Sharon Weisser, Naly Thaler-Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy

Strategies of Polemics
in Greek and Roman

Philosophy
Edited by
Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler
21
Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy
Jerusalem Studies in
Religion and Culture
Editors
Guy Stroumsa (Hebrew University of Jerusalem)

David Shulman (Hebrew University of Jerusalem)
VOLUME 21
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Strategies of Polemics in
Greek and Roman
Philosophy
Edited by
LEIDEN | BOSTON
This publication is supported by the Van Leer Jerusalem Institute.
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Names: Weisser, Sharon, editor. | Thaler, Naly, editor.

Title: Strategies of polemics in Greek and Roman philosophy / edited by
Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler.
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religion and culture, ISSN 1570-078X ; VOLUME 21
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Contents
Acknowledgements vii
Notes on Contributors VIII
Introduction 1
The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means? 16

André Laks
The Young Dogs of Eristic: Dialectic and Eristic in the Early

Academy 31
Christopher Shields
A Hidden Argument in Plato’s Theaetetus 55

Naly Thaler
Polemical Arguments about Pleasure: The Controversy within and around

the Academy 71
Charlotte Murgier
The Politics of Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic 93

Jozef Müller
Cyrenaics and Epicureans on Pleasure and the Good Life: The Original
Debate and Its Later Revivals 113
Voula Tsouna
Polemics in Translation: Lucretius 150

Daniel Marković
The Perfidious Strategy; or, the Platonists against Stoicism 166

Mauro Bonazzi
Vehementia: A Rhetorical Basis of Polemics in Roman Philosophy 185

Carlos Lévy
vi contents
The Art of Quotation: Plutarch and Galen against Chrysippus 205

Sharon Weisser
The Invisible Adversary: Anti-Christian Polemic in Proclus’s Commentary

on the Republic of Plato 230
Robert Lamberton
Index 239
Acknowledgements
This volume brings together papers that were presented at a colloquium at the
Van Leer Jerusalem Institute in January 2014 entitled Strategies of Polemics in
Greek and Roman Philosophy. Some participants did not publish their papers
in this volume, other papers were especially prepared for the publication. This
project could not have seen the light without the financial and logistical sup-
port of the Van Leer Jerusalem Institute. We would like to express our grati-
tude to Prof. Gabriel Motzkin, the director of the Institute, for supporting this
project. Our gratitude also goes to Carole Dreyfus and Shulamit Laron for their
assistance with the logistical support in hosting the conference. The Van Leer
Jerusalem Institute also provided financial support for the publication. We
would like to express our thanks to Dr. Tal Kohavi, executive editor and direc-
tor of Van Leer Institute Press. Sincere thanks are due to our linguistic editor,
Deborah Schwartz, who was requested to do a “polish editing” but ended doing
much more than that. We are deeply thankful for her untiring work, her dedi-
cation and uncommon insight. We also wish to thank Pieter van Roon, produc-
tion editor at Brill and Stephanie Paalvast, editor at Brill, as well as Prof. Guy
Stroumsa and Prof. David Shulman, the directors of the collection. Thanks are
due to two anonymous referees for their careful reading, helpful comments,
corrections and recommendations. Finally, we would like to express our warm
gratitude to the contributors, who enthusiastically accepted our offer to parti-
cipate in this project. It has been a pleasure working with all of them.
Unless indicated otherwise, ancient authors and works are referred to accor-
ding to the abbreviations listed in the OCD.
Notes on Contributors
Mauro Bonazzi
teaches History of Ancient Philosophy at the University of Milan. His most
recent books are À la recherché des Idées. Platonisme et philosophie hellénis-
tique d’Antiochus à Plotin (2016), Il platonismo (2015), and a commented
translation of Plotinus’ Ennead I 4, On Happiness (2016).
André Laks
is Professor Emeritus of Ancient Philosophy at Paris-Sorbonne University, and
currently teaches at the Universidad Panamericana, Mexico, D.F. His most
recent contribution to the study of Greek philosophy is the Early Greek Philo-
sophy in 9 volumes, published by Loeb (2016), and its French counterpart
published by Fayard, in collaboration with Glenn W. Most.
Robert Lamberton
is Professor of Classics Emeritus at Washington University in St. Louis. His
books include Homer the Theologian (1986) and Proclus the Successor on Poetry
and the Homeric Poems (2012).
Carlos Lévy
is Professor Emeritus of Roman Philosophy and Literature at Paris-Sorbonne
University. He is the founder of the Centre d’Études sur la Philosophie Hellé-
nistique et Romaine. His publications include Recherches sur les Académiques
et sur la philosophie cicéronienne (1992), Les scepticismes (2008) and Devenir
dieux (2010) as well as numerous papers on Cicero, Philo of Alexandria, Ancient
Skepticism and Rhetoric.
Daniel Marković
is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Cincinnati. He studies
Greco-Roman philosophical literature, rhetoric, and Latin poetry. His publi-
cations include several notes and articles on Lucretius and The Rhetoric of
Explanation in Lucretius’ De rerum natura (2008).
Jozef Müller
is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of California, Riverside.
He is the author of several articles on Aristotle.
notes on contributors ix
Charlotte Murgier
is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of Paris Est Créteil Val de
Marne. She is the author of Éthiques en dialogue, Aristote lecteur de Platon
(2013).
Christopher Shields
is Shuster Professor of Philosophy at the University of Notre Dame. His books
include Aristotle, De Anima, trans. and comm. (2016), (with Robert Pasnau)
The Philosophy of Thomas Aquinas (2016), Aristotle (2014), Ancient Philosophy:
a Contemporary Introduction (2011), and, as editor, The Oxford Handbook of
Aristotle (2013) and The Blackwell Guide to Ancient Philosophy (2009).
Naly Thaler
is Lecturer of Philosophy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He has
published various papers on Plato’s Theaetetus and Republic, and on Plotinus’
philosophy of nature.
Voula Tsouna
is Professor of Philosophy at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Her
publications include [Philodemus] [On Choices and Avoidances] (1995), which
received the Theodor Mommsen Award; The Epistemology of the Cyrenaic
School (1998); The Ethics of Philodemus (2007); and a volume of collected essays
on the Socratics and the Hellenistic philosophers in modern Greek translation
(2012). She has written numerous articles on Plato and the Hellenistic and
Roman philosophers in English, French, and Modern Greek.
Sharon Weisser
is Lecturer at the Department of Philosophy at Tel Aviv University. Her area of
specialization includes Stoicism and Philo of Alexandria, on which she has
published several papers.
Introduction
To what extent were polemics an integral component of ancient philosophy?

If this question had been posed to intellectuals writing in the first centuries
of the Common Era, many would have answered that the tradition of Greek
and Roman philosophy is no more than a succession of controversies between
schools or individual philosophers. Indeed, many Christian thinkers from the
second century onward, while well aware of their own indebtedness to the
debates and currents of Greek philosophy, tended to present Greek philoso-
phy as mere battle between sects of contentious intellectuals more interested
in winning a contest than in disclosing the truth. Thus, in the fourteenth and
fifteenth books of the Preparation for the Gospel, Eusebius of Caesarea presents
the history of philosophy from its inception as that of its various battles:
. . . and all the philosophers on all sides struggling against their neigh-
bors, and mrost bravely joining in battle and wrestling, so that even with
hands and tongue, or rather with pen and ink, they raise strongholds of
war against each other, striking, as it were, and being struck by the spears
and various weapons of their wordy war. (Praep. evang. 14.2.3; trans.
E. H. Gifford)
In contrast to Greek philosophy, whose practitioners are presented as “boxers

eagerly exchanging blows as on a stage before the spectators,” the “true phi-
losophy” of the Hebrews is presented as a unified and unchanged doctrine,
kept “with one mind and one voice,” that has been passed down, intact, to its
Christian heirs (ibid. 14.2.1–14.3.5). By adopting the terminology of war and
athletic contest in his presentation of the various philosophical doctrines,
Eusebius depicts Greek philosophy as an arena in which each master is over-
thrown by his own disciple. In Eusebius’s eyes the history of philosophy is that
of dissensions, discords, and quarrels, fought through the weapons of logoma-
chia. It is no surprise, therefore, that Eusebius concludes his exposition by
quoting these lines from the third century BCE Skeptic philosopher and poet
Timon of Phlius, who wrote concerning the tenets of the philosophers:
Strife, the ruin of men, goes about shouting in vain,

the sister and servant of man-destroying quarrel.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_002

2 Weisser and Thaler
Unseen she rolls around everything, but then

she fixes onto the head of a mortal, and casts him into hope.1
Eusebius was not the only Christian steeped in Greek culture who saw the
tradition of Greek and Roman philosophy as a mere battlefield. Thus, a few
years before Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, the “Christian Cicero,”
Lactantius, writes in his Divine Institutes:
Philosophy has split into a multiplicity of sects, and they all think dif-
ferently. Which one do we go to for truth? . . . Any one sect dismisses all
others in order to confirm itself and its own ideas, and it admits wis-
dom in no other sect in case it concedes error of its own; but its pro-
cess of dismissing other sects is the same process by which they dismiss
it, for those who condemn a sect for its folly are philosophers none the
less: praise any one sect and call it true, and philosophers condemn it
as false. . . . This way they all perish together: like the Sparti of the poets,
they kill each other in turn till none survive at all, and that happens
because they have swords but no shields. If then individual sects are
found guilty of folly on the verdict of the many, then they all turn out to
be vain and futile. Thus philosophy works its own end and destruction
itself. (3.4.3–10; trans. A. Bowen)
Lactantius’s words indicate that for him controversies and polemics are the
ultimate sign of the failure of Greek philosophy. The abundance of points of
view, the divisions between schools and thinkers, and the many divergent doc-
trines among them testify, in his eyes, that philosophy has patently failed to
reach the one, unique truth.2
In a similar vein Philo of Alexandria, the first century CE Jewish exegete,
singles out the many divergent opinions concerning the genesis of the cos-
mos, the nature of elements, and the validity of sensible perception and claims
that the rivalry prevalent among philosophers debating these topics serves as
testimony to the fact that “the philosophical issues have become full of discord
(diaphōnia)” and that truth has escaped the arena of philosophy (Her. 248).
For Philo, as was the case for many Christian authors, it was time to end the
1 Praep. evang. 15.62.15; Timon 795 SH = 21 D. Clayman, Dee L. trans., Timon of Phlius: Pyr-
rhonism into Poetry. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009, 96.
2 In the same vein, for Justin Martyr, the second century CE Christian apologist, the many con-
tradictions on most important points among the Greek schools of philosophy serve as a sign
that they do not to possess heavenly wisdom (Apol. 2.13).
Introduction 3
disputes and to replace the many divergent doctrines with a higher and unique
dogma disclosing the only truth.
Needless to say, this project was never realized. Philo had no discernable
impact on Jewish thought in the subsequent centuries, and from its incep-
tion early Christianity became the privileged scene of many forms of contro-
versies, external as well as internal. The engagement with Greek philosophy
often served to fuel contemporaneous debates inside the Christian tradition
itself: the accusation of being a “Stoic” or “Epicurean” was commonly used as a
slander against contemporary authors considered as heretics,3 as it was widely
believed that all later heresies sprung from the various Greek philosophical
schools.4
Yet the consideration of “pagan philosophy” as essentially polemical was
by no means confined only to early Christianity or to Alexandrine Judaism.
Famously, the most eminent representative of the Second Sophistic, Lucian of
Samosata, often lampoons the disorderly heteroclite and controversial aspects
of philosophy. In the Icaromenippus, the central character voices his complete
despair concerning the possibility of apprehending the truth by associating
with philosophers, insofar as they uphold completely opposed doctrines and
quarrel with one another to no apparent resolution (Icar. 5–10). Later on in
the same work, it is Zeus himself who voices an even harsher version of this
accusation against the “lazy, disputatious, vainglorious, quick-tempered, glut-
tonous (Icar. 29)” Stoics, Academics, Epicureans, and Peripatetics, who under
the pretense of teaching virtue, in fact
accuse everyone else; they amass biting phrases and school themselves
in novel terms of abuse, and then they censure and reproach their
fellow-men; and whoever of them is the most noisy and impudent and
reckless in calling names is held to be the champion. (Icar. 30–31; trans.
A. M. Harmon)
It would be tempting to view the derogatory remarks about philosophy in these

late authors as reflections of the particular social or religious milieus in which
they were written. But to yield to this temptation would be to overlook the fact
3 See Bureau, Bruno and Colot, Blandine. “Le thème de la philosophie païenne dans la
polémique chrétienne, de Lactance à Augustin.” In La parole polémique, edited by Gilles
Declercq, Michel Murat, and Jacqueline Dangel, 57–102, esp. 83–84. Paris: H. Champion, 2003.
4 See, for example, the proemium of the first book of the Refutation of All Heresies, attributed
to Hippolytus (and also Ref. 9.26; 5.1; 5.15; 6.17; 6.24; 6.50; 7.7; 7.17–19); Irenaeus adv. Haer.
2.14.2–7; Tertullian, de praescr. haer. 7. Origen figures as an exception: C. Cels. 3.12.
that the argumentative and contentious aspects of philosophy were already

brought to the fore in classical times by both its detractors and its defendants.
Thus, as early as the fifth century, we find Gorgias in the Helen describing phil-
osophical discussion as a contest in which the winners are defined not by suc-
cess in attaining truth but rather by quickness of mind:
That Persuasion, when added to speech, can also make any impression it
wishes on the soul, can be shown, firstly, from the arguments of the mete-
orologists, who by removing one opinion and implanting another, cause
what is incredible and invisible to appear before the eyes of the mind;
secondly, from legal contests, in which a speech can sway and persuade
a crowd by the skill of its composition, not by the truth of its statements;
thirdly, from the philosophical debates, in which quickness of thought is
shown easily altering opinion. (Helen 13, trans. Freeman)
No doubt Gorgias’s description of philosophy in the Helen is motivated by the

general purpose of the treatise, at least part of which is to argue that the notion
of success in speech is, in principle, independent from the notion of truth.
But one must remember that part of Gorgias’s strategy for substantiating this
general thesis is to cite specific examples of domains of speech in which it is
commonly acknowledged that the criterion for success is not the attainment
of truth, and then argue that this is in fact the general rule in all domains of
speech. By placing philosophical activity alongside forensic oratory in the clus-
ter of examples from which the rule about speech is induced, Gorgias must be
relying on some popular conception of philosophy, one that does not clearly
distinguish between it and judicial oratory.
Perhaps the most familiar and outstanding piece of evidence for the popu-
lar conception of philosophy in the Classical period which failed to distinguish
between it and other contemporary forms of disputation is the accusation
and trial of Socrates. In Plato’s Apology we find Socrates claiming that his
habitual examination of citizens laying claim to knowledge had earned him
a reputation for, among other things, making the worse argument stronger
(19b, 23d)—precisely the sort of practice associated in his day with the Sophists.
Readers of Plato are naturally keen to accept Socrates’s claim that this popular
view contains a gross misrepresentation of his actual practice. But, for our pur-
poses, setting aside the fact that the arguments Socrates showed to be worse
were not really strong but only seemed so to their proponents, it is important
to note that there does seem to be a basic structural similarity between his
practice and that of the Sophists: Socrates explicitly takes his mission to reside
in the cross-examination and refutation of the views of others (29d–30a).
Introduction 5
This refutation consisted to a large extent in exposing internal inconsisten-

cies in his interlocutor’s system of beliefs, a system which—both parties to
the argument seem to agree—must be coherent in order to prove sustainable.
So while philosophical controversy as Gorgias describes it in the Helen might
be taken to be a by-product of other, more essential features of philosophical
practice,5 with the Socratic elenchus we find controversy and polemic coming
to form the basic and self-professed modus operandi of the philosopher.
A strong indication of how central a role polemics came to play in the pop-
ular conception of philosophy in the fourth century is Plato’s and Aristotle’s
persistent attempts to trace and define the difference between proper philo-
sophical disputation and the merely verbal or sophistical kind (see Shields, in
this volume). These attempts attest to the fact that it was all too easy for the
general public to overlook any difference between the practice of philosophers
and that of Sophists. The fact that philosophers insisted that their arguments
were aimed at truth, whereas Sophists could generally be either far less com-
mittal about this or even flagrantly deny that truth is a relevant criterion for
success in disputation would hardly count in the public eye as evidence for the
superiority of philosophical practice; after all, it could just as well be perceived
as a demonstration of the sincerity of Sophists as opposed to the false preten-
tion of philosophers.
But philosophers’ own attempts to distinguish philosophical argument
from mere eristic testify to more than merely the uninformed public view of
philosophical practice. Plato’s and Aristotle’s attempts to distinguish dialec-
tic from mere eristic contention serve as testimony that they were following
Socrates in taking polemics to be integral to philosophy. After all, had that not
been the case, it would have been open to them to claim that the public’s mis-
take lay in attributing to polemics a disproportionately large role in their con-
ception of philosophy. The practice of philosophy, Plato and Aristotle could
have argued, involves so much more than that! The fact that we find them
instead concentrating their efforts on an attempt to distinguish proper from
5 There is no doubt as to the presence of polemical undercurrents in pre-Socratic philosophy,

e.g., Xenophanes’ invective against popular religion and against the Pythagorean belief in
transmigration of the soul (DK 21B11, B15, B7), and Heraclitus’ attacks on the poets and on
Pythagoras, Xenophanes and Hecateus (DK 22B40, B129, B57). Nevertheless, the extent frag-
ments do not leave the impression that polemic was integral to the method of investigation
or even presentation of these thinkers. On this subject see, Brunschwig, Jacques. “Aspects
de la polémique philosophique en Grèce ancienne.” In La parole polémique, edited by Gilles
Declercq, Michel Murat, and Jacqueline Dangel, 25–46, esp. 27–33. Paris: Champion, 2003.
false argumentative strategies shows that they too considered polemics to be

inseparable from philosophy.
This centrality of polemic to philosophy becomes fully apparent when turn-
ing to the Hellenistic and imperial periods. In the Hellenistic era, Athens saw
the blossoming of philosophical schools, fostered by the streaming of many
students to Athens from all parts of the Hellenic world. They studied philoso-
phy under the tutelage of different masters before becoming affiliated with
one school and, at times, even founded their own sects. Allegiance to one’s
school and rivalry and debates with those of others thus became fundamental
aspects of the practice of philosophy. The competitive atmosphere between
the schools stirred up many polemical exchanges that, in most cases, con-
tinued up to the imperial period. This fact has direct impact on the philo-
logical and hermeneutical treatment of the surviving texts. Not only does the
extraction of the fragments of the Stoics, Skeptics, Academics, or Epicureans
of the Hellenistic period from later reports necessarily require accounting for
the polemical agenda of these reports but one also cannot properly under-
stand these texts without taking into account the polemical context in which
the arguments embedded in them were originally shaped.
In the Hellenistic period, philosophers belonging to the Skeptical tradi-
tion made the collecting of disagreements (diaphōnia) a valid tool of philo-
sophical investigation, and later Pyrrhonian skepticism even defines itself
as an “an ability to produce opposites” (dunamis antithetikē; Sext. Emp.
Pyr. 1.8). Polemical strategies of Hellenistic philosophy are also characterized
by a growing use of invective: thus Timocrates’s hostile portrait of Epicurus
depicts him as engaging in outrageous slander against rival philosophers.6 The
central place of philosophical debates not only impacted the modes of expres-
sion of the controversies but also had a tremendous effect on the crystalliza-
tion of the doctrines involved. To take just one famous example, the polemic
between the Stoics and Academics was so central to the consolidation of their
respective epistemologies that Carneades is reported to have claimed that “if
Chrysippus had not existed, neither would I.”7 From the Hellenistic period
6 See Sedley, David. “Epicurus’ Professional Rivals.” In Études sur l’épicurisme antique, edited
by Jean Bollack and André Laks, 121–59. Lille: Publications de l’Université de Lille III, 1976.
7 Diog. Laert. 4.62. On this topic see, for instance, Hankinson, R. J. “Stoic Epistemology.” In The
Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, edited by Brad Inwood, 59–84. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2010; Allen, James. “Academic Probabilism and Stoic Epistemology,” Classical
Quarterly 44 (1994): 85–103; and Frede, Michael. “Stoic Epistemology.” In The Cambridge History
of Hellenistic Philosophy, edited by Keimpe Algra et al., 295–322. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1999.
Introduction 7
onward, then, polemic clearly plays a role in the dynamic process of negotiat-
ing and consolidating one school’s identity vis à vis the others.
The process of the decentralization of philosophy in the early first century
BCE—from Athens, its former center of gravity, to Rome—resulted, among
other consequences, in the transformation of Hellenistic polemics. During this
period the emergence of new forms of philosophical inquiry and new social
and discursive conventions gave philosophical polemics new attire. Thus
Cicero, in introducing Greek philosophy to his fellow Romans, remodels the
genre of philosophical dialogue. Favoring extended speeches over short ques-
tions and answers, Cicero’s dialogues present readers with extensive exposi-
tions of competing systems of thought. Philosophical inquiry becomes a
Roman affair, whose protagonists—including Cicero himself—are members
of the Roman aristocracy. Each interlocutor represents a distinct Hellenistic
school of philosophy and defends it against attacks by protagonists of similar
standing (see Lévy). And Lucretius engages in polemics by fashioning a trium-
phal portrait of Epicurus, silencing opponents by pointing out their internal
inconsistencies (see Marković). Even Seneca’s letters, which are aimed primar-
ily at offering moral guidance and fostering spiritual progress, are not devoid of
polemical slants directed against Epicurean hedonism or Aristotle’s followers.
Late antiquity was marked by radical changes in the cultural, political, and
religious settings of the Roman Empire. From the perspective of the history
of philosophy, one of the most radical transformations was the gradual disap-
pearance of the previous schools of philosophy. Doctrinal diversity, which had
characterized Hellenistic and early Roman philosophy, was gradually replaced
by the new dominant Neoplatonic movement. But despite this philosophical
hegemony, polemics still constitute a noticeable part of Neoplatonic writing.
The emergence and rapid growth of Christianity in effect engendered a new
school to rival Neoplatonism. Plotinus ferociously attacks his contemporary
Gnostics’ designation of matter as evil in Ennead. II. 9 (33), and his student
Porphyry devoted a fifteen-book treatise to fighting Christian dogma—the
now lost Against the Christians. The ongoing dispute between the Neoplatonic
philosophers and the various groups of early Christianity constitutes one of
the most vibrant polemical encounters of late antiquity, which had far-
reaching implications for the doctrinal developments of these movements.
Polemics with the Christians compelled the Neoplatonic philosophers not
only to develop new defensive strategies (see Lamberton) but also to adopt
the role of the last representatives of a pagan culture in danger of extinction.
Despite the fact that polemic constituted an integral aspect of ancient
philosophy, and was perceived so by its own practitioners, the forms and
mechanisms of ancient philosophical polemics are not usually the subject of
concentrated, systematic scholarly attention; rather their treatments tend to

be secondary and subordinate to that of philosophical doctrines. The stud-
ies presented in this volume approach ancient philosophy from the reverse
perspective; they attempt not only to distill and clarify various strategies of
polemics but to show how these contributed to the shaping of philosophical
arguments and to the molding of philosophical positions. Our hope is that
approaching the study of the history of ancient philosophy through the prism
of polemics will offer an improved understanding of the dynamics, complexity,
and mode of argumentation of ancient philosophical discourse.
Throughout this introduction we have been intentionally lax in our usage of
the term polemic. This is motivated by the fact that our aim in this volume is to
investigate a varied and heterogeneous field of phenomena, one that does not
necessarily conform to a single definition or account. We believe that it is more
profitable for the purpose of acquiring a comprehensive historical perspective
to treat ‘polemics’ as a group of related phenomena, ones that do not neces-
sarily share a single common characteristic across their entire range but rather
bear a relation that can more properly be labeled a “family resemblance.” This
approach is reflected in the wide scope of issues treated in the various contri-
butions to this collection. The authors in this volume deal not only with widely
disparate historical periods but also with a wide spectrum of philosophical
genres. Readers should therefore not look for a single paradigm that dictates
the various treatments of this issue. Rather this collection’s purpose is to trace
the various manifestations and ramifications of a multifaceted phenomenon.
The opening essay of this volume, “The Continuation of Philosophy by Other

Means?,” by André Laks, can also be read as a general introduction to the study
of polemics in ancient philosophy. Laks begins by asking whether philosophi-
cal polemic shares the main characteristics of polemical discourse in general
(as identified by Stefan Straub), or whether it represents a distinct case. Are we
justified in considering philosophical polemic as philosophical, insofar as philo-
sophical arguments are expected to be devoid of the constitutive characteristics
of polemical discourses, such as personalization, aggressiveness, or activation of
value feelings? Laks’s contention is that it is possible to identify some major
characteristics of philosophical polemics, and for that purpose he proposes
a broad spectrum of possible modes of verbal confrontation, extending from
‘critique’ to ‘attack’, along which philosophical polemics occupy many inter-
mediary points. Laks notes that the components of the polemic vary according
to the position it occupies on this spectrum. ‘Polemic-as-critique’ is charac-
terized by targeting arguments rather than persons. The closer philosophical
Introduction 9
polemic comes to critique, the more the role of the ‘polemical instance’—that
is, the public in front of whom and in view of whom the confrontation takes
place—decreases. Laks notes that there are many cases in which ‘polemic-as-
critique’ can in fact take the form of a “personal” attack, which is nonetheless
non-offensive. Such cases, labeled “depersonalized personal argument,” are
found in arguments pointing at the discrepancy between words and deeds, in
arguments that avoid naming the opponents and instead use generic place-
holders, or again, in arguments ad hominem (such as the Socratic elenchoi or
performative contradictions). Polemics in which something vital is at stake,
such as ethical truth or ultimate convictions, are more prone to be directed
against individuals than against the doctrines they represent, and in such
cases value feelings come to the fore. Finally, Laks notes the close relationship
between polemic and hermeneutics, which is explained not only in light of
the reliance of polemics on a (noncharitable) interpretation of the opponent’s
statements but also by the fact that the absorption of, and the conciliation
with, the defeated enemy is part and parcel of the polemical dynamic.
In “The Young Dogs of Eristic: Dialectic and Eristic in the Early Academy,”
the first chapter dealing with philosophy and polemics in the classical period,
Christopher Shields reexamines Plato’s familiar contrast between genuine
philosophical argumentation and that of the Sophists. In light of the fact that
the Socratic elenchus seems to share so many features with eristic argumen-
tation (and appeared to Socrates’s own contemporaries to be indistinguish-
able from it), is there in fact a substantive line demarcating the two practices
that Plato seems so eager to keep separate? If we try to transcend the familiar
psychological aspersions of the Sophists, those that distinguish between the
contentious motivations driving their practices and those of philosophers,
and instead attempt to find a more principled boundary, we seem to fall back
on the distinction between the Sophists’ manipulation of “mere” appearances
and the philosopher’s interest in the being of each thing. But, as Shields argues,
the basic materials of Socrates’s arguments are his interlocutors’ beliefs, or how
things “seem” to them. In that important respect his methods seem fully in
line with the basic characterization of the practice and subject matter of eris-
tic argumentation. To show that it is in fact possible to take into account the
fact that in Plato’s dialogues philosophy, like sophistry, deals with appearances
and yet draw a clear distinction between the two, Shields appeals to Aristotle’s
Sophistical Refutations and to his distinction between the sort of appearances
that figure in ‘dialectical’ syllogisms and the ones that serve as premises for
those dubbed ‘sophistic’. After providing an interpretation of the nature of the
difference between these two kinds of appearances, Shields returns to Plato
and shows that the same distinction is operative in the Sophist, in the very
context of the definition of the sophist. Shields’ chapter exposes the poten-
tially unsettling fact that at the level of appearance, philosophy might turn
out to be indistinguishable from eristic and sophistry. The difference between
them will only be detectable to those who already have an insight into the dif-
ference between appearance and reality—in other words, to those who come
from within the practice of philosophy.
In “A Hidden Argument in Plato’s Theaetetus,” Naly Thaler examines the
question of moral relativism in the Theaetetus. As has been noticed by many
scholars, while Socrates attacks and refutes Protagorean relativism from many
angles, he fails to provide an explicit refutation of its moral manifestation. This
has appeared strange, since moral relativism is explicitly presented by Socrates
as a view that many people find appealing and that serves as one of the final
strongholds of Protagorean relativism. In the past, several scholars have argued
that Socrates’s impassioned speech in the famous digression that compares the
life of the philosopher with that of the litigious man should be viewed as an
attack on and implicit refutation of moral relativism. In contrast Thaler argues
that a straightforward argument against that view is found in the passages
leading to and immediately following the digression. After putting together
the two detached parts of Socrates’s argument against moral relativism, Thaler
asks what purpose Socrates could possibly have for not declaring openly that
a refutation of moral relativism has in fact taken place. Thaler shows that the
digression in fact contains the reasons motivating Socrates’s strategy here: it
indicates not only why philosophical refutation is useless against a genuine
adherent of moral relativism but also why it is morally appropriate to leave
such an adherent in his contented ignorance of the falsity of his view. The
digression shows that some philosophical positions serve as testimony to their
champion’s intellectual and moral disposition and that the strategy one uses
against that position must take these into consideration.
Polemic involving other schools or thinkers often acts as a decisive factor
in the development or formation of philosophical views. Charlotte Murgier’s
chapter, “Polemical Arguments about Pleasure: The Controversy within and
around the Academy,” shows that the ongoing debates concerning pleasure
had a profound impact on Plato’s and Aristotle’s elaboration of their philo-
sophical standpoints on this issue. Dealing first with Plato’s Philebus, she dis-
closes the two distinct purposes for which Plato employs the arguments of the
duschereis—thinkers who take pleasure to be mere relief from pain. His first
purpose is to use them as temporary allies against hedonistic claims, and
second, to distinguish their extreme form of anti-hedonism from his own
more conciliatory position regarding the possibility of true pleasures. Next
Introduction 11
Murgier underlines the strategic role of Plato’s resort to the arguments of

the k ompsoi—those for whom pleasures belong to the genus of genesis—to
discredit not only the core hedonist assumption but also the kind of life sup-
ported by hedonism. Turning to the continuation of this controversy in the
two discussions on pleasure in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, she claims that
not only is Aristotle working within the framework of an existing and clearly
defined controversy but that the specifics of this controversy informed his own
account of pleasure. As part of this general claim, she argues that we should
not detach Aristotle’s arguments refuting the pleasure-as-kinēsis view in
book 10 from the polemical context in which his views developed. Once we
take into account the polemical context of Aristotle’s discussion, Murgier sug-
gests, we gain a new perspective on the relation between the arguments of
book 7 and those of book 10: the latter book reflects a more developed stage in
Aristotle’s polemic, one in which he feels the need to buttress his account with
a robust metaphysical distinction.
Polemical arguments often incorporate features that appear less properly
philosophical and more overtly rhetorical, such as ironic remarks, rhetori-
cal and sometimes snarky questions, and hyperbole. Jozef Müller’s chapter,
“The Politics of Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic,” focuses on one such
instance. Aristotle’s critique of Plato’s Republic in the second book of his Politics
seems to incorporate many rhetorical devices. First, the discussion seems too
narrowly focused on the issue of the community of wives, children, and prop-
erty. Second, Aristotle incorporates appeals to the readers’ emotions by such
means as invoking the shocking consequences that would ensue if Socrates’s
suggestions were to be put into effect. All this might lead one to regard
Aristotle’s critique of Plato’s political views as merely polemical and lacking in
philosophical substance. Müller argues that these features can be interpreted
as forming a coherent strategy that reflects both Aristotle’s main concerns in
Politics 2 and his analysis of the psychological appeal of the Republic’s novel or
even outlandish legislative features. Regarding the excessive concentration on
issues of community, Müller argues that rather than sidelining the real philo-
sophical issues at hand, this actually reflects Aristotle’s own interest in the ways
in which unity enables both the existence and the preservation of the political
community. Müller argues that Aristotle’s resort to rhetorical means should be
seen as an attempt to counter the apparent appeal of the Socratic polity were
it, per impossibile, to be instantiated. Since this appeal is largely emotional in
character, it requires emotional means to successfully counteract it.
Philosophical controversies can sometimes outlive their main protago-
nists. This can happen if, for example, they become embedded in a later
polemic for which they are conceived to be of use. In her chapter, “Cyrenaics
and Epicureans on Pleasure and the Good Life: The Original Debate and Its
Later Revivals,” Voula Tsouna shows this to be the case with the polemic
involving the two main hedonistic schools of antiquity. The chapter begins
by placing the original debate in context: Tsouna argues that the basic
tenets of Epicurus’s hedonistic doctrine were formed in response to the hedo-
nism of Aristippus the Younger and not, as is often supposed, that of Anniceris.
The views of Anniceris, she claims, should in fact be considered as a defense of
Aristippus’s view against the attacks of Epicurus. Tsouna then begins to trace
the various ways in which the polemic between the two schools was kept alive
even after the Cyrenaic school had ceased to exist. She begins by examining its
revival in the writings of Plutarch and Cicero—two staunch enemies of hedo-
nism. Tsouna argues that the two Academic philosophers take pains to show
that the long-dead Aristippus offers a more cogent version of hedonism, and
this in order to attack and discredit the living threat of Epicureanism. But the
resurrection of the polemic can also be found in Epicurean authors: Tsouna
discusses Philodemus’s attack on the presentism and subjectivism of Cyrenaic
hedonism and argues that his main purpose for presenting the Cyrenaic life
as one devoid of rationality in action is to accentuate and extol the rational-
ity inherent in an Epicurean life. And she shows how Diogenes of Oinoanda,
when attacking the Cyrenaic emphasis on the immediate and bodily aspects
of pleasure, in fact has as a target the vulgar conception of pleasure held by
“the many.”
It often happens that philosophers’ use of rhetorical devices while engag-
ing in controversy blurs the line between philosophical and rhetorical engage-
ment. Daniel Marković’s chapter, “Polemics in Translation: Lucretius,” points
to the conceptual unity existing between Roman rhetorical theory and philo-
sophical refutation—a unity that is reflected in Lucretius’s polemical argu-
ments in his De rerum natura. Lucretius’s polemical patterns are characterized
by great regularity, both in their place and function in the general structure
of each individual book and in their internal arrangement. Lucretius rejects
rival views by pointing out the contradictions of his opponents, either with the
evidence from sense perceptions or with their own premises. A curious feature
of Lucretius’s polemic is that although he employs amplifications reductio ad
absurdum or parodies of arguments against his adversaries, he nevertheless
avoids naming them—with the exception of those belonging to a distant past.
According to Marković these features should be seen in the light of the gen-
eral intention of the author. By removing the attention from his rivals’ names,
Lucretius presents Epicurus as the triumphant general of the philosophical
arena and fashions what can be considered Epicurus’s res gestae.
Introduction 13
Polemical texts often reflect, or at least crystalize, a historical rivalry

between thinkers, schools, or movements that is in turn nourished and
amplified by those texts. In this sense philosophical polemic does not merely
create philosophical momentum but also consolidates the identities it
opposes. As such, polemic powerfully reflects the process of the formation of
philosophical identity. In “The Perfidious Strategy: Or, the Platonists against
Stoicism,” Mauro Bonazzi argues that it is through polemics that the Platonists
of the early imperial period “fight their way” into the philosophical arena of
the time. Alongside calumny and direct attacks, the Platonists used a more
subtle strategy, especially in their confrontation with Stoicism: that of appro-
priation and subordination. Bonazzi shows how the Platonists anchored Stoic
tenets into their own doctrine under the guise of improving them. The strat-
egy of triumphing over your opponents by appropriating their ideas is what
Bonazzi calls the “perfidious strategy.” It is this strategy that accounts for the
presence of Stoic terms and doctrines in Platonic writings, and not, as is gener-
ally assumed, the existence of a philosophical koinē. Bonazzi’s analysis of the
appropriation of the concept of ennoia by the Platonists of the early imperial
period shows them appropriating the Stoic criterion of knowledge and apply-
ing it to the Platonic Ideas. They thereby reshaped Stoic doctrine in Platonic
terms, providing it with what they thought to be an adequate metaphysical
ground that the Stoic empiricist framework had failed to offer.
The question of the relationship between rhetoric and philosophy within
polemics is especially pertinent in the Roman context. By focusing on the use
and practice of vehementia in Rome, Carlos Lévy’s chapter, titled “Vehementia:
A Rhetorical Basis of Polemics in Roman Philosophy,” throws some light on the
nature of polemics in Roman contexts. Lévy’s analysis offers a nuanced pic-
ture of the complex relationships between rhetoric and philosophy, between
social and discursive norms, and between attitudes toward past and contem-
porary figures. The main question Lévy addresses is how a Roman who is both
an orator and a philosopher should use vehementia. Whereas rhetoric endorses
vehementia as a means to strongly affect the listener and win his agreement,
philosophy has a much more ambiguous attitude toward it. In Cicero’s philo-
sophical writings vehementia is associated with Stoic passion and denotes the
transgression of the appropriate bound of impulse. On the other hand, Cicero
and especially Seneca recognize the positive facets of the use of vehementia
in philosophical practice and in exhortation to virtue. The question of the
appropriate use of vehementia has particular significance when turning to
the issue of philosophical disputes: how to conciliate the irenic image of phi-
losophy with the violence of philosophical controversies? Cicero’s solution to
this tension is found in the norms of Roman urbanitas: whereas it is improper

to address an interlocutor of equal social status with unmediated vehemen-
tia, it can nevertheless be directed toward the philosophers defended by the
interlocutor. In Seneca vehemence is carefully aimed against slanderers and
against Peripatetic critique of the extreme rarity of the Stoic wise man.
Although in philosophical controversies one would expect to find exten-
sive quotations from one’s adversary, the practice of including the ipsa
verba of the opponent was in fact not systematically used in philosophi-
cal polemics until the end of the first century CE. Sharon Weisser’s chapter,
“The Art of Quotation: Plutarch and Galen against Chrysippus,” devoted to the
analysis of Plutarch’s and Galen’s strategy in their attacks against the third cen-
tury BCE Stoic philosopher Chrysippus, singles out the extensive use of accusa-
tions of inconsistency. Weisser holds that Plutarch’s On Stoic Self-Contradictions
and Galen’s On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato represent a new genre of
polemic, one characterized by the extensive use of different types of accusa-
tions of self-contradiction (she lists six different types) as well as by the abun-
dance of textual quotations of the rival view. She argues that this discursive
war is first and foremost one against the authority of a long-dead philosopher
who nevertheless occupied a prominent status in lively contemporary debates.
This type of polemic should also be seen in the broader context of the textual
turn that occurred in the philosophical landscape around the turn of the era.
Polemics through quotations appears thus as one side of a philosophical prac-
tice that relies on authoritative texts.
The political and religious developments that marked the fourth century CE
had a profound impact on the intellectual landscape of the empire. With the
growth of Christianity, the status of pagan philosophy and the position of its
defendants were modified and often challenged. In this context polemics had
to find new ways of expression while keeping its function of asserting iden-
tity and assuring allegiance. In a new social climate, in which openly attacking
a Christian adversary could pose a real threat to the pagan philosopher, the
overt object of the critique can in fact hide the true one. Robert Lamberton’s
chapter, “The Invisible Adversary: Anti-Christian Polemic in Proclus’s
Commentary on the Republic of Plato,” shows how Proclus used coded language
in his Commentary on the Republic of Plato to attack his Christian adversar-
ies. This polemical tool could be easily identified by a Neoplatonic readership
but would go unnoticed by a Christian one. Proclus’s explicit purpose in this
treatise is to defend Homer against Socrates’s accusations in Plato’s Republic,
which he achieves by means of a semiotic division of three levels of poetry. But
while Socrates is the stated adversary, he is in fact a far less p rominent rival
Introduction 15
than the Christian ones (the elephant in the room). Lamberton’s careful deci-
phering of Proclus’s coded language shows that, in Proclus’s eyes it is Christian
adversaries who are guilty of misreading the myths. While they can be easily
overlooked, they are nonetheless very present in the text. Lamberton argues
that Proclus’s cryptic language makes the nature of his attack clearly apparent
to those who share his views and thus provides an important indication of his
intended audience.
The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means?
André Laks
Wenn Cato maior im Senat seiner Rede die Worte anschloss: “Ceterum
censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,” so war es das erste Mal nur eine
Meinung. Beim vierten oder fünften Mal war es ein Tick, beim zehnten
Mal war es eine Losung und nach einigen Jahren der Anfang der
Zerstörung Karthagos geworden. . . . Es lässt sich viel aus ihm (i.e., diesem
Diktum) lernen. Jeder Polemiker hat sein Karthago und anfangs gar nichts
in der Hand als seine Meinung. Wie schmiedet er sie aber zur Waffe um?
Zum Instrumente der Zerstörung, die er plant? Er leiht ihr seine Stimme,
seine Gegenwart; er stattet sie mit allem Inkommensurablen, Zufälligen
seines privaten Daseins aus. Für ihn, den wirklichen Polemiker, gibt es
zwischen Persönlichem und Sachlichem gar keine Grenze. Nicht nur
was die Erscheinung seines Gegners angeht, sondern vor allem, und
noch mehr, die eigene. Ja—man erkennt ihn daran, dass er sein mor-
alisches und intellektuelles, sein publizistisches und sein privates Leben
der öffentlichen Meinung so deutlich macht wie ein Akteur sein Dasein
auf der Bühne. Ihm ist die Kunst vertraut, die eigene Meinung so virtuos
und bis in ihre letzten Konsequenzen zu verfolgen, dass der gesamte
Vorgang umschlägt und die fast idiosynkratische Betonung der pri-
vaten Standpunkte, Vorurteile und Interessen zu einer schonungslosen
Invektive gegen die herrschende Gesellschaft wird.
WALTER BENJAMIN, “Jemand meint,” 360–61
∵
In a study dedicated to Karl Kraus’s art of polemics, Stefan Straub lists six
necessary features for a discourse to qualify as polemical, namely: person-
alization (Personalisierung), aggressiveness (Aggressivität), argumentation
(Argumentation), credibility (Glaubwürdigkeit), activation of value feel-
ings (Aktivierung von Wertgefühlen), and direction toward a concrete and
practical goal (konkrete Zielsetzung).1 The question I want to raise in this
sketch, which was inspired by Sharon Weisser’s idea about a possible typol-
ogy of ancient philosophical polemics, is whether these characterizations, or
1 Straub, Der Polemiker Karl Kraus, 235.

