BEING IN PLACE: ON UNITY AND BODY IN ATISTOTLE

A thesis submitted To Kent State University in partial Fulfillment of the requirements for the Degree of Master of Arts

by

Robert Samuel Leib

May, 2009

i

Thesis written by Robert Samuel Leib B.A., Mount St. Mary’s University, 2005 M.A., St. John’s College, Annapolis, 2007 M.A., Kent State University, 2009

Approved by

______Gina Zavota______, Advisor

______Polycarp Ikuenobe______, Acting Chair, Department of Philosophy

______Timothy Moerland______, Dean, College of Arts and Sciences

ii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS…………………………………………………………...iv

INTRODUCTION……………………………………………..…………………….1

Chapter I. Context...………...... 8

1. The Physics: Nature and Change…………………………………..8 2. The Task of the Physicist………………………………………….16 3. Place and Things…………………………………………………..19 4. The Boat Puzzle……………………………………………………23

II. Benjamin Morison’s On Location...... 33

1. Kinds of Containment……………………………………………...33 2. The Maximal Surrounder……………...…………………………..37 3. Problems with Morison’s Interpretation…………………………...41 4. Place is Not Location…………………...…….……………………45

III. Unity and Body...... 54

1. Is the Universe a Body?...... 54 2. Oneness, Unity, and Parts………………………..………………..61 3. Heaps, Wholes, and Physical Unity……………...………………..67 4. Definitional Unity………………………………...…………….....75 5. Ontological Unity…………………………………..……………..80 6. The Universe is Not a Body………………………...……………..86

IV. Place...... 90

1. Telos and Eidos………………………………………..…………..90 2. The Forms of the Elements……………………………..….………94 3. Necessity and Function…………………………………...………106 4. Place and Actuality………………………………………...……...113 5. Vessels…………………………………………………….……...117 6. Answering the Boat Puzzle………………………………….……123

WORKS CITED………………………………………………….…………………129

iii

Acknowledgments

I would most of all like to thank Amber for her support and understanding during the time in which I carried this project around with me like a great weight. She, more than anyone, shared that weight with me, and I love her for that. I would also like to thank my advisor, Gina Zavota, for her support and guidance during the process, but perhaps, even more, for the freedom she granted me to follow my lines of thought to their conclusions.

iv

Introduction

1. Motivation

My motivation for a study of Aristotle’s Physics can be summed up nicely by a passage from Edward Schiappa’s work, Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek

Philosophy and Rhetoric. The passage occurs at the point where he is attempting to parse out the various viewpoints from which contemporary scholars can approach the ancient

Greek worldview through a study of their texts. Concerning the assertion made by certain scholars that the fifth-century Sophists’ primary concern was an understanding and dissemination of ‘rhetoric,’ Schiappa says:

Such interpretations of the Sophists are misleading because they assume that the status and function of rhetoric was as obvious and given in the fifth century as some might believe it is today. Not only is the conceptual creativity and intellectual breadth of the Sophists thereby missed or underestimated, but whatever picture of the Sophists is left is prejudiced by pejorative preconceptions concerning the value of rhetoric.1

The term ‘rhetoric,’ he argues, was, in fact, a neologism coined by Plato to describe what he saw as the common concern among the teachers of speech who lived a generation before his time, with whose projects his own teacher, Socrates, took great issue.2 Thus, this retroactive history fails to give us a good understanding of what the Sophists

1 Edward Schiappa. Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek Philosophy and Rhetoric. 2nd ed., (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003), 55.

2 Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 45.

1

2

themselves may have seen themselves doing. Therefore, Schiappa argues, a more legitimate and ultimately more fruitful approach to understanding the character of this varied group of men would be to look at the way in which they tended to understand their work through the words of which they made the most use. He comes to the conclusion that, “[s]ophistic theorizing about [what we now call] rhetoric is best understood not as a collective answer to the question “What is rhetoric?” but as a process of asking questions about logos and the world.”3 Quoting Eric Havelock, Schiappa goes on to assert that,

“[m]uch of early Greek philosophy so-called is a story not of systems of thought but of a search for a primary language in which any system could be expressed.”4

Contemporary scholars within the context of a much more highly developed and specialized dialogue about the nature of those matters that were first expressed in ancient

Greece around the fifth and fourth centuries BCE are constantly in danger of projecting both the concepts and vocabulary of their contemporary discussion back onto these originary thinkers in a way that threatens to obscure the struggle those thinkers underwent to speak about the world in a new way. Despite the fact that it is widely accepted that these ancient Greek thinkers are the progenitors of many of the discussions we regard as residing at the very heart of philosophy today, accepting this lineage is no guarantee that we continue to speak their language, as it were. This is particularly true, I think, in the realm of so-called ‘natural philosophy,’ which, since the time of Aristotle,

3 Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 71. Emphasis added.

4 Eric A. Havelock, “The Linguistic Task of the Presocratics,” Language and Thought in Early Greek Philosophy, ed. Kevin Robb (LaSalle, IL: Hegeler Institute, 1983), quoted in Edward Schiappa. Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek Philosophy and Rhetoric. 2nd ed., (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003), 71.

3

has undergone a tremendous metamorphosis, becoming, if anything, the discipline of modern science.

Thus, I believe that the contemporary scholar of Aristotle, even more so perhaps than the contemporary scholar of ancient rhetoric, can easily fall into the mindset of thinking of Aristotle’s Physics as a first attempt at a subject that has since outgrown him in very nearly every respect. Assuming the continuity of ‘natural philosophy’ from

Aristotle down to the more recent centuries, however, might tend to give one the impression that Aristotle was, through his discussion of ‘nature,’ anticipating what has come to greater fruition, for instance, in the works of the fathers of modern science, such

Francis Bacon and Isaac Newton. However, to view Aristotle, as some have, as a sort of proto-Newtonian has the effect of obscuring many of the assumptions under which

Aristotle labored but which have since been disregarded under more modern systems of physics. Aristotle’s notion of change, for instance, is widely thought to refer really to locomotion. His notion of body is thought to refer to really mere extension, or magnitude. But perhaps what is most important for our purposes here, however, is that his notion of place has been frequently made subject to the language of Newtonian space as re-cast as really a concept of location. This need not be the case, however, and I will argue that reading the history of natural philosophy/science retroactively in this way is counter-productive for achieving an understanding of Aristotle’s philosophy in general.

Through a careful study of his works on nature, and by refusing the temptation to equate

Aristotle’s notions with their (distantly related) cousins within more modern scientific discourse, we can, I think, attain toward an understanding and recovery of the worldview

4

that Aristotle was encountering when he wrote that “it is owing to their wonder that men both now begin and at first began to philosophize” (Met. 982b11).5

In fact, it from this very passage near the beginning of Aristotle’s Metaphysics that we find, perhaps, the greatest affirmation of our assertion that there exists a merely distant relationship between how Aristotle viewed natural philosophy and the way in which those concerned with the natural world in more contemporary settings approach science. He continues several lines later, “a man who is puzzled and wonders thinks himself ignorant…therefore, since [the first philosophers] philosophized in order to escape from ignorance, evidently they were pursuing science in order to know, and not for any utilitarian end” (Met. 982b17). Simply put, Aristotle did not assume, as we do today, that our engagement with the natural world ought to be an essentially practical, or productive, endeavor. Rather, he saw the study of nature [φύσις] as theoretical in that it

5 Aristotle, “Metaphysica,” Trans. W.D. Ross, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941), 682-926. See also AP I.3 (72b18). Met. hereafter. All passages from Met. are from this edition. A note about citing Aristotle: Because Aristotle has been published in so many editions over time, passages in Aristotle’s works are cited using their “Bekker numbers” rather than pages numbers. Bekker numbers remain constant throughout all editions and allow even scholars reading Aristotle in different languages to refer to particular passages without ambiguity. The first number (i.e. 982) refers to the page on which the passage occurred August Immanuel Bekker’s standard edition of the works of Aristotle. The letter (a or b) refers to the column it was in on that page, and the second number (i.e. 11) was the line within that column on which it began. Unlike the slightly different Stephanus numbers used to cite passages in Plato’s works, Bekker numbers do not repeat (i.e. there is no more than one passage in Aristotle that is cited as 982b11), and thus, each passage in Aristotle’s works can be reliably found simply by giving its number. However, I believe that listing the abbreviated title of the work along with the Bekker number is worth the trouble, since the reader who is less familiar with Aristotle’s corpus stands little to gain by encountering the number alone. As is customary, I will be citing the Bekker numbers parenthetically in the text, rather than in the notes. I will give the full bibliographic information for each translation in the notes the first time I cite it. The complete information for each source can also be found in the Works Cited. When directly quoting those of Aristotle’s works for which I have used more than one translation, I will endeavor to let the reader know from which translation the quotation has been taken, either by way of designating a default translation, or by noting the translator or translators in the notes. In every case where I have maintained or directly cited the original Greek, it has been taken from the appropriate volume of Aristotle in Twenty-Three Volumes, each of which is given full citation in the Works Cited.

5

aims at understanding for its own sake. Approaching the modern era, we can observe an obvious shift in the attitude concerning natural philosophy quite in Francis Bacon’s work,

The New Organon, which contains the first explicit attempts at formulating what has become our modern scientific method. Bacon says that, although it is not incorrect to assume that true knowledge is knowledge of causes, as Aristotle says, the four causes he names, “contribute little, if anything, to true and active science.”6 What is needed instead, according to Bacon, is the ability to “detect and bring to light things never yet done,” which tends toward the goal of “freedom in operation.”7

If the contemporary scholar of Aristotle and of modern science, therefore, wishes to attribute to Aristotle the same goal of free operation, which Bacon made the centerpiece of natural philosophy and which retained this role through the development of Newtonian physics, he will be quite apt to look upon any given notion in Aristotle’s works, such as that of place, with an eye toward how it can be rendered useful. As we will see, this is what Benjamin Morison attempts to bring about in viewing Aristotle’s account of place as an account of location. However, I believe this is way of approaching

Aristotle’s works is itself unfruitful if one is concerned with understanding Aristotle’s language of φύσις on his own terms. In remaining as close to the terms Aristotle uses as my ability allows and in attempting to uncover the relationships between these terms across his theoretical works, my main goal, then, has been to uncover, not a system of

6 Francis Bacon, The New Organon, ed. Fulton H. Anderson (Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 1960), 121.

7 Ibid., 122.

6

nature in which few still believe, as much as the elements of a language about nature that few still speak.

2. Outline of the Thesis

The thesis focuses on the notions of place, body, and unity in Aristotle’s thought.

It consists of four chapters, each of which is divided into several subsections. Chapter one contains an overview of Aristotle’s Physics, its subject matter, and its method. It introduces and discusses several key terms from Aristotle’s thought, including nature, change, actuality, and potentiality before moving into a brief sketch of Phys. IV.1-5, which is the extent of Aristotle’s explicit discussion of τόπος. After giving the definition of ‘place’ as it appears in Phys. IV.4, we will introduce what I call the ‘boat puzzle,’ which will provide us with the guiding example of our inquiry. Chapter one closes with certain questions about place and change of place that result from the boat puzzle, which are answered at the close of chapter four.

Chapters two and three can be thought of as a unit in virtue the fact that both are framed in terms of a response to Benjamin’s Morison’s interpretation of Aristotelian place from his recent book, On Location, though each criticizes a particular aspect of

Morison’s account. Chapter two focuses on Morison’s motivation to show Aristotle’s concept of τόπος as a theory of location, which I criticize for its Newtonian undertones.

Chapter three criticizes the tool, or concept, Morison has developed for attempting to locate bodies in an Aristotelian universe—what he calls the ‘maximal surrounder.’ First,

I endeavor to show that the maximal surrounder, which Morison describes as a body,

7

cannot be understood as unified in the sense that would be required for it to be a body.

Second, I argue that, even if we were to allow that such a maximally surrounding body exists, it would, in fact, render unintelligible the concepts of body and place as Aristotle most often uses them (i.e. to refer to mesoscopic things).

Chapter four, then, serves as my positive account of place and its ontological significance for that of which it is the place. This includes, first, a discussion of the way in which place is most intimately connected with the elements. The elements, in turn, as the fundamental basis of all physical things, hold bodies accountable to this relationship with place, even in mixture with one another. Second, I attempt to draw out the connection between the matter of a body and its form, thereby allowing us to see place, in the final analysis, as not just a limit between two physicalities, but as the limit at which complementary forms achieve their highest states of actuality.8

8 As a final introductory note, I must say something about the conspicuous absence of any discussion of ‘substance’ in what follows. I believe I am justified in excluding what many take to be the most central Aristotelian concept for two reasons. First, not through lack of philosophical effort, there seems to be no clear consensus among scholars as to how we ought to understand Aristotle’s notion of substance, and given his own apparent state of perplexity even at the close of Met. VII, one cannot be sure of how clearly Aristotle himself conceived of this notion in his own mind. Second, after a discussion of the intricacies concerning definitions of complex substances in Metaphysics VIII, Aristotle opens Metaphysics. IX by saying, “We have treated of that which is primarily and to which all the other categories of being are referred—i.e. of substance. For it is in virtue of the concept of substance that the others are also said to be” (1045b28). Several lines, later, however, he continues, “But since ‘being’ is in one way divided into individual thing, quality, and quantity, and is in another way distinguished in respect of potency [δύναμιν] and complete reality [ἐντελέχειαν], and of function [ἔργον], let us now add a discussion of potency and complete reality” (Met. 1045a31). It is true that the discussion of either of these two ways in which being is said necessarily involves the other. For example, my main task in chapter three is to discern the individual thing. On the other hand, Aristotle most often employs his language of actuality and potentiality in terms of the changes in the accidental qualities of substances. However, given Aristotle sees it fit to describe these two ways of speaking about being merely by saying they are different, I believe I am justified, for my purposes, in staying as fully on one side of this divide as possible. Perhaps it is the case that the sense of much of what I say is cross-referenced elsewhere in Aristotle’s corpus using the language of substance, but to attempt a comparison of the two would be, I think, another project altogether.

Chapter One: Context

1. The Physics: Nature and Change

Aristotle’s only explicit discussion of place occurs in Book IV of the Physics. We will therefore begin with a general discussion of the limits and character of this work.

The Physics is Aristotle’s work on changeable things, as opposed to unchangeable things.

Aristotle conceived of the universe as being divided into two realms—the superlunary realm and sublunary realm—and he made this distinction based on two points. First,

Aristotle believed that the basic movement of all sublunary bodies was linear, while the superlunary bodies have essentially circular motions.9 Second, because linear motions cannot go on forever, but must have both a beginning and an end, the bodies on or near the earth are all generable and destructible. Those bodies beyond the moon, however (the sun, stars, etc.), can continue their circular movement infinitely, and thus, undergo no generation or change. Being a work on changeable things, then, means that, by and large,

Aristotle does not discuss the heavenly bodies, although many of the topics and his views about them, such as his views about the infinite and the void, span this divide. In accordance with a stylistic method used in his other works, he begins Book I of the treatise with a statement of the problems facing the one who inquires and a history of

9 This is inferred from the existence of circular motion itself and from the fact that this kind of motion does not belong primarily to any of the sublunary elements. Circular movement is not simply derived from a compound of linear movements because, according to Aristotle, circular motion is more primary than linear motion, which is, in turn derived from its ability to continue eternally. Cf. (De Caelo I.2 268b30, Phys. VIII.8 261b27).

8

9

previous thought on the subject. Aristotle does not introduce the beginnings of his own account until Book II, which he starts by introducing a distinction concerning things in general. He tells us that some things are due to nature [φύσις], and some to other causes

(Physics 192b9).10 Φύσις, the word that gives us ‘physics’ means, for the Greeks,

‘nature’ in the sense of a “natural quality,” “power,” “constitution,” or “condition.”11

Thus, for Aristotle, being due to nature, or being natural, means having a certain power or constitution that the non-natural does not share. Specifically, Aristotle defines a natural thing as that which has “in itself a source of change [κίνησις] and staying unchanged

[στάσις], whether in respect of place, or growth and decay, or alteration” (Phys. 192b14).

Nature itself is this source. He says, “nature is a sort of source [ἀρχή] and cause [αἰτία] of change and remaining unchanged in that to which it belongs primarily and of itself…”

(Phys. 192b21). So, some changeable things have natures and act according to nature, while nature is a source and cause of this acting. Thus, natural things have the power to change themselves in certain ways, while, on the other hand, that which is due to other causes (i.e. the non-natural) has no such source of change within it and belonging to it primarily. These non-natural things can only change if impacted from the outside by something already changing in the same way. For example, a person at the top of a hill can travel down it without being pushed, but a rock at the top of the hill cannot. It must

10 Aristotle, “Physica,” trans. R.P. Hardie and R.K. Gaye, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941), 214-394. The reader may presume that all quotations from the Physics are from Hardie and Gaye EXCEPT for those from Books III and IV, which, unless otherwise noted, come from: Aristotle, Physics Books III and IV, trans. Edward Hussey (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983). For all editions of the Physics used, Phys. hereafter.

11 A Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “φύσις, ἡ.”

10

be given its motion from an outside source, which is itself undergoing motion, and this other body acts as the cause of its movement.12 Natural things, then, are said to be self- caused in terms of change because they have a nature.

A thing’s nature causes, or is responsible for [αἴτιος] its changing in a certain way and not others. An acorn’s nature causes it to grow into an oak tree and have such and such qualities (i.e. being green and brown rather than blue). Beyond living things,

Aristotle also believes the four elements (earth, water, air, and fire) are natural as well in that they have natural motions (i.e. earth tends downward, and fire tends upward, etc.).

The elements are natural in a more basic sense than other natural things, however, because these motions are the extent of their ability to change by themselves. More complex natural things, like the oak tree, have the ability to change in many more ways, including metabolizing nutrients, growing, and reproducing, but in each case, the thing’s nature is the source of these abilities.

Nature is related to change by being a source [ἀρχή] of it. According to Liddell and Scott, ‘ἀρχή’ primarily means “beginning,” “origin,” or “first cause,” though they note that, in Aristotle’s hands, the term takes on the meaning of a “first principle,” or

12 I note this difference between the natural and the non-natural at the outset because it is a foundational and important axiom for Aristotle. In what follows, however, I will ignore this difference for the most part because, I believe, the distinction is not wholly relevant to our considerations. Thus, I will speak of boats and houses as having an ontological structure that is identical to fish and humans. In terms of my own project, this natural/non-natural distinction would only become significant were one to demand an account of the particular way in which a particular set of bodies would have to surround some artifact, say a boat, in order to fully actualize it. At this point, we would see that one of the bodies the boat must come in contact with to be a boat boating would be the guiding hand of its captain. Indeed, I am very interested in the way in which artifacts, by virtue of being in contact with humans, can be seen as more fully actualized. My work in this thesis does not take us that far, however.

11

“element.”13 Thus, nature, while it is responsible for some thing’s tending to be such- and-such, is also responsible for change itself on a more fundamental level. Nature is that according to which change itself acts. If left alone, a living thing, such as a plant, will grow and change according to its nature, and it will cease doing so according to that nature as well. Thus, nature is ontologically prior to change, as a constituent or formative principle, and as such it is responsible for [αἴτιος] the being of change itself.

However, this does not mean that nature is more apparent to us than change; it is not. It might seem as though Aristotle thinks nature is directly apparent to us, for he says: “That nature exists, it would be absurd to try to prove; for it is obvious that there are many things of this kind, and to prove what is obvious by what is not is the mark of a man who is unable to distinguish what is self-evident from what is not” (Phys. 193a3).

But this, in fact, does not mean that nature itself is apparent to us. Rather, we see the effects of nature through the changes of natural things. And thus, we say that the existence of nature is established inductively.

Induction, for Aristotle, is the foundation of all our knowledge concerning the natural world. His general investigative method is to “start from the things which are more knowable and obvious to us and proceed towards those which are clearer and more knowable by nature” (Phys. 184a17). While Aristotle notes this distinction at the outset of Physics I, it does not originate there. The method itself is first delineated in the

13 A Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “ἁρχή, ἡ.”

12

Posterior Analytics,14 which is Aristotle’s treatise on scientific, or demonstrative, reasoning. There, he draws this distinction while speaking of the character of premises, as opposed to that of conclusions. Premises, he says, must be prior and indemonstrable, for otherwise they too would have to be argued for syllogistically. In PA I.2, he says,

Now ‘prior’ and ‘better known’ are ambiguous terms, for there is a difference between what is prior and better known in the order of being and what is prior and better known to man. I mean that objects near to sense are prior and better known to man; objects without qualification prior and better known are those further from sense (71b34).

In terms of the Physics, then, what is more knowable to us is that there are things that are in motion, for they, and not their sources [ἀρχαί, henceforth, also ‘principle’], are observable by perception. Aristotle says, “[w]e physicists…must take for granted that the things that exist by nature are, either all or some of them, in motion—which is made plain by induction” (Phys.185a13). And thus, when we observe the tendency of fire to be carried upwards, we do not observe nature, as we have said, but that which is according to nature (Phys.192b35). Induction, generally, for Aristotle is linked to indemonstrability and probability, and there are certain subjects, like the empirical sciences, which can only begin by induction.15 That is, even though that which is known through, or argued for

14 Aristotle, “Analytica Posteriora,” trans. G.R.G. Mure, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941), 110-187. PA hereafter. All passages from PA are from this edition.

15 Cf. Metaphysics VI.1: “starting from the essence—some making it plain to the senses, others assuming it as a hypothesis—[the sciences] then demonstrate, more or less cogently, the essential attributes of the genus with which they deal. It is obvious, therefore, that such an induction yields no demonstration of substance or of the essence, but some other way of exhibiting it” (1025b12-16).

13

from induction is not necessarily true, there is no deductive method by which such truth could be guaranteed.16

Thus, we do not observe nature, but infer it from changing things. However, this means that, in order to understand nature fully, we must first understand change

[κίνησις]. Aristotle says, “it must not escape us what change is: for if it is not known, it must be that nature is not known either” (Phys. 200b12).17 What is change, of which nature is the principle? Aristotle defines change in Phys. II as “the actuality of that which potentially is, qua such” (Phys. 201a10).18 And again, several lines later, he says, “the actuality [ἐντελεχείᾳ], then, of what is potentially—when being in actuality it is operating [ὂν ἐνεργῇ], not qua itself but qua changeable—is change” (Phys. 201a27).19

As we see here, change is to be understood in terms of ‘actuality’ [ἐνεργέια,

16 This is necessary, given that all demonstrative proof proceeds from premises that are better known than the conclusion (cf. PA I.2 72a27), and generally, as Aristotle says, at the opening of the Posterior Analytics, “All instruction given or received by way of argument proceeds from pre-existent knowledge” (PA 71a1). But, as Robert Bolton points out, “the inductive procedures which the scientist uses to establish his own proper principles cannot be used dialectically to prove those principles, since what these inductive procedures establish—namely the principles themselves—cannot be used to prove syllogistically or prove without begging the question, those very principles” See: Robert Bolton, “Aristotle’s Method in Natural Science,” in Aristotle’s Physics: A Collection of Essays, ed. Lindsay Judson (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 8. Thus, induction is the only method that establishes this pre-existent knowledge as basic principles of the science, or primary premises, and this can only be achieved through perception (cf. PA II.19). For a complete discussion of the inductive method of the scientist, including the ways in which induction is different from dialectical reasoning, see: Bolton, 1-29.

17 Trans. Hardie and Gaye.

18 Trans. Hardie and Gaye.

19 Trans Hussey. McKeon reads at 201a10: “The fulfillment of what exists potentially, in so far as it exists potentially, is motion.” And at 201a27: “It is the fulfillment of what is potential when it is already fully real and operates not as itself but as movable, that is motion.”

14

ἐντελεχείᾳ]20 and ‘potentiality’ [δύναμις] and their interplay, which thus require some explanation themselves. Actuality and potentiality are basic to the existence of all changeable things, though they are not themselves anything changeable. Rather, they are the ontological basis for the phenomenon of change itself. They are, in a sense, opposites, though it is not the case that, by this, we mean potentiality is any sort of negation or privation. Both have a positive ontological sense, despite the fact that, when observing an object, we are only presented with the way in which it exists actually at that moment. Potentiality is assumed as a counterpart to actuality, however, because all change, for Aristotle is a change between contraries (Met. 1011b35). These are the most basic ontological contraries, however, because they give rise to change [κίνησις] itself, and anything that is subject to this interplay as such is changeable. Actuality and potentiality are not only Aristotle’s general vocabulary for describing the character of change itself, but also the states of particular changeable things, and it is in this latter way that he most often uses them. A thing is described as actually or potentially something, where something is an instance of one of the categories of being. This wood is potentially a statue of Hermes; or, this tree is actually green, but potentially red, etc..

Thus, Aristotle tells us that there exist as many species of change as there are categories, or kinds of being (Phys. 201a7). In Met. IX, he comes as close as anywhere else to giving definitions for actuality and potentiality, and he does so in these terms. He says,

Actuality [ἐνεργέια], then, is the existence of a thing not in the way which we express by ‘potentially’ [δύναμει]; we say that potentially, for instance, a statue

20 These two Greek terms are often seen by translators as basically synonymous, and although I disagree to some extent, we will use them as such until the discussion requires that we distinguish them. This will not occur until chapter four.

15

of Hermes is in the block of wood…because it might be separated out, and we call even the man who is not studying a man of science, if he is capable of studying; the thing that stands in contrast to each of these exists actually (Met. 1048a31-35).

Such is the understanding of the two concepts in terms of normal things. When a thing is potentially x, it is either the case that x remains a potential or is, at some point, actualized, such that x comes to describe the way in which that thing exists in a certain respect. In terms of change, however, we are talking about actuality and potentiality in reference to each other. That is, in describing what change is, we are not saying something is potentially or actually something else (i.e. that the tree is potentially red, but actually green). Rather, we are pointing toward the very belonging to something of the potential for the thing to be in a certain way (i.e. that the tree has the potential to be red). In change, this belonging itself is being made conspicuous by that thing’s activity toward that state for which it has the potential (i.e. the tree shows itself as potentially red by beginning to turn red), and it is this making-conspicuousness itself that we call change, or motion.21

Now, in saying that actuality and potentiality give rise to change, it might seem as though actuality and potentiality exist before changeable things. However, Aristotle says that there is no change apart from things (Phys. 200b33-201a2). That is, motion, or change in general, is not something to which bodies can be subjected as masses in

21 In general, the word Aristotle uses for ‘change’ [κίνησις] can also be rendered as ‘motion,’ but if we choose to translate it as such, we must do so with the understanding that ‘motion’ has a wider and more varied meaning than perhaps it does for us. However, as we have just said, each of the categories has its particular species of change, some of which (i.e. a change from the ungrammatical to the grammatical) would not readily be called motion today.

