Reading Aristotle

by Michael Pakaluk

Distinguish what a philosopher says in a text, from the implications and deeper insights that may somehow be contained in what is said. For the figuring out of the former, I wish to reserve the word “reading”, and for the figuring out of the latter, “interpreting.” Hence by “reading” Aristotle I mean the relatively narrow task of figuring out what Aristotle is saying in a text.

This task of reading a philosopher can be approached, so to speak, from above, from the side, or from below, depending on what is supplied as an aid. So, for example, a good aid “from above” is to grasp that philosopher’s view in outline, to understand his aims and his project, to appreciate which philosophers he is replying to or engaged in debate with, and even to know such things as his main technical terms and distinctions. Another good aid, call it “from the side,” is to understand the historical, political, and cultural context of that philosopher’s writings, including what competing schools or movements were current, the genres of writing with respect to which that philosopher’s work should be situated, the main influences on that work, as a matter of history of ideas, and even, when known, the reception of that work among the philosopher’s contemporaries. I mention these two sorts of assistance only to set them aside. They constitute the sorts of elucidations one would typically find in a skillful introduction; as several such introductions to Aristotle are already available (see Barnes, 2001, and Pakaluk, 2005, chapter 1), my task here is something else.

Obviously, it can also help, in figuring out what a philosopher is saying in a text, to appreciate how that philosopher typically expressed or conveyed thoughts, arguments, and philosophical positions in writing. This third sort of help “from below” in reading a philosopher will be my main concern here, but with two qualifications. First, I am primarily interested in matters of “art” rather than mere technique. An expertise is a technique if decisions are routinized, such that there is no need for the application of considered judgment in difficult or controversial cases. Hence, for example, I am not interested in the expertise introduced when someone claims that in order to “read” Aristotle it is necessary to have studied Greek, but rather, something akin to the skill that is needed to render a poem from Greek into one’s home language. Second, as this mention of Greek may suggest, some degree of assistance “from below” is relevant to what happens to a text of Aristotle before someone reads it as translated into English, and some also to what happens after that point, and here I shall be concerned with the latter, since this essay is for those who are reading Aristotle in translation.

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However, it is helpful to explain something of the former, so that an English reader appreciates how much “reading” of Aristotle has already been accomplished for him, even before he picks up a translation to study it. Expert judgment, as opposed to the application of mere technique, enters in at three points principally.

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Manuscripts of Aristotle’s works, as we have them, typically date from medieval times and consist of strings of letters without spacing or punctuation (to save space and hence expense). So first it must be determined how these strings should be divided into segmented language. The resolution of strings into words, sentences, and phrases is almost always a matter of technique merely, not art, and when there are plausible alternatives, the differences are rarely important. However, the resolution of sentences into paragraphs both involves art and frequently makes a difference—indeed, as we shall see below, there is reason to think that if any segments of text beyond the sentence are to be recognized at all in an Aristotelian text, then probably they should be recognized at a finer grain than what editors typically like to recognize as mere paragraphs (but see Netz, 2001, for a somewhat different view). Thus when a student opens a translation of Aristotle and sees paragraphs—and, once the device of paragraphs is introduced at all, additionally when he fails to see paragraphs—then he is seeing the results of judgments made by the editor about how to “read” the text. This is the first point at which expert judgment enters in.

The second is in the establishment of the text. Aristotle himself surely wrote or dictated just one form of words in composing a work. But with time, as scribes over the centuries made copies, and copies of copies, variations were introduced through human error, and or areas of particular copies were destroyed by moisture, worms or other agents. Consequently the extant manuscripts will differ from one another at various points, and so editor needs to decide which variation best represents the words that Aristotle originally wrote or dictated, the art and science of which is called “textual criticism.” Typically it will be obvious, and close to routine, which of the textual variants is the best; even when this is not so, which variation the editor picks will hardly make a difference to the sense. However, occasionally there are cases where both judgment is needed in deciding upon the correct reading, and something important hinges on the decision. This is the second point at which expert judgment enters in. The reader of a work of Aristotle in translation, who has no access to the Greek or to the “critical apparatus” at the foot of a good Greek edition, which sets out clearly the manuscript variations and other issues in the establishment of that text, will not be able to “see” the effects of these judgments— they are built into the Greek edition which the translator is relying upon—unless the translator flags the issues in footnotes and gives alternative translations corresponding to alternative ways of resolving those issues. (However, even in that case the Greekless reader is relying upon the translator, who determines which issues are important enough to flag and bring to the notice of his reader.)

The third place where expert judgment enters in, of course, is in the translation itself, as will be plain to anyone who has juxtaposed and compared several translations of a passage from Aristotle. The translator must use expert judgment to decide such things as which English word best captures the sense of a Greek word; when to render word-for-word and when to use contextual translation or even paraphrase; and how best to express perceived emphasis and tone.

It would be possible, then, to give assistance in “reading Aristotle” by discussing how to evaluate decisions in each of these three matters, for students who have some knowledge of Greek. The point here is merely that the Greekless reader studying Aristotle in translation will have to rely significantly on the judgment of the translator in the ways mentioned.

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Let us turn now to assistance “from below” in reading Aristotle, relevant to someone reading Aristotle in translation. I shall consider two matters: first, the art of discerning the structure of the text, and, second, the art of construing the character of arguments.

As regards the first, it helps to believe that there is structure to be discerned. Unfortunately, a reader today will not be encouraged in that belief, for a variety of reasons, some trivial and others more significant. A trivial reason was already mentioned: if a translation gives breaks only occasionally at purported paragraphs, then it is natural to presume that those paragraphs have no structure, or a structure less important than the paragraphs. A less trivial reason is the influence of a certain way of reading Aristotle which was bound up with a rediscovery of Aristotle in the analytic tradition in the ‘50s and ‘60s, and which was probably necessary for that rediscovery, namely, approaching Aristotle primarily as someone who identifies and teases out difficulties, rather than as a systematic philosopher aiming to state and establish doctrines.

The issue may be gotten at by considering the question: Should we read Aristotle as an early scientist? Suppose he is an early scientist, and his works should be viewed as early contributions to scientific disciplines (logic, physics, biology, psychology) which have since developed markedly: then we would indeed expect his works to be affirming doctrines, and to be systematic; yet at the same time they would also be largely irrelevant, since they had long ago been superseded by better science. On the other hand, suppose that we should read him as doing philosophy not unlike Wittgenstein or an “ordinary language” philosopher such as J.L. Austin, or that some parts or aspects of his work admit of being read in this way. That is, suppose we approach Aristotle as someone who is less concerned with building up a science systematically than with probing foundations and presuppositions, through subtle attention to our use of language and “what we would say”: then Aristotle might look highly interesting and relevant to our concerns; and yet we would then not expect to find, and would not be interested in finding in him, any systematic and constructive affirmation of doctrine. The point here is not that the only sort of system one might find in a philosopher’s writing is the constructive articulation of doctrine, but rather that someone who approaches a philosopher not looking to find that kind of system is more likely to overlook other kinds.

This “dialectical” rather than “doctrinal” way of reading Aristotle has additionally been encouraged by what seems an exaggerated emphasis on the importance of aporia and lysis in Aristotle. An aporia is a difficulty or perplexity, literally a “binding” or “blockage”, which arises when each of two opposing views looks to be plausible: for example, “People become friends with those who are similar to them” and “People become friends with those who are different from them.” These views are in opposition, yet each has plausibility. The lysis or resolution of the difficulty is typically achieved by qualifying one or both claims, so that they obviously do not any longer come into direct conflict with each other. Aristotle’s resolution in this case is: “People become friends on the basis of virtue with those who are like them in virtue” but “People become friends on the basis of utility with those who are different from them, sc. with complementary utility” (Nic. Eth. VIII.1-4). The resolution is valuable because it is nuanced: to effect the resolution we need to make distinctions, and to make the appropriate

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distinctions we need to grasp the underlying reality under dispute (in this case, friendship) more clearly. The resolution “saves the appearances” by revealing the nuanced view that is at the basis of the relatively unnuanced but plausible views which gave rise to the difficulty. Those plausible views are shown to be true, on condition that what is meant by those putting forward those views is the more nuanced view.

Certaintly, Aristotle in many places states a difficulty and then resolves it in the manner just explained. Thus sometimes he proceeds in the manner of aporia and lysis. But does he think that philosophy always must proceed in this way? If he does, then although each stated difficulty would lead to a resolution, each resolution would lead to further difficulties, and then someone might wish to characterize his thought taken as a whole as dialectical rather than doctrinal. (Again, it would not follow that his philosophy was not systematic for all that: in the Summa Theologiae of St. Thomas Aquinas there is no resolution not preceded by a difficulty, but the work is systematic throughout. Rather, the view that the attraction of Aristotle’s philosophy does not consist in any system it is advancing would appear stronger.)

Two passages seem to suggest that aporia and lysis constitute a universal method for philosophizing, first, the opening of Metaphysics III:

For those who wish to get clear of difficulties it is advantageous to discuss the difficulties well; for the subsequent free play of thought implies the solution of the previous difficulties, and it is not possible to untie a knot which one does not know. But the difficulty of our thinking points to a 'knot' in the object; for in so far as our thought is in difficulties, it is in like case with those who are bound; for in either case it is impossible to go forward. Hence one should have surveyed all the difficulties beforehand, both for the purposes we have stated and because people who inquire without first stating the difficulties are like those who do not know where they have to go; besides, a man does not otherwise know even whether he has at any given time found what he is looking for or not; for the end is not clear to such a man, while to him who has first discussed the difficulties it is clear.

If it is not possible to recognize a solution without having savored the difficulty, then it would seem that philosophical investigation must always proceed by stating and resolving difficulties.

Second, there is an equally famous passage in Nicomachean Ethics VII.1:

We must, as in all other cases, set the observed facts before us and, after first discussing the difficulties, go on to prove, if possible, the truth of all the common opinions about these affections of the mind, or, failing this, of the greater number and the most authoritative; for if we both refute the objections and leave the common opinions undisturbed, we shall have proved the case sufficiently.

Here too the method of aporia and lysis seems to be held up as that which is to be always employed (“in all other cases”).

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However, neither of these passages needs to be taken to be proposing some kind of universal method for philosophy—nor, I think, should they be. The first can be interpreted as stating the method necessary for the discipline of metaphysics in particular, so that its assertions which appear completely general should be interpreted, given the context, as restricted to metaphysical investigation. The passage would be affirming the close relationship between metaphysics in particular and dialectic (as indeed some medieval commentators understood the passage). Indeed, given that metaphysics for Aristotle purports to deal with incorporeal and non-sensible realities, presumably it would require some special method. Moreover, it seems ridiculous to insist that no one could adopt a view in, say, biology, without having first canvassed all the difficulties (whatever that might mean).

The second passage above, from the popular Ross translation, over translates the relevant phrase, since Aristotle does not write “in all other cases” but simply “in other cases”. So again the passage can be interpreted as describing a method which is not universal but which should be applied in cases suitably similar to that considered (which concerns how precisely weakness of will can fall between the two kinds, virtue and vice). So these passages can be interpreted as not stating a universal method, and therefore they should not be so interpreted, because, plainly, Aristotle only occasionally follows that method.

A final and not insignificant influence that should be mentioned is simply the requirements of scholarly publication. The main vehicle today for scholarly discussion of Aristotle is the journal article. Because journal articles presuppose an analogy with research in experimental science, they are best and most easily written if they state and address a “problem.” Such articles in the case of Aristotle are either text-centered, in which case they look at a single text in isolation, or thematic, in which case they pick out texts related to a similar theme across different works or contexts. Neither approach has a home for, say, a careful and sustained discussion of a text as located in a broader context, or for discerning and discussing the organization of a relatively lengthy text, as would be commonplace within the older commentary tradition. A journal article is meant to be a “contribution to knowledge,” and a commentary does not much look like a contribution to knowledge. Even when a scholar today writes a commentary, as in the famous Clarendon Aristotle series, these commentaries tend to be concerned mainly with discussing perceived problems in the text.

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The best way to illustrate the kind of system that should be looked for in an Aristotelian text, and which often can be found, is to give a worked example. Nicomachean Ethics V.7, on account of its brevity, will serve well. Below is the chapter as it appears in the Ross translation, with paragraph indentations removed. On a first reading, the passage looks all a jumble and hardly makes sense. But does it contain a hidden structure? To see whether it does, let us try to divide it first into its main parts, and then each of those parts in turn into its parts, continuing in this way, until we reach what looks like text that cannot itself be suitably divided, perhaps sentences or arguments.

It seems that there are three main segments of the chapter, which I have marked by double slash marks:

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Of political justice part is natural, part legal, natural, that which everywhere has the same force and does not exist by people's thinking this or that; legal, that which is originally indifferent, but when it has been laid down is not indifferent, e.g. that a prisoner's ransom shall be a mina, or that a goat and not two sheep shall be sacrificed, and again all the laws that are passed for particular cases, e.g. that sacrifice shall be made in honour of Brasidas, and the provisions of decrees. // Now some think that all justice is of this sort, because that which is by nature is unchangeable and has everywhere the same force (as fire burns both here and in Persia), while they see change in the things recognized as just. This, however, is not true in this unqualified way, but is true in a sense; or rather, with the gods it is perhaps not true at all, while with us there is something that is just even by nature, yet all of it is changeable; but still some is by nature, some not by nature. // It is evident which sort of thing, among things capable of being otherwise, is by nature, and which is not but is legal and conventional, assuming that both are equally changeable. And in all other things the same distinction will apply; by nature the right hand is stronger, yet it is possible that all men should come to be ambidextrous. The things which are just by virtue of convention and expediency are like measures; for wine and corn measures are not everywhere equal, but larger in wholesale and smaller in retail markets. Similarly, the things which are just not by nature but by human enactment are not everywhere the same, since constitutions also are not the same, though there is but one which is everywhere by nature the best. Of things just and lawful each is related as the universal to its particulars; for the things that are done are many, but of them each is one, since it is universal.

Once these main segments are identified—call them I, II, and III —, we should attempt to identify their function: through doing so we both confirm our judgment that we have identified true segments, and we set down a direction for moving forward. Thus: it seems that the function of segment I is to draw a distinction; that of segment II is to reply to an objection; and that of segment III is to explain perceived variations in natural justice.

We can then analyze these main segments one-by-one, discerning their parts. For example, the first seems to admit of being parsed as follows:

Of political justice part is natural, part legal // natural, that which everywhere has the same force and does not exist by people's thinking this or that; // legal, that which is originally indifferent, but when it has been laid down is not indifferent, // e.g. that a prisoner's ransom shall be a mina, or that a goat and not two sheep shall be sacrificed, // and again all the laws that are passed for particular cases, // e.g. that sacrifice shall be made in honour of Brasidas, and the provisions of decrees.

However, once these divisions are introduced, it becomes clear that that segment can be represented in the form of an outline, without any loss or change in the text at all, as follows:

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Aristotle draws a distinction

Of political justice part is natural, part legal:1. natural, that which everywhere has the same force and does not exist by

people's thinking this or that; 2. legal,

a. that which is originally indifferent, but when it has been laid down is not indifferent, e.g.

i. that a prisoner's ransom shall be a mina, or ii. that a goat and not two sheep shall be sacrificed,

b. and again all the laws that are passed for particular cases, e.g.i. that sacrifice shall be made in honour of Brasidas, and

ii. the provisions of decrees.

The text above is exactly the original text, without any changes; I have merely introduced formatting and used numbers and letters for outlining, in order to make the structure of the passage patent. This articulation shows the structure of the text which in the translation looked to be an undifferentiated flow.

When the structure is illuminated, many obscure matters become clear. For example, clearly Aristotle himself endorses the definition which is proposed for natural justice, namely, “that which everywhere has the same force and does not exist by people's thinking this or that.” Moreover, since the “and” in that definition apparently serves to introduce a kind of reformulation of what precedes it (a function which scholars refer to as “epexegetical”), the crucial part of the definition is actually its first part, namely, “that which everywhere has the same force.” Yet when we recognize that the first part of the definition is both crucial and endorsed by Aristotle, we see that he seems to think of natural justice here in the way that he thinks of anything which has a nature, namely, as somehow involving powers which admit of being expressed or impeded in different circumstances (see Physics II.1). The curiousness of this conception may well have escaped notice, if our attention were not drawn to it through the analysis given above.

Given that Aristotle provides two examples for each characterization of ‘legal’ (or ‘conventional’, nomikon) justice, we might suppose he takes the characterizations to be in fact of different types; also, we may wonder whether there is a reason why he gives two separate examples in each case. The first type (“that which is originally indifferent”) would presumably be like cases of a road which initially is indifferent as to direction, but which by convention is made one-way in one direction rather than another. Aristotle’s two examples seem chosen as cases in which plausibly there is no fact of the matter as to what counts as a satisfactory amount, although for different reasons in the different cases: in the first case, the things exchanged are incommensurable, as a penny would be as equal in value to a person’s life as a million dollars; and in the second case, (Aristotle seems to be presupposing) nothing we do for the gods even approaches repaying them (see Nic. Eth. VIII.14).

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As regards the second type (“laws that are passed for particular cases”), in contrast, there is no suggestion that there is an original indifference in how particular cases are settled. Rather, this second type seems to involve cases in which there can be reasonable disagreement about how best to settle something, but where some person or group has authority to settle it nonetheless: suppose, in such a case, that it is settled in a way that we regard as less than ideal; nonetheless, to follow the decree of the relevant authority counts as just, precisely because by convention it had authority to settle cases like that. The correct explanation, then, for why it is just to follow that decree must appeal to that convention, not to the nature of the case. (Socrates’ acquiescence in the justice of the decision of the Athenian jury would be like that: he believed that the jury’s decision was wrong in substance, but it was just for him to follow it, because they had authority to decide cases such as his.) However, as regards this second type of legal or conventional justice, it is unclear so far why two examples are given and how exactly they illustrate that type. Here the analysis draws attention to a puzzle which perhaps can be resolved later.

Turning now to segment II, we see that it may be parsed in the following way:

Now some think that all justice is of this sort, because that which is by nature is unchangeable and has everywhere the same force (as fire burns both here and in Persia), while they see change in the things recognized as just. // This, however, is not true in this unqualified way, but is true in a sense; // or rather, with the gods it is perhaps not true at all, while with us there is something that is just even by nature, yet all of it is changeable; // but still some is by nature, some not by nature.

It seems that this segment does not itself have a hierarchical structure but can be well enough represented as a list of points. Yet even merely listing the points yields a notable gain in clarity, because it alerts us to some ambiguities in the text, which one might then wish to resolve other than as in the Ross translation:

Aristotle replies to an objection

1. Now some think that all justice is of this sort, because that which is by nature is unchangeable and has everywhere the same force (as fire burns both here and in Persia), while they see change in the things recognized as just.

2. This <viz. that what is by nature is unchangeable>, however, is not true in this unqualified way, but is true in a sense;

3. or rather, with the gods <what is by nature> is perhaps not true at all <changeable>, while with us there is something that is just even by nature, yet all of it is changeable;

4. but still some <justice> is by nature, some not by nature.

If we wish, we can say that 1 states the objection; 2 denies a presupposition of the objection, which concerns how “by nature” is to be understood; 3 draws a distinction which helps to explain why that presupposition, although false, has a certain plausbility; and 4 then insists that Aristotle’s claim about natural justice has been untouched by the objection. In the analysis, the angle brackets represent words

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added to resolve an ambiguity, and the crossed-out word represents a word not in the Greek but supplied by Ross in his translation.

The analysis makes certain obscure things clear. For example, we can now see that in 1, which tells us what “some think” rather than what Aristotle maintains, a clause has been added to what Aristotle had endorsed in the preceding segment as a definition of natural justice: what is added is the idea that what is just by nature “is unchangeable,” (and not simply what “has everywhere the same force”). The objection raised in this segment seems to hinge on this addition, because what is urged against the view that natural justice exists, is precisely that there is “change in the things recognized as just.” Aristotle indeed seems even to hide this addition, to give the objection an initial plausibility.

Since the objection depends upon an additional idea’s getting slipped in, under the cover of an idea which Aristotle endorses, we might expect that Aristotle’s reply would involve keeping those two ideas distinct. And indeed that seems the correct reading of point 2, which apparently should be understood, not as indistinctly referring to what “some think”, or even as referring to that element of what “some think,” which Aristotle agrees with, but rather to that additional and (in Aristotle’s eyes) dubious element. In fact 2 seems to be concerned not so much with natural justice (as suggested by Ross’ “this”) as much as with how “by nature” is best defined. Because the analysis has made this clear, I have clarified the referent of 2 by supplying in angle brackets words which specify that referent. What Aristotle says in reply to the objection is that the only sense in which it is generally true that “what is by nature is unchangeable” is simply that what is by nature “everywhere has the same force”; however, that which is by nature is not unchangeable “without qualification”, because the degree and way in which a nature is manifested, or gets impeded in its action, typically changes according to the circumstances.

Once 2 is understood in the manner explained, then 3 may be glossed accordingly, so that that claim too is seen to be concerned with the notion of “by nature” rather than with justice. In that case the reference in 3 to the gods simply introduces the standard Aristotelian doctrine, that gods simply are, or serve to animate, the celestial bodies, and that the nature of these gods is such that they cause the celestial spheres to move without change or interruption, eternally. Thus, only with respect to the gods is it correct to say that their having a definite nature implies not only that they always have the same power, but also that they have an unchanging operation.

If 3 is discussing what “by nature” amounts to rather than what natural justice amounts to, then the Ross translation is misleading, because it resolves certain ambiguities incorrectly, and so in the analysis we might add words as necessary in angle brackets, to indicate the correct way in which the ambiguities should be resolved. Furthermore, the word “true” should be excised, since Ross has supplied it, and it is misleading in the context. (Admittedly it would be difficult for a Greekless reader not to be misled by Ross’ addition of that term, or to discover that nothing corresponding to that term is in the Greek, but perhaps an astute comparison of alternative translations would suffice.)

Next we might propose to divide segment III thus:

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It is evident which sort of thing, among things capable of being otherwise, is by nature, and which is not but is legal and conventional, assuming that both are equally changeable.// And in all other things the same distinction will apply; by nature the right hand is stronger, yet it is possible that all men should come to be ambidextrous. //The things which are just by virtue of convention and expediency are like measures; for wine and corn measures are not everywhere equal, but larger in wholesale and smaller in retail markets.// Similarly, the things which are just not by nature but by human enactment are not everywhere the same, since constitutions also are not the same, though there is but one which is everywhere by nature the best. //Of things just and lawful each is related as the universal to its particulars; for the things that are done are many, but of them each is one, since it is universal.

Once divided it looks as though it consists, first, of an observation about natural justice, followed by an example; followed by two observations about legal or conventional justice. The last part seems not to belong, and, indeed, if we look ahead to what is discussed in the next chapter (V.8), that sentence seems to belong better there. So by taking these observations into account and attending more carefully to some finer-grained distinctions, we might propose that the segment’s structure is like this:

Aristotle explains perceived variations in natural justice

1. [justice by nature] It is evident which sort of thing, among things capable of being otherwise, is by nature, and which is not but is legal and conventional, assuming that both are equally changeable

and in all other things the same distinction will apply;

by nature the right hand is stronger, yet it is possible that all men should come to be ambidextrous.

2. [justice by convention, first type] The things which are just by virtue of convention and expediency are like measures

for wine and corn measures are not everywhere equal, but larger in wholesale and smaller in retail markets.

3. [justice convention, second type] Similarly, the things which are just not by nature but by human enactment are not everywhere the same,

since constitutions also are not the same, though there is but one which is everywhere by nature the best.

4. Of things just and lawful each is related as the universal to its particulars; for the things that are done are many, but of them each is one, since it is universal.

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Obviously, the proposed analysis is a hypothesis about the structure of the text; therefore, before accepting it conclusively, we should evaluate it in comparison with reasonable alternatives (which is not a task which can be engaged in here). Obviously, too, to adopt such an hypothesis is to take a stance about the character of Aristotle’s position and argument, which is the very reason why discerning the text’s structure is important.

But if we adopt the above analysis provisionally, then what should we say about it? The analysis supposes that the structure of segment III mirrors that of segment I, and that, after Aristotle has raised and, as he thinks, put to rest the objection considered in segment II, he returns to the types of justice he had distinguished in segment I, in order to explain in each case what it amounts to, on the supposition that what is by nature in human affairs is something that everywhere has the same force and yet is not unchangeable. (Note the repetition in the phrases “not everywhere equal” and “not everywhere the same.”) In particular, he is interested in the interplay among nature, incidental circumstances, and human convention. That the parts of this segment mirror those of segment I is flagged by the supplementary headings which have been placed in square brackets. (The square brackets indicate that these added words are editorial merely.) Let us consider the three parts in turn.

The first part begins in the Ross translation with “It is evident.” Now a fine point which would not be discernible by a Greekless reader, except perhaps through a comparison of translations, is that this phrase actually occurs at the end of the sentence: “Which sort of thing, among things capable of being otherwise, …. is evident.” The placement of that phrase at the end of the sentence, in Greek and in English, gives it a strong emphasis. (Accordingly, one might rather render it as “is obvious.”) That the immediately following sentence begins with “and,” indicates that the first statement is meant to stand on its own, emphatically. All of this is to say that Aristotle’s personality and approach are reflected here. He seems not to have much patience with the view that all justice is by convention. It was clear from segment II that the only “argument” he wished to consider in favor was a mere confusion, based on a faulty understanding of “by nature.” Here he indicates that, in his view, once that confusion is clarified, then picking out the natural from the conventional in matters of justice is not a difficult matter. We may not agree with him, of course, but still, that seems his conviction.

The analysis also makes clear Aristotle’s point in his reference to right-handedness: he is maintaining that even in the case of a “power” which is obviously by nature, such as the dominance of the right hand, that power’s operation may be impeded. Right-handedness is “by nature” in the sense that it “everywhere has the same force”, that is, someone trained to be ambidextrous would in some sense always remain disposed to favor the right, yet it would be possible to impede the power by an intensive intervention. It seems to be Aristotle’s suggestion that the impeding of a natural “power” could hardly always succeed, and that the effort to do so would be difficult and require a kind of “violence”. (Aristotle criticizes Plato’s communism in Politics II on exactly these grounds, that it involves “impeding” the natural attachment we feel for what is our own.) Note that if the analysis above is correct, it steers us clear of faulty interpretations which would have Aristotle drawing some comparison between right- and left-handedness.

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As regards part 2, if we are correct in taking it to correspond to the first type of conventional justice, then Aristotle’s example is meant to exhibit the separate contributions of nature and convention when convention fixes something originally indifferent, and we interpret the example accordingly as observing that, in all times and places, wholesale measures are larger than retail measures, by the nature of the case (this is the contribution of ‘nature’); however, which units are used for each (for instance, kilograms and grams, versus pounds and ounces) is a matter of convention, as it is originally purely indifferent but fixed by convention. (The difference between wholesale and retails would be ‘by nature’, for Aristotle, since the market, he holds, is ‘by nature’ for human beings—see Pol. I and II—and the difference between wholesale and retail is basically that between selling to and buying at the market.)

Finally, part 3 seems to refer to Aristotle’s notion in the Politics, that political theory has two aspects: determining the best constitution absolutely, and determining the best constitution which is in practice attainable. Aristotle looks to be making an a fortiori argument: if something so decisive and fundamental as the best instantiation of the ideal constitution varies in different circumstances, then it is hardly surprising that “human enactment” might generally realize the same ideal of justice differently in different circumstance.

Thus, if we revisit Nic. Eth. V.7 as a whole, after having “read” it in the manner suggested, by providing an analysis, what have we learned? There are both philosophical lessons, and lessons about reading Aristotle. The philosophical lesson is that, contrary to what someone might have thought when first encountering the phrase “natural justice” in the text, Aristotle is not concerned, at first glance at least, with anything like what we would call “natural right” or “natural law.” Rather, he seems concerned with something like: To what extent does our assessment of the “rightness,” in the sense of appropriateness or aptness, of practical judgments, depend on our making reference to realities of human life and of the human condition, as opposed to making reference to some matter of human agreement or discretion? In this precise sense it would be against “natural justice”—that is, it would be inept, practically unsustainable, and foolhardy— to attempt to require that everyone be ambidextrous or to abolish private property, to insist that the same measures be used both for wholesale and for retail, or, in the face of difficulties in the execution of a relevant ideal, to reject that ideal. In sum, Aristotle’s concern is with a certain kind of foolhardiness in practical judgment rather than with the violation of “rights” or the “moral law.”

But this philosophical lesson is important for our purposes here as implying a lesson about reading Aristotle. The contrast between what we might have taken the chapter to be concerned about and what, given our analysis, it seems to be actually concerned about, shows the value of that analysis. Apparently it would be possible for someone to read Aristotle, perhaps even diligently and widely, and yet repeatedly miss his point. To understand him, it seems necessary that our thought correspond in contour to his; but if he structures his writing with the detail and complexity which seems to have been revealed in our analysis, then it would seem necessary that we learn to see that structure in reading him.

~ ~ ~

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When the structure of the text is revealed then typically one needs to come to grips with the character of the arguments in Aristotle it contains. So let us turn now to the task of dealing with the compression of Aristotle’s writing and with the variety of inferential relationships he contemplates.

Consider first the opening sentence of the Nicomachean Ethics, which in the Ross translation is as follows (with some small changes):

Every art (technē) and every <method of> inquiry (methodos), and similarly every action (praxis) and choice (prohairesis), is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason (dio) the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim.

Ross’ translation is useful, but I have improved it in three small ways, by adding “type of” in angle brackets; by rendering prohairesis in the usual way as “choice” (instead of “pursuit”, which Ross has); and by rendering dio as “that is why” (instead of “for this reason” in Ross’ translation, which although equivalent is potentially misleading in the context).

Now observe the following about this sentence:

1. Aristotle writes the universal quantifier, “every”, separately for “art” and for “inquiry”, but only once for both “action” and “pursuit” (Ross’ translation accurately reflects that distinction of the Greek). That he does so has the effect of grouping together the second pair more tightly than the first pair.

2. The first pair consists of ways of seeking types of things: an art, such as shoemaking, makes a type of thing, shoes; a method of inquiry, such as geometrical construction, seeks truths in a certain branch of knowledge. But the second pair, for all we know, pertains in contrast to particulars, such as some particular choice or action. Indeed, if we put this second observation together with the first, we might wonder if, in grouping together choice and action, Aristotle means to refer to choice-action pairs found in particular actions.

3. The first pair deals with pursuits of things separate from the actions that pursue them: a shoe stands distinct from the actions of the shoemaker which makes it, and the cognition or knowledge of truths discovered by the following of a method stands distinct from the investigation which led to these truths. On the other hand the second pair, for all we know, applies also to actions which are done for their own sake, apart from any product which may be produced by them. Within the first pair, an art produces an “external good”, according to Aristotle, whereas a method of inquiry produces an “internal good” of the soul (see Nic. Eth. I.8).

4. The phrase, “for this reason” in the second clause qualifies not the claim contained in that clause (“the good is that at which all things aim”) but rather the rightness or correctness of someone’s declaration (Plato’s?) that the good is that at which all things aim. That is, what Aristotle notes in the first clause (“Every art …”) confirms the correctness of someone’s assertion, mentioned in the second clause (“and for this reason…”).

Once we put these four observations together, it looks as though in the first clause Aristotle is deliberately considering different classes of cases (pursuit of a good in general vs. in particular; production vs. action; external vs. internal product; initiation vs. execution of an action), in order to

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make an induction, which in turn serves to confirm something which some unnamed authorities have stated. If so, then what the sentence is doing is quite different from what is supposed on a common interpretation, namely, that Aristotle is deductively drawing a conclusion in his own person, and thereby committing a “quantifier shift” fallacy (since he has wrongly presumed that from “each thing aims at some good or other” it follows that “there is some one thing at which all things aim”). So by reading the sentence thus attentively, we would at least hesitate to read Aristotle in a common way, which takes him to have tripped over a fallacy.

The example we have just chosen is one in which by careful attention to word choice and phrasing, we are better able to make a good guess as to how to construe an argument. In other cases, it helps to see that Aristotle is presenting several arguments quickly, in a compressed manner, and that each argument is developed on a different “ground.” Here too we can take an illustrative example from the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics. Recall that Aristotle argues in chapters 1-2 in the following way. He assumes that every expertise (epistēmē, dunamis, technē) aims at some good. He claims that, when one expertise is under another expertise, then the good aimed at by the latter is better than the good aimed at by the former. It follows that if there is an expertise which all other types of expertise are under, then the good aimed at by that expertise will be the highest good (sc. attainable through human efforts).—He argues in this way, recall, to establish that there is a highest good and to identify it in a preliminary way, namely, as whatever it is which is aimed at by that highest expertise. In this line of argument, the crucial step that needs to be proved is that there is indeed an expertise which all other types of expertise are under. Here is the passage (again, in the Ross translation, with some slight changes) where Aristotle argues for this, which I have parsed to exhibit the four considerations which it contains:

And skill in government (hē politikē) appears to be of this nature:

(i) for it is this that ordains which of the sciences should be studied in a state, and which each class of citizens should learn and up to what point they should learn them;

(ii) and we see even the most highly esteemed of capacities fall under this, e.g. generalship, household administration, rhetoric;

(iii) now, since skill in government makes use of the rest of the sciences, and (iv) since, again, it legislates as to what we are to do and what we are to abstain

from,

the end of this science must include those of the others, so that this end must be the good for man.

Considerations (i) and (ii) seem to form a pair and to constitute arguments against the claim that some expertise is higher than skill in government, with (i) arguing with reference to theoretical disciplines, and (ii) with reference to practical disciplines. Presumably in making a claim about all theoretical disciplines Aristotle in (i) intends also to include wisdom (sophia)—a theme that he returns to later in VI.13. As for generalship, household administration, and rhetoric, if Plato’s dialogues reflect popular sentiment, then these were standardly taken to be candidates for the most powerful and influential practical skills and

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therefore, in that sense, the highest. (iii) and (iv) then argue positively that skill in government is the highest from the way it makes use of all other types of expertise and its simply being the highest authority over human action. Again, the point here is not to state or discuss Aristotle’s views but simply to show how rapidly he can state a variety of considerations based on a variety of grounds. Aristotle frequently writes in such a manner, giving arguments that have much greater complexity and subtlety than in this simple example.

The final feature of Aristotle’s writing to consider may be called “the variety of inferential relationships” which Aristotle introduces to support a claim. Here it is important to stress the contrast between the richness of supporting considerations which Aristotle employs, and the relatively narrow repertoire of types of argument held up as canonical for students of philosophy today. A common presumption is that any philosophical argument can in principle be presented in the form of a list, where premises are distinguished clearly from inferred statements, and the latter are meant to follow deductively from the former: such an argument is scrutinized for soundness and validity, and the soundness of the premises is a matter of whether they themselves can be deduced or are somehow supported by empirical evidence. On this picture, when a statement is not a premise, then it can depend on another statement only in the sense that it follows deductively from that statement (perhaps together with other statements). That is, philosophical argument is simply deduction, and perhaps even deduction within first order logic. So if on this picture anyone who wishes to argue philosophically by saying something like “Y, since X”, he must be construed as claiming that Y follows deductively from X.

Three things need to be stressed about how Aristotle argues in contrast. First, he is as disposed to take what follows from something to support it, as what it follows from. (We tend to say that the former “supports” it and that the latter “confirms” it.) Picture what is claimed (say, that S is P) as situated in the world and therefore, if it really is so, as connected with other things in the world by various relationships, which are either prior or posterior:

S is P

As S’s being P cannot exist in the world apart from these relationships, then any observation about them tends to substantiate that S is P. Aristotle indicates what confirms a claim, as following from it, with the inferential terms hothen (“whence”) and dio (“which is why”, “which is the reason”, which we have already seen in the first sentence of Nicomachean Ethic).

Second, Aristotle typically thinks of philosophical claims about the world in relationship to the human beings who make those claims, in particular, to the sort of effects those claims, if true, would have on how things appear to us, what we would say or would be disposed to say, and how we would act or typically act. Aristotle’s taking this approach is, in part, in the tradition of Socrates in the Phaedo (99e), who in giving his intellectual autobiography says that when he rejected the theories of the natural philosophers who preceded him, he changed from attempting to view the world directly to viewing it through statements (logoi), and, in part, derived from his own conviction that human beings are truth-seeking animals, and so their own sensitivities and affections are a significant clue as to how the world actually is. A multitude of examples could be given, but consider the following from Nic. Eth. I.12:

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Everything that is praised seems to be praised because it is of a certain kind and is related somehow to something else; for we praise the just or brave man and in general both the good man and virtue itself because of the actions and functions involved, and we praise the strong man, the good runner, and so on, because he is of a certain kind and is related in a certain way to something good and important.

Here Aristotle wishes to mark out something in the world, things that are “of a certain kind and … related in a certain way to something good and important,” and to argue that the ultimate human good is not in this class. But he does so by reference to our practices of praising. Clearly he is not interested in those practices on their own; he is not engaging in sociology. Also, it seems right to say that he is not interested in those practices simply as signs or evidence of something else. It seems better to say that he thinks of human beings, and how things appear to them and how they speak and act, as part of the system he wishes to describe.

Third, besides logical and causal relationships, Aristotle in argument draws attention to relationships of fittingness, expectedness, antecedent likelihood, congruity, and whether something makes sense or not (and therefore is “absurd”, atopon). Examples abound of Aristotle’s counting the apparent absurdity of a view as a prima facie reason for rejecting it, or otherwise appealing to incongruity. Just from Nic. Eth. I, consider:

Must no one at all, then, be called happy while he lives; must we, as Solon says, see the end? Even if we are to lay down this doctrine, is it also the case that a man is happy when he is dead? Or is not this quite absurd, especially for us who say that happiness is an activity? (I.10)

[Continuing the passage above, about objects of praise.] This is clear also from the praises of the gods; for it seems absurd that the gods should be referred to our standard, but this is done because praise involves a reference, to something else. (I.12)

In the last passage, Aristotle actually uses incongruity to support a view: the proof that praise necessarily involves a reference to something else is that we praise the gods by referring them to our own standard; to do so is admittedly incongruous; we therefore would avoid it if possible; thus the fact that we continue to do so nonetheless shows that that is not possible.

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The worked examples given above show, I hope, that reliable interpretations of Aristotle must start from a very high degree of care in reading him. Aristotelian texts must be savored, to be well appreciated. Perhaps a final reason, then, why we typically do not read an Aristotelian text so as to discover its complexity and nuance, is that we simply do not take the time. 1

1 Work on this paper was supported in part by a resident fellowship at the Wheatley Institution at Brigham Young University. I am grateful to Jim Siebach for comments and suggestions.

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Bibliography

Barnes, Jonathan (2001). Aristotle: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Netz, Reviel (2001). “The Aristotelian Paragraph.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 47, 211-232.

Pakaluk, Michael (2005). Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics: An Introduction.Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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