The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means ? 17
at least the most relevant among them, also specifically apply to philosophi-
cal polemics or whether philosophical polemics represent a special case of
polemics—due, perhaps, to the very nature of philosophy. The question essen-
tially arises because argumentation, which certainly belongs to the essence of
polemics if it is to be distinguished from sheer personal attacks, plays a partic-
ular, constitutive role in philosophy: under this assumption, are philosophical
polemics, strictly speaking, possible? Must not a philosophical argument be by
definition neither aggressive nor personal nor practical (in the relevant sense)
nor emotionally loaded?2 In other words, are philosophical polemics philosophy
continued by other means? The alternative would be to assume, in agreement
with an intuition we might wish to preserve, that ‘philosophical polemics’ is a
well-formed, nonoxymoronic expression. In what follows I present some con-
siderations to this effect. I shall first look at the relationship between polemics
and critique (Part 1); I shall pinpoint various ways in which personal references
of a certain kind play a role in philosophical polemics—what I call ‘deperson-
alized personalization’ (Part 2); I shall then say something about how polem-
ics can be philosophically reevaluated (Part 3); and add an observation about
polemics and hermeneutics (Part 4). In dealing with these different points,
I shall refer to various ancient philosophical polemics, but I shall not engage in
a detailed analysis of any of them, in order to keep these preliminary remarks
at a general level. On the other hand, I shall mention some modern polemics
and modern views on polemics. One reason for this is that ‘polemics’, if not
a modern phenomenon, is at least a modern word: for whereas polemikos in
Greek means “related to war” or more generally “hostile,” it very seldom, if ever,
specifically applies to literary or philosophical polemics (the same is true of
polemos).3 The second related but more important reason is that whereas the
notion and practice of blame (psogos) in ancient rhetoric has attracted schol-
arly attention, conceptual reflection about ancient polemics as such remains
relatively rare.4
2 This would not preclude that philosophers could engage in actual polemics, but their argu-
ment would in this framework not be as such philosophical, but just this, polemical.
3 Georgia Tsouni mentioned, in the discussion of my paper during the colloquium, a passage
of Eusebius, Praep. evang. 14.8.10, in which Carneades is said to be fighting (prospolemein)
against the other philosophers. Note, however, that this is specifically linked to Carneades’s
skeptic position and does not exactly correspond to the general phenomenon we call
‘polemics’. At Theaetetus 168b3, Plato uses machētikōs in the sense of ‘polemically’.
4 See the bibliography in Stauffer, “Polemik.”
18 Laks
1 From Polemics to Critique
‘Polemics’ is a metaphor—it is war at a verbal level, a battle “of the books,” to use
Swift’s title.5 As with any metaphor the question that then arises is that of the
similarities and dissimilarities existing between its ‘tenor’ and its ‘vehicle’—
what remains and what is lost or abstracted from when we move from one
item to the other? Here are two important points of comparison, both of which
point to the elimination of some war-related features from polemics.
First, polemics are warlike to the extent that they target human beings,
be they individuals (Epicurus, Philoponus, etc.) or collective entities (the
Epicureans, the Christians, etc.); they are attacks; and they can even sometimes
kill. On the other hand, their weapons are words, which surely tend to kill less
than weapons do. As a matter of fact, verbal wars are endowed with a number
of features that are not available in real wars, at least before these are pur-
sued, to paraphrase Clausewitz’s famous dictum, through diplomatic means.
Since their medium is language (‘discourse’, in the most general sense of the
term), they can often use, and in fact often do use, all the offensive linguis-
tic resources that any language has to offer: insults, slander, caricature, and so
on.6 But the fact that the weapons are words also means that polemics can in
principle be directed less at the person than at her argument—its target being
the ‘argument-of-a-person’, so to speak. There are degrees here: one can say as
a general rule that the more the argument comes to the fore and the person
recedes, the more the polemics become ‘object-directed’ or ‘objective’. In other
words, polemics, in as much as its medium is language, can take the form of
critique. Thus, one can and should distinguish Simplicius’s philosophical, that
is, critical, arguments against, say, Philoponus’s dismissal of the eternity of the
world, from his personal, rhetorical attacks.7 But it is not as if ‘polemics’ and
‘critique’ could simply be spatially distributed between the rhetorical appara-
tus and the substantial critique. For there is a sense in which we still want to
say that Simplicius’s critique of Philoponus is ‘polemical’ independently of his
violent attacks against him and those of his faith. This we might dub ‘polemics-
as-critique’ (or in shorthand, ‘critique’).
5 Swift, “The Battle of the Books.”

6 An excellent example of this denigrating strategy is Simplicius’s treatment of Philoponus,
on which see Hoffmann, “Simplicius’ Polemics.”
7 Part of Hoffmann’s point is precisely to abstract, in a quasi-phenomenological way, from
the content of Philoponus’s and Simplicius’s arguments and instead to concentrate on their
offensive introductory phrases.
In order to preserve the specificity of polemics-as-critique, we must find

some distinctive features of the critique in question: this critique is perhaps
especially sharp and aggressive, or systematic in a special type of way; it may
be simplifying or unfair or else insistent and extending through time (these
different features are of course not mutually exclusive). Think for example, for
the feature of aggressiveness, sharpness, and systematicity, of Aristotle’s cri-
tique of Plato’s theory of Forms in Book A (and M–N) of his Metaphysics; for an
example of simplification, take Plutarch’s Against Colotes; and for persistence
through time, consider the ongoing discussion over two centuries between
Stoics and Academics or for that matter between Stoics and Epicureans.8 As
a matter of fact, one important point about polemics (philosophical or not) is
that they often, albeit not always, provoke responses and counter-responses—
a phenomenon that is in turn related to their often being linked to strong
identity-making institutions (professions, schools, sects, and churches).9
In general the opponent will be external to such institutions, in the sense
that he does not belong to the same circle, professional group, and so on, but
the opponent may also come from within, in which case the internal discus-
sion is open to the dilemma made famous by Albert Hirschman’s analysis of
political dissent: when you disagree with the line taken by your party or organi-
zation, you can either try to modify things from within (this is the ‘Voice’ strat-
egy) or quit in order to build your own organization (this is the ‘Exit’ strategy).10
‘Exit’ is the path chosen by Aristotle, who at some point came to realize that
he had ceased to be a Platonist and hence could not make use any more of the
formula “we say” when referring to the fundamentals of Plato’s doctrine;11 it
is also the path taken by Antiochus of Ascalon when he breaks with Philo’s
Academy.12 ‘Voice’, on the contrary, implies that the polemics remain “internal,”
a phenomenon whose importance can easily be underestimated due to the
8 Modern examples of such ongoing polemics are Pascal’s Provinciales and Lessing’s
Anti-Goeze.
9 This is true not only in the sense that already existing institutions have to defend them-
selves against their competitors or enemies but also in the sense that some polemics can
be foundational for the shaping of new institutions. Glenn W. Most, in “One Hundred
Years of Fractiousness,” analyzes in this sense three famous nineteenth-century philologi-
cal polemics—Hermann vs. Creuzer, Hermann vs. Boeckh, and Hermann vs. Müller.
10 Hirschman, Exit, Voice and Loyalty.
11 This does not mean that Metaphysics A, notoriously written when Aristotle still consid-
ered himself as belonging to Plato’s Academy and used “we (Platonists),” is less polemical
than books M–N, where community markers have been removed.
12 Glucker, Antiochus and the Late Academy.
20 Laks
fact that ancient authors tend to dissimulate their inner-scholarly disagree-

ments through ostensive marks of allegiance to the founder of the school.13
Philosophy was bound by its rational character to cultivate polemics as
critique rather than as personal attack. The semantic evolution of the word
elenchos in Greek is highly significant in this respect, since it originally meant
“disgrace” and could be used derogatively, as it is famously used in Hesiod’s
Theogony 26, before it came to mean “test” or “cross-examination,” then “refu-
tation,” and then “proof”—truly a fable about the philosophical mind’s “pro-
cess of civilization.”14 This rationalization explains how ‘polemics’ came to be
used in a philosophical context, once it entered the scene, either with a strong
negative connotation (more on this in the third section) or, according to an
opposite strategy, but leading to the same result, as an equivalent of ‘(funda-
mental or radical) critique’ (as usually happens in scholarly literature about
ancient philosophy).
The second difference between ‘war’ and ‘polemics’ I would like to point to
is that polemics obey a triadic structure, not a dyadic one, as war does. A war
opposes armies or countries, and those who do not engage in it are considered
as being neutral. Polemics, on the other hand, always imply a third party. In an
article that, in spite of its brevity, remains one of the most useful analyses of
the concept of polemics,15 Jürgen Stenzel rightly insisted on the idea that the
factors of any given polemic include not only a ‘polemical subject’ (Karl
Kraus or Aristotle, for example) and a ‘polemical object’ (Alfred Kerr or Plato)
but also what he called a ‘polemical instance’ (‘polemische Instanz’), which
means the public in front of whom and in view of whom the confrontation
between the two adversaries takes place.16 The point is that while a polemic
13 On this point, see Sedley, “Epicurus’ Professional Rivals.” Interestingly, if somewhat para-
doxically, the philosopher and theologian Friedrich Schleiermacher wanted to restrict
polemics to internal debates within the Church, whereas outwardly directed fights would
fall into the domain of apologetics (cf. “Kurze Darstellung des theologischen Studiums
zum Behuf einleitender Vorlesungen,” §§39 and 40 [cf. §§32 and 35], and the two cor-
responding developments, §§43–53 and 54–62): an extreme manifestation, it seems,
of the inner drive of philosophical polemics to take the form of sheer, non-‘polemical’
(in the sense of hostile) critique.
14 To extend Norbert Elias’s famous formula to this context. On the semantics of elenchos,
cf. Lesher, “Parmenides’ Critique of Thinking: The poluderis elenchos of Fragment 7.”
15 Stenzel, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus.”
16 Because polemics always also bear on a certain topic, what the polemics is about
(“das polemische Thema”), the geometrical scheme of polemics is not a triangle, how-
ever, but a pyramid, see Stenzel’s “Rhetorischer Manichäismus” drawing, 6 (reproduced in
Straub, Der Polemiker Karl Kraus, 17).
is, in its basic form, directed against a person, it is also by essence a public
phenomenon. This makes it immediately understandable that polemics can
be treated, especially if one considers polemics-as-attack, as a phenomenon
that falls, no less than praise and blame, within the field of rhetoric (hence
the title of Stenzel’s article, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus”). On the other
hand, the more we construe polemics as discursive critique, the more the role
of the public, at least taken in the common, broad sense of the term, becomes
smaller and the more the dyadic structure tends to dominate the triadic one.
At least in principle, the Gelehrtenrepublik, the République des lettres, abstracts
from persons and discusses how the world is.
2 Dealing Philosophically with the Person
Personal attacks of the kind we find in Simplicius are certainly not the rule
in the philosophical tradition, even if they are not so infrequent;17 Epicurus
himself, who has been for a long time considered prone to polemical
offense because of the seemingly insulting names he used when speaking
of Democritus, Heraclitus, Plato, Nausiphanes and others, has been rehabili-
tated on this count by David Sedley, who showed that Lerocritus (provided
that it means “The Judge of Babbling”), The Stirrer, The Golden, The Jellyfish,
and so on, should be read not as debasing qualifications but rather as witty-
to-affectionate nicknames.18 Whether this is entirely true is an open question,
I think. But what is certain is that Epicurus was successfully stigmatized, espe-
cially in the wake of Stoic attacks, as an incarnation of indecency for consid-
ering pleasure to be the end of life, for being an atheist and . . . an offender.
We can leave this material aside (interesting as it may be), under the assump-
tion that it represents at best a collateral effect of properly philosophical
polemics—of ‘polemics-as-critique’. What I want to point to here are cases in
which philosophical polemics may be described as ‘personal’ without being
offensive (although it may well create the condition for further offenses). I am
especially thinking of three such cases.
The first one is linked to the claim that philosophy has a practical dimen-
sion or even implies a certain way of life. Given the assumption that one’s con-
duct should correspond to what one professes, the life of the philosophers,
17 Diogenes Laertius provides rich material here. As far as I know, there is no special study
devoted to ancient philosophical insults. Owen’s title (“Philosophical Invective”) is prom-
ising, but its content rather disappointing.
18 Sedley, “Epicurus’ Professional Rivals.”
22 Laks
the kind of person they are and how they actually or potentially behave, far
from being indifferent, represents an integral constituent of their philoso-
phy. One can understand in this light the harshness displayed by Colotes, one
of the earliest and dearest disciples of Epicurus, in his polemics about the
impossibility of living according to the doctrines of other philosophers. But
the question of the possibility of living well also constitutes the background
of the apparently much narrower and more technical Stoic-Academic debate
about whether sensations are as a rule cataleptic or not. For while the Stoics
notoriously argued that unless this were the case, there would be no way of
living, Academics insisted that denying sensory knowledge did not entail that
one could not have probable opinions—which are all it takes in order to live a
good life.19
There are, second, what I have called ‘non-personal forms of personifica-
tion’. A paradigmatical instance of this procedure is to be found in a nonphi-
losophical text, namely Pindar’s Ol. 2.87f., where crows, representing the (bad)
poets (whoever they are—the scholia name Bacchylides and Simonides)
whose skills come from apprenticeship, are contrasted with Zeus’s eagle,
which stands for the (good) naturally gifted poet (Pindar).20 But it is highly
significant that Simplicius refers to these verses in his polemics against
Philoponus (a crow).21 What happens in these nonpersonal personifications
is that the author avoids naming individuals while unmistakably referring
to them—or, better, to what they represent—through generic placeholders.
Further examples would not be difficult to find from the very beginnings of
philosophy onward—Parmenides’s “double-headed” (dikranoi) mortals in
Frag. B 6, 8 (most probably referring to Heraclitus’s views about opposites),
Plato’s “immobilists” (stasiōtai) at Theaetetus 181a (obviously referring to
Parmenides’s immobile being), and Epicurus’s use of the indefinite “someone”
(tis) to refer to Leucippus or Democritus (Ad Pyth. 90) belong to this category,
as well as the so-called “code phrases” that Neoplatonic philosophers use in
order to refer in an indirect and discreet way to their Christian opponents.22
19 On Plutarch and Colotes, cf. Kechagia, Plutarch against Colotes and Morel, “Le Contre
Colotès de Plutarque”; on Academics and Stoics, cf. (among others) Frede, “Stoics and
Sceptics on Clear and Distinct Impressions,” Striker, “Sceptical Strategies,” and Brittain,
Philo of Larissa: The Last of the Academic Sceptics, especially chaps. 2 and 3.
20 Most, “Pindar, O. 2.83–90,” 314n60, makes clear that the crows are not attacking the eagle,
as many interpreters would have it (“chatter in vain against the god-like bird of Zeus”).
21 Cf. Simplicius, in Cael. 42, 17f. with Hoffmann’s remarks, “Simplicius’ Polemics,” 60.
22 On code phrases, see Hoffmann, “Simplicius’ Polemics,” 67n78 (with reference to
Cameron’s works and further bibliography).
Of course, by c ontrast with Proclus and Simplicius, who had to exercise cau-
tion because their target was not only the doctrine but also their persecutors,
neither Parmenides nor Plato nor Epicurus had reasons to dissimulate whom
they were referring to. Rather, the point is to suggest that what were at stake
in the attack on their respective targets were not the persons themselves but
the doctrines they were the representatives of—the argument-of-the-person.
The third case I want to mention, the so-called arguments ad hominem, can
be considered as an especially refined form of depersonalized personal argu-
ment, but it constitutes a category by itself because of its level of abstraction
and its special importance for the history of philosophy. All Socratic elenchoi
(at least to the extent that they are refutative and do not claim to establish a
truth) are of this sort;23 a specific and radical form of ad hominem argument is
the one that points to the contradiction between the content of a given asser-
tion and the very fact of holding it—what we call a performative contradic-
tion and the ancients described as a ‘reversal’ (peritrope), the (potentially)
‘personal’ character of which is so vividly brought out in Lucretius’s concrete
rendering of Epicurus’s phrase “perikatō ho logos trepetai”: when an argument
“is turned upside down,” its head occupies the place of its feet and vice-versa—
as if it were a person.24
We can now see that on the scale that stretches from (straightaway) per-
sonal polemics to critical argumentation, there exist a number of interme-
diate points that form a kind of continuum. The successive refutations of
Protagoras in the first part of Plato’s Theaetetus provide by themselves a good
illustration of this continuum. Replacing “man” with “pig” or “baboon” (at 161c)
in Protagoras’s phrase “Man is the measure of all things” in order to criticize
Protagoras’s sensualist epistemology is surely far from being a personal insult of
the anti-Philoponus type; nevertheless, it is still offensive enough in its implica-
tions, in that it suggests that Protagoras is in some sense—like the rest of us—
comparable to a pig. But Socrates’s first refutation (161c–162a), which is based
on this assumption, is certainly unfair, and to this extent it is also ‘polemical’.
Protagoras, as a matter of fact, is represented as complaining that Socrates’s
argument is purely demagogical (162d). Socrates’s second argument is devoid
of any such misrepresentation and attempts to argue “ unpolemically,” pointing
23 On the difference between refuting and truth-establishing elenchos, cf. Vlastos,
“The Socratic Elenchus” and the ensuing discussion (Benson, “The Dissolution of the
Problem of Elenchus”).
24 Lucretius, DRN 4.469–72; Epicurus, On nature, Liber incertus (= 20C Long-Sedley, vol. 2,
106, 23), cf. Burnyeat, “The Upside-Down,” and Castagnoli, Ancient Self-Refutation, 148f
(the book entirely devoted to peritrope arguments in ancient philosophy).
24 Laks
to the fact, among others, that one can very well know something without
actually seeing it, and that to know something is to be capable of anticipat-
ing future events (cf. 163e–164a); but is it a good, convincing objection? Since
Protagoras does not think it is, he engages in a detailed and quite remarkable
reply (the so-called apology of Protagoras, 166a–c2). At the end of the day, the
only way for Socrates to refute Protagoras’s thesis will be a peritrope argument
in virtue of which Protagoras’s thesis is shown to be self-refuting (170a): the
critique is now coming not from the outside, but from the inside—from an
“internal outside,” so to speak, and in this sense it is unpolemical. Has not the
opponent been completely eliminated from the argument whose very form is
traditionally described as ad hominem?
The rational drive to abstract from the person in philosophical polemics
is present all along the history of philosophy and has often led philosophers
(among others) to deny polemics the status of a (philosophically) respectable
genre. This antedates, of course, the appearance of the word itself, for other
words could have the same function. In the Topics, in which he formalizes the
rules of dialectical confrontation, Aristotle is careful to distinguish an ‘agonis-
tic’ from a ‘dialectical’ exchange:25 dialectic may well be a fight of some kind,
but this “fight” remains in the framework of a common enterprise ultimately
directed toward the discovery of truth; it is to be distinguished from an agon,
where there is a winner and a loser (161a37–b1).26 The Enlightenment brought
this tendency to full completion by distinguishing sharply between critique
and polemics. The idea here is that critique preserves civility, good manners,
and humanity in discursive exchanges, whereas polemics indulges in vulgar-
ity, rhetoric, and mean-spiritedness.27 Philosophy is to polemics as satire is to
pamphlets. Here is how Kant drew the line between critique and polemics in
his first Critique:
25 It is interesting in this respect that the original title of Moraux’s contribution, as pre-
sented to the third Symposium Aristotelicum, was not “La joute dialectique d’après le 8e
livre des Topiques . . .” but “L’entraînement à la dialectique . . .” (cf. Brunschwig, Aristote:
Topiques, vol. 1, xxiii, n. 1).
26 “And since it is a poor participant who impedes the common work, so it is clearly also in
an argument. For there is also a common project in these (except for competitive ones:
in these, it is not possible for both to achieve the same goal, for it is impossible for
more than one to win” (trans. Robin Smith). This is why Brunschwig expressed reser-
vations about Moraux’s description of the dialectical exchange as “a dialectical joust”
(cf. Brunschwig, Aristote: Topiques, vol. 2, 263).
27 In his polemics with Lessing (cf. infra), Goeze’s recurrent complaint is that “Lessing
verletzt Anständigkeit, guten Ton, Lebensart” (cf. Oesterle, “Das ‘Unmanierliche der
Streitschrift,’ ” 112).
. . . it is already decided that, in accordance with our principles of cri-

tique . . ., then there really must not be any polemic of pure reason. . . . One
can regard the critique of pure reason as the true court of justice for all
controversies of pure reason; for the critique is not involved in these dis-
putes, which pertain immediately to objects, but is rather set the task of
determining and judging what is lawful in reason in general in accordance
with the principles of its primary institution. Without this, reason is as it
were in the state of nature, and it cannot make its assertions and claims
valid or secure them except through war. The critique, on the contrary,
which derives all decisions from the ground-rules of its own constitution,
whose authority no one can doubt, grants us the peace of a state of law,
in which we should not conduct our controversy except by due process.28
This would not suppress polemics in real life, of course;29 as Aristotle had
already conceded in the Topics: “There are times when it is necessary to attack
the speaker, not the thesis—when the answerer is particularly abusive and
ready to pounce on the questioner with the contrary of whatever he asks for.
By being cantankerous, then, these people make discussions competitive and
not dialectical” (161a22–25; trans. Robin Smith).
3 Rehabilitating Polemics (Polemics and Value Feelings)
Kant represented but one possible view on polemics; others were more sen-
sitive to its positive sides than Kant could ever be. Lessing and Schlegel are
undoubtedly the two crucial figures when it comes to the rehabilitation of
polemics, and the arguments they developed in this respect loom large behind
modern views such as Karl Kraus’s or, for that matter, Walter Benjamin’s, from
which I took the motto of my paper. We have already seen how the idea of phi-
losophy as the way of conducting one’s life played an important, and perhaps
central, role in ancient philosophical polemics. One can generalize and say that
polemics appears to be justified whenever something really vital is at stake—
as just wars sometimes are. Is not ethical truth too serious a matter to be left
28 Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, A750–751/B778–B779 = Akademie Ausgabe, vol. 3, 491
(trans. Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood). That Kant’s distinction represents the official
attitude toward polemics of the Enlightenment can be supported by numerous passages
from various authors quoted by Oesterle, “Das ‘Unmanierliche der Streitschrift.’ ”
29 See Saner, Kants Weg vom Krieg zum Frieden, 98 (in a chapter titled “Kant als Polemiker”).
26 Laks
to objective and dispassionate argumentation?30 Schleiermacher’s use of the

word “conflict” (Streit) in his Dialektik is still on the same footing as Aristotle’s
“dialectical confrontation” in the Topics, since in both cases the assumption is
that the two opponents are pursuing a common goal. But Schlegel, in the wake
of Lessing’s Anti-Goeze, defends ‘polemics’ as such.31 ‘Philosophical polemics’
(as distinct from philosophical argumentation) enter the philosophical scene
when ultimate convictions are at stake. Under these circumstances, it is fully
understandable that individuals come under attack. For values are always
embodied in certain individuals or groups of individuals, and what is at stake
is not only the preservation of one’s life but even, especially in the Christian
world, the salvation of one’s soul. These are topics where dispassionate critical
argumentation reaches its limits, where minds divide and you have to choose
your camp. At this moment it is philosophy itself that unexpectedly appears
to be polemics continued by other means (in close metaphorical accordance
with Clausewitz), rather than the other way round, according to its own pre-
ferred and perhaps wishful conception.
The ethical and stylistic consequences of this state of affairs are obvious:
polemicists are driven by passion, and passion is essential to them. The
Benjamin quote I began with says this. So does Karl Kraus: “If polemic is
reduced to an argument about opinions, then its best part is lost—its intoxi-
cating element.”32 We do not possess many direct ancient testimonies about
the polemicist’s psychological state. We know that Plutarch’s decision to write
Against Colotes was prompted by the angry reaction of Aristodemus, a politi-
cian and a friend of his, after a public reading of Colotes’s treatise,33 and we
can assume that Plutarch shared Aristodemus’s anger.34 On the other hand,
we do possess a number of texts whose style undoubtedly conveys the ethos of
the polemicist: Plutarch against Colotes is a case in point, but one could also
mention Galen against Chrysippus and the Stoics or (Ps.-?) Hippolytus against
30 Cf. Morel and Verde, “Le Contre Colotès de Plutarque” on Plutarch Against Colotes: “De ce
point de vue, il semble que Plutarque entende suggérer au lecteur que réfuter Colotès est
un devoir moral” (19).
31 Cf. Schlegel, “Über Lessing,” which has been aptly described as “a justification of polem-
ics” (“eine Rechtfertigungsschrift des Polemisierens,” Oesterle, “Das ‘Unmanierliche der
Streitschrift,’ ” 112). Oesterle collects much interesting material (from Humboldt and
Hegel, among others) going in the same direction.
32 “Wenn man die Polemik auf den Meinungstreit reduziere, bringe man sie um ihr bestes
Teil, um ihr rauschhaftes Element” (quoted by Quack, Bemerkungen, 48; my translation).
33 Cf. 1107 E–F.
34 Note, however, that the literary distinction between Plutarch and Aristodemus is prob-
ably significant—Plutarch’s official view would certainly be that one should not write
under the pressure of passion.
the heretics, and many others. This material can of course be analyzed from
a technical (that is, essentially rhetorical) perspective, but my point here is,
rather, that in all these cases rhetoric and radical questioning and values are
indissociably linked. This is certainly why polemics should interest us, and why
we should try to better define its various kinds.
4 Polemics and Hermeneutics
Philosophical polemic has something to do with interpretation in more than

one respect. First, it always relies on an interpretation of what the opponent is
actually saying. This turns out to be one of the great benefits of ancient polem-
ics from a scholarly point of view, because such an interpretation is in a num-
ber of cases accompanied—essentially because of rhetorical constraints—by
more or less extended quotations of texts that we would not know of were
it not for the polemics against them. The polemicist, after all, must show his
public that he has a point: polemic is also argumentation, in this case, argu-
mentation about the polemicist’s being right in attacking his opponent the
way he does. Galen, Plutarch, and (Ps.-?) Hippolytus are the most prominent
examples of this state of affairs. Of course, these quotations and their interpre-
tations will tend to be deeply anti-hermeneutical, in the sense that hermeneu-
tics always relies on a principle of charity that polemics by definition does not
encourage.35 The ways in which this nonhermeneutical dimension of polemics
functions, its positive relationship to the two extremes of literalism on the one
hand and allegorical interpretation on the other hand, are fascinating topics
that I can only mention in passing.36
The second reason for which polemics and hermeneutics are somehow
linked derives from the warlike side of polemics. For attacking an enemy
requires not only internal solidarity during the conflict but also dealing with
the defeated after the victory. Thus conciliation, both internal and external, is
an aspect of polemical strategy no less than determination and aggressiveness
against the adversary.
Antiochus maintains that the Stoics and Plato basically agree on epistemo-
logical matters, as they do with Aristotle when it comes to ethical matters;37
Alexander of Aphrodisias, that the Stoics and Aristotle boil down to the same
35 For the hermeneutical principle of charity, see Berner, “Equité.”

36 During the discussion at the colloquium, Philippe Hoffmann correctly insisted on the fact
that the meaning of a text that is considered as canonical is a privileged object of polem-
ics. A typology of “polemical themas” (cf. supra, n16) would indeed be an interesting topic.
37 Cf. for example Cicero, Nat. D. 1.16.
28 Laks
thing on the question of fate; and of course it was one of the main tasks of
Simplicius to show that Aristotle and Plato do not diverge (diaphōnia) but are
fundamentally in agreement (sumphōnia)38—and not only Plato and Aristotle,
but Greek philosophers in general, as far as this can be maintained: this is why
he took upon himself to defend Anaxagoras, Empedocles, and Melissus against
Aristotle’s criticisms.39
In all these cases, looking for agreement is looking for allies in a fight whose
outcome is more important than differences now considered as superficial: in
Antiochus’s case, the alliance between Stoics, Plato, and Aristotle is directed
against Philo’s New Academy and its alleged skeptical stance.40 Thus, com-
promise or harmonization goes hand in hand with a redirection of polemics
and a kind of externalization of polemics. And Simplicius’s case is especially
significant because this externalization occurs on a large scale: the Greek
philosophical schools must now form one solid block against the Christians.
As for the Christians, some agreed that fighting was the way to go. But as we
know, those Christians who pleaded for absorbing the Greeks rather than
defeating them were the side that won. And this was perhaps the best way to
win the war.41
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The Young Dogs of Eristic: Dialectic and Eristic
in the Early Academy
Christopher Shields
The matter of appearing (τὸ φαίνεσθαι) and seeming (τὸ δοκεῖν), but not
being, and of saying things, but not true ones—all this is forever full of
difficulty, in times gone by and even now.1
PLATO, Sophist 236e1–3
∵
1 The First Fruits of Dialectic
Plato condescends to the young, who as a matter of course turn their earliest
training in argumentation to eristic gamesmanship:
I don’t suppose it has escaped your notice that when young people get
their first taste of arguments, they abuse them as in a game, forever using
them for the sake of contradiction. They imitate those who have refuted
them by refuting others themselves, and, like young dogs, they take
delight in dragging and tearing those around them by means of an argu-
ment. —Yes, they’re excessively fond of it. (Resp. 539b2–7)2
Plato’s observation will resonate with anyone who has spent time in the facul-
ties of philosophy in Oxford or other leading centers of analytic philosophy:
the sport among the young first exposed to philosophy is confutation. When
the young imitate their teachers, the implied criticism follows their gaze
upward; there is, Plato intimates, something misplaced, something untoward,
in the overzealous quest for victory in argumentation as an end in itself. In the
young it is unseemly; in their elders it is sophistic.
1 τὸ γὰρ φαίνεσθαι τοῦτο καὶ τὸ δοκεῖν, εἶναι δὲ μή, καὶ τὸ λέγειν μὲν ἄττα, ἀληθῆ δὲ μή, πάντα ταῦτά
ἐστι μεστὰ ἀπορίας ἀεὶ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν χρόνῳ καὶ νῦν.
2 οἶμαι γάρ σε οὐ λεληθέναι ὅτι οἱ μειρακίσκοι, ὅταν τὸ πρῶτον λόγων γεύωνται, ὡς παιδιᾷ αὐτοῖς
καταχρῶνται, ἀεὶ εἰς ἀντιλογίαν χρώμενοι, καὶ μιμούμενοι τοὺς ἐξελέγχοντας αὐτοὶ ἄλλους
ἐλέγχουσι, χαίροντες ὥσπερ σκυλάκια τῷ ἕλκειν τε καὶ σπαράττειν τῷ λόγῳ τοὺς πλησίον ἀεί.

32 Shields
What, though, is the precise locus of Plato’s criticism? The eristic exalt in
victory—for there are winners and losers in these games—while the van-
quished are shamed into silence. Victory resides in refutation, and a sure sign
of refutation is unanswerability, and, just as Plato says, forced contradiction
seals the deal. Whether played then or now, in Oxford or in Athens, such games
have as their primary goal argumentative victory achieved through reduction
to self-contradiction.
So much might seem to be little more than the harmless foibles of youthful
exuberance—were it not for the fact, at least as Plato sees the situation, that
the tumble of competitive sport breeds bad intellectual habits:
Then, when they have refuted many others and been refuted by them,
they quickly and vehemently fall into disbelieving what they believed
before; and, as a result, they themselves and the whole of philosophy are
discredited in the view of others.—Most true. (Resp. 539b9–c4)3
Winning too often and too readily yields to triumphalism, while defeat leads
to self-doubt and disaffection; corporately, this form of gamesmanship induces
the young to become doxastically fickle, which in turn lowers them in the esti-
mation of others. Worse, in so proceeding, the eristically inclined drag down
the whole enterprise of philosophy with them. Nonphilosophers, not ascer-
taining any difference between true philosophy and unregenerate sophistic,
come to view the entire discipline of philosophy as little more than pointless
quibbling about the meanings of words. It is, after all, not terribly difficult to
blur any boundaries as may obtain between the punctiliousness of Prodicus
(Plato, Euthd. 187e; Cra. 384; Lach. 197d; Prt. 340a, 341a; Chrm. 163d; Meno 75c)
and the precision of Plato (cf. Cra. 384b). Perhaps this is unsurprising, given
that Socrates identifies himself, however facetiously, as an admirer and stu-
dent of Prodicus (Chrm. 163d; Meno 96d).
Be that as it may, there remains from our distant vantage point an easy ten-
dency to join with Socrates of the Republic in condemning, or at least criticiz-
ing, the young dogs of eristic for their conduct, and thence, at least implicitly,
to identify ourselves with the purer, higher-minded Socrates, whose innocent
avocation is the earnest quest for truth. Socrates, we are minded to believe, is a
philosopher and not an eristic; and whereas philosophy is noble and uplifting,
eristic is puerile and jejune.
3 Οὐκοῦν ὅταν δὴ πολλοὺς μὲν αὐτοὶ ἐλέγξωσιν, ὑπὸ πολλῶν δὲ ἐλεγχθῶσι, σφόδρα καὶ ταχὺ ἐμπί-
πτουσιν εἰς τὸ μηδὲν ἡγεῖσθαι ὧνπερ πρότερον· καὶ ἐκ τούτων δὴ αὐτοί τε καὶ τὸ ὅλον φιλοσοφίας
πέρι εἰς τοὺς ἄλλους διαβέβληνται.
The Young Dogs of Eristic 33
The alignment and criticism may, though, be made all too readily, in two
respects. First, the situation with Socrates, even within the Platonic dialogues,
is far more complex than this easy determination would pretend. Second, and
more substantively, a principled distinction between eristic and elenchtic
investigation—as between sophistic and philosophy within the early Academy
more generally4—is surprisingly difficult to draw. This, at any rate, is the pur-
port of an instructive Aristotelian intervention into the matter: when he seeks
to regiment the distinction between eristic and dialectic in the form of syllo-
gistic, Aristotle makes clear that the fault lines cannot be given in purely inten-
tional or procedural terms.
This is not to say, however, that no distinction can be drawn, or even that it
cannot be drawn in a principled manner. Rather, the distinction between eris-
tic and dialectic, as between sophistic and philosophy in the early Academy
more generally, can be indeed be drawn, but only in substantive terms. More
exactly, the distinction can be drawn only once various normative determi-
nations have been admitted, to the effect that philosophy, unlike eristic, is
truth-implicating—where truth is understood in fully realist terms, and so
in a manner unlikely to be countenanced by a practiced, dedicated eristic. To
this extent, then, the distinction will be unavoidably and permanently conten-
tious and contestable. To draw the distinction in a principled way, it seems, is
already to decide to side with the philosophers—a decision that, while hardly
arbitrary, does require deep-level substantive conviction about the defining
characteristics of philosophical inquiry.
2 Socrates the Sophist
The first, unavoidable point about Plato’s implied distinction between

Socrates and the sophists is the straightforwardly historical. The Socrates of
the Republic who distances himself from the sophists is himself equally called
a sophist, and in ways that suggest a wide-spread, unreflective acceptance of
such a view. Barely a generation after his death, Socrates was himself cava-
lierly termed a sophist, en passant, by Aeschines,5 and his own contemporary,
Isocrates, for reasons mercenary or earnest (or both), at least implicitly asso-
ciates both Socrates and Plato with the disputatious and vexatious competi-
4 Recall that according to Aristotle, at least, eristic and sophistic syllogisms are the same
(Top. 162a16–17, Soph. el. 171b80). Moreover, arguments of dialectic are always directed against
another (πρὸς ἕτερον; Top. 155b26–28).
5 In Timarch. 173.
34 Shields
tors they take the Sophists to be.6 The same holds for the perhaps mocking,
perhaps affectionate (perhaps both) portrait of Socrates in Aristophanes’s
Clouds, where Socrates is pointedly portrayed as someone willing to take pay-
ment to “teach . . . both methods of reasoning, the strong and also the weak,
by which false arguments triumph over the strong.”7 The portrait of Socrates
the Sophist, if discomfiting and alien to one easily embraced view of him, is
not therefore absurd; nor even is it constrained among his contemporaries to
the lampooning Aristophanes. Plato’s disquieting Hippias Minor, for instance,
presents a polutropic Socrates capable of chameleon shifts and cunning dia-
lectical maneuvering,8 as a character indulging in a sport not so far removed
from the play of the young dogs of eristic whose undisciplined, misdirected
polemics are lamented in the Republic.
In fact, and more tellingly, a genuine concern to differentiate Socrates from
the Sophists permeates the Platonic dialogues; this concern clearly reflects
a genuine worry on Plato’s part as to the traction of this ascription. C. C. W.
Taylor astutely compares the situation to that of a later polemicist:
Nietzsche famously said of himself that he was always fighting with

Socrates because he was so close to him; it can justly be said of Plato’s
Socrates that he is always fighting against the sophists because he is so
close to them.9
6 Helen 1.
7 Ar. Nub. 545.
8 Disquieting, for instance, to Kahn (Plato and the Socratic Dialogue, 118): “We can well imagine
that, if this dialogue were not expressly cited by Aristotle, many scholars would have judged
it as unworthy of Plato and hence inauthentic.” Kahn’s view is reasonable, if we have already
decided that the Socrates we esteem is no sort of Sophist.
9 Taylor, “Socrates the Sophist,” 157. Some of the following paragraph concurs with Taylor.
I set aside, however, his investigation into the degree to which Socrates, like a sophist, can
be thought a bewitching hunter of young men. He notes, rightly, that Socrates does at times
proceed in a manner reminiscent of those defined in the first four definitions of the Sophist
(221c–224e; cf. Prt. 313c4–6). More complicated is the question of whether Taylor is right to
see Socrates in the sixth definition of the Sophist, there described as an educator who differ-
entiates the better from the worse by turning up contradictions through cross-questioning
(Soph. 231c9–e6). Compare Crivelli (“Socratic Refutation and Platonic Refutation”) who,
unlike Taylor, denies that the definition offers an implicit characterization of Socrates at
work. It is to be noted, however, that the disagreement between Crivelli and Taylor actually
turns on a point of agreement between them: both agree that the sixth definition is a portrait
of a sophist, which indicates to Crivelli that it is no portrait of Socrates, whereas it provides
grist for Taylor’s mill that Plato self-consciously intends to portray Socrates as having more
than a little in common with the sophists.
How is he close to them? And how does he fight?

When castigating the young dogs of eristic, Plato fights first by recom-
mending better role models to them. He notes that those who have avoided
indulgence in childish eristic have matured correctly, not least because they
have looked for guidance to those who practice not sophistic but rather
dialectic:
But an older person will not want to take part in such madness. He will
want to imitate someone who is willing to engage in discussion (or, dia-
lectic; διαλέγεσθαι), someone looking for the truth, rather than someone
playing and engaging in contradiction for the sake of play; and this one
will be more measured and will bring this pursuit greater honor rather
than dishonor. (Resp. 539c5–d1)10
According to Plato, then, dialectic is not eristic. He commends and praises the
more measured art while dismissing the frenzied gamesmanship of the young
as madness (μανία).
Plato’s initial distinction is given in three terms, evidently connected with
one another: (1) eristic is for the young; dialectic is for the mature; (2) eristic
is for sport; dialectic is in earnest; and (3) eristic serves contradiction as an
end in itself; dialectic serves the truth. Elsewhere, Plato summarizes his view
thus: “Dialectic is a gentler method of discussion between friends” (Meno 75d;
cf. Prt. 348d). We are thus given to believe that Plato, and Plato’s Socrates, prac-
tice dialectic in service of the truth. They are philosophers and not sophists
(so, e.g., Ap. 19d–e). Protagoras and his ilk practice eristic in service of confuta-
tion, victory, and profit. They are sophists and not philosophers.
Or so it is comforting to believe. This is because Socrates equally seems in
various ways uncomfortably close to the sophists from whom Plato strives to
differentiate him. That is to say, then, that Plato fights because he needs
to fight: the similarities between Socrates and the sophists are real. Indeed,
difficulty already surfaces in the semantic instability of the very word ‘sophist’
(σοφιστής); and this instability begins to fray the boundaries of the tidy demar-
cations upon which Plato relies in drawing his demarcation. We find it used
in Plato primarily as a term of derogation; moreover, the dominant tendency
in Plato’s usage lines up with a broader tendency of the Greek of his time.
10 Ὁ δὲ δὴ πρεσβύτερος, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, τῆς μὲν τοιαύτης μανίας οὐκ ἂν ἐθέλοι μετέχειν, τὸν δὲ
διαλέγεσθαι ἐθέλοντα καὶ σκοπεῖν τἀληθὲς μᾶλλον μιμήσεται ἢ τὸν παιδιᾶς χάριν παίζοντα καὶ
ἀντιλέγοντα, καὶ αὐτός τε μετριώτερος ἔσται καὶ τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα τιμιώτερον ἀντὶ ἀτιμοτέρου
ποιήσει.
36 Shields
Still, we have perfectly nonpejorative occurrences in fifth- and fourth-century

Greek as well: a σοφιστής might be a craft-master, a poet, a statesman, a natural
philosopher, or a sage (Hdt. 1.29, 2.36, 4.95; Isoc. Antid. 235; and even in Plato,
Resp. 596d1). Sometimes we find a self-conscious campaign to spotlight one
connotation over another, as when its connotations are expressly contested
(Plato, Prt. 318d–319a; H. mai. 281a–283b). When we reflect on this ambiva-
lence, we should likewise come to appreciate that we ought not to be content
with an easy sorting of all disputants into two camps: the admirable, truth-
loving philosophers, and the disapprobious, victory-coveting eristics.
This first, linguistic reflection gives way to another more substantive
point—namely, that Plato castigates the sophists for deeper reasons hav-
ing nothing to do with their desire for local victory. On the contrary, when
he decries them, Plato’s main and most cutting complaint turns not on their
objectives or methods but on their indefensible reliance upon appearances
and images (Resp. 515a5–6; Soph. 232a–236d). In so doing, he relies not on the
(putative) ends or goals of eristic but rather on a broader, more comprehen-
sive theme, one used equally to cast aspersions on others, including mimetic
artists. In trading in apparitions rather than realities, the peddlers of images
lead the soul away from truth, including even the souls of decent philosophers,
who, despite their own predilections and desires, remain vulnerable to the lure
of images.
Already, though, Plato’s brief against the sophists threatens to bite back. To
begin, Socrates repeatedly enjoins his interlocutors to “say what you believe”
(Crit. 49c11–d1; Resp. 349a4–6; Grg. 495a8–9, 500b5–7). Is this not, then, merely
to enjoin them to open their responses with how things appear to them, to
begin with such appearances as they have? Having, then, elicited their beliefs,
he skillfully leads them to contradictions, after which they recognize their
defeat, sometimes in bemused, disengaged resignation (Resp. 331d), some-
times in anguish and anger (Meno 80a–b), or even in vituperative disgust
(Resp. 350c–d). This is at least part of the reason Socrates stands accused of
using eristic techniques—even if he disputes this characterization (Grg. 482d,
489b–c; Resp. 338d). This is perhaps also why Socrates’s opponents and com-
petitors directly label him an eristic and indirectly associate him with the less
savory techniques and aims of eristic disputation (Isoc. Panath. 26, Antid.
265–6, Helen 1.5). When he disputes these characterizations, Socrates cannot
easily rely on the thought that he proceeds with the noble aims and virtuous
aspirations of dialectic, whereas his opponents engage in self-indulgent eristic
aimed at self-preening victory. After all, Socrates himself says, however ironi-
cally, that he wishes to learn eristic from two masters of the art, Euthydemus
and Dionysodorus, an art he characterizes in a manner none too far from the
Socrates of the Clouds: he wants “to fight in words and to refute whatever is
said, whether it happens to be false or true” (Euthd. 272a8–b1).
Perhaps this is why, in what seems a moment of mild desperation, Plato
goes so far as to introduce a distinction between two kinds of sophistry: the
noble kind, presumably practiced by Socrates, and the ignoble kind, presum-
ably practiced by the likes of Protagoras and Prodicus (Soph. 211b7–8). One
may say in response, then, that a noble sophist is a sophist all the same, so that
the fight is lost and Socrates is, after all, a sophist, just as Aeschines observed.
Or, one may say, rather, that a noble sophist is a decoy duck, such that the simi-
larities between Socrates and the sophists are, so to speak, deeply superficial.
The question thus arises as to whether we have a neutral vantage point for
adjudicating these disputes. Is there, in short, a distinction between dialectic
and eristic, to which Plato may legitimately avert, whereby dialectic is neutral
or salubrious, while eristic, as he intimates in the Republic, is at best youthful
folly and at worst soul-warping contumely?
Plato evidently thinks so. He begins a more substantive account of dialectic
in the Republic by characterizing it as intellectual as opposed to perceptual, as
dedicated to grasping what each thing is in its own right (533b2–3), and most
important, as that discipline whose objective involves formulating an account
of the being or essence of each thing: “Do you call the person who grasps an
account (λόγος) of the being (or essence οὐσία) of each thing a dialectician?”
“Yes, of course,” comes the ready response (534b3–7).11 So the first thought is
plain enough. Only those grasping an account of being, that is, an essence-
specifying account, will qualify as dialecticians. The others are merely chatter-
boxes, spinning endlessly in the realm of seeming, not being.
One natural thought, then, is already irredeemably normative: a distinc-
tion between dialectic and eristic can be made just as Plato makes it in the
Republic: dialectic aims at truth, eristic at victory; truth is attained when and
only when the logos of a thing’s being is attained. A logos of a thing’s being is
an essence-specifying definition that captures the real nature of that thing and
not merely its appearance. From this perspective the elenchus as practiced by
Socrates is a ground-clearing exercise, aimed, even if it is nonconstructive,12 at
the destruction of false belief as propaedeutic to a progression toward essence-
specification. By contrast the sophists practice confutation with a goal of profit,
11 ἦ καὶ διαλεκτικὸν καλεῖς τὸν λόγον ἑκάστου λαμβάνοντα τῆς οὐσίας; . . . πῶς γὰρ ἄν, ἦ δ᾽ ὅς,
φαίην.
12 For an instructive discussion of the question of whether one should regard the
Socratic elenchus as constructive or destructive, see Benson, “A Note on Eristic and
the Socratic Elenchus.”
38 Shields
and an eristic plays at refutation for the glory of local victory vouchsafed by the
reduction of the defeated to the silence of self-contradiction.
Need the eristic capitulate to this unflattering characterization?
3 An Aristotelian Intervention
Evidently not, at least not without putting up a fight. Consider, for instance,
the regimented distinction between eristic and dialectic offered by Aristotle
in the Sophistici Elenchi, his handbook of argument that seems to have been
constructed in a manner reflecting actual Academic practice. Aristotle offers
a crisp regimentation by distinguishing various forms of syllogistic. In his
terminology
a syllogism (or deduction; συλλογισμός) is an argument in which, certain

things having been set down, something different from the things that
have been laid down results of necessity through them. (Top. 100a25–27;
cf. An. pr. 24b18–22; Soph. el. 164b27–165a)13
Among syllogisms, some are demonstrations (ἀποδείξεις)—namely those

whose premises are true, necessary, and better known or more intelligible than
their conclusions (An. post. 71b16–25, 77b5–73a6; Metaph. 981a5–30, 1006a6–18,
1039b27–1040a7); and some are dialectical syllogisms—namely, those reason-
ing from endoxa (Top. 100a29–30). The distinction, then, turns on the charac-
ter of the items laid down in the premises. In a deduction the premises are
not only true but necessary; in a dialectical syllogism, by contrast, the prem-
ises are mere endoxa, reputable beliefs of some manner. Endoxa, in general,
are things believed “by everybody or by the majority or by the wise—by all
the wise or the majority or the most famous and highly reputed among them”
(Top. 100b21–23).
With just that much in place, Aristotle can begin to carve out dialectic
from eristic in what seems a meaningful way, one wholly continuous with
the preliminary sketch in Plato’s Republic. For it turns out that some syllo-
gisms are but seeming syllogisms (i.e., sophisms). That is, some sets of prop-
ositions are syllogisms as decoy ducks are ducks: they are homonymously
syllogisms—not syllogisms at all, except in name. They may fool some people,
as decoy ducks fool some ducks (and perhaps some people), because they give
13 Ἔστι δὴ συλλογισμὸς λόγος ἐν ᾧ τεθέντων τινῶν ἕτερόν τι τῶν κειμένων ἐξ ἀνάγκης συμβαίνει
διὰ τῶν κειμένων (Top. 100a25–27).
off the appearance of being the sorts of progressions of propositions that syl-
logisms comprise, but in fact they are not syllogisms at all (Soph. el. 165a3–4).
Still others are formally syllogisms but rely on merely apparent endoxa rather
than genuine endoxa (Top. 100b23–25). These, then, are sophistical or eristi-
cal syllogisms (Top. 162a16–17; Soph. el. 171b23–29). If we can follow such a
regimentation of syllogisms into the genuine, the homonymous, and the eris-
tic, then perhaps we can arrive at a principled distinction of just the sort the
Academic Plato seeks.
In his nineteenth-century discussion of Aristotle’s Sophistici Elenchi, Grote
is doubtful that we can follow Aristotle down this path. He begins with a fair-
minded recapitulation:
Aristotle thus draws a broad and marked line between Dialectic on the
one hand, and Eristic or Sophistic on the other; and he treats the whole
important doctrine of Logical Fallacies as coming under this latter
department. The distinction that he draws between them is two-fold: first
as to purpose, next as to subject-matter. On the part of the litigious or
sophistical debater there is the illicit purpose of victory at all cost, or for
profit; and probabilities merely apparent—such as any one may see not
to be real probabilities—constitute the matter of his syllogisms.14
On Grote’s approach, more concisely, Aristotle deploys the following simple

framework:
σ is a sophism if (1) σ is a λόγος used illicitly for profit or gain; or (2) σ is a

λόγος trading in seeming “probabilities.”
Grote is skeptical about the utility of this framework.

He starts by setting aside the first clause as irrelevant, on the grounds that
the dialectician no less than the sophist can use argument for monetary gain.15
He then, more important, moves to set aside the intrinsic specification given
in the second clause:
14 Grote, Aristotle, vol. 2, 77.

15 Grote (Aristotle, vol. 2, 77): “Now, as to the distinction of purpose, we may put aside the
idea of profit as having no essential connection with the question. It is quite possible to
suppose the fair Dialectician, not less than the Sophist, as exhibiting his skill for pecuni-
ary reward; while the eagerness for victory on both sides is absolutely indispensable even
in well-conducted debate, in order that the appropriate stimulus and benefit of dialecti-
cal exercise may be realized.”
40 Shields
But, if the distinction of purpose and procedure, between the Dialectician

and the Sophist, is thus undefined and unsatisfactory, still more unsat-
isfactory is the distinction of subject-matter. To discriminate between
what is really probable (i.e., accredited either by the multitude or by a
wise few), and what is only probable in appearance and not in reality
is a task of extreme difficulty. The explanation given by Aristotle him-
self when he describes the apparently probable as that which has only
superficial show, and which the most ordinary intelligence discerns at
once to be false, includes only the more gross and obvious fallacies, but
leaves out all the rest. Nothing can be more incorrect than the assump-
tion, in regard to fallacies generally, that the appearance of probability
is too faint to impose upon any ordinary man. If all fallacies could be
supposed to come under this definition, the theory of Fallacies would
undoubtedly be worthless . . .; and the most dishonest Sophist would at
any rate be harmless.16
In training his sights on the substantive as opposed to extrinsic features of

sophistry, Grote captures something central to Aristotle’s account—and hence,
as we shall see, to a broader Platonic/Academic account; but he wrongly dis-
counts its importance, partly because he mischaracterizes the very feature he
identifies.
This is the feature captured in his second clause (2), that a sophism is a λόγος
trading in seeming “probabilities.” As Grote sees the matter, a sophism turns on
a distinction between mere or apparent probabilities and the really probable.
His complaint is then that the distinction simply will not do: an apparent or
mere probability has only a “superficial show,” with an appearance “too faint”
to misdirect even the most elementary of intelligences. If that is right, then
the study of sophisms would be idle to the point of inanity. If every sophism
turned on a manifestly false appearance, then only the dull and dim-witted
could ever be taken in, and there would be little point in studying the genre
and certainly no temptation to confuse sophistry and genuine philosophy.
No one needs a philosopher to tell her that this is a lame logos: Renford’s plan
is altogether mad; being mad is the same as being angry; so, Renford’s plan is
altogether angry.
In fact, just as Grote implies, fallacies of this sort are not worth studying.
Fallacies worth studying are diabolical and so able to confute and confound
us; if they catch us unawares, they may lead us astray, even on matters of signal
importance. That allowed, Grote’s complaint is nonetheless problematic, since
16 Grote, Aristotle, vol. 2, 78.

he wrongly treats Aristotle (and other Academics) as somehow constrained to

trade only in gross fallacies, those given by what has no more than a superfi-
cial “appearance of probability.” Indeed, the wrongness of his account already
begins with a simple point of translation. What he calls “a probability” is in fact
a phainomenon (φαινόμενον), an appearance—and an appearance of a theoret-
ically loaded sort. Phainomena, as Aristotle says plainly, play a key evidentiary
role in philosophy: “About all these matters, we must try to reach conviction
via arguments, using appearances (φαινόμενα) as witnesses and standards”
(Eth. Eud. 1216b26–29). We should hardly think that the general business of
determining which bits of evidence are properly evidential and which are only
spuriously evidential can be easily or readily sorted.
If we reflect even briefly on Aristotle’s conception of phainomena and their
role in syllogistic,17 we can come to appreciate the delicacy of Aristotle’s con-
ception of eristical syllogisms, and thereby come to appreciate how he and the
other Academics can at least begin to differentiate dialectic and eristic in a
principled, substantive way.
Aristotle treats phainomena as both perceptual and intellectual. There are,
that is, both perceptual and intellectual seemings. To illustrate, a perceptual
phainomenon: “If the strip appears blue, then you are pregnant.” Other exam-
ples in Aristotle abound (Cael. 290a8–24; Gen. corr. 328a10–11; De an. 428b24–
25; Parv. nat. 446a7–20, 448b12–15). By contrast, an intellectual phainomenon:
“It appears that the economy will fall into a small second recession before the
full recovery gets underway.” Examples in Aristotle are equally plentiful (Cael.
270b4–15, 287b18, 303a20–24; Parv. nat. 462b12–22; Metaph. 1009a8, 1004b19,
b26, 1011b19). In either case the appearance in question qualifies as evidence
for believing some proposition or other.
Aristotle’s introduction of phainomena as evidentiary plays a key but vari-
ously interpreted and disputed role in his philosophy.18 For present purposes
we may highlight one feature—namely, its role in a core methodological pre-
cept, the method of phainomenological conservatism (PPC):
PPC: If it appears (φαίνεται) to a subject S as if p, then, in the absence of

evidence to the contrary, S has grounds for accepting p.
17 On the role of phainomena as witnesses in metaphysics, see Shields, “The
Phainomenological Method in Aristotle’s Metaphysics.” The following brief recapitulation
draws on the fuller treatment there.
18 See Owen, “τιθέναι τὰ φαινόμενα”; Nussbaum, “Saving Aristotle’s Appearances”; Pritzl,
“Opinions as Appearances.” Shields, “The Phainomenological Method in Aristotle’s
Metaphysics,” reviews and assesses the main approaches.
42 Shields
This principle has two main features, one positive and one negative. On the
positive side, phainomena look beyond themselves to the way things are, to
beings (ὄντα); they are not reflexive, providing evidence for their own seeming
selves. On the negative side, PPC is self-limiting in that phainomena qualify
as evidentiary without thereby being guarantors of the truth. Both sides are
important in Aristotle’s understanding of the eristic syllogism.
4 The Eristical Syllogism Reconsidered
While we see that Grote was wrong to understand the eristic syllogism in terms
of “probabilities,” because that obscures the evidentiary role of phainomena as
captured by PPC, we should not on that basis ignore a subtler, more penetrat-
ing remark that he drops in the course of his dismissal of Aristotle’s substan-
tive characterization. Grote notes, rightly once the adjustments are made, that
“to discriminate between what is really probable (i.e., accredited either by the
multitude or by a wise few), and what is only probable in appearance and not
in reality is a task of extreme difficulty.” To discriminate between a phainom-
enon that is genuinely evidential and a phainomenon which is only spuriously
evidential is indeed a “task of extreme difficulty.” In fact Aristotle’s dominant
point about the eristical and dialectical syllogisms, and thence more generally
his distinction between eristic and dialectic, turns on just this point.
Here it is crucial to emphasize that Aristotle identifies two classes of
sophistical syllogisms. Those in the first class of seeming syllogisms are soph-
isms, are only homonymously syllogisms, that is, not really syllogisms at all
(Soph. el. 165a3–4). These include those that are formally invalid. Those in the
second class, by contrast, qualify as formal syllogisms but rely upon merely
apparent endoxa (Top. 100b23–25). These are sophistical or eristical syllogisms
(Top. 162a16–17; Soph. el. 171b23–29).
How, then, to differentiate the dialectical from the eristical syllogisms, when
both are formally valid and both begin not with necessary premises but with
endoxa or phainomena? The distinction turns precisely on the “task of extreme
difficulty,” mentioned by Grote, namely that of sorting genuinely eviden-
tiary phainomena and only spuriously evidentiary phainomena. Here is how
Aristotle marks the distinction in his Metaphysics:
For sophistic and dialectic focus on the same genus of things as philoso-
phy, but philosophy differs from dialectic in the kind of power it has and
from sophistic in its choice of life. Dialectic merely probes in areas where
philosophy is knowledgeable, while sophistic gives off the appearance of
being knowledgeable without in fact being so. (ἡ δὲ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη

<sc. γνωριστική>, οὖσα δ’ οὔ.; Metaph. 1004b22–26)19
Dialectic understands its limitations; sophistic does not.

How not? If we read Aristotle’s treatment of the eristic syllogism in Sophistici
Elenchi more carefully, we find a more complex regimentation than Grote
recognized:
σ is an eristical (or sophistical) syllogism if (1) σ is a genuine syllogism

deriving from seeming endoxa that are not real endoxa; or (2) σ is a seem-
ing syllogism drawn from either genuine endoxa or seeming endoxa that
are not real endoxa.
Both possibilities introduce the notion of seeming but not real endoxa. Given
that endoxa can also sometimes be phainomena (Eth. Nic. 1154b3–8), Aristotle
here equally introduces seeming versus genuine phainomena. The question,
then, is to draw this distinction crisply and compellingly, in such a way as to
determine a principled distinction between dialectical and eristical syllogisms.
One might suppose that any such distinction is bound to fail, because if
something seems to be so, then whether or not it is as it seems, it still seems to
be as it seems to be. We can look at the Müller-Lyer lines, agree that they are
the same length, and then yet insist that they really do seem to be different
lengths. So, it may, from this vantage point, be difficult to see which distinction
Aristotle is after.
We can make some progress in two phases, first abstractly and then by
observing Aristotle’s distinction at work. The abstract point is this: some
appearance φ may prove spurious either by indicating that something is the
case that is not the case, or, more obliquely, by being a phenomenal token of a
type that is normally evidence for the truth of some proposition p that, how-
ever, in an individual case, is not in fact evidence of anything at all.
In the first case, we can think of the very same Müller-Lyer lines from another
vantage point. In fact we are so wired that we tend to see the lines as being of
different lengths: they so appear. This sort of appearance, however, systemati-
cally misleads and misdirects. Were we not to correct for it, we would accept
it as evidence for the truth of a false proposition p—namely, that the lines are
of different lengths. Note that the point here is not that the evidence fails to
19 περὶ μὲν γὰρ τὸ αὐτὸ γένος στρέφεται ἡ σοφιστικὴ καὶ ἡ διαλεκτικὴ τῇ φιλοσοφίᾳ, ἀλλὰ διαφέρει
τῆς μὲν τῷ τρόπῳ τῆς δυνάμεως, τῆς δὲ τοῦ βίου τῇ προαιρέσει· ἔστι δὲ ἡ διαλεκτικὴ πειραστικὴ
περὶ ὧν ἡ φιλοσοφία γνωριστική, ἡ δὲ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη, οὖσα δ’ οὔ.
44 Shields
show the truth of p; for that is the way of almost all evidence. Evidence is not
(with the possible exception of self-intimating propositions, which we may set
aside) such as to guarantee the truth of that for which it qualifies as evidence.
Rather, the appearance φ in this case systematically misleads or misdirects;
it is not just that the proposition p for which it provides evidence is false, but
that even when the falsity of p is known, φ continues to have its evidentiary
pull. Here we may compare a case where φ is the passing appearance of some-
one’s being your uncle, when seen in crowd. When you approach the man, you
see that it is not your uncle but note that he really does bear him a striking
resemblance. In such a case you cease to suppose that this man’s resembling
your uncle, which was initially why he seemed to be your uncle, is a reason to
believe that he is your uncle. Knowing that p is false robs φ of its evidentiary
value. Plausibly, an analogous case can be built for intellectual phainomena in
the case, for example, of the set-theoretic paradoxes; but that case need not be
made to secure the point at hand.
The second sort of case is related but more complex. Here the idea is that a
token of a type normally thought to be evidentiary of the truth of some prop-
osition is present, though in this instance the proposition is false. Consider,
for example, whether an emergent condition qualifies as a symptom for some
underlying condition. Imagine that someone presents with cramping in the
lower right side of the abdomen coupled with a high white blood cell count.
Let us suppose, however, that in this case the conditions have no common
cause (one is simply gastrointestinal distress and the other is caused by exces-
sive smoking). In this case the emerging conditions are jointly symptomatic of
nothing, though very often the occurrence of these types in concert qualifies
as evidence that the patient has appendicitis. In such a case it will be fair to
say that the phainomena are spurious but phainomena all the same. Such will,
then, also qualify as a case where a phainomenon φ is not genuinely eviden-
tial of p, where p is the proposition that the patient is presenting with acute
appendicitis.
If we grant Aristotle this much latitude, then we can begin to appreciate
how he intends to differentiate eristical from dialectical syllogisms: both begin
in endoxa, but in some cases the endoxa are merely apparent: they seem to be
evidence for p but in fact they are not.
Now, who is to adjudicate the merely apparent phainomena from the genu-
ine phainomena? Evidently, as our examples illustrate, it should be those with
craft knowledge, that is, those who can determine whether there is an eviden-
tiary connection between the phainomena and the way things in fact are, the
onta. Needless to say, so much already presupposes that there is a distinction
between the phainomena and the onta, and so also already sets aside one form
of sophistry—namely, that form that insists that to seem is to be—that no

distinction opens between them in any case. This, then, is why it turns out
that to accept the distinction between eristical and dialectical syllogisms is
already to side with the philosophers. It is not that all philosophers must agree
which eristical syllogisms are eristical rather than dialectical; it already suffices
that they agree, as against the sophists, that the premises of at least some syl-
logisms may be mere phainomena, without really being so.
5 An Eristical Argument Dissected
All of that proceeds at a fairly abstract level of specification. One can best
appreciate Aristotle’s understanding of the distinction between eristical and
dialectical syllogisms by examining his treatment of a syllogism that falls afoul
of dialectic because of its trading on seeming phainomena. In Metaphysics iv 2,
Aristotle distinguishes philosophy and sophistry as follows:
It falls to the philosopher to be able to investigate all things. For if this

does not fall to the philosopher, then who will inquire into whether
Socrates and Socrates seated are the same things, or whether one thing
has one contrary, or what contrariety is or how many meanings it has?
And similarly with all other such questions. Since, then, these sorts of
properties belong per se to unity qua unity and to being qua being—not
to things qua numbers or lines or fire—it is clear that it falls to this sci-
ence to investigate both what these things are [viz., unity and being]
as well as what coincides with them. And those who study these mat-
ters at present go awry not by pursuing philosophical questions, but
by failing to understand anything about substance, which is prior to
other things. . . . An indication that this is so: dialecticians and soph-
ists assume the same guise as the philosopher, for sophistry has only
the appearance of wisdom (ἡ γὰρ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη μόνον σοφία ἐστί),
and dialecticians do engage in dialectic about all things. Now, being is
common to all things, and it is clear that they practice dialectic about
all things precisely because of its being proper for philosophy to do so.
(Metaph. 1004a34–b22)20
20 καὶ ἔστι τοῦ φιλοσόφου περὶ πάντων δύνασθαι θεωρεῖν. εἰ γὰρ μὴ τοῦ φιλοσόφου, τίς ἔσται ὁ
ἐπισκεψόμενος εἰ ταὐτὸ Σωκράτης καὶ Σωκράτης καθήμενος, ἢ εἰ ἓν ἑνὶ ἐναντίον, ἢ τί ἐστι τὸ
ἐναντίον ἢ ποσαχῶς λέγεται; ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ περὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν τοιούτων. ἐπεὶ οὖν τοῦ ἑνὸς ᾗ
ἓν καὶ τοῦ ὄντος ᾗ ὂν ταῦτα καθ’ αὑτά ἐστι πάθη, ἀλλ’ οὐχ ᾗ ἀριθμοὶ ἢ γραμμαὶ ἢ πῦρ, δῆλον
46 Shields
He sees, as others have seen since,21 that philosophy, dialectic, and sophistic
have more than a passing similarity to one another. To begin with, they all
engage similar sorts of questions, deep questions concerning the very nature
of beings in so far as they are beings. There is, however, a difference.
Aristotle faults the sophists, not for engaging in deep questions but for
doing so unphilosophically, where this means for him that they do so without
having first understood some basic facts about category theory. He thinks, for
instance, that they are right to pose the odd-sounding question of whether
Socrates and Socrates seated are one and the same. They go awry, however,
when offering ill-considered, ill-educated answers. How so?
When Aristotle asks who—if not the philosopher—shall investigate
whether Socrates and Socrates seated are one and the same, he is not making
a wry allusion to the philosopher’s characteristic preoccupation with abstruse
questions.22 Instead, he is posing a perfectly earnest question that he thinks
has a perfectly plain answer, one that he thinks ought to prompt the genuine
philosopher to engage the matter head on. Who shall consider this question,
if not the philosopher? Both the dialectician and the sophist. One can see in
particular that Aristotle means to parry an ensnaring sophism:
1. Socrates and Socrates seated appear to be one and the same.

2. It appears that when two things are one and the same, what is true of the
one is also true of the other.
3. When Socrates seated rises, Socrates seated ceases to be.
4. So, when Socrates seated rises, Socrates ceases to be.
In fact, whenever he stands up, Socrates commits suicide!

Now, we should surely think this an unwinning argument. There is, how-
ever, a difficult question as to just how it has gone wrong. After all, (1) and (3)
are patent perceptual phainomena; (2) is an intellectual phainomenon, namely
the Indiscernibility of Identicals. Taken individually, each seems somehow
ὡς ἐκείνης τῆς ἐπιστήμης καὶ τί ἐστι γνωρίσαι καὶ τὰ συμβεβηκότ’ αὐτοῖς. καὶ οὐ ταύτῃ
ἁμαρτάνουσιν οἱ περὶ αὐτῶν σκοπούμενοι ὡς οὐ φιλοσοφοῦντες, ἀλλ’ ὅτι πρότερον ἡ οὐσία, περὶ
ἧς οὐθὲν ἐπαΐουσιν . . . σημεῖον δέ· οἱ γὰρ διαλεκτικοὶ καὶ σοφισταὶ τὸ αὐτὸ μὲν ὑποδύονται σχῆμα
τῷ φιλοσόφῳ· ἡ γὰρ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη μόνον σοφία ἐστί, καὶ οἱ διαλεκτικοὶ διαλέγονται περὶ
ἁπάντων, κοινὸν δὲ πᾶσι τὸ ὄν ἐστιν, διαλέγονται δὲ περὶ τούτων δῆλον ὅτι διὰ τὸ τῆς φιλοσοφίας
ταῦτα εἶναι οἰκεῖα.
21 Here again, Taylor, “Socrates the Sophist,” is especially instructive.
22 Compare Matthews, “Accidental Unities”; and Cohen, “Kooky Objects Revisited.”
See Shields, “First Philosophy First,” for a fuller treatment of this passage.
e vident; taken together, they yield a preposterous conclusion, namely (4), that
whenever Socrates stands up, he ceases to exist.
One may then return to the premises, each of which seems to qualify as
a phainomenon. One might deny (1), insisting that Socrates is one thing, and
Socrates seated is another.23 One might try to deny (2) by insisting that the
Identity of Indiscernibles in fact is inapplicable in this sort of context, even
though it is not an intensional context. Or one might deny (3), perhaps by
importing temporal indexes, such that Socrates seated at t1 does not cease to
exist when Socrates seated at t2 is not. Something, however, evidently must
give—unless, that is, one is prepared to embrace (4), as, from a certain per-
spective, many present-day metaphysicians following Lewis are prepared to
do. For the sophistic argument in question bears more than a mere family
resemblance to the Problem of Temporary Intrinsics.24
In the current context we need not adjudicate this question. Instead, we
need only note that unless we are prepared to embrace (4), we must resist one
phainomenon or another and so must also suggest why something that quali-
fies as prima facie evidence for p in fact does not. Now, so much does not show
that some phainomena are merely spuriously appearing phainomena, since
one need not suppose that a phainomenon is a mere or systematically mis-
leading sort of phainomenon simply by dint of the fact that that for which it
is evidential is false. We expect it in addition to continue to have evidentiary
pull even when its indicated proposition is known to be false or when it is an
exceptional token of a type that tends in fact to be evidential for some true
proposition. Even so, it does bring us part of the way to the following thought:
something is amiss in the phainomenological basis of a syllogism if the syllo-
gism has plausible premises and is in fact valid even though it has an outland-
ish conclusion. More generally, if a phainomenon at work in an argument has a
corrupting influence from the standpoint of the truth, then that provides some
reason for supposing it spurious.
Now, in the syllogism of the seated Socrates, we seem to be in some such
circumstance. Here there are two points to make, one material and (more sig-
nificantly) one formal.
In the material mode one wishes to know which phainomenon Aristotle
questions. Although the matter is disputed, it is clear that Aristotle registers
his complaint against the Sophists by insisting that they go awry “by failing
to understand anything about substance, which is prior to other things.” This
suggests in different ways that he himself intends to reject either (1) or (2) or
23 Matthews, “Accidental Unities”; and Cohen “Kooky Objects Revisited.”

24 Lewis, On the Plurality of Worlds, 202–5.
48 Shields
both. He might reject (1), the claim that Socrates and Socrates seated appear
to be one and the same, by claiming either that Socrates is a substance while
Socrates seated is not, with the result that they are in fact not one and the
same, but merely coincide,25 or by claiming that Socrates seated is in fact noth-
ing at all beyond Socrates, seated, in which case there are not two things to be
identified but merely one thing variously described. (From the fact that being
seated is in the category of position [Cat. 2a2–3], we are not licensed to infer
that for all x, if x is seated, then a seated x is a being distinct from x.) Or, looked
at from another angle, he might be thought to deny (2), the premise that when
two things are one and the same, what is true of the one is also true of the
other, not by denying the Indiscernibility of Identicals but by denying its appli-
cability in this case. This he might in turn do in two ways, first by again claim-
ing, as with (1), that Socrates seated is nothing at all, or by contending, less
plausibly, that Socrates and Socrates seated seem to be one but are in fact two,
that they are merely coinciding beings.26 In any case, it would seem that the
sort of phainomenon to which the sophist is appealing would qualify as a mere
or spurious phainomenon in one or both of the senses identified.
Now, one might dispute which of these solutions Aristotle actually favors
and then thereafter which solution he should favor, given his various other
commitments. However those disputes might be resolved, there should be
agreement on another matter—and this is the formal point of moment. It is
plain that Aristotle faults the sophists not for swimming in the philosophical
pool but rather because they have done so without having studied philoso-
phy and, in particular, because they have not studied category theory and so
have no conception of the relation between substance and nonsubstance and
so also no inkling of the priority relations obtaining between the various cat-
egories of beings. Aristotle is here implicitly contending that to sort through
the various appearances, to determine which of them are in fact evidential
for the obtaining of this or that state of affairs, one must already be prepared
in the first instance to accept a distinction between the phainomena and the
onta, between appearances and beings, and then also do so in a way tutored by
category theory. In short, to proceed aright, one must already be a philosopher
rather than a sophist.
25 Although they do not structure their view this way, this seems to be the purport of both
Matthews (“Accidental Unities”) and Cohen (“Kooky Objects Revisited”).
26 This is again, evidently, the purport of Matthews (“Accidental Unities”) and Cohen
(“Kooky Objects Revisited”). See Shields, Order in Multiplicity, for a detailed discussion of
their approach.
One should not suppose, however, that Aristotle’s goal in diagnosing the
flaws in this eristic argument is to refute the sophist or to convert the eristic
to dialectic or the sophist to philosophy. Rather, in the context of Metaphysics
iv 2, Aristotle is making the case that there is a subject called first philosophy
and that it has a legitimate claim to be distinguished from sophistic, despite
the fact that the sophists, like the philosopher, stand prepared to consider all
beings as ripe for speculation, and not only some beings. As he allows, “sophis-
tic and dialectic focus on the same genus of things as philosophy,” even though,
he hastens to add, “philosophy differs from dialectic in the kind of power it
has and from sophistic in its choice of life” (Metaph. 1029b22–25). The job of
showing that not all appearances are true does fall to the philosopher, and
this is a task Aristotle undertakes. Here, however, he is simply illustrating the
dangers of heading into the philosophical pool without having first learned
to swim. Anyone who does so runs the risk of having no framework for distin-
guishing those appearances that are rightly regarded as evidential from those
that are not. They have no ability, that is—to return the matter to our point of
departure—to do precisely what Plato requires of the philosopher, namely to
contrast the appearances (φαινόμενα) with the things that “truly and surely are
the case” (ὄντα γέ που τῇ ἀληθείᾳ) (Resp. 596e5; cf. Top. 100b24, Eth. Nic. 1113a24).
6 A Distinction in the Sophist
In so speaking in the Republic, Plato does not already recognize a distinction

between distinct types of phainomena. So far he has merely contrasted in
emphatic terms the way things seem and the way they are. The distinction to
which Aristotle has been appealing injects another dimension, a normative
dimension, into the mix. In his view there are rogue and righteous phainom-
ena. Aristotle’s more overt treatment, though, allows us to revisit Plato from a
clearer vantage point. For it emerges that Plato equally appeals to this sort of
distinction, and in a context closely aligned with Aristotle’s treatment of it. It
occurs in the nestled dichotomous divisions of the Sophist, where Plato pro-
gressively attempts to hone in on the correct account of the sophist.27 There
27 This sentence contains at least three controversial claims: first, that the divisions are sub-
ordinated; second, that they are dichotomous; and finally, that they are progressive, in
the sense that only the last is intended to capture the nature of the sophist. Moravcsik
(“Plato’s Method of Division”) doubts all three claims. Brown’s (“Definition and Division
in the Sophist”) rejection of his case (which does not therefore establish the views asserted
here) strikes me as decisive.
50 Shields
the sophist is compared to a painter, someone involved in the image-making

art, which is crucially divided into two kinds: likeness making (εἰκαστική)
and apparition making (φανταστική) (235d–e). Plato contends that likeness
making succeeds along several norms (235d6–e2): it accomplishes its feat of
imitation by reproducing representationally the actual proportions of the
original (κατὰ τὰς τοῦ παραδείγματος συμμετρίας; 235d7–8). By contrast those
who make apparitions, phantasms, fail along these norms (Soph. 236b4–7).
They make what merely appears to be like.28 So, importantly, there is a way in
which likenesses and apparitions differ, even though both are images: a like-
ness is and an apparition is not isomorphic with its model. There is, however,
a crucial second difference as well.29 An apparition is held to be point-of-view
dependent, whereas a likeness is not; this suggests, but does not entail, that
an apparition, which Plato proceeds to introduce as the currency of the soph-
ist, is partially constituted by an attitude or point of view and thus that it is
essentially a subjective being. If so, the very existence of a phantasm is already
something mind dependent.
Plato thus introduces a two-fold norm for appearances, depending in part
upon their status as likenesses or apparitions. He is assuredly not saying
that likenesses cannot mislead, but rather that in virtue of their own mind-
independent features likenesses get at least something right about their mod-
els. When properly viewed, then, they reveal something about the original,
which is the final object of our attention. Careful attention to these features
may thus serve as a guide, a pointer to the item that “truly and surely [is] the
case” (ὄντα γέ που τῇ ἀληθείᾳ) (Resp. 596e5). A phantasm, by contrast, is a devi-
ant form of image, one that, Plato implies, manages at best only to point to a
likeness, which likeness then—rather than the apparition—might or might
not point us in the direction of what is the case. The phantasm, that is, merely
appears to be like the model, but contends Plato, it is not like it (Soph. 236a8,
236b4–7). Since the sophist trades in phantasms, he likewise trades only in
seeming seemings, images that seem to be like something that is the case but
in fact are not.
28 Soph. 236b3–7: Τί δέ; τὸ φαινόμενον μὲν διὰ τὴν οὐκ ἐκ καλοῦ θέαν ἐοικέναι τῷ καλῷ, δύναμιν
δὲ εἴ τις λάβοι τὰ τηλικαῦτα ἱκανῶς ὁρᾶν, μηδ’ εἰκὸς ᾧ φησιν ἐοικέναι, τί καλοῦμεν; ἆρ’ οὐκ,
ἐπείπερ φαίνεται μέν, ἔοικε δὲ οὔ, φάντασμα. As Crivelli (Plato’s Account of Falsehood, 25)
rightly notes: “There are two types of images here: a likeness (εἰκών) is like its model; and
apparition (φάντασμα) appears (φαίνεται) to be like its model, but is not.”
29 This is appreciated by Notomi (The Unity of Plato’s Sophist, 149), whose nuanced discus-
sion of this passage sheds light on various of its less tractable features.
These phantasms, then, are precisely the sorts of phainomena Aristotle

characterizes in his account of the eristic syllogism: a sophist offers only
appearances that seem to be evidence for something beyond themselves but
in fact are not and, in fact, never point the way out of the circle of appearances.
The parallel extends further.30 Just as Aristotle in the Metaphysics has freely
allowed that “sophistic and dialectic focus on the same genus of things as phi-
losophy,” so Plato contends in the Sophist that the terrain of the philosopher
and sophist are one and the same. In the passage introducing his final divi-
sions, including the divisions of images into likenesses and apparitions, when
asked in which areas the sophist engages in disputation and teaching, he says,
simply, “All” (Soph. 232b1–10).
In fact, though, the sophist’s “expertise” is itself a seeming seeming: the
sophist has but some manner of “conjectural knowledge” (or “apparent knowl-
edge” or “seeming knowledge” δοξατικὴ ἐπιστήμη; 233c10), a kind of oxymoronic
description that implicates the sophist himself in being a sort of phantom
knower. Again, as Aristotle echoes, “sophistry has only the appearance of wis-
dom” (σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη μόνον σοφία ἐστί; Metaph. 1004b24). Ersatz knowl-
edge is not knowledge, any more than a rogue image is a true likeness. When
the sophist goes to work, he constrains himself to the realm of seeming, never
crossing over into the realm of being. Were he to do so, he would cease to
be a sophist and become a philosopher. Then the hard work would begin—
beginning precisely, contends Aristotle, with lessons in category theory.
7 Conclusion
Plato derogates the young dogs of eristic and laments their competitive zeal.
He contends that if left unchecked, their eristic games will lead to disrepute all
around, first their own and then also that of the entire discipline of philosophy.
He must, then, think that what they do is not philosophy; yet he must at the
same time fear that their activity bears a sufficient semblance to philosophy
30 This is one of the several ways in which Guthrie’s characterization is inapt (Aristotle:
An Encounter, 161): “The name ‘dialectic’ is familiar from Plato, but the concept
has changed almost out of recognition.” Same again, then, for his contention that
(ibid., 153): “In spite of Aristotle’s righteous indignation at the unfair tactics of others
(Soph. el. 171b21–25), his own instruction-manual makes it difficult to credit his protesta-
tions about the superiority of dialectic to its wicked ‘neighbour’ (183b2) sophistic as of a
genuine to a counterfeit art.” If the findings of this paper are correct, then in fact they are
walking down a very similar road with respect to dialectic and its relation to eristic.
52 Shields
that the unschooled will regularly mistake it for the real thing. He is right, it
seems, on both counts: eristic certainly seems like the dialectic practiced by
Socrates, the philosopher. Socrates, like the eristics, regularly reduces his inter-
locutors to contradiction; and Socrates, like the eristics, does so by confound-
ing them with his deft dialectical superiority.
Is there, then, a principled distinction to be drawn? There is, but for bet-
ter or worse it is not a distinction that can be drawn by someone who has
already decided that what seems to be the case and what is the case are one
and the same. By contrast when someone has drawn the realist’s distinction
between seeming and being, a two-fold task comes to the fore: the philosopher
must not only sort the world into what is the case and what seems to be the
case but must also sort the appearances, along some normative dimension,
into the rogue and the reliable. This task is delicate and dangerous—which is
just why Plato says that “the matter of appearing (τὸ φαίνεσθαι) and seeming
(τὸ δοκεῖν) . . . is forever full of difficulty.” It is not that a logos qualifies as eris-
tic because it lands an interlocutor in a contradiction from which he cannot
escape. So much holds of dialectic no less than eristic. The point is rather that
from the eristic’s point of view, the evidently better logos lands an interlocutor
in a contradiction whose rejection points nowhere and so ends the game. This
is because unlike the philosopher the eristic has nowhere else to go: there is
only appearance and so nothing beyond the apparent victory of unanswered
confutation.31
Bibliography
Benson, Hugh H. “A Note on Eristic and the Socratic Elenchus.” Journal of the History of
Philosophy 27 (1989): 591–99.
Brown, Lesley. “Definition and Division in the Sophist.” In Definition in Greek Philosophy,
edited by David Charles, 151–71. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.
Cohen, S. Marc. “Kooky Objects Revisited: Aristotle’s Ontology.” Metaphilosophy 39
(2008): 3–19.
31 I am grateful to the editors of this volume and to its two anonymous referees for their
helpful criticisms and corrections of earlier drafts. I thank also the audience members of
the conference Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy, held at the Van
Leer Jerusalem Institute in 2014, for their lively and instructive reactions to my first reflec-
tions on these matters.
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A Hidden Argument in Plato’s Theaetetus
Naly Thaler
1 The Persistence of the Man-Measure View of Justice
Much of the first part of Plato’s Theaetetus is devoted to investigating and refut-
ing Protagoras’s man-measure doctrine, according to which “man is the mea-
sure of all things, of those that are that they are and of those that are not that
they are not.” After having refuted an unrestricted version of the Protagorean
doctrine using the self-refutation argument (170a–171d), Socrates continues
its investigation, albeit with a more limited scope. The original formulation
of the man-measure doctrine had it that man is the measure of all things. The
self-refutation argument, which proved so deadly for Protagoras’s position,
invoked the fact that most people deny the validity of this general claim and
argued that Protagoras, who does accept it, must admit the objective validity
of his opponents’ view that the doctrine is false.1 After the conclusion of the
self-refutation had been acknowledged by Theodorus, acting as Protagoras’s
spokesman, Socrates points out that although most people do not accept
the truth of the man-measure doctrine in its original unrestricted scope,
they do subscribe to some limited version of it. While people may resist the
idea that man is the measure of truth in relation to all things, they tend to agree
that there are in fact cases in which there are no criteria to appeal to in deter-
mining the truth of men’s judgments, over and above fact that the judgments
are accepted as true by those who hold them (171e–172a).
In cases pertaining to the sphere of the individual, there is general agree-
ment among men that Protagoras’s doctrine is true in regard to perception: it
is commonly believed that an individual really is the measure of the way things
are for him, namely, of their being hot, cold, sweet, and bitter. When it comes
to such cases, Socrates claims, people agree that what appears to a man is so
for him, and that there is no way to disprove or refute any of his pronounce-
ments. But, as Socrates emphasizes, this general acceptance of Protagoras’s
view in relation to the individual is limited to acts of perception. In contrast,
when it comes to matters of health and what is beneficial for the body in
1 The precise interpretation of the self-refutation argument is fraught with controversy. The
brief sketch presented above is of the one suggested in Burnyeat, “Protagoras and Self-
Refutation in the Theaetetus.”

56 Thaler
g eneral, people tend not to accept the applicability of Protagoras’s dictum. In

matters of health people are not content with just any man’s judgment about
their condition but tend to seek professional help from expert, knowledgeable
medical practitioners. This practice of seeking experts and ignoring the advice
of laymen is indicative of most people’s view that in the sphere of health, or
what is advantageous for the body, there are facts of the matter that ground
the truth of judgments, facts that can also (as often happens in the case of the
pronouncements of laymen), make some judgments false (171e).
According to Socrates, this partial public acceptance of Protagoras’s doc-
trine in the sphere of judgments pertaining to individuals finds a parallel in
the way most people view the authority of judgments produced by cities as
a whole. Many people2 believe that some judgments made by cities are true
simply by virtue of having been made and that no appeal to anything over and
above the judgment’s actual pronouncement is possible or relevant for verify-
ing the truth of the matter being pronounced on. For example, when it comes
to matters of justice and piety, people tend to agree that whatever a city judges,
declares, and lays down for itself, is in fact true for it for precisely as long as it
deems it to be so (172b).
But, parallel to the case of the human body, when it comes to questions
regarding what is advantageous for a city, no one accepts that each city has an
authority to lay down the truth for itself. When it comes to discovering what
course of action would benefit their city, citizens usually look for a compe-
tent counselor whose judgment they deem superior to that of other men. This
deliberative tendency of assemblies in relation to matters of expedience is
indicative of the fact that when it comes to what is advantageous for a city
as a whole, people do not accept Protagoras’s dictum and do not treat man in
general as the criterion of truth (172a–b).
From these observations it follows that while the man-measure doctrine
is clearly invalid as a general claim about all judgments (a fact that was also
reflected by Protagoras’s self-refutation), the same cannot be said about the
doctrine when confined to certain well-defined cases, such as individual judg-
ments about perceptible properties and civic judgments in regard to value. In
such cases the general view seems to accord with Protagoras’s position. This
means that public opinion cannot be used to prove the falsity of the limited
form of Protagoreanism, as it was in the case of the self-refutation argument
against its broad version. In fact, since Protagoras is committed to the truth of
other men’s judgments, their agreement with his dictum in these limited cases
2 In accordance with Levett/Burnyeat, The Theaetetus of Plato, I understand the subject of

ἐθέλουσιν in 172b4 to be people other than the theorists.
A Hidden Argument in Plato ’ s Theaetetus 57
might count as further reinforcement for its truth in relation to perception and
value. This means that in order to complete the refutation of the man-measure
doctrine, Socrates must supply at least two independent arguments against it:
one that pertains to judgments of perception and one that pertains to judg-
ments of value.
At this point in the dialogue, after the spheres in which the man-measure
doctrine still appears credible have been delineated, the argument is inter-
rupted, and Socrates launches on the so-called digression (172c–177c) that
compares the life, character, and habits of the true philosopher with those of
the politically savvy, litigious “man of the world.” The digression depicts the
litigious man’s practical and intellectual scorn for the idea that justice has any
claim on one’s life, and it describes how this man’s shrewdness in practical
matters turns into acute inadequacy when it comes to a philosophical discus-
sion of notions such as justice and happiness, about which he considers him-
self an expert due to his worldly success. In contrast to the litigious man, the
digression tells of the other-worldly philosopher who is both scornful of and
completely inept at matters that are considered of prime importance in the
city, such as deriding one’s political opponents and boasting of one’s own lin-
eage, and whose gaze is turned instead to the study of general truths in both
the moral and the physical sphere.
After the six pages of the digression, Plato has Socrates and Theodorus
resume their earlier discussion regarding the areas in which Protagoras’s doc-
trine might still prove valid. Socrates argues that the aforementioned judg-
ments regarding what is advantageous, that is, those that fall outside the scope
of Protagoras’s doctrine in regard to both the individual and the civic sphere,
constitute one species of a wider genus of judgments in relation to which
the man-measure doctrine is inapplicable, namely, judgments concerning the
future (178a–179a). Thus for example, when cities legislate, Socrates claims,
they do so with a view to what will prove advantageous for the city in the
future. And it is plain to see that judgments about how things will be, or appear,
in the future, are not true simply because of the fact that they seem so to those
who pronounce them. When it comes to predicting how things will appear in
the future, and to whom they will appear so, experts are clearly superior to lay-
men. Thus, a doctor is more authoritative than a patient at predicting whether
or not the patient will feel hot tomorrow, a cook is better than his guests at
determining which combination of ingredients will appear tasty to them, and a
rhetorician is better than anyone else at predicting in advance which speeches
will appear persuasive to an audience. In just the same way, legislators who aim
for the future advantage of the city often fail to predict the true effects of the
laws they enact and bring more future harm than good to a city.
58 Thaler
Since it has been agreed that an expert’s judgments about the future are
superior to those of laymen, Socrates now claims that it has been proven
that men are not all equal in regard to wisdom, and that consequently it is
false that all of them must serve as measures of the truth. The one sphere in
which Protagoras’s theory still stands, he claims, is that of individual percep-
tions and the judgments that pertain to them. In relation to these it seems
extremely difficult to show that what appears to a man is not really so for him
(179a–c). Nevertheless, Socrates proceeds to offer two complementary argu-
ments intended to refute the man-measure doctrine in this last sphere in
which it had taken refuge.3
But Socrates’s claim about what remains of the man-measure doctrine
should give us pause. Remember that prior to the digression and the subse-
quent short exchange about benefit and its relation to the future, Socrates
had claimed that there are two spheres in which the man-measure doctrine
might still prove true—namely, personal judgments about sensation and
political decrees regarding justice and piety. But now, following the digression
and the discussion of benefit and its relation to the future, Socrates claims
that the man-measure doctrine must be restricted to judgments regarding pres-
ent sensations. This should strike us as odd, since it completely neglects the
fact that at the present stage in the argument, Protagoras’s doctrine remains
true not only in relation to personal judgments of perception but also in rela-
tion to civic judgments about value. It seems that the claim in 179c about where
the argument with Protagoras currently stands is either a flagrant oversight
of the fact that the man-measure doctrine has yet to be refuted in the sphere of
moral judgments or is intended as a subtle indication to the reader that some-
thing in the immediately preceding passages should count as a refutation of
the man-measure doctrine in that sphere.
In the past commentators have attempted to locate such a refutation in
the digression itself.4 But while I agree that the Theaetetus does contain a
3 The first of these arguments occurs at 181b–183c and is designed to refute the man-measure
doctrine under the assumption that the world is in constant flux. The second appears in
183c–186e and proceeds under the assumption that the world is stable. For the relation
between these two arguments, see Thaler, “Plato on the Importance of ‘This’ and ‘That,’ ”
37–42.
4 Thus Barker, in “The Digression in the Theaetetus,” argues that the digression achieves a refu-
tation of the Protagorean view of justice by highlighting a familiar phenomenon—namely,
the distinct form of discourse that characterizes philosophers as opposed to orators—and
using it as evidence for the existence of two correspondingly distinct realms of reality. But
(as Barker himself concedes) this sort of proof can be rejected by anyone who does not accept
an entailment from the existence of the philosophers’ distinct discourse to the existence
r efutation of the Protagorean view of justice, I shall argue that it is to be found

not in the extended speech by Socrates that constitutes the digression but
rather in the two sections of dialectical discussion that precede and follow it.
As I will attempt to show, the discussion that distinguishes between two kinds
of civic judgments—namely, those pertaining to value as opposed to those
that pertain to advantage—and that claims that the man-measure doctrine is
true in regard to the former but false in regard to the latter, in fact constitutes a
proof that the man-measure doctrine is false in in relation to both.
This means that there are two questions that require our attention. The first
is how, precisely, does the discussion—which seems to claim explicitly that
man is the measure of truth in regard to justice but not to advantage—turn out
to prove that man is in fact not a measure in relation to both? Once this ques-
tion has been answered it will be necessary to ask why Plato chose to hide this
conclusion rather than declare it openly. After all, an integral part of engaging
in a polemical discussion seems to be alerting one’s opponent to the fact that
his position is under attack and has in fact been refuted. If this polemical rule
is ignored, one obvious repercussion will be that the opponent will continue
to hold his erroneous view, regardless of the fact that he has been presented
with good reasons for abandoning it. It is in answering this second question
that I shall appeal to Socrates’s claims in the digression. I shall argue that the
digression contains the rationale for leaving the Protagorean opponent in his
self-contented ignorance.
2 The Refutation of the Protagorean View of Justice
In order to expose the refutation of the man-measure doctrine in the sphere

of justice, it is important to begin by noting a difference between Socrates’s
description of it prior to the digression and his account of it after the digres-
sion had been concluded. When fleshing out the distinction between civic
of a distinct realm of reality that it allegedly concerns. And, in fact, the digression makes
amply clear that the litigious man will simply treat the Platonic-sounding claims about para-
digms in the heavens as fool’s talk. According to an alternative interpretation suggested by
Bradshaw in “The Argument of the Digression in the Theaetetus,” the digression shows that
of the two competing lives, only that of the philosopher is successful according to his own
standard of success. This practical superiority is then taken as sufficient evidence for the
truths of the beliefs that constitute that life. But (as Bradshaw himself concedes) such an
argument is lacking in important respects. First, it makes the philosopher win “by points”
over the politician. Second, it relies on our familiarity with and acceptance of basic tenets of
Plato’s middle period dialogues.
60 Thaler
judgments of value and civic judgments of benefit prior to the digression,

Socrates claimed that when it comes to justice and piety, whatever cities lay
down as lawful really is so for them, and that in this sphere no individual or
city is wiser than any other. In contrast to this, in matters of advantage and dis-
advantage, the theory will admit that one individual counselor is better than
another and that the view of one city is superior to that of another in regard to
its truth. Here no one will dare claim that whatever a city lays down thinking
it to be advantageous for itself will necessarily turn out to be so for it (172a–b).
But now note how Socrates returns to recapitulate this same distinction
after concluding the digression: he begins by reiterating that according to the
Protagorean doctrine, whatever a city lays down as just, really is so for it, for
as long as it lays it down (177c9–d2). In contrast to this, he claims, not even
the theory will dare claim that whatever a city lays down as advantageous for
itself is so for it, for as long as it is laid down. In fact, he adds, the only way in
which a city is the criterion for what is advantageous for itself is in its ability
to stipulate that whatever it deems to be advantageous will be called by the
name “advantageous.” But if this is all that is meant by the claim that a city’s
judgments about its advantage are authoritative, one is making a joke of the
argument, since what is under investigation is not the name “advantageous”
but the thing to which that name refers (177d5–e2). Socrates explicitly claims
about this thing that “whatever name it chooses to call it, [a city] aims at this
when it legislates,” adding that “it lays down all its laws, to the extent of its judg-
ment and ability, thinking them to be advantageous to itself” (177e4–6).
On the face of it, there is not much difference between the account of the
distinction between justice and advantage that appears before the digression
and that which follows it. But on closer examination two subtle differences
emerge: first, prior to the digression, cities were said to legislate with a view to
what is just and were described as laying down whatever seems to them to be
so (172a1–5). The city’s deliberation and consequent decision regarding what is
advantageous for it was presented as a distinct process from this legislative one.
Following the digression however, Socrates identifies the act of judging what
is advantageous with the activity of laying down laws. In fact he takes special
care to secure Theodorus’s explicit agreement to the claim that when legislat-
ing its laws a city aims at nothing other than its own advantage (177e6–178a1).5
5 It is perhaps noteworthy here that newly elected members of the council, one of whose func-
tions was to present preliminary decrees to the assembly for discussion and deliberation,
were required to swear an oath “to advise what is best for the city” (τὰ βέλτιστα βουλεύσειν τῇ
πόλει, Lys. 31.2; 30.10) or, according to a slightly different formulation, “to advise what is best
for the Athenian people” (τὰ βέλτιστα βουλεύσειν τῷ δήμῳ τῷ Ἀθηναίων, Dem. 59.4) where
The second difference is that following the digression, in the course of reit-
erating the difference between justice and advantage, Socrates introduces a
distinction that he did not make before, between laying down what a thing
is and laying down what it will be called. He claims that though cities cannot
simply stipulate that the laws on which they decide are advantageous, they
can decide that these laws will be called by the name “advantageous,” or any
other name they choose for that matter (177d). This implies that the man-
measure doctrine has some, albeit highly limited, claim to truth in the sphere
of the civic good: while a city is not the measure of whether or not its laws are
advantageous, it is the measure or criterion of the name that its laws shall be
known by.
I would like to argue that these two features—which Socrates adds, after the
digression, to his account of how the man-measure doctrine fares in relation to
justice and advantage—are intended to show that man is in fact not the mea-
sure of truth regarding justice as well as advantage. Remember that prior to the
digression Socrates’s opponents agreed that a city lays down laws with a view
to what is just and that its judgment in the matter determines what is in fact
just for it. On the other hand, it was agreed that in matters of advantage a city
is not the criterion for the truth of judgments, since many of the judgments it
makes regarding what is advantageous turn out to be mistaken. Following the
digression, Socrates’s opponents accept what appears to be the contradictory
claim that cities lay down laws not with regard to what is just but always with
regard to what is advantageous for themselves. So according to the proponents
of this limited version of Protagoras’s doctrine, it seems that cities both are,
and are not, the measure of the truth in regard to their laws. But this apparent
contradiction easily dissipates in light of Socrates’s further claim that cities can
name the laws they enact by any name they choose. This claim clarifies both
what the true aim of legislators is and why Socrates’s opponents vacillate when
asked to specify it: cities do in fact legislate with a view to what is advantageous
for themselves, as Socrates and Theodorus agree following the digression. But
the further agreement that cities are free to call these laws by whatever name
they choose explains why people tend to be confused about legislation’s true
aims: it serves as a reminder of the familiar fact that after legislating its laws
with a view to its advantage, the city calls them by the name “just.”
“best for” clearly means ‘advantageous’. Somewhat speculatively, assuming that Theodorus
would have been familiar with the wording of the oath, this could go some way towards
explaining his confident assent to Socrates’s claim that laws are enacted with a view to the
city’s advantage.
62 Thaler
Here we finally have an explanation of why most people think that cities are
the measure of what is just. The process of laying down laws turns out to be a
complex one: its main part consists in an attempt to deliberate about what is
advantageous; its subsidiary consists in simply calling the resulting decision by
the name “justice.” The basic mistake that Socrates’s two conflicting formula-
tions of the common position about justice and advantage help expose is that
justice and advantage are not two distinct objects or properties, one of which
falls within the sphere of Protagoras’s dictum and the other outside it. The sort
of justice that people usually take as falling completely under the city’s author-
ity is in fact nothing other than a name. It is not justice, but merely “justice.”
In fact, the view that justice is simply a more attractive designation for
the legislators’ advantage, and that it is the prerogative of legislators to use
that designation when presenting the public with the laws designed to pro-
mote their own advantage, is precisely that of Thrasymachus in book I of
the Republic. It is important to note that, unlike Socrates’s opponents in the
Theaetetus, Thrasymachus is not confused about the phenomenon of legisla-
tion. Thrasymachus does not take justice to be a distinct property, over and
above advantage, that somehow conforms to a different logic. Rather, he is
quite clear that “justice” is simply a name that those in power use in order to
hide the true target of their deliberations when formulating laws. And it is this
clarity of thought that immediately exposes Thrasymachus to Socrates’s objec-
tion that rulers may fail to deliberate properly about their own advantage. In
such cases, since justice is simply another name for their advantage, it will turn
out that the laws they legislate will not only be nonadvantageous but will also
not deserve to be called “just.”6
6 There is some controversy about whether Thrasymachus’s account of justice is meant to be

read as a definition of that concept or merely as a cynical but sober (from his point of view)
analysis of what citizens’ actual practice of justice in a city comes down to. For the idea that
despite some apparent inconsistencies, Thrasymachus’s account is a coherent definition, see
Kerferd, “The Doctrine of Thrasymachus in Plato’s Republic.” For the view that Thrasymachus
is merely providing a description of the actual practice of justice, see Chappell, “The Virtues
of Thrasymachus.” The connection I am drawing between the Theaetetus argument and
book 1 of the Republic is in line with the latter interpretation. The parallel is not, however,
perfect: apart from the fact that in the Republic justice is identified with the rulers’ advan-
tage whereas in the Theaetetus it is the city’s advantage that is under discussion, the view of
justice that appears in the Theaetetus argument seems closer to Clitophon’s suggestion in
340b that Thrasymachus means to say that justice is the name of whatever the rulers think is
advantageous for them, rather than to Thrasymachus’s insistence that he means to identify
justice with the real advantage of the rulers.
In the Theaetetus, Socrates’s supposedly innocuous postdigression recapitu-

lation of the popular view regarding justice and advantage helps expose its
incoherence and also uncovers what lies at its heart. The incoherence shows
up in the two formulations of the popular view according to which cities are
(predigression), and are not (postdigression), the criterion of truth regarding
the outcome of their legislative activities. And the reason for this confusion is
that while cities really deliberate only about what is advantageous (of which
they are not the measure), they set down that the outcome of their delibera-
tion will be called by the name (of which they are the measure) “justice.” When
exercised in the legislative sphere, the general authority cities possess in regard
to naming tends to be mistaken by the multitude for the idea that the nature
of justice, unlike that of advantage, depends wholly on what is decided and
decreed by each city.
3 Why Hide
If we accept that there is in fact a refutation of the man-measure doctrine in

relation to justice hiding in these passages, we are immediately faced with the
question of why Socrates did not openly declare either his intention to refute it
or his success at doing so. After all, it seems that a necessary stage in the refu-
tation of an opponent in a philosophical debate lies in making plain that his
position has in fact been refuted. Failing to do so seems opposed to the basic
rules of engagement in philosophical polemic. What purpose then is served
by providing a refutation of a philosophical position that goes right over its
proponent’s head?
The answer to this question begins to surface when we consider the precise
identity of Socrates’s opponents in this debate. Remember that the position
against which Socrates is arguing is a restricted version of the man-measure
doctrine, whose scope has shrunk from Protagoras’s original “all things” to the
limited sphere in which it is sanctioned by the general public, which includes
civic pronouncements about value and individual bodily perceptions. In light
of this an argument against the validity of the man-measure doctrine in the
sphere of value would not only constitute the first stage in Socrates’s refutation
of what remains of the man-measure doctrine but would also be aimed not
merely at Protagoras but at all those whose denial of the existence of objec-
tive truth in the moral sphere has allowed the doctrine to survive in its present
limited form.
But while the argument is aimed both at Protagoras and those of the gen-
eral public who support his position in the sphere of morals, it is important to
64 Thaler
emphasize a difference between these two opponents: because of its intended

generality, Protagoras’s original man-measure doctrine was treated as a gen-
uine philosophical theory, one that attempted to say something about the
nature of truth and (at least under Plato’s development of it in the Theaetetus)
knowledge. But accepting the truth of the man-measure doctrine solely in the
sphere of moral value is liable to have extraphilosophical motivations, ones
that serve as an indication of the moral state of those who uphold such a view.7
And, in fact, in the course of the digression, Socrates provides a sketch of the
sort of person who is liable to find appealing the view that justice has no inde-
pendent nature (172d–173c; 175b–d; 176d–177b). The successful litigious man,
whom Socrates presents as the quintessential example of someone whose life
shows no regard for justice,8 is also portrayed as adhering to a pseudophilo-
sophical view about the nature of justice that directly reflects his values. His
view—that there is nothing to justice over and above appearance and judicial
ruling—is reached not through intellectual engagement with the topic but
rather as a result of reflecting on the fact that his own success in the courtroom
was achieved by means of deception and flattery. According to the digression,
then, the relativistic view of justice is not merely one in a variety of intellec-
tual positions one might choose to advocate in a philosophical debate. In its
extreme form it turns out to be a direct reflection of one’s character or, more
precisely, its corruption.
But it is important to note that the vice reflected by the relativistic view
of justice is more than merely ethical. We learn that the moral corruption of
the expert litigator goes hand in hand with a deeply ingrained intellectual fail-
ing, one that developed in parallel to his expertise in the courtroom. Socrates
makes this clear in the beginning of his description of the litigious charac-
ter. He claims that the need to appease the jury in court, combined with the
7 It is a marked tendency of Plato not to portray the older sophists who hold some general phil-
osophical view as morally corrupt, but only as intellectually incompetent. The insinuation
of moral corruption is usually reserved for their followers who use aspects of these views to
further their extraphilosophical aims. This seems particularly clear in the case of the Gorgias,
where Gorgias himself is portrayed as genuinely privy to the search for truth, whereas his
successors in the argument seem to be much more intent on winning the argument and, in
general, on acquiring power.
8 Note that when contrasting the litigious man with the philosopher, Socrates claims that he
will be examining the epitome of each sort of life (173c). This makes the connection between
the immoral life and the relativistic position about justice somewhat complex, since clearly
not all those who hold the relativistic position about justice are successful and completely
corrupt litigants. As I shall show in what follows, Socrates’s method for dealing with the rela-
tivistic position takes into account this potential diversity among its proponents.
high personal stakes involved in litigation, lead the litigious man to abandon
any regard for truth and apply his full intellectual resources to flattering the
masters of the court. This practice eventually causes both psychological and
intellectual deformities that become integrated in the soul as time passes. The
result of this habituation is a crooked soul and a mind that has nothing sound
in it (172e–173b).
Note also the emphasis in the digression on the fact that the litigious man is
necessarily oblivious to his intellectual failing. The reason for this, as Socrates
makes clear, is that this intellectual inadequacy is inseparable from the litigious
man’s practical success. The litigious man takes the success of his life-strategy
both as an indication of his own wisdom and as proof that considerations of
truth do not belong in the sphere of justice. In fact, according to Socrates’s
description of him, the litigious man’s intellectual inaptitude directly corre-
sponds to and is causally determined by his ignorance of his own situation.
As Socrates puts it, such people are all the more what they think they are not
(that is, foolish), because they do not think they are so (176d).
I would like to argue that the moral and intellectual characteristics9 that
are described in the digression as corollaries of the view that justice has no
independent nature are the key to understanding why Socrates keeps the refu-
tation of this view hidden. From the intellectual perspective, the digression
has made clear that a basic and deeply ingrained disregard for truth is part and
parcel of the psychology of those who subscribe to the doctrine. But if so, the
utility of presenting its proponents with a refutation begins to appear ques-
tionable. When it comes to dealing with most philosophical positions that are
the result of some inquiry about the truth of the matter, refutation represents a
viable move, since it exposes to one’s opponent the fact that the target at which
he has been aiming has been missed. Thus, in most cases, the basic motiva-
tion for upholding and defending a philosophical position should render its
proponents vulnerable, sensitive, or at least responsive to refutation. That is
why Socrates does take the trouble to refute the original Protagorean position,
according to which man is the measure of all things. Since Protagoras’s avowed
interest is in the truth, he is a fitting candidate for receiving the benefits of a
9 It should be clear that these are not distinct characteristics but merely two ways of looking at
one and the same failing. A deeply ingrained disregard for truth may have intellectual rami-
fications that show up in the context of a philosophical discussion. But in the digression it is
the same basic failing that stands at the heart of the more familiar practical manifestations
of vice.
66 Thaler
refutation.10 But when a philosophical position results not from a search for
the truth but rather from a disregard for it, the use of a refutation against its
adherents becomes futile. As Socrates makes clear, the litigious man has no
real interest in philosophical discussion. It is only in rare cases that someone
of this sort would be willing to endure a sustained philosophical examination
of their view.11
I would like to suggest that laying out each necessary assumption in the
refutation while refraining from openly announcing its conclusion is meant
to serve as a kind of litmus test for the intellectual motivations of its audi-
ence. Those who are guided by a genuine desire to find the truth, and who
subscribe to the theory through intellectual error, should be sufficiently alert
to recognize the incoherence that undermines their position. Those, on the
other hand, who hold the theory out of practical convenience and are charac-
terized by the intellectual deformity of having complete disregard for truth will
be happy to listen to Socrates’s words without realizing the implications they
have for their position. Socrates’s refutation of the man-measure doctrine in
the sphere of justice, we might say, is written in invisible ink, one that can only
be seen when viewed under the light of the proper motivations.
But one might object that regardless of whether the supporters of the
theory are sufficiently truth oriented to realize that the two formulations of
their position (those that appear before and after the digression) are incon-
sistent, Socrates should have sufficient motivation to free them of this error
and set them on their way to self-improvement. In fact this seems to represent
Socrates’s conduct in many of his conversations with particularly contentious
and obstinate opponents, such as Meno, Polus, Callicles, and Thrasymachus,
to name but some. In all these cases refutation represents a benign service
Socrates is willing to render his opponents out of good will and concern for
their well-being.12 In the present context, what could account for this devia-
tion from his usual habit?
In order to see why Socrates elects to leave his philosophical opponents to
wallow in their ignorance, we must again turn to the digression. After hearing
Socrates’s account of the intellectual and ethical failings of those who support
the man-measure doctrine in the sphere of justice, Theodorus claims that if it
10 In fact Socrates explicitly portrays Protagoras in 166a–c as asking for a fair refutation of
his view.
11 It appears that a litigious man who has the courage to persevere in an argument while
being refuted shows himself to be not yet fully corrupt. I say more on this in what follows.
12 In the Gorgias (458a–b) Socrates claims that he would be happy to be refuted, since there
is no greater evil than retaining ignorance in one’s soul.
were possible to convince everyone of this account, there would be more peace
and less evil in the world (176a). Somewhat surprisingly, Socrates replies that
Theodorus’s wish cannot ever be fulfilled. There is, he claims, a certain amount
of evil in the world that cannot be eradicated, and since this evil cannot dwell
in the divine sphere, it necessarily inhabits the mortal one. Consequently, the
best course of action for anyone living in this mortal sphere (and who, like
Socrates and Theodorus, is opposed to this evil) is to escape it as quickly as
possible, an escape that Socrates describes as an assimilation to or becoming
like god (homoiōsis theōi) (176a–b). The precise nature of this assimilation is
presently made clear: since god lacks any form of injustice, the assimilation to
god by man takes the form of becoming as just and pious as possible, together
with wisdom (176b–c).
The idea that assimilation to god consists in becoming as just and pious
as humanly possible leads to the discussion of the kind of motivation people
should have for an escape from the human sphere. After all, it might seem that
the litigious man who is able to escape the penalties set down by civic law has
no real need to change his way of life and the values it embodies. In fact the
ability to escape the penalties set down by law appears to have been one of the
basic motivations for making the distinction between the sphere of human
law and the sphere of nature in the first place, and for concluding that, unlike
natural properties or objects, justice has no real being. One of the ways this
distinction becomes apparent is when one notices that whereas in the sphere
of nature an action has certain inescapable consequences (hitting one’s head
against a wall will necessarily lead to pain), transgressions against human laws
will only have negative consequences if one is seen or caught in the act.13
So if Socrates means to present a palatable reason for escaping the human
realm, he must show that injustice has some necessary and inescapable nega-
tive consequences that override the apparent benefits of being a successful
villain. True to this purpose, Socrates claims that the real penalties for injustice
are not ones that have to do with the body, those which the successful litigious
man is indeed able to escape. The real penalties are those that follow directly
from the possession of an unjust character and from the corrupt intellectual
state that accompanies it. Socrates had already claimed that becoming just,
pious, and wise constitutes an assimilation to god. He now claims that living
the opposite life, that which is characterized by unchecked injustice and fool-
ishness, is not merely a failure to become like the godly paradigm but consti-
tutes an assimilation to a different model, one that is set up as the contrary to
13 The very same rationale for distinguishing between nature and convention makes an ear-
lier appearance in Antiphon’s On Truth and in book 2 of Plato’s Republic.
68 Thaler
the divine one (176e–177a). The relevance of these two models for the notions
of penalty and reward stems from the fact that Socrates describes the godly
model as “most happy” (eudaimonestatou) and the ungodly one as “most mis-
erable” (athliōtatou). It turns out then that by living a life of unhampered vice,
the litigious man unwittingly becomes more and more like the ungodly model.
And this turns out to be the very penalty for his conduct (177a: hou de tinousin
dikēn): the litigious man is destined to live a life that most resembles the height
of miserableness, and to do so unknowingly—that is, without realizing that he
has the strongest possible reason to change his ways.
Now, remember that the litigious man is presented not only as someone
who lives a life of vicious activity: from an intellectual perspective, he is some-
one who adheres to a pseudophilosophical view about the nature of justice, a
view he developed by reflecting on the lack of any negative ramifications from
his own conduct. According to this view justice has no nature of its own but is
completely dependent on stipulation or how things “seem” to those who have
power. In light of this I would like to suggest that the reason Socrates does not
openly announce that he has presented the materials for refuting the man-
measure view of justice is that allowing the litigious man who champions this
view to continue to hold it constitutes part of the lawful penalty for this man’s
actions, character, and corresponding intellectual leanings. The digression
that separates the two formulations of the man-measure view of justice, and
that outlines the rewards of attempting to live justly with wisdom, as opposed
to the unavoidable penalties for living a life that ignores the claims of justice
altogether, contains an explanation of why Socrates will not openly declare
the fact that the man-measure view of justice is incoherent. The digression
is intended as a warning that some of the basic rules of engagement pertain-
ing to philosophical polemic will not be relevant in the case of the position
in question.
But this warning is meant solely for those who are sufficiently motivated
to heed it. In the case of the litigious man, his intellectual complacency will
undoubtedly prevent him from realizing that the digression provides an
account of his perverted psychological and intellectual state, and also of its
ramifications, which Socrates describes in terms of “punishment.” Unlike the
litigious man, readers who are not staunch adherents of the man-measure
view of justice, but who nonetheless lean toward it, are expected to feel at least
a modicum of uneasiness about their position after reading the digression and
to entertain the worry that by virtue of possessing a degree of doctrinal resem-
blance to the litigious man, they may have overlooked, to their own detriment,
a refutation of their philosophical position.
If this is in fact what lies behind Socrates’s unwillingness to openly declare

that the man-measure doctrine in the sphere of justice has been refuted, it
should add a new dimension to our understanding of the strategies of polem-
ics that are relevant to a philosophical discussion conducted under the unique
assumptions of Socratic intellectualism.14 It has often been remarked that it is
unclear what would constitute just punishment for vice if, as Socrates seems
to hold, vice is merely a form of intellectual error.15 At least one answer is
that having one’s erroneous view refuted in the course of a Socratic conversa-
tion is itself a form of just and deserved penalty. Since according to Socrates
any proper punishment is administered as a form of corrective treatment,
and since there is a direct correspondence between one’s intellectual state and
one’s moral character, having one’s views on ethical matters refuted is a painful
but productive first step to moral reform.16
But the Theaetetus passages we have been discussing point to an alternative
and starkly contrasting form of penalty for holding a mistaken view of jus-
tice. The penalty consists in being allowed to continue to hold one’s erroneous
view and in being denied the benefits of a Socratic refutation. The Theaetetus’s
digression implies that certain forms of ignorance are their own severe and
just punishment, in the same way that knowledge and virtue are their own
rewards. Subjecting an opponent to a refutation without explicitly announcing
its conclusion thus serves as a test (or, one might say, testimony) for whether
this opponent deserves the punishment of remaining ignorant, or is to be
allowed the benefit of being refuted. As Socrates explains in the digression, it
takes some bravery (and hence a modicum of virtue) on the part of a litigious
man to agree to persevere through the course of a philosophical conversation
and to recognize his inaptness at it as a sign of the weakness of his position
(177b). If, on the other hand, the opponent lacks any degree of virtue, and is so
little motivated to seek after the truth that he smugly retains his position in the
face of overwhelming evidence against it—listening to it, as Socrates warns he
is wont to do, “as someone who is shrewd and capable listens to certain fools”
(177a)—he thereby sentences himself to living the most wretched life possible
for a man.
14 That the Theaetetus, while being a late dialogue, reverts at the surface level to Socrates’s
own philosophical views is part of the general thesis about the dialogue suggested in
Sedley, The Midwife of Platonism.
15 For a recent statement of the problem, see Rowe, “A Problem in the Gorgias: How Is
Punishment Supposed to Help with Intellectual Error?”
16 This solution is the one suggested by Rowe, ibid.
70 Thaler
This, I suggest, is the way in which the peculiar moral and epistemologi-
cal assumptions Plato (or his Socrates) brings to the discussion of the litigious
man shape the strategy of the polemic against him. Throughout the dialogue
Socrates treats the persistence of Theaetetus’s desire to reach the truth con-
cerning knowledge as a moral virtue. This provides at least some backdrop to
the converse idea, which figures so prominently in the digression, that the liti-
gious man’s moral vice is a manifestation of a complete disregard for truth.
And this moral cum intellectual vice in turn shapes the “philosophical” view
that he champions—namely, that there is no objective truth to justice. Once
Plato’s view of the inseparability of the moral sphere from the intellectual
one is brought to the fore, we gain an improved understanding of Socrates’s
motivation for keeping the refutation of the relativistic view of justice unan-
nounced. Being allowed to remain oblivious to the refutation of one’s position
in a dialectical confrontation is the realization of an ideology of punishment
no less than a strategy of polemic.
Bibliography
Barker, Andrew. “The Digression in the ‘Theaetetus.’ ” Journal of the History of

Philosophy 14, no. 4 (1976): 457–462.
Bradshaw, David. “The Argument of the Digression in the Theaetetus.” Ancient
Philosophy 18 (1998): 61–68.
Burnyeat, Myles F. “Protagoras and Self-Refutation in the Theaetetus.” The Philosophical
Review 85, no. 2 (1976): 172–95.
Burnyeat, Myles F. The Theaetetus of Plato. With a revised translation by M. J. Levett.
Indianapolis: Hackett, 1990.
Chappell, Timothy D. J. “The Virtues of Thrasymachus.” Phronesis 38 (1993): 1–17.
Kerferd, George B. “The Doctrine of Thrasymachus in Plato’s Republic.” Durham
University Journal 40 (1947): 19–27.
Rowe, Christopher. “A Problem in the Gorgias: How is Punishment Supposed to Help
with Intellectual Error?” In Akrasia in Greek Philosophy from Socrates to Plotinus,
edited by Christopher Bobonich and Pierre Destrée, 19–36, Leiden: Brill, 2007.
Sedley, David. The Midwife of Platonism: Text and Subtext in Plato’s Theaetetus. Oxford:
Thaler, Naly. “Plato on the Importance of ‘This’ and ‘That’: The Flux Theory in the
Theaetetus and Its Refutation.” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 45 (2013): 1–42.
Polemical Arguments about Pleasure:
The Controversy within and around the Academy
Charlotte Murgier
It comes as no surprise that polemics were numerous and vivid among ancient
philosophers, whose distinct schools were competing in order to strengthen
their intellectual and social influence against one another as well as against
other rival practices such as rhetoric and sophistic. Although Hellenistic philos-
ophy was doubtlessly the “golden age” for polemics,1 given the context of high
rivalry between the three dominant schools (Academics, Stoics, Epicureans),
this polemical mood started much earlier. Heraclitus is well known for bashing
his predecessors and peers; later, the competition among Socrates’s disciples
for embodying the Socratic legacy was tough, as numerous testimonies—com-
ing mainly from the later work of Diogenes Laertius—indicate.2 Moreover,
the spectrum of what can be called polemics is broad and diversified. Indeed,
it mixes personal aspects and argumentative means in various proportions.
According to Jacques Brunschwig, polemics is to be located between the mere
invective—passionate and personal—and the rational and more impersonal
refutation, focused on arguments.3 With the birth of the first institutional
philosophical school, Plato’s Academy, the competition became internal and
therefore perhaps less personally aggressive, though no less active. The dia-
lectical content of the philosophical exchanges that took place within Plato’s
school still allows for looking for polemical aspects, provided polemics is not
understood too narrowly. The personal attack is indeed softened in order to
promote the argumentative contest. Polemics may appear less embodied and
more formalized, but it is still present and arguably played a significant part in
the philosophical development of its main actors. This seems to me exemplar-
ily instantiated in the case of what several testimonies single out as a major
subject of controversy within the Academy: the issue of pleasure.
Constituting one standard ethical problem in ancient thought—along-
side friendship, virtue, and happiness—the topic is indeed expected to be a
1 See Brunschwig, “Aspects de la polémique philosophique en Grèce ancienne,” 40, 46.

2 For an instance of this intra-Socratics polemic, see, for example, Rashed’s insightful
reconstruction of Plato’s subtle reply to Antisthenes’s gross satire in his “Platon, Sathon,
Phédon,” 121–26.
3 Brunschwig, “Aspects de la polémique philosophique en Grèce ancienne,” 26–27.

72 Murgier
polemical subject. Nonetheless, the intensity of the discussion may exceed

what holds for other ethical matters. Every important scholar apparently
brought his own contribution to the debate by writing a book on the topic,
according to the evidence given by Burnyeat:
Nor is Aristotle alone in having written a monograph On Pleasure. So too,

apparently, did Speusippus (D.L. 4. 4: one book), Xenocrates (D.L. 4. 12:
two books), Heracleides Ponticus (Athen. 512A), Strato (D.L. 5. 59), and
Theophrastus, who is credited (D.L. 5. 44) with one book Περὶ ἡδονῆς ὡς
Ἀριστοτέλης (On Pleasure according to Aristotle or On Pleasure in the Style
of Aristotle) plus another entitled simply On Pleasure, and—last, but
would that we had it!—On False Pleasure (D.L. 5. 46: one book). It would
seem that the Philebus, like Plato’s Lecture on the Good, aroused a furore
of discussion.4
The controversy grew so big as to quickly involve many actors and various
arguments. Indeed, what started as an ethical problem—namely, assessing the
place pleasure deserves in a good human life—eventually turned into a wide-
ranging discussion concerning the identification of pleasure with the good,
going far beyond the ethical realm to touch upon metaphysical arguments. In
this case the polemical dimension of the debate is interesting, not only for a
historical account of the debating processes in the Academy5 but also because
there are reasons for thinking that it largely contributed to shaping the philo-
sophical doctrines on this topic. The purpose of this paper is to point out how
the elaboration of two major theories of pleasure, those of Plato and Aristotle,
can be read as resulting from the necessity to reply to their respective adversar-
ies in the polemics.
From the lively debate recalled by Burnyeat, the main evidence at our dis-
posal lies in Plato’s Philebus and Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, along with
scarce testimonies concerning other figures that are always difficult to interpret
in the absence of their original work or context. The Philebus and Aristotle’s
treatises on pleasure (Eth. Nic. 7 and 10) provide us with two complete but dif-
ferent settings for polemics: one that is partly hidden because of its elusive and
encoded character, and another one that is more transparent. I will first focus
on the Philebus, where two polemical arguments are introduced in a way that
makes them worthy of attention. I will then proceed to assess which specific
part these arguments played in the elaboration of Platonic theory and how the
4 Burnyeat, “Kinēsis vs. Energeia,” 274.

5 See Tarrant, “ ‘A Taste of the Doctrines of Each Group of Sages,’ ” 111; Gosling, Philebus, 141.
Polemical Arguments About Pleasure 73
second one is promised a career in polemics. Indeed, it resurfaces in Aristotle’s

treatises, where it is thoroughly discussed and challenged.
1 The Dialectical Scene in the Philebus: Pleasure as a Central Matter

of Controversy
Although the Philebus, according to Burnyeat, could be seen as the starting

point of a wide-ranging debate in the Academy, the dialogue might also sug-
gest that the discussion was actually already going on. One first hint could lie in
the abrupt beginning of the dialogue in the middle of a discussion that started
earlier, suggesting that the subject of the conversation reflected by the fictional
dialogue is far from new. Indeed, the discussion is reminiscent of the debate
started by Glaucon in Republic 6 (505b–d) and quickly ended by Socrates’s
dismissing the pleasure/knowledge alternative as suitable candidates for the
Good. This abrupt start may also suggest that the debate about hedonism was
so burning at the time when the Philebus was written that any reader of the
dialogue could catch up on this ongoing discussion.
Besides, many interpreters take the characters Philebus and Protarchus as
plausible polemical embodiments for the hedonist stances made by Eudoxus
and possibly by Aristippus. Hints at a hidden debate with Eudoxan views
lie in the very first summary of Philebus’s thesis (11b),6 in the last words of
Socrates castigating those people trusting in the animal behavior rather than
in the truth of philosophical arguments (67a), and in the introduction of the
universal desirability criterion (20d).7 Although Philebus’s name (“lover of the
youth”) eloquently discloses a taste for physical (and base) pleasures, and his
attitude in the dialogue displays his reluctance to enter a discussion—fea-
tures that hardly match the sober temper and dialectical readiness attributed
to Eudoxus8—it is still reasonable to think that he might represent both the
influential revival of hedonism initiated by Eudoxus within the Academy9 and
its ethical consequences. Likewise, Speusippus probably lies hidden behind
some of the extreme arguments against hedonism put forward in the dia-
logue: the most famous and least dubious one is that of the “difficult people”
6 The tendency to seek pleasure as the good is attributed at 11b, 22b, and 60a to all animal and
human beings, echoing Eudoxus’s claim (see Gosling, Philebus, 139).
7 See, for example, Gosling and Taylor, The Greeks on Pleasure, 160–64.
8 See Arist. Eth. Nic. 10.2, 1172b18–9.
9 See Dillon, “Speusippus on Pleasure,” 101.
74 Murgier
(duschereis),10 reducing pleasure to mere relief from pain, to which I shall

return later. According to Dillon, there are therefore good reasons for taking
the Philebus as
Plato’s ironic commentary and judgment on this ongoing dispute between

two of his most distinguished followers. There is no reason to assume,
after all, that the views of either of these men were published only after
Plato’s death, or even later than the composition of the Philebus.11
In any case we should not expect here the genuine restitution of doctrinal
claims. Most scholars agree that the dialogue form allows Plato great liberty
in depicting the contemporary views. Consequently, the identification of the
actors in this polemical discussion and their arguments must always be taken
with a grain of salt and remain highly conjectural, since it allows for all kinds
of polemical distortion. As will be shown the Philebus offers a first approach
to the dispute, even though the views it puts forward may have been distorted
by Plato for the sake of the polemics. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics completes
and partially illuminates the picture by putting real names on the historical fig-
ures involved in the controversy, whereas Plato often likes dissimulating them
beneath fictional characters (Philebus, Protarchus) or cryptic nicknames—the
“refined people” (kompsoi), the “difficult people” (duschereis). After recalling
the specific way each philosopher enters the polemics, it is time to proceed to
the kind of polemical material at use in the debate, in order to inquire how it
impacted the construction of the philosophical concept of pleasure.
2 The Polemical Arguments in Plato’s Discussion on Pleasure
Two polemical arguments seem to me to have notably influenced the construc-

tion of the philosophical doctrines about pleasure. Both are to be found in the
Philebus: one at 44d (the argument of the duschereis), the other at 53c (the
argument of the kompsoi). Both are used by Socrates as radical antihedonist
10 Schofield’s well-known paper (“Who Were οἱ δυσχερεῖς in Plato, Philebus 44a ff.?”) has
brought several convincing arguments in favor of the identification of these people with
Speusippus and his followers. Although Tarán (Speusippus of Athens, 79–80) and Frede
(Philebos, 268–69) challenged the case, most interpreters agree with Schofield’s identi-
fication: see Tarrant, “ ‘A Taste of the Doctrines of Each Group of Sages,’ ” 111–12; Dillon,
“Speusippus on Pleasure,” 104–5.
11 Dillon, “Speusippus on Pleasure,” 101.
claims that deeply undermine the reality and value of pleasure. Their polemi-
cal function is obvious in the dialogue, for Socrates draws attention to the fact
that he borrows them from other thinkers (whose identities remain hidden
under these cryptic nicknames). That does not mean that he fully endorses
these arguments: in fact, as we will see, he explicitly does not do this for the
first argument, whereas the second case is more ambiguous. Nonetheless, they
prove crucial in elaborating the Platonic position concerning the nature and
value of pleasure.
2.1 The Duschereis’ Polemical Claim

During the examination of false pleasures, Socrates points out a kind of fal-
sity consisting in mistaking the freedom from pain for pleasure. Although
Protarchus, ready to dismiss such a view, does not see the point of lingering over
this mistake, Socrates introduces a mysterious group of thinkers, first labeled
the “enemies of Philebus” (44b). This epithet hints at their polemical function
in the dialogue: Socrates will use them in order to overcome Protarchus’s obsti-
nate denial of the notion of false pleasures. A bit later they are flagged as the
“difficult people” (duschereis, 44e). That probably indicates a polemical target:
Socrates gives further details concerning their intellectual and psychological
background, which suggests that definite thinkers were alluded to.12 These
adversaries of hedonism are said to be reputed in natural science (44b9) and
to have a natural aversion to pleasure due to their noble temperament (44c6).
The identification of these persons remains nonetheless a running riddle
for modern readers. A couple of precise characteristics give us reason to think
that the identity of those duschereis was crystal clear for the readership.13 After
centuries it is now a matter of scholarly dispute regarding these code names
turned into enigmas. Numerous arguments have been put forward to identify
them with Speusippus, the most shared assumption of identification, but other
12 Frede (Philebos, 270–71) nonetheless doubts that it actually aims at any definite thinker(s),
arguing for a construction of Plato himself. But the frequency of the allusion to other
thinkers through nicknames in other dialogues might speak against this assumption:
see the “battle of giants” of the Sophist contrasting the “earth people” (gēgeneis) with the
“friends of the forms” at 248a–c and later the reply to the “late learners” (opsimatheis) at
251b–c, and the Theaetetus 156a opposing the “uninitiated” (amuētoi) materialists to the
“more subtle” (kompsoi) mobilists.
13 See Tarrant, “ ‘A Taste of the Doctrines of Each Group of Sages,’ ” 112: “Plato is conscious
that he has invented a name here (46a5), and he intended that some of his readers
should notice this language, recognizing the source of this dyschereia and the individual
dyscherasmata.”
76 Murgier
suggestions have been made: Heraclides Ponticus, Pythagoreans, Antisthenes.14

Rather than attempting to solve this mystery, it is worth asking why Plato
resorts to such nicknames to designate some people supposedly recognized by
his contemporary readership.
Is it, as suggested by Tarrant,15 a device for avoiding anachronisms that
would result from making Socrates engaged in discussion with people he could
not have known, namely the leading figures in the Academy? Does it relate
to the fictional genre of the dialogue that leaves Plato at liberty to invent the
characters he wants to represent specific stances in the quarrel opposing hedo-
nists and antihedonists? In that case, resorting to fictional characters would
free him from the need for exactness and probity. It seems to me that such
a practice also relates to the polemical device suggestively labeled by André
Laks as “non-personal forms of personification.”16 The group of people des-
ignated by the nicknames is probably taken as easily identifiable by the read-
ership. Indeed the biographical details seem to function precisely as hints to
be followed. Nonetheless, keeping to anonymity through the “depersonalized
personalization”17 allows Plato more liberty in reconstructing and possibly dis-
torting the original claim. The use of code names seems like an invitation to
guess who is involved but also indicates that the speaker is less dealing with
people than dealing with arguments.18 Therefore, it might even be the case
that this category of the “enemies of Philebus” later qualified as “difficult peo-
ple” even encompasses rather distinct individuals under one and the same
category.
Now let us see which function these duschereis play in the dialogue and
in the elaboration of the Platonic doctrine of pleasure. Their stance denying
existence and value to pleasures by reducing them to mere relief from pain
is directly threatening hedonism according to Socrates. That is precisely the
reason he is interested in them. They regard pleasure as a deceitful “witchcraft”
(goēteia, 44c–d) outwitting people about its own reality and intensity (51a). The
14 For a review of the arguments and objections, see Frede, Philebos, 268–69.
15 See Tarrant, “ ‘A Taste of the Doctrines of Each Group of Sages,’ ” 111.
16 See Laks’s contribution in this volume concerning this practice that “avoids naming indi-
viduals while unmistakably referring to them—or, better, what they represent—through
generic placeholders,” 22.
17 Ibid., 17.
18 See Balansard’s view (Enquête sur la doxographie platonicienne, 99–100) of the doxography
of the Sophist where generic names cover precise people (in that case rather easy to iden-
tify): if the “the Ionian and Sicilian muses” of 242e designate Heraclitus and Empedocles
for certain, the point of this indirect way of naming might be to indicate that the Eleatic
Stranger refutes doctrinal claims rather than historical figures (16).
Socrates of the Philebus endeavors to take over the polemical strength of their
argument, using them as “allies” (summachous, 44d7), “seers” (mantesi, 44c5),
and “witnesses” (martusi 51a4). The method of these allies that Socrates is
ready to follow, if only provisionally, will lead him to explore the most extreme
cases: the mixed forms of pleasure and pain. This will indeed enable him to
show that the kind of pleasure pursued by hedonists does belong to the type
of pleasure linked to the relief from pain, the impure and false pleasures as
opposed to pure and true ones. That is a sufficient reason for paying attention
to their claim. Still, that does not imply that Socrates shares their radical views
on pleasure. These people might have a partially sound intuition about plea-
sure by acknowledging its bewitching power, although this intuition, which
does not rely on any technical expertise, leads them astray with regard to the
nature of pleasure.
There is then a further reason to qualify Socrates’s mention of the “diffi-
cult people” as polemical. Plato might intend to distance himself, by the same
token, from Speusippus’s or any extreme antihedonist views that go as far as
denying the very existence of pleasure. In fact a couple of scholars take Plato’s
move in ascribing such a denial to the duschereis to be an uncharitable inter-
pretation of Speusippus’s position.19 According to the testimony of Clement
of Alexandria (Strom. 2.22.133), Speusippus did conceive the supreme good,
the end of the human life as an intermediate neutral state—that is, deprived
of pain but also of the so-called pleasure sought by the many. This does not
necessarily imply that he would dismiss the existence of pleasure or deny that
this untroubled state of mind is “enjoyable.” In pointing to the consequences
of Speusippus’s position, the presentation made of the “difficult people” might
distort his genuine view.20 Plato’s attempt at differentiating himself from too
radical antihedonists holds not only for the Philebus but also for Republic 9
where a similar view confusing pleasure with mere relief from pain is ascribed
to another kind of people called the “patients.” These people in pain also take
the motion toward the neutral state, painlessness, to be a pleasure. The cases
on which Socrates relies in both dialogues seem to be quite different—learned
people with a “noble nature” on the one hand, ignorant and suffering people
on the other. But the common ground of their mistake concerning the nature
of pleasure is disclosed in the course of the argument: they focus on the most
intense pleasures, which bodily pleasures most evidently instantiate, forgetting
19 See Warren, “Aristotle on Speusippus on Eudoxus on Pleasure,” 272–73; Dillon, “Speusippus
on Pleasure,” 109–12.
20 See Tarrant, “The Dyschereis of the Magna Moralia,” 13.
78 Murgier
that another kind of pleasure does exist.21 Plato makes it clear that he is not
committed to such a mistake. His decisive argument to prove these two groups
of people wrong consists therefore in putting forward the existence of pure
pleasures. The dialectical moves in the Philebus and in Republic 9 appear
then quite parallel. Indeed, in Republic 9 pleasures that do not arise from a
prior pain (like those from smell—the only example given) are opposed to
the mistaken view of the “patients,” who experience pleasures that are only
appearances, illusions. The introduction of pure pleasures, independent of any
antecedent pain, helps demarcate a true from an illusory experience of plea-
sure (584b–585a). Likewise, in the Philebus the fact that some pleasures do not
have any reality (because they are linked with pain) does not mean for Socrates
that this holds for every kind of pleasure. Rather it motivates him to advocate
the existence of pure pleasures omitted by the duschereis.
Although I am not really in agreement with those who hold that all plea-
sures are merely release from pain, I nevertheless treat them as witnesses,
as I said before, to prove that there are certain kinds that only seem to be
pleasures, but are not so in reality, and furthermore, that there are others
that have the appearance of enormous size and great variety, but which
are in truth commingled with pain or with respite from severe pains suf-
fered by soul and body. (Phlb. 51a)22
Consequently, the polemical argument brought by the duschereis is useful, not

only because it forces us to analyze the cause of their fallacy and their repul-
sion toward pleasure but also because it reveals the need to prove the existence
of true pleasures. Those are introduced immediately after Socrates’s analysis
of the duschereis’ misconception. Their elaboration is crucial for the Platonic
doctrine and for the purpose of the Philebus, since the good human life the
dialogue puts forward is supposed to mix pleasure and thought. This category
of pure pleasure is decisive in allowing the pleasures of thought to be part of
human happiness. In the Academic debate Plato cares a lot about putting for-
ward this category of pure pleasures that helps demarcate himself from the
Speusippean positions.
A further argument contributing to the elaboration of the Platonic theory
of pleasure comes later in the Philebus: that of the kompsoi. This polemical
argument against pleasure, which deprives it of any share in the good, displays
some structural similarities with that of the duschereis.
21 Compare Resp. 9.584c with Phlb. 45a.

22 Here and after I cite Frede’s translation of the Philebus.
2.2 The Polemical Thesis of the Kompsoi

As in the previous case, the polemical purpose of this thesis in the refutation
of hedonism is obvious. It enters the debate at the very end of the examination
of pleasure, when all the divisions of the genus have been explored. Its intro-
duction has quite spectacular results. Socrates claims to report the opinion of
“subtle people” (kompsoi tines) who claim that pleasure belongs to the genus of
becoming (genesis) and not to that of ousia.
Have we not been told that pleasure is always a process of becoming

[γένεσις], and that there is no being [οὐσία] at all of pleasure? There are
some subtle thinkers who have tried to pass on this doctrine to us, and we
ought to be grateful to them. (Phlb. 53c)
He endeavors to elucidate for Protarchus the implications of such a claim.23

Given that the good cannot but belong to the class of ends, pleasure as a
genesis—being for the sake of something else (an ousia)—is easily excluded
from the ontological class of the good, that of the ends (54c–d). Socrates then
reaches this conclusion:
It is true, then, as I said at the beginning of this argument, that we ought

to be grateful to the person who indicated to us that there is always only
generation of pleasure and that it has no being whatsoever [τὸ γένεσιν
μέν, οὐσίαν δὲ μηδ’ ἡντινοῦν αὐτῆς εἶναι]. And it is obvious that he will just
laugh at those who claim that pleasure is good. (Phlb. 54d)
By doing so he makes it clear that he does not express his own view: he says
twice (53c7, 54d6) how grateful he is to those who provided him with a strong
argument sufficient to definitely preclude the identification of pleasure with
the good. The role of “allies” or “witnesses” of the duschereis had also been
indicated at the beginning (44c–d) and at the end (51a) of the presentation of
their stance and the elucidation of their mistake. Besides, the “difficult people”
23 Socrates grasps a couple of pairs (things self-sufficient/in need; things supremely venera-
ble/inferior; beautiful beloved/lover) that are easy to rank under the two headings “ends/
things for the sake of an end,” which are meant to encompass the entire realm of existing
things (53d–e). He then links these duos with the ontological pair of genesis/ousia, the
genesis type being for the sake of the ousia type (54a–c). Pleasure, provided it belongs to
the genesis type, must be for the sake of an end that is an ousia.
80 Murgier
were used as “prophets” (44c5): likewise, the subtle are said to “reveal”24
something crucial to the discussion. The structural parallel with the presen-
tation of the duschereis’ posture is therefore obvious, save one major differ-
ence. It was pretty clear that Socrates did not share the duschereis’ view. On the
contrary, in the case of the kompsoi, twice thanked as useful for making
the case against hedonism, Socrates never expresses any explicit criticism or
qualification.25 That significant difference leads to some uncertainty about the
scope and value of the thesis of the kompsoi, to which I shall briefly return.
Scholars have pointed out that, in the recapitulation of the argument, the
person whom Socrates has to be grateful to is not designated by the plural any-
more but by the singular. This slight change makes it more probable that the
epithet kompsos is purported to allude to a precise figure, but this is not of great
help in pinpointing the identity of the latter. There is indeed a vast debate on
the identity of the kompsoi/kompsos. The use of such an adjective is not very
helpful in solving the mystery, since Plato seems to load it with various conno-
tations. In the comparative form it is often paired with another group qualified
as less refined, more vulgar (see Resp. 505b, Tht. 156a), but as a positive adjec-
tive, it points to some doctrine or people credited with nontrivial theoretical
assumptions.26 Be it ironic or not, positive or critical, the adjective does not
enable the disambiguation of the value of the thesis and its proponents.
Scholars have put forward the most antagonist suppositions concerning the
identity of the latter. The easiest one might be to relate these mysterious figures
once again to antihedonists like Speusippus,27 although the change of designa-
tion between the two passages might sound a bit odd. The most sophisticated
scenario would be to see behind the kompsos anēr Plato himself.28 This pos-
sibility, advocated by Frede—which I am still reluctant to share, for it hardly
fits the other uses of the adjective in Plato’s works29—would not be deprived
of polemical interest. This would imply that Plato did already consider himself
as an important actor in the battlefield about pleasure and worth being cited.
There is also an interpretation qualified as “ironic” for it reads the argument as
24 Phlb. 53c7 μηνύειν, 54d5 μηνύσαντι. For the meaning of μηνύειν as “to indicate a direction,
a way to follow for searching,” especially in the Cratylus, see Dixsaut, Platon et la question
de la pensée, 245.
25 The mention of εἴπερ at 54c6, d1 hardly counts as a critique, pace Hackforth, The
Examination of Pleasure. See Evans’s critical remarks, “Plato’s Anti-Hedonism,” 132–33.
26 See Gorgias 493a and Tarrant’s comment on this passage, “ ‘A Taste of the Doctrines of
Each Group of Sages,’ ” 117.
27 See Gauthier and Jolif, L’Éthique à Nicomaque 2:2, 788.
28 See Frede, Philebus, iv.
29 See, for example, Grg. 493a5, Resp. 505b6, Tht. 156a3.
alluding to Aristippus and the Cyrenaics,30 who defined pleasure as a “smooth

change” (Diog. Laert. 2.86). This last option would imply a very subtle polemi-
cal play, making Plato turn the formula of pleasure as a genesis against its own
author(s) and thereby turning the account of some proponents of hedonism
into the sharpest weapon against their core thesis that pleasure is the good.
Once again one might have to come to terms with our uncertainty concerning
the identity of these “subtle thinkers.”
The interpretation of the argument is no less controversial than its attribu-
tion. One first debate bears on the status of the argument in Plato’s demon-
stration. Interpreters of the Philebus strongly disagree about whether Socrates
endorses the argument or only resorts to it for polemical purposes, without
sharing such a view about pleasure. The Socrates of the Philebus never criti-
cizes it, nor does he distance himself from it, giving us reason to assume that
he makes it his own.31 Another matter of dispute concerns the way to under-
stand the conclusion of the argument: does it purport to show that pleasure
is not the good or not a good? Addressing this vexed issue is not my purpose
here. I would rather examine what polemical use is made of this powerful
argument. The appeal to this featuring of pleasure as coming-to-be proves very
efficient: it is indeed the only argument that actually overcomes the resistance
of Protarchus, the supporter of hedonism, who suddenly comes to admit the
defeat of his candidate (Phlb. 55a9–11).
Does this polemical argument classifying pleasure as genesis contribute
notably to constructing the Platonic concept of pleasure? In my opinion its
significance in the Philebus is more strategic than conceptual. The central
notion in the Philebus account of pleasure is that of restoration/replenishment
(plērōsis), to which the dialogue has brought decisive refinements. The replen-
ishment model of pleasure pervades Platonic treatments of pleasure from the
Gorgias and receives further elaboration in the late works of Plato (Timaeus
and Philebus) that bring in a decisive feature—namely, the necessity for bodily
restorations to be perceived if they are to be experienced as pleasant.32 To rank
30 See Diès (Philèbe, 65–67), followed recently by Zilioli (The Cyrenaics, 164–70). According
to Aristocles of Messene (On Philosophy) transmitted by Eusebius, “Aristippus the Younger
defined the goal of life clearly as living pleasantly, maintaining that pleasure is a kind of
change” (14.18.32), quoted from Wolfsdorf, Pleasure in Ancient Greek Philosophy, 153.
31 See Campbell, “Tous les plaisirs sont-ils des genèses?,” 47–48; and Evans, “Plato’s Anti-
Hedonism,” 125–27. For the opposite view, see for example, Hackforth, Plato’s Examination
of Pleasure, 105–8.
32 This major point is stated twice (33d–34a; 43b–c). See Van Riel, Pleasure and the Good Life,
24–27; and Wolfsdorf, Pleasure in Ancient Greek Philosophy, 40–62.
82 Murgier
pleasure among the genus of geneseis supplements the concept by providing it

with an ontological framework that backs up the replenishment theory.33 It is
also strategically crucial in the economy of the dialogue, putting a definite end
to the examination of pleasure. Besides, the argument has an obvious polemi-
cal gain: it contributes to discrediting not only the core hedonist assumption
but also the people who live in accordance to it—the hedonists, particularly
the vulgar ones:
S. But this same person will also laugh at those who find their fulfillment
in processes of generation. Pr. How so, and what sort of people are you
alluding to? S. I am talking of those who cure their hunger and thirst or
anything else that is cured by processes of generation. They take delight
in generation as a pleasure and proclaim that they would not want to live
if they were not subject to hunger and thirst and if they could not experi-
ence all the other things one might want to mention in connection with
such conditions. (Phlb. 54e)
These lines plainly disclose the polemical target of this argument, namely the
dismissal of the kind of life supported by hedonism, which proves to be mis-
taken and unsustainable in so far as it confines itself to processes of genera-
tion and destruction of the body.34 They echo accurately the vigorous attacks
of Socrates against the strong hedonism of Callicles in the Gorgias,35 making
it clear that the ethical stance of hedonism, as much as its theoretical posi-
tion, is the ultimate target of Socrates’s move. This ultimate argument against
hedonism that the kompsoi provide the Socrates of the Philebus is also prom-
ised a further career in the long-standing Academic controversy about plea-
sure. Evidence comes from the ethical works of Aristotle, our main alternative
source on the debate, where this theory is worthy of special and recurrent
attention. It seems that the argument has meanwhile become the key claim of
the antihedonists: either this was already the case at the time of the Philebus
or the Philebus advertised the power of such an ontological claim, contributing
to turning it into a basic and cogent antihedonistic argument.
33 See Burnyeat, “Fathers and Sons,” 86: “The Philebus is the dialogue in which the ‘replenish-
ment’ theory gets its most metaphysical treatment, with replenishment subsumed under
the wider category of γένεσις or becoming.”
34 On this topic, see Evans, “Plato’s Anti-Hedonism,” 136.
35 The close intertextual reference to the Gorgias is pointed out by Tarrant, “ ‘A Taste of the
Doctrines of Each Group of Sages,’ ” 117.
3 The Polemical Destiny of the Genesis Theory: The Testimony of

Aristotle
3.1 Aristotle’s Position in the Polemics

Before we take a closer look at the conceptual instruments by means of which
Aristotle comes to grips with this argument, a brief clarification of his texts
dealing with pleasure is needed. The existence and the structure of the two
treatises on pleasure that the Nicomachean Ethics36 contains (7.11–14 and 10.1–
5) is in itself a good testimony to the polemical flavor of the discussion, for
pleasure is the only topic devoting so much space to dialectical arguments.
The treatment of issues like akrasia (7.2–3), friendship (8.1–2), and happiness
(1.3–4) do include reviews and discussions of endoxa but do not present as dia-
lectically articulated a debate as the one presented twice in the Nicomachean
Ethics.37 Therefore it is not only as a tribute to his own dialectical method that
Aristotle gives so much importance to the controversy on pleasure. The unique
character of these two treatises on pleasure is less surprising once the fact that
Aristotle inherits an already well-shaped polemics is taken into account. He
cannot simply overlook such a polemical field, and he has to trace his own
way within it.38 The two treatises that frequently overlap present a series of
arguments, whose proponents are rarely identified.39 Though less cryptic than
Plato’s Philebus, the polemical background of these two books also needs to be
approached carefully, given the complexity of this dialectical equation includ-
ing four characters, two of whom (Eudoxus and Speusippus) remain partially
unknown.40 The evidence concerning Eudoxus is scarce, and it is still thinner
36 I leave aside the issue of the two treatments of books 7 and 10, with closely related,
though nonidentical, contents but deprived of any cross-reference. The consensus in the
scholarly literature seems to take the book 7 version as earlier and initially part of the
Eudemian Ethics and the book 10 version as later (and often as more advanced): see Harte,
“The Nicomachean Ethics on Pleasure,” 292. For an evolving account of the relationship
between the two versions, see Wolfsdorf, Pleasure in Ancient Greek Philosophy, 131–33; for
a unitarian account, taking the two treatises as pursuing distinct aims, see for example,
Pakaluk, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, 286–315; Harte, “The Nicomachean Ethics on
Pleasure,” 310–12. Because of the uncertainty concerning the authorship and dating of the
Magna Moralia, I will leave it aside: a number of scholars (Menn, Tarrant, Wolfsdorf) take
it to be early or reflecting an early stage in Aristotle’s career.
37 The uniqueness of the reviews of Eth. Nic. 7.11–14 and 10.1–5 is underlined by Frede,
“Nicomachean Ethics VII. 11–12: Pleasure,” 184.
38 See Warren, “Aristotle on Speusippus on Eudoxus on Pleasure,” 249–50, 279.
39 See Frede, Philebos, 419–20.
40 See Warren, “Aristotle on Speusippus on Eudoxus on Pleasure,” 275.
84 Murgier
when one turns to Speusippus’s position given the dialectical presentation in

the Aristotelian treatises.41
Those offer, nonetheless, the most complete collection of the arguments for,
and mostly against, pleasure, most of which can be traced back to a Platonic
background.42 Book 7 presents a more systematized version, starting with
a categorization of the three major antihedonistic stances, each of which is
related to a series of correlated arguments. The most detailed position (call
it a) is also the most radical one, claiming that not a single pleasure is a good. It
relies on six rather heterogeneous arguments to which Aristotle will not devote
much attention, except for the first one in which one recognizes the ontologi-
cal argument that qualifies pleasure as a genesis. The remainder puts forward
mainly moralizing reasons for the antagonism between pleasure and the good.
Aristotle seems to care much less about it, replying in a quite offhand way. This
series of arguments tries to discredit pleasure by singling out the type of moral
beings looking for pleasure—the less evolved ones (animals, children)—while
the more rational ones (temperate, prudent) tend to avoid it.43 A last argument
concerns the relationship between crafts (aiming at producing a good) and
pleasure. Although these arguments undoubtedly share a common Platonic
background, their variety in kind and value is to be noted, for this already
points out that for the adversaries of pleasure, so to speak, all the means are
good. They do not hesitate to point a finger at the pursuers of pleasure by
relating their behavior to that of lower beings, irrational creatures, and con-
trasting it with the life of exemplary agents who would rather keep away from
it. This argumentative strategy making hedonism morally suspicious clearly
indicates the polemical character of the discussion. Aristotle’s later remark,
putting forward the flawless conduct of Eudoxus in book 10, confirms it. The
need to recall the irreproachable way of life of the leading figure of hedonism
makes it clear that the antihedonists did not limit themselves to the theoreti-
cal and ontological level (what kind of being pleasure is); they also resort to
moral stigmatization (what shameful kind of life hedonism leads to). They try
to instigate the suspicion that the theoretical stance of hedonism might only
be a way to justify the profligacy of its followers. Still, Eudoxus apparently was
not liable to that kind of suspicion. The two other stances—most pleasures are
bad but some are good (b); pleasure is a good but not the supreme good (c)—
41 Ibid., 268.

42 See Frede, “Nicomachean Ethics VII. 11–12: Pleasure,” 190–91.
43 According to Pakaluk, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, 301, such arguments are in close
connection to the preceding discussion of akrasia.
are less furnished with arguments: two moralizing cases back up b, whereas c
relies once again upon the genesis argument. Book 10’s account has quite a dif-
ferent structure. One chapter (10.2) is directly devoted to exposing Eudoxus’s
hedonist arguments and the weaknesses of the objections raised against him,
with the sole exception of Plato’s telling one. The following chapter (10.3) goes
back to countering methodically several antihedonist arguments; as in book 7,
replying to the genesis or kinēsis view constitutes the major part of the agenda.
This quick review brings out the wide range of arguments and the unequal
attention they receive from Aristotle. While he is not really interested in dis-
missing the moralizing argument, he does care about the dialectical44 and
ontological cases. Beyond the ethical issue Aristotle proves eager to win the
discussion on theoretical and ontological grounds. In the polemical discus-
sion about pleasure, he clearly favors the theoretical weapons over the moral
ones for defending pleasure against its devaluation, although not being strictly
speaking a hedonist himself.
3.2 Two Strategies for Attacking the Genesis Theory

Book 7, the so-called Eudemian account, replies thoroughly to the genesis claim
as set out and discussed in the Philebus:
It is not necessary for something else to be better than pleasure, as the

end, some say, is better than the becoming. For pleasures are not becom-
ing, nor do they all even involve a becoming [οὐ γὰρ γενέσεις εἰσὶν οὐδὲ
μετὰ γενέσεως πᾶσαι]. They are activities, and an end [in themselves] [ἀλλ’
ἐνέργειαι καὶ τέλος], and arise when we exercise [a capacity], not when we
are coming to be [in some state]. And not all pleasures have something
else as their end, but only those in people who are being led toward the
completion of their nature. That is why it is also a mistake to call pleasure
a perceived becoming. It should instead be called an activity of the natu-
ral state, and should be called not perceived, but unimpeded. (Eth. Nic.
7.12, 1153a7–15)45
44 See Warren’s “Aristotle on Speusippus on Eudoxus on Pleasure” on how the dialectical
argument of pleasure and pain as opposites (1153b1–7, 1172b18–20, 1173a5–13) is used by
these three philosophers.
45 Here and after, the Nicomachean Ethics is quoted from Irwin’s translation.
86 Murgier
To the genesis view of pleasure presupposed by the replenishment model,46

Aristotle had first opposed the case of pleasures that do not involve any res-
toration, for they do not imply any lack—namely, the pleasures of studying
(theōrein), corresponding to what Plato’s Philebus (51e–52a) qualified as pure
pleasures47 (1153a1–2). The dialectical discussion goes on with an attempt at
reframing every part of the genesis view in Aristotle’s own terms while sticking
to the central case that the genesis model is intended to account for—namely,
the restorations of the body (in hunger or thirst). Aristotle’s dialectical strat-
egy is disclosed through the careful substitution term by term, so that one can
wonder whether Aristotle intends here to introduce his alternative definition
of pleasure or rather an ad hominem argument, tailored on the formula to be
amended.48 In any case this rewording is sufficient to preclude pleasure, once
understood as an activity, from being excluded from the rank of goods and
from being confined to a category inferior in value.
Book 7 concentrates his attacks against the genesis view by sticking to the
level of the restoration model. The account in book 10 modifies the way of
tackling the genesis theory. It brings in new arguments that focus mainly on
an ontological level. That change of strategy leads Aristotle to reformulate the
genesis view in the wider category of kinēsis. Therefore he will devote a sub-
stantive part of his argumentation to dismissing the ranking of pleasure in the
genus of kinēsis. The main claim of the despisers of pleasure is summarized in
the compelling syllogism that follows:
They hold that what is good is complete, whereas processes and becom-
ings are incomplete, and they try to show that pleasure is a process and a
becoming [κίνησιν καὶ γένεσιν]. (Eth. Nic. 10.3, 1173a29–31)
46 According to Van Riel, “Aristotle’s Definition of Pleasure: a Refutation of the Platonic
Account,” 127: “Plato’s definition had become the ‘standard working definition’ which cir-
culated in the Academy, and which the disciples took over to elaborate their own theory
of pleasure.”
47 Although the case is more ambiguous in the Philebus, since pleasures of thought do
involve a (painless) lack. But it is strongly debated whether the account of pure pleasures
is also valid for pleasures of contemplating—that is, exercising knowledge (see Frede,
“Disintegration and Restoration,” 453). For Aristotle opposing Plato’s “pure pleasures” to
the Platonic replenishment account, see also Eth. Nic. 10.3, 1173b16–20.
48 See Pakaluk, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, 304. Later in book 7 (1154b17–20) Aristotle
will maintain that even in the case of pleasures occurring along with restorations, the
curative ones, the pleasure experienced is due to an activity of the part remaining healthy:
that seems to suggest that the “activity view” expressed in chapter 13 is actually endorsed
by Aristotle.
The scope of Aristotle’s refutation appears here to be larger because the adver-
sary thesis is featured either in terms of genesis (1173b4) or of kinēsis (1173a32).
Although pleasure is rarely featured as kinēsis in Plato,49 this reframing need
not trouble us, because as pointed out by Burnyeat,
when Aristotle needs a compendious noun to cover all types of change,

he chooses κίνησις or μεταβολή. So what more natural than to gloss
Platonic γένεσις as Aristotelian κίνησις? In its standard specific sense
κίνησις is directed towards an end-state outside itself, and this fits the
Philebus characterization of γένεσις as always ‘for the sake of’ the οὐσία
that results.50
The main part of the refutation targets the kinēsis formula. The first dialectical
strategy Aristotle engages in (10.3) consists in very carefully contrasting every
feature of a process to those of pleasure, in order to dismiss such identity and
the ontological devaluation that follows. Aristotle starts by showing that predi-
cates such as slowness and speed, peculiar to processes, cannot be applied to
pleasure.51 The next step in the following chapter (10.4), more constructive,
keeps opposing the properties of a process to those of pleasure (1174a19–29),
but it also endeavors to make clear that pleasure does possess the completion
of an end (telos).
Clearly, then, it is different from a process, and is something whole and

complete. This also seems true because a process must take time, but
being pleased need not; for what is present in an instant is a whole. This
also makes it clear that it is wrong to say that pleasure is a process or a
becoming [κίνησιν ἢ γένεσιν]. For this is not said of everything, but only of
what is divisible and not a whole; for seeing, or a point, or a unit, has no
coming to be, and none of these is either a process or a becoming [οὐθὲν
κίνησις οὐδὲ γένεσις]. But pleasure is a whole; hence it has no coming to
be. (Eth. Nic. 10.4, 1174b6–13)
Aristotle had introduced earlier in chapter 10.4 an alternative scheme to bring

out the properties of pleasure—namely, the act of seeing. Seeing belongs
indeed to the recurrent paradigms of complete activity, whose end is strictly
49 An exception is Resp. 9.583e.

50 Burnyeat, “Kinēsis vs. Energeia,” 266.
51 The categorization of pleasure as kinēsis appears in a passage of the Topics (4.1, 121a30–5)
where Aristotle provides other dialectical means to counter this ascription.
88 Murgier
immanent to itself, according to Metaphysics 9.6 (1048b33–34). Besides, chap-

ter 6 of the De sensu (446b2–4) makes it clear that there is no genesis of seeing
or any sense-perceptive act. Aristotle intends to establish that pleasure shares
with seeing the features attached to perfect activity—namely, being complete
at any time—without progressing toward an end. The claim bears less on the
essence of pleasure or seeing than on their properties.52 By showing that plea-
sure follows the scheme of a perfect activity (energeia) clearly incompatible
with the ontological features of a process (kinēsis), Aristotle has the capacity
to grant it the perfect character denied by its antihedonist classification as
genesis.
It is also noteworthy that in explaining why pleasure does not fit with the
kinēsis scheme, Aristotle takes up the example of building in order to analyze
the main features of a process: encompassing different and incomplete parts,
taking time, aiming at some end. But the choice of such an instantiation of a
kinēsis can hardly be neutral. Indeed, building has already been mentioned at
Eth. Nic. 7.11 (1152b15) in order to highlight how a process and its end differ in
kind, as the antihedonist argument puts it. The building example might intend
to echo the passage of the Philebus when Protarchus elucidates on his own
the priority relationship between means and ends through the shipbuilding
example (54b).53 Building is not only a standard example in Aristotle’s analyses
of processes, it is also polemically marked when used in the context of a dis-
cussion on pleasure54 with the Philebus as background.
To what extent is Aristotle’s recurrent attempt at refutation of the genesis
view significant? How is his own construction of the concept of pleasure
impacted by this polemical argument that was devised by antihedonist think-
ers or that entered the debate through its use as an antihedonist weapon? It is
sometimes pointed out that in book 10, the confrontation with other thinkers’
views is less prominent than in book 7, whose dialectical and defensive charac-
ter is more obvious.55 Without denying that point, one might slightly qualify it:
if one looks at the reply to the kinēsis argument, one is bound to acknowledge
that its refutation extends to almost two chapters (10.3–4). Although the dia-
lectical side in this reply is less obvious, it might be because Aristotle not only
tries to counteract this mistaken view in these pages but also takes advantage
52 As rightly pointed out by Harte, “The Nicomachean Ethics on Pleasure,” 302.
53 See Frede, Philebos, 420.
54 This point is convincingly made by Harte (“The Nicomachean Ethics on Pleasure,” 308)
concerning the mention of the “lover of building” in the following chapter (10.5, 1175a35),
arguably alluding to the Philebus.
55 See, for example, Frede, “Pleasure and Pain in Aristotle’s Ethics,” 262.
of its refutation for advancing his own view on pleasure.56 Indeed, the discus-
sion of book 10 appears not only more sophisticated but also more construc-
tive: it is striking that the refutation of the kinēsis account is inseparable from
the elaboration of the properties of pleasure. As if, faced with the necessity to
counter such a cogent view,57 Aristotle felt the need to have at his disposal a
conceptual structure compelling enough to replace it. The elaboration of the
notion of energeia, although it is not restricted to solving the problem of the
nature of pleasure,58 once clearly distinguished from that of kinēsis, proves
helpful in putting forward a consistent alternative.
Indeed, according to the picture drawn by Stephen Menn,59 Aristotle did
not have at his disposal the full concept of some energeiai as distinct from
and opposed to kinēseis from the outset. He came only progressively to
achieve this distinction famously put forward in Metaphysics 9.6 (1048b18–35).
Consequently, his various treatments of the pleasure controversy might keep
some traces of this gradual construction.60 This would explain, were one to
follow Menn’s suggestion, why Aristotle, in some texts dealing with the vexed
issue of the nature of pleasure, formulates the antihedonists’ argument only
through the genesis wording, as is the case in book 7, and even seems to have
no qualms about depicting pleasure as a kinēsis.61 Book 10 of the Nicomachean
Ethics is the unique Aristotelian text on pleasure, contrasting energeia with
56 See Frede, Philebos, 423.

57 Aristotle himself might have shared it once, as might testify the definition of pleasure in
Rh. 1.11, 1369b33–5 (κίνησίν τινα τῆς ψυχῆς), supposed to be quite early in Aristotle’s career.
See Wolfsdorf, Pleasure in Ancient Greek Philosophy, 105–14.
58 For the probable ethical context, that of a discussion of the Platonic account of plea-
sure, in which the strict energeia/ kinēsis opposition originated, see Burnyeat, “Kinēsis vs.
Energeia,” 273.
59 See Menn’s unpublished manuscript, drafts of which are available online, “The Aim and
the Argument of Aristotle’s Metaphysics,” 3a2, 27–29, esp. 29. For further details on the his-
tory of the energeia concept and its theoretical purposes, see Menn’s papers “The Origins
of Aristotle’s Concept of Energeia” and “Aristotle’s Definition of Soul and the Programme
of the De Anima.”
60 I would also like to thank Stephen Menn for providing me with his unpublished study,
“The Origins of Aristotle’s Concept of Energeia: Energeia and Kinēsis,” the quasi-transcript
of a talk held in Pittsburgh in 2010, in which he developed this idea.
61 See Magna Moralia (2.7, 1204b25–8: “For whereas there is a part of the soul in which we
feel pleasure contemporaneously with the supply of what we lack, this part is in activity
and movement [ἐνεργεῖ καὶ κινεῖται]; and its movement and activity are Pleasure [ἡ δὲ
κίνησις αὐτοῦ καὶ ἡ ἐνέργειά ἐστιν ἡδονή],” trans. Armstrong), despite the uncertain status
and dating of the work.
90 Murgier
kinēsis62 and using that opposition to dispose of the genesis theory. The prog-
ress of the Aristotelian doctrine of pleasure is inseparable from the necessity to
refute the core antihedonist argument: the polemical scope of the latter urged
Aristotle to elaborate a conceptual categorization that enables pleasure to be
part of the class of the good. Although the tone of Aristotelian texts might
seem less polemical than those by Plato, there is then little doubt that the trea-
tises on pleasure are thoroughly informed by this ongoing polemics. Its viru-
lence and its technicality are witnessed by the conceptual resources provided
by Aristotle to participate in it, up to the decisive support of his metaphysical
kinēsis/energeia distinction.
It seems clear that the polemical arguments in use in the pleasure controversy
pervading the Academy have been a powerful incentive to the elaboration of
Plato’s and Aristotle’s doctrines of pleasure. For Plato, the urge to distance him-
self from extreme antihedonism led him to construct the concept of pure plea-
sures, essential for admitting, though carefully, pleasure in the mix of the good
life. For Aristotle, the polemical career of a cogent argument, first voiced in the
Philebus and promised to play a major part in the antihedonist arsenal, urged
him to face it with an increasingly sophisticated ontology of pleasure. That
ontology culminates in book 10 of the Nicomachean Ethics through the full-
blown energeia account, sustained with a powerful metaphysical distinction.
The polemics about pleasure agitating the Academy verifies, then, Aristotle’s
claim in Eudemian Ethics that “the refutation of those who dispute a certain
position is a demonstration of the opposing view” (1215a6–7). Polemical argu-
ments not only nourished the debate but also decisively contributed to shap-
ing or refining concepts and doctrines, showing that polemics and dialectic are
hardly separable.63
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by Harte, “The Nicomachean Ethics on Pleasure,” 303.
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The Politics of Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s
Republic
Jozef Müller
1 Introduction
Aristotle’s critical review of Plato’s Republic and Laws in Politics 2, as well as his
criticism of other constitutions in the same book, has had a mixed reception.
Franz Susemihl and Robert Hicks say that Aristotle’s “attack upon the polity of
pure reason, as it claims to be, in Plato’s Republic ranks among the most suc-
cessful parts of the whole work,”1 while Julia Annas describes it as “surprisingly
crass and literal-minded, much below Aristotle’s best.”2 In the same vein some
scholars have accused Aristotle of failure to engage Plato in a fair way or even
to understand Plato at all,3 while others have defended his criticisms as largely
or completely justified.4 In this paper I will not offer a systematic interpreta-
tion of the content of Aristotle’s criticism, since neither the content of the crit-
icism nor the questions concerning its validity will be my focus. Instead I will
concentrate on some of the peculiar features of Aristotle’s discussions, features
that could well be called polemical. These features include Aristotle’s several
rather sharp or ironic remarks about Socrates and his project in the Republic,
his use of rhetorical questions, and his tendency to bring out the most extreme
consequences of Socrates’s theory (such as that it will destroy the polis and that
it will lead to incestuous relationships). As I will argue, some of these polemi-
cal features result from the special character of Socrates’s theory, and some
play a crucial role in Aristotle’s argument in that they are consciously aimed
1 Susemihl and Hicks, The Politics of Aristotle, 32.

2 Annas, An Introduction to Plato’s Republic, 188.
3 Surprisingly, this view is expressed by Susemihl and Hicks, The Politics of Aristotle, 215.
Saunders, Aristotle: Politics I and II, often complains that Aristotle’s arguments “hardly go
home” (109). Perhaps the most negative treatment of Aristotle’s criticism can be found in
Bornemann, “Aristoteles’ Urteil über Platons politische Theorie.” A largely negative, but very
insightful, treatment of Aristotle’s criticism of communal property (and defense of private
property) can be found in Irwin, “Aristotle’s Defense of Private Property,” as well as in Barnes,
“Aristotle and Political Liberty.” For a different view, see Mayhew, “Aristotle on Property.”
4 The positive treatments of Aristotle are mostly found in more recent scholarship: Simpson,
A Philosophical Commentary; Stalley, “Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic”; and especially,
Mayhew, Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic.

94 Müller
at countering the attractive force of Socrates’s image of the ideal city, which
appeals to readers over and above its theoretical, purely rational credentials.
There is no doubt that there is something distinctly peritton (odd)5 about the
second book of Aristotle’s Politics, especially regarding his discussion of Plato’s
views in chapters 2–6. The book begins with what appears to be the standard
way in which Aristotle introduces critical examinations of the theories or opin-
ions of his predecessors.6 He tells us that as a part of the study of the best polit-
ical community (politikē koinōnia), one must also examine (episkepsasthai)
other constitutions (politeiai) to discover what, if anything, is correct and use-
ful about them. In particular one has to look at constitutions that have already
received some approval and are thought to be well designed (kalōs echein).
These involve both constitutions that are already in use in states thought to
have good laws and those that, although not in actual use, were proposed in
theory. Aristotle then discusses four theoretical constitutions (Plato’s in the
Republic and the Laws, Phaleas’s of Chalcedon, and Hippodamus’s of Miletus)
along with three actual constitutions (Spartan, Cretan, and Carthaginian).
The first odd feature of the discussion comes at the end of this introduction.
It features what Aquinas calls an apology (excusatio)7 for the critical examina-
tion. Aristotle tells us that we must review other constitutions not only in order
to find out what is correct and useful about them but
5 The adjective peritton (odd) occurs four times in Pol. 2. First, at Pol. 2.3, 1261b29, it is
mentioned by Aristotle as one example of words that are ambiguous and “give rise to
contentious [eristikoi] arguments.” Here peritton has the value-neutral meaning of “odd”
(as, in “odd numbers”). This is clear from its juxtaposition with “even” (artion). Second, at
1265a11, Aristotle uses it to describe Socratic dialogues, this time in the positive sense of
“extraordinary.” Third, at 1267b24, it is used (in comparative) to describe Hippodamus’s
lifestyle (bios), now in its negative meaning of “excessive” or “extreme.” Last, at 1272b25, it
is used to describe (positively) the way in which Carthaginians govern themselves as being
extraordinary in comparison to others. The inherent ambiguity of the word enables Aristotle
to use it for expressing both admiration and contempt. These are also the two attitudes that
commentators tend to take toward Pol. 2.
6 The introduction is understood as the first part of Aristotle’s standard dialectical procedure
by a number of interpreters, including Susemihl and Hicks, The Politics of Aristotle, ad loc.;
Stalley, “Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic,” 183; or Mráz, “Die Kritik an Platons Politeia
im II. Buch von Aristoteles’ Politik,” 80.
7 This is Aquinas’s comment: “Deinde cum dicit adhuc autem quaerere etc., excusat propriam
intentionem; et dicit quod non oportet alicui videri quod hoc ipsum quod est quaerere aliquid
aliud in ordinationibus civitatum, praeter ea quae ab aliis dicta sunt, procedat ex hoc quod
ipse (velit) sophizare, id est suam sapientiam ostentare: sed ideo interserit hanc artem, quia
ea quae ab aliis dicta sunt, in multis videntur non bene se habere” (T. Aquinas, Sententia Libri
Politicorum, lib. 2 l. 1 n. 3).
The Politics of Aristotle ’ s Criticism of Plato ’ s Republic 95
also so as to avoid giving the impression that our search for something
different from them results from a wish to show off cleverness (sophizest-
hai) at all costs rather than that we have taken up the inquiry because the
currently existing constitutions are not well designed. (Pol. 1160b33–36)8
The passage suggests that the task of the examination is to provide (or make
clear) the true (but perhaps not obvious) motivation behind Aristotle’s attempt
to construct an ideal constitution of his own and, at the same time, to forestall
the (perhaps obvious) view that Aristotle just wants to show how clever he is.
One can profitably compare this passage with the opening paragraph of
Eth. Nic. 1.6, in which Aristotle tells us that for the sake of preserving (epi
sōtēria) the truth, it is better to destroy (anairein) even that which is our own
(ta oikeia), since although one should love both friends and truth, as a philoso-
pher one should honor the truth (protimān tēn alētheia) above all. In the Eth.
Nic. passage, Aristotle presents himself as facing the following dilemma: he
can pursue the truth and in the process destroy what is close to him, or he can
shrink from pursuing the truth and preserve what is close to him. The dilemma
stems from two honorable but, in this particular case, incompatible attach-
ments—to truth and to friends. At the beginning of Pol. 2, however, Aristotle
wants to dispel the suspicion that his motivation for developing his own theo-
ries, and in the process destroying those of others, is a wish to appear clever
(or perhaps a wish to play clever tricks—sophizesthai) rather than his love of
truth and beauty. In other words Aristotle does not want his reader to see him
as someone who argues for argument’s sake in order to profit in some way,
whether in reputation or otherwise (that is, as a sophist of sorts); he wants to
be seen as someone concerned with truth, who only shows other’s theories
incorrect incidentally, since that is what he must (1260b28) do if he is to find
the truth.
What makes the apology (to use Aquinas’s description) interesting is the
discussion that follows, since being “more than unusually vivacious,”9 it
can well make Aristotle appear in exactly the light that he tried to avoid.10 In
Pol. 2.2–6, Aristotle offers his most explicit and extended discussion of Plato’s
political theories in what are arguably his two most important works (Republic
and Laws). But the discussion concentrates on only a couple of Plato’s the-
ses in the Republic, without paying much, if any, attention to their context;
8 All translations are mine.

9 Saunders, Aristotle: Politics I and II, 113.
10 Michael Davies calls the ensuing discussion “intellectual parricide.” Davies, The Politics of
Aristotle, 35.
96 Müller
his discussion of the Laws is, by most accounts, short and superficial. Perhaps
most notably, Aristotle leaves out the Republic’s most notorious claim that it is
philosophers who should be the kings, while including a thesis that Plato does
not seem to hold (namely, the communism of property). Thus even indepen-
dently of whether the actual criticisms are justified or not, this strangely nar-
row focus can already give rise to suspicions. These suspicions are heightened
even further once one (inevitably) notices that the discussion contains several
sharp or ironic remarks as well as claims—offered as part of Aristotle’s reasons
for disagreeing with others—that can easily be seen as contradicting his own
assertions elsewhere.11 If one adds to this mix the issue of the actual validity
of Aristotle’s criticisms, one can certainly be left with the impression that his
excusatio notwithstanding, Aristotle’s arguments in Pol. 2.2–6 are motivated by
more than just his attachment to and respect for truth.
In the next two sections, I will concentrate on Aristotle’s aim in discussing
constitutions in Politics 2 (section 2) and on the method he employs in the dis-
cussion (section 3). In section 4 I will argue that the aim and the methods avail-
able to him to achieve the aim necessitate a certain way of arguing that carries
an emotive content (and so results in emotional responses on the part of the
reader). Furthermore, I will argue that Aristotle’s aim is not achievable, given
the content and the appeal of Socrates’s theory, by purely rational argument,
so Aristotle resorts to (or consciously employs) certain polemical devices such
as rhetorical questions or ironic remarks. In other words the odd, polemical
features are a deliberate strategy that Aristotle feels justified in using for philo-
sophical purposes.
2 Aristotle’s Aim in Politics 2
What is Aristotle’s purpose in discussing the various constitutions, both theo-

retical and actual, in Pol. 2? Since it is often thought that the discussion is a
11 In Pol. 2.2, Aristotle says: “So it is clear from this that the city-state is not naturally one in
the way people think, and that what has been alleged to be the greatest good [i.e., unity]
in city-states destroys them, whereas the good of each thing preserves it” (1261b6–9). He
adds that “a city-states does not come from people who are alike” (1261a24). In Pol. 7.8 he
says that “a city-state is a community of similar people” (1328a35). It is possible to explain
away these apparent contradictions—see, for example, Schütrumpf, Die Analyse der
Polis durch Aristoteles, 67–75 for a perceptive and (to my mind) satisfactory discussion.
Nevertheless, it remains true that at least on the face of it, some of Aristotle’s statements
in Pol. 2 appear to contradict his statements elsewhere.
part—in fact, the beginning—of Aristotle’s dialectical procedure,12 it might be

useful to start with a brief look at what such dialectical procedure, according
to Aristotle, involves. Here is his description of the purpose of an introductory
survey of his predecessors’ views, from De anima 1.2:
When investigating the soul, it is necessary, while puzzling over the

problems that we must resolve in our further advance, to also take into
account the views of those of our predecessors who have made claims
about it so that we may take on board the things that they said well and
avoid those that they said in error. (De an. 403b20–2)
According to this and other passages of this sort,13 Aristotle’s review of other
theories is a necessary method aimed at finding out the truth concerning a
given subject (such as the nature of the soul or the causes of being). As far
as this aim is concerned, the method appears eminently reasonable. It con-
firms that the subject matter is worthy of investigation, since other reputable
thinkers thought about it too. It summarizes the results achieved so far, and in
doing so it enables one to avoid unnecessary work and previous mistakes, thus
providing the best grounds and starting points for further investigation. It does
even more since, as we learn elsewhere, it provides the problems that the new
investigation needs to address:
As in the other cases, we must set out the appearances, and first of all
go through the puzzles. In this way we must prove the common beliefs
about these ways of being affected—ideally, all the common beliefs, but
if not all, most of them, and the most important. For if the objections
are solved, and the common beliefs are left, it will be an adequate proof.
(Eth. Nic. 7.1, 1145b4–8)
These then are the sorts of puzzles that arise. We must undermine some
of these claims, and leave others intact; for the solution of the puzzle is
the discovery [of what we are seeking]. (Eth. Nic. 7.2, 1146b6–8)
As these passages suggest, by identifying the puzzles (aporiai), as they arise

among various competing theories, we obtain both good motivation for a new
investigation (since there is clearly no universally accepted theory about the
matter) and a starting point of the investigation. When we solve the aporiai, we
12 See note 6 above for a list of interpretations that adopt this view.
13 Examples include Metaph. 983a24–983b5; and Soph. el. 183b15–184a9.
98 Müller
discover what (if anything) was true in the views we examined, and we arrive
at a satisfactory new solution. In this way Aristotle can claim to both build
upon the work of others and advance (or even complete) an investigation of
his own.14
The beginning of Pol. 2 looks like the first step in a procedure of this sort,
but Aristotle does not raise any puzzles (aporiai) in the sense in which they
figure in his lists of such puzzles as we find them, for example, in Eth. Nic. 7.1–2,
De an. 1.2–5, or Ph. 1.3–9. That is, Aristotle does not concentrate on collecting
contradictory statements about various political problems that he would then
try to resolve in order to arrive at a new solution. Instead we find Aristotle
immediately raising problems or difficulties for the theories or constitutions he
reviews—most famously, for Plato’s theories in the Republic (1264b24–5) and
the Laws.15 Unlike the aporiai in the dialectical procedure, these difficulties are
not something to be resolved later on—they are treated as decisive objections
to the theories discussed.16 If anything, Aristotle’s procedure is more reminis-
cent of the way in which he raises objections to Socrates’s denial of akrasia
in Eth. Nic. 7.3 (by drawing distinctions between various ways of knowing but
not using knowledge) than it is of his collecting aporiai concerning akrasia in
Eth. Nic. 7.1–2.
To see what Aristotle is up to, it might be useful to attend to the well-known
(and to most commentators, puzzling) feature of Aristotle’s discussion—
namely, its very narrow focus on one particular topic: the nature of political
community or association (koinōnia). Some commentators have concluded
that this narrow focus is in fact an expression of Aristotle’s ignorance of, or
only superficial acquaintance with, the Republic. Others have argued that the
narrow focus is natural insofar as a city-state (polis) is a type of koinōnia, and
since koinōnia means something like “having in common,” one must inquire
14 Perhaps the best known summary (and, at the same time, appraisal) of this method
comes from a famous passage in the Soph. el. 183b15–184a9.
15 These would be equivalent to the kind of problems (such as how many basic principles
of being or motion there are, whether soul is moved or unmoved, or whether the uncon-
trolled person acts knowingly or not) in those other works.
16 The distinction between aporiai as problems (i.e., objections) and aporiai as puzzles
can be best seen at Pol. 2.8, 1268b23–31, where Aristotle mentions the aporia (puzzle)
concerning whether or not it is good for states to change their ancestral laws. This is a
puzzle because there are different views or theories about it. The aporiai concerning the
views of Socrates raised in Pol. 2.2–6 are, however, problems or objections that undermine
Socrates’s theory, not aporiai that arise from there being alternative views to his views.
into what the citizens of a polis (as opposed to a family or a household) should
have in common or share.17
But this second line of thought cannot be correct. First, the question about
how much the citizens should share is in fact answered very quickly. Aristotle
starts by listing three options: citizens can either share all things, or none, or
some but not others (1260b37–9). The second option is excluded immediately
(since a city-state must at least have a territory that the citizens share). The
first option is refuted by the end of Pol. 2.5, since only Plato suggested a theory
along such extreme lines (Pol. 2.7, 1266a34–6). The third option is thus estab-
lished even before views other than Plato’s are on the table, and it is already
defended in Pol. 2.5, 1263a30–b14 (namely, that possession should be private,
but use should be common). Second, the interpretation becomes much less
plausible once one looks at the details of the discussion of other constitutions.
Aristotle discusses not only the sharing of property but also the divisions of
citizens into groups, the arrangements for who becomes a judge, the system
of awarding honors, or the place of leisure in the city (the list could go on). In
other words as one goes further into book 2, it becomes much less plausible to
think that the topic of “what citizens ought to share”18 is really at the center of
Aristotle’s discussion, even if it is clearly a part of that discussion.
But, I argue, there is an alternative and much better interpretation.19 The
clue is given by Aristotle at the end of his discussion of the community of
wives and children in Pol. 2.5. At 1262a40, Aristotle remarks that although, as
he has just argued, the sharing of wives and children will prove disadvanta-
geous to the city-state, it could be said to be more useful for farmers (that is, for
Plato’s lowest class) than for the Guardians. This is because the community of
wives and children leads to less affection or friendship (philia) among citizens
and so, it is implied, it would make the farmers less attached to their families
and more obedient to the Guardians. This alleged advantage notwithstanding,
Aristotle goes on to say that
17 This line of thought is taken, with some differences, by Mayhew, Aristotle’s Criticism of
Plato’s Republic, 20; Simpson, A Philosophical Commentary, 73; and Stalley, “Aristotle’s
Criticism of Plato’s Republic,” 183.
18 Mayhew, Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic, 21.
19 My interpretation to some extent follows and is heavily influenced by two articles:
Cooper, “Political Animals and Civic Friendship,” and Irwin, “Aristotle’s Defense of Private
Property.”
100 Müller
the results of a law of this sort are necessarily the opposite of those that
come about from correctly laid down laws and [so also] of the reason
why Socrates thought that it is necessary to arrange things concerning
wives and children in this way. For we think that philia20 is the greatest of
goods for the city-states (for in this way they are least prone to factions).
And Socrates praises most of all the unity of the city-state, which (as it
seems he says as well)21 is an ergon of philia. (1262b4–11)
In this passage Aristotle both praises Socrates for recognizing that a city-state is
sustained by philia but also blames him for thinking that this is to be achieved,
or at least achieved in the best possible way, by extending the kind of philia
found among family members to the relationships between citizens. Rather, as
he tries to demonstrate, the kind of laws Socrates proposes will have the oppo-
site effect and will lead to the lack of philia among citizens and, ultimately, to
the destruction of the city-state (1261a22–3 and 61b7–9).
This could suggest that Aristotle is trying to find out what holds political
communities together and distinguishes them from, on the one hand, families
and households (in which the bonds relate to natural feelings) (1262a40–b24)
and, on the other hand, mere alliances (in which there are no bonds among
the members over and above their specific, agreed-upon goal) (1261b23–7).
Consequently, Aristotle’s focus in discussing the various constitutions is quite
narrow and concentrates largely on the mechanisms and safeguards they have
(at least, in his view) for creating the required social cohesion for and within
the city-state. If this is his goal, he does not need to investigate the various
competing constitutions in their entirety. Rather, he would only need to con-
centrate on particular constitutional provisions that either foster or impede
the political cohesion of the city-state.
20 One could translate philia here as friendship. But there is a certain ambiguity in the term
that plays a role in Aristotle’s argument against Socrates that the translation can obscure.
In particular Aristotle objects to Socrates that the kind of philia present within families
(or perhaps even in close circles of friends) is not the kind of philia that holds political
communities together. The former but not the latter kind carries emotional attachment
and is a matter of feeling. It thus seems to me best to leave philia untranslated, since the
Greek word, unlike English “friendship,” covers both cases.
21 The thought is expressed in the (dubious) dialogue Clitophon: “the peculiar product [idion
ergon] of justice, one which is not the product of anything else, is to produce friendship
[philia] in the cities” (409d).
That this is in fact Aristotle’s focus is apparent from a number of passages.

The focus is present throughout his discussion of Socrates’s theory in the
Republic. The Republic is of particular interest to Aristotle, since it is explicitly
aimed at achieving unity in the state (1263b29–64a1, 1264b5–15); it therefore
offers a theory about what holds political communities together. The focus
also becomes apparent at crucial points in his discussion of Phaleas’s theory
(1266a38, 66b38, and 67a38–41) when Aristotle evaluates the worth of his the-
ory in relation to keeping the state from forming factions. It is a major source of
his criticism of Hippodamus, since Hippodamus’s theory, Aristotle argues, fails
to instill philia (1268a14–29). It pervades his discussion of the Spartan constitu-
tion, which he thinks is badly arranged, since it makes the city-state weak and
unstable (1270a11–34). Finally, although both Crete and Carthage had achieved
political cohesion and stability, Aristotle makes it clear that while some of
their constitutional provisions deserve credit, the main reasons for the politi-
cal stability in these two states are extraneous to the constitutions: location,
in the case of Crete (1272b1–23), and luck, in the case of Carthage (1272b29–32
and 73b18).
From this point of view, then, we should not think of Aristotle’s criticism
of Plato’s Republic (and the Laws) in Pol. 2 as failing (or succeeding) in its sup-
posed intent of discussing constitutional proposals, since that is not Aristotle’s
intention at all. In fact from this point of view, it makes perfect sense that he
has little or nothing to say about whether any of the constitutions he discusses
are just or efficient. Aristotle’s focus is on what he takes to be proposals about
how to achieve unity in the state, which he interprets as aimed at political
cohesion that would ground and account for the existence and successful per-
severance of a political community.
3 Aristotle’s Method in Politics 2
If my suggestion is correct, it has implications for our understanding of

Aristotle’s procedure in Pol. 2. Aristotle is interested in actual constitutions
(Spartan, Cretan, and Carthaginian), since they apparently manage to pre-
serve political communities, and there should be something that they do cor-
rectly. However, he wants to know whether they do so because of mere luck or
whether they truly manage to incorporate some features that in fact promote
political cohesion. This involves looking at the goals or intentions of those con-
stitutions (asking whether they are correct) and at the arrangements they have
for achieving them (asking whether they are in fact effective). And this is pre-
cisely what Aristotle does:
102 Müller
Concerning the constitutions of the Lacedaemonians and the Cretans,

and in fact concerning virtually all other constitutions, there are two ques-
tions (skepseis). First, whether there is anything in them that is fine or not
fine in comparison to the best system. Second, whether there is anything
in them that is contrary to the fundamental assumption and character of
the constitution, as it was intended by its founders. (1269a29–34)
The first question in the passage—whether there is something fine or well

done in them—concerns the goal or fundamental assumption of the constitu-
tion, such as aiming at endurance and bravery in the case of Sparta (1269b20
and 35). The second question concerns the means—such as the provisions (or
lack thereof) made for men and women in order to achieve them. Aristotle fol-
lows this program quite meticulously. For example, he shows how the Spartan
constitution ends up fostering self-indulgence and the rule of women, even
while its official aim is self-control and the rule of male super-soldier virtues
(1269b20–70a34). He then shows that the goal itself is not correct (1271b6–11).22
In the case of an actual, already existing state, there are two distinct things
to consider: first, whether the mechanisms it implements to achieve the over-
all goal of its constitution are in fact achieving it, and second, whether the
constitutional provisions (the goal plus the mechanisms) are in fact respon-
sible for the cohesion and stability of the constitution or whether something
else, extraneous to the constitution, is the cause. As I have already indicated,
Aristotle’s criticism of the constitutions of Crete, Sparta, and Carthage picks up
precisely these points.
In the case of theoretical constitutions, Aristotle would have to start from
the undeniable fact that there are existing political communities or city-states
(even if they are not well run). That means that a theoretical constitution,
such as proposed by Plato or Phaleas, must satisfy two requirements. First, it
must preserve the possibility of political community. Second, it must do better
22 In an unpublished manuscript, Thornton Lockwood (“Judging Constitutions: Aristotle’s

Critique of Plato’s Republic and Sparta”) identifies four distinct criteria on the basis of
which Aristotle evaluates constitutions: the “actual practice” criterion, which involves
comparison of a proposed constitution to actual practices; the external criterion, which
involves comparison of a given constitution to the best possible constitution; the internal
criterion, which concerns consistency between the constitutional goal and the means
implemented to achieve it; and the “fundamental principle” criterion, which concerns the
correctness of the constitutional goal. In my interpretation the criteria are really two—
what Lockwood calls the “fundamental principle” criterion and the internal criterion. The
other two criteria are some of the ways in which these two criteria are made to bear on a
given constitution, depending on whether it is a theoretical construct (“actual practice”
criterion) or a constitution already in practice (external criterion).
at preserving and maintaining political cohesion than constitutions already

existing and put into practice. And in fact when we turn to Aristotle’s criti-
cism of Plato’s theories, we find him addressing precisely these two questions.
He begins by asking which is better: the present practice (that is, one already
succeeding in maintaining political communities) or the arrangements in
the Republic (1261a9). And he goes on to argue that not only are the Republic’s
arrangements not better but they in fact destroy political community (for
example, 1261a22–3).23
A correct interpretation of Aristotle’s aim in Politics 2 can thus shed consid-
erable light on the way in which his discussion proceeds. But what method can
Aristotle employ to find out whether a merely theoretical constitution, such
as that of Plato, manages to establish and preserve political community, and
if so, by virtue of which features? Unless the constitution’s arrangements are
somehow obviously inconsistent, Aristotle cannot proceed simply by attack-
ing the constitution’s basic assumptions. This is because its correctness would
ultimately show only in the success or failure of the constitution to establish
a political community.24 But short of actually founding a community on the
basis of the particular principles embodied in a given constitution, such test
is not accessible. Aristotle, however, has at his disposal a method or criterion
that is particularly useful in this case—namely, testing the theory in relation
to or on the basis of ‘facts’ (erga).25 It will be useful to look at this method in a
bit more detail.
23 It is sometimes thought that Politics 2 does not discuss the issue of political stability
(Garver, Aristotle’s Politics: Living Well and Living Together, 65). This view seems to me
mistaken not only in view of Aristotle’s explicit focus on it in the case of the constitu-
tions of Sparta (1271a41–b6), Crete (1272b1–23), and Carthage (1272b29–32 and 73b18) but
also in view of his criticism of Plato (which only concentrates on the question of unity),
Hippodamus, and Phaleas. One must bear in mind that Aristotle is not really interested
in criticism of the theories for its own sake but in finding out what he can take away from
them as correct for building the right kind of constitution. So Phaleas’s idea of equality
as preventing factions (1267a37–38) is highlighted, as is Hippodamus’s failure to prevent
factions (1268a14–29). But in both cases Aristotle immediately goes on to more general
discussion of the usefulness of a given provision, given human nature, for political cohe-
sion and the rule of law (1267a38–b9 for Phaleas and 1268b31–69a24 for Hippodamus).
24 Of course, Aristotle could attack the assumptions on other, for example moral, grounds.
But that would not help him to discover whether the constitution manages to establish
political cohesion, which is what he is interested in.
25 Erga can, of course, mean deeds or things one does. But in the relevant contexts under
discussion, the meaning is more akin to ‘facts’, although not necessarily facts in the sense
of states of affairs. I will explain this as I go along. For a discussion, see Kraut, “Aristotle on
Method and Moral Education,” 274n4.
104 Müller
In Eth. Nic. 2.2, Aristotle tells us that the purpose of his present endeavor
(pragmateia) (that is, of the investigations in the Eth. Nic. and the Politics) is
unlike that in his other studies in which he aims at theoretical knowledge. The
current purpose is to “become good” (1103b27), and that means that one has to
examine how one is to act (1103b29–39). This focus has a direct consequence
for what Aristotle sees, in the practical context, as the criterion of truth:
For arguments (logoi) about matters of actions and feelings are less per-
suasive (pistoi) than facts (erga). Thus, when they come into conflict
with what accords with perception (aisthēsis), they are regarded with
contempt, and they also destroy (prosanairein) the truth. (Eth. Nic. 10.1,
1172a34–b1)
According to this passage, when it comes to actions and feelings, facts (erga)
carry more weight than arguments (logoi), so their conflict (if and when it
occurs) is always resolved in favor of facts. As an example Aristotle points out
that if somebody says that pleasure is bad but is then seen seeking pleasure,
people will think that despite his arguments and claims to the contrary, he
in fact regards pleasure as something to pursue. This is because they will con-
clude, on the basis of his observed behavior, that he acted like this not only on
the particular occasion that they saw him but all the time, being guided by a
principle that pleasure is good even while he does not acknowledge the prin-
ciple publicly (1172b1–4).
It is important to keep in mind that Aristotle does not mean that some
people (like “the many”) are more likely to judge according to erga rather
than arguments but that if they were better educated, they would go with the
Socratic “wherever the argument blows” (hopēi an ho logos hōsper pneuma
pherēi) (Rep. 394d). Aristotle is committed to the view that there are certain
facts that constrain even rational arguments:
The truth in practical matters (en tois praktikois) is judged (krinetai) from
the facts (tōn ergōn) and the way of life (tou biou). For these are authori-
tative [in practical matters]. We have to examine, then, what has been
said in the light of the facts and the way of life, and if it harmonizes with
the facts, we must accept it, but if it conflicts, we must suppose it to be
[mere] words. (Eth. Nic. 10.8, 1179a18–22)
According to this passage it is clearly possible to present coherent, persua-

sive arguments that can nevertheless still be rejected by appeal to (percep-
tible) facts. This implies that Aristotle thinks that there are some facts that are
unassailable by arguments, and these facts can serve (in a practical context)
as the criterion of truth.26
But what are the facts (erga) that Aristotle has in mind? It will be best to
look at a few examples of Aristotle explicitly appealing to facts (as opposed to
words or arguments) in order to support his claims. In Pol. 7.1, Aristotle tells us
that from facts (erga) we can find persuasive evidence about the kind of life
that is most choice-worthy, insofar as we can see that virtues are not acquired
or preserved by means of external goods. Rather, we see that (1) the exter-
nal goods are acquired and preserved by means of one’s being virtuous, and
(2) that a happy life belongs more often to people who are virtuous and mod-
erate in acquisition of external goods than to those who focus on them exclu-
sively (1323a39–b5). In Pol. 7.4, he tells us that it is evident from ‘facts’ that an
overly populated state cannot be well governed (1326a25–7 and 1326b9–25),
since it precludes those who are supposed to make decisions from knowing all
the relevant parties equally well. This leads them to make at best uninformed
and at worst prejudiced and unjust judgments. And in Pol. 8.5, he tells us that it
is evident from ‘facts’ that rhythms and melodies contain likenesses of virtues
and vices, since we can see that listening to music changes our soul (1340a17–
21). Finally, as we have seen in the passage from Eth. Nic. 10.1 quoted above, he
contrasts facts—or rather principles derived from observing one’s behavior—
with arguments about what that principle should be.
From these examples it seems clear that Aristotle has in mind, at least in his
ethical works, psychological or sociological truths derived from observation of
actual human behavior. For Aristotle, then, if an ethical or political theory is
to be both logically valid and useful in promoting actual human good, it needs
to take into proper account various relevant psychological or sociological facts
about human beings. If a theory fails to do so—that is, if it comes into con-
flict with such facts—it is, in his view, reduced to mere words, no matter how
coherent and persuasive it appears on its own. By coming into conflict with
facts, arguments and theories lose their relevance, since they do not refer to
anything that can be based in human experience and so have no bearing on
what the issue really is—how are we, real human beings, to act or organize our
lives if we are to become good.27
26 Here I agree with Kraut, “Aristotle on Method and Moral Education,” 273–77.
27 Here Aristotle’s famous passage from Ph. 2 is especially relevant: “That there is nature, it
would be ridiculous to try to show. For it is obvious that there are many things of the sort
[just described]. To show what is obvious through what is obscure is a mark of inability
to judge what is known through itself and what is not known through itself. And that it
is possible to be in such a state since someone blind from birth might still reason about
106 Müller
By applying this method to Plato’s Republic (or other ideal constitutions),

Aristotle tries to determine whether Plato’s proposals preserve or even improve
political communities (as well as whether they achieve what they explicitly set
out to achieve), given certain facts about human psychology. This methodol-
ogy is in full display in Pol. 2.3–5, and we can now look at some of the argu-
ments in more detail.28
4 Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic
In Pol. 2.3–4, Aristotle looks at Plato’s proposal (Rep. 462c–466d) that the
Guardians must use the words “mine” and “not mine” in relation to the same
things, especially in relation to their wives and children. To achieve this
Socrates argues that the Guardians are to be kept in ignorance of who their
relatives are. The intended result is that they will end up regarding each other
as being related, as one family. In other words they will all treat each other as
sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. The apparent purpose
of this proposal is, of course, to extend the strong feelings that go along with
the kind of philia that holds families together to the whole city-state, while
simultaneously abolishing the kind of familial blood ties that normally hold
within families, since they pull people’s allegiances away from the state and
toward only a select few. Aristotle takes this proposal (along with communal
property) to be aimed at establishing ideal political cohesion in the city, and
he proceeds to examine whether it in fact does that. His argument against the
proposal has three aspects. First, he argues that the theory is psychologically
impossible and that it would not be possible to even establish a community
in the manner and of the type that Socrates talks about (1261a10–13). Second,
even if it were possible to do so, the community would in fact be anything but
the kind of political and socially cohesive unit it was intended by Socrates to be
(1261a20–22). Finally, he argues that the assumption that led Socrates to postu-
late the theory in the first place was wrong (1263b29–41).
colors. For such people an argument must be about words only, with nothing [to corre-
spond] to thought” (193a2–9).
28 As I have indicated, my focus will be on the formal, polemical features of Aristotle’s dis-
cussion rather than on the actual content and validity of his arguments. The discussion
that follows is thus not in any way an attempt at a systematic interpretation of Aristotle’s
criticism of Plato. In particular I have almost nothing to say about Aristotle’s arguments
concerning communal property.
Aristotle begins by arguing that “all say” in “all say ‘mine’ ” is ambiguous.
Thus “all say ‘the child is mine’ ” can be understood as “all collectively say ‘the
child is mine’ ” or “all individually say ‘the child is mine.’ ” In the former case
(collective use), Aristotle argues that it would be admirable if that were the
case (that is, if all actually meant it that way), but that it is impossible that
they would in fact mean it (that is, that they would have the corresponding
psychological attitude), since people cannot but be aware that they cannot, as
a matter of fact, all be parents. In the latter case (individual use), they would
end up arguing about who is in fact the parent of a given child. They would
only be able to guess, and many would lay claim to the same one. Hence, in
one interpretation the theory is impossible, and in another it leads to faction
rather than cohesion.
Aristotle further argues that the word “mine” exhibits a similar ambiguity.
Take three sentences: (1) “this is my fellow citizen”; (2) “this is my town”; and
(3) “this is my son.” Although in all three cases, one uses the same word “my,”
one’s use of it carries different semantic and emotional implications. In the
first case it is an expression of belonging to a group of people. In the sec-
ond case it usually expresses a relation to some object that is personal but
not uniquely individual since the town “belongs” in this sense to many other
people. In the third case it expresses personal and unique, individual relation
to somebody. Along with these semantic variations, there are also variations
of feelings. There might not be any particular feelings in (1); there might be
something like an intense liking for (2); but there usually is a strong emotional
attachment in (3). According to Aristotle, Socrates wants to extend the kind of
attitude that goes with (3), all the way to (1), but in fact what he would achieve
would be erasing feelings present in (3) and leaving only those in (1). This is
because, among other things, the attitudes in (3) can only be aimed at a few
people. In fact, as he goes on to remark, the emotional attachments that belong
to (3) are essentially part of human nature, so people would, despite all the
arrangements, try to find their proper objects.29 And that would lead us back
to faction rather than cohesion.
What is the persuasive force of Aristotle’s objections? So far he wants to
argue that, given human nature, Plato’s proposals in the Republic are in fact
impossible to execute. But one may object that either Aristotle’s view of
human nature is not correct or that even if it were true, Plato’s proposal would
still yield, were it possible to execute it, the best kind of political community. In
29 Aristotle here famously points to countries in which such communism of wives and chil-
dren is present (Libya), but people nevertheless end up guessing who is whose parent and
treating those who resemble them preferentially (1262a14–24).
108 Müller
fact one could appeal to Plato’s own words to support the latter option. At Rep.
471c, Glaucon famously raises the question “whether this constitution could
come into existence, and in what way could it ever do so.” Glaucon agrees
that if it were to come into existence, it would be great (ibid.). But he doubts
whether it is even possible. Socrates’s reply is that the inquiry is equally suc-
cessful whether or not it is possible to demonstrate that it is possible to found
a city of that sort (Rep. 472e). In other words insofar as Socrates is searching for
an ideal city and the nature of justice itself, his account stands independently
of whether or not the city is actually possible.
Aristotle has two options at this point. He can maintain that since he has
already shown that the proposals are impossible (because they do not accord
with facts), the theory is really reduced to mere words and, in that sense, is false.
This, of course, would not persuade somebody who does not buy Aristotle’s
methodology, or even somebody who accepts it but also maintains that Plato’s
proposals are not subject to it since they are, in the relevant sense, theoretical
and not practical (as Aristotle understands them). Aristotle’s next move is thus
to show that even if implemented (that is, assuming that they are in fact pos-
sible), the proposals would lead to the exact opposite of Socrates’s intentions.
It is at this point that the polemical features of Aristotle’s discussion come
to the fore. It begins in Pol. 2.3 with Aristotle’s remark that “it is better to be
someone’s cousin than a son in the manner described [by Socrates]” (1262a13–
4). But they are most prominently present in Pol. 2.4–5 where Aristotle argues
that even if the constitution were possible, it would not achieve its intended
results—neither by establishing the community of wives and children nor by
making all property communal. First, there is Aristotle’s choice of the con-
sequences of Socrates’s proposals. These are not just bad but the worst and
most shocking: assaults, murders, homicides, fights, abuses, incestuous sex,
and adultery. But the features multiply as we go on. Aristotle several times (for
example, 1262a32, 37, 63b37) introduces Socrates’s views by saying, “it is strange
that” (even “absurd”—atopon). He calls Socrates’s overall theory “insanity”
(parakrousis) (1263b30). He uses rhetorical, often somewhat snarky, questions
to point to the deficiencies of Socrates’s theory (for example, 1264a18–26 or
1264b24). And he several times repeats that Socrates did not define things
properly and has filled his account with “extraneous topics” (1264b39). This
series of polemical features culminates in Aristotle’s famous remark that “all
the Socratic dialogues possess something extraordinary (peritton), brilliance,
originality, and searching spirit, but perhaps it is difficult to do everything well
(kalōs)” (1265a12–4).
What are Aristotle’s reasons for spicing up his discussion with these fea-
tures? At least part of the reason concerns the way in which he has to argue
against Socrates’s thesis at this point. Theoretically, he could argue that the
implementation of Socrates’s proposals (assuming it were possible to imple-
ment them) would not make things better than they are in current city-states.
But a move of this sort would undermine his previous criticism, since it would
show that Socrates’s ideal city is in fact conceivable without running into
some sort of contradiction (whether theoretical or practical). But since now
he grants the existence of the city, he cannot also argue that the city would
be immediately destroyed (that would simply restate his previous argument).
Thus he must show that Socrates’s ideal city would be an unjust, horrible city
to live in, to the point that it really would not be a city all. In other words it
would come very close to its own destruction at least insofar as the quality,
both moral and material, of life in it is concerned. Since the core of Plato’s
proposal is to extend familial feelings and blood relations to the whole body
of citizens, showing this involves arguing that such an extension would lead
to the destruction of the basic human ties rather than to their strengthening
across the board. Hence, we get not only murders and adultery but murders of
family members and incestuous sex.
Some of the polemical features that I have listed—namely, Aristotle’s ten-
dency to resort to the most extreme and shocking consequences—are thus
to be attributed to his need to further his argument. Given the content of
Socrates’s proposals, and Aristotle’s argumentative options, he cannot but
draw the reader’s (or listener’s) attention to precisely those kinds of issues that
have highly emotive content and are prone to raising emotional response.
But one cannot explain all the polemical features in this way, since Aristotle
could have done so without resorting to some of the more ad hominem tac-
tics that concern more the tone and way in which he argues rather than the
content. Can those features be explained as fulfilling some philosophically rel-
evant role in Aristotle’s argument? Here one must bear in mind that Socrates
is arguing that the way we live—in terms of our attachments, priorities, and
behaviors in relation to material goods or characters and, more important, in
relation to our very basic human emotions tied to our own existence as mem-
bers of a certain natural species—is in need of radical reform. In this sense
Socrates’s proposal in the Republic is even more radical than his well-known
arguments in the Gorgias, which Callicles perceived as turning our lives com-
pletely upside down (481b–c). Those proposals—counter-intuitive as they
seemed to Callicles—concerned the nature of what is truly good and there-
fore the ways in which we should value things. They concerned the primacy of
character and of internal goods over material things and pleasures. The pro-
posal in the Republic goes much deeper—it aims at the reversal of what one
might well regard as an unalienable part of human nature.
110 Müller
An obvious point is that from Aristotle’s point of view, Socrates gets things
upside down, since it is precisely in the light of our being members of a cer-
tain natural species that we need to start thinking about how to live. But per-
haps more important, the radical nature and, to Aristotle, the shocking falsity
of Socrates’s proposal can be easily lost, since the resulting, ideal picture that
Socrates paints might persuade one simply in virtue of its promised goodness
and beauty. He makes this point clear in his discussion of communal property
in Pol. 2.5:
Such legislation may have attractive appearance and be thought to be

even humane. For whoever hears it, accepts it gladly, thinking that all
will have a wondrous philia for all. This is especially so when somebody
blames the evils currently present in constitutions on property’s not
being communal. . . . But none of these evils is caused by the property’s
not being communal, but by vice. For we see far more quarrels among
those who have or use property in common than among those who have
their properties separate. Nevertheless, we notice only a few quarreling
as a result of what they have in common because we compare them with
the many who own property privately. Further, it would be fair to men-
tion not only how many evils people will lose by sharing property but also
how many good things. The way of life [that they would lead] appears to
be completely impossible. (1263b15–29)
Although the passage occurs in the particular context of discussing commu-

nal property, its message is, as Aristotle makes clear, more general. The kind
of legislation that Socrates proposes makes promises and paints beautiful
images—it is literally of “fair face” (euprosōpos)—and these images and prom-
ises make people accept it even while the root of the people’s problems lies
elsewhere, and even while the promises and images are impossible. My sug-
gestion is that Aristotle resorts to the various polemical features listed above
precisely in order to counter this beautiful imagery of Plato’s Republic. He does
not do it to belittle or disparage Plato or because he fails to understand Plato’s
project, as some have surmised. If anything he emphasizes his admiration of
Plato and his agreement as to what the basic issue at hand is (this is clear from
1262b4–11, quoted above). But he must do so, or so he feels, in order to bring
forth and focus our attention on the deeply problematic nature, assumptions,
and consequences of Plato’s project, which are made hard to see by its out-
ward attractiveness. Were the reader’s attention not roused in the right way,
he might well miss how radical (and false) Socrates’s proposals are—simply
because they paint a picture of such an attractive world.
5 Conclusion
In the paper that headlines this volume, André Laks, following Stefan Straub,
lists several features of polemics. Among them we find personalization, aggres-
siveness, argumentation, and activation of value feelings, credibility, and
direction toward a concrete, practical goal.30 Aristotle’s discussion of Plato’s
Republic and the Laws in Politics 2 (and of the other constitutions as well) does
not perhaps qualify as a full-fledged polemic in this way. It is, after all, not a
systematic refutation of Plato’s entire project. And although Aristotle’s over-
all tone and some remarks toward Socrates are ironic or disparaging, Aristotle
does not forget to praise Plato, and he never resorts to something like direct
insults.31
Nevertheless, Aristotle’s criticism does bear some distinctly polemical fea-
tures. It is to some extent personal—for, as he argues, Plato’s proposals are in
fact unlivable by human beings. This personal aspect is, however, not of the
sort that Aristotle describes in the Topics at 161a22–25. There the idea is that
one sometimes needs to attack the person rather than the argument because
the person is particularly abusive. Obviously, there is no question of any abuse
coming from Plato. Rather, Aristotle employs the rhetorical devices to distract
the reader from the apparent attractiveness, and so to some extent the decep-
tiveness, of Plato’s theory, which can thus persuade the reader independently
of its actual (as Aristotle sees them) credentials. Finally, Aristotle’s discussion
is prone to activate feelings—both Aristotle’s (insofar as his criticism is per-
vaded by passionate argumentation) and the reader’s. But this is not surprising,
since the topic is the way we should live and the political arrangements that
we should adopt, and Plato’s proposals challenge and go to the core of what
we as human beings feel toward each other. In this sense Aristotle’s criticism
of Plato’s Republic in Politics 2 is an early example of the use of rhetorical and
polemical devices to achieve goals that are, strictly speaking, philosophical.
30 See Laks in this volume, 16.

31 That Aristotle is not incapable of a more aggressive approach can be readily seen in
his discussion of Melissus in the Physics, whom he famously describes, in comparison
to Parmenides, as follows: “But Melissus’s argument is the duller and presents no diffi-
culty: if one absurdity is granted to him, he can infer the rest. That is indeed not difficult”
(Ph. 185a10–12). Similarly, his remarks concerning Hippodamus’s extreme lifestyle, ridic-
ulous clothing, and overabundance of philotimia are much more directly ad hominem
attacks than anything in his discussion of Plato.
112 Müller
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Press, 1894.
Cyrenaics and Epicureans on Pleasure and the
Good Life: The Original Debate and Its Later Revivals
Voula Tsouna
Both ancient and modern historians of philosophy contrast the ethics of the
Cyrenaics and the Epicureans with each other. And although this opposition
often derives from doxographical interventions, there is no doubt that it reflects
a historical fact, namely a longstanding and persistent rivalry between the two
schools. Philosophical as well as chronological factors appear to have favored
its development: both schools posit pleasure as the supreme good and pain as
the supreme evil. And they temporally overlap: Epicurus was a near contem-
porary of the later Cyrenaic sects, whose leaders were Paraebates, Theodorus,
Anniceris, and Hegesias. As for the last known representatives of these sects,
they coincide in time with Epicurus’s immediate successors.
The purpose of this paper is to lay out the initial controversy and exam-
ine its revivals in the late Hellenistic and Roman eras. Part One offers some
necessary background about the earlier stages of interaction between the two
schools. Part Two explains how the Academics Cicero and Plutarch appeal to
the Cyrenaic doctrine in order to pursue their own anti-Epicurean agendas.
Parts Three and Four examine the ways in which two late Epicurean authors,
Philodemus (first century BCE) and Diogenes of Oinoanda (second century CE),
target the Cyrenaics for their own philosophical and dialectical purposes.
Part Five argues that both the original debate and its reenactments qualify
as cases of philosophical polemics. Also, it speculates on the reasons why the
Epicureans and their critics resurrect the Cyrenaics to advance their own aims.
According to Carneades’s classification of the philosophical schools (divisio

Carneadia), Aristippus of Cyrene is the representative of hedonism. Whether
or not he explicitly posited pleasure as the moral end, it is claimed that he lived
“as easily and pleasantly as possible,”1 indulging in refined food, drink, scents,
1 All translations are mine, unless I indicate otherwise. However, I have also consulted Long
and Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, and the translations of Diogenes’ fragments by
Hammerstaedt and Smith.

114 Tsouna
and clothing and availing himself of the services of the famous Lais. He urged
people to keep their thoughts focused on the present (Aelian, VH 14.6) and not
to pain themselves by thinking pointlessly about the past or the future. Hence
his critics took him to advocate the heedless pursuit of present pleasures and
reduce eudaemonia, happiness, to the mere aggregate of them (Aristocles
ap. Euseb. Praep. evang. 14.18.31).
Aristippus’s hedonic presentism2 received a more technical formulation
by his grandson, Aristippus the Younger, who apparently invented the term
monochronos, ‘unitemporal’ (Athenaeus, Deipn. 12.544a–b), to designate the
fact that pleasure lasts and has value only as long as we are experiencing it.3
He defended the primacy of bodily pleasure over mental pleasure, possibly
on the analogical grounds that bodily pain is considered worse than its psy-
chic counterpart (Diog. Laert. 2.87).4 He conceived of all pleasures and pains
as kinetic—that is, as consisting, respectively, in smooth or rough motions
of the flesh or of the soul (Diog. Laert. 2.86). And, probably, he was the first
Cyrenaic to argue that unitemporal present pleasure ought to replace eudae-
monia, happiness, as the moral end. That is, physically, past and future plea-
sures cannot be enjoyed because “the movement of the soul disappears with
time” (Diog. Laert. 2.89). Metaphysically, only present pleasure has value, since
past pleasures do not exist anymore and future pleasures are not certain to
occur. Prudentially, we should concentrate on present pleasure and not strive
after happiness, because our hedonic calculations often prove unsuccessful
and unable to secure us a happy life (Diog. Laert. 2.91).5
Of course, this sort of presentism does not preclude future planning: assum-
ing that our identity remains stable over time,6 there is no reason why we
should not try to secure future pleasures or avoid future pains.7 However, even
2 I borrow “hedonic presentism” from Sedley, “Epicurean versus Cyrenaic Happiness.”

3 See Tsouna, The Epistemology of the Cyrenaic School, 16–21.
4 Alternatively, this argument may have been advanced by later followers of Aristippus the
Younger or by the Annicerians, in response to the fact that Epicurus privileges mental
pleasures over bodily ones.
5 See Warren, The Pleasures of Reason in Plato, Aristotle, and the Hellenistic Hedonists, 190–91.
6 Contra Irwin, “Aristippus against Happiness,” and Zilioli, The Cyrenaics, 162–65, see Tsouna,
The Epistemology of the Cyrenaic School, 130–37, and Tsouna-McKirahan, “Is There an
Exception to Greek Eudaemonism?”; Sedley, “Epicurean versus Cyrenaic Happiness”; and
Warren, “Epicurus and the Pleasures of the Future” and The Pleasures of Reason in Plato,
Aristotle, and the Hellenistic Hedonists, 201–209.
7 On various aspects of Cyrenaic future planning, see Graver, “Managing Mental Pain: Epicurus
vs. Aristippus on the Prerehearsal of Future Ills”; O’Keefe, “The Cyrenaics on Pleasure,
Happiness, and Future-Concern”; Sedley, “Epicurean versus Cyrenaic Happiness”; and Warren,
Cyrenaics And Epicureans On Pleasure And The Good Life 115
though happiness may be possible, it cannot be pleasurably experienced as a

whole. If it has a value, it is derivative and reducible to the value of the indi-
vidual pleasures that happiness consists of. In any case, one’s life-span con-
tains many experiences that are value neutral. For, as Aristippus the Younger
claims, there are three conditions of the human constitution: pleasure, pain,
and an intermediate condition comparable to a calm sea (Aristocles ap. Euseb.
Praep. evang. 14.18.32). They correspond, respectively, to three sorts of experi-
ences: pathē of pleasure, pathē of pain, and intermediate pathē, which are rep-
resentational but not affective, and therefore have no moral value at all (Sext.
Emp., Math. 7.199).8 So, the absence of pain is not a pleasure; it is a condition
irrelevant to the good life. It is easy to see why this sort of doctrine has been
associated with profligacy and the compulsive pursuit of day-to-day enjoy-
ment. Many anecdotes about Aristippus of Cyrene illustrate just that, and they
represent him as a sophist courting tyrants and kings in order to sustain his
luxurious living (Athenaeus, Deipn. 544e).9
In outline, this is the dominant hedonism on offer when Epicurus installs
himself in Athens in approximately 307 BCE. And although Epicurus also
interacted with other Cyrenaic sects, especially with Anniceris and his follow-
ers, nonetheless, I submit, he initially fixed his own hedonism in deliberate
contrast to the mainstream Cyrenaic doctrine. For the purposes of the pres-
ent discussion, let us compare, on a one-to-one basis, certain salient features
of Epicurus’s doctrine with the corresponding elements of orthodox Cyrenaic
ethics.
Epicurus’s hedonistic conception of the telos as a long-term state in which
all pain has been removed from the body (aponia) or the mind (ataraxia)
appears intended to oppose, precisely, Cyrenaic presentism. Controversially,
he called this pain-free condition ‘katastematic’ or ‘static’ pleasure,10 and he
“Epicurus and the Pleasures of the Future” and The Pleasures of Reason in Plato, Aristotle,
and the Hellenistic Hedonists, 175–209. O’Reilly, “The Cyrenaics on Anticipating Pain,”
offers illuminating insights on the Cyrenaic technique of the prerehearsal of future evils.
8 For instance, see my discussion in Tsouna, The Epistemology of the Cyrenaic School, ad loc.
9 On different doxographical traditions concerning Aristippus, see Tsouna-McKirahan,
“The Socratic Origins of the Cynics and the Cyrenaics.” Aristippus’s rejection of areas of
philosophical study such as physics and perhaps also dialectic (Diog. Laert. 2.92; Sext.
Emp., Math. 7.11) has often been used to bolster his portrait as a flimsy intellectual without
philosophical depth. And while some of his later followers may have developed an inter-
est in logic (Sext. Emp., Math. 7.15), no Cyrenaic philosopher is known to consider physics
relevant to ethics and the good life.
10 “Freedom from disturbance (ataraxia) and freedom from physical pain (aponia) are katas-
tematic pleasures; but joy (chara) and delight (euphrosynē) are kinetic activities” (Diog.
116 Tsouna
considered kinetic pleasures as steps toward, or variations of, the katastematic

state (Sent. Vat. 33, KD 18).11 As doxographers note, the idea that the highest
pleasure is freedom from pain contradicts Aristippus’s claim that all pleasure
is kinetic (Diog. Laert. 2.87, 10.136) and implies the rejection of the tripartite
distinction of pathē into pleasure, pain, and intermediates. Instead, Epicurus
contends that we experience either pleasure or pain and that there is no inter-
mediate experience in between these two. His tenet that katastematic pleasure
cannot increase beyond the point where all want has been removed (KD 3, 18)
also has a specifically anti-Cyrenaic slant. The same holds for his views that all
pleasures ultimately “have their origin in the body or are based upon the body”
(PHerc. 1232, XVII.15, XVIII.10–17; cf. Fin. 1.55, Tusc. 3.41) and that the pleasures
of memory and anticipation have intrinsic moral worth.
Furthermore, contrary to the hedonic presentism of Aristippus the Younger,
Epicurus’s eudaemonism entails that happiness is something over and above
the accretion of individual pleasures: it is a physiological and psychological
state that feels truly wonderful.12 Nor is it achieved by taking one’s pleasures as
they come. Rather, Epicurus defends the supreme importance of the hedonic
calculus on both descriptive and normative grounds (Ep. Men. 129–130; KD 8).
And he relates it not only to the egoistic endeavor to live a life free of pain but
also to one’s correct attitudes toward virtue, friendship, and other-concern.13
In the end, I submit, the diametrically opposite attitudes of these schools
Laert. 10.136, drawn from Epicurus’s On Choices). Several interpreters, unconvincingly to

my mind, have questioned the authenticity of the distinction: for example, Gosling and
Taylor, The Greeks on Pleasure, 365–96; and Nikolsky, “Epicurus on Pleasure.” Significant
contributions to the debate include Rist, Epicurus: An Introduction; Giannantoni, “Il pia-
cere cinetico nell’etica epicurea”; Striker, “Epicurean Hedonism”; Mitsis, Epicurus’ Ethical
Theory: The Pleasures of Invulnerability, 45–52; Purinton, “Epicurus on the Telos”; and
Konstan, “Epicurean Happiness: A Pig’s Life?” In any case, even admitting that the dis-
tinction raises interpretative problems, it is defensible to suggest that the main criterion
by which Epicurus distinguishes between kinetic and katastematic pleasure is some sort
of kinēsis, motion, and that his contention that katastematic pleasure does not involve
kinēsis is probably an anti-Cyrenaic move.
11 See Long and Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, 1:123–24.
12 On the felt character of aponia, see Woolf, “Pleasure and Desire,” 172–75.
13 While the orthodox Cyrenaics view the latter as onerous activities that may eventually
cause pleasure, Epicurus and his adherents consider such activities both intrinsically
pleasant and conducive to pleasurable results. Epicurus’s theses that the virtues and plea-
sure are interentailed, that prudence is an even more precious thing than philosophy, and
that the virtues have grown into one (sympephykasi) with living pleasurably (ad Men. 132)
all point in that direction. Each of these claims is debated in the secondary literature, but
there is no space to discuss them here.
regarding long-term rational calculations reflect their radically different con-

ceptions of the temporality of the telos. While most Cyrenaics believe that
pleasure can be enjoyed only as long as it lasts, Epicurus extends the scope
of the telos to all temporal modes so as to make it, ideally, coextensive with a
happy life. Finally, and very importantly, the lifestyle illustrated by Epicurus
has little in common with the mode of living associated with Aristippus and
his followers: it is sober, some might think even austere, and it is devoted to the
communal practice of philosophy and the pleasures of friendship.
In my own reconstruction of the story, then, Anniceris’s “corrected” ver-
sion of Cyrenaic hedonism (Strabo, Georg. 17.3.22)14 is a response to Epicurus’s
newly minted hedonism, not the other way around, as many scholars have
thought.15 Before turning to certain elements of that response, I should like,
at the outset, to refer to some evidence corroborating the hypothesis that
Epicurus initially reacts to the orthodox Cyrenaicism of Aristippus the Younger,
not to the doctrines of the heretic Cyrenaic sects. It is attested that the founder
of the Garden and his early followers were interested in Aristippus and his
immediate successors. Philodemus reports that, in a letter whose addressee
remains unknown, Epicurus asked for some books to be sent to him, includ-
ing Aristippus’s work On Socrates (PHerc. 1005 fr. 111 Angeli),16 possibly for
polemical purposes. Metrodorus too appears to have taken a negative stance
regarding Aristippus: he quotes, probably with approval, an unnamed author
who suggests resemblances between Stilpo’s susceptibility to drunkenness
and Aristippus’s proneness to the pleasures of sex (PHerc. 418 frs, 5.8, 6.9–13).17
As for Colotes, a younger contemporary of Epicurus, his unfair attack against
Cyrenaic epistemology strikes at the heart of the theory traditionally associ-
ated with Aristippus the Younger (Plutarch, Adv. Col. 1120C–1121E). And since
that theory constitutes the basis of the hedonic presentism of the younger
Aristippus, we may infer that the principal target of the early Epicureans was
probably the mainstream Cyrenaics, not the Annicerians.
14 Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, 22, plausibly takes the evidence to indicate that Anniceris
claimed that he was restoring the spirit of Aristippus’s philosophy to the Cyrenaic doc-
trine, in reaction to Hegesias’s pessimism and egoistic individualism.
15 Of course another possible scenario is that Epicurus initially bore in mind both these
rivals, and after he established his own school, he had to confront the reactions of both.
However, I shall not explore that hypothesis here.
16 References to the interaction between Epicureans and Cyrenaics as witnessed by the
Herculaneum papyri are assembled and discussed in Dorandi, “Epicureanism and
Socratism: The Evidence on the Minor Socratics from the Herculaneum Papyri.”
17 See Spinelli, “Metrodoro contro i dialettici?,” 34–35.
118 Tsouna
How does Anniceris react to Epicurus? At the outset it is worth noting that
Anniceris’s much-discussed emphasis on friendship, gratitude, social ties, and
political participation (Diog. Laert. 2.96–97) resulted, in all probability, from
the pressure exercised upon Anniceris by Epicurus’s doctrine. For these fea-
tures are central to Epicurean ethics, whereas they were not aspects of early
Cyrenaicism.18 One gets the same impression from a considerable part (though
not all) of the doxography concerning the Annicerians. Assuming that the
section in Diogenes Laertius about the mainstream Cyrenaics (2.86–93) con-
tains an Annicerian interpolation,19 Anniceris’s “restorations” of Aristippus’s
philosophy seem intended, precisely, to defend this latter vis-à-vis Epicurus.
First, in keeping with the spirit of both the founder of the school and his
grandson,20 Anniceris makes sharper and clearer the dissociation of pleasure
from happiness and hence the contention that present pleasure, not lifelong
happiness, is the moral end.21 Second, he emphatically rejects Epicurus’s the-
sis that the state of freedom from pain comprises the pleasures of memory
and anticipation (Diog. Laert. 2.89–90): since only present goods can generate
the motion resulting in pleasure, it follows that pleasure cannot be derived
from goods located in the past or in the future. Third, he denounces Epicurus’s
telos by comparing the condition of aponia to that of a corpse (Diog. Laert.
2.89). Fourth, contrary to Epicurus, who tries to uphold both the superiority of
mental pleasure over bodily pleasure and the claim that every mental pleasure
18 Annas, The Morality of Happiness, 234, notes that Diogenes’s doxography attributes to
Anniceris a sort of double-minded attitude regarding friendship. See the discussion of
this point in Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, 115–19.
19 Mannebach, Aristippi et Cyrenaicorum fragmenta; Döring, Der Sokratesschüler Aristipp
Und Die Kyrenaiker; Goulet-Cazé, Diogène Laërce: Vies et doctrines des philosophes illus-
tres; and others make different attempts to identify the Annicerean material, while Laks,
“Annicéris et les plaisirs psychiques: quelques préalables doxographiques” denies inter-
polation. The case for interpolation is fully and convincingly argued by Lampe, The Birth
of Hedonism, 211–21. Of course not all parts of Diog. Laert. 2.86–93 report the Annicerean
doctrine. As Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, 212, notes, for instance, the utilitarian doc-
trine of friendship reported at 2.91 must belong to the mainstream Cyrenaics, since it is
incompatible with the Annicerean “correction” of that doctrine in 2.96–97. I find plau-
sible the suggestion by Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, 215, that Diogenes Laertius 2.86–89
and Clement, Strom. 2.21.130, 7–9 draw from the same Annicerian source.
20 A different view is suggested by Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, passim. According to
my own approach, Anniceris lies closer to Cyrenaic orthodoxy than Lampe and others
allow for.
21 Clement attributes to Anniceris and his adherents the claim that the only meaningful
telos is located within the confines of each action: it is the pleasure arising from that
action (Strom. 2.21.130, 7).
has some bodily source, Anniceris contends that the converse is true: in fact,
bodily pleasures are superior to mental ones, and some mental enjoyments
are completely autonomous with respect to the body.22 Aesthetic experiences
are a notable example (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 5.1, 674A–B; Diog. Laert. 2.90).23
Fifth, Anniceris defends Aristippus’s rejection of physics against Epicurus’s
view that the study of nature is crucial to the good life: “When one has learnt
the [Cyrenaic] account of good and evil, one is able to speak well, to free one-
self from superstition, and to escape the fear of death” (Diog. Laert. 2.92).24 To
summarize, Anniceris does take on board certain features of Epicurean ethics,
especially the value of friendship and other-concern, but he also undertakes
to defend afresh the central tenets of Cyrenaic philosophy against Epicurus.
The above outline is sketchy and selective. However, I hope that it suffices
to demarcate the main points of the initial controversy between the Cyrenaics
and the Epicureans and to identify certain themes addressed by later authors.
These constitute my principal concern in the following sections of the paper.
In the complex dialectical structure of the De finibus, Cicero chooses to deal

first with Epicurus’s system because he considers it the simplest and most
accessible of the doctrines under discussion (1.13, 27). The adversarial nature
of the context has often clouded the fact that Torquatus’s exposition is care-
ful and thorough, and Cicero’s philosophical rhetoric (cf. 2.17)25 raises seri-
ous problems for Epicurus’s theory. The Cyrenaics get resurrected in just that
frame.
22 “We feel joy not only because of (bodily) pleasures but also because of the association
with other people and the love of public distinction. Epicurus, however, believes that all
psychic joy supervenes on previous experiences of the body” (Strom. 2.21.130, 9). “Not all
mental pleasures and pains supervene on bodily pleasures and pains. For joy occurs also
for the simple prosperity of one’s country, just as it occurs for our own” (Diog. Laert. 2.89).
23 See the excellent discussion in Warren, “Epicureans and Cyrenaics on Pleasure as a
Pathos.”
24 Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, 220, convincingly argues that, in this passage, Anniceris
scores a point specifically against Epicurus.
25 Inwood, “Rhetorica Disputatio: The Strategy of De Finibus II,” does full justice to the rhe-
torical and philosophical sophistication of Cicero’s argument. Schofield, “Ciceronian
Dialogue,” offers an admirable study of Ciceronian dialogue that contains valuable
insights into the structure and content of the De finibus.
120 Tsouna
First, Torquatus makes a feeble attempt, with the help of a joke, to establish
the superiority of the Epicurean over the Cyrenaic telos. As the story goes, there
was a statue of Chrysippus in the Ceramicus, sitting with one hand stretched
out in reminder of the following syllogism: if pleasure were a good, the hand
would be in want of pleasure; but the hand is not in want of anything; there-
fore pleasure is not a good. Torquatus observes that the syllogism could be
used at the expense of the Cyrenaics but not of the Epicureans.26 However, in
De finibus II, Cicero introduces the Cyrenaics to drive home a weightier point.
On the one hand, he says, it is clear that Aristippus is a hedonist: he posits as
telos what we all recognize as pleasure—that is, kinetic pleasure (2.18–19). On
the other hand, it is also unambiguous that Hieronymous is not a hedonist: he
defines the telos as the absence of pain (2.19) and considers it different from
pleasure. But where does Epicurus stand? As Cicero argues in the sequel, the
issue is not merely verbal but substantive (2.20), and the reference to Aristippus
serves to highlight that point.27 Cicero’s dialectical stance is that, while both
Epicurus and Aristippus are hedonists, Aristippus defended his views better
and more straightforwardly than Epicurus (melius liberiusque: 1.23). Cicero
even suggests that the founder of the Garden does not really belong to the
choir of philosophers (1.26), whereas, for all their faults, the Cyrenaics are part
of it.28 In the end, however, he thinks that both doctrines ought to be rejected
because hedonism of any sort is unsuitable to the dignity of man (ibid.).
Given Cicero’s distaste for hedonism, his strategy seems puzzling. Why does
he revive the polemics between those two schools, and why does he occasion-
ally show the Cyrenaics in a relatively favorable light? Consider how things
stand in Cicero’s time: while Epicureanism has become popular in Rome and
represents for Cicero a real moral threat, this is not the case with Cyrenaic
ethics. Its teachers and preachers are no longer around, and even if they were,
it is unlikely that the doctrine would have attracted many Roman followers,
26 For according to the Epicureans, the hand is not in want of anything and therefore is in
a state of the highest pleasure (1.39), whereas according to the Cyrenaics the hand does
not have the only good there is—that is, kinetic pleasure—and therefore is in want of the
good.
27 Recall that some modern interpreters have challenged the authenticity of the distinction,
while others debate whether Epicurus’s supreme good lies only in freedom from pain or
also in kinetic pleasure on grounds similar to those mentioned by Cicero.
28 The Cyrenaics aim at a lifestyle full of kinetic pleasure, and although they are more con-
sistent (constantius) than their adversaries, they also are more shameful; on the contrary,
Torquatus’s friends (and Cicero’s contemporaries) reject such profligacy and, although
less consistent, they are more decent (verecundius) than their rivals (2.114).
because of its crude instrumentalism regarding virtue. Moreover, perhaps the

Cyrenaics seem more congenial to Cicero than Epicurus. For, like the Academics
(whom Cicero follows), they too have a Socratic pedigree and also question
the possibility of objective knowledge. Besides, in considering Aristippus as a
better hedonist than Epicurus, Cicero simply follows the tradition of his own
school. The representative of hedonism in the divisio Carneadia is Aristippus,
not Epicurus (5.20). And Antiochus, one of Cicero’s mentors, probably held the
same opinion as Carneades: according to Cicero he approved of Carneades’s
classification and made free use of it (5.18).
Plutarch’s revival of the Cyrenaic doctrine closely resembles Cicero’s with

regard to both its Academic sources and its fiercely anti-Epicurean motiva-
tion. In his polemical treatise Against Colotes,29 he reports that Colotes the
Epicurean accuses the Cyrenaics, as well as Arcesilaus and his followers,
of undermining the credibility of the senses and thus making life impos-
sible. However, Plutarch remarks, Colotes does not accurately represent the
Cyrenaic position but rather makes fun of it. It is true that the Cyrenaics used
neologisms such as “I am sweetened, bittered, chilled, warmed, lit up, or dark-
ened” to convey the thoroughly subjective character of experience, but it is
false that the Cyrenaics employed those phrases with regard to our perception
of objects. Although Colotes maliciously attributes to them utterances such as
“I am walled, or horsed, or manned” (1120D–F),30 in fact they never used them.
Not only does Plutarch become an advocate of the Cyrenaics, by restoring the
letter of their theory and by calling Colotes a slanderer, but he also relies on
Cyrenaic subjectivism to turn the tables on Colotes. For he argues that while
the Cyrenaics realize the skeptical implications of their epistemological con-
tention that only the pathē are apprehensible, Colotes does not see that the
Epicurean dogma of the truth of all aisthēseis also entails skepticism about
29 Plutarch sets out to refute a work that was composed several centuries earlier by Colotes,
Epicurus’s younger follower, and that had the title On the Fact That It Is Not Possible Even
to Live According to the Doctrines of the Other Philosophers. In that work, Colotes attacks
a number of older philosophers whom he does identify by name, and also two schools
active in his time that are not named but can nonetheless be easily recognized as the
Cyrenaics and the Academic followers of Arcesilaus.
30 The issue of whether the Cyrenaics subjectivize the perception only of properties or of
both properties and objects is of great philosophical import and has caused disagree-
ment among scholars. Different views include, on the one hand, Irwin, “Aristippus against
Happiness,” and Zilioli, The Cyrenaics, and on the other hand, Tsouna, The Epistemology of
the Cyrenaic School, 82–88, 124–37, and Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism, passim.
122 Tsouna
the external world (1120F–1121E).31 Plutarch’s conclusion is strikingly similar to

Cicero’s: the Cyrenaics fare better than the Epicureans in terms of logical clar-
ity and consistency, but in the end neither of these two doctrines is acceptable
(1121A–B).
Plutarch’s condemnation of the Epicureans’ unconditional trust in the
senses also informs his discussion of the Epicurean view that pleasure is gener-
ated through the perceptual pathos alone and does not require any additional
cognitive content. The passage cited below addresses an issue bearing on aes-
thetics as well as ethics: why we take delight in the aesthetic representation of
certain things but feel distress when we encounter these very things in reality.
We have similar experiences with regard to spectacles. For we find it

painful to look upon people who are dying or ill, but we feel pleasure
and admiration when we look at the picture of Philoctetes or the statue
of Jocasta, in whose face, as they say, the sculptor inserted a little silver
so that the bronze might acquire the appearance of [the complexion of]
someone who is about to faint or expire. “And this,” I said, “the Cyrenaics
take as strong evidence against you, Epicureans, of the fact that what
[part of us] feels pleasure at the sounds and spectacles is not related to
sight or hearing, but to thought. For when a hen clucks or a crow caws
continuously, this is a distressing and unpleasant sound, whereas the
actor who imitates a clucking hen or a cawing crow causes pleasure. And
when we see people wasting away, we feel uncomfortable, whereas we
look with pleasure at statues and paintings of people wasting away in
virtue of the fact that our thought is led to the appropriate direction by
the imitations. (Quaest. conv. 5.1, 674A–B)
Plutarch’s basic contention is that the Epicureans cannot explicate the phe-
nomenon under discussion, whereas the Cyrenaics can.32 The Epicureans
believe that aesthetic pleasures result from the unmediated effect of the object
on the perceiver’s senses. We experience delight through the direct impact of
a theatrical performance on the ear, or through the direct effect of a beautiful
31 Plutarch is wrong about that: see Tsouna, The Epistemology of the Cyrenaic School,
117–23.
32 The most extensive treatment of the topic is found in Warren, “Epicureans and Cyrenaics
on Pleasure as a Pathos.” I am much indebted to the author for answering my queries in
writing.
statue on the eye.33 On the other hand, the Cyrenaics contend that aesthetic
pleasures do not arise from mere sight or hearing (Diog. Laert. 2.90) but cru-
cially involve also a cognitive element—namely, the conceptualization of
what is being experienced. Our delight when we look at the statue of Jocasta
derives not only from our seeing it but also from the awareness that it repre-
sents Jocasta faint or dying. Conversely, our irritation at the persistent cawing
of a crow results not only from its adverse effect on the ear but also from the
knowledge that the cawing is real, not artfully represented.
The Cyrenaics’ subjectivization of every experience raises no obstacle for
that position. For both the pleasure deriving from an imitative work of art and
its informational content can be understood in terms of pathē—that is, in
terms of the manner in which one is affected. And since the Cyrenaics posit
not only the pathē of pleasure and pain but also the category of intermediate
pathē, they might say that the affective aspect of one’s aesthetic experience, for
example, one being affected pleasurably, is complemented by a rich and com-
plex cognitive content as well. Plutarch points out the clear advantage of the
latter position over the former: it can explain why perceptual objects that are
phenomenologically the same sometimes cause pleasure (when they are prod-
ucts of artistic imitation) but other times pain (when the object is perceived
as real). On the contrary, the bare sensationalism of the Epicureans cannot
provide one with the means of drawing the above distinction.34
In this case too the confrontation construed by Plutarch advances his own
goals. Earlier in the treatise (473D–E), he maintains that we are naturally made
to appreciate the products of art and skill because they are products of reason,
and we ourselves are rational beings. He introduces the Cyrenaics to bolster
just that point: we have the natural capability to grasp more than the nar-
row content of sense perception and therefore to appreciate works of artistic
creation. By contrasting the Cyrenaics’ position with that of the Epicureans,
Plutarch shows that the Epicureans cannot account for aesthetic pleasure, and
they also fail to appreciate crucial aspects of human rationality.
Plutarch sets the Cyrenaics and the Epicureans against one another in
another polemical context as well. In his treatise Non posse suaviter vivi secun-
dum Epicurus, he tries to establish that Epicurus actually makes a pleasant
33 Presumably, this view implies that aesthetic pleasures are incorrigible: there is no room
for error, because pleasure is generated passively in the senses, without the intervention
of reason. Moreover, Philodemus’s aesthetic works indicate that the view under discus-
sion lies at the basis of Epicurean formalism. Compare the Stoic position that aesthetic
value mainly (or exclusively) has to do with content, not with form.
34 See Warren, “Epicureans and Cyrenaics on Pleasure as a Pathos,” 94–95.
124 Tsouna
life impossible.35 According to Theon (one of the characters), the Cyrenaics,

whom the Epicureans accuse of advocating profligacy because they favor
bodily over mental pleasure, in fact recommend a more moderate lifestyle
than the Epicureans do.
Observe how much more moderately the Cyrenaics behave, although

they have drunk from the same wine cup as Epicurus: they even think
that one must not have sexual encounters when there is light but only
when they have provided for a cover of darkness, so that the mind may
not rekindle one’s desire over and over again by clearly receiving through
sight the images of the (sexual) act. But let us not declare whether the
others (sc. the Epicureans), who believe that the wise man differs most of
all in this, namely, in clearly remembering and containing in himself the
sights and feelings and motions related to pleasures, are in fact recom-
mending a practice unworthy of (the name of) wisdom by allowing the
dregs of pleasure to remain in the soul of the wise man as they would in
the house of a profligate. (1089A–B)
Notwithstanding some ambiguities, the main point of the critique is clear: the
Cyrenaics realize that the mind can generate pleasure independently of the
body, and they therefore recommend practices of self-restraint. Having sex in
the dark is one such strategy, which prevents the mind from repeatedly arous-
ing and prolonging sexual desire. Since they value only present pleasure but
not past and future ones, they offer us no incentive for accumulating in our
memory as many past pleasures as possible. For the pleasures of memory are
irrelevant to the telos—that is, that which is confined only to the present. On
the contrary the Epicureans believe that pleasure arises in the bare sense, and
they consider the mind capable of causing the senses to experience more and
more pleasures. Also, since they consider past pleasures relevant to the telos,
and since such experiences usually have to do with the body and are kinetic,
they motivate their followers to pursue as many pleasures as possible and store
35 In brief the dialectical situation is this: Theon, one of Plutarch’s characters, wants to
refute the Epicurean theses that all pleasure originates in the body; that, nonetheless,
mental pleasures are superior to bodily ones; that pain is easy to endure because when it
is excruciating it lasts a short time; and, importantly, that because the Epicureans favor
mental pleasures over bodily pleasures, they ipso facto champion a sober and respectable
lifestyle. The first three positions are refuted by using the Cyrenaic’s materials but without
mentioning the Cyrenaics by name. However, Theon explicitly identifies them in order to
contrast their lifestyle with that of Epicurus’s followers.
them in the soul. So, the famous sobriety of the Epicurean sage is a myth. The
lesson to draw is not that the Cyrenaic mode of life is good, but only that it is
preferable to that recommended by Epicurus. Once again, Plutarch’s final ver-
dict is the same as Cicero’s: neither doctrine is suitable to the rational nature
of human beings.
We turn now to the anti-Cyrenaic polemics conducted by late Epicurean

authors. To my knowledge Philodemus does not name Aristippus or the
Cyrenaics in his extant remains. However, the Cyrenaics are almost certainly
the target of the opening columns of PHerc. 1251, which contains, in all like-
lihood, the peroration of Philodemus’s treatise On Choices and Avoidances36
and whose central subject is moral choice. The poor condition of the papyrus
leaves some uncertainty as to which Cyrenaic sects Philodemus has in mind
and exactly what he charges them with. Based on its latest edition,37 the trans-
lation of the relevant excerpts runs as follows:
[They claim that], in truth, no [judgement takes precedence over any

other], since they are persuaded that [the great affection] of the soul
occurs as a result of pain and that we [accomplish our choices] and
avoidances in that manner, [by observing both] (sc. both physical and
mental pain). For it is not possible that [the] joys arise in us in the same
way and [all together], in accordance with [some] expectation. (II.5–15)
Some people [denied] that it is possible to know anything. And [they
added] that if nothing is present on account of which one [should] make
an immediate choice, then one [should not choose] in an immediate
manner. Others, having selected the affections of the soul as the moral
ends and as not in need of additional judgement based on further things,
granted to everybody unchallengeable authority to take pleasure in what-
ever they cared to name and to do whatever contributed to it. Yet others
held the doctrine that what we call grief or joy are totally empty notions,
because of the manifest indeterminacy of things. (III.2–18)
36 On the author and the title of PHerc. 1251, see Indelli and Tsouna-McKirahan, Philodemus:
On Choices and Avoidances, 61–70.
37 Indelli and Tsouna-McKirahan, Philodemus: On Choices and Avoidances. The analysis that
follows draws on that edition but contains modifications and new elements as well.
126 Tsouna
Philodemus sketches out various skeptical views, all of which deny the pos-
sibility of rationally evaluating one’s actions and of integrating one’s experi-
ences in a rational life plan.38 In column II the identity of the skeptics under
discussion is not clearly indicated, but it seems very plausible that at least cer-
tain passages refer to the Cyrenaics.
The claim that no judgement takes precedence over any other (II.5–7), that
is, no judgement is more credible than any other, could refer to all sorts of skep-
tics. However, the subsequent contention that moral decisions are dictated by
bodily and mental pathē and, notably, pathē of pain (II.5–11) points specifically
to the Cyrenaics. Philodemus chooses to highlight an aspect of their doctrine
that is not emphasized by other sources, namely the antirationalistic implica-
tions of Cyrenaic subjectivism for decision and action. If we can only know
our pathē, we have no grounds for preferring one of them over another as a
guide to action. Instead we act impulsively, by attending to the pathē of the
body or the mind (II.11–12), without being in a position to provide a rational
explanation for our choices. Furthermore, Philodemus refers to the rejection
of the joys deriving from some expectation or anticipation (II.12–15), and this
too is a Cyrenaic element marking the hedonic presentism of the mainstream
school. In this respect also Philodemus has something original to say: not only
does the Cyrenaic doctrine preclude a temporally extended conception of the
moral end but it also entails an antirationalist outlook. Philodemus’s point is
sound: people who espouse hedonism need to explain their choices in part by
referring to the joys and benefits that they expect to receive in the future; but
since the Cyrenaics deny that anticipated pleasures have any value, they also
implicitly deny that their choices can be rationally justified.
Column III explores further the links between skepticism and a conception
of action according to which action is guided by pathē, not by rational con-
siderations. Philodemus flags three different groups of people. Assuming that
the first group are Cyrenaics, as I think,39 Philodemus attributes to them the
38 Presumably, this holds for past experiences as well, but they are not mentioned in the
extant remains of these columns.
39 I take it that at least two of them (III.6–14, 14–18) and probably all three (cf. III.1–6) are
Cyrenaics, who may, but need not all, belong to different sects. On the other hand, in
Indelli and Tsouna-McKirahan, Philodemus: On Choices and Avoidances, 123–24, we have
suggested that the first group may be Pyrrhonian Skeptics. According to Giannantoni, “Il
piacere cinetico nell’etica epicurea,” columns II and III refer to the polemics between
the Epicureans and Theodorus. However, there is no indication that Philodemus has spe-
cifically Theodorus in mind. Moreover, the claim that grief and pain are empty notions
because of the indeterminacy of things (III.14–18) cannot be attributed to Theodorus,
because he determined these two notions as the moral ends (Diog. Laert. 2.98).
following argument: we cannot know anything about the world but can only
apprehend our present experiences. Hence the latter constitute the only sound
motivation for immediate action;40 conversely, in the absence of present moti-
vation, we have no grounds for acting in a direct and spontaneous manner (or,
possibly, we have no adequate grounds for acting at all).
The next group (III.6–14), which may or may not overlap with the previ-
ous one, maintains the recognizably Cyrenaic position that the pathē are the
moral ends.41 But then Philodemus draws two implications that do not occur
anywhere else in the surviving testimonies about the Cyrenaics: according to
them, the pathē do not require any additional element in order to guide one’s
actions; and, to the extent that Cyrenaic agents rely on the pathē as the sole cri-
teria of action, they feel entitled to use any means to pleasure and do not hold
themselves accountable for their own choices. To put it differently, Philodemus
suggests that, because the Cyrenaics are skeptics, they adopt a subjectivist and
presentist criterion of action, and because the latter is of that sort, it entails a
crude hedonism according to which the agent’s choices are incorrigible and do
not involve evaluation of different ways of procuring pleasure. So, Philodemus
intimates that Cyrenaic hedonism is both deeply antirationalist and com-
pletely amoral. Later in the papyrus, he denounces the carpe diem conduct
standardly associated with Cyrenaic presentism by pointing out that it is also
exhibited by people whose rationality is impeded by the fear of death. They
too seek only the things that provide immediate pleasure and refuse to endure
any pains (XVII.1–3).42
The last group of thinkers may be Hegesias and his followers. Indeed,
doxographical sources confirm Philodemus’s claim that these philosophers
rejected the possibility of grief and joy because they are long-term states that
one has little chance of achieving (Diog. Laert. 2.93–94). Also, the doxogra-
phers attribute to Hegesias the belief that things are ‘manifestly indetermi-
nate’, either in the sense that they are not pleasant or unpleasant by nature
(Diog. Laert. 2.94) or in the sense that they cannot be determined by us because
40 This is what I make of the obscure thesis that if nothing occurs at present on account of
which we would make a choice, we must not choose amesōs, in an immediate manner
(III.1–6).
41 However, the Cyrenaics do not posit as the moral ends “the affections of the soul,” but the
affections of both the soul and the body. I think that the genitive tēs psuchēs either quali-
fies telē or is used in a generic sense indicating the entire living person.
42 Philodemus invites us to draw similar parallels between, for example, Hegesias’s rejec-
tion of beneficence, gratitude, and friendship, and the corresponding characteristics dis-
played by the sybarites who fear death (XVII.10–20).
128 Tsouna
of the weaknesses of our sensory apparatus (Diog. Laert. 2.95). In my view

Philodemus intimates that there is an inferential connection between these
claims: since things are indeterminate, grief and joy are ‘empty notions’—that
is, they do not correspond to anything achievable in real life. Thus, in this case
too, Philodemus relates the skepticism of the Cyrenaics to their antirational-
ism regarding action. Since we cannot determine anything, concepts such as
grief or joy, unhappiness or happiness, are ‘empty’: we cannot fix the truth
conditions for their correct application. And since they are ‘empty’, we cannot
employ reasoning to reliably attain these states.
Why does Philodemus bring the Cyrenaics back to life? What is the purpose
of his polemics and for what reason do they have that particular spin? I sub-
mit that Philodemus has an important dialectical purpose: he wants to show
that Epicurean hedonism is far superior to a familiar and intuitively plausible
philosophical alternative, namely, the presentist hedonism of the many that
the authorities of the Garden had standardly associated with the doctrine of
the Cyrenaics. He pursues this goal in a novel and effective way, by pointing
to the antirationalist implications of Cyrenaic ethics and by contrasting this
latter with Epicurus’s highly rational approach to action, whose principles are
summarized in the surviving columns of the papyrus.43
To our knowledge, the last Epicurean author to revive the polemics between
his own school and the Cyrenaics is Diogenes of Oinoanda (second century
CE)—an eminent citizen who toward the end of his life erected in his native
town a monumental Epicurean inscription for the instruction and salvation of
mankind. Diogenes only once refers by name to the founder of the Cyrenaic
school or his followers: specifically, he attacks Aristippus the Elder in fr. 49.
43 According to Philodemus, the features contributing to the rationalization of moral choice
include the cardinal tenets of the Fourfold Medicine (IV–V), the study of the nature of
desires and their causes (V–VII), arguments demonstrating the disvalue of supersti-
tion regarding the gods and fate (VII–X), clarifications concerning the precise manner
in which the kuriōtata, the cardinal principles of Epicureanism, lead to decision mak-
ing (XI–XIII), the paramount importance of physics for moral choice (XIII–XIV), and
the intrinsic connection between the virtues (cognitively understood) and the enjoy-
ment of pleasure (XIV). Additional elements comprise the correct evaluation of external
goods (XV), the reasons why we should not fear the gods and death (XVI–XX), and finally,
the measured manner in which the good Epicurean takes care of himself and of oth-
ers, engages in practical activities, and contributes in important ways to communal life
(XXI–XXIII).
However, he targets the Cyrenaics in several other fragments of the inscription

too, without identifying them by name. His polemics touch on familiar topics,
and they raise several new issues as well.44
To begin with physics,45 it is certain that Diogenes includes the Cyrenaics
among those who reject natural philosophy on the grounds that it is unprofit-
able for human happiness.
. . . [as suppose] some of the philosophers and especially Socrates and his
companions.46 They claim that pursuing [natural philosophy] and busy-
ing oneself with investigation of the [celestial phenomena is] redundant
and useless, [and that they do not even] deign [to concern themselves
with such matters] . . . (fr. 4 II.1–9)47
Like Philodemus, Diogenes puts the Cyrenaics on a par with other philosophers
to whom he ascribes some sort of skepticism: seekers who assert that things are
inapprehensible and hence discard natural science (fr. V I.1–12);48 ephectics,49
such as Lacydes of Cyrene, Arcesilaus’s successor as head of the Academy (fr.
V.III.12–14); and, very surprisingly, Aristotle and the Peripatetics, to whom the
inscription attributes the view that nothing can be known because everything
is continually in flux and hence escapes our perceptual apprehension (fr. V
I.13–II.8).50 Regardless of the injustice of this latter attribution, in matters of
natural science and scientific knowledge, Diogenes pushes further the line of
interpretation suggested by Philodemus: he aligns the Cyrenaics with both the
Pyrrhonian and the Academic Skeptics and also with defenders of a kind of
metaphysics that precludes epistēmē of the physical world.51
44 I offer a much fuller critical discussion of this topic in “Diogenes and the Cyrenaics.”
45 Regarding the Greek text, I use the editions by M. F. Smith as well as by J. Hammerstaedt
and M. F. Smith, unless otherwise indicated.
46 On the interpretation of the expression οἱ π[ερὶ Σω]κράτην, see Smith, Supplement to
Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Epicurean Inscription, ad loc.
47 On the limitations of what we customarily call Cyrenaic epistemology, see Tsouna, The
Epistemology of the Cyrenaic School, 1–6. A very different view is implied by Zilioli, The
Cyrenaics, passim.
48 Diogenes probably refers to Pyrrhonists: see Smith’s note ad loc.
49 See Smith’s conjecture ἐ[φεκτικοῖς] in fr. V III.12.
50 On the attribution of that view to Aristotle and a survey of the relevant literature, see
Smith, Diogenes of Oinoanda. The Epicurean Inscription, 128–30.
51 Compare Colotes, who takes the Cyrenaic theory of perception seriously and puts the
Cyrenaics on a par with those who hold other philosophical positions that he takes to be
skeptical. I owe this remark to Refik Güremen.
130 Tsouna
However, the single explicit reference of Diogenes to a Cyrenaic philoso-

pher occurs in an ethical context: the relation between the pleasures of the
body and those of the soul, and the question which set of pleasures has pri-
macy over the other.52
[Even if I did nothing to reveal and point out the nature of pleasures,
still they themselves reveal] their own nature to us53 . . . in this manner . . .
well . . . no longer . . . [by virtue of bodily pleasures] the soul also readily
receives those (sc. pleasures of both recollection and anticipation) who
are productive of this (sc. aponia).54 For our nature [requires what] is
better for [our] soul. Moreover, the soul has clearly more [capacities]
than the body. For it [has] control of the extreme and supremacy over
the other pathē, as indeed we also claimed it to have [above]. [Therefore
if], paying attention to the arguments of Aristippus, on the one hand,
we take care of the body [by choosing] all the pleasures deriving from
drink, food, and sexual acts and, in general, all things that no longer [give
pleasure after they have been enjoyed but, on the other hand, neglect the
soul, we shall deprive ourselves of the greatest pleasures]. (fr. 49)
In this passage Diogenes exploits the well-worn contrast between the hedonism
of Aristippus and that of Epicurus to show the superiority of the Epicurean
position and also to intimate that the doctrine of Aristippus and his followers
provides theoretical justification for the vulgar pleasures of the many. Contrary
to the primacy that Aristippus gives to the body, Diogenes advances the novel
and original claim that our nature demands what is better for the soul, in other
words, psychic pleasure.55 Also, he attacks Aristippus’s presentism by making
the puzzling observation that, somehow in virtue of its capacity to receive
52 Following Smith, I take it that fr. 49 comes after fr. 44 and both concern the same cluster
of issues. Also, possibly, fr. 44 is followed by fr. 45, and this latter is followed by one more
missing column. If so, the correct sequel of the text is this: fr. 44, fr. 45, one missing col-
umn, fr. 49. See Smith ad loc.; Hammerstaedt, “Zum Text der epikureischen Inschrift des
Diogenes von Oinoanda,” 39–41; Hammerstaedt and Hinzer-AlHasan, “First Investigations
of the Three-Dimensional Scans of the Epicurean Inscription of Diogenes of Oinoanda,”
63–65. I thank Jürgen Hammerstaedt for these latter references.
53 Fr. 49 I.1–4 is almost entirely conjectured. According to Smith’s restitution of the text,
here Diogenes refers to the self-evident character of pleasure.
54 Other proposals include εὐδαιμονία or εὐθυμία: cf. Smith ad loc.
55 Although he does not formally defend this claim, the emphasis that he places on the
superior capabilities of the soul and its control over physical affects renders his position
plausible.
bodily pleasure, the soul is also able to receive not only present but also past
and future pleasures. The basic idea seems to be this: since the soul can expe-
rience kinetic pleasure (paradigmatically related to the body), it also has the
power to experience the kinetic pleasures deriving from memory or hope.
Of course, Aristippus could retort that the phenomenological facts refute, or
at least do not confirm, the contention that the pleasures and pains of the soul
are greater than those of the body and exercise control over their bodily coun-
terparts. In fact ordinary people mostly tend to assert the opposite. I believe
that fr. 44 addresses precisely that worry and therefore is likely to be targeted,
inclusively or exclusively, at the Cyrenaics.
[The soul experiences] pathē far greater than the cause which generated
them, just as [a fire] vast enough to burn down ports and cities is kindled
by an exceedingly small spark. But the pre-eminence of these feelings of
[the soul] is difficult for ordinary people to gauge ([δυσε]πιλόγιστος). For
since it is [im]possible, by comparing them against each other, to expe-
rience simultaneously the extremes of both—I mean of the feelings of
both the soul and the body—for the reason that this seldom ever hap-
pens and, when it does happen, life is destroyed, the criterion for deter-
mining the pre-eminence of one of the two is not found. Rather, when
someone encounters bodily pains, he declares that these are greater than
those of the soul; on the other hand, when [he encounters pains of the
soul, he says that] these [are greater than the others. For] what [is pres-
ent is] invariably more convincing [than what is absent, and each per-
son is likely], either through [necessity] or through pleasure, to confer
pre-eminence on the pathos which has hold of him. However, this mat-
ter, which is difficult for ordinary people to gauge, a wise man reasons
through (ἀν[α]λογίζεται) on the basis of many factors [including] . . .
(fr. 44 I.1–III.14)
I submit that Diogenes’s argument is the following: To be in a position to appre-

ciate the relative superiority of the affections of the soul over those of the body,
one should be able to experience simultaneously both extreme physical and
extreme mental pain and compare these experiences to each other. However,
almost no one can have such an experience and remain alive. Therefore, com-
mon people are usually unable to calculate which sort of affection is truly
greater. In fact the affection experienced at present is typically more compel-
ling than the one that is absent. Therefore, common people usually view as
preeminent whichever sort of pain they are feeling at present: in some cases
this is a bodily experience, and hence they pronounce bodily affections to be
132 Tsouna
stronger, whereas in other cases it is a psychic one, and therefore they claim
that the affections of the soul are stronger. On the contrary, the Epicurean sage
judges such matters not under the influence of his current feelings but on the
basis of reasoning. Ideally, he takes into consideration all the relevant factors,
including the temporally extended nature of psychic experiences and their pri-
ority over bodily ones (cf. fr. 49).56
The next fragment I wish to discuss is controversial. It has been debated for
over a decade whether Diogenes’s unnamed opponents in fr. 33 (including
NF 128) are the Stoics57 or the Cyrenaics58 or both.59 Following David Sedley,
I am inclined to believe that the opponents under discussion are the Cyrenaics,
for reasons that I develop elsewhere.60 If this hypothesis is correct, then
Diogenes presents us with a new and interesting critique of the Cyrenaics’
position on virtue and its relation to pleasure. I cite the crucial excerpts of the
fragment, relying on Sedley’s emendation and translation of the text:
Even if these people (sc. the Cyrenaics and whoever else shares their atti-
tude towards virtue) agree that, as a matter of fact, pleasure is insepa-
rable from the virtues . . . (I.11–14)61 . . . [Prospective pleasure], as these
people lay it down for all human beings like a snare, has the power to
draw them like birds or fish open-mouthed to the names of the virtues,
and sometimes enters people’s minds and paints all kinds of illusory
pictures of itself, and the poor wretches are not ashamed [of bestowing
favors on] each other, [and charming people by their wit], [in pursuit of
their own eventual] pleasure, agreeing adroitly [also to face dangers] in
order to avoid pain, like those who endure marching out to war and those
56 Diogenes’s point is not as intuitively plausible with regard to pleasure as it is with regard
to pain. For it is not obvious that extreme pleasures destroy life, whereas it is clear that
extreme pains can. I owe this remark to Refik Güremen.
57 Smith, Diogenes of Oinoanda. The Epicurean Inscription, and Supplement to Diogenes of
Oinoanda: The Epicurean Inscription, ad loc.
58 Sedley, “Diogenes of Oinoanda on Cyrenaic Hedonism.”
59 See Francesca Masi, “Virtue, Pleasure, and Cause: Diogenes of Oinoanda against the
Cyrenaics and the Stoics.”
60 See Tsouna, “Diogenes and the Cyrenaics.”
61 Fr. 33 I.10–12 ----- πασῶν ἀρετῶν/ -----ν ἀχώριστον οὖ-/[σαν τ]ὴν ἡδονήν, εὑρισ -/[κόμε]νον
δ’ὁμολογοῦσι/ [τυχεῖν] καὶ οὗτοι πολλά-/[κι]ς οὐκ ἀπο[ Sedley. On the other hand, Smith
2003, ad loc., proposes the following reconstruction of fr. 33 I.9–14: [--- τὸ ζ]ῆν δι[ὰ] παντὸς
ἡ-/[δέως τῶν] πασῶν ἀρετῶν/ [αἰεὶ ἐστ]ὶν ἀχώριστον, οὒ/ [φασι τὴ]ν ἡδονὴν εὐρίσ-/[κειν, μό]
νον δ’ὁμολογοῦσί/ [γε σοφισ]ταὶ οὖτοι πολλά-/[κι]ς οὐκ ἀπο[.
who endure crag-climbing (III.7–14 + IV=NF 128 I + fr. 33 V = NF 128 II.2).62

Therefore, I want to deflect also the error that, along with the feeling of
self-love, has you in its grip which, more than any other, further inflates
your doctrine as [ignorant]. It is this: [not] all causes in things precede
in time their effects, even if the majority do, but rather some of them
precede in time their effects, others [are simultaneous] with them, and
others temporally follow them. (V = NF 128 II.2—fr. 33 VI.3)
The rest of the fragment gives examples of each category of causes (VI.4–
VIII.6) and concludes thus:
Therefore you, being unable to draw these distinctions and not realizing
that the virtues have their place among the causes that are simultane-
ous with their effects—for [they] are borne along [with pleasure—go
entirely astray]. (VIII.7–15)
While both the Cyrenaics and the Epicureans view pleasure as the only ulti-
mately intrinsic good, nonetheless they conceive of the instrumental status
of virtue in different ways. On the one hand, the later Cyrenaics by and large
endorse a sort of consequentialist hedonism, which can plausibly be taken to
entail that they view the virtues as bothersome means of securing the satisfac-
tion of bodily desires and needs. As for psychic pleasures, virtuous activity but
also friendship can be tiresome, though the wise man may choose them for the
sake of their pleasant consequences. On the other hand, Epicurus contends
that virtue and pleasure are interrelated and inseparable (ad Men. 132), so
that the exercise of the virtues for the sake of pleasure is itself a pleasant act.63
Moreover, not only does virtue get practised at the same time as the pleasure
resulting from that practice, but also it clears the ground for future pleasures
that, we should recall, are aspects of the Epicurean telos. Virtue is what makes
such future pleasures possible.
After introducing the subject of the relation between virtue and pleasure in
fr. 32, in fr. 33 (including NF 128) Diogenes proceeds to criticize his unnamed
opponents for failing to understand what sort of cause of pleasure virtue is.
62 See Hammerstaedt, “Zum Text der epikureischen Inschrift des Diogenes von Oinoanda,”
32–38.
63 However, such acts derive their value from the pleasure that ensues, not from the virtue
involved in their performance.
134 Tsouna
Assuming that his opponents are the Cyrenaics,64 he accuses them of believ-
ing, mistakenly, that virtue is a sort of cause that precedes its effects in the way
in which cautery and surgery precede the restoration of health (VI.4–11). In
fact, however, virtue is a kind of cause that temporally coincides with its plea-
surable outcome.65 If a hedonist holds, as Diogenes accuses the Cyrenaics of
holding, that pleasure has only antecedent causes, then he must exclude the
pleasures of anticipation, as indeed the Cyrenaics do. If, on the other hand, a
hedonist also recognizes simultaneous as well as a posteriori causes, then he
has the conceptual room both to view virtue as intrinsically pleasant and to
value present experiences whose causes lie in the future. Of course this is pre-
cisely what Epicurus recommends, and Diogenes’s polemics are intended to
show why Epicurus’s position is far better than the brutal instrumentalism of
his opponents.
The hypothesis that Diogenes directs his argument at the Cyrenaics is
also corroborated by the fact that Diogenes attributes to his rivals a φίλαυτον
πάθος, a feeling of self-love. As mentioned some Cyrenaics view friendship in
merely instrumentalist terms, whereas Epicurus and even more so Philodemus
emphasize the independent value of friendship and of other-concern. If τὸ
φίλαυτον πάθος is taken in a pejorative manner, as I am convinced it should,66
then Diogenes accuses the Cyrenaics also of egocentrism67 and selfishness.68
64 I dodge the controversy between Martin Ferguson Smith and David Sedley, as well as the
interpretative issues that result from it, and I simply outline what I take the fragment
to mean, on the assumption that Diogenes’s opponents are the Cyrenaics. Much of the
picture derives from Sedley, “Diogenes of Oinoanda on Cyrenaic Hedonism.” In “Diogenes
and the Cyrenaics,” I air some fresh considerations concerning the debate between Smith
and Sedley, and I point to what I take to be the main difficulties that each side still has to
answer for. Here, however, I do not have the space to go into the details of the matter.
65 As Sedley, “Diogenes of Oinoanda on Cyrenaic Hedonism,” points out, the Cyrenaics are
the only group of ancient hedonists that both view virtue instrumentally and describe it
as an irksome means to pleasurable ends. And therefore it is plausible to think that they
are the targets of Diogenes’s charge.
66 Sedley, “Diogenes of Oinoanda on Cyrenaic Hedonism,” 168–69, makes a very strong case
for this interpretation. On the other hand, Smith retorts that even if the expression τὸ
φίλαυτον πάθος (V.5) does not refer to Stoic oikeiōsis, a natural feeling of self-love, but
has a pejorative sense, as Sedley thinks, it makes excellent sense as an accusation of the
Stoics “for being selfish beasts, wrapped up in the thought of their own virtue.” (Jonathan
Barnes, letter of December 2, 1999, cited by Smith, Supplement to Diogenes of Oinoanda:
The Epicurean Inscription, 93–94).
67 The other thing they are accused of is that they take all causes to be antecedent causes.
68 I think that the most powerful objection against Sedley, “Diogenes of Oinoanda on
Cyrenaic Hedonism,” raised by Smith, Supplement to Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Epicurean
I now turn to fragments that have never before been associated with the
Cyrenaics. I submit that we can best understand and interpret these fragments
if we assume that Diogenes’s polemical attitude towards the Cyrenaics is part
of their subtext.
One group of passages touches on the topic of frs. 44 and 49: Diogenes
refutes all those who believe that the titillation of the senses secures the
utmost pleasure, and he argues for positing aponia and ataraxia jointly as
the supreme natural good. His uses of the first person plural in fr. 49 regard-
ing the pleasures advocated by Aristippus, taken jointly with his reference to
the many in fr. 44, indicate that he follows the common topos of taking the
Cyrenaics to be the theoretical defenders of vulgar hedonism. We may assume
therefore that when Diogenes denounces self-indulgence and profligacy but
praises Epicurean pleasure, he is likely to have also the Cyrenaics in mind.69
For instance, let us look at fr. 2 III.7–14.70 Having mentioned that it is the
soul rather than the body that is responsible for the pain caused by non-
necessary desires (I.1–II.4), Diogenes says that he feels sadness at the behavior
of the profligates and at the way in which they waste their lives (II.4–11): “Joy
[of genuine value is generated not by theaters] and . . . baths [and perfumes]
and ointments, [which we have left] to the masses, [but by natural science . . .]”
(fr. 2 III.7–14). We should recall that the Cyrenaics are commonly accused of
indulging in just these sorts of pleasures, and also that they reject natural sci-
ence because they consider it useless.
Inscription, 94, is this: it does not seem probable that the Cyrenaics, who advocated
the pursuit of the physical pleasures of the present, would believe (only) in anteced-
ent causes. Normally, they should have been “the very last people who needed to be told
what Diogenes tells his opponents in VI.11–VII.11—that the pleasures derived from eat-
ing, drinking, and ejaculating semen are simultaneous.” It would be more reasonable for
Diogenes to reprimand the Cyrenaics for believing (only) in simultaneous causes, not
in antecedent ones. Is there a way to answer this challenge? One possibility might be to
argue that the supreme Cyrenaic pleasures—that is, those deriving from eating, drink-
ing, and having sex—neither entail nor habitually require the simultaneous exercise of
the virtues. Another possible answer is that Diogenes does not refer to a Cyrenaic causal
theory but rather to a specific faulty inference: the Cyrenaics believe that we value virtue
only because it causes pleasure, and on the basis of that belief, they fallaciously infer
that we value virtue only because pleasure follows from it. If this is their reasoning, then
Diogenes is right to point out that they take all causes to be antecedent causes and that
this is a mistake. On this topic, see my article “Diogenes and the Cyrenaics.”
69 However, this is not always the case. For instance in NF 192, in which Diogenes also men-
tions the pleasures of the masses, his targets are not the Cyrenaics but the Stoics.
70 This fragment lies in the vicinity of fr. 4, which refers to the Socratics’ rejection of
φυσιολογία and which we treated above.
136 Tsouna
Similarly, in fr. 29, Diogenes is probably thinking of Aristippus and Hegesias

among others when he denounces (without naming them) certain phi-
losophers for being too fond of power, fame, and external goods. Anecdotes
about Aristippus’s life in Syracuse or stories about Hegesias’s expulsion from
Ptolemy’s court constitute in part the background of the following passage.
[There are many who] pursue philosophy for the sake of [wealth and
fame], with the aim of procuring these either from private individuals
or from kings, by whom philosophy is believed to be some great and pre-
cious possession. Well, it is not in order to gain any of those objectives
that we have embarked upon the same undertaking, but rather so that
we may enjoy happiness having attained the goal desired by nature. What
this goal is, and how neither wealth can furnish it, nor political fame, nor
royal office, nor a life of luxury and sumptuous banquets, nor pleasures of
delectable sexual affairs, nor anything else, while philosophy [alone can
secure it], we [shall now demonstrate after setting the entire question
before you]. (fr. 29 I.1–III.4)71
In another fragment of the inscription (fr. 34), Diogenes opposes the thought-
less day-to-day pursuit of pleasure to the sustained effort of achieving supreme
pleasure in a rational manner over a lifetime.
Thus, I say, where the danger is great, so also is the fruit. Here we must
turn aside these sophistical arguments, because they are insidious and
offensive, and have been contrived on the basis of terminological ambi-
guity to [lead astray] us miserable humans . . . [Do let us] not [avoid
every pain that is present nor choose every pleasure, as the many always
do. For each person must employ reasoning], since he [will not always
achieve immediate success: just as] exertion [often] involves one [gain
at the beginning and] certain [others as time unfolds], so it is also with
[the experience of pleasure]. For sowing seeds does [not] bring [the same
benefit] to the sower, [but we observe] some of the seeds [very quickly]
germinating and [bearing fruit but others taking longer]. (fr 34 II.4–V.1)
Diogenes concludes his argument to the effect that pleasure is the supreme
good by exhorting us to reject the sophistical arguments (τοὺς σοφιστικοὺς
λόγους: II.7–8), which advocate the thoughtless hedonism of the many ([οἱ
71 See Hammerstaedt and Smith, “Leib, Seele, und Umwelt. Überlegungen zum Hedonismus
des Diogenes von Oinoanda,” 11–12 (fr. 29 III + NF 207).
πολ]λοί: III.13–14),72 but to make use instead of the rational calculation of plea-
sures and pains ([λογισμῷ χρῆσθ]αι: III.14–IV.1).73 Why is the latter important?
Because, as Diogenes argues, we are not always immediately successful in our
efforts. Rather, we need foresight and a correct understanding of human affairs
(comparable to a correct understanding of natural things and processes) in
order to achieve greater pleasure in the end. Here I believe that Diogenes has
in mind Aristippus and the Cyrenaics for at least two reasons. First, the dia-
lectical situation is a familiar one: it closely resembles Philodemus’s move in
On Choices and Avoidances, where he contrasts the carpe diem attitude dic-
tated by Cyrenaic presentism with the hedonic calculus recommended by
the Epicureans. Second, Diogenes’s reference to insidious sophistical argu-
ments recalls the well-known representation of Aristippus as a smart soph-
ist (Alexis’s Galateia ap. Athenaeus, Deipn. 12.63; cf. also Aristotle, Met. 996a32
and Alexander ad loc.).74 A host of anecdotes purport to illustrate the ways in
which he made sophistical use of language and argument to live a luxurious
life. We are not in a position to tell whether Diogenes has that doxographi-
cal tradition in sight. But it would not be surprising if he did, and it certainly
would be fitting given the topic of this fragment.
Diogenes’s programmatic statements toward the end of the fragment also
can be read so as to indicate an anti-Cyrenaic agenda:
On the other hand (δέ), we should investigate now how our life will
become pleasant in both the states (ἐν τοῖς καταστήμασι) and the actions
(ἐν ταῖς πράξεσιν). And let us first discuss the states, keeping an eye on the
point that, when the emotions which disturb the soul are removed, those
which produce pleasure enter into it to take their place. (fr. 34 VI.2–14)
Having contrasted thoughtless presentism with the Epicurean use of the cal-
culus, Diogenes, in a part of fr. 34 that is almost illegible (V.1–14), appears to
have referred to another rival doctrine (cf. the antithesis marked by the word
δέ in VI.2), which he now rejects by announcing his own Epicurean program.
72 I provisionally accept Smith’s restoration of III.12–14. However, I wonder how secure
are the readings of the α at the beginning of l.13 and of the λ at the beginning of l.14.
If they are not certain and could be some other letters instead, a possible conjecture,
which has roughly the same line length as Smith’s supplement, is this: 13–14 προ[λέγουσιν
οἱ Κυρηναϊ]/κοί.
73 This is a conjecture, but nonetheless it is clear from the context that here Diogenes talks
about the hedonistic calculus.
74 I owe these references to David Sedley.
138 Tsouna
The latter consists in investigating how to achieve lifelong pleasure in both

states and actions. And the second part of the passage cited above makes clear
that Diogenes is thinking of a specific sort of κατάστημα, state, namely the
condition that derives from the removal of mental suffering and the restitu-
tion of katastematic pleasure—in other words, the Epicurean supreme good
of ataraxia. What could be the position that he counters with his own? And
who held it? If, as is likely, the rivals under discussion are the presentists men-
tioned earlier, they cannot be interested in both states and actions. Either they
are completely indifferent to the achievement of lifelong pleasure, or at best
they are concerned only with actions and not with states. That is, they are con-
cerned with how to do the sorts of things that achieve immediate pleasure or
avert immediate pain but have no care at all for καταστήματα, relatively stable
states, since they reject long-term hedonistic planning. Again, in either case
the Cyrenaics are the most viable candidates.
NF 146 is also relevant to the topics discussed above:75 Diogenes relies on
Epicurus’s rejection of an affectively intermediate state in order to defend the
articles of the Fourfold Medicine and specifically the third dictum—that is,
that the good is easy to get.
[Life offers us for our nutrition], although barley-bread [is sufficient]

for our natural sustenance, [many] (foods) that do not involve unpleas-
antness when they are taken, and a bed that does not fight against the
body because of hardness, and clothing that is neither extremely soft nor
indeed extremely rough so that our nature would be repelled, just as if
[we were clothing ourselves] [. . .] [with what] pricks [our constitution].
And in fact these things and those much greater are easily obtained, so
that if (life) becomes one of continual luxury, and to others perhaps both
a beneficial redeemer in their necessity, and - - - [a supporter] of the inca-
pacitated in need. (NF 146 I.1–II.13)
In this instance, Diogenes’s defense of the pleasures of a wholesome life makes

best sense when considered in the light of the polemics between his school
and the Cyrenaics about the existence of an intermediate state between plea-
sure and pain. His central contention is that amenities causing no discomfort
are thereby pleasurable: if food does not provoke disgust (ἀηδία), it is pleasant
75 N F 146 probably stood toward the end of the ethical treatise. As the editors point out
(Hammerstaedt and Smith, “Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Discoveries of 2008 (NF 142–
167),” ad loc.), it is likely to be part of Diogenes’s demonstration of how life is made pleas-
ant “in actions.”
for nutrition; if a bed does not make us physically uncomfortable, it is good

to sleep on; and so on. Diogenes’s point is not merely that natural desires are
easy to satisfy with simple and readily accessible goods. Rather, he advances
the suggestion that the pleasures that begin just where discomfort ends are
no lesser than those deriving from refined luxuries. If we interpret his remark
as implicitly rejecting the pleasures that, as he thinks, are advocated by the
Cyrenaics, his point gains additional force: the pleasures related to the removal
of all discomfort count as luxuries precisely because the absence of pain is in
truth the highest pleasure.
A final fragment, NF 157, deserves comment.76 Both Cyrenaics and
Epicureans believe that erotic passion for a particular person is a major source
of emotional disturbance. Suffering becomes especially acute when sexual
intercourse with that person is impossible. In fact there are people who find
that even looking at the beloved is painful if he or she does not offer sexual
release. Lucretius advises that, to avoid such frustrations, one should opt for
casual sex, as opposed to sex with the person that one is in love with (DRN
4.1063–1066). However, Diogenes suggests a different remedy:
It is unfortunate that those who are sick with the erotic passion do not
realize that they derive perfect pleasure from sight, even without inter-
course. On the other hand, the sexual act itself is the same, whether one’s
partner has a superior or an inferior appearance. (NF 157, 1–11)77
Recall the debate attested by Plutarch between the Epicureans and the
Cyrenaics on the nature of aesthetic pleasure. The Epicureans claim that plea-
sure and pain are generated solely by the senses without any conceptualiza-
tion at all, whereas the Cyrenaics maintain that these feelings crucially involve
conceptualization, since they are generated by thought (περὶ τὴν διάνοιαν) (cf.
Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 5.1, 674A–B).78 Several centuries later Diogenes joins
the discussion. He dissociates the aesthetic pleasure of merely looking at the
beloved from the physical pleasure of sex, and he suggests that the rejected
lover can always enjoy the former (which occurs solely through sight), even
76 Hammerstaedt and Smith, “Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Discoveries of 2009 (NF 167–181),”
19, suggest that NF 157 may have been close to fr. 107 and other texts concerned with the
desires, pleasures, and pains of the body, such as fr. 107.
77 See Hammerstaedt and Smith, “Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Discoveries of 2009 (NF 167–
181),” 19.
78 See again Diog. Laert. 2.90.
140 Tsouna
if he cannot have the latter.79 In fact I think that Diogenes proposes a twofold
strategy: to delight in the mere sight of the person we are in love with but also
to seek sexual gratification elsewhere.80
To conclude I wish to return to the issue that has motivated much of this paper:
what is the exact nature of the interactions between the Cyrenaics and the
Epicureans and their later revivals? Do they qualify as philosophical polemics
and in what way? The answer depends on what we take to be the criteria of
polemical discourse.81 Although these vary, it has been plausibly suggested that
they include the following: personalization, aggressiveness, argumentation,
and the activation of value feelings.82 Moreover, many of us would agree that
philosophical polemics typically provoke responses and counterresponses,
that the opponents usually fight under their institutional banners, and that
such debates have a public aspect and sometimes a practical goal as well. I sub-
mit that the above characteristics mark both the original debate between the
two schools and its dialectical reenactments in later periods. Therefore, we are
entitled to view all of them as cases of polemics. The following brief comments
aim to clarify and illustrate this claim.
1. Personalization: The evidence suggests that the Epicureans attack the
Cyrenaics by pointing to them in a transparent manner but without naming
79 Presumably, Diogenes considers false the common belief that one can get sexual satisfac-
tion only by having sex with the particular person that one is in love with, but this is not
mentioned in the surviving text. Nor is there mention of how the lover is to deal with the
beloved person’s refusal to have sex with him/her.
80 Refik Güremen pointed out to me that fr. 43 II (NF 12) may also be relevant to Diogenes’s
conception of aesthetic pleasures. Regarding the text and content of NF 157, see also
Hammerstaedt, “Leib, Seele, und Umwelt. Überlegungen zum Hedonismus des Diogenes
von Oinoanda.”
81 At the outset, I should make this clear: barring rare exceptions, I take it that the exchanges
of Greek and Roman philosophers that we might call polemical fall squarely within the
realm of philosophical discourse, just as dispassionate critical engagement does.
82 I borrow these criteria from the contribution to this volume by André Laks. Laks also
adds to the list two further criteria: polemics must have a practical goal, and also they
must have credibility. Although I do not discuss these criteria, the former is related to my
claim that polemics provoke responses and counter-responses, while the latter is involved
in the observation that authors conducting philosophical polemics typically fight under
their institutional banner.
them. The Epicurean authors appear to have followed this practice both at the
time when the Cyrenaics were still active and after they had disappeared from
the stage:83 Epicurus and his associates,84 but also Philodemus and Diogenes,
for the most part avoid explicitly personalizing their attacks. On the contrary
Cicero as well as Plutarch put name tags on both schools and their adherents.
2. Aggressiveness: With the exception of Colotes, who caricatures Cyrenaic
subjectivism, there is no record of incidents of verbal violence, personal insult,
systematic slander, or grossly unfair presentation of each theory by its rivals.
Despite Epicurus’s largely undeserved reputation for abusiveness, he is not
known to have made vitriolic comments about the Cyrenaics (cf. Diog. Laert.
10. 6–8).85 All the same, he and his later followers openly denounce the pro
fligate lifestyle associated with Cyrenaic hedonism. As for Colotes, he heaps
ridicule on the Cyrenaics because of their epistemological stance, which he
claims makes life impossible. But the Cyrenaics too are known to occasionally
indulge in strong criticism: recall Anniceris’s association of the Epicurean telos
of aponia with the condition of a corpse.
3. Argumentation: There is little to say on this count other than to point out
the obvious: the polemics under discussion are conducted by means of argu-
ments, and all of the interested parties appear concerned about the validity
and persuasiveness of their case. In the end the attacks are at the schools but
about the doctrines. And although each participant wants his favorite camp to
win, they mostly appear to play by the rules. Anniceris, Epicurus, Philodemus,
and Diogenes, but also Cicero and Plutarch, make valuable philosophical con-
tributions even in explicitly polemical contexts.
Every participant takes care to highlight his allegiance to his own philo-
sophical institution and to fashion his polemics accordingly. The anti-Cyrenaic
moves of Philodemus and of Diogenes reflect a specifically Epicurean perspec-
tive, while the polemical use of the Cyrenaics by Cicero and Plutarch reveals
their Academic leanings and biases. Moreover, the polemics of the two schools
are represented as having a public character and concrete goals. For instance,
83 Recall that, in the extant remains of his inscription, Diogenes refers to a Cyrenaic by name
only once: Aristippus, in fr. 49 II.8.
84 Notably, Epicurus does not explicitly identify them in his extant remains on ethics.
Surprisingly, Colotes too refrains from naming the Cyrenaics and from thus personalizing
his attacks, although, as Plutarch remarks, he makes it transparently obvious that they are
the object of his ridicule (adv. Col. 1120B–1121C).
85 Sedley, “Epicurus and His Professional Rivals,” effectively dismantles the picture of
Epicurus as an indiscriminate abuser and argues that, although Epicurus occasionally
engaged in sharp polemics, nonetheless he could also take his professional rivals seriously
and recognize their merits.
142 Tsouna
Epicurus probably competed with Anniceris for prospective pupils. Cicero

depicts himself as making an attempt to undermine Torquatus’s allegiance to
the Garden and win him over to the cause of virtue. As for Diogenes, his stated
goal is to convert his fellow men to Epicureanism. One of his strategies is to
show the superiority of Epicureanism by contrasting it with the rival doctrine
of Aristippus.
4. Value feelings: Whether conducted live between members of the two
schools or reinvented by later authors, the conflict between the Cyrenaics and
the Epicureans constitutes an excellent illustration of the claim that ancient
philosophical polemics take place when convictions vital for one’s well-being
are at stake.86 The Annicerians criticize Epicurus for determining as the
supreme good a condition that resembles sleep or death; Colotes viciously
attacks the Cyrenaics for rendering life impossible; Cicero and Plutarch con-
demn Epicureanism because they consider hedonism a stance unworthy
of rational beings; Philodemus denounces the antirationalism inherent in
Cyrenaic skepticism and the unhappiness that it is likely to cause; Diogenes
chastises Aristippus for tending to the body and neglecting the soul; and so on.
In short the original controversies between the Epicureans and the Cyrenaics,
as well as their revival by later authors, are vigorous because they involve fun-
damental values pertaining to one’s mode of life.
Finally, why do the later Epicureans and their critics occupy themselves
with a school that had stopped being active centuries before their own time?
I think that there is no single answer to that query. In fact, it seems to me that
different authors revive the Cyrenaics in different contexts to respond to dif-
ferent needs. Dialectically, both the later Epicureans and their critics realize
the value of the Cyrenaics as a weapon: Cicero and Plutarch employ it to con-
demn Epicureanism, while Philodemus and Diogenes use it to extoll their own
system. Historically, the fact that the Cyrenaics were Socratics, and also that
they were considered by the Academy to be the main representatives of hedo-
nism, gave to the relevant polemics perspective and depth. The polemics of
Philodemus and Diogenes seem especially intended to evoke a time in which
Epicurus himself antagonized the Cyrenaics and won. It is also possible that
Diogenes’s criticisms of the Cyrenaics allow us to glimpse into the polemics
that partly shaped Epicurus’s own hedonism.87 For it is alleged that Diogenes
86 See Laks, in this volume.

87 See Sedley, “Diogenes of Oinoanda on Cyrenaic Hedonism.” Here I do not wish to question
wholesale Diogenes’s reliance on the authoritative scriptures of the Garden. But this does
not exclude that he is also aware of later Epicurean trends and that he forms some of his
own views accordingly. Regarding several subjects, Diogenes’s treatment can be closely
sticks closely to the foundational writings of Epicurus, whereas he disregards

or remains ignorant of Lucretius and Philodemus. One could make a similar
suggestion about Philodemus as well: perhaps his anti-Cyrenaic criticisms
reflect the thought of Epicurus rather than his own reaction to the Cyrenaic
system.
However, I believe that the most important reasons why later authors
resurrect the Cyrenaics have to do with the lasting philosophical value of
their doctrine. Cyrenaic hedonism poses serious challenges for the ethics of
Epicurus and of his Greek and Roman adherents. The passages that we have
discussed indicate many areas in which Epicureanism remains vulnerable to
the Cyrenaic criticisms,88 and both Philodemus and Diogenes appear acutely
aware of that fact. However, given the current state of the evidence, it is impos-
sible to tell whether the polemics of these authors against the Cyrenaics are
self-motivated or whether they are caused by a more general revival of interest
in the Cyrenaic school.89
compared with that of Philodemus or also of Torquatus, Cicero’s Epicurean spokesman in

the De finibus: see, for instance, Diogenes’s concern with one’s attitude at the moment of
dying (NF 209 II.1–13), which is also one of Philodemus’s concerns in On Death; the idea
that although happiness is complete at every moment, nonetheless there is an acceptable
sense in which it can be increased (NF 207 III.13–14), which is also found in Philodemus’s
On Death; and, so far as we can tell, the structure of Diogenes’s presentation of Epicurean
pleasure, which seems to me comparable to Torquatus’s exposition in De finibus I.
88 As we found out, these include, notably, the dual nature of the Epicurean telos; the dis-
tinction between katastematic and kinetic pleasure; the identification of the former with
the highest pleasure; the tension between the dependence of all pleasure on the body and
the ethical primacy of the pleasures of the mind; the empiricist basis of Epicurean ethics,
as well as the sensualist thesis that pleasure occurs in the senses and involves no concep-
tualization; and perhaps most of all, the unwavering commitment of the Epicureans to
eudaemonism, a thoroughly rationalized account of action, and a certain corresponding
lifestyle.
89 I presented a much longer and more detailed account of the material on Diogenes of
Oinoanda at a conference on Diogenes that took place in Instanbul and Mugla in
September 2014, and I thank the organizers and the participants of that conference for
their imput. I read earlier versions of the present paper at the UT Knoxville Workshop on
Epicureanism (March 2015), the Research Centre for Greek Philosophy of the Academy
of Athens (April 2015), and the Edinburgh Workshop in Ancient Philosophy jointly orga-
nized by the University of Edinburgh and the University of St. Andrews (April 2015). I am
very grateful to the audiences for their remarks. Especially, I should like to thank Kelly
Arenson, Eric Brown, Myrto Dragona-Monachou, Doukas Kapantais, Inna Kupreeva, Alex
Long, Tim O’Keefe, Maria Protopapas, Doris Scaltsas, David Sedley, Clerk Shaw, Simon
Trepanier, James Warren as well as the editors and referees of the present volume.
144 Tsouna
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Polemics in Translation: Lucretius
Daniel Marković
Lucretius describes Epicurus’s intellectual achievement as a military triumph

(1.62–79) and continues to use war imagery throughout De rerum natura (DRN)
to convey the urgency and importance of his message.1 Viewing the poet’s work
through the analogy of war provides us with a suitable perspective for examin-
ing the questions of his strategic goals and the identity of his opponents. These
questions have received much attention in modern scholarship, particularly by
the scholars whose main goal has been to define Lucretius’s place in the wider
context of Epicurean polemics.2 The conclusions that emerged from their
analyses formed the striking profile of a “lone wolf”3 and “fundamentalist,”4
a poet whose loyalty to his dux is unquestionable but who was, on the other
hand, curiously out of touch with contemporary philosophical debates.5 My
intention here is to show the extent to which the place, internal structure, and
the role of Lucretian polemics are carefully articulated and to suggest that
some curious features of this polemics could be accounted for with reference
to the Roman and celebratory character of the poet’s project rather than his
psychological profile.
As Knut Kleve pointed out, the only meaningful way to talk about polem-
ics in Lucretius is to limit the phenomenon to the passages in which the poet
explicitly mentions a rival view and then proceeds to criticize it.6 Two fea-
tures of thus-defined Lucretian polemics immediately draw attention. First,
Lucretius is generally less interested in the discursive polemics against the
proponents of rival theories than in the objective polemics against their teach-
ings. In contemporary oratory, due to the absence of solid evidence, arguments
1 For other examples and discussion, see Rozelaar, Lukrez, 67–72; and Marković, The Rhetoric of
Explanation, 1–7.
2 See Kleve, “The Philosophical Polemics,” 58–71. For Epicurus’s and later Epicurean polemical
writings, see Sedley, “Epicurus”; Kleve, “The Philosophical Polemics,” 43–53; and Kechagia,
Plutarch, 71–79.
3 For the phrase, see for example Kleve, “The Philosophical Polemics,” 53.
4 This qualification was proposed by Sedley, Lucretius, 62–93.
5 The controversy over the extent to which Lucretius ignored the Stoics begins with Furley,
“Lucretius.” Schmidt, Lukrez, does not bring any decisive arguments against Furley’s basic
observations.
6 Kleve, “The Philosophical Polemics,” 41. Kleve also provides a useful list of such passages at
pp. 54–57.

Polemics In Translation 151
a persona often play a more important role than arguments a re. The argu-
mentation of DRN shows a directly opposite tendency and is mostly concerned
with philosophical views, not the personality of their holders; even if the views
that the poet seeks to combat suggest a number of potential individual targets,
very few philosophers are actually mentioned by name. Second, the few per-
sonal names that Lucretius does spell out—Ennius, Heraclitus, Empedocles,
Anaxagoras, and Democritus—do not at all refer to contemporary philosophi-
cal rivals7 but, from the perspective of a mid-first-century BCE author, look
toward a rather distant past.
In order to understand why is this so, and in order to address the question
of the role of philosophical polemics in DRN properly, I would like to begin by
locating Lucretius’s polemical discourse in the general structure of his poem.
The poem consists of six uniformly constructed books with two main constitu-
ents—namely, the introductory exordium and the main body of argumentatio.
Lucretian polemics is always situated in the central, argumentative parts of
individual books. The poet’s regular procedure in these parts consists of first
declaring the main Epicurean principles, then supporting these principles with
arguments, and finally, in a sort of additional note, rejecting the rival views. We
may say that Lucretian argumentatio generally tends to start from announcing
a tenet and then to proceed first to probatio and next to refutatio.
Examples of this sequence can be found both in relatively shorter arguments
(for example, 1.370–417) and in larger argumentative portions, such as the
well-known section in book 1 which refutes the teachings of the Presocratics
(1.635–920) after the main propositions of Epicurean physics have been laid
out and after the principal matter has been defined as atoms. In very few cases
probatio is omitted and the scheme reduced to the tenet followed by a refutatio
of the opposite view.8 In general Lucretius employs the procedure of explica-
tion of a given tenet rather than the procedure of dialectical research, typical
of the writings of Aristotle. The anti-Aristotelian approach is exactly what one
would expect from an Epicurean author. It seems that in his series of lectures
On Nature, Epicurus himself criticized rival views (books 14 and 15) only after
he explained the principles of his own physics (books 1–13).9
7 Ennius at 1.117 arguably stands for the Pythagorean views on the soul.
8 At 3.94–116 the tenet that the mind is a physical part of the body comparable to hands, feet,
and eyes is directly followed by a refutation of the opposite view par excellence—namely,
that it is only a condition, a sort of harmony. The lacuna that precedes the refutatio (between
lines 97 and 98) might have contained a brief probatio, but this is far from certain. For the
lacuna, see below.
9 See Sedley, Lucretius, 113–26.
152 Marković
Just as Lucretian polemics has a fixed place in the general structure of the
poem, its internal organization displays a fairly regular pattern. