly conspicuous amidst the primary evidence. For rather than grappling with the

details of the theory, Parmenides’ fragments are mostly about his own enlightenment, the ‘way of

seeming’ and the ‘way of truth’. On the surface, they look to deal more with philosophical method

than with the foundations of matter. In actuality, the Parmenidean fragments do not give much

explicit detail about Being at all; his message about existence could possibly be summarised in little

more than, “It all exists as one thing.”

Parmenides’ project was taken up and further developed by Melissus, who argued that the one thing

that exists is boundless. Parmenides, on the other hand, had declared it of limited extent. In addition

to the paucity of extant text, the rampant exercise of poetic license makes it very hard know much

about what either Parmenides or Melissus thought. Aristotle seems to have faced this difficulty too,

for his analysis looks at various things that could be meant by ‘One’ or ‘Being’, as if he did not know

what either Eleatic really meant.

After discussing (and eliminating) several possible interpretations, Aristotle portrayed both

Parmenides and Melissus as meaning that there is a single principle, and his reaction to this idea is

hostile. He complains that the arguments of both Melissus and Parmenides are based on false

premisses, and that their conclusions do not follow (185a9-12). In denouncing what he clearly

considers a failure on the part of the Eleatics, Aristotle reveals that he is treating Parmenides’ and

Melissus’ Ones as the one first principle of matter: both Ones are criticised in terms of their

ambiguity in relation to whether they describe substance, quality, quantity, or a combination of these

three.34 The difficulty of creating distinguishable objects out of a single unchangeable starting-point

is also unacceptable to Aristotle, so he must reject most of their monist concepts. Aristotle retains,

however, the theoretical principle that nothing is ever generated spontaneously out of nothingness, a

33 See Freeman pp. 147-149; KRS pp. 248-253.34 Ph. I·2, 185a20-30.

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principle that he attributes to Parmenides. In this discussion of the Eleatics, Aristotle dismisses the

possibility that there is but one ‘first principle’ of nature. The discussion hence shows us that it is

indeed a first principle concerns him.

Aristotle then moves on to two further groups of philosophers, both of which he calls the ‘physicists’

( @ A B C D E C ).35 He tells us that the first of these groups propounded a single ‘underlying body’ ( B F G H I JK L E D M N G M O E O ) which is capable of change. This underlying body is either water, air, fire, or something

whose density is between that of fire and that of air. From this single body, they derive others by

condensation and rarefaction. Aristotle does not here name any of the philosophers belonging to this

first group of physicists, but they might reasonably include Thales, Anaximenes and Heracleitus,

perhaps also Xenophanes. Aristotle’s assessment of this group of physicists is very short—fewer than

ten lines, and it is a little tricky to deduce the underlying theme. His argument compares the

ancients’ doctrines of rarefaction and condensation to the Platonic doctrine of ‘great and small’.36

Aristotle says that Plato thought of the great and small as constituting matter, while the Platonic ‘one’

constitutes form. The ancient physicists, writes Aristotle, took the opposing view: they conceived of

the one as matter, and for forms, they took the opposites. Notice that Aristotle speaks of all of these

things—traditional-style elements like water, air and fire, and also the abstract ‘one’ of Plato, and that

of the ancient physicists—on equal footing. They are all portrayed as different possibilities for the

same fundamental elements. It is thus hard to see how he could have interpreted their single,

mutable, underlying body, as anything other than a primary principle of nature. This means that

Aristotle must be treating these early ideas (that all is made of water, air, fire or something between

fire and air) as theories that positioned these three ‘elements’ as first principles of nature.

That Aristotle means ‘elements’ as first principles is also clear in his assessment of the second group

of physicists, who taught in their cosmogonies that contraries were derived from the initial singular

principle by a separation process. He names Anaximander as one of these. Others of this second

group of physicists include Anaxagoras and even Empedocles, whose cosmogonies involve the

secretion or separation of elements out of primeval chaos. It seems to me a little strange that Aristotle

collected these three together into a single group, for in the case of Anaximander, there was some

sense of the contraries being secondary things generated out of a more primeval principle, while for

35 Ph. I·4, 187a12-26.36 This doctrine is one of what Aristotle calls Plato’s ‘unwritten doctrines’, of which we have very little evidence.Vlastos (“On Plato’s Oral Doctrine”, pp. 653-654) considers them to have been some of the more prominentideas that Plato had, but which he had not developed far enough to include in his dialogues.

14

Empedocles, the primeval chaos contained elements that were already in existence, albeit very mixed

up.37 A plausible explanation is that Aristotle was thinking of how each philosopher explained the

present state of nature: each of them posited that in the beginning, there was some single principle—

a primeval world-seed or chaos—and that now there are many different principles. If this is correct,

then Aristotle is taking the second group of physicists to be explaining the present world in terms of

principles which, within the present world, cannot be reduced to anything more basic. For

Anaxagoras, these principles are the infinitely many homogeneous materials.38 In the case of

Empedocles, they are the familiar earth, water, air and fire. This is important for us, if only for the

great influence that Empedocles’ theory of elements has over the development of Aristotle’s theory.

These theories, which propounded a single primeval principle giving rise to many present-day

principles, are all dismissed by Aristotle. In the case of those theories which describe separating of

new things from the initial singleton, Aristotle says that they have no in-built reason to prevent all

kinds of things from continuing to separate out of everything else—an undesirable feature which

would lead to strange occurrences like, for example, flesh being generated out of water. Such

generation yields further problems: if the generation stops, producing stability in the world, then

Aristotle complains that all things could not then potentially exist in everything else, contrary to the

spirit of the theory. If it does not end, then it leads to “an infinite multitude of finite equal parts in a

finite quantity—which is impossible.” (187b30-35.) Anaxagoras’ theory of homogeneous bodies

being principles is dismissed too, on the grounds that clay, a homogeneous body, can be divided into

water and earth, which are dissimilar parts (188a15-20). Clearly, then, composites are not the

elements that Aristotle seeks.

The result of all this rejection of earlier theories is Aristotle’s conclusion that there are several first

principles, and that they are of finite, preferably small, number. We can be reasonably sure that he

includes amongst these the principles of matter, since whenever Aristotle speaks of material principles

37 See Barnes, Presocratic Philosophers, pp. 308-310 on Empedocles’ cosmic cycle of elements; Freeman,Presocratic Philosophers, pp. 58-59 on Anaximander’s cosmogony. Cf. GC I·1, 315a1-10, where Aristotlecomplains that Empedocles contradicted himself. There, the usage is also suggests Aristotle’s search forabsolute fundamentals.38 Barnes doubts that Anaxagoras really meant homogeneous materials in Aristotle’s sense, and suspects thatAristotle has in fact misread Anaxagoras. “[W]e might imagine that Anaxagoras gave no general description atall of his things: Aristotle read through his examples, saw that they were all what he would call homoiomeries,and hastily concluded that Anaxagoras meant to include all and only homoiomeries under his umbrella ofthings.” (Barnes, Presocratic Philosophers, p. 321.) I think that Barnes is very likely right, but this is notproblematic for my argument, since it is Aristotle’s own thoughts that we are interested in, regardless of howwell they capture those of Anaxagoras.

15

in these opening sections of Physics, he almost never discusses anything other than the most

fundamental parts. The only exception to this generalisation is in chapters I·4 and I·5, where he deals

a little with the things which cause changes to matter, and concludes that these causes are also first

principles which fall within the borders of physics. We need not deal deeply with these for the

moment, beyond showing that they are no great threat to the thesis: for just as his material principles

are fundamental parts, so too are these causes fundamental in the same way. The proof for this is to

be found in Aristotle’s line of discourse in these two chapters. There, Aristotle observes a common

pattern amongst his forebears: their causes of change are generally couplings of antithetic qualities or

forces. Parmenides, for instance, used ‘hot’ and ‘cold’.39 Democritus spoke of ‘solidity’ and ‘vacancy’.

Some others propounded ‘rare’ and ‘dense’.40 These pairs of contraries, (as well as many other pairs

of contraries,) satisfy Aristotle’s requirements that primary principles must not be created out of

anything, and must not be able to be created out of each other. We have already seen that Aristotle

considers them to be primary principles, and this is further evidence that he seeks absolute

fundamentals. These non-material first principles will assume prominence in our next chapter.

ELEMENTS IN THE EARLY BOOKS OF METAPHYSICS

Wisdom, says Aristotle, is knowledge about the original causes of things. This knowledge comes in

four parts, the traditional ‘four causes’.41 These are: the essence, or substance ( P Q R S T )—known as the

‘formal cause’; the cause of change ( U S V W R X Y )—the ‘efficient cause’; the sake and good for which the

thing exists—the ‘final cause’; and the matter ( Z [ W ) or substratum ( \ ] P U ^ S _ ^ V P V )—the ‘material

cause’ (983a25-983b1). From here, Aristotle conducts a survey of his predecessors’ ideas on the

quadripartite original causes. His survey reads as if it is a revised and extended edition of that in

Physics, adding some more detail about earlier thoughts on the principles of matter. Again, we will see

that Aristotle is interested in the most fundamental of parts.

Aristotle says that most of the ancients, although seeking all of the principles of being, conceived of

only the material principles ( Z [ W Y ` a b c Y ) underlying all things (983b5-10). The historical overview

begins with Aristotle speculating that Thales’ choice of water as Urstoff might be grounded in the

observation that all life needs water, the theory perhaps having grown out of ancient myth about

39 This hot and cold are more literally “fire” and “dark night, a dense and heavy body”. Parmenides, DK B 8.40 On Democritus, see KRS pp. 413-416. Rarity and density occur in the writings of (e.g.) Anaximenes, andcould well be expected amidst the elemental roots proposed by Anaxagoras.41 On the four causes, see e.g. Ross, Aristotle, pp. 71-75; Lloyd, Aristotle: Growth and Structure, pp. 57-59.

16

Ocean, Tethys and Styx. In our search for Aristotle’s sentiments on the relationships between

elements and so on, his inexact use of terminology is remarkably revealing:

“It may perhaps be uncertain whether this opinion about nature is primitive and ancient, butThales at any rate is said to have declared himself thus about the first cause (d e f g h i j k g l j i ).Anaximenes and Diogenes make air prior to water, and the most primary of the simple bodies( m d n o p q r s t g r p ), while Hippasus of Metapontium and Heraclitus of Ephesus say this offire, and Empedocles says it of the four, adding a fourth—earth—to those which have beennamed; for these, he says, always remain and do not come to be, except what they come to bemore or fewer, being aggregated into one and segregated out of one.

Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, who, though older than Empedocles, was later in hisphilosophical activity, says the principles ( u e v t i )42 are infinite in number; for he says almost allthe things that are homogeneous are generated and destroyed (as water or fire is) only byaggregation and segregation, and are not in any other sense generated or destroyed, butremain eternally.”

Metaph. I·3, 984a5-20.

Here, Aristotle writes ‘first cause’, ‘simple bodies’ and ‘principles’ as if they were all names for the

same thing. It is reasonable to suppose that ‘elements’ ( q g w x v y z j ) is on the same footing as these,

since ‘elements’ (as we have seen) is the word usually used to refer to Empedocles’ four principles

(and Aristotle’s adaptation of them) elsewhere. In each case, Aristotle is undeniably taking the stuffs

mentioned to be Urstoff, the ultimate material principle of matter. Further testimony arises in

Aristotle’s comment that the earliest philosophers thought that the only principle of nature is the

material one (983b5-10; 984a15-20), and that they had not yet started inquiring about the principle

that causes change. It is most unlikely that Aristotle, or anyone else, would write in this way if they

did not conceive of the previously mentioned earth, air, fire and water as being his predecessors’

candidates for the Urstoff. The final lines of this passage say that the ultimate principles are

permanent things, neither created nor destroyed, an aspect of basic principles that we will return to

soon.

To Plato, Aristotle attributes a very different view. He writes that Plato considered the forms of

things to be the causes of everything else, supposing that “the elements ( q g w x v y z j ) of the forms are

the elements of all things” (987b15-20). Even though Aristotle is obviously not speaking of the

material cause, he is still interested in the first causes. At the same time, it is apparent that Aristotle

recognises a hierarchy of composition, whereby things are broken down into increasingly more

42 ‘Principle’ ( { | } ~ ) has a very strong sense of first principle, beginning, or origin. This usage as first principleis also in Anaximander and Democritus. See LSJ.

17

fundamental parts until the decomposition can go no further. This is one of the ways in which he

distinguishes the various sciences.43 Of the sciences, he says that the most exact are those which deal

with the most basic principles. Aristotle considers that these sciences lead to the greatest capacity for

teaching, since the best teachers are those who teach the causes behind things. He regards this kind

of knowledge—the understanding of causes—as being knowledge in the truest sense, sought for no

reason other than itself. And he thereby elevates the science of first causes above all others.

Obviously, then, knowledge of first causes is of great importance to Aristotle. But which causes are

truly the first? We already have the notion that elements are prior parts, but which ones are the most

prior? Aristotle admits to some difficulty in answering that question. Let us look at his argument

about whether the principles (in this case, the principles of matter) are perishable:

“…if they are perishable, evidently these also must consist of certain parts; for all things thatperish, perish by being resolved into the parts of which they consist; so that it follows thatprior to the principles ( � � � � � ) there are other principles. And this is impossible…”

Metaph. III·4, 1000b20-30.

This passage clearly shows that Aristotle is not to be sated by principles that can be reduced to more

fundamental parts. His desired ‘principles’ really are the first principles, and not just intermediaries.

The sentiment is repeated in his own definition of an element:

“We call an element ( � � � � � � � � � ) that which is the primary component immanent in a thing, andindivisible in kind into other kinds… Those who speak of the elements of bodies similarlymean the things into which bodies are ultimately divided, while these parts are no longerdivided into other things differing in kind; and whether the things of this sort are one or more,they call these elements.”

Metaph. V·3, 1014a25-35.

The early books of Metaphysics carry the same conception of elements that we saw in the early

chapters of Physics. In both, Aristotle appears to use the words for ‘element’, ‘cause’ and ‘principle’

interchangeably. However, Aristotle does not here show signs of thinking that the elements, causes or

principles that he seeks, are anything other than the first elements, first causes, and first principles.

This is entirely in accord with the intention expressed earlier: “to acquire knowledge of the original

causes.” (983a20-25.)

43 Metaph. I·2.

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‘SO-CALLED ELEMENTS’ IN GENERATION & CORRUPTION

The evidence in Generation and Corruption concurs, in both character and content, with the evidence

presented already. Even though Aristotle’s purpose in this book is to deal with generation and

corruption, the theories of his predecessors occur as contexts to carry his argument. His first

conclusion concerns whether generation and corruption are types of alteration in each theory.44

Aristotle begins by dividing the ancients into two broad groups: those who believed in a single

element, whom he does not name, and those who believed in several. This latter group, we are told,

includes Empedocles, Anaxagoras, Leucippus and Democritus. As we saw from Physics and

Metaphysics, these four also had their differences: Empedocles had four material elements,

Anaxagoras treated the homogeneous materials as an infinitude of elements, and Leucippus and

Democritus taught that there were infinitely many atoms of infinitely many types.

Two more points arise naturally from Aristotle’s discussion of historical theories, which packs more

information into a much smaller space than in the two works that I have already discussed. Here, we

are told (in accord with the idea of elements maintained by Aristotle in Physics and Metaphysics) that,

in addition to four material elements, Empedocles had two more elements—‘love’ and ‘strife’—

which are his first causes of change. Of the material causes, Aristotle describes Empedocles’ theory as

maintaining that fire, air, water and earth are elements ( � � � � � � � � ), simple ( � � � � ) and corporeal

( � � � � � � � � ). In contrast stands Anaxagoras, to whom is attributed the assertion that homogeneous

materials are simple and elements. Yet Anaxagoras, according to Aristotle, considered that earth, fire,

water and air are composite ( � � � � � � � ). These words are, of course, the choice of Aristotle, not

Anaxagoras or Empedocles.

Of those who believed in a single element, Aristotle says that they are forced into saying that

generation and corruption are classes of alteration, for according to their theories, the substratum

( � � � � � � � � � � � ) remains the same and one, and this substratum is what undergoes the alteration.

‘Substratum’ here indicates something permanent (or at least relatively permanent) which underlies

and survives superficial change; such persistence would of course be expected of any true material

element.

Of those who believed in many elements, Aristotle says that they must subscribe to generation and

corruption as being coming-together and dissolving. He cites Empedocles to this effect: “There is no

44 GC I·1.

19

origin of anything, but only a mingling (� �   ¡ ¢ ) and separation of things that have been mingled.”

(314b5-10.) This line shows again a kind of substratum: the mingling is the mingling of elemental

parts that underlie the transformation. There is no need to further cite this kind of evidence from GC,

since it all says the same thing: that Aristotle uses the terminology loosely, all the while not deviating

from his search for absolutely primary elements. When he refers to some philosopher’s elements, he

means those things that that philosopher thought to be elements.

That terminology is unfortunately confusing but, further into the book, Aristotle eases away from this

awkward bind, speaking instead of the ‘so-called elements’ ( £ ¤ ¥ ¦ § � ¨ © ¤ ª « ¦ ¡ ¬ ¨ ­ ¤ ).45 In one instance,

he appears to be drawing a distinction between the true primary matter ( ® ¥ ¯ ) and the things that

people call ‘elements’, but which are actually not first principles (322b1-10). For here, he expressly

sets out to determine whether these ‘so-called elements’ have characteristics which true first principles

cannot have: whether they exist, whether they are are immutable, and whether they are truly primary.

Seven turgid pages later, there is confirmation of this in Aristotle’s denunciation of Plato’s choice of

elements. He points out that despite Timaeus speaking of elements,46 Plato puts a substratum, the

‘omnirecipient’, prior to these ‘elements’ (329a15-20). And in setting out his own theory, Aristotle is

clearer again:

“…there is matter of which the perceptible bodies consist, but that it is not separable butalways accompanied by opposites, and it is from this that the so-called elements come intobeing.”

GC II·1, 329a24-30.

So Aristotle’s position is that the perceptible bodies—earth, water, air and fire—have a common

underlying matter, and are in fact composites of this underlying matter plus opposites. Aristotle’s

search for elements is not satisfied by the theory of Empedocles, nor by the theories of any of his

other predecessors. In particular, it is fairly clear that the traditional four elements are not considered

by Aristotle to be elements at all, since he says here that they come to be from something more

primal, and his desire is to find that more fundamental something.

45 Cf. the wide use of ° ± ² ³ ´ µ ¶ (‘it is said that…’) in Aristotle and many other authors. Today, this is often takento denote doubt, as if relegating the statement to the status of mere rumour.46 Plato, Timaeus 51A.

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CONCLUSION

In each of the three works discussed here—Physics, Metaphysics and GC—Aristotle expresses an

intention to seek the absolute elements of all that exists. In some places his intention is overtly stated.

In others, it runs as an undercurrent beneath his discussion of competing theories. Aristotle uses the

various words for element, principle and cause, as a necessary part of dealing with what his

predecessors considered to be elements, principles and causes. In the more historically-based parts of

his discussion, the words appear to be interchangable. When he comes to discussing his own theory,

he produces divisions between his predecessors’ theories and his own. In GC, we saw this effected by

demoting Empedocles’ elements to ‘so-called’ elements. In Metaphysics, the division is wrought by

stating definitions for the words, noting also that they carry different meanings in colloquial usage.

“People also transfer the word ‘element’ from this purpose and apply it to that which, beingone and small, is useful for many purposes…”

Metaph. V·3, 1014b1-5.

Literal reading will not yield the full meaning when ‘element’ is used: we must read Aristotle with

attention to his rapidly shifting contexts, repeatedly noting which elements he is referring to

throughout his writing. In the texts discussed so far, it is apparent that when Aristotle expresses a

desire to find the elements of things in nature, he really means absolute elements, whether according to

him, or according to others (whom he considers mistaken). He means this whether he calls them

elements, principles, or something else.

But this should not be surprising. Such conflict between technical and colloquial usage remains with

us even now, and Aristotle’s problems are not confined to the use of ‘element’: the terms, ‘boiling’,

‘rawness’, ‘ripening’, and even ‘hot’, are subject to multiple uses, and hence potential ambiguity.47

Aristotle’s use of the words ‘matter’ and ‘substratum’ are well documented and have been widely

discussed; it is generally accepted that they are terms of relative rather than absolute reference, so why

should ‘element’ be so definite and precise? The idea that matter is nothing more than the part of a

thing which remains during a change on any scale, is central to many commentators’ discussions. For

example, bronze is the matter when a lump of bronze becomes a statue—the lump is destroyed, the

statue created, the bronze remains throughout.48 ‘Substratum’ is used similarly. Neither term need

47 Aristotle discusses the specific and extended uses of ‘boiling’, ‘ripening’, ‘raw’ are discussed in Mete. IV·3.He gives numerous meanings of ‘hot’ in e.g. PA II·2, 648b10 ff.48 Ph. 190a21-30.

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refer to an ultimate matter or substratum, though clearly, both can. And likewise, ‘element’ need not

refer to an ultimate element, though clearly, it can too.49

We have also seen, incidentally, that Aristotle does not consider any of his predecessors’ elements to

fit the criteria; we even saw him reject earth, water, air and fire as true ultimate elements. He also

mentioned causes of change, i.e. efficient causes, as being elemental parts of being.

Our next task is to determine Aristotle’s criteria for the ultimate elements, so that we can better see

how the efficient causes fit in, and what material causes he has in place of the traditional

(Empedoclean) four.

49 Scaltsas, Susbtances and Universals, p. 19, points out that Aristotle uses the word · ¸ ¹ º (‘body’) with similarlooseness, mentioning the paucity of such technical terminology in classical Greek. In Chapter IV, we willencounter also two further meanings of » ¼ ½ ¾ ¿ À ¹ ¿ Á ½ Á (‘substratum’) that occur in connection with the writings ofBolotin and Charlton.

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Chapter III

THE NATURE AND NUMBER OF ARISTOTLE’S ELEMENTS

In the preceding chapter, we saw that Aristotle’s search for the elements—regardless of whether he

calls them ‘elements’, ‘principles’ or something else—is a search for absolute, irreducible

fundamentals of nature. Now that we know what kind of elements he is searching for, the task before

us is to determine what elements Aristotle finally chooses, and why.

In this chapter I argue that, for these fundamental elements, Aristotle chooses form, privation and

substratum. These are, of course, the elements of change, not matter, for the fundamental elements of

matter are secondary to Aristotle’s preferred line of inquiry: we will see that he abandons the matter-

only viewpoint early in Physics, conscious that matter-only theories cannot explain all of nature. In

particular, purely material elements cannot explain change. Aristotle does not, however, ignore matter

completely, since it is matter that undergoes these changes that interest him. The analysis of change

does deal with matter: it enables the progressive resolution of composite items of matter into smaller

but still composite components, homoeomers, the four simple bodies, and a material substratum that

Aristotle cannot analyse any further. That unanalysable substratum is not the prime matter of

tradition, but looks very much like it. This, perhaps, is what our tradition thought prime.

The chief aim of the present chapter is to uncover, through an analysis of Physics I, Aristotle’s reasons

for dismissing the search for solely material elements, and his reasons for choosing elements of

change instead. Curiously, his conclusion is not complete: we will see that he refuses to finalise the

question of how to count the elements, which can be seen as either two or three. These two or three

elements certainly include the material substratum, but Aristotle finds it tricky to decide whether

form and privation are two separate elements, or only one. We will see that he does, however, prefer

to treat them as two separate elements, and for simplicity of expression, I too will count them this

way, yielding three elements altogether. This uncertainty should not be considered a flaw, for such

flexibility is characteristic of Aristotle’s work.50

50 Examples of Aristotle’s flexibility are so numerous that it should perhaps be considered strange thatcommentators take it as a sign of indecision. They are in many cases a mark of his thoroughness and depth,showing his ability to approach problems from different viewpoints. See, e.g. APo. II·10, 94a1-15 on differentways to account for thunder; Ph. I·5, 188a13-19 on different ways to break things down into parts; Ph. VIII·5

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Aristotle’s reasons for preferring a change-based approach are mostly unstated. Our analysis, then,

must dig out the assumptions implicit in Aristotle’s discourse. One might wonder why Aristotle did

not openly state these ideas. Several possibilities spring to mind—perhaps he was not consciously

aware of them, perhaps he thought them obvious. Perhaps he was deliberately secretive.51 But the

motive is not our immediate problem: for now, we need only make these ‘hidden’ reasons explicit,

disclosing their germaneness to Aristotle’s selecting a theory with three elements of change.

We of course expect that Aristotle’s argument will be tied with his pronounced inclination towards

naturalism. His commitment to a sense-based study of the world is well known, and likewise his

principle that true understanding can be achieved only through first principles. Another important

consequence of Aristotle’s naturalism, which commentators seldom mention, is the fact that he

defines physics—the study of nature—first, and not until then does he choose elements to fit inside

that framework. His choice of elements must therefore satisfy a certain attitude to knowledge, in

addition to explaining nature.

Crucial, then, is Aristotle’s notion of what physics is. In determining this, Aristotle looks first at

historical precedent, noting that physics seems to have been conceived foremost as the study of matter

(Ph. II·2, 194a18). Determining the composition of matter, after all, had long been the primary

project of physicists before him. But, advancing beyond his predecessors, Aristotle realises that any

study of matter must involve studying the changes that matter undergoes.52 And because Aristotle

acknowledges the involvement of change, he needs elements that produce changing matter.

Moreover, since he acknowledges also that natural things have not only matter, but also form, he

needs elements to explain that too. It is not enough for Aristotle’s elements to be the base of matter

on different ways of construing the need for a primary agent of change; Metaph. III·2 on certain statementswhich are reasonably deduced from others, yet wrong; Metaph. XII·8, 1083b on Pythagorean theory beingeither consistent or problematic, depending on one’s interpretation; EE II·1, 1220a on how goodness can beeither created or destroyed by the same causes.51 The case that Aristotle’s obscurity was deliberate, is taken up by e.g. Bolotin. In the next chapter, I shallexamine, and reject, Bolotin’s allegation. But it is not that kind of obscurity that concerns us in the presentchapter. Our target is the methodology and assumptions implicit in Aristotle’s discourse. He does not openlylay down his methodology and factual assumptions, except for what appears in the works.of the Organon. WhatAristotle says therein is not sufficient for my purposes, and what I deduce in this chapter is deduced with theOrganon in mind.52 See also Cael. I·1, 268a1, where physics is said to be concerned with material bodies, the changing properties,and their motions. This viewpoint continues at Metaph. VI·1, 1026a10-20, where Aristotle characterises physicsas dealing with things that both exist inseparably from matter, and are subject to change. Change is defined asthat category which includes growth, diminution, locomotion, generation, destruction, and alteration. These arelisted and briefly defined at Cat. 14, 15a10-15b20.

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alone: they must also constitute a foundation for the rest of physics, indeed for the study of

everything in nature.

So Aristotle defines physics as the branch of knowledge that deals with natural material things,

characterised by properties (i.e. forms) that lend themselves to suffer change.53 That epistemic

standpoint is naturally going to be felt by the theories that physics will allow. Indeed, that epistemic

standpoint governs how Aristotle’s theory is allowed to develop and, as will become apparent, it is the

main reason behind Aristotle’s rejection of his predecessors’ theories. In surveying evidence for this

from Physics (more can be found in GC and Metaphysics), we will see that Aristotle does not always

demonstrate, or even attempt to argue, that his predecessors’ theories are intrinsically wrong. In many

important places, he shows only that they do not provide an understanding of the kind that he wants,

and are therefore of no use to his physics. Having established this, we will be sure that Aristotle’s

physics is governed as much by his epistemology, as it is by nature itself. There can hardly be a

blunter indication of our desired conclusion than at the beginning of Physics II:

“Nature is a principle of motion and change, and it is the subject of our enquiry.”

Ph. II·1, 200b12.

Matter warrants no mention here: change is clearly paramount. Obviously, Aristotle needs elements

that allow his physics to advance in that direction. Making this choice, as we will now go on to see,

entails a study of not just the world of the senses, but also of the mechanisms hidden just beneath

what we can perceive.

ARISTOTLE’S ARGUMENTS FOR THREE ELEMENTS IN PHYSICS I

As already noted, Aristotle often uses ‘elements’ ( � � � � � � � � ) and ‘(first) principles’ ( � � � � )interchangeably, this certainly being the case in Physics I. The central question of that book asks how

many truly fundamental elements or first principles there are. For such a large question, Aristotle’s

discussion is remarkably short—in Bekker’s edition, it fits into just sixteen pages. At the end of it,

Aristotle concludes that there are three fundamental principles in nature, i.e. three fundamental

elements (190b35).

53 The scope of physics is laid out especially in Ph. II·2, 194a22-194a15. See also Ph. II·1, 192b10-20, where theobjects of physics are designated to be viewed in terms of change; de An. I·1, 403b10-15, where physics is saidto deal with the properties of material objects; Metaph. IV·1, 1025b-1026a, where physics is characterised as aspeculative or theoretical field of learning, that deals with mutable things that have their own existence.

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His final statement that there are three elements is very brief. It fits into one short chapter, and is so

cautiously worded that a quick reading might miss its message. Our exegesis will involve stepping

back to the beginning of Physics and working through those first sixteen pages. By analysing the

argument, we will glean information about the characteristics of his desired elements, while

strengthening the claim that he does finally endorse a three-element theory. Since the content of

Physics I is so close to the relevant parts of Metaphysics I and GC, we can, for the most part,

reasonably determine Aristotle’s position by analysing Physics alone. Our text is the same as that

analysed in Chapter II, but the goal of our present analysis is different: before, we sought to establish

Aristotle’s technical vocabulary. Now, we seek the assumptions implicit in his dialectic.

The elements must explain change

As we have already seen, Aristotle’s rejection of Eleatic monism inadvertently reveals many of his

own underlying opinions. In particular, it reveals his commitment to change, and thus to elements

that will cater for it. It is not easy to understand either Parmenides or Melissus; even Aristotle, as we

noted in the preceding chapter, finds their claims ambiguous at best.54 His response is to look at

several possible interpretations, eliminating them one by one. One could accuse Aristotle of replacing

the Eleatics with straw men, but dishonour is not his motive: after successfully eliminating several

possibilities, he concludes (charitably) that none of those impossible circumstances could possibly

have been what Melissus or Parmenides really meant. For us, the critical observation is that certain

of Aristotle’s refutations assume that change is real, and he concludes that a single element cannot

explain it.

Aristotle’s first proposed interpretation is that the Eleatics meant exactly one element that never

changes. His objection is simply that the point of physics is to study changes suffered by material

things (184b25), so it is senseless for a physicist to attempt studying something that is singular and

unchanging. Indeed, Aristotle is said to have classified proponents of a changeless world as ‘non-

54 On the theses of Parmenides and Melissus, see KRS, pp. 248 ff. Barnes gives a thorough analysis ofParmenides’s poem in two chapters (pp. 155-199) and of Melissus’ in a further chapter (pp. 200-230). Barnesin fact challenges Aristotle’s judgement, pointing out that Plato did not at all despise the philosophy ofMelissus as Aristotle does. I am inclined to agree with Barnes’ conclusion that the invention of monism appearsnot in the fragments of Parmenides, but those of Melissus. (Barnes, Presocratic Philosophers, pp. 180, 207.)However, note that Aristotle is looking for an understanding of nature, not for authorial intent. This attitude isreflected in Aristotle’s not differentiating between Parmenides’ two theories—the monist Way of Truth and thepluralist (though illusory) Way of Appearance—Parmenides’ true intentions are not deemed relevant to thetruth of nature.

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physicists’ ( � � � � � � ).55 The only reason that Aristotle gives for rejecting this version of monism, is

that it implicitly denies that change exists.

Likewise, the importance of explaining change leads Aristotle to reject the theory of Anaxagoras, who

proposed a separate element for each homoeomer. Aristotle’s criticism is that Anaxagoras’ elements

are unable to account for one particular kind of change: transmutation.56 This is a serious problem,

since Aristotle is convinced that transmutation really does happen—in the case of water and air, for

example, he considers it self-evident (188a13-20): boiling water generates vaporous steam, a kind of

air. According to Aristotle, the matter really has changed, so that, when water becomes air, it ceases

to exist.57 Such ‘generation’ of air by ‘corruption’ of water cannot be satisfactorily explained by

Anaxagoras’ theory. Anaxagoras would explain this by saying that water contains air throughout it.58

The air, then, would be ‘generated’ by separating it out of the water—nothing is created, destroyed,

or transmuted. Aristotle disagrees: Anaxagoras implies that there must always be water left behind,

and there never is, when a cauldron boils dry. Aristotle’s argument relies on nothing but the

observation that Anaxagoras’ proposal does not allow the kind of change that Aristotle wishes to

explain.

Diversity necessitates more than one element

The things that populate Aristotle’s world are not only changeable, but also measurable and otherwise

quantifiable, so he rightly considers it important to explain magnitude and plurality. We can detect

the importance of this in his analysis of the Eleatics in particular, where he argues that their elemental

One cannot be genuinely fundamental. For, he says, they attribute to it both substance and quantity,

and thus acknowledge that it has two prior parts. Moreover, the things that populate Aristotle’s

world are not only changeable and quantifiable, but also different. Horses, for example, are of

different size, different colour, different temperament, different breed. We thus arrive at another

fundamental aspect of nature that Aristotle’s elements must account for: diversity.

55 Sextus Empiricus, Adversus Physicos II, 46. Sextus also reports Aristotle describing them as � � � � � � � � � � � �� � � � � � , ‘those who make nature stand still’.56 On the theory of Anaxagoras, see e.g. KRS, pp. 367-371.57 Aristotle’s own explanation contrasts this with the building of a brick house. There, the house was not onlymade from bricks, but is also composed of bricks. The air, on the other hand, is not composed of water, eventhough it was made from it (188a15).58 The detail in Aristotle’s explanation at Ph. I·4, 187b22-b35 is a bit scant; there is a much fuller explanation byKRS, p. 370. See also footnote 62 below.

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Aristotle’s approach embraces all of this through three abstract notions: substance, quantity, and

quality. The senses tell him that all three are present in every material thing that is relevant to physics,

with quality and quantity furnishing diversity. The importance of substance, quantity and quality are

revealed in Aristotle’s anti-Eleatic tirade; he requires the elements to provide all three. And he argues

that a single element cannot do this.

Toward understanding that anti-Eleatic argument, let us note first that Aristotle draws a sharp

distinction between substance on the one hand, quantity and quality on the other. This distinction

appears in his discussion of whether any of these three—substance, quantity or quality—could stand

alone, and thereby be the Eleatics’ mysterious One: he eliminates quantity and quality because they

must naturally be attributes of some other thing, necessitating that other thing being present. Only

substance could conceivably stand by itself (185a25-35). But it turns out that substance could not be

the One either. One reason why Aristotle will not let substance occupy this rôle is the fact (assumed

by both Parmenides and Melissus) that it has quantity. Melissus claimed that the One was infinite;

Parmenides, that it was finite. Regardless of which (if either) was right, Aristotle notes that both

statements are about how big the one thing is, which makes sense only if it has quantity (185a32-

185b5). Obviously, then, Aristotle cannot accept that the One is substance alone.

The importance of quantity is further evident in his discussion on whether ‘the One’ could have

meant a single continuum. He points out that this cannot be the case either, for anything continuous

is, by definition, infinitely divisible (185b16).59 It would therefore have infinitely many parts. So

perhaps the One was intended to be one in the sense of being indivisible. But Aristotle makes the

slightly obscure complaint that if this were the case, there could be no sense of quantity or quality, in

conflict with the quantity and quality that he sees in nature. He seems to mean that if the One were

indivisible, then it could not be divided at all, not even into quality and quantity. Without quantity,

the One could be neither limited nor unlimited, contrary to what Melissus and Parmenides put forth.

Of course, if this were the case, then the One could not have a distinguishable substance either, and,

owing to the grammatical relationship between ‘substance’ ( � � � ! ) and ‘to be’ ( " � # $ % ), it could

therefore have no existence.60 Both substance and quantity are essential in Aristotle’s account of the

universe, and for him, the elements must provide both.

59 Continuity is defined in Ph. V·3, 227a10 and Metaph. XII·12, 1069a5. Those definitions justify the claim forinfinite divisibility that Aristotle uses here.60 It has lately become traditional—even necessary—to point out that the Greek verb & ' ( ) * fulfils both theexistential and predicative uses of ‘to be’. The participle corresponding to this is + , ' - . , usually translated as

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Aristotle’s attachment to diversity is also found in another of his proposed readings of the Eleatics.

There, he objects to the proposal that all things are one by definition, i.e. that they are all the same

thing (185b19). Under this scheme, mutual opposites such as “good” and “not-good” would have to

be treated as equal, as would obviously different material things like a man and a horse. This implies

a world of things which are not anything in particular at all, leaving nothing of interest for physicists.

So the proposal should be rejected because it is of no interest. Of course, this is no real objection at

all. Aristotle is begging the question, deflecting the challenge because it does not suit him.61 Since he

defines physics as working with things that do differ, this theory leaves physicists with nothing to do.

The only way out is to choose elements that allow for multiform kinds of material things, their

different qualities, and their different quantities.

Aristotle also raises a linguistic argument that points toward diversity. This, another criticism of the

Eleatics, rests on the definition of ‘element’—which, according to Aristotle, must be the parts of

something more complicated (184b25-185a7). We therefore cannot read the Eleatics as saying that

the universe is one thing, for this implies that there is no composite for the elements to constitute.

Aristotle’s definition of an element, then, necessarily involves composites. His elements are not

simply things in themselves; they are elements of something. In other words, the elements must

constitute composite things.

Epistemology necessitates a finite theory

After setting the monist proposals aside, Aristotle turns his attention to counter the opposite view, the

possibility that there are infinitely many principles. Of the philosophers who propounded such

theories, he names Anaxagoras and Democritus, but really deals only with the former. Anaxagoras

posited elemental ‘seeds’ ( / 0 1 2 3 4 5 4 ) corresponding to each of the infinitely many things where the

parts have properties similar to the whole. Aristotle, revealing his liberal vocabulary, calls them by his

‘substance’, but more literally ‘being’ or ‘existing’. That which has no substance, no 6 7 8 9 : , no ‘existing’, musttherefore not exist. Translating as ‘substance’ (sc. that which ‘stands under’) is, however, justifiable: in Cat. 5,Aristotle can reasonably be interpreted as characterising 6 7 8 9 : as if it were the same as ; < 6 = > 9 ? > @ 6 @ , the‘underlying thing’, of which attributes are predicated. However, 6 7 8 9 : is not necessarily as fundamental as thismight be taken to suggest. For in Metaph. V·8, 1017b20-25, 6 7 8 9 : is said to have two senses: “(a) the ultimatesubstratum, which is no longer predicated of anything else, and (b) that which is a ‘this’ and separable—and ofthis nature is the shape or form of each thing.” So the meaning of 6 7 8 9 : varies, and needs to be assessedseparately in each instance, just as we must separately assess each instance of A B C , ; < 6 = > 9 ? > @ 6 @ and (of course)8 D 6 E F > G 6 @ .61 Aristotle gives a more solid argument against Melissus in SE V, 167b10-20. The intention there is tohighlight a flaw in the logic of Melissus’ argument, not to deal with the theory of matter.

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own word: ‘homoeomers’ ( H I J K J I L M N ).62 They include things both material and conceptual: in

addition to numerous kinds of matter, Anaxagoras’ list includes basic qualities or agents such as wet,

dry, cold, bright and dark.63

Against Anaxagoras, Aristotle raises five objections, of which only two have an obvious bearing upon

our project. One, concerning Anaxagoras’ denial of transmutation, has already been noted. The other

important objection rests on the fact that, in Aristotle’s sense of ‘understanding’, it is impossible to

understand a universe with an infinite number of elements. If there are infinitely many elements then,

Aristotle points out, we cannot know what each one is (187b7). Not knowing each of the elements

individually would thwart Aristotle’s attaining a satisfactory understanding of matter, because he

equates true understanding with complete knowledge of its first causes. This is, of course, no real

assault against the possible truth of Anaxagoras’ theory. It says nothing more than that Anaxagoras’

elements will not fulfil Aristotle’s notion of complete understanding. But that is exactly the message

that we want—confirmation that the elements which Aristotle seeks, are those which will give him

complete knowledge of the first causes of things. An infinitude of unknown elements will not provide

that. This is why, says Aristotle, “it is better to assume a smaller and finite number of principles, as

Empedocles does.” (189a15-20.)

Thus, then, we have established that Aristotle seeks a small finite number of elements, since one

element is not enough, and infinitely many elements cannot be properly understood. We have also

established that Aristotle requires elements which explain the multifariousness of things in nature, the

changes that these things undergo, and their substance and quantity and quality. We have therefore

unmasked a handful of criteria that Aristotle’s elements must fulfil, so we can now move on to

establish what those elements actually are—for we have so far established only that certain of

62 O P Q R S R Q T U V is variously translated as ‘homoeomerous’ or ‘homogeneous materials’, ‘homoeomers’ and‘uniform materials’. They are the simplest kinds of matter that exist, as matter, in nature. See e.g. HA I·1,486a5-15; PA II·1, 646b10-25. We will deal with the homoeomerous materials in detail later on.

Anaxagoras’ homoeomerous materials are not of the same class as Aristotle’s. Anaxagoras’ seeds are conceivedas true elements, while Aristotle’s are compounds. Barnes notes (p. 321) that Aristotle’s reading of Anaxagorasis not particularly clear, and seems even a little crude, suggesting that Aristotle did not treat Anaxagoras withdue rigour.

However, it is possible (and not at all in discord with his treatment of the Eleatics), that Aristotle’sinterpretation is motivated by a logical need, setting up a straw dog rather than intending to portrayAnaxagoras’ theory with accuracy.63 Anaxagoras, DK B 4: “the commingling of all things—of the wet and the dry and the hot and the cold andthe bright and the dark, there being much earth present and seeds unlimited in quantity and not like oneanother.”

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Aristotle’s predecessors’ elements are unsatisfactory. Towards choosing elements of his own, Aristotle

begins by deciding what will provide qualities. His approach is to argue that at least some of the

elements must be ‘opposites’.

Qualities necessitate opposites, or ‘opposing’ elements

Aristotle’s opposites, or contraries ( W X Y X Z [ Y ), are not material things. They are properties and causes

of state and change, such as hot and cold, rarity and density, the full and the void, pale and dark.

Some of these, like hot and cold, are thought of as active agents. Others, like pale and dark, are

passive properties of things. Everyone, says Aristotle, agrees to some extent that at least some

opposites, or contraries, are principles (188a19). Even Parmenides, contrary to Aristotle’s initial

classification of him as a monist, is said to admit the opposites hot and cold. This admission looks

curiously self-contradicting, for we earlier saw Aristotle objecting to Parmenides on the grounds that

a purely monist approach does not allow the inclusion of opposites as primary principles. But that was

only one possible reading out of many—Aristotle proposed several, and did not actually say that any

of them is what Parmenides really meant. Parmenides was thus no more than a convenient target for

Aristotle’s derogation of one-element theories, in the same way that Anaxagoras was involved in his

derogation of theories with infinitely many elements.

Some opposites (such as those just listed) can be characterised in a way that is very important to

Aristotle, for they then satisfy his two main definitive criteria for primary principles: firstly, they do

not consist of more basic things. Secondly, they are independent of each other (188a26). Opposites

which exhibit such baseness and independence are classified by Aristotle as ‘primary opposites’, and

clearly have some claim to being treated as fundamentals. Indeed, we might expect them to be

elements, numbering hundreds upon hundreds.64 But Aristotle does not see it like this. Before

looking at how he does see it, let us look at the two criteria themselves.

Of the two criteria that make opposites primary, the first—that they are not composed of more basic

parts—is of course to be expected. This follows naturally from wanting to find the most fundamental

components of things, a desire which we established of Aristotle in the preceding chapter.

The other criterion—that the primary opposites be independent—could do with some exegesis. In

discussing this second criterion, Aristotle comes to the conclusion that ‘everything’ in nature either is

64 Aristotle does not go so far as to list a great number of opposites himself, but at least gives a Pythagorean listof ten such opposites at Metaph. I·5, 986a23.

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an opposite, or consists (at least partly) of opposites (188b21). But when Aristotle takes change into

account, things must also transform from one state towards another. It turns out that, in Aristotle’s

system, different types of opposite do not interact with each other in these transformations. For

instance, if a thing were to become pale, it must have previously been not-pale. It may also have been

initially heavy, but that is merely incidental (188a30). Heaviness and paleness must be independent if

Aristotle will accept them as primary opposites, in the sense that heaviness is not linked, causally or

logically or otherwise, with paleness in the inextricable way that not-paleness is.65

Despite the world being so overwhelmingly varied, with infinitely subtle gradations of quality,

Aristotle provides only the opposites to account for them all. For example, pale and dark appear

amidst his examples, but not the innumerable shades of grey. For the extremes prove sufficient to

account for these too, since Aristotle can produce the intermediaries by blending the pale with the

dark. Different balances between the two components give different gradations of paleness and

darkness, indeed the whole spectrum (188b21-25).

Aristotle’s justification for including opposites stems from his need to account for the qualities of

natural objects. He in fact offers no more than what I have already given: that things can take on a

new quality (e.g. paleness, heaviness, educatedness) only if that quality were previously lacking. In

the case of more complicated changes that we might not immediately recognise as belonging to this

same pattern, he points out that it is difficult to notice them because complex states (such as the

complicated arrangement of building materials causing them to constitute a house, or the attunement

of a musical instrument,) generally lack names (188b8-15). He claims that every complicated entity

exists through either a certain quality of arrangement or combination, clearly thinking that they must

each arise out of the lack of that defining quality. Aristotle’s justification is thin, but he does not think

that anything more is needed. Even though he notes his predecessors offering no justification for

their opposites, it seems, he says, as though they had no freedom to propose anything else: it is as if

the truth forced their hands, offering no alternative (188b26). As for Aristotle’s own case, he suffers

65 Towards understanding Aristotle’s notion of independence, it is helpful—but not easy—to consider alsopairs of opposites that are not independent. For example, whether brine tastes salty or sweet, is linked towhether it is dense or rare. Whether a body is voluminous or compact depends directly on whether it is long orshort, narrow or wide, thick or thin. Trivial cases involve synonyms, such as left and right, port and starboard,sinister and dexter. Aristotle, however, does not himself discourse upon the ways that pairs of opposites may beinter-related.

Bolotin takes a very different view of what it means for opposites to be independent. This, and why I think it tobe wrong, will be explained in the next chapter.

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no great desire to justify it any further: “…it is plain to see that our principles must be opposites.”

(189a9.)

That accepted, which opposites does Aristotle mean to uphold as true elements? Even though he

thinks it “plain to see” that opposites are principles, his statement is not specific. Is he subscribing to

hot and cold, or dense and rare? Or a vast number of different opposing pairs, as we might naturally

expect? It so happens that he does not support any of these candidates as primary opposites at the

elemental level. Or rather, he supports the inclusion of all of the vastly many pairs of independent

opposites, but groups them all into just two classes. This leads him to endorse opposites of the most

general kind conceivable: form and privation.

Under this proposal, hot, dense, pale and educated can be taken as merely singular examples of form.

Cold, rare, dark and uneducated are then examples of the corresponding privation. In more

complicated cases where the arrangement of parts is important, Aristotle speaks of simply the ‘form’

or ‘formula’ of a house or bed or table, since he has no words more specific.

Here ends the direct evidence for Aristotle’s commitment to form and privation, at least in Physics I.

But it is not the only evidence that exists, for in reading Generation and Corruption, The Heavens,

Meteorology, and the biological treatises, we can see him applying the form-privation approach over

and over. It has already been noted that they explain extremes of quality in addition to the

intermediate gradations; an expected corollary is that they would thereby facilitate continuous change

from one state or form to the next. Of special interest, we find Aristotle applying these two elements,

plus a third (discussed below), to analyse the four simple bodies, i.e. the four ‘elements’ of tradition.66

To document this in explicit detail is too large an undertaking for this thesis, so we must be satisfied

with the following: if Aristotle did not mean to make form and privation into elements, we could

hardly account for his using them as such in so pervasive and sustained a manner.

In setting out the opposites, Aristotle apparently commits himself to at least two elements, and lays

down the first definite paving-stones towards understanding change in a material world.

66 A particularly well-developed case is the water cycle, discussed at length in Mete. II. Aristotle’s explanation isbased on the continuous transmutation of the simple bodies in a homoeomer, applied on two scales: at the mostfundamental scale, it is the simple bodies that transmute by changing their forms. At a slightly higher level, it isthe homoeomer that transmutes by changing its form too, its form being the ratio of the simple bodies thatconstitute it.

This view of change between opposites is apparent also in Aristotle’s discussions on the generation andmetamorphosis of animals in e.g. HA V·19 and GA III·9.

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Substance requires a material element

Recalling Aristotle’s earlier criticisms against other theories, we can see that while the opposites will

explain the qualities and quantities that are predicated of substance, they will not explain substance

itself. This is close to the heart of Aristotle’s urging a third element. But it is not a simple task to

justify that this is indeed what Aristotle is doing, for in defending that proposal, we must work with

some of the less direct parts of Physics I. The two relevant chapters (I·6 and I·7) are written without

the brash confidence and directness so distinctive of the earlier material. In these two chapters;

Aristotle does not claim his ideas to be “plain” or “clear” as he often did in the five chapters that came

before.

We have already seen that Aristotle will not accept a physics with exactly one first principle, and

neither will he accept a physics with infinitely many: “The ultimate principles, though limited in

number, must be more than one. But, supposing them to be limited, there are reasons for supposing

them to be more than two.” (189a20.) We know also that he prefers a small finite number, somewhat

along the lines of Empedocles (188a15-20). Based on the immediately preceding section, we

temporarily suppose also that two of the first principles must be the general opposites, form and

privation. As we will see, Aristotle is indecisive over how these opposites should be counted, and he

leaves two choices open to our own personal preference. Exactly how to count them is a matter for

which he expresses little concern.

The clues supporting a material element are enshrouded by Aristotle’s discussion of exactly how

many elements there are. Though brief, his overall argument is contorted: first, he concludes that

there are no more than three, then he argues that there must be at least one element which is not an

opposite of the sort that we have already discussed. This additional element, which is not an opposite,

turns out also to be conceptual: it is an abstraction of the material substratum.

Aristotle’s argument for the material substratum is decidedly tentative. He offers several brief reasons

for rejecting the possibility that there are only two elements, but does not actually say that they are

correct. In fact, he suggests them as plausible arguments, pending confirmation. These, even though

only plausible and not definite, happen to fit well into Aristotle’s need to account for the material

substratum of things, and they show why Aristotle will not allow the opposites alone to fulfil that rôle.

The first of these objections that Aristotle raises is that he sees no way to make material things out of

opposites alone. He observes that love and hatred, for instance, do not make material objects simply

out of each other, suggesting that there must be some third component that they can act on, and from

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which actual objects can be produced (189a25). Aristotle evidently thinks that the opposites produce

only qualities, and cannot produce the things, i.e. the substances, which possess those gradations of

quality. In fact, Aristotle complains openly that having only the opposites as elements does not

provide a means to account for substance, since the opposites never constitute the substance of

anything (189a27-30). This makes complete sense, even if for no reason other than that he defined

his opposites this way, following the example set by many of his predecessors: whatever it is that the

opposites produce, it must be predicated of a substance that is derived from something else.

One could object to Aristotle’s separation between substance and quality, and attempt to incorporate

substance into the opposites. But this would simply upset Aristotle further. His objection is that if we

included substance with each opposite, then the substances would be opposites too, and would yield

the nonsensical consequence of substance and non-substance opposing each other (189a32).67 He

does not say why he believes this inconceivable, but a possible reason is that it leads to conclusions

that do not belong in physics. An opposite to substance would have to be not-substance. Anything

derived from not-substance would be insubstantial, and thereby not count as a thing in its own right.

But there are many abstracts such as triangles and squares that lack material existence, and others like

redness and infinity that resist even imagination, so why does Aristotle eliminate not-substance so

categorically? This is surely an indication of what Aristotle’s physics must contemplate, or more

pointedly, what physics must ignore. Natural material things are the business of physics, not-things

are not: if it has no substance, then Aristotle does not consider it to exist in nature, and it is therefore

of no concern to the physicist.68 Given his other steps in favour of satisfying the demands of physics,

this line of thought stands as a likely one for Aristotle to accept, or perhaps an underlying principle

by which his thought is driven.

There is also another good reason why substance and opposites should not be bound together into a

single element. Aristotle does not actually use this argument, but in considering it, we obtain another

plausible insight to the influences that shape his thinking. And like the preceding reason, it gains

credence by fitting remarkably well into Aristotle’s methodological beliefs.

This further possible reason has more to do with epistemology than physics. If substance and

opposite were bound together, then the resulting thing would obviously be a compound of a

67 In the next chapter, within the context of Scaltsas’ work, I will briefly outline a proposal by Furth: that primematter is a matter + opposite compound of the sort that Aristotle is here rejecting.68 This is almost obvious from the grammatical relationship, in Greek, between a thing’s existing and its having\ ] ^ _ ` . See footnote 60 above.

36

substance and an opposite. Obviously, this compound would have two parts, though the separation

between them is not physical: it is conceptual and linguistic.69 Aristotle is right to avoid elements

which are conceptually separable, even if they cannot be physically divided. For it is an

understanding of things that he ultimately seeks, not the things themselves.

Understanding is gained through thought and reason, and there is no doubt that Aristotle is keen to

learn more about the world than what his senses will directly reveal. He thus reasons abstractly, and

arrives at elements which cannot be known through the senses alone. In particular, reason leads

Aristotle to require another element to provide substance for matter. And as we have just seen,

Aristotle must abstractly separate this element from all quantity and quality—otherwise it would not

be truly elemental. It is the ultimate substratum, the last ‘knowable’ substance underneath all other

matter. It has no known—or knowable—features, and is therefore (in some sense) featureless.

Aristotle’s decision is not without historical precedent. A single underlying material element was, he

notes, chosen by many of the earlier philosophers. They generally selected one of air, water, fire, or

something with a consistency between air and fire. There are other possibilities, such as

Anaximander’s Unbounded, and the One of the Eleatics might also be put into this class. Since

Aristotle is looking for irreducible elements, he quickly eliminates Empedocles’ earth, water, air and

fire, since it is generally agreed that they have qualities (189b4-5).70 They can therefore be reduced, at

least conceptually, to those qualities plus matter. Ideally, Aristotle argues for an elemental substratum

which is matter alone. It cannot have qualities, since otherwise it would be separable, and therefore

not an element. This is why, in his evaluation of earlier proposals, Aristotle thinks that the choice of

air as the underlying matter (instead of water or fire) was the most sensible—air has the fewest

perceptible qualities, so it is the most pure form of matter that his less advanced predecessors could

have directly known. But Aristotle obviously considers it better again to choose something with no

qualities at all. For the material substratum, Aristotle appears to want something like pure and

featureless matter.

69 Cf. Aristotle’s argument, discussed earlier in this chapter, against the Eleatic notion of one indivisibleelement.70 It is generally accepted that Aristotle associates the four ‘standard’ elements with two pairs of primaryopposites: hot and cold, and moist and dry. We need not deal with this; the details are not immediatelyimportant. But let us note in passing that for Aristotle to do so is no departure from tradition—evenEmpedocles stated properties for the four roots: “The sun [i.e. fire], hot to see, and radiant everywhere… rain[i.e. water] everywhere, dark and cold… from earth flow things firm and solid.” Empedocles, DK B 21. Suchan interpretation of Empedocles is standard; see e.g. Barnes, Early Greek Philosophy p. 167.

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Aristotle’s elements are abstract

There is nothing particularly dazzling about Aristotle’s decision to analyse natural phenomena into

both matter and quality. Many earlier philosophers did the same, the only notable exceptions being

the Pythagoreans and perhaps the Eleatics. In earlier theories, we find a tangible Urstoff such as air

or water, easily modelled things like ball-bearing atoms, or the easily imagined solids of geometers.

Each of these is easily grasped and represented—a tangible Urstoff can be put into a vessel or

touched by the hand, atoms can be carved in stone or clay, the perfect solids can be sculpted or

sketched on papyrus. Some, like the love and hate of Empedocles, can be metaphorically linked with

human emotion.

Aristotle’s elements, on the other hand, are not so easily represented. His opposites are so all-

encompassing that they have every distiguishing feature. His substratum is in some sense every

natural thing. These elements resist the kind of essential definition that Aristotle prefers: they are

purely genera; they have no differentiae to delineate the distinctions. They are thus very difficult to

pin down, and Aristotle’s definitions of them are by example alone. The absence of differentiae points

to our inability to directly sense and know these elements. Again, that detachment is not new to

Aristotle, since Democritus or Leucippus could not directly know their atoms, and Melissus and

Parmenides could not directly know their mysterious One, nor the mysterious forces that drew it

together and apart. Similar unseen forces churned the roots of Empedocles from order into jumbled

chaos, and separated them out again into order. Looking right back to Homer’s and Hesiod’s tales of

the gods, we find irreducible elements of the cosmos that are not directly detectable and material in

character. Contrary to some modern interpretations of Aristotle’s texts, there is really nothing new or

unusual in his use of reason to arrive at abstract elements more fundamental than sensible matter.71

Not only is the idea of abstract elements not new, neither is it absurd: if reason can resolve things

further than can experiment and the senses, then there certainly is some sense in which the elements

are at a level deeper than we can directly observe. Such elements need not have material existence,

and we have already seen that Aristotle thinks that two of the elements are the abstract and general

opposites, form and privation. Clearly, these lack material existence. For that matter, so do the

primary opposites (hot and cold, pale and dark, red and not-red, et c.) which he grouped together to

get form and privation. At the least, the familiar primary opposites are perceptible by touch and sight.

71 In the next chapter, we shall deal with recent implicit assumptions that Aristotle’s elements are material.

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But pure form and privation are not. Form and privation are but broad concepts. They testify that at

least some of the elements exist only at the conceptual level.

The other element, the substratum, is also a conceptual one, being a genus of the broadest kind.

Aristotle can no more define this than he can define the general opposites. Whether it is the prime

matter of tradition is a topic for the next chapter. For now, it suffices to note just the following: the

ultimate substratum described here is not a specific kind of matter, but a purely conceptual

abstraction of all natural (and hence material) things that are subject to change. It is now widely

accepted that, within physics, any particular instance of the substratum is a particular thing. But,

contrary to some views, this particular is not the fundamental element. The particular thing is only a

relative element that applies in understanding a particular change. This aspect of the debate will be

dealt with in the next chapter.72

In further support of the idea that Aristotle’s elements are abstract, we can cite also the fact that his

opposites are collected together into abstract categories: form and privation. One might object by

saying that these collections are categories in name alone, and that Aristotle really thinks of the

specific instances when he refers to forms and privations. But there is good evidence that this is not

the case. Our next step is to observe this from a further argument, in which he deduces—on the basis

of purely abstract reason—that one of the opposites is in fact optional. This is important not only for

the evidence that it provides in support of Aristotle’s abstraction, but also because it tells us how the

elements are to be counted.

Two or three elements?

Following those of Aristotle’s arguments which I have put forth so far, it would seem that he has

settled on three elements, two opposites plus a material substratum. But he actually does not conclude

this—instead, he concludes that there could be three elements, but also that there could be only two.

It is a little surprising that this should draw such uncertainty—surely two opposites plus one

substratum must equal three elements in total! Yet he admits to thinking that it is not easy to

determine whether two or three is the case (189b27). On this, he openly refuses a firm conclusion: the

exact number, he says, depends on how you wish to see the details and how the opposites are defined.

Aristotle offers two ways to construe the situation:

72 Bolotin and Gill both share this view to some extent, and the next chapter will discuss Bolotin’s interpretationin particular. The term Aristotle generally uses for a ‘this particular thing’ is a b c d a e .

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“…it is clear that there must be something underlying the opposites, and that the oppositesmust be two. Yet in another way of putting it this is not necessary, as one of the opposites willserve to effect the change by its absence and presence.”

Ph. I·7, 191a1-10.

This passage clearly offers two possibilities—either Aristotle subscribes to a theory of two elements,

or else his theory involves three. In neither case does he quibble about the material substratum, the

“something underlying the opposites”. It is undoubtedly common to both options. But what of the

remaining one or two? In the account that we have uncovered, there are only the general opposites

left. The remaining one or two elements are indeed these opposites, and it turns out that their

number is simply a matter of how they are counted.

Whether the opposites are one or two is flexible; if we take only one opposite (say form) as an

element, then its absence is equivalent to the other opposite (e.g. the absence of form is form’s

privation).73 A subtle variation is to say that the two are aspects of some single thing, as does Aristotle

himself much later on: “…privation too is in a way form” (Ph. II·1, 193b18).

Another possibility is to take form and privation separately, counting them as two elements. Either

way, Aristotle has the same overall result, and the distinction is downgraded to mere technicality. Yet

to count the opposites as a single element could seem to be a departure from Aristotle’s insistence

upon conceptual and linguistic fundamentality. For if they are one, then absence and presence might

have some claim to being considered as elements too. But Aristotle does not spend time

contemplating this possibility. His attitude is that it does not matter whether we have one or two

opposites. And if we choose just one, it does not matter whether we take form or privation. While he

prefers to think of the fundamental elements as three, both options effectively lead to the same result.

With this, Aristotle seems satisfied; it needs refinement no more:

“…that the principles are three, and in what sense, and the way in which each is a principle, isclear.”

Ph. I·7, 191a20-25.

73 Cf. GC I·3, 317b15 ff, where Aristotle discusses the substratum of unqualified generation. There also, hegives two equally valid ways of construing the situation. And there also, full understanding comes fromknowing these options. Aristotle gives the impression that not only is understanding built on grasping alldetails, but it requires also a grasp of all viewpoints.

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Recapitulation

Naturally, Aristotle considers his finished theory superior to all that have gone before it, saying that

“the difficulty of the early thinkers, as well as our own, are solved in this way alone.” (191a23.) To

begin with, it provides for the ancient and fundamental principle that nothing is generated ex, nor

destroyed in, nihil. It is simply the substratum that provides this. For in any given change, the

substratum remains constant. In its most abstract form, it is featureless, so it has nothing in it that can

change. Since it is changeless, it needs no further underlying matter, for to Aristotle, ‘matter’ (in this

context) is simply that which underlies change. Aristotle’s theory also provides for change itself,

without relegating it to the status of illusion or defect. In effect, Aristotle has managed to reduce all

material change to mere alteration ( f ghg i j k l m n ) of qualities attached to a fundamental substrate. But

this was not the only problem that Aristotle was working to solve.

Throughout Physics I, we found not only Aristotle’s ‘public’ theory of the elements (in the strictly

fundamentalist sense of the word), but also a number of points which are not so explicitly paraded.

These extra criteria, which Aristotle does not discuss, are significant in two ways: some of them

attend to what the elements produce for physics and for all that is based in physics. Other criteria

cater for Aristotle’s more basic epistemological concerns.

Aristotle’s criteria for complete understanding required that the elements be knowable individually,

and that they all be known. They had to be truly elemental, with no prior parts, either conceptual or

material. And they had to be independent of each other.

In order to explain change, Aristotle needed the elements to be elements of things, rather than stand-

alone entities. Moreover, inert elements were found useless for explaining the diverse and changing

material subjects of physics. For these reasons, he propounded the general opposites as forces of

change and state, and the material substratum to receive forms and (apparently) to provide substance.

We also found that Aristotle’s elements of matter are not physical, but conceptual fundamentals. His

use of conceptual fundamentals is not new, but Aristotle’s abstraction has gone further than that of

his predecessors. Where the pre-Aristotelian idea of what is fundamental was based on principles

derived from tangible or observable phenomena in nature, Aristotle based his idea of fundamentality

in thought and language. Aristotle’s elements serve two main purposes, then: the obvious purpose is

to stand as the absolute ‘first causes’ of things. The less obvious purpose is to initiate a chain of

theoretical consequences that will serve as a useful framework in the study of physics.

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Aristotle confessed that it is not clear from the discussion in Physics whether it is the form or the

substratum that ultimately provides substance (191a19). This could seem dissonant with his clear

support for a material substratum, where the substratum is justified by the need for substance. But

that substratum is an abstract genus, a generalisation of individuals that are already substantial. And

it does not matter to Aristotle’s physics whether the abstract substratum is substantial: he deems that

topic appropriate to first philosophy, and promises to discuss it elsewhere (191a34).74 For the

purposes of physics, the substratum need offer nothing more than some particular substantial thing to

underlie each change, so that changes can be understood.

74 Aristotle perhaps means Metaph. V·8, VII·3 and VIII·1. In all three, he appears to be thinking that substanceis found in the substratum. Substance “is that which is not predicated of a subject, but of which all else ispredicated.” (VII·3, 1029a5-10.) The abstract ultimate substratum has no function other than to receivepredications so, at least superficially, it appears to satisfy this criterion.

However, there is considerable evidence to sustain the thesis that Aristotle believed generic forms to besubstantial, not matter. In particular, we find Aristotle almost explicitly stating so in Metaph. VII·3. But thematerial substratum that I have identified is still useful, as the matter in which forms inhere, and which sufferchange. See e.g. Lear, Aristotle: the desire to understand, pp. 273-293.

It would be fair to suggest that Aristotle’s distinguishing between substance and matter wavers somewhat, thisindistinctness being also evident in some of the passages that I have cited in this chapter. It is possible that,between Ph. and Metaph., Aristotle has changed his mind. Such a view may be justified by the developmentalmode of understanding that is found in e.g. Jaeger, Aristotle, but if we accept that these two texts were usedsimultaneously as teaching material, that developmental conclusion cannot be sustained. Another possibility,which tradition is loathe to state, is simply that Aristotle did not realise an inconsistency between the theories ofPh. and Metaph.

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Chapter IV

ADVERSUS ADVERSARIOS

To support any interpretation of Aristotle’s theory of matter is necessarily to disagree with the views

of others. Of particular difficulty for us here, are several significant writers who deny Aristotle any

prime matter whatsoever. Some even maintain that the four traditional elements are Aristotle’s

elements in the strict, fundamentalist sense.

Assessing such arguments is complicated by the extent to which they are philosophical as opposed to

historical—the historical component varies considerably from case to case. From a purely

philosophical standpoint, Aristotle’s personal beliefs have relatively little significance, and the goal of

many discussions seems to be a new and improved theory that corrects Aristotle’s mistakes. Our

interest, on the other hand, is the theory (perhaps theories) as presented in the text: given our

primarily historical motive, we must cleave to that theory regardless of whether it is right or wrong.

But the distinction is not simple: since Aristotelian philosophy is grounded in historical texts, and

history grapples with Aristotle’s philosophising, so must historical investigations deal with philosophy

too.

A particularly strong claim to attention is made by M.L. Gill, who argues that the four simple

bodies—the elements of tradition—are Aristotle’s genuine elements. Her argument has proven too

subtle for my grasp, so I cannot formulate a refutation.75 In passing, I note only that Gill, like the

others, is searching for Aristotle’s elements of matter, not of nature more generally. So if I am right

about Aristotle wanting instead the elements of nature, Gill’s project must diverge from Aristotle’s.

Numerous works deserve attention, but this short thesis can accommodate only a few: those of David

Bolotin, William Charlton and Theodore Scaltsas.

75 Gill, Aristotle on Substance, in particular Chapter II, pp. 41-82. Gill concludes that the four simple bodies “arenot composites, since they are not composed of simpler ingredients…. These simple materials come to be from,and pass away into, one another, and they also serve as the ultimate ingredients out of which composite bodiesare generated.” (p 82.) This obviously disagrees with the interpretation presented in this thesis, not leastbecause Gill focusses very definitely on matter, not nature as change.

Other works that clearly deserve mention include Fine, “A puzzle concerning matter and form”; Freudenthal,Aristotle’s Theory of Material Substance; Furth, Substance, Form and Psyche; Joachim, Commentary on GC; Irwin,Aristotle’s First Principles; Lewis, Substance and Predication; Waterlow, Nature, Change, and Agency in Aristotle’sPhysics.

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These three writers have been chosen because they represent a diversity of challenges that need to be

addressed. The first, Bolotin, proposes an interesting historical justification for Aristotle’s obscurity.

Based on this, he interprets ‘substratum’ in a way which differs from ours, implicitly drawing

attention to the difficulties of translation and interpretation. Our second author, Charlton, argues

against textual evidence that has been traditionally used to support Aristotle’s belief in the prime

matter doctrine. Much of Charlton’s argument focusses on translation and context, for example the

fact that Aristotle seldom uses the term ‘prime matter’, and that many passages take on a different

meaning when considered in the light of surrounding text. In answering, I will clarify my own

position, and touch again upon translation issues.

Finally, I look at a work by Scaltsas, which greatly advances the project that we encountered in

Charlton: to establish that Aristotle himself did not support a prime matter of any kind whatsoever. I

focus on only a small part of Scaltsas’ discussion, where his argument seems especially relevant (and

dangerous). There, Scaltsas undertakes a very careful reading of Metaphysics III. Based on this, he

moves to conclude that Aristotle did not support characterless substrata of any kind. But in the end, it

will turn out that Scaltsas is not really my opponent at all. Yet even though he exhibits an admirable

historical sensitivity, still he focusses on matter rather than nature, and we will see that a critical

analysis in his argument turns out to be incorrect, thus drawing his rejection of characterless substrata

into question.

BOLOTIN: “ON THE PRINCIPLES OF NATURAL BEINGS”

Bolotin promises us a coherent interpretation of Physics in which the traditional prime matter plays no

part. His interpretation hinges on the meaning of ‘substratum’ (� � � � � � � � � � �

), which he takes as

being always some particular entity, unique to each particular change, from which the resultant object

is created. The idea of a single, persisting, underlying matter has no place in this scheme. However,

Bolotin does implicitly accept that Aristotle’s texts do seem to tell of a prime matter. Whether this is

the prime matter of tradition, Bolotin does not address. Instead, he takes the view that this doctrine is

a smokescreen, raised against religious persecution, which must be dispersed to reveal Aristotle’s true

beliefs, wherein no prime matter is found. Apart from this rejection of the prime matter, I agree with

many of Bolotin’s results. But in examining his argument (in the Introduction and Chapter I of his

Approach to Aristotle’s Physics), I shall argue that Bolotin has, in the end, gone a little too far.

Bolotin’s interpretation is easily grasped through one of his own examples: consider what happens

when a seed perishes in order to become a plant. Bolotin says that it is from that particular seed that

45

the plant arises. The seed simply perishes, and the plant somehow arises out of nothing. The

substratum here is the seed: in general, it is always some particular thing, specific to the situation,

which has the potential to give rise to some other particular thing.76 So substrata occur at all levels of

nature, not just at the fundamental level.

Bolotin’s translation of the word ‘substratum’ is, on the surface, plausible. But we dealt somewhat

with the interpretation of that word in the preceding chapter, where the texts suggested that the

substratum must not perish, but instead survive. But a seed, obviously, does not survive, since it

perishes during germination. Given the shortage of space, the preceding chapter’s discussion of this

will have to suffice.

However, Bolotin has an answer to that. He recognises that the plant arising out of nothing is an

affront to the principle, crucial to Aristotle, that matter cannot be generated out of nothing. Bolotin’s

response to this is shared by several of the ancient commentators: he asserts that Aristotle never

intended to deal with that problem, and that what Bolotin calls his “surface account” (effectively the

account that I have supported) was mere bluff. It is, he says, a deliberate mask, intentionally

disguising Aristotle’s true doctrine as outlined above. To support this idea, he cites several ancients

who also complain that Aristotle’s obscurity was deliberate.77 According to Bolotin, natural

philosophy was greatly frowned upon at the time, and brought with it a risk of being legally charged

with impiety. This risk, says Bolotin, compelled Aristotle to camouflage his true message.

I have several objections to Bolotin’s conclusions: firstly, I will argue that his assessment of the

religious motivation for secrecy is (at best) doubtful. However, even if Bolotin is right about that, it

does not absolve him from further criticism, for secondly, I will point out weaknesses in his

76 Bolotin, Approach to Aristotle’s Physics, p. 19.

See LSJ for the many and various uses of � � � � � � � (‘substratum’). The general use of the word is to denoteanything that is presupposed or underlies in some way. The metaphorical tendencies of the Greek usage haveproduced a very wide range of meanings for many words including, as we have seen, � � � � � � � (‘element’);� � � � � � � likewise has many possible meanings, and warrants no less care in interpretation.77 Bolotin, ibid. pp. 5-7. Here, he cites Themistius (4th cent.), Simplicius (6th cent.) and Alfarabius (10th cent.),all of whom assert that Aristotle’s obscurity was intentional. Bolotin’s intention is not to base his claim on theauthority of these three, who are so late that they certainly could not be called primary witnesses, but only toshow that his claim has a long history of being thought plausible.

However, see also Brentano, Aristoteles, pp. 6-7. Brentano calls such views “very strange opinions”, andattributes them to the simple fact that Aristotle is often difficult to understand. It is very hard for us to knowwhether the obscurity is intentional or not. Researching the alleged intention to deceive is clearly an enormousand difficult task, so space restricts me to the following: I will argue that Bolotin’s motive is unsustainable, andin its absence, will proceed with interpreting the text as it stands—regardless of whether it is deceptive.

46

interpretation of Aristotle’s Physics. Thirdly, I will argue that Bolotin’s total dismissal of the

persisting substratum fails to account for Aristotle’s methods of analysis. Fourthly, I shall defend the

inclusion of privation as a fundamental element, which Bolotin rejects. And finally, I shall argue

against Bolotin’s identification of form as the origin of substance—not because I disagree with the

general conclusion, but because details of his argument contradict aspects of my thesis.

The threat of Athenian religion

The reason that Bolotin gives for Aristotle’s (alleged) secrecy is the threat of persecution under the

strict religious clime in Athens. This being the only reason that Bolotin gives, it is surprising that he

gives it no defence, saying only that students “of natural philosophy were suspected of atheism, which

was a serious crime”, and “Aristotle himself was formally charged with impiety and … compelled to

flee from Athens….”78 In looking at the situation ourselves, we will see that Bolotin’s conclusion is

somewhat drastic.

A century before Aristotle’s prosecution, the soothsayer Diopeithes had introduced a decree

forbidding certain kinds of impiety, making it a crime against the state. By the time Aristotle was

accused, several philosophers had already fallen victim: Protagoras, Prodicus, Damon, Diagoras,

Euripides, Anaxagoras, and of course Socrates.79 The charges did not stop with Aristotle:

Theophrastus was prosecuted in later years, perhaps also Aristarchus. It is difficult to tell whether

these impiety charges were genuinely religious in character, or motivated by political tension. On the

political side, we know that Aristotle had the patronage of Alexander the Great, whose respect is said

to have been extended also to the philosopher Diogenes.80 One naturally expects some kind of social

advantage to arise through such connections.

78 Bolotin, ibid. pp. 6-7. Bolotin’s rationale for the religious context, the basis and historical context for the restof his argument, is so remarkably small that it fits into a single paragraph that straddles these two pages.79 Muir, “Religion and the New Education”, pp. 215-216. Diopeithes’ decree against impiety became law sometime in the 430s. In the general legal context, ‘impiety’ (� � � � � � � ) was a collective term for activity that broughtthe wrath of the gods upon the whole community, and therefore constituted a public crime.

On Athenian religion during this period, see also Mikalson, Religion in Hellenistic Athens; and Parker, AthenianReligion, pp. 276-280.80 See e.g. Plutarch, Alexander 14: “It is said that Alexander was so struck by [Diogenes’ manner], andadmired so much the haughtiness and grandeur of the man who had nothing but scorn for him, that he said tohis followers, who were laughing and jesting about the philosopher as they went away, ‘But verily, if I were notAlexander, I would be Diogenes.’” (Loeb Classical Library.)

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Democratic Athens, on the other hand, did not enjoy Alexander’s rule, and the general histories

record that, after his death, the city seethed with anti-Macedonian sentiment. Given Aristotle’s public

association with Alexander, one must expect that he fell under suspicion at this time. This

conjunction of ill events, not his philosophical activity, is widely held to be the primary reason for his

prosecution.81 So Jaeger, for instance, does not at all blame religious difficulties for Aristotle’s flight

from Athens, but highlights Aristotle’s reliance upon Alexander’s protection, mentioning that even

while Alexander was alive, the Lyceum was widely viewed as “a Macedonian secret-service bureau.”

So like numerous other authors, Jaeger portrays the charge of impiety as a convenient means of

silencing Aristotle as a political enemy. Persuasive evidence for this is in the charge itself, which

concerned a hymn that Aristotle had composed to his deceased father-in-law and patron, Hermeias.82

Aristotle was accused of using it within the Lyceum to improperly honour Hermeias as a god. The

interpretation of that accusation is complicated by two facts: firstly, Hermeias was openly pro-

Macedonian. Secondly, numerous philosophers openly criticised the faults of democratic

government, so they were often perceived as supporters of authoritarian rule, that of Macedon in

particular. Under the circumstances, Aristotle could hardly expect an unbiased trial. Politically, then,

his departure was wise.

In a similar vein, it is widely held that Socrates had deeply offended many powerful public figures by

his constantly exposing their ignorance and intellectual inferiority. Again, it is not the philosophy that

is held responsible for the charge, but personal enmities.83

The terms of Diopeithes’ decree are equally confounding. That decree provided for prosecution

against atheists, and against those who teach rational doctrines about the heavens.84 The prime matter

81 This view is supported by e.g. Brentano, Aristoteles, pp. 3-4; Jaeger, Aristotle, pp. 311-314, 319; Ross,Aristotle, pp. 6-7; and Vegetti, “The Greeks and Their Gods”, p. 281.82 My main source for these legal details is Mikalson, Religion in Hellenistic Athens, pp. 48-49.83 Cf. also Laistner, History of the Greek World, p. 461: “…there is nothing to show that … failure to participatein the more important cults was punished. The few recorded cases of prosecution for impiety occurred at a timeof popular excitement or war hysteria, when a scapegoat was needed to allay the fears of the masses, or else werethe result of political intrigue. …to the latter [case may be assigned] the indictments of Anaxagoras, Alcibiadesand Socrates.”84 “… � � � � ! " # $ % " & ' % $ ( ! ) * + , - % . ) / � 0 1 ( 2 $ " � ( ! 0 3 & 2 $ 4 5 4 6 3 7 % $ ( ! ) …” according to Plutarch, Pericles32·1. Stadter points out the unusual use of the poetic Ionic word " � ( ! 0 3 & 2 $ (things up above), as if Plutarchwere quoting the original wording of the decree. (Stadter, Commentary 32.1-32.2, pp. 297-300.)

Moreover, Plutarch tells us that this decree was actually intended as an attack on Pericles, clearly that itsmotives were primarily political, not religious. Plutarch also records impiety trials before that decree wasintroduced, impiety having previously been very fluidly defined. I have no other source with a claim to

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issue hardly seems relevant; if Aristotle did have to conceal his beliefs, it would surely make more

sense to conceal his astronomy first.85

So Aristotle’s situation is much more complicated than Bolotin has revealed. I do not pretend to

resolve it myself; my point is only that Bolotin’s suggested motive is poorly supported.

Regardless, we shall still deal with Bolotin’s interpretation, since he raises several relevant arguments

that rely only on philosophical interpretation, and not on the alleged religious circumstance. We will

see that his deviation from tradition and literal reading is excessive. As our first instance, let us look

at how he analyses Aristotle’s discussion of a curious metamorphosis, which Bolotin presents as

evidence that Aristotle actually rejected the traditional doctrine of forms and privations, in favour of a

proximate and temporary substratum.

The horse-dog example

Bolotin agrees that much of Aristotle’s fundamental physics appears to be straightforward applications

of form-privation interchanges on top of a substratum. But then he finds Aristotle suggesting that

this is not what he really believes. The evidence is a long-debated passage in which Aristotle seems to

discuss the possibility that

“…a horse—should turn into another particular animal—say, a dog….”86

Ph. I·8, 191b20.

This text has long been considered difficult, with many editors emending it to, “if a dog were to be

generated from a dog, or a horse from a horse….”

Bolotin rejects that emendation, basing his decision on manuscript evidence.87 He prefers what he

calls the “more difficult” option: a horse turning into a dog. The point of the passage, he says, is to

highlight a flaw in the doctrine of forms and privations, hinting that the form-privation doctrine

preserving the original wording, not even in the fragments of Craterus (qq. v. Krech, De Crateri and Jacoby,FGrHist 342).85 Curiously, Bolotin seems to give no substantial reasons why the ‘surface account’ would be any lessdangerous to Aristotle than the ‘true’ theory.86 Contrary to my usual preference for the Revised Oxford Translation, I take this (lightly adapted) from theLoeb translation by Wicksteed and Cornford. The Revised Oxford is emended to the version that I indicate inthe next paragraph, which both I and Bolotin reject.87 Bolotin, ibid. p. 14.

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provides nothing to prevent a horse, or anything else, from suddenly losing its form and getting a

dog’s form instead.

Bolotin’s allegedly “more difficult” reading can in fact be understood very easily, without any new

interpretation. Despite its strangeness when read in isolation, the passage is very clear in context:

“Now we, too (who recognise both ‘form’ and ‘lack of form’, or ‘privation’, as factors incoming-to-be), assert that nothing can come-to-be in the absolute sense out of the non-existent, but we declare nevertheless that all things which come-to-be owe their existence tothe incidental non-existence of something. For they owe it to the privation from which theystarted being no longer there.

And if it seems an amazing paradox to maintain that anything derives in this way from thenon-existent, yet it is really quite true. Moreover, it is equally true that it is only in this sameincidental sense that anything can derive from the existent either, or ‘what is’ can come into being.In this sense, however, this does occur in the same way as (for instance) if ‘an animal’ shouldturn into ‘an animal’, or a particular animal—say, a horse—should turn into anotherparticular animal—say, a dog. The dog would come into being, not only ‘from’ a particular animal,but from ‘an animal’, and it would become ‘an animal’, but only incidentally, not qua animal, since itwas already an animal and could not transform into what it already was.”

Ph. I·8, 191b10-27.

Thus taken in context, the true purpose of the passage is clear: that some of the forms and privations

of an object will be irrelevant when analysing a given change. Here, Aristotle tells us that it, in this

metamorphosis, it is merely incidental that the horse is an animal. Since it is already an animal, it

cannot become an animal.88 The horse becomes not an animal, but a dog. This interpretation is

natural: we would indeed take the same approach if the horse were a little plasticine model, re-

moulded into a dog. We would obviously not say that the plasticine horse had become plasticine.

Aristotle’s point is simply that, if something is generated, then it cannot have previously existed.89 In

the case of the mutating horse, a dog was generated, not an animal. The animal-ness is a matter of

mere incidence. Of course, it is doubtful that Aristotle based this Ovidian example on observed fact.90

But it is not necessary to invoke a radical re-interpretation in order to restore sense to our

understanding of Physics. It is, after all, just a hypothetical illustration. We could speculate that such

88 The paragraph containing the horse-dog example is at Ph. 191b17-191b27. Aristotle states his intention at thebeginning of the paragraph, and again at its end.89 Cf. Aristotle’s insistence that forms only arise out of opposites, as was discussed in earlier chapters. This is nomore than a corollary of that earlier argument.90 Aristotle does, of course, document many non-Ovidian metamorphoses, which could serve here. Forexample, a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, not an insect.

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a perverse touch was calculated to draw attention to what might have otherwise seemed a rather

humdrum and unimportant detail; or else that the drama of a peculiar setting might have made the

abstract and technical nature of Aristotle’s point a little bit easier to grasp. Given the plausibility of

such rhetorical techniques today, there are clearly many reasonable, and less drastic, ways to explain

Aristotle’s use of this metamorphosis.

However, there is still a real problem that Bolotin draws out of that passage—that nothing in

Aristotle’s ‘surface account’ will stop an object from spontaneously changing into something else. But

why can the form itself not serve this function? Surely, part of the essence of a horse is to remain a

horse, and to engender foals, not puppies, as Aristotle himself says:

“…each can produce many similar to itself, as man [produces] man, animals in generalanimals, and plants plants.”

EE II·6, 1222b15-20.

It is likewise the form of elemental water to remain as water until it is acted on by heat or cold (in

which case the outcome is prescribed), or enters into mixture. The form of a thing includes its

longevity, what it generates, and the conditions required. These details are regrettably beyond the

scope of this thesis.91 We must restrict our attention to other problems that Bolotin raises for us, and

move on now to his dismissal of the absolute substratum.

Bolotin’s rejection of the absolute substratum

It is hard to give a detailed refutation of Bolotin’s rejection of absolute substrata, since we disagree at

such a fundamental level. To briefly reiterate, I, in partial agreement with Bolotin, do not attribute to

Aristotle a prime matter of the traditional, ontologically fundamental kind. But since I take the

substratum as a persistent stuff that lies beneath, it is natural that something very much like

traditional prime matter must arise. It arises when Aristotle’s investigation runs into a dead end,

stopped by the limits of human observation, and by the limits of human reason. In peeling back the

layered substrata until he can discern no more, Aristotle reaches a substratum that is epistemically

prime. In that sense, there is some kind of prime or absolute substratum.

91 A fuller account of persistence and longevity—in particular of compound material entities—necessitates alsoa treatment of Aristotle’s idea of soul ( 8 9 : ; ). On this, see Freudenthal, Aristotle’s Theory of Material Substance,which book is in great sympathy with this thesis.

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Bolotin, on the other hand, interprets the substratum as a kind of proximate material thing rather

than prime matter. For it is a perishable predecessor rather than a persistent underlying stuff; it is

destroyed, and its successor arises out of nothing. The idea of prime matter, then, is naturally difficult

for Bolotin’s interpretation—it is simply dissonant in his scheme. I cannot argue with Bolotin on this,

other than to insist that his interpretation of < = > ? @ A B @ C > C (which I take as literal ‘the underlying’ sc.

‘substratum’) is incorrect. It is incorrect because it fails in two places: it fails to satisfy Aristotle’s

requirement that something must remain during a change, and it fails to prevent generatio ex nihil.

But that subject needs no further attention; our last two chapters have already considered it at length,

and the immediately preceding section has shown that Bolotin’s religious motive for disregarding

these two of Aristotle’s requirements, is without sufficient foundation.

Privation as a first principle

Bolotin also finds a weakness in Aristotle’s discussion of whether privation really deserves to qualify

as a first principle, and interprets this weakness as being directed against the form-privation

doctrine.92 In that discussion, Aristotle produced a flexible conclusion, that it does not really matter

whether we think of privation as a first principle in its own right (191a3-23). Aristotle’s own

preference is however clear, since he continues on, including privation as one of his fundamental

elements, yet equally willing to dismiss it as nothing.93 At this point, Bolotin recalls an aspect of

Aristotle’s earlier discussion as to whether there might be an opposite to form. There, Aristotle

insisted that mere concomitance of the parts is not sufficient for something to be generated from its

opposite. Aristotle’s example involved a house and bricks; the presence of the building materials

alone does not constitute a house—they must be assembled in a particular way. In other words, they

must take on the form of the house, and lose the form of being an un-house-like stack of building

materials (188b16-b21).

But Bolotin points out that, if a thing requires more than merely concomitance of its parts, then

privation cannot be simply the absence of form. The problem with Bolotin’s interpretation is that this

weakness is based on a simple misunderstanding of the text. For, when Aristotle denies the

sufficiency of concomitance alone to produce a thing, he does not mean its form. For form is a

particular arrangement. To use his own context, consider again the brick house. The concomitance of

the bricks comprises only their being present all at once; it does not determine whether the structure

92 Bolotin, ibid. p. 18.93 E.g. “…privation too is in a way form” (Ph. II·1, 193b18).

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is a house or a heap. For a house to come into being, the bricks must have the order of the house’s

form imposed upon them: thus a brick house is not only the concomitance of the bricks that compose

it, but also the particular arrangement that gives the bricks their ‘houseness’. In general, all

structured objects are “partly order and partly composition.” (188b20.)

Bolotin’s identification of form as substance

I shall disagree with Bolotin once more, in order to demonstrate a general difficulty inherent in his

approach. It involves his use of the substantial form doctrine to justify rejecting the persistent

substratum.94 Arguing this, he first notes that the substrate, a particular thing from which other

things are generated, does not persist. As an example, he gives the little acorn whence a great oak

arises; the original acorn is nowhere to be found in the mature tree. So “then the being [sc. substance,D E F G H ] cannot consist of a form in that substrate [i.e. cannot consist of a form in a substratum].”

From this, Bolotin goes on to conclude that the substrate is a particular instance of the form.

But the example is not sensibly applied in this context. An acorn does not mysteriously vanish when it

grows into an oak, and surely Aristotle knew of the gradual and continuous transformation that

occurs. We lack a direct statement of this, but we know that he observed the progressive development

of embryos inside chicken eggs, and the metamorphosis of insects.95 With these, we could reasonably

group the ‘spontaneous’ generation of animals out of mud, water and putrefaction. In none of these

cases does the initial state spontaneously vanish, to be replaced by something new. In all of them, the

disappearance of the initial state can be attributed to its matter being used to make something new,

according to Aristotle’s doctrine of concoction. In other words, the matter persists as substratum;

concoction changes its form. Further, it is not solely the original matter that Aristotle uses to make an

oak from an acorn, or a chicken from an egg: he tells us that both plants and animals grow by

incorporating material nutriments from external sources.96

So by identifying the substratum with some particular thing, Bolotin disregards Aristotle’s naturalism

and methodology. Thus, if Bolotin’s approach can explain Aristotle’s texts, it can only do so with

94 The argument here is extracted from Bolotin, Approach, p. 20.

On the doctrine of substantial form, see esp. Metaph. VII. My understanding of that book owes much to Lear,Aristotle, pp. 273-293.95 See e.g. HA VI·3, 561a1-562b1 on the development of birds in eggs; V·19, 551a12-551b20 on themetamorphosis of several kinds of insects.96 On the nature of food and nutrition, and its transformation and incorporation, see e.g. GC II·8, 335a10-14; deAn. II·4, 416a20-416b31.

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difficulty. It is much easier to approach Aristotle in terms of the three elements of change, and allow

him the abstract substratum, concrete instances of which persist throughout each particular change.

As noted, the last knowable substratum is, by virtue of its impenetrability, prime. And this, as Bolotin

would likely agree, is not the prime matter of tradition.

Conclusion

In summary, Bolotin and I agree on the interpretation of Aristotle’s first principles as applying on

many different levels of structure. We disagree in only a few places. Firstly, and most importantly,

where Bolotin finds at best a faux prime matter, propped up as a decoy. I find a real one, its primality

a result of its resistance to analysis, its reality thus only epistemological. Secondly, I do not think that

Aristotle’s ‘surface account’ allows the spontaneous, apparently random, transmutations that Bolotin

seems to permit. For form itself determines what is generated, and the conditions under which

generation may occur. Indeed, to suggest that anything can metamorphose into anything directly

contradicts the whole of Aristotle’s naturalistic outlook. Thirdly, I greatly doubt the religious

motivation for Aristotle’s alleged intention to mislead, since the issue appears much more complex

than Bolotin suggests. Finally, I disagree that we need to read so much between Aristotle’s lines—the

account obtained from a straightforward reading is so magnifically coherent, sustained and pervasive

throughout Aristotle’s whole corpus, that the Philosopher could hardly have meant otherwise.

CHARLTON: “DID ARISTOTLE BELIEVE IN PRIME MATTER?”

Charlton’s approach to Aristotle is, like Bolotin’s, not purely philosophical: it incorporates an

historical standpoint that ties its argument and conclusion to the life and thoughts of Aristotle

himself. Charlton arrives at final conclusions very similar to those of Bolotin, but without claiming

that the texts are intentionally misleading. He too claims that that Aristotle did not believe in the

prime matter of tradition, and that the matter from which things are generated, is always some

particular object.

Charlton commences by correctly establishing that I J K L M N O M (‘prime matter’) is not a standard term

in Aristotle’s vocabulary, and is certainly not Aristotle’s technical name for what we call ‘prime

matter’. Let us simply accept this, having already discussed vocabulary in Chapter II, and pass

immediately to Charlton’s re-assessment of passages often cited in traditional support of Aristotle’s

adherence to prime matter.

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In interpreting Aristotle’s texts, Charlton is admirably insistent that we must pay attention to their

original contexts. He makes a point of not drawing conclusions from fragments divorced from their

original surroundings and made to appear other than their true selves. It is on this premiss that he

rejects many interpretations that support prime matter. For according to Charlton, many of those

interpretations are based on evidence that, when restored to its original context, means something

quite different. Such attention to context is clearly important to our primarily historical inquiry. But

despite this, I still cannot accept all of Charlton’s arguments, and hence not his entire conclusion.

Aristotle ‘against’ prime matter

There are, according to Charlton, many passages suggesting that Aristotle did not believe in prime

matter, and in fact argued against it. According to Charlton, Physics I shows us how to avoid having

to posit a single universal substratum.97 But such an interpretation fails to account for Aristotle’s

insistence upon the deepest possible analysis and his grounding in tradition, both of which necessitate

at least a search for such a substratum. Indeed, our own reading of Physics I gave a clear impression

of Aristotle having found evidence for the substratum’s existence.

Continuing on, Charlton raises several further passages in which he misreads ‘matter’ as ‘prime

matter’, even though Aristotle clearly did not mean that, and hence concludes that Aristotle does not

allow a prime matter. In one, Aristotle considers smoke and charcoal as possible matter ( P Q R ) for

flame.98 In a second passage, he says that water is the matter of air.99 These, says Charlton, “need

explaining away by anyone who thinks that prime matter is what stands to the elements as matter.”100

These passages do not, however, stand against the prime matter theory. Charlton’s interpretation slips

between the cracks of Aristotle’s loose terminology: the matter here is not prime. The issue is

complicated further by the question of what ‘matter’ means more generally. For Aristotle does not

have a single matter, but propounds a whole hierarchy. On the basis of that hierarchy, it is plausible

to understand these passages differently: they mean that water is baser than air, charcoal baser than

flame. The sense is that water can be elevated to the status of air, charcoal elevated to the status of

97 Charlton, “Did Aristotle Believe in Prime Matter?”, p. 131.98 PA II·2, 649a20-25. Flame is the material that is closest to the simple body (i.e. elemental) fire. Furtherevidence for this difference between flame and the pure fire is throughout Mete. I; see especially I·4, whereAristotle discusses the nature of the matter which occupies the so-called ‘fiery sphere’, i.e. the uppermost regionof the terrestrial world.99 Ph. IV·6, 213s2-4.100 Charlton, ibid. p. 131.

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flame. ‘Matter’ indicates some sense of inferiority and proneness to decay; thus Aristotle says that airy

matter does not rot easily, since it is fire relative to most other matter. Moreover, the primary qualities

wet and dry are declared to be the matter of concoction.101

The hierarchy of matter is tricky to tease out of Aristotle’s texts, and I do not profess to have done so.

To fully answer Charlton’s challenge would necessitate a separate investigation into the meaning of

‘matter’, one beyond the scope of this thesis. But we do seem to have met Charlton’s challenge of

‘explaining away’ these passages: as Charlton says, they do not refer to prime matter. But neither do

they deny either traditional prime matter or our new abstract substratum.

Moreover, Aristotle has left the way clear to ask, what is the matter of water? And what is the matter

of charcoal? A material hierarchy is naturally conducive to such questioning. In pursuing that line,

Aristotle found a matter that could be analysed no further. This matter is in some sense prior to all

others, and hence prime. Charlton’s argument does nothing to negate this view.

Charlton claims that the following passage also denies prime matter:102

“That the matter also is reality ( S T U V W ) is clear: in all opposed changes there is somethingunderlying ( X Y S Z [ V \ [ ] S ] ) the change, for instance in a change of place that which is now hereand now elsewhere, and in a change in respect of increase, that which is now so great and nowsmaller or greater, and in an alteration, that which is now healthy and now sick; and similarlyin respect of reality, that which is now in coming to be and now in passing away, and nowunderlying as a this-thing-here (̂ _ ` [ ^ a ), and now underlying in respect of a lack.”

Metaph. VIII·1, 1042a32-b3

Oddly, Charlton uses that text to highlight the different uses of ‘underlying thing’ (i.e. substratum)

and ‘thing which remains’. The ‘underlying thing’ of a change, according to Charlton, is the

particular object that is its starting-point, its terminus a quo. He notes that, here, it includes “a lack”,

and from this he infers that Aristotle did not mean that there must always be something that remains.

Charlton’s logic escapes me. The message that he has found is simply not present—there is no

mention of a ‘thing which remains’. We could, by restoring that passage to its context (as Charlton

agrees we must), reasonably understand its final lines as explaining that substantial generation does

have a substratum which initially underlies some particular thing (̂ _ ` [ ^ a ), and subsequently ceases

101 See e.g. Mete. IV·1, 379a10; IV·2, 380a5-10.102 Charlton’s translation, ibid. p. 131. Charlton translates b c d e f as ‘reality’, for which I have preferred to write‘substance’.

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to underlie that same thing, having become the substratum of something else. Indeed, this

interpretation would reflect the parallel grammar of the clauses, hence the following:

“…in a change of place, there is something now in one place, subsequently in another;and of growth, there is something now this size, subsequently greater or smaller;and of alteration, there is something now healthy, subsequently diseased.And, in the same way, of substance, there is something now coming into being, subsequently

being destroyed,and something now underlying a particular thing, subsequently underlying its absence.”103

Thus, the substratum of the thing’s absence could hardly be anything other than the matter beneath

the form. Rather than expressly refuting prime matter as Charlton claims, the passage in fact

supports the persistence of a substratum beneath unqualified generation.

Charlton against traditional evidence

Moving on, Charlton takes some of the strongest evidence in favour of the traditional prime matter,

and argues that it is not as strong as tradition would have us believe.104 In re-interpreting these

passages, he considers their wider context, as parts of that long discourse that runs from Cael.

through to GC, arguing that “…the general atmosphere of the De Caelo and De gen. et corr. is not

propitious to the introduction of prime matter.”105 But Charlton has erred.

Let us summarise Charlton’s account: he begins with Cael. III·6, 305a22-32, where Aristotle tells us

that the traditional four elements do not persist eternally, but transform into each other. Proceeding

to Cael. IV·5, 312b20 ff, he reports Aristotle arguing against a single matter for all things. But the

argument is actually about matter in the sense of fully formed stuff, not prime matter as Charlton

says.

103 Adapted from the Loeb text and translation, whence the Greek:“… g h g i j k l m l n o g i l p i q i r s i t i l k q u k o v w x i y z { w|w g u x }j k ~ j k l z k � � � � x i � i q i r s i l � w x j n i y � o v w x i y z � w k l�l g i � r � h � g i }j k ~ j k l z � w�w g � � � x i � i q i r s i � � x s � o v w x i y z j v r i g i �� r g � � � y sj k ~ j k l z g � � � k i � i q i r s i t i � � i � � � x o v w x i y z t i � u g � � }j k ~ i q i r s i � o g j � � r � i g i � � l n y � l x o v w x i y z � o g j � � r � i g i � � j k l m � l � � � � x i � ” (Metaph. VIII·1, 1042a32-b3.)104 The three principal passages that Charlton challenges are GC II·1, 329a24-35; II·5, 332a34-b1; Metaph.XII·4, 1070b10-13. I will focus on the argument that runs through Cael. and GC, for it is there that Charltonargues in favour of his reading, and where he gives the context in which he believes the passage from Metaph.XII·4 should be understood.105 Charlton, ibid. p. 135.

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Shifting to GC I, Charlton correctly notes Aristotle’s discussion of alteration and generation-

corruption, and how they relate to each other: (a) single-matter theories (as noted in Chapter III)

imply that all generation is alteration; (b) unqualified generation is difficult; (c) these difficulties can

be resolved by saying that generation and corruption must occur together; and (d) how alteration and

generation differ. The natural conclusion is that, since alteration and generation differ, there is not

only one matter, thus negating (a). According to Charlton, we should therefore expect “that a change

of one [substance] or [simple body] into another can be a genuine case of coming into existence, so

long as no underlying thing remains throughout the change.”106

Already, Charlton has read too much between the lines: Aristotle argues that unqualified (or

‘genuine’) generation can occur through alteration; he does not rule out the persistence of an

underlying thing. Indeed, if he did, it would immediately negate his idea that generation at one level

can be understood as alteration one level deeper. This obviously supports our thesis; it describes a

substratum whose alteration (sc. interchanges of form and privation) constitutes the generation and

corruption of higher-level substances.

Moving on to GC II·1, 329a8-11, Charlton finds Aristotle again criticising those who postulate a

single matter. This, according to Charlton, is evidence against traditional prime matter. But he fails

to note that Aristotle explicitly talks about a “corporeal and separable” matter that is substance in its

own right, rather than the epistemically prime matter that is supported in this thesis, or even the

inseparable prime matter of tradition. Also, at 332a6-13, Charlton finds Aristotle denying prime

matter, saying that it is neither one of the four elements, nor something over and above them. But

again, Charlton has misread the context, for as reading at that passage reveals, Aristotle is still

discussing that same corporeal and separate matter as before—not the prime matter of tradition, and

not the epistemically prime matter of this thesis.

Charlton’s implicit assumption—that this matter is separable and corporeal, in addition to being

prime—is intrinsically problematic. He even seems aware of the difficulty of such a view: “It is hard

… to see how an imperceptible substratum could be corporeal, since the qualitites perceptible by

touch—hot, cold, wet, and dry—are the differentiating features of body as such.”107

106 Charlton, ibid. p. 134.107 Charlton, ibid. p. 135.

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But that difficulty is resolved, indeed easily, by accepting as elements three conceptual entities, and

recognising that the substratum that underlies the lowest detectable level of change does not need to

be perceptible.

Rather than this view, Charlton offers a re-reading in terms of proximate matter. That reading is very

close to Bolotin’s, though obviously proposed for different reasons. And we have already seen (from

Bolotin’s argument), that that approach fails to incorporate Aristotle’s analytic style and the

hierarchical systems that his analysis produces.

Charlton raises one other argument as well, against a passage that tradition likewise uses to support

prime matter. As Charlton correctly points out, the passage, Ph. IV·9, 217a21-b11, is not an argument

for prime matter at all. It is in fact part of Aristotle’s argument against the existence of a vacuum.

Charlton’s reading hinges on an interpretation both clever and odd: where Aristotle says “that there is

a single matter for the opposites”, Charlton reads this not as a reference back to the ultimate matter of

Physics I, but as a single source of matter for a particular object—Aristotle’s message, as Charlton

agrees, is that things can expand and contract without either incorporating or losing matter. It is in

that sense that Charlton understands the matter to be single. Charlton is right in saying that Aristotle

“is not considering whether the kinds of basic matter are one or several.” He concludes with, “…it is

not reasonable to argue that, because Aristotle denies things are constituted out of a completely

featureless void, he must believe they are constituted out of a completely featureless matter.”108

While the conclusion is correct, Charlton does not address whether this passage could indirectly,

even strongly, support a prime matter of some kind.

But oddly, Charlton’s conclusion relies on a selective translation. Aristotle’s statement is, according to

Charlton, “We say that there is a single matter for the opposites…” (217a21).109 But Charlton’s

translation neglects a tiny phrase—“on the basis of the underlying idea” ( � � � � � � � � �   ¡ ¢ £ � � � ). So

the passage is not simply about “our claim”, but that “our claim is based on the underlying idea of a

single matter”.110 This phrase, which Charlton omits, greatly affects the sense of the passage.

108 Charlton, ibid. p. 139.109 Charlton, ibid. p. 138.110 The Loeb Greek reads: “…¤ ¥ ¦ § ¨ © ª « ¬ ­ ® ¥ ¦ ¯ ° ± ² ³ ¯ ´ µ ® ± ¦ ¶ ¥ ¬ ¯ ³ ¯ · ² ¶ ¸ ¹ ² º ¯ » « ¼ ¥ ½ ¾ ² ³ ¯ ¸ ¯ ¾ ¯ ² ½ ¿ ¯ ”(217a21).

My interpretation is by no means radical. Cf. Hardie and Gaye (Oxford): “…our statement is based in theassumption that there is a single matter for contraries…”; Wicksteed and Cornford (Loeb): “…our own

59

As Charlton notes, this passage is not about the traditional prime matter. But Charlton cannot be

right in saying that it is not about any specific kind of matter, since in referring to ‘the underlying

idea’, Aristotle points to some specific single matter that must have been discussed before. We must

therefore ask what single matter, discussed prior to Physics IV·9, would do the required job. The

general notion of a substratum discussed in Physics I fits the task perfectly. So even though this

passage does not provide explicit evidence for the traditional prime matter, it is completely amenable

to the epistemic prime matter of this thesis. It is also easy to see why tradition might have thought it

to support prime matter: Aristotle is not clear here whether he means the four primary opposites or

else opposites more generally, so creating an ambiguity that can allows the single matter to be the

substratum of the four simple bodies, air, earth, fire and water.

SCALTSAS: SUBSTANCES AND UNIVERSALS

Scaltsas raises what appears to be a very strong argument against Aristotle’s own adherence to prime

matter, either material or formal.111 The argument goes much further than Charlton’s and, if Scaltsas

is right, then we must view his argument as a formidable refutation of mine. But, as we will see,

Scaltsas is not really an enemy at all. His argument begins in Metaphysics VII·3, where Aristotle,

attempting to characterise ‘substance’, contemplates stripping some arbitrary material object of all

that describes and distinguishes it from other things, i.e. he strips it of its forms. So let us begin by

summarising that stripping-down.

Aristotle notes that after all the attributes have been taken from the object, only bare, formless matter

remains (1029a10-15). Aristotle is tempted to say that this bare matter is substance, but resists. He

sees that it cannot be, because substances must be separable and individual, and this matter is not

(1029a26-30). Bare matter thus ruled out, Aristotle tries several other candidates for primary

explanation is based on the established principle that it is the same matter which experiences the contrastedaffections…”; and Waterfield (Oxford World’s Classics): “Our position, however, based on considerations wehave already established, is that opposites … have a single underlying matter….”111 Scaltsas, Substances and Universals, pp. 222-228. Here, Scaltsas constrains himself to Metaph. VII·3, which isnot discussed in the preceding piece by Charlton. This passage is discussed also by Gill, Aristotle on Substance,Ch. 1. Unlike Scaltsas, Gill finds that the thought experiment of Metaph. VII·3 does yield a characterlessmaterial substratum, even though she denies the prime matter overall. Due to the difficulty of analysing Gill’sargument and the space that it would necessitate, we cannot attend to it here.

Scaltsas’ own conclusion is that Aristotle does indeed have a final substratum of some kind, but that it ismutable, and exists at the level of the four simple bodies. This view seems to occupy a middle ground betweenmy view and that of Gill, who argues that the four simple bodies are themselves the elements in Aristotle’sphilosophy of nature.

60

substance. He eventually converges upon the substantial forms of genera as the origin of substance,

with individual objects being distinguished by their different matter.112

Many writers take this passage as indicating that prime matter cannot exist,113 but that does not in

fact follow: it says only that the bare matter is not substantial, thus refuting the traditional prime

matter. This stripped-down bare matter is, as Scaltsas says, only a logical and semantic one, certainly

not the substantial prime matter of tradition.

So Scaltsas agrees that Metaphysics VII·3 does not rule out the existence of characterless substrata. So,

to argue that Aristotle does in fact reject such a substratum, he looks elsewhere.114 Specifically, he

looks toward Aristotle’s argument against a Platonist theory, that of forms and numbers being made

up of distinguishable units.115 Aristotle points out that if each unit were different, absurd

consequences would follow, so the units therefore cannot be different. More to the point,

characterless particulars cannot be different. Scaltsas interprets these characterless particulars as

substrata more broadly, and since the substrata of material things do differ, concludes that Aristotle

would have to reject them too.

The upshot of Scaltsas’ conclusion is that Aristotle must therefore also reject the single abstract

elemental substratum that I have been supporting. To see Scaltsas’ interpretation more clearly, and

also to refute it, let us turn to his argument that different pieces of the same substratum are useless to

Aristotle, simply because they cannot be joined together.

The problem of combining pieces of substratum is easily understood by example: in making a tray by

melting down a bronze statue and a bronze vase, how many substrata constitute the tray? According

to Scaltsas, pieces of characterless substratum lack the ability to combine. Explaining the whole

process in terms of the single substratum doctrine is therefore impossible, since the vase and statue

112 Fine, in “A puzzle concerning matter and form”, produces the following objection: suppose that, long afterSocrates (comprising his matter plus the generic form of ‘man’) died, his matter came together again with theform of man. Since the original Socrates was only a man made with this same matter, he is risen again. This,according to Fine, is absurd. Fine’s objection (discussed by Scaltsas, ibid. pp. 155-164) is no threat to us, sinceit is clearly a philosophical one. From Fine, we learn that Aristotle’s theory has this fault. But to fix that fault isnot my concern.

My understanding of Metaph. VII is due largely to Lear, Aristotle, pp. 273-293.113 This view is taken by e.g. Charlton, “Did Aristotle Believe in Prime Matter?” pp. 136-138; Gill, Aristotle onSubstance, p. 30.114 Scaltsas, ibid. pp. 225-228.115 This argument is at Metaph. I·9, 991b21-27.

61

cannot join into one. Aristotle does not, complains Scaltsas, provide for the substratum of the vase to

combine with that of the statue. Somewhat paradoxically, Scaltsas notes that the substratum (i.e. the

bronze) of the statue and vase survives if one is re-shaped into the other, yet a new substratum must

be created if they are combined to make the tray. But Scaltsas’ difficulties arise only because he has

not correctly identified the changes.

Firstly, Scaltsas’ single substratum doctrine is not what we found in Physics I. There, the explanation

involved focussing on very specific changes, analysing progressively and in great detail. If we follow

Aristotle’s method, we have not a single substratum, but many: one for each level of analysis. The

combination of vase and statue is only superficial; analysing one level deeper reveals a critical step

that Scaltsas omits: the vase and statue are melted separately. Thus, the vase and statue independently

become separate pools of molten bronze. The theory of mixing (À Á Â Ã Ä ) then explains the blending of

the two pools into one. From there, it is poured into a cast and allowed to solidify—a change of shape

followed by a change of homoeomer.

Now that the changes have been identified, Scaltsas’ problem vanishes. His analysis causes problems

because the vase and statue never actually combine—they are destroyed before the combination

occurs. However, analysing as far as the elements leads to the understanding that Aristotle

promised.116

Overall, Scaltsas has not refuted my basic conviction—that there is a material substratum which is

altered in every change. Even though he clearly opposes the traditional prime matter doctrine, it does

not seem that he really opposes my three-element thesis, and not even the epistemically prime

substratum that it implies. Since his intention is to demonstrate that the traditional prime matter

doctrine is wrong, it is convenient for him to argue on the basis of whether it is allowed to be

substantial. But Aristotle declared the existence of the substratum as early as Physics I, delaying any

sustained search for substance until well into Metaphysics. He defined the substratum as a particular

substantial thing that underlies each change, implicitly assuming that it had both matter and form,

and abstracted this to get the element. As for the epistemically prime matter that Aristotle’s analytic

method implies, that too must necessarily have matter and form, but it is not what Scaltsas refutes.

116 There is another problem in transmutation which may be much more serious: the gradual and continuousmetamorphosis of a vase into a molten puddle is complicated in itself, particularly by the shape-change being aconsequence of the homoeomer transmuting to have properties dominated by water, and thus losing its rigidity.Such causally connected simultaneous changes feature often throughout Aristotle’s corpus, but the connectionis apparently nowhere discussed by him.

63

Chapter V

CONCLUSION

Preoccupied with prime matter and the four simple bodies, several centuries of Aristotelianism have

in fact missed Aristotle’s actual aim: to go further than just matter, to find instead the elements of all

nature. After deciding that nature is a principle of change, Aristotle chose three elements accordingly:

form, privation and substratum. This gave him a method of analysis by which the elements of matter

could be determined. More importantly, it gave a method of analysis by which to understand all that

exists in nature—for, to Aristotle, understanding is achieved by analysing down to the most

fundamental parts.

The immutable, substantial, formless, single prime matter of tradition has no importance in this

scheme, and Aristotle does not support it. Because his method looks at individual changes, there is no

need to delve so deeply into matter, and no motive to assume that such a prime matter exists: to

thoroughly understand a change, all one needs to do is identify its parts: the invariant substratum,

and the variant form and privation. So by looking at how various substrata change, Aristotle can

determine their substrata as well.

Carrying this approach through to its limits, Aristotle found evidence that Empedocles was roughly

right, but that Empedocles’ four ‘elements’ are in fact composite simple bodies, built over a deeper,

and apparently single, material substratum. This substratum was not directly sensible, its existence

was deduced from the premiss that the simple bodies are able to inter-transmute. And since this

substratum is insensible, its distinguishing features (if they exist at all) are undetectable, so Aristotle

had no reason to treat it as anything more than single. Its insensibility also prevented Aristotle from

knowing whether it changes, so he could not analyse it any further. This substratum is therefore

prime not ontologically, but epistemically. Its primality is not because it is the absolute base of all

matter—Aristotle neither assumes nor asserts this, and his method allows the substratum to be

further analysed, should ever it be found to change. This substratum is prime not because it is the

first level of matter, but because it is the last level of matter that Aristotle’s analysis could find.

Aristotle’s approach thus opens matter to further investigation, if ever we acquire the means to see

deeper changes: Aristotle’s theory of matter is really an approach to understanding matter, indeed to

understanding all nature, by analysing how matter changes. The simple bodies and their epistemically

64

prime substratum are merely by-products; change occupies the centre of Aristotle’s approach. To

interpret Aristotle in terms of change is but natural, for it is hardly more than literal reading. Our

present tradition, however, has preferred instead to focus upon matter. If that choice was mistaken, as

I believe it to be, then it should be no wonder that its consequences—including prime matter—have

produced so much contention this century. It would seem that the past few centuries have been spent

seeking Aristotle in the wrong place.

65

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Minerva Access is the Institutional Repository of The University of Melbourne

Author/s:

Kwan, Alistair Marcus

Title:

Aristotle on his three elements: a reading of Aristotle's own doctrine

Date:

1999

Citation:

Kwan, A. M. (1999). Aristotle on his three elements: a reading of Aristotle's own doctrine.

Masters Research thesis, Department of History and Philosophy of Science, The University

of Melbourne.

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Aristotle on his three elements: reading of Aristotle's own doctrine

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