16

Newtonian physics can be subjected to force. Rather, Aristotle believed that being changeable or movable is ultimately a non-physical characteristic of beings. Actuality and potentiality are not themselves beings, but rather, ontological designations, or ways, of beings being what they are. Therefore, that which is required for motion presupposes the presence of beings. The priority of actuality and potentiality is at most a logical one and can only be established in thought.

2. The Task of the Physicist

Given the character of Aristotle’s investigative method, one might assume that the physicist begins of necessity with bodies but wishes to leave them behind as quickly as possible. This is not the case, however. For Aristotle, physics deals with changeable bodies as bodies through and through. What might it mean to deal with them otherwise?

Instead of dealing with bodies as bodies, one might instead consider a body in terms of its extension, planes, lines, and points, apart from the matter in which these features inhere.

This is what the mathematician does, and for Aristotle, this is the primary respect in which mathematics is different from physics. For example, some particular book may be considered as a rectangular solid of such and such dimensions, rather than as a physical body assembled from and having its existence partially due to its sheets of paper and binding. According to Aristotle, natural bodies have points lines, planes, and solids

(Phys. 193b25), but “the mathematician does not consider them as boundaries of natural bodies”, while the physicist does (Phys. 193b33).22 Aristotle’s illustration of this

22 Cf. also Met. VI.1 (1026a6-16).

17

difference concerns ‘snubness’, which is defined as a certain curvature of a nose. The mathematician, he says, considers snubness qua a curved line abstracted from the flesh.

The physicist, on the other hand, considers the curvature as it is intimately bound up with the flesh. Thus, we can say that, while the mathematician only deals with the form

[μορφή] of a body, the physicist deals with both matter and form and the way in which they inter-relate. If we wish to do physics, then, we should not proceed as the mathematician does, who abstracts the form from the matter, but, Aristotle says, “as if we were inquiring what snubness is: we should consider things neither without their matter nor in accordance with their matter” (194a12).

Briefly, Aristotle believes that all bodies can be analyzed in terms of two constitutive principles, which are form [μορφή, or εἶδος] and matter [ὕλη]. In the sense of μορφή, ‘form’ means “shape,” while in the sense of εἶδος, it means something like

“essence.” Aristotle gives these two senses together at times, but, as we will see, there are important instances in which he distinguishes them from each other. Although εἶδος is the word Plato used when talking about his theory of forms, it is important to note here that they are not the same concept. In the Platonic sense, εἶδος denotes something that is more real than the body and can exist apart from the matter. For Aristotle, the form does not exist anywhere but in individual instances of it. Likewise, matter cannot exist apart from form. Thus, Aristotle sees bodies as an intimate intertwining of these two constituents, which cannot be separated from one another except in thought or

18

abstraction, and for this reason, they have come to be described as ‘hylomorphic.’23 The physicist seeks an account of these two constituents along with a discernment of the source of a body’s generation, as well as the ‘end,’ [τέλος], toward which it strives.

These four pieces of information, which when sought out by the physicist are referred to as ‘causes,’ constitute the physicist’s most complete knowledge about physical entities

(cf. Phys. II.3). Aristotle says, “[k]nowledge is the object of our inquiry, and men do not think they know a thing until they have grasped the ‘why’ of it (which is to grasp its primary cause [τῆν πρώτην αἰτίαν]” (Phys. 194b30). The process of looking at entities to discern their causes is what I will refer to throughout as ‘causal analysis.’ Though they are four in number, it is important to remember that the fullest consideration of any of the causes or principles is not achieved in isolation from one another, but as aspects of one body.

But saying this still does not make the physicist’s charge completely clear to us, for we must also ask about the proper level of physical analysis. For instance, we might ultimately characterize the form of something as some state of togetherness and separateness,24 while its matter might ultimately be characterized in terms of its constituent elements, or even their fundamental qualities of hotness, coldness, wetness,

23 There is much debate over whether this means they are mere tools for analysis of natural things or whether they are actual ontological elements of bodies. This debate need not be discussed here, though, for the physicist never deals with one in isolation from the other. For a recent assessment of the debate, see: Mary Louise Gill, “Aristotle’s Metaphysics Reconsidered,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 43 no.3 (2005): 223-251. 24 Cf. De Generatione et Corruptione. I.6: “it is necessary for those things which are involved in mixing to be capable of contact with one another, and the same holds for anything which properly speaking acts on, or is affected by, another…”(322b27). And, several lines later: “to be in contact, as was defined earlier, is to have extremities together…” (323a3). Aristotle, De Generatione et Corruptione, trans. C.J.F. Williams. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. De Gen. hereafter. All passages from De Gen. are from this edition.

19

and dryness. For instance, an oak tree might be characterized as such-and-such a mixture of earth and water, together in this or that way and separate from fire. In a rudimentary way, this sounds very much like modern chemistry or biology, which seeks to define things and distinguish them from one another on the level of their constituent material elements. For Aristotle, however, the physicist ought to give his description of a thing on the level that is appropriate to the kind of thing it is rather than simply on the level of its most basic constituents. When he asks to what extent the student of nature ought to investigate and come to know the matter and the form of natural bodies, he concludes:

“Perhaps [the physicist] should be like the doctor and the smith, whose knowledge of sinews and bronze extend only to what they are for; and he should confine himself to things which are separable in form, but which are in matter” (Phys. 194b11-13). This involves staying at a level of analysis that is close to the tree itself. That is, it is best characterized by saying that its matter is wood, and its form is that of a specific deciduous tree.

3. Place and Things

The whole of Physics IV is concerned with the notions of place, void, and time.

These, along with the infinite, according to Aristotle, are the notions with which the physicist must deal in working out the problems of motion and nature because motion and nature cannot exist without them (Phys. 200b20). In one way, this is the case because Aristotle believes the most fundamental change is locomotion, or change of

20

place (Phys. 208a31).25 Logically, therefore, it would seem there must be places to change before there can be change of place. However, as we saw to be the case with change, place is dependent upon bodies and does not exist apart from bodies. Aristotle tells us that “place would not be a subject of inquiry if there were not change in respect of place [locomotion]” (Phys. 211a12), and since change does not occur apart from bodies

(Phys. 200b33), neither does locomotion. Thus, we see here again the tension articulated in Aristotle’s method of inquiry and the necessity of keeping the inductive perspective at the forefront of our thinking. Place depends on change in the sense that change is better known to us (that is, change is prior in terms of intelligibility), but change depends on place in the sense that change could not occur without place (logically prior). What I intend to argue throughout is that this tension created by Aristotle’s methodology is resolved by placing the emphasis of his account on bodies themselves, and this thesis is borne out thus far in both the delineation of the realm of physics (bodies qua bodies) and in the definition of change as a certain ontological (actual/potential) state, which belongs only to bodies.

So what is place’s relationship to things? Since place was only first made a topic of inquiry because we perceive locomotion, Aristotle says that “not everything that is, is in a place, but [only] changeable body” (Phys. 212b28).26 Place is not itself a body,27

25Also, cf. Phys. 260a27-261a27. In Phys. VIII.7, Aristotle is interested in the question of whether there can be such a thing as continuous motion. At this point in the treatise, he says there are three types of movement (rather than there being one for each category, as he claims at Phys. 201a7). These three are: motion in respect of magnitude, in respect of affection, and in respect of place (Phys. 260a27). He concludes from this discussion that locomotion is the primary type of motion on three counts: 1) in priority, 2) in time, and 3) in perfection of its subject.

26 Cf. Phys. 212a7, 212b7

21

though it, even more so than change, is something that preeminently applies to the genus of bodies.28 It has length, depth, and breadth, “by which every body is bounded” (Phys.

209a4), but again, since place falls within the scope of the investigation of the physicist, it should not be mistaken, at least on a fundamental level, with this abstract notion of dimension, which exists as mere spatiality apart from bodies. This brings us, then, to an important point that will become the main focus of chapter two: place, for Aristotle, is not space, either in the sense of being a framework in reference to which objects can be placed and/or moved around, or in the sense of a gap, or receptacle [χώρα],29 as in Plato’s

Timaeus, that makes room for appearance and movement.30 Place is never empty, but is always the place of something. The notion of a place bereft of body is what Aristotle defines as void, a notion which he spends Phys. IV.6-9 refuting.31

Now, Aristotle does say that one of the requisites of any account of place must be that bodies are separable from their places. That is, the fact that a place is always the place of something does not involve claiming that particular things cannot leave their

27 We will make the definition of a body our main concern in chapter three.

28 I say this because change may be the change of an attribute of a body, but only bodies are in place. The attributes of a body are not in place, except accidentally (cf. Phys. 210a29, 211a20, 212b11).

29 Aristotle does mention the χώρα as being possibly equivocal with τόπος at the outset of Phys. IV.1 (cf. Phys. 208b8), but this is in the section in the text in which he is merely laying out the difficulties involved in the topic, and before he has encountered any solid decisions concerning its nature. He does not mention it again after defining τόπος.

30 Χώρα is here distinguished from a frame of reference in the sense that χώρα lacks a definite, or pre-existing, structure of its own, whereas things are able to be placed within a frame by virtue of its structure. Cf. Edward S. Casey, Getting Back into Place (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1993), 142, fn. 76.

31 Cf. especially Phys. 213a15-213b4. One of the main reasons Aristotle denies the existence of the void is because of the inability to account for natural place in terms of it, which Aristotle takes to be an immediate inference from our perception of natural movement. This notion will be discussed at length in chapter four.

22

places for other places. Certainly, Aristotle believes that one thing can take the place of another. He begins his account in Physics IV.1 by saying that place is made clear to us by the fact that bodies, through locomotion, can replace one another (i.e. the place in which there once was water now is the place of air) (Phys. 208b1). And it is because of this, he says, that place “seems to be something different from all the things that come to be in it…” (Phys. 208b4). However, it is not necessary that any particular thing replace x when it moves. If we imagine a pool of water in which a ball is submerged, its place is the limit of the water at which it is in contact with the surface of the ball. If we remove the ball, it is not the case that the water that replaces the abstractly considered interval in which we conceive the ball to have been is now in the place in which the ball was.

Rather, the place of the ball no longer exists, for the limit of the water at which it surrounded something other than itself (i.e. the ball) no longer exists. On the other hand, we should not confuse the assertion that particular bodies can shed their particular places with the assertion that any particular body, or body in general, can shed all place.

Aristotle is quite clear in De Caelo I.9 that that no body could come to be outside of the universe 32 (De Caelo 278b35-2799a9).33

Thus, despite the fact that all bodies are in place, it is not the case that place exists as a logical prerequisite for the existence of bodies. The full meaning and significance of this, however, are what lie ahead of us to determine. We are asking the question of how place exists. If it is not necessarily prior to bodies, should we think of it as something in

32 The reasons for this are largely the same reasons why Aristotle thinks it is impossible for a void to exist—namely, the body then would lack natural motion. This will be discussed in chapter four.

33 Aristotle, “De Caelo,” trans. J.L. Stocks, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941), 396-466.

23

itself, or merely as an attribute of bodies? Along these same lines, we should ask: where does place lie within the movement from that which is known to us toward that which is known in itself? 34

4. The Boat Puzzle

In Phys. IV.4, Aristotle gives a list of several characteristics that are said to belong to place (and rightly so, in his opinion). They are:

P1) that place should be[-long to –r.l.] the first thing surrounding that of which it is the place P2) that place should not be anything pertaining to the object P3) that the primary [place of an object] should be neither less nor greater (than the object) P4) that [place] should be left behind by the object and be separable [from it] P5) that every place should have ‘above’ and ‘below’ P6) that each body should naturally move to and remain in its proper places, and this it must do either above or below (210b33-211a6). 35

In this list, Aristotle lays out that which he believes is necessary for any account of place he may ultimately give to be cogent, for according to Aristotle, each of these characteristics are consistently present in the phenomenon of something’s having or being in a place. That is, it seems in some sense that Aristotle determines ahead of time

34 As I will ultimately conclude, the contrary currents of observation and analysis (i.e. that which is better known by nature and that which is better known to us) find their intersection in the notion of place and placed bodies because place is something both necessary for perception, yet ultimately re-affirmed through analysis.

35 Trans. Hussey. Translation amended where noted. There is some dispute over the number of items in this list, for Aristotle does not number them himself. I have given the list as it appears in Hussey. Helen Lang, however, prefers to group 1) and 2) into a single characteristic. She does the same with 5) and 6), citing that in each of these pairs, the characteristics are set off by καί, rather than ἔτι. In her opinion, καί connotes an explanatory comparison rather than a disjunction, which is strongly connoted by ἔτι. Helen S. Lang, The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics: Place and the Elements (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 78-79.

24

that whatever place will come to be defined as, it must meet all of these criteria, but he does so because he believes failure to meet any of these would result in an account that does not speak to the very reasons why place was seen to be an important topic for the physicist in the first place.

Since our task is, in a sense, reconstructive, it is invaluable for our present inquiry that he gives us these criteria so clearly, for he is not always so explicit in his examination of other specific physical concepts. But at the same time, the fact that the list is so specific is part of what makes the full articulation of Aristotle’s final definition difficult. As we shall shortly see, the example from which Aristotle seems to derive his final definition of place does not, at least on the face of things, meet all of them. It is in this gray area of Aristotle’s text that we will make our attempt at understanding what he takes us to ultimately understand when we say that some x is in place or is the type of thing to be in place.

In Physics IV.1-3, Aristotle establishes that 1) place is something, 2) the characteristics of place are as we have listed them above, 3) a thing is in a place as in a vessel,36 and 4) (in reply to Zeno) place is not itself in a place. In Physics IV.4 then, he proceeds to give his own account of place, which builds through the chapter to the first of two attempts at a definition of place. He begins, however, by giving a series of arguments concerning what place is not. He tells us that place is not either the form

(Phys. 211b10), the matter (Phys. 211b29), or the διάστημα (the interval, or gap, between the walls of a vessel) (Phys. 211b14). After giving a series of arguments against

36 Aristotle has asserted this by the beginning of IV.4 but has not yet talked about it. He will do so at (Phys. 212a14). We will do so below.

25

these three candidates for place, he concludes that place must be what he sees as the only remaining viable option: “the limit of the surrounding body37 at which it is in contact with that which is surrounded ” (Phys. 212a5).38 This is his first definition of place.

Following closely on the heels of this, however, Aristotle presents himself with a somewhat peculiar, though not uncommon, situation that challenges this definition and ultimately results in its revision. This situation is what I will refer to as ‘the boat puzzle.’

In this passage (Phys. 212a13-21), Aristotle begins by speaking about the notion of a vessel, which he initially mentions in Physics IV.3 as an instance of the sense in which a thing is physically in [ἐν] a place. Here, however, he draws a distinction between a vessel and a place, saying:

Just as the vessel is a place which can be carried around, so place is a vessel which cannot be moved around. So when something moves inside something which is moving and the thing inside moves about (e.g. a boat on a river),39 the surrounding thing functions for it as a vessel rather than as a place; place is meant to be unchangeable, so that it is the whole river, rather, that is the place, because as a whole it is [unchanging –r.l.]40 (Phys. 212a14-20).41

37 “…τὸ πέρας τοῦ περιέχοντος σῶματος.”

38 Trans. Hussey. Hardie and Gaye translate this phrase: “the boundary of the containing body at which it is in contact with the contained body.”

39 This part of the sentence is much clearer in Hardie and Gaye: “So when what is within a thing which is moved, is moved and changes its place, as a boat on a river….” However, I do not cite this translation as the primary rendering because I believe their inclusion of “and changes place” before “as a boat on a river” renders the passage unintelligible.

40 Trans. Hussey. Translation of ἀκίνητον changed from Hussey’s “unchangeable” to “unchanging” as noted on the grounds that the word literally means “not moving” and not “unable to move.”

41 “Ἔστι δ᾽ ὥσπερ τὸ ἀγγεῖον τόπος μεταφοπητός, οὕτω καί ὁ τόπος ἀγγεῖον ἀμετακίνητον. Διὸ ὅταν μὲν ἐν κινουμένῳ τι κινῆται καί μεταβάλλῃ τὸ ἐντός, οἷον ἐν ποταμῷ πλοῖον, ὡς ἀγγείῳ χρῆται μᾶλλον ἢ τόπῳ τῷ περιέχοντι. βούλεται δ᾽ ἀκίνητος εἶναι ὁ τόπος. διὸ ὁ πᾶς μᾶλλον ποταμὸς τόπος, ὅτι ἀκίνητος ὁ πᾶς.”

26

Immediately following this passage, Aristotle gives his second and final attempt at a definition of place, which purports to account for this puzzle. He continues: “So this is what place is: the first unchanging42 [πρῶτον ἀκίνητον] limit of that which surrounds”43

(Phys. 212a20). For the rest of this chapter, we will dwell on the implications of this situation and the traditional difficulties they present for a proper interpretation of

Aristotle’s second definition of place.

Although Aristotle moves swiftly past the boat puzzle and provides a ready answer to it in the form of a revised definition, the situation presented in the puzzle is an interesting one and pregnant with implications that philosophers after Aristotle have had to work to articulate. This is because the solution to the puzzle that Aristotle provides is not as transparent a solution as one might have hoped. Clearly, the major difference between his first and second attempts at a definition is the additional stipulation in the second that the limit of what surrounds be unchanging, but how does that translate into the whole river being the place of the boat, as he finally deems it to be? Further, since

Aristotle is guiding his investigation of place through this example, how can we make sense of this answer in a way that agrees with this phenomenon, as we might be able to experience it even today? As the text itself stands, the speed at which the objection presented by the example is overcome makes the matter of the boat in the river seem as though it did not present much of a puzzle to Aristotle himself. Indeed, it seems to have been little more than a speed bump, given that he plows straight through the example,

42 Translation amended. See note 40 above.

43 Hardie and Gaye translate this passage: “Hence we conclude that the innermost boundary of what contains is place.”

27

emerging with an improved definition of place. However, we must assume it gave him some pause, for dialectically, it plays the role of an objection to his first proposed definition of place. Clearly from the sense of this example, Aristotle is grappling with a situation in which Newtonian physics will consider as presenting and instance of

‘compound’ or ‘relative’ motion.44 These are motions for which the situation involves that which surrounds moving at the same time as that which is surrounded. For some reason, Aristotle has determined that the limit of the surrounding body by which we determine the place of that which is surrounded must be immovable.45 Prior to the cited passage, Aristotle tells us that place is thought to be a difficult concept partially because of “the displacement of the body that is [re]moved [μετάστασιν] takes place in a stationary container” (Phys. 212a9).46 This tends to give one the impression that the moving body within the one that itself remains unmoved traverses some sort of independent interval [διάστηµα].47 He recognizes, then, that the boat puzzle is a special case because the fact that the boat is moving within that which is itself moved is able to dispel this notion of there being such an independent interval and to draw attention to the fact that locomotion always takes place in reference to some other body. Since most

44 Of course, my aim in this project is to characterize Aristotle as far as possible with a non- modern scientific vocabulary. I mention ‘compound motions’ here in reference to the phenomenon only by way of analogy and am not thereby assuming any conceptual parallels. In fact, a conscious comparison to the way we might characterize the situation from our contemporary worldview may indeed be helpful in pointing out specifically at what level the assumptions we make about place occur in our thinking about the world. The importance of this task will be our topic of discussion in chapter two.

45 Perhaps the answer to this quandary is that thinking of the problem in terms that are too similar to the Newtonian problem of relative motion completely misidentifies what is at stake in Aristotle’s project concerning place (cf. Chapter two).

46 Trans. Hardie and Gaye.

47 This must be dialectical, since he has already rejected this possibility at (Phys. 211b14).

28

instances of place occur within a body that is at rest, we fail to see that it really is a body that surrounds, and therefore, that this body might be moving as well. Therefore, without an example such as the boat puzzle, we fail to uncover the full extent of the definition on the first try.

The puzzle of the boat, it seems, comes down largely to this: if place is the limit of that which surrounds, and that which surrounds is changing such that the part of itself that is in contact with that which is surrounded at that limit is different from moment to moment (e.g. the water is flowing past the hull of the boat), we need to know what to say about this difference. Has the boat changed place over time or has it not?

One broad class of attempts to answer this question involves identifying the limit over a series of moments with the parts of the surrounding body that share this limit at those moments. For example, if some thing (a boat) changed its place, the articulation of that change might involve showing that that which surrounds it (i.e. some this-part-of- the-water, which we’ll call ‘water-b’) is different from what it was at some previous moment (‘water-a’), thereby allowing us to say that the limit of the surrounding body has changed as well (i.e. water-a touching the boat does not constitute the same limit as water-b touching the boat). However, it does not seem possible to track the identity of the limit simply based upon the sameness of just any arbitrarily chosen physical extension surrounding the body at two different moments. It may be that the boat is surrounded at one moment by the same part-of-water as at some previous moment

(water-a), but the limit it shares with the boat may be different by virtue of a different part of itself now touching the boat. For example, perhaps water-a is touching the boat at

29

two different moments. At the first moment, one side of water-a (water-a1) constitutes the limit with the boat, but at the second, the other side of water-a (water-a2) has revolved around to constitute the limit with the boat. This division can continue, ensuring that the same surrounding body can always yield more than one limit with what it surrounds.

Since Aristotelian matter is infinitely divisible in thought, this process becomes hopelessly and infinitely reductive. Thus, one might attempt to salvage the position by saying that we can make a positive statement of the account, at least, that does not require us to know the end of, or carry out, this infinite regression. One might say: if we should find that the limit with the boat belongs to the same part of the water in the same way as it did before, we ought to conclude that a change of place has not occurred (i.e. if water-a in the first moment, then water-a in the second; if water-a1 in the first, water-a1 in the second, etc.). In many situations, this might seem to be a viable account of a thing’s remaining in place, but not so in terms of the boat. If the boat is moored in the river, it seems we should be able to say that it is not changing place without ever having to examine what surrounds it or the character of the limit. But this seemingly innocuous statement forces us into a contradiction. By the account we have just given, it seems we are forced to say the moored boat has been moving the whole time. That is, from moment to moment, the flowing causes the limit of the water at which it is in contact with the boat to belong either to different parts of the water or in a different way to the same

30

part of water.48 Assuming the identity of the limit with that which composes the limit, then, one must say that, in either case, the boat is not in the same place from one moment to the next. However, we cannot simply say that, in this scenario, the limit must change in order for the boat to have possibly stayed in the same place because this change can occur both when the boat is moored, and when it is obviously traveling about. The fact that we cannot use the positive formulation given above to obtain an intuitive account of the situation means that we should not assume the identity of the limit and that body which composes it.

Thus, via the boat puzzle, Aristotle is saying that we need to make a distinction between a place and a vessel. In cases where movements might be seen as compounded, we are able to see fully that that which surrounds should not be considered the place of, but rather a vessel for that which is surrounded. But how is a vessel of a different character than a place? They are certainly similar, for he says, “the vessel is a place which can be carried around” while “place is a vessel which cannot be moved around”

(Phys. 212a14-15). However, the key difference between them seems to be that a vessel is movable, while place is not. Being movable is ultimately a characteristic of bodies

(and only in an accidental way of their attributes), and thus, a vessel should be understood as some sort of body—that surrounding body mentioned above which may or may not be in motion—while place, as was said, is not a body.

This distinction, however, seems to present us with a new problem. Namely—if a vessel is itself a movable body, when the vessel moves, should we not assume that it

48 I make this distinction here and above to signal that we have not yet discussed what kinds of distinctions can be made regarding parts of homogeneous bodies.

31

moves that which is in it as well? However, in the event that it does—for example, if I take the jar of wine from this room to the next—it seems we will have to say that that which is in it (i.e. the wine) will have moved without changing place, for the inner limit of the surrounding body, which belongs to the jar, will be the same in both this room and in the next. This seemingly contradicts the fourth requirement on the list of qualities that place must ultimately have—viz. that things should be separable from their places, and leave them behind whenever they move (Phys. 211a4). Thus, it would seem that a vessel cannot be strongly tied to the place of a thing. In order to abide by this requirement,

Aristotle concludes from the boat puzzle that place ought to be identified with what is unchangeable, or motionless. The water is not motionless, therefore it may be a vessel, but not a place. The place of the boat is, rather, the whole river (Phys. 212a19).

As much as the distinction between a vessel and a place may have solved one of his problems, in Hydra-like fashion, it has given birth to several more. First, it is unclear what the whole river is apart from the water of which it is constituted at any given moment. Second, Aristotle’s naming the whole river as the place of the boat seemingly contradicts the third requirement on the list of that which is thought to be characteristic of place—viz. that place should not be bigger than the thing (Phys. 211a28). This is a reasonable requirement, especially of this situation, for on a river that is hundreds of miles long, it seems to make a difference place-wise whether one’s boat was at its spring or its mouth, but in naming the river as the place of the boat, it appears that both the spring and the mouth are the same place. Third, if we are to agree that the whole river is the place of the boat, we must decide how to articulate it as a limit. The most obvious

32

limit that could be granted to the whole river (and not the water) is the limit of the banks and bed of the river. But, to articulate it this way is to say that the limit that is the place is not (at least in any obvious sense) together with the boat. This is a problem, for Aristotle says that “place is together with the object, because the limits are together with what is limited” (Phys. 212a29). Thus, the limit of the banks and bed would be together with the water, which is the vessel of the boat, but not the boat itself. And fourth, what can we make of his conclusion that the whole river is properly immovable, and as such, is the place of the boat? It would be hard to say that river is truly immobile in any strict sense of the word. We might, amend the designation of the whole river as the place with

‘insofar as it is immobile,’ but this seems to guarantee that there is some important respect in which the river is immobile and it is that respect in which it may serve as the place of the boat.

In what follows, we will examine one contemporary interpretation of Aristotle’s account of place that wrestles with these very questions, though ultimately, it will be given as an example of how not to attempt to answer them.

Chapter Two: Benjamin Morison’s On Location

1. Kinds of Containment

In this chapter, I will look at Benjamin Morison’s interpretation of Aristotle’s conception of place from his recent book, On Location, as a recent example of the traditional vein of thought concerning Aristotle’s account of place.49 Although it arguably solves several of the issues laid out at the end of the previous chapter, I believe it ultimately fails as an interpretation that could have belonged to Aristotle himself. I believe it fails because Morison’s preoccupation with providing a theory of location is more in keeping with the assumptions of Newtonian physics than it is with Aristotle’s own, and as such, is anachronistic. I would like to suggest instead that a proper interpretation ought to concern itself, not just with the physical limit involved in place- related situations, but with the ontological implications of that limit—what place is for that which is in it.50

As we said in chapter one, Aristotle first formulates the notion of place as “the limit of the surrounding body, at which it is in contact with that which is surrounded”

49 Benjamin Morison, On Location (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).

50Although we are focusing exclusively on Morison here, he is not alone in his desire to show that Aristotelian place is consistent with, or at least accountable to, our modern Newtonian notion of absolute space. For instance, see King and Mendell as examples of the tone in recent scholarship on this subject. Each, in its own way, assumes Aristotle’s account of τόπος ought to be, if not wholly compatible with, at least amenable to, the more modern notions of Newtonian space.

33

34

(Phys. 212a5). Several lines later, he refines this definition by adding that it is “the first unchangeable limit of that which surrounds” (Phys. 212a20). In the final chapter of On

Location, Morison begins his positive account of Aristotle’s conception of place with a discussion of what he takes Aristotle to means by ‘to surround’ [περιέχειν]. To surround, he says, is to contain; to be surrounded is to be contained. According to

Morison, there are two ways to contain and be contained. In one way, a fish is contained by water; in another, I am contained by the walls of a house, the difference being that the water directly shares a limit with the fish, while the house does not directly share a limit with me.51 Morison calls the type of surrounding the water does “proximate circumscriptive containment,” while calling the type of surrounding the house does

“remote circumscriptive containment.”52 Because place is the limit at which the surrounding body meets the surrounded,53 the water is the proper place of the fish, but the house is not my proper place.

In general, Morison thinks the place of something is denoted by its proximate circumscriptive container, so given that he believes both to be instances of

“circumscriptive containers,” each must involve the right type of containment to be indicative of place. What do they share in this respect? Since a common limit is

51 Morison, On Location, 136. Instead of speaking of the way I am surrounded by the walls of a house, Morison speaks of the way I am surrounded by the celestial sphere. I have changed this example because it seems problematic to me. On this point, see note 99 on pg. 51 below. I believe the essence of what Morison takes to be the relationship between me and what surrounds me in this way, however, is retained by speaking of the walls of a house. That this substitution is appropriate this is made clear by Morison’s example of the French embassy below.

52 Ibid., 58.

53 “Moreover, place is together with the object, because the limits are together with what is limited” (Phys. 212a29). See also (Phys. 212a31, 212b14).

35

indicative of place, it must be that the house can be said to share a limit with me in some regard. According to Morison, the house achieves this by transference. That is, while the house does not share an immediate limit with me, it does share a limit with the air, which is the body that proximately circumscribes me. The house (z) proximately circumscribes the air (y), which in turn proximately circumscribes me (x). Arguably, this is the type of containment Aristotle is speaking of when he says: “Now we say we are in the heavens as in a place, because we are in the air and it is in the heavens” (Phys. 211a23).

Morison contrasts both of these types of circumscriptive containment with another type, which he calls ‘receptive containment.’ A thing is contained receptively, for instance, when we say it is in France, or is in the agora. Morison takes this to be a more metaphorical way of speaking about containment and claims that this type is not of any interest to Aristotle in the Physics.54 Receptive containment, he says, is the type of containment that Aristotle discusses in Categories I.4, at which time he lists ‘in the

Lyceum’ and ‘in the agora’ as instances of the accidental category of ‘where’55

(Categories 1b25).56 When Morison initially introduces the distinction between circumscriptive and receptive containment, he cites the main difference as being that,

54 Morison, On Location, 56-57. Just prior to this, he says: “At first approximation, one might say that France is a sort of space which bodies occupy—a sort of interval between given frontiers. Aristotle argues strongly against such a conception of place in Physics IV.4, because he thinks that a scientifically adequate account of place could not be constructed along these lines.” Morison, 56.

55 Ibid., 57. He says: “The Categories is not meant to be a treatise which investigates the definition of (e.g.) places; it investigates the nature of predication, and that ‘x is in the agora’ is a local predication is undeniable. That it should turn out that predications of this sort are not ones that throw light on the nature of places and what it is to be somewhere is of no consequence.”

56 Aristotle, Categories and De Interpretatione, trans. J.L. Ackrill, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963). Cat. hereafter.

36

while circumscriptive containment involves the surrounding body being molded to x and parts of it being displaced as x moves about, receptive containment does not involve any such molding.57 We can certainly see the distinction at which he is aiming: the water is molded to the fish, and parts of it are forced to move as the fish swims around in it.

France, on the other hand, is not molded to me and parts of France do not have to move as I walk around in it. However, what are we to make of remote circumscriptive containment in these terms? As we have seen, the house is neither molded to me, nor is it displaced as I move around in it.

What, then, is the ultimate difference between remote circumscriptive containment and receptive containment? Unfortunately, Morison is not extremely clear on this point, though he does seek to illustrate the difference via an analogy in which remote circumscriptive containment is likened to being in the French Embassy, while receptive containment is likened to being in France itself. He says,

The simple thought that anything within the walls of the Embassy is in the Embassy, and the analogous thought that anything within the frontiers of France is in France, might prompt the search for a physical body comparable to the Embassy (the building), in the case of France. But it is no use saying that the countries and oceans which surround France are such a body, since if they were, they would have to be identified with France! Furthermore, it is not clear that the frontiers of France are like the walls of the Embassy, since they have no thickness and are therefore not physical bodies. Moreover, France does not stand to its frontiers as the Embassy (a building) stands to its walls, for France stretches between its frontiers, whereas the Embassy does not Stretch between its walls (a building does not stretch between its walls).58

57 Morison, On Location, 56.

58 Ibid., 58.

37

Of the several differences presented here in how the two ought to be conceived (including the poorly explained notion of what it might mean for something to ‘stand to its walls’), I believe the main difference between the two instances of containment for Morison is that, in the case of the Embassy (i.e. the remote circumscriptive container), that which is in it is characterized as contained by a super-structure, which divides one’s proximate place off from the heavens, whereas in the case of France (i.e. the receptive container), that which is in it is characterized as being upon a plot of earth, which does not count as dividing off a place. I believe this is crucial to this difference because of his talk concerning walls with thickness that belong to that which we call the place of x. Moving forward, then, let us take with us the crucial point that, for Morison, the type of containment that is suitable for designating the place of something must be a literal, circumscriptive (as opposed to receptive)59 container of some sort.

2. The Maximal Surrounder

Morison tells us that any thing that is in place is, at any moment, circumscriptively contained by any number of containing bodies. We might expect that this means the body is surrounded immediately by one body (its proximate container) and then remotely by several progressively larger ones, in the manner of Russian dolls, but for Morison, this is not the case. Rather, he believes that a thing generally has several proximate circumscriptive containers at one time. For instance, a fish off the west coast of Greece is simultaneously proximately circumscribed by water, the sea, the

59 Cf. Morison, On Location, 56-57.

38

Mediterranean sea, the Ionian sea, etc..60 Each of these surrounding bodies touches the fish at its limit.61 However, he says they should not be considered as separate bodies, but that the more exact ones should be considered parts of the more general ones.62 This is because Morison insists that when Aristotle defines place as “the limit of the surrounding body” (Phys. 212a5), he means to say that there is, in each case, one ultimate body that surrounds and one ultimate limit at which this body meets that which is surrounded.63 He says,

So it is not the case that x is surrounded by many separate bodies. The reason why they are not separate is because there is a body which surrounds x such that all the other bodies which surround x are parts of it: this body is x’s maximal surrounder, and holds to being the body which surrounds x. When Aristotle talks of the body which surrounds x, he does not mean that we must pick some simple body in the immediate surroundings of x; rather, I suggest, he refers to the maximal surrounder of x.64

Although I will ultimately take issue with the notion that the smaller bodies can be taken to be parts of the larger ones, we will grant him this for the time being. So, under this interpretation, the fish is surrounded by the Ionian Sea as part of the Mediterranean, and so on. Because of the way in which Aristotle sees the universe being structured, each thing is always surrounded by something else. Since Aristotle’s universe is a plenum

60 Morison, On Location, 137.

61 Here, using Morison’s own example, we see that the fish is thought by Morison to be circumscriptively contained by the Ionian Sea, despite the fact that the Ionian seems to be a kind of arbitrary geographical division like France. For some reason, Morison must think the Ionian stands to its frontiers in a way the air of France does not. Let us grant him this for now.

62 Morison, On Location, 138-139.

63 Ibid.

64 Ibid.

39

(that is, completely full and lacking void),65 Morison says, the successive containers of the fish “grow” past bodies of water to include the air and the heavens.66 But, since the universe is finite, this “growing” cannot go on forever. The containers of the fish eventually reach an end at the universe itself, each of the smaller containers having been subsumed under that body of which it is a part. The surrounding body, then, according to

Morison, is going to be the one of which all the others are a part—i.e. the universe itself.

Thus, Morison believes that, if we want to talk about the fish’s proper place, it should be done in terms of its being surrounded by the universe itself—the fish’s “maximal surrounder.”67

I believe Morison employs this way of thinking about Aristotle’s account in order to address two particularly thorny issues, which are variations on those mentioned at the end of chapter one: 1) it gives us the ability to locate, as well as accurately track changes of place—i.e. motion—in a way that other interpretations have failed to do, and 2) it makes the notion of a limit of that which surrounds, what is taken to be the place itself, intelligible. We will only follow the first of these here, the second being reserved as the topic of discussion in chapter three.

In terms of providing for a method of location, Morison wishes to say that the universe as a whole seems to be the only vantage point from which one could accurately judge a change of place in regards to something like the boat puzzle. The only way we

65 That there is no void, see Phys. 217b20. That motion can occur in a plenum, see Phys. 214a28, 212a32.

66 Morison, On Location, 138.

67 Ibid.

40

can make this judgment accurately, according to Morison, is to count the universe as the boat’s surrounding body and use its “internal shape” (i.e. the entire universe minus a boat-shaped hole somewhere in it) as an indication over time of whether change of place has occurred.68 He says,

Because the universe cannot move, there is no danger that something which moves from being somewhere to somewhere else could ever be surrounded by the universe at the same boundary. In this sense, things have their places relative to the immobile universe. The universe is the common place of all things [209a32] and so its immobility guarantees that the frontier between it and its occupants can count as their proper place….69

If we start with the position that the boat’s proper place is some-this-part-of- water, as we did in the last chapter, difficulties arise because the water is constantly flowing. Thus, if the water of the river constitutes the place of the boat, the boat would only be changing place when we would normally say it was stationary—that is, when the boat is not taken by the current. On the other hand, if the boat is flowing down river, the inner surface of the water arguably could stay the same and the boat would turn out to be stationary.70 So, if this-part-of-water is constantly changing, we have to take that of which it is a part (i.e. the river), but that, too, is technically changing in terms of

68 Morison, On Location, 148-49.

69 Ibid., 149.

70 Cf. H.R. King, “Aristotle’s Theory of ΤΟΠΟΣ,” The Classical Quarterly 44 no. ½ (January- April 1950), 93.

41

evaporation,71 water level, erosion, etc.. This process again should lead us to measure the place of the boat by the internal shape of the universe.

However, Morison has to deal with the fact that this is not the answer Aristotle himself gives. Instead, Aristotle concludes that the whole river (not the whole universe) ought to be considered the place of the boat (Phys. 212a19). One might expect that

Aristotle’s having given this answer would pose a strong objection to the necessity of appealing to the maximal surrounder in order to produce its place, but apparently,

Morison does not think it does. In the face of such an objection, he merely refines his account by saying that in particular situations, such as this one with the boat, the proper place of the object can be identified in terms of its more immediate surrounding body insofar as it is immobile.72 This seems hopeful and reasonable enough at first glace.

However, looking a bit harder, we see that in order to establish the local immobility of the river, and thus, the legitimacy of its serving as the place of the boat, as Aristotle says it does, it must be viewed in relation to the immovable bounds of the universe. So, while

Morison is doing lip service to Aristotle’s solution in the text, he actually disagrees with

Aristotle in saying that the river could not be the ultimate place of the boat, though it could be considered so under certain (ill-defined) conditions.

71 Aristotle recognized that the elements are able to, and constantly do, transform into one another, which at first glance, may cause difficulties in determining the limit of the water in relation to the air. However, this turns out to be a perceptual, rather than a metaphysical or ontological problem because, elemental transformation, for Aristotle is an instance of generation, which is a complete and total change from moment to moment (cf. De Gen. II.4). This will be important later for determining that the water and the air cannot be grouped together indiscriminately as a single body.

72 Morison, On Location, 153.

42

3. Problems with Morison’s Interpretation

I believe that Morison’s attempt to agree with Aristotle on this point, unfortunately, creates a problem that turns out to be fatal to his interpretation. As we saw above when dealing with the proposed distinction between remote circumscriptive containment and receptive containment, what seems to be crucial for Morison in describing a body that can count as the place of a thing is whether or not that body has the ability to close the thing off from the heavens. If we remember, the French embassy was able to do this in a way that France was not by virtue of the embassy’s having a physical superstructure. Now we see that Morison is willing to agree with Aristotle that the river could serve as the place of the boat, insofar as its boundaries were immovable.73

However, returning to the phenomenon, we see that the boat is not in a river as something is in a building because it is not circumscriptively contained by the river in any meaningful sense. From his earlier distinction, a circumscriptive container (z) must either a) be molded to x in such a way that x displaced parts of z as it moved (proximate circumscriptive containment),74 or b) completely surround x, even if it does not contact x directly, for necessarily there would be some body y that did touch x at its boundary, which was in turn limited by z (remote circumscriptive containment).75 The river seems to meet neither of these qualifications completely. On one hand, the river itself is not displaced as the boat moves through it. The river qua river-water is displaced by the boat, but as per the original puzzle, this involves speaking of some part-of-water (water-

73 Morison, On Location, 153.

74 Ibid., 56.

75 Ibid., 57

43

a), which does not guarantee that the displacement is indicative of the boat’s having changed place. The boat may displace the flowing water while being moored in one place. On the other hand, the river itself may serve as the limit (z) of the river water (y), which in turn is in contact with the boat (x) if we consider the river itself to be distinguished from its water in some way. However, if all is well with the boat, the river does not completely surround the boat via this water. Thus, the boat is neither in a river as I am in the house, nor is it in the river in the sense that a fish is completely circumscribed by water. Morison has thus apparently just defended a situation in which that upon which something is resting—rather than that which surrounds something and divides it from the heavens—turns out to be its proximate maximal surrounder, and thus, it appears that Morison is working with inconsistent criteria for identifying a containing body.

In a section of his final chapter, entitled “Relaxing and Refining the Account,”

Morison recognizes the boat scenario as being a problem for him. He acknowledges that to say the place of the boat is the river is to ignore the fact that it is (hopefully) surrounded at least partially by air as well. Earlier, he had proposed to take care of this issue of “assemblages”76 by advancing to the universe itself as a thing’s maximal surrounder, but by claiming that the river, rather than the universe, can serve as the place of the boat under certain conditions (i.e. as long as it is immobile), this assemblage

76 This point intertwines the two issues Morison wishes to solve via the maximal surrounder. For an account of the assemblage problem, see chapter three, pg. 54-55.

44

problem pops up again. The river can no longer account for the entire limit at which the boat is in contact with that which surrounds it.

Morison defends the omission of the air at this later point in the text by saying,

“Aristotle never once in Physics IV.1-5 discusses examples of complete surrounding, such as a fish in water,” and thus, it must be that Aristotle finds it sufficient to specify the limit of something only partially.77 Therefore, Morison finds himself warranted in being somewhat “loose” about things.78 He excuses himself, saying:

Part of the reason why Aristotle prefers to be loose in this way is surely that if he were to specify what surrounds the boat completely, the answer would be an assemblage of air and water—however, when asking where the boat is, surely no one would think of relating it to the air. Boats are on rivers, and if we want to be more precise about where they are, we go on to say on which part of the river, and so on. The air does not normally enter into our practice of saying where a boat is.79

This final stance of Morison’s is surely problematic when measured against his earlier assertions for two reasons. First, if it is enough that the boat is only partially surrounded by water, it becomes completely unclear why it should be the case that I am not meaningfully in France as in a place if I were to dig my toes into the sand on the beach at

Normandy. But second, and more importantly, Morison here has conflated the place of the boat with the “local predication” (the ‘where’) of the boat, which, as we noted at the beginning, he wanted to remove from an account of the nature of place because it was an

77 Morison, On Location, 161.

78 Morison, On Location, 161.

79 Ibid., 161-162.

45

unimportant instance of receptive containment.80 But here, saying where a boat is would certainly fall within the scope of Categories I.4.81 Further, he justifies Aristotle’s (as well as his own) omission of the air from the description of the place of the boat because the air does not normally figure into our practice of saying things about the location of boats. However, it is unclear in what one might ground the criteria for our practices in a way that makes these omissions meaningful and appropriate in terms of Aristotle’s project.82 If we have resorted to our normal practices of saying ‘where’ people are, in response to the question, “Where is he now?”, it is much more common to hear, “He is in

France”, rather than, “He is in the heavens because he is in part of the air”.

4. Place is Not Location

Now, even apart from any criticism that Morison may open himself up to concerning the adequacy of the maximal surrounder for obtaining a frame of reference by which one can track changes of place,83 the inconsistency we were just discussing seems like a major problem for Morison, indeed. I think the explanation as to why he allows

80 Cf. Ibid., 57: “As a first approximation, one might say that France is a sort of space which bodies occupy—a sort of interval between given frontiers. Aristotle argues strongly against such a conception of place in Physics IV 4, because he thinks that a scientifically adequate account of place could not be constructed along these lines.”

81 Cf. Cat. 1b25. This is the type of being-in that Morison calls “receptive containment.” See page 35, note 55 above.

82 This is not to say that this way of reading Aristotle is impossible or wholly inappropriate. However, in general, this is not a thesis that Morison attempts to defend, so it appears to be out of place in the scheme of his larger argument.

83 Cf. chapter eight of: David Bostock, Space, Time, Matter, and Form: Essays on Aristotle’s Physics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2006), 128-134.

46

this problem to pass at all is found in considering what it is that Morison takes to be the fundamental character of Aristotle’s notion of being-in something as ‘in a place.’ In chapter two of his book, Morison labels the sense of ‘in’ that Aristotle takes to be the primary way of being-in-a-place (as a thing is in a vessel) fundamentally as the “locative” sense of ‘in.’84 He says, “Aristotle thinks that the locative use of ‘in’ is that which is appropriate for the relation between things and their place, and therefore that when saying where something is, you say in what it is, in the locative sense.”85 However, such a remark is particularly troubling, especially because he seems to have taken such pains earlier to distinguish the type of containment that denotes a thing’s place from the type

Aristotle gives as examples of ‘where’ in the Categories. Thus, it seems to me that

Morison is willing to bring such troubles upon himself, in order to preserve the assertion that Aristotle’s account of place ought to be considered locative. In essence, Morison must believe these to be small sacrifices, which, as we have seen, can be chalked up to loose talk or inconsistencies on Aristotle’s part. I, however, believe these problems should not be ignored and that they, in fact, highlight the particular way in which

Morison’s argument is founded upon inappropriate and, in some sense, anachronistic assumptions about Aristotle’s basic conception of being-in.

If we recall the reason why Morison believes we ought to look for the maximal surrounder of a thing in each case, we find him saying, “Because the universe cannot move, there is no danger that something which moves from being somewhere to

84 Morison, On Location, 75.

85 Morison, On Location, 75. Emphasis in original.

47

somewhere else could ever be surrounded by the universe at the same boundary….”86

That is, he is concerned with identifying the absolute—as opposed to the relative87— location of a thing. Morison must believe that the legitimacy of this concern is borne out in the boat puzzle, where Aristotle says, “[s]o when something moves inside something which is moving and the thing inside moves about…” (Phys. 212a14). The fact that there is more than one motion involved means, for Morison, that a change of place may be occurring but that we will not notice it. Thus, he says there is “danger”88 in taking the wrong frame of reference for this task. But taking this to be the main issue at stake in the puzzle, Morison can neither give an adequate solution in accordance with Aristotle’s own nor one that preserves his account while doing justice to our intuitions about the phenomenon. That is, he can neither account for the reason why Aristotle might think that stopping at the river is going far enough in terms of finding the boat’s proper place, nor can he say why the air may be omitted from an account of the boat’s place. It seems to me he cannot say why for this reason: in speaking of the issue in these terms, Morison is, in fact, importing Newtonian concerns into a system that does not share its most basic assumptions. To proceed in this manner, as others have, is to view Aristotle as a

86 Ibid., 149.

87 See also King, Aristotle’s Theory of ΤΟΠΟΣ, 91-92. He says: “The problem is to explain our abstraction ‘immovable relation of situation’ in terms of relations of natural bodies and our observations of natural bodies. In other words, our theory of Space must bridge the gap between a body’s concrete relation of situation (which is simply its complex relations to all other bodies with which it is together in nature at any one moment) a relation which may be altered at the next moment, and its abstract relation of situation, which may remain unaltered throughout the alteration of its concrete relations. We wish to place a body in Space without any necessary reference to those bodies which accidentally occupy and move in that ‘space’ i.e. we want a theory of position in absolute space; and this must be an intellectual construction if we deny mere extension.”

88 Cf. Morison, On Location, 149.

48

philosopher who was anticipating Newton in some ways, but who falls short on a number of points.89

For the Newtonian, space is an absolute, homogenous framework,90 into which objects are placed and in which they have location in virtue of their relation to its immovable bounds. I believe the practical use Morison makes of the maximal surrounder does not differ significantly from Newtonian considerations of relative and absolute motion. Consider this passage from the Scholium to Definition VIII given at the outset of

Newton’s Principia in which we can see the same concerns at work:

Wherefore, entire and absolute motions can be no otherwise determined than by immovable places; and for that reason I did before refer those absolute motions to immovable places, but relative ones to movable places. Now no other places are immovable but those that, from infinity to infinity, do all retain the same given position to one another; and upon this account must ever remain unmoved; and do thereby constitute immovable space.91

It is clear that Morison wants some similar stability for Aristotle. For instance, he characterizes the six directions that exist independently of our embodied orientation and

89 See also Henry Mendell, “Topoi on Topos,” Phronesis 32, no. 2 (1987), 230-31. He concludes: “Aristotle insisted that substances had to be in place, but failed to see that he could distinguish between the parts of the extension of the universe and the extension of the parts of the universe. Had he done so, he still might have discovered classical space. In this there was one fundamental hindrance, the problem of overlapping independent extensions…And so whereas Plato avoided making substances independent of place, Aristotle refused to make place independent of substance. In doing this Aristotle adopts and then rejects what may be the first attempt to develop a classical notion of space. That was left for his successors to accomplish.”

90 Morison does conclude that Aristotle probably is not trying to institute some objective special framework by which to make these measurements (though he discusses this possibility at some length (cf. Morison, On Location, 44-46)), I believe that Morison is hoping to give an account that would be consistent with such a project.

91 Isaac Newton, Principia Vol. I: The Motion of Bodies (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), 9.

49

are not centered on any particular observer as “absolute places” which exist “in nature.”92

Morison, of course, acknowledges that Aristotle does not think there is any kind of thing called “space,” the “parts of which are occupied by bodies and which are their (absolute) places.”93 Merely saying this, however, does not save him from being likened to Newton on the grounds that he thinks a successful formulation of place should tell us ‘where’ some body is. This theme is clearly present throughout his work. Just prior to his final conclusion, Morison again says, “The surroundings to which a body must be related in order to say where it is are the whole universe; but these surroundings are immobile—at absolute rest—and hence, in relating a body to its surroundings in the right way, it is possible to say absolutely where it is.”94 He also chooses to close his final chapter several pages later by summing up Aristotle’s account of place as that which ultimately answers the question, “how is it possible to say where things are, or come to know where they are?”95

It seems, then, for both Morison and Newton, one cannot know the place of the boat, or whether it is actually in motion, unless such an immovable place is obtained by which other motions can be “tracked.” However, from an Aristotelian point of view, this is not a main concern. It is not the case that anyone who is standing on the bank of a river watching a moored boat in its dock could honestly think that it is the boat and not the river water that is changing place. In other words, there is no real “danger” involved.

92 Morison, On Location, 40.

93 Ibid., 170. 94 Morison, On Location, 171.

95 Ibid., 174.

50

Aristotle does not embroil himself in questions of absolute and relative motion because, for him, motion is obvious. He says, “[w]e physicists, on the other hand, must take for granted that the things that exist by nature are, either all or some of them, in motion— which is indeed made plain by induction” (Phys. 185a13).96

The Physics begins with the fact that we observe motion all around us (Phys.

185a12). We need not fear our being deceived or blinded to the motions of the world because ‘nature’ as a “source and cause of change and remaining unchanged” (Phys.

192b21), is self-evident (Phys. 193a3).97 Furthermore, this principle resides inseparably in the bodies of movable objects. Thus, the correct starting point of the investigation lies not with the discernment of the proper frame of reference, but always with the bodies themselves.98 In fact, Morison’s project becomes more questionable when we consider the practicality of establishing some such frame of reference within the Aristotelian scheme. Although Aristotle’s universe is finite—and thus has outermost bounds, in some sense—it is not limited. This means there is nothing, not even void, that surrounds it, and thus, its bounds are not definite or determinable. The bounds of the universe are not like

96 Trans. Hardie and Gaye.

97 As we said in the last chapter, this does not means that nature itself is ever given to the senses. However, the fact that things move of themselves attests to its existence. For Aristotle, then, nature is known by induction. This, however, is not something that could be inductively confirmed from a Newtonian standpoint. The fact that things move for a Newtonian merely attests to the existence of some force. In itself, this lacks any sense that the movements we observe are directed in any way. This, of course, is axiomatic for Aristotle, and as such, it need not appear in a Newtonian system to be legitimate in the context of Aristotle’s work. In fact, its holding such an axiomatic status is precisely why one cannot displace this notion of directedness in motion without thereby failing to remain Aristotelian in one’s interpretation.

98 Cf. Phys. 193b22. Both the mathematician and the physicist treat natural bodies, but the mathematicians treat their surfaces and lines as abstracted from those bodies, while the physicist does not.

51

the walls of a building.99 The Physics is a theoretical, not a practical, treatise.100 To assume that Aristotle’s definition of place ought to ultimately lead us to a system of location is the equivalent of assuming that his definition of time—“a number of change with respect to before and after” (Phys. 219b1)—is the schematic for building a clock.

My claim, then, is that the account of place in the Physics serves a role that is more ontological than practical, and thus, I would like to suggest that the proper aim of the inquiry into place ought to be focused on the concept of place itself and what

Aristotle thinks place is in terms for that which is the kind of thing to be in place.101 For this task, the proper vantage point from which to begin an investigation into Aristotle’s concept of place is situated, not with that which surrounds, as Morison believes, but with that which is surrounded.102 Why? As Morison himself notes (though not to this end), giving an accurate description of that which surrounds most bodies at a context-specific level almost always involves giving an “assemblage” of items, each of which contributes

99 The reason for substituting the example of a house for Morison’s own example of the celestial sphere earlier in this chapter is because the sphere cannot actually be anything physical, like a crystal globe. In such a case, its outer surface would then be said to be ‘in contact with’ or even ‘limited by’ something. But, there is nothing outside of the universe, and it is specifically for this reason that the universe itself is not in a place (Phys. 212b13-16). Because the notion of nothing lying beyond is not even the notion of a void, we are at a loss of how to conceive of it. In short, although we can say the boundaries of the universe exist, they are not only not like the walls of an embassy, but highly indeterminate. As such, it is particularly unclear how the universe as a whole will serve as that which is immovable, particularly because everything that is within it is movable, and thus, cannot serve as an absolute frame of reference. These very practical difficulties only further highlight the fact that Aristotle’s account of place is not a theory of location.

100 Cf. Met. VI.1: “if all thought is either practical or productive or theoretical, physics must be a theoretical science, but it will theorize about such being as admits of being moved, and about substance-as- defined for the most part only as not separable from matter” (1025b25).

101 This is a body. We will examine the concept of a body in the next chapter in terms of the second half of our argument against Morison.

102 Cf. Morison, On Location, 133-39.

52

to the one limit that surrounds the body.103 From this observation, Morison takes it as his task to somehow reduce this assemblage to a single body (i.e. the universe itself).

However, what seems to be a more important, or at least more foundational, feature of place as a limit, is that anything that can be said to have one outer limit is never more than one thing. What Morison fails to focus on is that, for Aristotle, some thing’s being surrounded primarily and of itself means being a single body. We see this at several places in Physics IV.1-5. Immediately after his first formulation of the definition of place at Phys. 212a5, Aristotle adds, “[b]y ‘that which is surrounded’ I mean that body, that which is changeable by locomotion” (Phys. 212a7). And at Phys. 212b6 he says:

“[a]gain, some things are [in place] in respect of themselves: for example, every body which is changeable in respect of locomotion or increase is somewhere in respect of itself.”104

True, Aristotle says that place is nothing of the surrounded body itself, but his concern in saying this seems to be that otherwise, place would have to be identified with either the form or the matter of the body. Both of these options involve deriving place from the surrounded body itself, and attributing such a view to Aristotle would be blatantly incorrect.105 However, as we will see in what follows, beginning with what is surrounded does not necessarily entail having to make this claim. I believe that

103 Ibid., 79, 137.

104See also Phys. 212b 27-28: “…for not everything that is is in place, but only movable body.”

105 Among the six criteria for the identification of place Aristotle lays out at the beginning of Physics IV.4, the second is that place is “not anything pertaining to the object” (Phys. 211a1). Further, we have already said that place must be separable from the object (Phys. 211a2). Thus, Aristotle rejects the possibility that either form or matter is place at Phys. 211b10 and 212a1 respectively.

53

proceeding correctly involves changing our idea of what is truly at stake in Physics IV.1-

5. Why should it be more proper for Aristotle to say that the whole river is the place of the boat rather than the whole universe, as Morison does? I believe this is a genuine difference, which should not be glossed over as the result of “mere practices.” Perhaps being in a river itself as in a place is part of what makes a boat a boat. That is, there may be something of place bound up with the form of a thing. Perhaps Morison did recognize this at the moment he says that no one would think of mentioning the air around the boat because “[b]oats are on rivers.”106 Perhaps Aristotle is assuming this as well, for in Phys.

I, he begins with the assertion that our investigation of the natural world necessarily begins with things that appear as “confused” (Phys. 184a23).107 However, while this does not help Morison’s case, it may be the key to ours. We are given the clear assertion that only changeable body is in place, but as long as the essences of its terms remain confused and unexamined, we may not be able to follow the concept to any fruitful end.

If we cannot say what Aristotle was intending by insisting that only bodies are in place, we cannot be sure whether it is significant that boats are on rivers. Thus, it seems our task should be to excavate some of Aristotle’s other physical and metaphysical works in the service of articulating what these ‘bodies’ are before we attempt to say what place means to them. While Morison seems to want to sprint forth from Aristotle, holding his definition like a relay baton, I advocate that we walk with Aristotle in order to get a sense of the questions at stake as he formulates his account of τόπος.

106 Morison, On Location, 161-162.

107 Trans. Hardie and Gaye.

Chapter Three: Unity and Body

1. Is the Universe a Body?

In the previous chapter, I stated that Benjamin Morison believes his concept of the maximal surrounder can be employed to solve two issues with Aristotle’s account of place in Physics IV.1-5. First, it gives us the ability to locate, as well as accurately track changes of place—i.e. motion—in a way that other interpretations have failed to do. And second, it makes the notion of a limit of that which surrounds, what is taken to be the place itself, intelligible. I then went on to cast doubt upon the ability of the maximal surrounder to do the first of these in a way that did not import the assumptions of modern physics into Aristotle’s thought. We ought now to go on to the second of these issues and examine Morison’s argument for it because, even if it is the case that his concern for defining a frame of reference by which we can track changes of place is inappropriately

Newtonian in tone, the concept of the maximal surrounder still may be the best way to articulate the limit of what surrounds, which is, of course, the place of the surrounded.

Morison’s argument for the fact that the maximal surrounder is the only body by which we can articulate the limit of the surrounded goes as follows. When Aristotle says that place is “the limit of the surrounding body, at which it is in contact with which it is surrounded,” Morison takes this to mean that there must be only one limit and one surrounding body per place.108 Thus, the question arises as to how this single limit can be

108 Morison, On Location, 137.

54

55

articulated. As is almost always the case (the fish in the sea is an exception), a thing is not surrounded by just one homogenous body that forms one uninterrupted limit around it. If we think of a person standing in a park, for example, he is surrounded largely by air, but not completely. His clothing surrounds much of him, not to mention the fact that he is standing on the ground. Morison recognizes in at least two places that, more often than not, the best description of some thing’s proper limit involves the description of a combination or “assemblage” of bodies.109 However, by choosing the universe itself—in his view, the maximal surrounder of all things—as the body that surrounds and gives the surrounded body its place, he believes he has successfully eliminated all the complexities involved in giving such a description. That is to say, the air, ground and clothing are all, in the end, parts of some one thing. Although the body surrounding the person is not homogeneous, by Morison’s account, he is still, in some sense, awash in a sea of universe. On this point, Morison makes the distinction between the limit and what composes the limit, which, indeed, is helpful in terms of our initial description of the boat puzzle in chapter one.110 But to stay with Morison’s own example, let us return to the example of the Grecian fish, which is now resting on the bottom of the Ionian sea.

Morison claims that it would be within the same limit, and thus in the same place, even if the sea were drained, though the limit would now be composed of air rather than water.

The only way to account for its limit remaining unchanged in this situation, Morison

109 Morison, On Location, 79, 137.

110 Ibid., 154.

56

wishes to say, is if we are able to attribute both the water and the air to the same body, none of which come readily to mind except for the universe itself.111

Now, I believe that this argument, too, fails, and it does so because the maximal surrounder, when taken to be the universe itself, is not itself a body, and as such, it cannot share a limit with the surrounded body and cannot be used to articulate its place. As I mentioned above, Aristotle believed the universe is finite, but not limited, and it is because of this that it itself is not in place (Phys. 212b20). Several times, Aristotle characterizes movable body as the only type of thing that is in place primarily and of itself.112 Although it is tempting to conclude from “the universe is not in place” and

“only movable body is in place” that therefore, “the universe is not a body,” this, in fact, would be fallacious. We already know that the universe is immovable, but this does not preclude the possibility that it might somehow be a non-movable (and therefore, unplaced) body. Thus, we need to seek to demonstrate on other grounds that the universe is not itself a body. I believe the best route to this end is through an examination of the unity of bodies. I will seek to demonstrate that the universe is not a body [σῶμα] because

111 Morison, On Location, 138. Cf. also 147, where Morison again speaks in terms of the universe being the body that surrounds: “every movement of something in the universe involves the rest of the universe rearranging itself, just as any movement of the fish involves the water rearranging itself around the fish.”

112 “By ‘that which is surrounded’ I mean that body, that which is changeable by locomotion” (Phys. 212a7). And at Phys. 212b6, he says: “Again, some things are [in place] in respect of themselves: for example, every body which is changeable in respect of locomotion or increase is somewhere in respect of itself”. See also Phys. 212b27-28: “…for not everything that is is in place, but only movable body.”

57

it is not a unified whole in any meaningful sense, but rather a mere totality [πᾶν]113 or heap [σωρός] of individual bodies.

If we recall Morison’s example of the fish in the Ionian Sea, he attempts to obtain its maximal surrounder by taking progressively larger bodies, the smaller of which he claims are parts of the larger.114 Thus, he takes progressively larger bodies of water until the fish is surrounded by the body of water composed of all oceans, rivers, lakes, and springs.115 From there, he proceeds to take the body of air that surrounds the water, etc.,

113 Cf. 212b14: “Hence the upper part moves in a circle, but the whole is not anywhere […τὸ δὲ πᾶν οὔ που]. At first, this may seem a controversial claim, for we here will place the notion of a heap in contrast to that of a whole [ὅλος], which is another way Aristotle at times describes the universe. For example, several lines later at 212b16, he says, “But there is nothing besides the universe and the sum of things, nothing which is outside the universe [παρὰ δὲ τὸ πᾶν καὶ ὅλον οὐδέν ἐστιν ἔξω τοῦ παντός]”. However, given the position that Aristotle wishes to argue in this passage—that it is not the case that the universe is in anything else as in a place, this usage of ‘ὅλος’ will necessarily differ from those wholes that are in place in virtue of being whole.

114 Morison, On Location, 137-38.

115 Morison makes this move by referring to Quine’s notion of a scattered object. See: Willard Van Orman Quine, Word and Object (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1960), 98-99. In showing how one might obtain the maximal surrounder of a fish, after saying it is surrounded by the whole Mediterranean Sea, Morison says, “But why stop there? Why not simply say that the fish is surrounded by water? Not just sea water (for our purposes, a species of water) but water, the element (the sum of all the water there is, what Quine calls a ‘scattered object’). Clearly, all the other bodies mentioned are just parts of water, in this wide sense” (Morison, On Location, 138). However, Quine posits the existence of such scattered objects because “[e]ven the tightest object, short of an elementary particle, has a scattered substructure when the physical facts are in” (Quine, Word and Object, 98). Thus, according to Quine, we have no reason to preference what we might call ‘natural kinds,’ such as apples, as being bodies more than water in general is. However, as we will see, this is specifically what one cannot assume when talking about Aristotle’s mereology. First of all, Aristotle had no notion of the kind of atomism on which this notion is based. If he had, however, there is reason to believe he would have rejected it (cf. his discussion of condensation and rarefaction in terms of the void, Phys. IV.9). But even in the sense of being able to name, for instance, “the scattered totality of red substance” by referring merely to ‘red’ (cf. Quine, Word and Object, 98), this does not give us the right, within Aristotle’s system, to assume red is one body. As we will see below, this ability to name many instances of something such as ‘water’ or ‘red’ is a kind of unity for Aristotle that merely denotes sameness of kind (or form) existing as individual instances in individual bodies. The thought that this sameness may bind them into an ontological whole of some kind, however, is decidedly Platonic rather than Aristotelian.

58

until he reaches the universe itself.116 Morison believes that he may proceed in this way because, as we have said, the universe is a plenum, which means there is no gap, or void, between existing bodies.117 I would like to argue, however, that this fact alone does not mean that all things can be made into a single body.118 True, there is no gap or any third body between the Ionian and the Mediterranean, just as there is no gap or any third body between the sea and the air, for in each case, nothing keeps the two apart. However, the difference between the two cases does not seem negligible. The Mediterranean and the

Ionian are both bodies of water, the one being a part of the other, larger body in a sense, but the air is something different from both of them.119 Thus, if Morison wishes to count the mereological sum of all air and water as a single body, he would have to explain how exactly they ought to be seen as a unified whole. If we cannot show any good reason to say so (for such a proposition is not intuitively obvious and needs argumentative support), we will have to conclude that Morison’s maximal surrounder turns out to be a mere totality (like a heap, or a swarm) of water, air, heavens, etc. and not one single

116 Morison, On Location, 138.

117 That there is no void, cf. Phys. 217b20.

118 It is questionable as to whether he can even do this as far as saying the fish is surrounded by the body of all water in the sense of ‘water’ as a scattered object. We must not forget that, in terms of the boat puzzle, the place of the boat is said to be merely the whole river, which might prompt us to draw a distinction even between the water that composes the river and the water that composes, say, the sea into which it flows.

119 Despite the fact that Aristotle does believe that water and air can change into one another (cf. Phys. 210a10, 213a3), as we will see in the next chapter, this change is a metaphysical generation of the one and destruction of the other. As a generation, it is an absolute change. That is, there is no moment in which any part of the water is also a part of air, or vice versa, and thus, they maintain their limit with one another at each moment, despite the fact that that limit may change from one moment to the next.

59

body.120 This will mean that only the fish’s proximate circumscriptive container (i.e. the

Ionian, or perhaps the whole sea) will share a common limit with the fish, and thus, only the proximate circumscriptive container could be considered the owner of the limit that is its place. In such a case, none of the remote circumscriptive containers, including the universe itself, will share a common limit with the fish, and thus, they will fail to be the surrounding body of the fish. So, the question is: is there a sense in which the universe can be considered a unified whole? I answer that it cannot because a body is an entity in the highest sense—that which has a claim to its own existence as what-it-is in a way that some abstractly isolated portion of it (i.e. one of its parts) does not. The universe, however, does not have any claim to its own existence above and beyond the existences of it parts (i.e. all particular physical bodies).

In the previous chapter, we have already given several of the characteristics of

Aristotle’s view of universe. Namely: 1) it is finite (De Caelo II.4), 2) but it is not limited because there is nothing, not even void, outside of it (De Caelo 275b5, 279a12- b3), and 3) it is not in a place (Phys. 212b13). Aristotle’s most complete discussion of the universe occurs in De Caelo I, to which we will now turn for a moment. In addition

120 Morison doesn’t see this as necessary because he thinks there is no significant differentiation between heaps (or aggregates) and substances in terms of their status as bodies. He says, “There is no need to confine ourselves to substances: Aristotle refers to the elements as ‘the natural simple bodies’ and he does not think they are substances. Indeed, they are just heaps: in Metaphysics Z 16 and 17 he distinguishes between assemblages of items which form a unity (and hence are substances) and those which do not (which are just heaps, like the elements). Heaps count as bodies, as do unified heaps, as it were, which are substances” (Morison, On Location, 136-137). I disagree with this view very strongly. As I aim to show in what follows, bodies are not simply heaps or unified heaps. Bodies are not heaps at all, but rather, they are wholes. This distinction, I believe, has important implications for our final formulation of the significance of place for that which is in it. I do not respond to Morison directly on this point, however, because his equivocation is framed in terms of substances, which I have chosen not to discuss in this essay. In the end, this is no matter, for Aristotle’s often made distinction is framed in terms of heaps and wholes, not substances.

60

to those characteristics mentioned above, Aristotle also tells us that the universe is taken to be that which includes all matter. From this, it follows by definition that there can be no second universe (De Caelo 278a13-26). He says, “if however [the universe] is composed not of a part but of the whole of matter, then though the being of ‘universe’ and of ‘this universe’ are still distinct, yet there is no other universe, and no possibility of others being made, because all matter is already included in this” (De Caelo 278b2).

Since that which is physical only comes to be when matter is present and not otherwise, the universe also contains all generated physical bodies (De Caelo 278b23). Further, no simple body from which the others are generated could come to be outside the universe either, for in that case it would then be out of its natural place with no possibility of attaining it.121 One might argue that this does not show they cannot come to be there, but only, if they did, they would be there unnaturally. Aristotle says this is impossible, however, for “if [the simple bodies] are there unnaturally, the exterior place will be natural to some other body, since a place which is unnatural to one body must be natural to another” (De Caelo 279b31). But since there is no matter outside the universe, there can be no bodies of which this external place could be natural. Thus, from these considerations, Aristotle concludes that it is not possible for any body—simple or compound—to be outside the universe (De Caelo 279a1-7). A direct consequence of this is that there is no place or time outside of the universe either, since each of these is made intelligible by motion, and motion belongs to bodies (De Caelo 279a17). And finally,

121 We will discuss the notion of natural places in chapter four. For the time being, we will simply say that natural places belong to elements in such a way that the element seeks its place whenever it is left unhindered (cf. Phys. 214b14, De Gen. 330b30, 334b35).

61

Aristotle tells us that the universe is indestructible, and hence, exists ungenerated (cf. De

Caelo 282b1).122 Thus, we here have a picture of the universe as a totality of matter, body, movement, place, and time. However, is it itself a body? In order to determine this, we must proceed now to investigate what is, in fact, required for anything to be a body in itself and primarily.

2. Oneness, Unity, and Parts

Aristotle does not explicitly define the notion of a body as he does so many other terms in his philosophical lexicon. However, it is clear that the notion of a body is closely tied to his notions of oneness and unity, both of which he does describe explicitly.

In Physics III.5, he gives three proto-definitions of a body [σῶμα], though because his topic of discussion in this section is primarily the infinite and the impossibility of an infinite body, these definitions are not expounded upon. They are, however, that body might be characterized as: 1) “that which is bounded by a surface” (Phys. 204b6), 2) “that which is extended in all dimensions” (Phys. 204b19), and 3) that which is composed of the elements, for “there is no such perceptible body over and above the elements” (Phys.

204b29). From these, we can gather that a body is a finite physical entity that is extended and has a shape. In terms of something’s being one body, however, we must add the stipulation that it exist, for in his discussion of oneness in Metaphysics X, Aristotle tells us that to say something is one means the same thing as something is. He says, “in ‘one man’ nothing more is predicated than in ‘man’ (just as being is nothing apart from

122 He derives this from both the shape and the movement of the outer bounds being as perfect as possible. Whether it truly is or not does not concern us here. I note this here merely for completeness.

62

substance or quality or quantity); and that to be one is just to be a particular thing” (Met.

1054a17).

To be a body, then, is to be one, in some sense, but in what sense? In

Metaphysics X.1, Aristotle tells us that ‘one’ has several senses, four of which will be pertinent to the discussion of things that are “directly and of their own nature and not accidentally called one” (Met. 1052a16). These are: 1) the naturally continuous, 2) the whole, 3) the individual, and 4) the universal (Met. 1052a34). In the first two senses, that which is one is said to be one in virtue of its moving as one,123 and in the third and fourth senses, that which is one is said to be one in virtue of its having a single definition, or essence.124 Between the naturally continuous and the whole, the whole is said to be one in a higher degree because, while the continuous has a physical unity insofar as it is incapable of having, in some respect, more than one movement at a single time, the whole, in addition, has a single shape and form [μορφή]. For example, considering some magnitude of bronze, it is one in the sense of being continuous because it is uninterrupted in respect of its extension. In Metaphysics V.6, Aristotle tells us that continuity implies more than a mere touching of parts. It is a physical conjunction of all parts of that which is continuous (Met. 1016a7). What this being-in-conjunction entails will be made clear in

123 We need to consider what Aristotle’s intentions may have been in giving “a single movement” as a criterion for unity. It seems he does so for two reasons: 1) Since his method for investigating the natural world begins with the perception of moving things, ex hypothesi these things will be taken as one. And 2) from a logical standpoint, according to the principle of non-contradiction, a single thing cannot undergo contrary movements at the same time in the same respect of itself. Though we do not refuse this as a criterion of oneness, we will regard it ambivalently for the time being, as we can easily conceive of things that are one in some respect (a human body), which can undergo contrary movements in different parts of itself (while walking for instance), though ultimately remain a unified whole.

124 For the distinction between definition and essence, see pg. 80 below. For the time being, I believe the two can be thought together without issue.

63

our discussion of physical unity below. For the time being, however, we will note that, in this passage, Aristotle explicitly allows artifacts and other instances of things bundled or glued together to be instances of the continuous, though he does say, “the continuous by nature are more one than the continuous by art” (Met. 1015b35-1016a4).125

Concerning the second sense of ‘being one’—that of being a whole—we can say that a bronze statue is one in a higher sense than some extension of bronze is because, while the continuous bronze may compose a part of the statue (i.e. an undefined portion inside the statue that allows us to say the statue is not hollow), the statue has its own physical limits and is empirically separate from that which surrounds it in virtue of this shape. The magnitude of bronze alone, while it may be uninterrupted, fails to have its own shape. Here, too, that which is made continuous by art may be one in the sense of having its own shape, for Aristotle mentions “things which are unified by glue or nails or by being tied together” (Met. 1052a24). As previously, however, those that have their unity from art, he says, are one to a lesser degree than that which has its cause of unity from nature.126

Concerning the third and fourth senses of oneness, then, a thing may be one in virtue of having a single definition rather than by having a single extension or shape. The

125 Though he does not say why this is the case in this passage, it is generally true that Aristotle will preference the natural over the artificial. Regardless, the fact that continuity can exist in degrees points to the fact, discussed below, that being in conjunction is, while ultimately tied to the physicality of a thing, more than a simple physical togetherness.

126 Thus, being one in either of these senses may be attributed to either homogenous or heterogeneous bodies. Again, their degree of oneness is not a function of the qualities of the parts, but of the cause, or principle, of their being conjoined. While a bronze statue may seem to be more continuous than a human, given the uniform character of its physical parts, the human is, in fact, one in a higher degree because its oneness is due to nature and not art, or force (cf. Met. 1052a23).

64

third sense—that of being an individual—sounds similar to the second described above, for an individual, if it is a physical entity, will have its own shape. But the primary way in which it is distinguished from the second sense, according to Aristotle, is that “the individual is indivisible” (Met. 1052a32). This cannot mean simply that it has a single indivisible shape, for anything, insofar as it is extended and continuous (i.e. composed of matter), is infinitely divisible (cf. Phys. 200b18, 219a12), and thus always has the potential to be divided into some different shape. Thus, if we are to say that the individual has a single form, it will be in a different way than the whole has a single form

[μορφή]. Here, ‘form’ in terms of an individual is not ‘μορφή’, but ‘εἶδος’. This sense of ‘form’ involves something having a single definition, which will not survive if the physical body is divided into parts. For example, the division of a human body into two halves does not yield smaller humans, but a destruction of that which has the form of a human. Similarly, the generation of an individual is the coming-to-be of something with a form that did not exist in that out of which it came to be. We can see this in Met. V.6, where Aristotle says, “if we saw the parts of a shoe put together anyhow we should not call them one all the same (unless because of their continuity); we do this only if they are put together so as to be a shoe and to have already a certain single form [εἶδος]” (Met.

1016b15). So, the individual and the whole are always continuous, but the continuous is not always an individual. Generally speaking, that which is a whole is an individual and vice versa.127 The reason Aristotle employs two terms for the same kind of thing is

127 But in saying this, we must also note that knowing something is continuous and has a certain shape does not thereby mean it has an εἶδος, or definition. The shoe is only a shoe because it is together in such a way that it can function as such. Shoes, like humans, can be physically divided, but again, we do not

65

because they refer to the thing under two different aspects—the shape and unity of movement on one hand, and the indivisibility of the form on the other. I will use this terminology of ‘oneness’ throughout our following discussion of parts and wholes in an attempt to determine whether the universe can or cannot be considered a body under

Aristotle’s terminology.

Before we do, however, we should briefly note that the fourth and final sense of

‘being one’ mentioned above—that of being one in kind with another individual. This simply means that two things possess the same εἶδος, and therefore, are of the same species. We note it here for completeness, but it will not figure prominently in the discussion to follow. For one thing, since our over-arching theme is the universe, the fact that there can never be more than one universe precludes the potential that it will be one with anything else in this final way.

Given that we are concerned with physical bodies, we should dwell for a moment on something we mentioned above—namely that, for Aristotle, the physical qua continuous and extended is infinitely divisible (cf. De Gen. 316a15-317a2). That is, according to Aristotle, one can never reach an ultimate, indivisible bit of matter, or atom, through the process of division. With this in mind, we must recognize that all physical things that are one in the various senses discussed above are always potentially many

(though, in the case of individuals, this is qua physical, not qua what they are). To be one, in a certain sense, is to fail to be actually many. To be one, then, is to be unified.

We have yet to determine the according-to-what, or principle, of this unity, but in any get smaller shoes as a result. The two halves of a shoe are, in fact, two wholes because they each have a μορφή, but existing as divided, the εἶδος, or essence, of the shoe itself has dissolved.

66

case, the correlation between being one and being unified is exact: to speak of something as physically unified implies that it is actually one, though potentially more than one.128

If it were the case that that which is one were indivisible and necessarily so, there would be no need to speak of it as unified. For example, we do not speak of the unity of a

Euclidean or Cartesian point because, by definition, it is that which is indivisible in all respects, and thus, we are unable to conceive of it as becoming anything other than one.129 However, the fact that no physical body unalterably one in every respect means that we require an account of the unity of such bodies (i.e. in what respect or respects they are one) in order to be considered as such.

An account of that which is potentially many will necessarily involve some account of the parts into which one thing might potentially be divided. Thus, the description of a body qua unity will include a description of the relationship of parts to each other and to the whole to which they belong. We have already spoken of parts while speaking of oneness, but we have yet to give an explicit description of the notion: what a part is to a whole, and the kinds of parts that exist in any body. In Metaphysics VII.10,

Aristotle says, “‘A part’ may be a part either of the form (i.e. of the essence), or of the compound of form and the matter, or of the matter itself” (1035b32). That which is part of the matter, we will refer to as a ‘physical part’; that which is part of the form, we will

128 In Physics I.7, Aristotle says that whatever comes to be is complex (190b10). Within the realm of induction, Aristotle gives definitional priority to the concept of plurality over that of the one. He says, “And the one derives its name and its explanation from its contrary, the indivisible from the divisible, because plurality and the divisible is more perceptible than the indivisible, because of the conditions of perception” (Met. 1054a26). I derive my assertion that to be one is to fail to be many from these sorts of considerations.

129 Thus, Aristotle says that that which has no matter is essentially unified (Met. 1045b23).

67

refer to as a ‘definitional part’; and that which is part of the compound of these, we will refer to as an ‘ontological part.’ A physical individual, as we said above, is ‘one’ because it is uninterrupted in its extension, has a single shape, and has a single definition, or essence. In addition to these, it must be all these things actually, rather than merely potentially. Recasting this now in terms of its parts, we will say that a body is that which is physically, definitionally, and ontologically unified in its parts.130 After a brief discussion of Aristotle’s frequently made distinction between heaps and wholes generally, we will employ this terminology of the different types of parts and their ways of being unified in an attempt to find the specific point of difference between a heap and a whole. Again, all this will be in the service of determining whether or not the universe is a body is whether its parts are unified in a way that is characteristic of a whole.

3. Heaps, Wholes, and Physical Unity

Generally then, when we look at the physical world inductively, the various movements we observe lead us to hypothesize a plurality of entities, some of which are, in fact, bodies, others of which are not. However, the difference between that which is and that which is not a body is not always immediately apparent by a casual view of the environment. Deciding whether or not some x is a body requires an investigation into the unity of the entity in question on each of the three fronts just mentioned: the physical, the

130 As we will see below, although the form [εἶδος] of an individual is indivisible, the definition of the individual, which is the linguistic formulation of this form, or essence, does have identifiable parts. Though these are not physically separable from any given instance of an individual with a given form, they are separable in thought due to the fact that the same form and the same kind of matter can appear as parts of other individuals of the same kind (i.e. the fourth sense of oneness above).

68

definitional, and the ontological. As much as Aristotle, throughout his corpus, relies on what is normally said as an indication of the senses in which things exist, common sayings prove to be neutral, and thus unhelpful, on this point. That is, if one only considers what is said, one may come to believe that any physical phenomenon denoted by a single word is, in fact, a single body. But, it is clear that not everything that has a name is a whole. For instance, although we can refer to a pile of leaves, or a swarm of bees, it is not the case that either a pile or swarm are essentially individuals. They are that to which Aristotle would refer, in contradistinction to a whole, as a ‘heap’ [σωρός].

A heap is a collection of individuals each of which exist in close proximity to one another and can be “taken together,” but which lack unification with one another in one or more of the ways mentioned above.131 We see the language of heaps and wholes at work, for example, in Metaphysics VII.17, where Aristotle says:

Since that which is compounded out of something [is] so that the whole is one, not like a heap but like a syllable…the syllable, then, is something—not only its elements (the vowel and the consonant) but also something else, and the flesh is not only fire and earth or the hot and the cold, but also something else (1041b11- 19).

131 Theodore Scaltsas begins his analysis of heaps and wholes with the notion of an aggregate, which he characterizes as “a plurality, and only a plurality, of its members.” See: Theodore Scaltsas, “Substantial Holism,” in Unity, Identity, and Explanation in Aristotle’s Metaphysics, ed. T. Scaltsas, D. Charles, and M.L. Gill (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 111. An aggregate, then, is something akin to a set of items that are taken together for the purposes of a discussion. For example, an aggregate might be the set of all red things in the room. In this case, too, the aggregate is something by virtue of its being linguistically “taken together,” but it is less unified than a heap in the sense that no one would mistake an aggregate for a single physical entity. I would like to argue that the primary distinction between an aggregate and a heap is the necessary proximity of the parts in the case of a heap. The set of all leaves in the yard will coincide with the pile of leaves iff the leaves have all been gathered into the proximity of one another. It would be possible to divide the pile into two, however, by removing some from the proximity of the rest, in which case the members of the aggregate and the members of the pile no longer coincide. The fact that we are only counting the leaves in this yard, or the red things in this room is not a stipulation on the physical proximity of the things, but rather, a stipulation concerning the extent of our “taking together.” The set of all red things in the room is no less an aggregate than the set of all red things in the Western hemisphere, though the proximity of the members will be vastly greater in the former case than in the latter.

69

When Aristotle speaks of a whole as distinguished from a heap,132 the distinction is drawn in order to bring attention to the fact that the whole is unified in some important way that mere heaps lack.

Like the wholes discussed above, heaps may be homogeneous (i.e. composed of merely one kind of thing) or composed of any number of different kinds of things. In either case, however, a heap as such is nothing more than what is contained within the heap. For example, the totality of the leaves in the pile is what the pile is, and nothing more. The distinguishing characteristic of a heap is the lack of integration of its parts.

That is to say, a heap can survive the loss of any of its parts without ceasing to be a heap.

For example, a pile of leaves can lose any of its leaves without changing the fact that it is a pile—it is simply a smaller pile. As we saw above, however, this is not so with individuals. While it is true that a living body can lose some of its parts—e.g. its hair— and continue to be what it is, there are some parts—e.g. its head, or its heart—that it cannot lose and continue to be what it is (i.e. retain its essence) without one. Similarly, a house, for instance, may lose some of its shingles in a storm and continue to be a house, but it does not continue to be a house if its entire roof is removed.133 For Aristotle, then, wholes are something more than heaps of items. This notion is perhaps better expressed by speaking in terms of the generation of a house rather than its destruction. For example, Aristotle says that a house is not just a pile of bricks and lumber, but something

132 Other pertinent uses of the analogy occur at Phys. 212b6, and Met. 1040b9, 1041b12, 1044a4, 1045a9.

133 I am not making an assertion here regarding which parts of any given body are essential to it and which are not, but rather merely that for any body there are such parts.

70

more than these (Met. 1043b5). As we saw, Aristotle claims, “the flesh is not only fire and earth of the hot and the cold, but also something else” (Met. 1041b16). But again, whether that which presents itself to us when we approach the physical world is a heap or a whole is not immediately apparent. Thus, in terms of our investigation into the status of the universe as a body, the question becomes: is the universe a whole or a heap?134 Thus, we will now examine the three types of unity that belong to bodies—physical, definitional, and ontological—in terms of heaps and wholes in an effort to make clear the exact point of difference between them.

The fact that heaps are sometimes indistinguishable from wholes in our experience means that heaps do attain unity in some sense, though by their lack of integration, they fail to be bodies. In one sense, however, a heap attains unity due to the proximity of its members. Indeed, it would not be a heap at all without being together physically (i.e. its parts having proximity to one another). But in what does this proximity consist? Simply, its parts must be physically contiguous in the sense in which

Aristotle defines contiguity in Physics V.3. He says, “[a] thing that is in succession and touches is ‘contiguous’” (Phys. 227a6). So, we must define: 1) being in succession, and

2) touching. Something is in succession to something else, he says, when “there is nothing of the same kind as itself between it and that to which it is in succession” (Phys.

227a1, emphasis in translation).135 Thus, Aristotle says, neighboring houses are in

134 Despite Aristotle’s language of being more or less one (cf. Met. 1016a4, 1052a24), these appear to be our only options when assessing the unity of a physical entity because, as we will see, despite the fact that heaps and wholes share certain kinds of unity in common, the distinguishing characteristic between the two comes down to a matter of something either having or lacking some unifying principle.

135 Trans. Hardie and Gaye.

71

succession to one another when there is no other house in between them. The successiveness of two things, then, is a designation limited to whatever particular ‘type’ of thing one is considering. In terms of some thing’s being contiguous to another, this

‘type’ of thing is expanded to include any physical entity, which leads us to the further stipulation that that which is in succession qua contiguous also touches. So, 2) something

‘touches’ or is ‘in contact’ with something else “when their extremities are together,” and, in turn, things are said to be ‘together’, according to Aristotle, “when they are in one place (in the strictest sense of the word ‘place’)136 and to be apart when they are in different places” (Phys. 226b22). Thus, the proximity of the parts of the heap consists in its parts (i.e. the leaves) being in contact with one another by virtue of their extremities and without any physical non-leaf interceding between any given part and the rest of the heap.

In Physics V.3, Aristotle also give a definition of the continuous. Something is continuous, he says, “when the touching limits of each become one and the same and are, as the word implies, contained in each other: continuity is impossible if the extremities are two” (Phys. 227a11). In other words, Aristotle here describes being continuous as a special kind, or subdivision, of being contiguous. The distinction Aristotle is trying to make here is easily understood. Two portions of water become one in a more complete

136 This strictest sense is most likely the same definition of place we have already given in the previous two chapters—namely, place as a kind of limit between two physical entities. At that limit, they are together because, as Aristotle says in Physics IV.4, “place is together with the object, because the limits are together with what is limited” (212a29). But since the limit belongs to that which surrounds, touching involves sharing a limit. The reason why contiguity involves being in succession as well as touching is because, if this stipulation is lacking, the argument could be made that the leaves fail to be in contact with one another because their limits intercede, thereby keeping them apart. Limits, however, are non-physical, and thus not of the same kind as the physical leaves. Failing to be in succession, however, involves something of the same kind (here, some other body) interceding.

72

sense when placed in the same jug than two leaves do when juxtaposed in a pile. But this definition seems to present us with a puzzle, for it does not completely mesh with the way in which what we saw him describing the continuous in Metaphysics X (i.e. the continuous is that which is uninterrupted). There, being uninterrupted included those things that are tied, nailed, or glued, but here in Physics V, it seems as though he wishes to describe these same kinds of things as no more than contiguous. We must, therefore, account for this seeming discrepancy before we continue. It seems as though Aristotle, in these two passages, is using ‘continuous’ in two different senses: 1) that which he describes in the Metaphysics as being one by virtue of its being uninterrupted; let us call this ‘continuity-m.’ And, 2) that which he describes in the Physics as a subset of the contiguous; let us call this ‘continuity-p.’ How do these relate to one another? I believe that contiguity and continuity-p ought to be viewed as kinds, or possibly degrees, of continuity-m. In the Metaphysics at 1052a18 Aristotle implies that, although they are unified to different degrees, there are two way of being continuous-m: a) by nature, and b) by contact. I believe that Aristotle’s descriptions of contiguity and continuity-p in

Physics V.3 can each be assigned to one of these two ways of being continuous-m.137 As

137 King makes a similar move, by grouping both the contiguous and the continuous[-p] under a common designation of which they are both parts, but he comes to this decision through different considerations. Cf. (King, “Aristotle’s theory of ΤΟΠΟΣ,” 81-84). He says: “The class of things continuous [what I am calling continuous-p] must not be looked upon as a species of things contiguous, except in the sense that it is necessary for two things to touch in order to become a unity…To insist that continuous things are also contiguous would be to make nonsense of his doctrine that potential bodies (parts of a continuous whole) are not in place, i.e. do not have actual bounds of contiguity” (King, “Aristotle’s theory of ΤΟΠΟΣ,” 82). Thus, King says that we should understand the concepts of contiguity and continuity as instances of being in contact (what King translates as “togetherness” [τὸ ἐχόμενον], which is more or less equivalent to what I am proposing here. For my discussion of the seeming tension between saying that something must necessarily be contiguous before it can become continuous, and the classification of the contiguous as a sub-kind of the continuous, see the next note.

73

we said, the contiguous is characterized by that which is in succession and in contact, while the continuous-p, as Aristotle says in Physics V.3, “belongs to things that naturally in virtue of their mutual contact form a unity” (Phys. 227a14, emphasis added). Thus, by interpreting both contiguity and continuity-p as ways of being continuous-m, we can account for Aristotle’s seemingly doubled use of the term in a way we will find to be consistent with our discussion of the places of parts and whole in the next chapter.138

So, to return to the question of the physical unity of heaps and wholes, we find, in terms of this more inclusive designation of continuity (continuity-m), both the pile of leaves and the house form physical unities by virtue of their physical parts being uninterrupted to some degree. It is true, of course, that the pile and house differ in terms

138 The main objection that might be raised against such an interpretation, however, is that, while that which is continuous-p (continuous-m by nature), according to Aristotle, “has more unity and is prior” to that which is contiguous (continuous-m by contact) (Met. 1052a20), in Physics V.3, he says that “the continuous[-p] is a subdivision of the contiguous” (Phys. 227a10). Thus, one might object, the continuous- p cannot be both prior to and a subdivision of the contiguous. The answer to this objection, however, is that the difference between the continuous-p and the contiguous is, in one sense, a matter of physical unity, while, in another, the difference is one of ontological unity. These will be discussed below, but we can venture a formulation of the difference here. In terms of physical unity, continuity-p is a subset of contiguity in that everything that is continuous-p must also be contiguous, but not vice versa. Thus, in terms of the way in which its parts are together physically, the continuous-p falls into the category of the contiguous as a species to a genus. On the other hand, when the parts of something pass from being merely continuous to being continuous-p, they also achieve a higher level of actuality (i.e. exist as ontologically altered). Thus, while it may, in fact, be the case that it the contiguous is causally prior to the continuous-p in that two parts must have extremities that touch before these extremities can intermingle and lose their distinction from one another, the resultant intermingling (as we will see) often achieves the effect of the dissolution of the parts qua parts, and results in a whole whose actuality is other and greater than those of its constituent parts. Thus, while it is true that Aristotle says, “the extremities of things may be together without necessarily being one: but they cannot be one without being necessarily together” (Phys. 227a22), this does not preclude the fact that, once two parts that were previously contiguous become continuous-p “naturally by virtue of their mutual contact” (Phys. 227a14), they achieve a certain priority in their being through their contribution to some greater unity. As we will see, the way of talking about being that allows for degrees is being in the sense of being actual, and this, only in different aspects of a thing’s form at the same time. In scenarios involving degrees of unity, then, we are in fact speaking of degrees of being actually unified and, in a sense, speaking of degrees of being. This ontological priority will be expounded upon in greater detail when we come to the issue of the ontological unity of parts, but for the time being, let it suffice to say that there is no blatant inconsistency in subsuming the concepts of contiguity and continuity-p under what I take to be the broader category of continuity-m.

74

of the respective “strengths” of their continuity; the parts of the pile are merely juxtaposed, while the parts of the house are nailed and glued together. While this difference may be significant in other respects, in terms of physical unity, it is only a difference of degree, not a difference of kind.139 That is, we can say that a pile is continuous-m by being weakly contiguous, while the house is continuous-m by being strongly contiguous. What we learn from this fact—that the two are nearly identical in terms of their being uninterrupted—is that, on the level being a magnitude, whether some x is a heap or a whole is ultimately ambiguous. Since either can have parts that are continuous-m, if physical unity were the only measure of being a body, both the heap and the whole would turn out to be bodies. This is not the case, however, for such a conclusion runs counter to the reason why Aristotle employs the distinction. Thus, although physical unity turns out to be a necessary condition for some x’s being a body, by itself it is not a sufficient condition.

With respect to the universe, we know that it is physically unified in the sense of being continuous-m because we said in chapter two that it is a plenum, meaning there is no void and no emptiness within it.140 Thus, each of its physical parts will be in succession and touch.141 By this, we find it is quite possible that the universe is a whole

139 Indeed, if we are determining physical unity in terms of continuity-m, the pile would not differ significantly from the two portions of water that are combined in the jug. Despite the fact that the extremities of the two portions of water become indistinguishable, in terms of their being one by virtue of being uninterrupted, the leaves and the water have the same unity in that their parts are uninterrupted.

140 140 That there is no void, see Phys. 217b20.

141 At this point, of course, the question remains whether its parts are merely contiguous or continuous-p, though I think the answer proves to be simple. Since the universe includes all things, the fact that both contiguity and continuity-p are possible, some of its parts will be contiguous and some will be

75

and not a heap, so we should continue our investigation. So, let us now move on to analyze the two remaining ways in which a body is thought to be unified in its parts: definitionally and ontologically. In terms of heaps and wholes, our question now becomes whether the ultimate distinction between them be made on either of these grounds. If it can be shown to be possible, this will allow us to determine whether or not the universe is, in fact, a body.

4. Definitional Unity

Given that the mere continuity of that which comprises some x does not guarantee that x is in actuality a single body, we now move on to definitional unity. In order to be a whole (as in the second sense of oneness described above), it is not enough that x exist with nothing that is not considered part of x between any two parts of x; x must also reach a point beyond which that which is in contact with it is not part of x. In this case, it has a shape [μορφή]. But, on what grounds can such a distinction be made?

At first glance, one might conclude that this form seems to rely on nothing other than some particular proximity of its parts. That is to say, the parts must exist, not just near one another, but also in the proper sort of arrangement that is indicative of whatever it is purported to be. For example, the physical parts of a house (i.e. bricks and lumber) would exist in a certain arrangement characteristic of a house. In speaking this way, it seems we are attempting to define a whole rather than merely identify one. A definition, according to Aristotle, is best articulated by giving some account of both the matter and continuous-p. In terms of its physical unity, however, this makes no difference, for all the parts will be continuous-m.

76

the form of a thing.142 We have already considered x in terms of its matter, and so here, our focus turns to its form. The form is arguably the most important element in a definition because, strictly speaking, there is no definition of matter itself (cf. Met.

1036a7). Thus, in having some matter at hand, we now ask, what beyond this being in proximity could lead us to say it is a unified whole rather than a heap? Perhaps, we say, it is the form in the sense of the arrangement of that matter which is the form and which, by its presence as a definitional element, distinguishes a whole from a heap.

This conception of an arrangement as the definitional element denotes unity is plausible, for in Metaphysics VIII.1, Aristotle says that some things are best characterized

“by being bound together, e.g. a bundle; and others by being glued together, e.g. a book; and others by being nailed together, e.g. a casket…and other by position, e.g. a threshold and lintel (for these differ by being placed in a certain way)” (Met. 1042b15-20). Here, we have many of those things previously described by Aristotle as being one in the sense of being continuous and even whole (though to a lesser degree than that which is naturally continuous) each now being characterized by their constituent parts being arranged and conjoined in such-and-such a way that makes them what they are

(particularly in the case of the lintel).

In such a case, however one might object that a pile of leaves, too, has an arrangement, and although the arrangement of the particular leaves in this pile may change by being shuffled around (making the possible arrangements that are indicative of

142 Cf. Met. VII.11: “We have pointed out, then, that the question of definitions contains some difficulty, and why this is so. And so to reduce all things thus to Forms and to eliminate the matter is useless labor; for some things surely are a particular form in a particular matter, or particular things in a particular state” (1036b21).

77

a pile virtually infinite), there are also many varied floor plans by which one can obtain a house from bricks and lumber. Thus, one might argue, just as a house is bricks and lumber + arrangement, a pile is leaves + proximity. In that case, there would be no difference between the unity of a pile and the unity of a house, unless we wish to claim that the house is somewhat less flexible in its possibility for re-arrangement. However, to define a house as bricks and lumber + arrangement is to define it as a collection consisting of brick and lumber and such-and-such a proximity. But if both a heap and a whole can be adequately defined in these terms, it seems as though the articulation of definitional unity does not make the question of their distinction any clearer than it was when we concluded above that both a heap and a whole are continuous-m. Thus, defining the universe as earth, water, air, fire + arrangement does not ultimately help us decide whether the universe is a heap or a whole.

Continuing along this line of thought, however, perhaps we can still find some additional condition that is present in the definition of a whole that is lacking in the heap.

As we said, while both a pile and a house have many ways in which their parts can be combined, and thus many possible arrangements that can be given to this matter in order to constitute a pile or house, the house has far fewer possible arrangements than the pile does. Perhaps then, all we are lacking is an additional definitional requirement that is present in the whole, yet lacking in the heap—i.e. an arrangement of the arrangement.

This, however, does not quite avoid the problem because simply adding extra arrangements becomes infinitely regressive. In Metaphysics VII.17, Aristotle makes it quite clear that neither the matter out of which something is made nor the arrangement of

78

that matter will bring us to the conclusion that it is a unified body rather than a heap. He says so for the following reason: If a house is to be one, it cannot be simply bricks and lumber, for these are not one, but many.143 So, let us add the element of arrangement to these and say that a house is bricks and lumber and the arrangement of these. But, the resulting definition seems less unified than before, for we now have two elements (matter and form) rather than one (Met. 1041b20). Adding further arrangements to the definition as elements of it will only result in a greater multiplicity rather than tend toward a unity.

Perhaps, then, the answer is that we should not add their arrangement as an element to the other elements but say instead that the house simply is the compound of the elements, which results in an arrangement. But in this case, we are still forced to talk about it as a compound and not a unity, for any compound is a compound of many (Met. 1041b22).

As such, any further compounding will still not be sufficient to demonstrate something’s being a unified object. In short, being able to define something by one formula is not a demonstration of the unity of the entity itself because both heaps and wholes must be defined by a plurality of definitional elements. As Aristotle notes, saying that something has one definition does not thereby attest to the unity of the thing itself (cf. Met. 1044a5).

A definition, being a linguistic formulation of the essence of a thing, is not a sufficient means of uncovering the unity of a thing because it proceeds according to a method whereby deeper investigation into the metaphysical aspects of the thing yields more, not fewer, parts of it. Merely listing these parts in greater detail cannot, in the end, prove the actual unity of that which is under consideration. That is, by employing this

143 In the case of living bodies, the same argument can be carried out in terms of their matter (i.e. flesh and bone, etc.).

79

method of analysis, the constituent matter of a thing—in this case, the bricks and lumber—is separated out from the form—its arrangement—and the two are considered in isolation from one another. This merely demonstrates the its plurality, in some sense.

As Scaltsas notes, the articulation of the matter and the form in isolation from one another only serves to demonstrate that they are not necessarily unified. He formulates the argument as follows:

Let us assume that a substance is the aggregate of its matter and form. Now, the matter of a substance, for example, the wood in a pine tree, can survive in another substance, for example, a statue. The form of the pine tree, i.e. being a pine tree, also exists in other pine trees. But the original pine tree does not exist after we make a statue out of it. Hence, it is possible for the matter and the form of the pine tree to exist without the tree existing, which means that the pine tree is not an aggregate of its matter and form.144

Thus, the articulation of the definition serves to place whatever x we are defining in the context of its universality (the fourth sense of ‘oneness’ above), and it even places the several universal aspects of a thing in relation to one another as elements of a single formula. However, when we are asking about heaps and wholes, we are asking about the unity of some particular x itself as it stands before us, hylomorphically. Thus, we must move on to our third and final kind of unity—ontological unity—in order to investigate this way of being particular, for as we said, the ontological parts are those of the form and matter together.

5. Ontological Unity

144 Scaltsas, “Substantial Holism,” 116.

80

Through an analysis of definitional unity, we have found that both a pile of leaves and a house can be said to have a single form, in the sense that each involves some particular arrangement of its constituent parts. In saying this, we are saying that each of them has a particular shape. However, a major point of difference between a house and a pile in terms of their wholeness is that there is something about the house that makes it, not just this assembled in such-and-such a way, but a ‘house.’ In terms of living things, we are pointing to that which makes a human something different from, or more than, a corpse. By contrast, a pile is not a pile in virtue of anything more than this in such-and- such a way.

In our search for unity, then, we are not wondering about the formulation of an essence, but the actual presence of it in the entity. Aristotle tells us that some existing house is ‘one,’ and thus has a definition, because the essence of a house is present (Met.

1041b4). But in what does this essence consist? It is not a result of the definition, but rather, the definition is a formulation of the essence of a thing, which cannot be present in the same sense that the essence itself can be. We can see this by noting that giving a definition of a house does not make it any more or less of a house than it might have been had the house never been explicitly defined. But saying this, we must immediately amend it in order to make the continuation of our project possible, for we are forced to proceed through linguistic means. Luckily, Aristotle does think there is a manner of giving an account that gets us closer to this essence than merely listing the matter and its arrangement. In Metaphysics VIII.2, he says, “of the people who go in for defining, those who define a house as stones, bricks, and timbers are speaking of the potential house, for

81

these are the matter; but those who propose ‘a receptacle to shelter chattels and living beings,’ or something of the sort, speak to the actuality [τὴν ἐνέργειαν λέγουσιν]”

(1043a14).

Defining a house in this latter way, in terms of its actuality, emphasizes the fact that there exists something of the house that is shared by everything of which it is comprised, though it is not the kind of thing that can be tacked on to the matter and form as a metaphysical constituent. To give this further qualification to the definition of the house is not to give a further element, but to point out a common ‘directedness’ of all its parts whereby they cease to be mere constituents in arrangement and actually become something other than what they were in isolation from one another. This, under different aspects, is called the ‘εἶδος’ or the ‘τέλος’ (the end, or that-for-the-sake-of-which) of a thing.

From this concept of form as εἶδος, we find our way into the issue of ontological unity, and it is here that we finally see the important difference between heaps and wholes. Attempting to define the house as bricks and lumber + arrangement assumes that a house, like a pile of leaves, is composed of individual bricks and lumber, which remain individuals even after they have been incorporated into the house. But this, however, is to stay on the level of oneness given in the second sense above (i.e. that which has a shape). Beyond this, we found that which is one qua having an indivisible form.

Aristotle gives the example of the shoe, which is not a whole merely by the parts of a shoe being juxtaposed in any old fashion, but only when “they are put together so as to be a shoe and to have already a certain single form [εἶδος]” (Met. 1016b12, emphasis

82

added). Similarly, we said the human would cease to be a human if he were cut in two, not merely because he would then lack the requisite physical unity, but further, because the two halves would then lack the form of a human—that is, the essence of a human that is present when the whole is present. So, the defining characteristic of a whole, as opposed to a heap, turns out to be the fact that its parts strive towards and attain something other than what they were before they were unified. Once that unity has been dissolved, they once again become what they were before they were so unified.

However, this unity must be accounted for by something more than a list of the elements required to make x. An element, according to Aristotle, “is that into which a thing is divided and which is present in it as matter” (Met. 1041b31), but no mere aggregation can ever make them into anything more than what they are in separation from one another. Thus, Aristotle says, “[i]n the case of all things which have several parts and in which the totality is not, as it were, a mere heap, but the whole is something besides the parts, there is a cause” (1045a8). This cause, he says, is not an element

(definitional or physical), but a principle of its unity (Met. 1041b27).

So, we are saying that, while both the pile of leaves and the house have elements in juxtaposition, only the house has a ‘principle’ of unity. In chapter one, we said that a principle is that which is responsible for some x’s being what it is, so this principle of unity must be such that it can account for its being together in a way that is not a mere compounding of its constituents. In what way are the elements of a house (i.e. its bricks and lumber) together in a sense that is more than their being compounded? As opposed to the leaves, which remain leaves even after being gathered into a pile, the bricks and

83

lumber, when they are arranged such that they constitute a house, cease to be mere bricks and lumber in some sense. In one way, they become parts of the house (i.e. the walls and the eaves), and in another, they become the house itself. The walls and eaves are what we will call the ontological parts of the house because they, unlike the bricks or the shape, exist only when the house is considered qua a compound of form and matter. That is to say, these bricks and lumber are ontologically different from identical bricks and lumber that have not been incorporated in the same way. To be sure, the house can still be described as comprising bricks and lumber in some way, for they still exist visibly in the walls and the roof. This much is clear. However, at this point, according to Aristotle, they exist in the house only potentially, not as parts, but as matter. As Scaltsas puts it:

For Aristotle, the components of a substance, whether concrete or abstract, emerge when we divide the substance up, either physically or by abstraction. What this means is that the entities that emerge from the division of the substance do not exist in the substance but only potentially. Similarly for the components that pre-date the substance and go into the make-up of the substance by being incorporated into the substantial whole. It is not that these components vanish into thin air when incorporated into the substance; rather, it is that they lose their boundaries and hence their distinctness.145

This ontological change is signified in common speech, according to Aristotle, by the fact that we do not say the house is lumber, but rather, “wood-en” (Met. 1049a18).146 The pile, on the other hand, despite being physical, has no matter of its own. In asking about the matter of the pile, we must refer to the matter of its elements, to the leaves

145 Scaltsas, “Substantial Holism,” 122.

146 Cf. Met. IX.7: “It seems that when we call a thing not something else but ‘thaten’—e.g. a casket is not ‘wood’ but ‘wooden’, and wood is not ‘earth’ but ‘earthen’…—that other thing is always potentially (in the full sense of that word) the thing which comes after it in this series. E.g. a casket is not ‘earthen’ nor ‘earth’, but ‘wooden’; for this is potentially a casket and this is the matter of a casket…” (1049a19-23).

84

themselves. The pile is not leaf-en, but merely composed of leaves. The individual leaves have matter (which is wood, in some sense), so they may perhaps be described as wooden, but the pile, as a mere heap of wooden things, is not itself wooden.

The pile, then, is not a unified body because the matter involved in it belongs to its parts and not to the ostensive whole. Further, in retaining their matter, the leaves also retain their individual forms, and thus, it was more accurate to define the pile as leaves + proximity than it was to define the house as bricks and lumber + arrangement. In a pile, the leaves themselves are the greatest unified bodies present, and therefore, its fullest description consists entirely in its proximity and shape. The bricks and lumber, on the other hand, are not themselves the greatest unity present in the house. Unlike the leaves, the bricks and lumber lend their matter to the whole house, and thereby “surrender” their individual forms as well. I assert that this surrender is the cause, or principle, of the house’s unity, for it is that which is responsible for the house’s being what it is. Thus, the bricks and lumber are not actually present in the house, but only potentially present. It is the house itself that is present, and its presence is dependant upon the sustained surrender of the individual forms of its parts.

This ontological change does not merely exist on the level of the whole, but on the level of the parts as well. As we said, the surrender of the individual forms of bricks and lumber generates, not only a house, but also the parts of a house, such as the roof, the walls, the lintel, etc., which are themselves only properly these things when the house is actually present. Likewise with that which is generated by nature: when that which acts as the matter of a human (e.g. the flesh of other creatures) surrenders its individual form

85

and is incorporated in the whole through digestion as the matter of the body, the various parts of the body, such as the nose, the hand, etc. are generated simultaneously.147 As

Aristotle says, “[s]ome parts are neither prior [n]or posterior to the whole, i.e. those which are dominant and in which the formula, i.e. the essential substance, is immediately present, e.g. perhaps the heart or the brain” (Met. 1035b27). Likewise, these parts, once generated, cannot be divorced from the whole of which they are a part without being ontologically altered themselves.148 Aristotle says, “[f]or [the parts of the body] cannot even exist if severed from the whole; for it is not a finger in any and every state that is the

149 finger of a living thing, but a dead finger is a finger only in name” (Met. 1035b23). In order for a finger to be a finger, or a roof a roof, it must exist always and only as a potential body—i.e. that which can physically be separated from the whole (for matter is always infinitely divisible) but which fails to retain its character as an actual part when or if it is separated. Thus, the ontological status of the part is directly connected to the actuality of the whole in the sense that they are, as Scaltsas puts it, “identity-dependant” on that of which they are parts.150

147 Cf. De Gen. I.5: “This is how the matter of flesh grows: an addition is made to each and every part, but some flows away and some comes in new: [what is added to is] each and every part of the shape and the form” (321b25). And several lines later, “…the whole becomes larger through the accession of something which is called nourishment, and is contrary, but which changes into the same form” (321a35).

148 These are the essential parts, of which we spoke earlier. The loss of any essential part would cause a change in the essence of what one is considering. Others, such as hair or nails in the case of a human, are non-essential.

149 Cf. also Met. VII.11: “For it is not a hand in any and every state that is part of a man, but only when it can fulfill its work, and therefore only when it is alive; if it is not alive it is not a part” (1036b30).

150 Sclatsas, “Substantial Holism,” 119.

86

6. The Universe is Not a Body

So, we must now apply this talk of ontological unity in terms of heaps and wholes to the universe and try to determine whether it is a whole, and thus a body, as Morison claims it is, or whether it is a mere heap, which can be taken together as a pile can, but which has no ontological status beyond this intellectual demarcation. I believe that the universe cannot be considered a unified whole because doing so results in one of two untenable conclusions. If the universe is an ontological whole, then either 1) there are no other actual bodies, or 2) there are no actual places.

The assessment of the unity of the universe is trickier than the assessment of any other entity for the simple fact that it is indestructible, meaning in essence that nothing can be separated from it in actuality. Thus, unlike any other entity, we have no experience of a potential universe apart from the actual universe in the way that we can experience first a potential house, then an actual one. However, the matter becomes clearer if we consider what would be entailed by asserting that the universe is, in fact, a unified whole (i.e. a body). First, the parts of actual bodies are not actual bodies themselves. In terms of the house, the bricks qua constituents of a wall are only potential bodies because, in becoming a wall, they sacrifice their individual forms and remain present afterwards merely as the matter of the wall. Thus, if the universe were a body, we would be in an odd position, for then, the universe would be the only actual body there is, all else being mere parts of it. There would be no actual bodies in the world, which, besides making the concept of a body absurd and useless, would leave us with no way of making the important distinction between heaps and wholes in our everyday

87

experience. We would, then, be forced to bracket Aristotle’s whole discussion of form and unity, relegating it to some metaphorical sense, which he could not have intended for it.

A second argument leaves open the possibility that the universe is a body, but it thereby invalidates the possibility of using it as a maximal surrounder, as Morison wishes to do. In considering a body in actuality, one must consider it hylomorphically—that is, as a unity in which all of its essential parts are present as parts. Thus, in order to consider an actual house, one cannot consider it apart from its walls. In order to consider an actual human, one cannot consider him apart from his heart, etc. To consider a body as abstracted from any of its essential parts is to consider it merely potentially, in which case the parts under consideration must also be considered as potential parts, and therefore, as actual bodies. Furthermore, the actual bodies one will be considering when considering a whole minus one of its essential parts will be different depending on which part one has subtracted from the whole, resulting in a different collection of constituents when subtracting different essential parts. Thus, in some sense, one is only considering roughly coincident sets of constituents if one were first to consider a house minus its walls and then a house minus its roof. But arguably, this is what Morison is asking us to do when he asks us to employ the concept of a maximal surrounder as that which surrounds any x of which we wish to find the location.

If we decide to employ the maximal surrounder, then, we are faced with taking one of two positions. Either: 1) it is possible to abstract x from the universe, or 2) it is not possible to abstract x. In the first case, the remaining portion of it that is to serve as the

88

maximal surrounder in that case is merely a heap of the remaining constituents, and we thus lack the grounds for, say, taking the body of all water together with the body of all air as parts of the same whole. Of course, one might object that there are some things that are, in fact, non-essential parts of the universe, and in these cases, one could, as when considering a human without his hair, abstract these parts while retaining the universe itself as whole. However, given that one of the descriptions of the universe is that it, of necessity, includes all perceptible matter (De Caelo 279a7), it seems as though there is no physical part that one could show to be non-essential. In the second case (it is not possible to abstract x), x would not be surrounded by anything other than itself, and therefore, there would be no actual place to speak of between x and the universe. Given that the universe itself is not in place (Phys. 212b7), there would be no such thing as an actual place. Of course, there could still be potential places, but again, taking this route forces us to bracket Aristotle’s whole discussion of place as metaphorical in some way, which we are in no way compelled to do.151

Thus, while the physical parts of the universe are juxtaposed, giving the universe physical continuity, these parts are only parts in the sense that the leaves are parts of the pile—i.e. as individual bodies in contact with one another. On this view, Morison has no right to group these several bodies together into one, for, as we will see in the next chapter, the fact that something is itself a body primarily is significant for any discussion

151 As we will see in the next chapter, the relationship between x and that which surrounds x in the sense of owning the limit which is to serve as the place of x requires that x be something different from that which surrounds it. This is easy enough to see immediately, however, given that in Physics IV.3, Aristotle makes an explicit point of distinguishing the type of being-in indicative of place from that which is indicative of the part/whole relationship (Phys. 210a14-24).

89

of place. For one thing, x would only be surrounded by the universe itself, if everything could be taken to be part of the universe, because only in this case could the first limit surrounding x belong to the universe itself. As Aristotle says in Physics IV.5, “some things are potentially in place, others in actual operation. Thus, when a thing with like parts is continuous, the parts are potentially in place, but when they are separate but in contact, as in a heap, they are actually so” (212b4). Thus, if the universe were a body, the sea would be in place potentially as a part of that which is in place actually (i.e. the universe) and the place of the sea would belong to the universe. But since the universe must be regarded as a mere heap, if there are to be places at all, the limit that surrounds the fish belongs only to the sea, which, as a body, is itself in place actually (i.e. its limit belonging to the air, etc.). And because the fish and the sea are certainly separate bodies

(this was never in dispute), the place of the sea does not belong to the fish, but only to the sea. We can see this actual placement of the parts in the case of the pile as well: because the leaves retain their individual forms, and are thus individual bodies, they are in place of themselves primarily in a way that the parts of unified wholes are not. If the pile can be said to be in place at all, then, it will be so only accidentally in virtue of its parts being so. With this in mind, it is telling that, in Physics IV.5, Aristotle describes the universe in this same fashion. He says:

[T]he heavens, as has been said, are not, as a whole, somewhere or in some place, since no body surrounds them. But on the path they move along, in this way they are a place for their parts—for the parts are in contact with one another. Other things are accidentally [in place]: for example…the heavens, since their parts are all in a sense in place, as one thing contains another on a circle. Hence, the upper part moves in a circle, but the whole is not anywhere (Phys. 212b4-15).

Chapter Four: Place

1. Telos and Eidos

In the last chapter, we undertook to describe the requirements that must be met in order for some thing to be characterized as a body. This involved the thing in question being unified in each of the three senses of unity: physical, definitional, and ontological.

Of these three, however, the ontological unity is that which is crucial for determining the thing’s status as a body because this is the type of unity that distinguishes a whole from a heap. Being ontologically unified involves the thing having a cause of unity, which is that which is responsible for both the whole and for the parts being somewhat more than they would be in isolation from one another. This principle of unity is present when the essence of a thing is present (i.e. when it has a certain form [εἶδος]). Thus, the parts of a house must be assembled in such and such a way, but what determines what counts as an appropriate assembly is whether a given assembly can serve as a shelter for humans and their chattels. Aristotle says this description of a house speaks to its actuality, while giving the definition of a house as bricks and lumber + arrangement only speaks to a house potentially. Thus, we find that the best description of a thing is not in terms of its composition, but in terms of what it is for. A house is for sheltering, and this is why it was built at all. To give the function of something in this way is to give the end [τέλος], or that-for-the-sake-of-which, which according to Aristotle is the most important of the

90

91

four causes a physicist must attribute to any x in order to come to know it fully (Phys.

200a31).152 Everything within the cosmos that can be said to be a body has a τέλος.

To give the τέλος of a house is to speak of the house in its actuality [τὴν

ἐνέργειαν λέγουσιν]153 because a thing qua what it is can only be said to be actually that thing or kind of thing it is when the conditions to which it is subject do not place x in tension with its τέλος.154 This should remind us of our opening remarks in chapter one, in which we said that all things act according to their natures. In fact, Aristotle says, in

Physics II.2, “nature is the end or ‘that for the sake of which’” (194a27). The notions of nature and τέλος are not exactly synonymous, however, because, when considering their connection, we find that they are only related to one another via the concept of a thing’s form [εἶδος]. On one hand, the notion of acting according to a nature also implies acting to fulfill, or realize, a form [εἶδος], and because of this, Aristotle says, a thing’s nature is best conceived of in terms of its form (as opposed to its matter) (Phys. 193b7-21).155 On

152 For our discussion of causes, see chapter one, pg. 18.

153 Met. 1043a14. Cf. chapter 3, pg. 81.

154 In saying this, we need to keep in mind the active sense of actuality by which it is right to say that, even when some particular thing appears to be resting (i.e. in a state that corresponds to experiencing a lack of force in Newtonian physics), it is still, and perhaps only then most fully, acting in the sense of being itself. Here, we are reminded of Joe Sachs’ consistent translation of “ἐνεργέια” as ‘being-at-work.’ Aristotle, Aristotle’s On the Soul and On Memory and Recollection, trans. Joe Sachs (Santa Fe: Green Lion Press, 2004). Indeed, in chapter one, when giving our account of actuality and potentiality, we said that motion, that which appears most active to Newtonian sensibilities, is really indicative of an ontological showing of a body’s potential to become actual in some respect. Because the body which is in motion is still moving, however, it ultimately lacks the ontological fullness in respect of that particular actuality, a fullness which a body with a similar form that has ceased moving according to its nature displays.

155 In this section of Physics II.1, in which Aristotle makes the claim that form rather than matter is nature, he is using μορφή and εἶδος together as being yet undistinguished from one another. His actual conclusion is that “It is shape that is nature [ἡ ἄρα μορφὴ φύσις],” but we see him recant on this in the next sentence in which he says that both φύσις and μορφή are ambiguous terms, since a shortage of

92

the other hand, form is related to τέλος in that the ontological directedness of something moving toward form has its completion in its τέλος. This is why Aristotle, in describing the four causes in Metaphysics VIII.4, says that the formal and final causes are, perhaps, the same (1044a35, cf. Generation of Animals 715a4).156 Thus, we ought to view nature, form, and τέλος as a cluster of closely interrelated terms, which are all aspects of the same ontological process of a thing becoming and maintaining itself. To act in accordance with nature is, at the same time, an ontological actualization of a thing’s

τέλος and a fulfillment of its form.157 This, however, remains somewhat ambiguous unless we venture to differentiate between the process of a thing acting to become itself and of its acting to maintain itself. This difference can be accounted for in terms of a thing’s actuality, which we will explore later in this chapter. But in any case, we have shown up until this point that, in having a τέλος to actualize, the parts of the body are established ontologically as parts, as opposed to being mere constituents or individual members of a heap, and at the same time, a thing is established as one body. As we said in the last chapter, the τέλος of something is a sort of common directedness of all the

something is also a kind of form [εἶδος] (Phys. 193b19-20). Clearly, Aristotle does not think that shape equivalent to the nature of something because it would be impossible then for something to grow according to its nature, which is specifically the reason why matter is rejected as a possibility for nature several lines before. He says, “Into what then does it grow? Not into that from which it arose but into that which it tends” (Phys. 193b18). Mature things do tend to have a certain shape, but their maturity is not a direct result of this. Rather, something is mature when it achieves a certain level of functioning that is characteristic of the kind of thing it is. If shape were taken strictly to be nature, trees of the same kind with different shapes would have different natures.

156 Aristotle, “Generation of Animals,” trans. A. Platt, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1, ed Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984) 1111-1218.

157 As we will see shortly, however, this acting is never done apart from, or with complete disregard for, the last of the four causes—the material cause.

93

parts of a body such that they embody a single form [εἶδος]. What we will undertake in this chapter is to show that this directedness is necessarily an outward directness, in the sense that having a τέλος means constantly striving for or striving against that which something itself is not. Seeing a body in these terms, then, affords us the opportunity to consider the relevance of place to that body of which it is the place. That is, only here do we begin to examine the body, not as a mere unity that possesses a τέλος, and thus, some place, but further, as that which, by virtue of its τέλος, depends upon that which surrounds it for the possible and continued fulfillment of that τέλος.

In the previous chapter, our motivation for this discussion was largely negative in character. The discussion was undertaken largely in order to show that the universe itself is not a body, as Morison claims, and thus, it is not the case that the place of some thing is most properly given in terms of the universe as the proximate surrounding body.

However, in this chapter, this work will function for us in a positive way by helping to draw out what I take to be a better characterization of the nature of place. As Aristotle notes several times throughout Physics IV, only changeable bodies are in place properly, or actually (Phys. 212a7, 212b27-28). Thus, in articulating the requirements for being a body, we have come a long way in giving a satisfactory account of Aristotle’s notion of place. In this chapter, what we must undertake is an account of place as it relates to the body of which it is the place. As the body is seen to be truly one body in terms of its ontological unity, our discussion of this relation between place and body will occur largely in terms of that which characterizes an ontological unity—the presence of a

94

τέλος. The guiding question will be: What is the connection between the τέλος and place?

Up to this point, in defining what it is to be a body, we have said, in part, what it is to be in place. That is, we have given the criteria for determining that some thing has a place. However, we have not said what having a place means for that which has it—that is, what effect, if any, place can be said to have on a given body. In order to begin to form the connection between τέλος and place, we need a fuller understanding of what it is to be a body beyond the very abstract sense in which we spoke about it in the last chapter. Namely, we need an account of matter. This seems to be necessary for our inquiry, for in the Aristotelian cosmos, place belongs most intimately to the most basic material constituents of physical bodies: the elements. Although it is arguably the case that a body is one in virtue of its τέλος, it is ultimately one body in virtue of its physicality.

2. The Elements and Natural Place

Aristotle adopts the language of the elements from the pre-Socratic tradition, and in the form in which he employs it, it is most closely identified with the model used by

Empedocles. However, he does not adopt it without first justifying it and founding it within the terms of his own thought.158 Aristotle’s use of the doctrine of the four elements can be understood in two ways, or as serving two purposes: First, the elements

158 The most basic difference between Aristotle and Empedocles is Aristotle’s fundamental rejection of atomism (cf. De Caelo 304a25).

95

are those principles that make changes in physical bodies intelligible, and second, based upon this intelligibility, they serve inductively as the fundamental basis of all physicality.159 In terms of the first of these, the elements are the ἀρχή into which all bodies can be ultimately analyzed qua physical, or material. That is, every body is physical on account of its matter, the principles of which are the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. He says, “[a]n element, we take it, is a body into which other bodies may be analyzed, present in them potentially or in actuality (which of these is still disputable),160 and not itself divisible into bodies different in form” (De Caelo 302a16).

We know there is motion in the natural world simply by perception, which, in turn, provides the physicist with the basis for his inductive method (Phys. 185a13, PA II.19).161

Certain bodies move one way if left to themselves, while others move differently. These different motions can only be made intelligible by attributing them to some kind of basic explanatory principle, which is done by naming them in terms of some cause [αἰτία].

Some movements are more complex than others, so when we observe a complex movement, we ought to analyze that down into the most basic movements possible, and since all motion is motion of some body (Phys. 200b33), complex movements will, in turn, correspond to the co-presence of more basic bodies. As Aristotle says,

But since every natural body has its proper movement [which it does always or for the most part], and movements are either simple or mixed, mixed in mixed bodies and simple in simple, there must obviously be simple bodies; for there are

159 This dual use that Aristotle makes of the elements is a good example of the way in which induction both discovers principles and consequently argues from those principles. On this dual use of induction, see: Bolton, “Aristotle’s Method in Natural Science,” 16-17.

160 It turns out to be potentially. Cf. De Gen. 327b22-26. This will be discussed below, pg. 103.

161 Bolton, “Aristotle’s Method in Natural Science,” 15-17.

96

simple movements. It is plain, then, that there are elements, and why (De Caelo 302b5-9).

This phenomenon, though observed as a physical locomotion, is not primarily physical because to stay on the physical level is to fail to explain what we observe.

Even though they are bodies, we never encounter the elements directly. Rather, they are more akin to principles of matter, known by reason. Aristotle says: “Neither fire nor air nor any of those we mentioned is in fact simple but mixed. The simple bodies are like these but not the same as them: that which is like fire is fiery, not fire; that which is like air is aeriform; and so on in the other cases” (De Gen. 330b22). Yet, upon this inductive basis, Aristotle also speaks at times as if the doctrine of elements is already in hand. At these times, the elements are described as the primary constituent bodies out of which everything physical is composed. Thus, in terms of the second understanding of the elements, they become the physical basis of bodies. He says, “[l]et it be concluded that ‘principles’ and ‘elements’ are good names for the primary things whose change, whether by aggregation and segregation or another change, entails that there is generation and corruption” (De Gen. 329a5).162 This is to give a logical priority to the elements, which Aristotle says is one of necessity, and thus, he sometimes refers to matter itself as

“necessity” (cf. Phys. 200a30).163 He does so because, if generation is to occur, that from which something is generated must necessarily pre-exist that which is generated.

162 It is not by aggregation and separation (cf. De Gen. 317a20: “Coming to be and ceasing to be simpliciter occur, not in virtue of aggregation and segregation, but when something changes from this to that as a whole”).

163 “The necessary in nature, then, is plainly what we call by the name of matter, and the changes in it” (Phys. 200a30).

97

However, this second sense is derivative from the first since these pre-existent components are known better through reason than through the senses.

As explanatory principles, the elements can themselves be analyzed into primary tangible contraries. Each element is a unique combination of either hot or cold and dry or moist, all others being able to be derived from these four. The compositions of the elements are: earth=cold + dry, water=cold + moist, air=hot + wet, and fire=hot + dry.

Aristotle analyzes the elements down into these tangible contraries because it is only in virtue of these, and not primarily qua elements, that they are able to act and be acted upon by one another (cf. De Gen. II.4). Despite this further level of abstraction to which the elements can be subjected, however, the elements themselves must be thought of as the most basic physical constituents. As Paul A. Bogaard puts it: “Elements cannot be generated from something else: there are no other or simpler, more rudimentary bodies, and their own arché [the primary contraries] can only be specified not as constituents but as explanatory principles.”164 Thus, although the elements are themselves composed of contraries, we can say that they are the ultimate constituents of physical bodies because the contraries of which the elements are composed are imperceptible and never exist in any way other than as paired with a corresponding contrary in the element (cf. De Gen.

332a27).165

164 Paul A. Bogaard, “Heaps or Wholes: Aristotle’s Explanation of Compound Bodies,” Isis 70, no. 1 (March 1979), 21-22.

165 Cf. De Gen. 332a27: Speaking of the elements, Aristotle says, “If, then, nothing perceptible, at least, is prior to these, these will be everything.” And several lines later, he refers to the “matter” of the elements as “imperceptible and inseparable” (332a35).

98

What makes the presence of the elements perceptible is that each element has a natural movement, which it displays if it is not restrained by force. These natural movements are linear, and the direction of each movement (either upwards or downwards) tends toward being in a certain place. Consequently, Aristotle says that the place in which the movement of each element comes to an end allows us to say that the element has a certain “heaviness” or “lightness.” It is important to note that it is not the place itself that stops the movement, but rather being heavy or being light that determines the natural place. In Physics IV.1, Aristotle says, “‘Above’ is not anything you like, but where fire, and what is light, move [to]. Likewise, ‘below’ is not anything you like, but where heavy and earth-like things move [to]” (208b19). From the inductive standpoint, then, Aristotle says that all bodies with heaviness and lightness, “are thought to have a spring of change within themselves” (De Caelo 310b21). In echoing here the definition of a natural body given at Phys. 192b13 as that which has an internal principle of motion, we can see the connection between the motion of an element and its nature.

At times, Aristotle speaks of this natural movement as a movement “toward” form. He says,

Now, that which produces upward and downward movement is that which produces weight and lightness, and that which is moved is that which is potentially heavy or light, and the movement of each body to its own place is motion towards its own form [εἶδος]. (It is best to interpret in this sense the common statement of the older writers that ‘like moves to like.’) (De Caelo 310a31-310b2).166

166 Aristotle continues this passage by saying: “For the words are not in every sense true to fact. If one were to remove the earth to where the moon now is, the various fragments of earth would each move not towards it but to the place in which it now is” (De Caelo 310b2-5). Some authors have taken this to mean that down is somewhere of itself, and thus, the principle of the universe is a geometrically determined framework, from which the elements receive their directionality. For instance, Peter Machamer concludes his article on natural place by saying, “The cause of, for example fire’s moving naturally, is lightness, and the light is that which by nature moves upward. Still, insofar as the direction is defined as the direction

99

Given that a thing cannot actually be separated from its form,167 however, it is probably best to read this as illustrating strength of the conceptual connection between what an element is and the place in which it is. For the elements, then, acting in accordance with their natures and fulfilling their forms involves moving toward and coming to be in a certain natural place. For example, if the form of air is to be in a certain place (i.e. above water and below fire), when water is transformed via a shift from cold + wet to hot + wet, water becomes air. However, if its actuality entails fulfilling its form, and its form is to be in a certain natural place, a new motion will accompany this transformation. Merely becoming hot + wet is not enough to be actual air, in all senses. Thus, Aristotle says,

As we have said, a thing may be potentially light or heavy in more ways than one. Thus not only when a thing is water is it in a sense potentially light, but when it has become air it may be still potentially light; for it may be through some hindrance that it does not occupy and upper position, whereas, if what hinders it is removed, it realizes its activity and continues to rise higher (Phys. 255b17).

toward the bounding surface of the lunar sphere, it is defined not by reference to a real substantial object but only in terms of an abstracted mathematical object.” See: Peter K. Machamer, “Aristotle on Natural Place and Natural Motion,” Isis, 69 no.3 (September 1978), 386. However, here, as well as in other places, in which Aristotle makes a differentiation between, for example, the center of the earth and the center of the universe, it is best to keep in mind that the elements seek their natural places due, in part, to what bodies surround them. If the earth were in fact moved to where the moon in now, it would have to be held there by force because that place is not the place to which it would tend if left alone. Thus, as Aristotle says, if parts were to break free from the earth while held where the moon is, they would seek the place in which they were below air as much as possible, which then is revealed to us as the center of the universe. What is important to remember in such situations is that down is where earth comes to rest, and earthen bodies themselves reveal this to us. In other words, even if calculations of the universe can be achieved (though I have attempted to show that this is impossible in chapter 2), earth is not held accountable to calculations. If anything, it is only the earth’s constant tendency to move in a certain way that calculations of any sort can be carried out.

167 The denial of the possibility of this is what causes Aristotle to exclude form as a possibility of what place is (cf. Phys. 210a2).

100

When the element becomes hot, then, it is of such a nature to fulfill the form of air (being in a certain place), though it may not have done so yet. However, the mere change in its nature is enough to determine its internal principle of motion, and thus, by this new principle, it begins its movement toward the actualization of that form. The completion of this movement, then, is the existence and the actuality [ἐνεργέια] of the air. He says:

“Now whenever air comes into being out of water, light out of heavy, it goes to an upper place. It is forthwith light: becoming is at an end, and in that place it has being” (De

Caelo 311a1). For Aristotle, then, the elements congregate with one another, not by being affected by anything like gravity, but by virtue of sharing a common form. Each becomes what it is most fully by achieving congregation with what it is like. This elemental actualization, which manifests itself to perception as congregation via linear paths of motion, produces the natural stratification of the universe, and characterizes it as a cosmos (in the sense of that which is ordered), rather than mere chaos.168

168 Helen Lang takes a somewhat different view. Instead of viewing the process of elemental actualization as the cause for elemental stratification, she takes place itself qua the first unmoving limit of the universe itself qua the common place of all things (cf. Phys. 209a32) to be that which determines the universe as a cosmos. She says: “Place is a cause of motion not as one of the four causes, but as the first unmoved limit, a determinative principle that by differentiating the cosmos into actually ‘up,’ ‘down,’ etc., renders the cosmos determinate. As determined in respect to up and down, the parts of the heaven constitute the actuality for the elements that are moved naturally insofar as they are potentially ‘up’ or ‘down’” (Lang, The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics, 102). While this is an interesting position, it still seems to assume a sort of framework only within which the elements become determinate with respect to their form. This, I believe, ignores the fact that it is the elements themselves, as natural, which move according to their own internal powers. As Bogaard says: “The influence one element can have on another is not imposed from without, and the kind of balance that can be struck between elements is determined by their respective ‘powers.’” Despite this, we must admit, along with Bogaard, that “while the circumstances whatever their source cannot produce these tendencies, they can control which of them are manifested” (Bogaard, “Heaps or Wholes,” 28). These circumstances, however, need not be, and perhaps are best not, viewed on such a cosmic scale, for the elements would reciprocally activate one another well enough in terms of their immediate situations without any such prior overarching cosmic form. That is, place need not be conceived of as “common and universal” in Lang’s sense of “a single ‘place,’ acting as a determinative principle, [which] accounts for ‘the where’ of all things that are and are moved” (Lang, The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics, 75).

101

If this linear motion were all the elements were capable of, however, nothing else would ever come from them. They would have sorted themselves out by now. Aristotle says, “[i]f each remained in its own place and was not changed by its neighbor, they would by now have separated out” (De Gen. 337a10). But since they have not, and since we do observe motions more complex than these linear motions, we must account for this somehow. Aristotle, therefore, postulates a second motion by which the elements generate complex bodies, which is different from that of the elements themselves. This turns out to be the circular motion of the sun. Its rotation around the earth, when combined with the natural motions of the elements, can account for the complex motions required for generation and corruption. In De Generatione et Corruptione II.10, Aristotle says, “[s]o if it [the sun] generates by approaching and bringing near, the same things destroys by retreating and coming to be further away; and if it generates by repeatedly approaching, it also destroys by repeatedly retreating” (336b6). It is not strictly the motion of the sun, however, but the variable effect it has on the elements as a result of this motion (i.e. making them hot or allowing them to cool off). These altered states of the elements are what keep them from sorting themselves out. The added hotness of the sun may have one of two results. It may either 1) transform one element into another, or

2) generate complex bodies out of a balance that obtains between elements as they approach a mean of hotness or coldness without being transformed completely.169

169 Though the mechanism is unclear, this must involve contact of a sort, for earlier in the treatise, Aristotle says: “Furthermore, if consideration has to be given to action and passion and to mixing, it must also necessarily be given to contact; for neither is acting and being affected possible in the strict sense for things which cannot be in contact with one another, nor can things be mixed unless they have first had some sort of contact” (De Gen. 322b1). At De Gen. 327a4, Aristotle tells us that fire can heat at a distance via heating the air.

102

In terms of the first of these, the heat of the sun allows the elements to transform into one another because, according to Aristotle, hotness and coldness are active contraries, and elements have the power to act based on these. Dryness and moisture, on the other hand, are passive and determine the elements’ ability to be affected by the others (cf. De Gen. 329b24).170 When they are actualized in their active contrary to a high degree, the characteristically hot elements can overpower the cold elements with which they are in contact, and transform, for example, water into air. Conversely, when the heat of the sun withdraws, the cold elements can overpower the hot ones. This transformation is a metaphysical change in the element that is affected because, when water, which is potentially hot but actually cold, comes to be actually hot, it no longer has the form of water, but that of air. It is primarily due to this ability to change that the elements have not stratified over time. Aristotle says, “They [the elements] change, then, because of this double locomotion; and because they change, none of them can remain in any of the places assigned” (De Gen. 337a12). When water is transformed, so is its lightness. It subsequently finds itself out of place and must now move according to its new nature, in order to fulfill its new form.

In term of the second, when the sun does not effect the change fully, the elements are able to combine with one another in a middle ground of the contraries, and this is generation. Aristotle says, “flesh and bones and suchlike come from these [the elements],

170 He says: “Hot and cold and dry and wet are said of things, the one pair in virtue of their being capable of acting, the other in virtue of their being capable of being affected. For heat is that which aggregates things that are of the same kind (for the segregating which they say firs does is the aggregating of things of the same type, for this results in foreign bodies’ being expelled), and cold is that which gathers and aggregates indiscriminately things that are related and things that are not of the same type” (De Gen. 329b24-31).

103

the hot becoming cold and the cold hot when they approach the mean, for here they are neither one thing nor the other, and the mean is large and not an indivisible point” (De

Gen. 334b24-27). This is an ontological, as opposed to a metaphysical, change in the elements, for they are not transformed into one another, but continue to exist as mixed in complex bodies. Thus, Aristotle says mixing [µίξις] must be described on the ontological level of potentiality and actuality. As Bogaard puts it, in µίξις, “[t]here is no remission of either [the elements’] ‘powers’ or their ‘being,’ only the new circumstance they encounter and in which they participate; for thereafter we observe their qualities only through the modified impact they can have with the homoeomeres, that is, as its qualities.”171 Bogaard points out that this modified impact is best viewed, not as a loss of intensity, but as the creation of a new level of actuality, beneath or behind which the elements remain, albeit “screened” from view.172 That which is mixed continues to exist, but only potentially, while that which comes to be from them exists actually (De Gen.

327b22-26). This is different from destruction because the elements can be separated out of the mixture at some later time and re-gain their individual actualities as such (De Gen.

327b28). For instance, when salt is added to water, their mixture results in saline.

However, the salt still exists potentially in the saline because, if boiled, the water will

171 Bogaard, “Heaps or Wholes,” 21.

172 Ibid. Bogaard’s use of the term ‘screening’ is his own, but it is not objectionable, as long as we realize, as he carefully notes, that it is not being employed to imply any sort of mere epistemic barrier to our perception. He notes: “the point of Aristotle’s theory is that this effect is not externally imposed as an obstruction; it is accomplished by the constituent elements. It cannot be overcome by technologically improving our ability to ‘see’ that the elements remain discreet items, because it is the very interaction of the elements which produces what is seeable. Their qualities now characterize a new whole, by the kind of activity/susceptibility which Aristotle would argue is the source of the kind of sensitivity which makes vision possible” (Bogaard 21 ff.41). For his support of this last claim, cf. (Bogaard 29).

104

evaporate, leaving the salt behind as actual salt. As compounds, then, the elements become the matter for physical bodies.173

Bogaard tells us that one effect of this “screening” is that the actuality of the constituent elements is masked within the new actuality created by their mixing, and thus, the actuality of complex bodies cannot generally be explained by reference to their constituent elements.174 His point here is well-taken, for Aristotle himself tells us that “a casket is not earthen nor earth, but wooden; for wood is [only] potentially a casket and is the matter of a casket” (Met. 1049a23). The point here is that, although the wood is ultimately some mixture of earth and air, let’s say, as a mixture, wood comes to have a new set of actualities that do not exist in either earth or air themselves (i.e. the ability to be nailed together, etc.). The fullest explanation of a body, then, does not involve (as it may in certain modern scientific theories) the reduction of a body down to its most basic material constituents. As we said in chapter one, the physicist must attempt to gain knowledge of both the matter and the form, though only to the point at which “he understands the purpose of each” (Phys. 194b10-12). That is, he must seek causes always with an eye toward the ontological makeup of a body (i.e. as a compound of matter and form), which would involve speaking of the house as being composed of wood rather than earth and air. Saying the house is part air approaches the uninformative because air does not tell us anything about the purpose of each. Thus, in general, the

173 That is, the elements become homoeomeres (tissues, flesh), which in turn become the organs, which in turn constitute the bodies. (Generation of Animals 715a9, Bogaard, “Heaps or Wholes,” 24).

174 Bogaard, “Heaps or Wholes,” 25.

105

physicist should seek the most proximate causes when giving an account of complex bodies (cf. Phys. 195b22-28).175

This principle of method does not seem to hold true in all senses, however. While it may be the case that the hot and cold of the elements are somewhat obscured in µίξις, this is only properly because they had to act and be acted on by one another in order to combine and thereby yield derivative tangible properties. However, such is not the case with a body’s heaviness or lightness. Aristotle says, “Of [the tangible properties] heavy and light are not capable of acting or being affected. They are not said of things in virtue of their acting upon something else or being acted upon by something else” (De Gen.

329b19). These do not yield any new property in complex bodies, but rather, tend toward an average of the total heaviness or lightness of the constituent. Thus, Aristotle says that complex bodies are “are severally light and heavy, and evidently in them the attributes are due to the difference of their uncompounded parts: that is to say, according as the one or the other happens to preponderate the bodies will be heavy and light respectively” (De

Caelo 311a29).176

It is not the case, then, that the tendencies of the elements are ‘screened’ in the sense that the proper places of the elements are only potential attributes of the body.

Aristotle says that heaviness and lightness, alone among the tangible contraries, are not capable of acting on one another or being affected by one another (De Gen. 329b19).

175 Chapter one, pg. 18-19.

176 And further, Aristotle does not seem to think this relationship between the simple bodies and the more complex ones in terms of natural motion is anything other than direct, for he continues from the previous passage by saying that one only need to speak of the elements—the “parts” of the complex bodies—“since they are primary and all else consequential” (De Caelo 311a34).

106

Thus, a complex body retains the natural impulses of its constituents in a sort of balance between them. As a direct result177 of its elemental composition, we can say that the complex generated body seeks its natural place, too, as fully as possible according its composition, and qua composed of elements (cf. Phys. 192b19), and in doing so, it comes to some degree of actuality there. Complex bodies would never be fully actualized as the simple bodies would be in this respect because they are no longer either absolutely heavy or absolutely light, though the character of their tendencies are still fully apparent.

Aristotle says, “[i]t is due to the properties of the elementary bodies that a body which is regarded as light in one place is regarded as heavy in another, and vice versa. In air, for instance, a talent’s weight of wood is heavier than a mina of lead, but in water the wood is the lighter” (De Caelo 311b2). Similarly, Aristotle says that a body in which air preponderates over earth and water may rise to the surface of water, but sink below the air (De Caelo 311b11). For Aristotle, then, complex bodies remain directly accountable to the tendencies of their constituents, and indeed, this is no minor point, since the form of these constituents is a matter of being in a certain place (i.e. surrounded by bodies that are like it in form).

3. Necessity and Function

But this is not the only respect in which bodies remain accountable to their matter.

Aristotle is explicit in his claim that all of the tangible qualities that characterize different

177 In contrast to the way Aristotle treats the results of elemental mixing in terms of the derivative tangible qualities, he says of elemental mixture in terms of heaviness and lightness that “we need only speak of [the simple] parts, since they are primary and all else is consequential” (De Caelo 311a34).

107

kinds of matter can be causally derived from the µίξις of the primary qualities that characterize the elements (cf. Meteorology IV.8, 384b24-385a20).178 Thus, although it is true that, through causal analysis, the physicist is primarily interested in giving the τέλος, or end, of a body, this is not possible without considering the matter as well. In the most important sense, different kinds of matter have different potentials in terms of the way they may be acted upon (cf. Met. 1046a22), and this, in turn, constrains the range of uses to which these different kinds of matter may be put. For instance, a house may not be made of butter because the butter is incapable of providing shelter for humans and their chattels.

At one point in the Physics, Aristotle attempts to separate the matter from the

τέλος and grant a certain priority to the latter of the two. He says that, although matter is necessary for some thing to come to be, it does not come to be necessarily on account of this. Rather, it comes to be for the sake of fulfilling its form. Using the example of a house, he says, “though the wall does not come to be without [stones and lumber], it is not due to these, except as its material cause: it comes to be for the sake of sheltering and guarding certain things” (Phys. 200a5). And several lines later, he reiterates, “the product cannot come to be without things which have a necessary nature, but it is not due to these (except as material); it comes to be for an end” (Phys. 200a7). However,

Aristotle cannot find a satisfactory way of separating the matter from the τέλος , even in thought. He continues in the same passage: “For instance, why is a saw such as it is? To effect so-and-so and for the sake of so-and-so. This end, however, cannot be realized

178 Aristotle, “Meteorology,” trans. E.W. Webster, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 555-625.

108

unless the saw is made of iron. It is, therefore, necessary for it to be of iron, if we are to have a saw and perform the operation of sawing” (Phys. 200a11). Thus, without the requisite matter of a certain quality, a saw cannot possibly actualize its τέλος. Although the formal cause is most closely linked with the τέλος in analysis, the very existence of that τέλος depends upon the matter of the body in a crucial way. He says, “If the end is to exist or does exist; that which precedes it will exist or does exist; otherwise just as there, if the conclusion is not true, the premise will not be true, so here the end or ‘that for the sake of which’ will not exist” (Phys. 200a19). Here, again, we see the tension in

Aristotle’s distinction between that which is intelligibly prior (e.g. better known to us) and that which is logically prior (e.g. better known in itself). Neither can he achieve a total separation in the formulation of the essence, or definition, since, as we saw, the matter is included in the formula as a definitional part. Thus, he concludes Physics II by saying:

Perhaps the necessary is present also in the definition. For if one defines the operation of sawing as being a certain kind of dividing, then this cannot come about unless the saw has teeth of a certain kind; and these cannot be unless it is of iron. For in the definition too there are some parts that are, as it were, the matter (200b4).

The necessity of the material cause appears in the definition of the thing, which is the formulation of its essence, and thus, the nature of the thing cannot be ultimately be accounted for by the τέλος alone.179

179 See also Met. VII.7: “Therefore, as the saying goes, it is impossible that anything should be produced if there were nothing existing before. Obviously then some part of the result will pre-exist of necessity; for the matter is a part; for this is present in the process and it is this that becomes something. But is the matter an element even in the formula? We certainly describe in both ways what brazen circles

109

Since having a τέλος is, at the same time, having the possibility of actualizing it, in considering the actuality of the τέλος of some body, one must take the matter into consideration on two counts: 1) a thing is accountable to its matter in terms of continuing to have a τέλος, and 2) the τέλος of a body is only fully actualized when the matter that surrounds the body is somehow involved in the τέλος in a way assists in this actualization. In terms of the first, the matter of a body must persist in order for it to continue to have a given τέλος. As we said, the elements exist as potentials in the matter because they may at some later time be separated out from one another again, which would result in the destruction of the body composed of that matter. Death, according to

Aristotle, which is the destruction of living things, is caused ultimately by the elements tending to separate out from one another after a given amount of time in mixture with the other elements.180 Death and corruption come more quickly to those things that act or are used in ways that are fundamentally in conflict with their matter. In chapter three of a seldom-cited work called, On the Length and Shortness of Life, Aristotle says: “Hence all things are at all times in a state of transition and are coming into being or passing away.

The environment acts on them either favorably or antagonistically, and, owing to this,

are; we describe both the matter by saying it is brass, and the form by saying it is such and such a figure; and figure is the proximate genus in which it is placed. The brazen circle, then, has matter in its formula” (1032b30-1033a4).

180 A direct assertion of this is hard to find, but the assumption that natural death is due to an inevitable change in the primary contraries is present often when Aristotle talks about the death of living things. Cf. On Youth, Old Age, Life and Death, and Respiration 23: “There is violent death and again natural death, and the former occurs when the cause of death is external, the latter when it is internal, and involved from the beginning in the constitution of the organ, and not an affection derived from a foreign source” (478b25). And several lines later: “It is always to some lack of heat that death is due…” (478b32). Aristotle, “On Youth, Old Age, Life and Death, and Respiration,” trans. G.R.T. Ross, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 745-763.

110

things that change their situation become more or less enduring than their nature warrants, but they are never eternal when they contain contrary qualities” (465b25-30).181

For example, a fish will die quickly when removed from the water, and a saw will quickly rust and decompose if submerged in water. In each case, the destruction comes as a result of the body’s elemental composition being unable to maintain its µίξις due to its external circumstances.

In the second way, matter is related to the τέλος of something by assisting in its actualization. Again, complex bodies must not only avoid destruction, but must also be able to function in a certain way, and this involves taking the body’s material circumstances into account as well. For example, a fish needs to be surrounded by water in order to breathe, swim, etc., which is its functioning and actuality as a fish. In distinction from the first of these ways mentioned above, the matter with which we are primarily concerned here does not belong to the fish itself, but to what surrounds it—in this case, the water.

Here, we encounter two senses of ‘actuality,’ which we mentioned at the opening of the chapter but have not yet discussed explicitly. We will do this now because it allows us to clarify the distinction between form and τέλος in a way that is necessary for us to continue. They are referred to as ‘first’ and ‘second’ actuality. First actuality refers to the state in which something possesses a τέλος of its own. Second actuality, on the other hand, refers to the state in which something both has a τέλος and is functioning at that moment according to its nature. Both of these are generally translated as being

181 Aristotle, “On The Length and Shortness of Life,” trans. G.R.T. Ross., in The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984) 740-744.

111

“actualized,” though Aristotle uses different words to denote each. When in first actuality, the actuality of something is sometimes referred to as its ἐντελέχεια, which according to Liddell and Scott, can be derived from ‘ἐν τέλει ἔχειν,’ meaning literally,

“in a state of having a τέλος.”182 We see Aristotle employ the word in this sense when he says, in De Anima, that “soul is an actuality [ἐντελέχεια] of the first kind of a natural body potentially having life in it” (412a26).183 That is, in order for a body to be considered living (i.e. doing what living bodies tend to do), it must first attain a state upon which any further activity depends. In second actuality, Aristotle refers to the actuality as ἐνεργέια, which is to highlight its functioning (cf. ἐνεργέω, meaning “at work”).184 For instance, a boat attains a single τέλος when its constituent parts are combined in such a way that they surrender their individual τέλη and are thereby ontologically transformed into parts of the whole boat. This most likely occurs, however, in a boatyard or on a dry dock, absent from the water itself. On this account, it is not the case that it must encounter the water before it becomes an actual boat. In the dry dock,

182 A Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “ἐντελέχεια.” Liddell and Scott give the etymology of this by the analogy νουνέχεια from νουνεχής = νοῦν ἔχων, meaning “with understanding,” or “having discretion.” By analogy then, we can read ἐντελέχεια has meaning “with completion,” or “directed.”

183 Aristotle, “On the Soul,” trans. J.A. Smith, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol.1, ed. Jonathan Barnes, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 641-692. All passages cited from De Anima in all editions, DA hereafter.

184 This reading is complementary to Liddell and Scott, who give the difference between ἐντελέχεια and ἐνεργέια by saying, “both mean the actual existence of a thing, but ἐντελέχεια is the complete and absolute state consequent upon the ἐνεργέια.” See: A Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “ἐνεργέια.” ‘Consequent’ here, however, must be taken to mean consequent on the ἐνεργέια, not of the body itself, but of its matter. For instance, The process of building a boat entail the ἐνεργέια of the wood, etc., qua buildable, but not the ἐνεργέια of the boat itself. It is only upon the completion of the boat (i.e. of the boat’s becoming one body) that the boat itself attains an ἐντελέχεια. In turn, it is upon this basis that the boat has an ἐνεργέια and can function qua a boat.

112

the boat does attain a single τέλος [i.e. it has an ἐντελέχεια] and thus becomes an actual boat; it is simply not actualized at that time. This can be likened to Aristotle’s own example in De Anima of the eye, which has the power of sight, but is not seeing at that moment (cf. DA 412b17, 417a21). When the eye does begin to see, and likewise, when the boat is placed into the water, each become more fully what it is because it is then

“working” according to [cf. ἐνεργέω] its τέλος, and it therefore exists at the level of second actuality. Here, we have, not just an eye with the potential to see, but an eye seeing (the eye is mentioned both here and in Aristotle’s text as a metaphor for whole bodies).

We can understand the kind of matter not belonging to something, but which nonetheless that actualizes its τέλος, only if we know the τέλος beforehand, which involves being able to give a description of the body that includes its function. For instance, if we were to formulate the τέλος of a boat in terms of that which must be taken into account over and above the formula (i.e. boat=wood + arrangement) we add, “in order to carry humans and their chattels across the water.” Thus, we find it is water that actualizes the boat. But we must ask about the relationship the water qua external actualizing matter has with the boat. The water is not taken up as a constituent or arrangement in the formula of the boat (as a definitional part), nor is it a part of the boat itself as the wood and canvas are (i.e. as a physical part), nor does it directly contribute to the boat’s having a single τέλος (i.e. as an ontological part) because the boat may be a boat when it is out of water. We must, then, say that the τέλος of the boat simply involves the water as what we might call a ‘functional part.’ The boat may be a boat, and

113

thus a body having a place, without the water, but it cannot do what it was made to do unless it is floating in, or on, the water. In the same way that Aristotle was forced to admit that the τέλος cannot be formulated properly without some account of the matter, we must now say that neither can it be done without some view of the functional parts of the object. After all, in his discussion of the realm of the physicist’s knowledge, Aristotle says:

[T]he helmsman knows and prescribes what sort of form [τοῦ εἶδους] a helm should have, the other [i.e. the shipbuilder] from what wood it should be made and by means of what operations. In the products of art…we make the material with a view to the function, whereas in the products of nature the matter is there all along (Phys. 194b5).

Each of these, then, take the water into account: the designer of the ship designs it to move best through the water, while the shipbuilder, too, selects the best kind of wood to further this end. This, therefore, also applies to the physicist’s account, for according to

Aristotle, he must seek knowledge of the matter and the form, up to the point where he

“understands the purpose of each” (Phys. 194b11),185 and the purpose, of course, includes the function.

4. Place and Actuality

Thus, we can say that, depending on the extent to which the presence of one body is involved in the τέλος of the other (as the water is involved in the τέλος of the boat), this limit is the point at which the τέλη of that which is surrounded is either frustrated or actualized. Considering a body primarily in terms of its τέλος entails having a view, not

185 Trans. Hardie and Gaye

114

only of the composition of the parts of the body, as we discussed in chapter three, but also in terms of the outward directedness of the body in its relationship with its environment. Strictly speaking, the τέλος is never something that is either attained or maintained, like something’s form. Rather, because of a thing’s directedness, it is always active in the sense of an on-going activity, whether the body is fully actualized as what it is or in the process of being actualized within the ἐντελέχεια of another body.186 It is this view alone (seeing a body in terms of its outward directedness) that affords us the opportunity to consider the relevance of place to that body of which it is the place. That is, only here do we begin to examine the body, not as a mere unity that possesses a τέλος, and thus, some place, but further, as that which, by virtue of its τέλος, depends upon that which surrounds it for the possible and continued fulfillment of that τέλος.

It matters to the ontological status of the body—its way of being what it is—by what it is surrounded. As we know, place is the limit of the surrounding body at which it surrounds x. As a limit, however, it is indivisible, and thus, at the limit, there is a co- presence the surrounding and the surrounded (cf. Phys. 212a29).187 Although the physicist, beginning with perception, first encounters this surrounding as a physical phenomenon, a proper account of it must transcend the physical because, as we have seen, mere contact, in the sense of continuous-m, does not allows us to distinguish with

186 As when the wood qua buildable is actualized when the house is being built with it. It would be actualized, not as a maintenance of itself in what it is, but as working toward becoming the matter of, and therein maintaining itself in the context of, the higher actuality in the house (cf. Met. 1048b28-34). When it is built, the house will then work to maintain itself as what it is, not strive to become part of something higher. In either case, however, we find both to be outwardly directed at all times.

187 “Moreover, place is together with the object, because the limits are together with what is limited” (Phys. 212a29).

115

certainty whether or not those things that are in contact are or are not parts of the same body. But from an ontological viewpoint, we can conceive of this co-presence, not only in terms of their physical limits, but in terms of the limit of the τέλος of each as well.

From this point of view, we can differentiate that which is continuous-p from that which is merely contiguous. In an ontological whole, that part of x which is in contact with what surrounds x takes part in a certain form and τέλος that is not shared by that with which it is in contact, and this is the kind of contact indicative of place. Because x is one body, its parts are not in contact with each other in the same manner as they are with that which surrounds x (i.e. they are not in place relative to one another). Thus, Aristotle says, “[a]s was said, some things are potentially in place, others in actual operation.

Thus, when a thing with like parts is continuous, the parts are potentially in place, but when they are separate but in contact, as a heap, they are actually so” (Phys. 212b3).

From this, we shall say that place, in general, only occurs only where one body, with its individual τέλος, encounters another body that has a separate τέλος. This is not something that is up to us to decide upon, but it is something that occurs by nature.

The most important consequence of taking this view is that a change in location would not necessitate a change in place, for a change in place would only occur when there is a change in the actuality of that with which some x shares a limit. We can see the distinction that makes this possible in terms of an example where the place of the body is closely akin to its form. Consider a clod of earth which is continuous and has a shape, the form of which, by virtue of homogeneous composition (of elemental earth), is to move until it finds itself with that which is like it in form (i.e. the ground). Let us say it is

116

on the ground at T1. Now, if one were to kick the clod, it would roll along the ground for a time, before stopping again at T2, in contact with the ground, though in a different location. In terms of the fulfillment of form of this clod, however (i.e. its ontological status, or way of being), we see no difference between T1 and T2.

Ultimately, I wish to say that it is in this manner (e.g. in terms of the actuality of some x as determined, in part, by that which surrounds it) that the puzzle of the boat can be read most fruitfully. On this account, the boat on the river would remain in the same place as long as that which surrounds it does not change in such a way that would alter its ontological status by inhibiting its ability to function according to it nature, this being the actualization of its τέλος and the fulfillment of its εἶδος. This would not occur as long as the boat remains appropriately in the river (i.e. not fully submerged, etc.), or as long as the river itself does not change in a way that makes the actualization of the boat’s τέλος impossible (i.e. by freezing, etc.). In these terms, it would be correct to say that the whole river is the place of the boat regardless of the fact that the water that composes the river, and even the physical limit that the water shares with the boat, is constantly composed of different abstractly considered portions of water. Further, the place of the boat can be limited to the river and need not be extended to the whole of all continuous water (i.e. including the sea) because the boat, if it is not built to be a seafaring vessel, would suffer a change in its actuality if it were to leave the river for the rough seas.

However, before concluding, we ought to consider the body that surrounds x, specifically in terms of the character of the relationship it has with x. We will do this by returning to the discussion of the vessel, which we left somewhat incomplete in chapter one.

117

5. Vessels

Throughout Physics IV.1-5, Aristotle uses the phenomenon of something being in a vessel consistently as his archetype of what it means for something to be “in” something else (cf. Phys. 208b1, 209b28, 210a24). Place is consistently likened to a vessel, and he uses the example of the vessel throughout to test his hypotheses about place. What is the relationship between a vessel and a place? A vessel is different from a place, as we said in chapter one, specifically in that a vessel is itself a body, while place, though it is extended in all directions like a body, is not one (Phys. 209a5). For the physicist, however, place belongs essentially to a vessel, since he always considers limits as the limits of some body (Phys. 193b32). Aristotle describes the kind of limiting that a vessel achieves by us of the word περιέχειν, which is usually translated as ‘to surround’ or ‘to contain’ (Phys. 212a5, 212a20). In matters of place, he also makes it clear that that which is surrounded is a body itself (Phys. 212a6, 212b28). Thus, a vessel is a body that surrounds another body such that they share a limit with one another.

As we have said, however, any analysis of the way in which one thing is together with another that remains on the physical level will necessarily fail to account for the difference between the way in which two parts of the same body may limit one another and the way in which one body limits another body because the limit in each case will have a different ontological significance, which is not manifested as a physical feature.

Thus, describing the vessel merely in terms of ‘surrounding’ is not a sufficient account of it qua vessel. If it were, in the end, any body that could envelop another would be an

118

equally good vessel, but clearly this is not the case. A fish may be surrounded just as well by oil as by water, but considering the fish in terms of its τέλος, we can immediately see that the places provided by these respective vessels are not equal. The defining characteristic of surrounding, then, cannot be a mere “containment,” as Morison calls it.188 Indeed, from our previous considerations, it is clear that, when speaking of something as a vessel, we are not speaking of it merely as having a certain concave, or internal, shape.189 A vessel, it would seem, is not a vessel in virtue of its surrounding another body so much as it is one in virtue of ‘holding’ it.

It is not simply an idiom of English to speak this way, for περιέχειν is etymologically composed of ‘περι,’ meaning “around,”, and ‘ἔχειν,’ meaning “to hold” or “to have.”190 Aristotle is certainly conscious of this etymological construction, for in two different passages outside of the Physics where ἔχειν is made the specific subject of discussion, Aristotle explicitly mentions the relationship between a vessel and its contents as examples of it. First, in the Categories, he says ἔχειν is spoken of, in one way, “as in

188 Cf. Morison, On Location, 56-57. He says: “It is clear from the end of the passage [Phys. 209a31-209b2] that Aristotle identifies ‘x is in y’ with ‘y contains x’.”

189 Ibid., 145-146.

190 Morison does not miss this etymology either, though he draws the opposite conclusion about the sense of ‘holding’ involved. He says that the holding belongs to the surrounded object itself according to the fifth sense of being-in that Aristotle gives in Phys. IV.3, namely, “as health is in hot and cold things, and generally, as the form is in the matter” (Phys. 210a2). This leads him to conclude, “objects have (or perhaps ‘hold’) their places in the way of having which corresponds to the category of where” (Morison, On Location, 78). He tells us that this agrees with Aristotle’s use of κατέχει at Physics IV 1, (208b3-4), where Aristotle is speaking about air coming to ‘occupy’ the same place as water through the process of replacement, and thus, Morison concludes that “objects hold, or occupy their places” (Morison, On Location, 78). But given this instance of κατέχει seems to infer some sort of actual place independent of either body (a notion that Aristotle rejects in by means of the same example of replacement in Phys. IV.4, (211b14-28)), I believe it is best to read it as a provisional or dialectic proposition, much in the way that Aristotle mentions ‘space’ [χώρα] while laying out the problems about place at Phys. 208b8 without intending to ultimately assert anything meaningful about it.

119

a container, as with the measure of wheat or the jar of wine (for the jar is said to have wine, and the measure wheat, so these are said to have as in a container)” (15b24).

Second, in Met. V.23, he says that one relationship denoted by having is “[a]s that which contains has that which is contained” (1023a13). He continues, “for a thing is said to be had by that in which it is contained, e.g. we say that the vessel has the liquid and the city has men and the ship sailors; and so too that the whole has the parts” (Met. 1023a14).

From this passage, not only can we see that a vessel, for Aristotle, is that which essentially “holds” something else, but also, through his several examples of holding, we can see that existing in a relationship of ἔχειν has a distinctly ontological significance for that which is held. In chapter three, we have already delineated the way in which parts exist in an altered way as a result of being parts of a whole, but we can see a similar alteration in the cases of the men and the sailors. In having men, the city makes them most fully what they are because, according to Aristotle, man is a political animal by nature (Pol. 1253a1).191 Similarly, while a sailor remains a sailor when on leave, he ceases to be one once he no longer belongs to a crew of some particular ship.

We can see this same ontological character of ἔχειν when we examine the various other uses Aristotle attributes to it in Metaphysics V.23. There, the word ‘ἔχειν’ also means: 1) to have under one’s power, or to use something as if it were part of oneself, 2) to receive the form [εἶδος] of something, and 3) to hinder or re-direct something from its own nature by subordinating it to the power of something greater, as in that which “holds

191 Aristotle, “Politics,” trans. B. Jowett, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 1986-2129.

120

together” other things (Met. 1023a8-25). In the first of these, an instrument, such as a saw, is most fully actualized when it is held by one who uses it to saw. In the second, an ontological change takes place, as we said, whenever the material constituents of a body surrender their own individual forms and take on the common form of the whole.192 And similarly, in the third, when the natural impulse of something is diverted by some external cause, as in the case of the elements when held from their natural places by force, they exist, in a sense, less fully as themselves than they would if they had been left to themselves.

It is clear, then, that Aristotle envisions the relationship of holding as one of ontological significance, but we still need to articulate the sense in which a vessel does this for that which it holds. From the examples just given, we can see that holding is not merely characteristic of vessels, and thus, of place. Indeed, each of these three additional senses of ‘ἔχειν’ we have just mentioned are basically synonymous with three of the senses of being-in that Aristotle mentions at the opening of Physics IV.3 none of which are the kind of being-in indicative of place. Having something under one’s power corresponds to the sixth sense of being-in given in Physics IV.3 (e.g. “as the affairs of

Greece are in the king” (210a21)). Receiving the form of something corresponds to the fifth sense (e.g. “as form is in matter” (210a20)). And redirecting something from its own nature in service of a greater power corresponds to the seventh sense of being-in

(e.g. “as a thing centers in its end” (210a23)). These parallels seem to be made

192 Chapter three, pg 84.

121

consciously, for at the end of the Metaphysics V.23, Aristotle says, “‘Being in something’ has similar and corresponding meanings to ‘holding’ or ‘having’” (1023a24).

However, the fact that the vessel maintains itself as distinct from that which it holds makes the vessel’s distinctive way of holding different from the other three senses of ‘being-in’ we have just mentioned. The relationship of the king to Greece is one of an efficient cause, or source of movement, to that which moves. The relationship of form to matter is a metaphysical (or perhaps definitional) relationship, and as we said in chapter one, these two aspects never exist apart from one another (e.g. bodies are hylomorphic).193 And the τέλος that constrains its material constituents is not itself a body, but a principle of unity among those constituents. A vessel, on the other hand, surrounds that which is in it while maintaining the limit between itself and that which it holds. This can be seen by the way Aristotle speaks of the vessel in Physics IV. Aristotle says, “[a]gain, when [a thing] is not separate [from another thing with which it is in contact] it is described as a part in the whole, as the pupil in the eye or the hand in the body: when it is separate, [it is] as the water is the cask or the wine in the jar. For the hand is moved with the body and the water in the cask” (Phys. 211b1, emphasis added).

Thus, although the other senses of being-in display a relationship of holding as well, only that which is held by a vessel can achieve a movement that is separate from that which holds it, which indicates that it maintains a τέλος which is distinct as well. Since that which is held in each of the other cases moves with that which holds it, the holding that obtains in each of these cases are varieties of ‘belonging-to,’ in the sense of one thing

193 Chapter one, pg. 18.

122

being ontologically subjugated to the τέλος of another. This formulation of the relationship between the parts and the whole forms a counterpart to speaking the parts as

“surrendering” their forms, as we did in chapter three. 194

On the other hand, far from subjugating and subsuming that which it holds, the vessel can, in fact, make something more itself than it might have been otherwise. Thus, we should say that that which is held by a vessel should be thought of as being

“embraced” by the vessel.195 Understanding περιέχειν in this sense retains the physical connotation of surrounding as containment without ignoring the fact that the vessel must also be understood in terms of what that which is held is, or strives to be, in accordance with its nature. As we said, if the surrounded body is in its natural place, the surrounding body appears in the formulation of the τέλος of the surrounded, and thus, the vessel is best understood as a functional part of that of which it is the vessel. Place, then, is that which is coincident with this embrace.

On this account, place reveals itself as a special element in Aristotle’s ontology. It is, in effect, a mirroring point of nature. Throughout our discussion, we have encountered the tension one experiences when attempting to lay bare Aristotle’s investigative method, which proceeds from that which is first encountered by perception, toward the principles that explain what we experience, which are known better by nature, or in themselves. Place appears for us on both ends of this process, for one must be able to perceive differences between things in order to subject them to causal analysis, yet

194 Pg. 84

195 According to Liddell and Scott, περιέχειν can also be translated ‘to embrace’ as well as ‘to encompass,’ or ‘to surround.’ A Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “περιέχω.”

123

only by doing so and understanding their τέλη does one re-affirm that which one analyzes as a unified entity. Place must be present at each of these moments, though it is so in different senses. On the physical level, place is that which grants us the ability to perceive, as Aristotle says, “plurality and the divisible is more perceptible than the indivisible, so that in definition plurality is prior to the indivisible, because of the conditions of perception” (Met. 1054a26). But on the ontological level, place is that which grants us the knowledge of unity, and thus, being.196 Place is also a limit in both of these senses. As a physical limit, it marks the boundary between two bodies and their parts, and in this sense, is the limit between the shapes [μορφή] of two bodies. But since a change in the shape of a body does not guarantee a change in its place, unless one presupposes a geometric framework to be the condition for the possibility of spatiality, as

Aristotle clearly does not, we should conclude that place is not ultimately a physical limit. What does guarantee a change in place, or at least the natural impulse to seek a new place, is a change in the actuality of some body, which leads us to the claim that the primary significance of place is ontological. As an ontological limit, place is somewhat different. On one “side” of this limit, we encounter the ontological parts of a single body sharing in a single essence, or εἶδος, while on the other, we encounter the functional parts sharing in the body’s ἐνεργέια according to its εἶδος (i.e. its ἐντελέχεια).

196 Aristotle wants to equate unity and being on the grounds that “‘one existent man’ adds nothing to ‘existent man,’ so that it is obvious that the addition in these cases means the same thing, and unity is nothing apart from being” (Met. IV.2, 1003b30). He describes the connection between the two as being “implied in one another as principle and cause are, not in the sense that they are explained by the same definition (though it makes no difference even if we suppose them to be like that—in fact this would even strengthen our case” (1003b23).

124

6. Answering the Boat Puzzle

To conclude, let us draw out this position fully by returning to the four questions concerning the boat puzzle that we posed at the end of chapter one. They were: 1) What is the river beyond the water that constitutes it at any given moment? 2) How can the whole river be the boat’s place if place cannot be larger than that of which it is the place

(cf. Phys. 211a28)? 3) If the whole river is the place, how can we articulate its limit with the boat in a way that it remains always together with the boat (cf. Phys. 212a29)? And,

4) how can we understand Aristotle’s designation of the river as unchanging [ἀκίνητος]

(Phys. 212a20)?

To the first of these, we must say that, the river is a body, the definition of which would be something like “water + arrangement,” where the arrangement would involve its being continuous-m197 in whatever way the water of which it is constituted at any given moment arranges itself according to its elemental nature. Beyond this, we will say that the river is, in fact, a body and a whole, rather than a heap, because the river itself has a sort of functioning that belongs to it and in which all the water in it participates (i.e. its flowing).198 In sharing in this εἶδος, the water becomes river water (as opposed to rain or spring water, etc.), and since the river can flow well or poorly depending on that which surrounds it (i.e. it will flow poorly if it is dammed up, etc.), it too can be seen as

197 Given that one part of water does not typically maintain distinct boundaries from another part with which it is in contact, we could safely say that this arrangement will be continuous-p.

198 It is reasonable to think of Aristotle defining a river in this way. In Metaphysics VIII, when considering the definition of certain complex names, he says: “what is still weather? Absence of motion in a large expanse of air; air is the matter, and absence of motion is the actuality and substance. What is calm? Smoothness of sea; the material substratum is the sea, and the actuality or shape is smoothness” (Met. 1043a23-26).

125

outwardly directed in the sense having a τέλος. Thus, it is the maintenance of a certain kind of activity, not being composed of a certain ostensible set or amount of water, that would entail the river remaining self-identical through over time.

In terms of the second, although the river is larger than the boat, it can be the place of the boat because the relationship that obtains between the water and the boat is one of a vessel that holds it, rather than one the simply surrounds it. By this, we mean that it is a body of such a character to provide a place for some other body. In doing so, it is true that part of the vessel will surround that body and form a limit with it, but it is not the case that that which is held is held merely by that limiting part, or any other single part of the vessel. For instance, we do not say that any single part of the jar is responsible for holding the wine. The wine is held by the whole jar, including the parts of the jar that contribute to the thickness of its sides, and which, because of this, cannot come into contact with it. In the case of the river, all of the water contributes to holding the boat, even those parts of water that do not share a direct limit with it because it is only in virtue of its being a body of a certain thickness that the boat may be held by it at all. Here, we run into the distinction between the water as a vessel and the place itself that is provided for by the water. Being a body, the water necessarily has magnitude, while as a limit, the place does not. This is true, but in a sense, having extension, especially in this case, appears necessary. Being fluid and of such a form to flow, its continued ability to serve as the vessel of the boat requires that it continue to flow. Thus, it may be the case that the river must be hundreds of miles long in order to maintain this form, just as the jar must be of a certain thickness to continue to hold the wine. But further, given that its form is to

126

flow, any given part of the river may come into contact with the boat at some time, and thus, be that water that forms the limit with the boat. Thus, the whole river must be the place, for if only certain parts of the river are to be called the place, we will be faced with the possibility that the place might change without any change in the way it is held.

In terms of the third, determining how to articulate the limit that the river shares with the boat has been made easier by our previous comments. Certain commentators, such as Alexander of Aphrodisias, read the limit as being the bed and banks of the river, but this violates the qualification that the limit be together with the limited (i.e. the boat).199 The bed and banks of the river are, indeed, the place of the river, and thus, serve as its functional parts, but this does not properly concern the boat. Alexander seems to have preferred this answer, however, because he thought that the limit, if it belonged to the river, would have to be composed of the particular parts of water, which were constantly changing, thereby changing the limit. However, taking an ontological view of the situation, we find that the river’s limit with the boat does not, in fact, change as long as the river itself remains in the proper relationship with the boat that allows it to function as a boat. In a negative sense, this would entail the boat not being held on the bottom by any other body, such as the riverbed, at any given moment. Stating it in this manner avoids having to puzzle over exactly how much water we need surrounding the bottom of the boat, as Morison does at one point.200 As we said in our previous response, the

199 King, “Aristotle’s Theory of ΤΟΠΟΣ,” 88-89.

200 Morison, On Location, 65-66.

127

thickness of the water contributes to its being able to serve as a vessel, and thus, provide the place, but any given part of the water by itself is not the limit.

And finally, in terms of the fourth, if we translate [ἀκίνητος] at Phys. 212a20 as

“immovable,” Aristotle’s description is hard to understand, for the river is able to move in many ways, even if we discount its flowing as a stable feature of its form. For one, rivers constantly erode their banks, but they can also flood, dry up, be diverted, etc.

Thus, we must translate ‘ἀκίνητος’ as “unchanging.” In this way, Aristotle is saying no more than we have said several times now: in order for the river to continue to function as a vessel for the boat, it must not change in any way that makes it impossible for the boat to actualize its τέλος. Aristotle does not require that vessels themselves be immobile. He specifically calls the vessel “a place which can be carried around” (Phys.

212a14). And further, it is significant that Aristotle describes that which is held by a vessel as moving in it (not with it), regardless of whether the vessel itself is moved. He says, “if one body is in continuity with another, it is not moved in that but with that. On the other hand it is moved in that if it is separate. It makes no difference whether what contains is moved or not” (Phys. 211a34). Since, the whole vessel (here, the water that is the matter of the river) provides a place for the boat by holding it, this holding would continue without altering the place of the boat, even as the river is diverted, floods, etc. because the boat is still related to it through being in it. That is, place, which results from this holding, must stay with the vessel wherever it is moved, but place itself does not move, even though the vessel itself may. Thus, because the boat and the river are separate bodies, the boat may move about in the river while remaining in the same place.

128

This motion differs from the motion of the river, which can be moved, though when it is, this does not entail the movement of that which is in it. However, given that the vessel itself is a body and therefore extended, there exist a range of locations that are technically in the same place.

The main problem of the boat puzzle, then, is not, as Morison takes it to be, anything like an issue of tracking changes of location in terms of the universe during compound motions, but rather, as it turns out, how location (or ‘where’) and place are specifically different from one another. In the end, I believe Aristotle employs this puzzle because it allows us to see this difference clearly in a way that most normal scenarios cannot.

Works Cited

Aristotle. “Analytica Posteriora.” Translated by G.R.G. Mure. In The Basic Works of

Aristotle, edited by Richard McKeon, 110-187. New York: Random House, 1941.

———. Categories and De Interpretatione. Translated by J.L. Ackrill. Oxford:

Clarendon Press, 1963.

———. “De Caelo.” Translated by J.L. Stocks. In The Basic Works of Aristotle. Edited

by Richard McKeon, 396-466. New York: Random House, 1941.

———. De Generatione et Corruptione. Translated by C.J.F. Williams. Oxford:

Clarendon Press, 1982.

———. “Generation of Animals.” Translated by A. Platt. In The Complete Works of

Aristotle: Vol. 1. Edited by Jonathan Barnes, 1111-1218. Princeton: Princeton

University Press, 1984.

———. “Metaphysica.” Translated by W.D. Ross. In The Basic Works of Aristotle.

Edited by Richard McKeon, 682-926. New York: Random House, 1941.

———. Metaphysics I-IX. Vol. 17 of Aristotle in Twenty-Three Volumes. Cambridge:

Harvard University Press, 1956.

———. “Meteorology.” Translated by E.W. Webster. In The Complete Works of

Aristotle: Vol. 1. Edited by Jonathan Barnes, 555-625. Princeton: Princeton

University Press, 1984.

129

130

———. On Sophistical Refutations, On Coming-To-Be and Passing-Away, On the

Cosmos. Vol. 3 of Aristotle in Twenty-Three Volumes. Cambridge: Harvard

University Press, 1965.

———. On the Heavens. Vol. 6 of Aristotle in Twenty-Three Volumes. Cambridge:

Harvard University Press, 1960.

———. “On The Length and Shortness of Life.” Translated by G.R.T. Ross. In The

Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1. Edited by Jonathan Barnes, 740-744.

Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984.

———. “On the Soul.” Translated by J.A. Smith. In The Complete Works of Aristotle:

Vol.1. Edited by Jonathan Barnes, 641-692. Princeton: Princeton University Press,

1984.

———. On The Soul. Translated by Joe Sachs. Santa Fe: Green Lion Press, 2004.

———. “On Youth, Old Age, Life and Death, and Respiration.” Translated by G.R.T.

Ross. In The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1. Edited by Jonathan Barnes,

745-763. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984.

———. Physics Books III and IV. Translated by Edward Hussey. Oxford: Clarendon

Press, 1983.

———. “Physica.” Translated by R.P. Hardie and R.K. Gaye. In The Basic Works of

Aristotle. Edited by Richard McKeon, 214-394. New York: Random House, 1941.

———. Physics in Two Volumes: Vol. I, The. Vol. 4 of Aristotle in Twenty-Three

Volumes. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1970.

131

———. Physics in Two Volumes: Vol. II, The. Vol. 5 of Aristotle in Twenty-Three

Volumes. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1968.

———. “Politics.” Translated by B. Jowett. In The Complete Works of Aristotle: Vol. 1.

Edited by Jonathan Barnes, 1986-2129. Princeton: Princeton University Press,

1984.

Bacon, Francis. The New Organon. Edited by Fulton H. Anderson. Upper Saddle River:

Prentice Hall, 1960.

Bogaard, Paul A. “Heaps or Wholes: Aristotle’s Explanation of Compound Bodies.” Isis

70, no. 1 (March 1979): 11-29.

Bolton, Robert. “Aristotle’s Method in Natural Science.” In Aristotle’s Physics: A

Collection of Essays. Edited by Lindsay Judson, 1-29. Oxford: Clarendon Press,

1991.

Bostock, David. Space, Time, Matter, and Form: Essays on Aristotle’s Physics. Oxford:

Clarendon Press, 2006.

Casey, Edward S. Getting Back into Place. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993.

Gill, Mary Louise. “Aristotle’s Metaphysics Reconsidered.” Journal of the History of

Philosophy 43, no. 3 (2005): 223-251.

King, H.R. “Aristotle’s Theory of ΤΟΠΟΣ.” The Classical Quarterly 44, no. ½ (January-

April 1950): 76-96.

Lang, Helen S. The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics: Place and the Elements.

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.

132

Liddell, Henry George and Robert Scott. A Greek-English Lexicon. 7th ed. New York:

Harpers & Brothers, 1889.

Machamer, Peter K. “Aristotle on Natural Place and Natural Motion.” Isis, 69 no.3

(September 1978): 377-387.

Mendell, Henry. “Topoi on Topos.” Phronesis 32, no. 2 (1987): 206-231.

Morison, Benjamin. On Location. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002.

Newton, Isaac. Principia Vol. I: The Motion of Bodies. Berkeley: University of California

Press, 1966.

Quine, Willard Van Orman. Word and Object. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1960.

Scaltsas, Theodore. “Substantial Holism.” In Unity, Identity, and Explanation in

Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Edited by T. Scaltsas, D. Charles, and M.L. Gill, 107-

128. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994.

Schiappa, Edward. Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek Philosophy and Rhetoric.

2nd ed. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003.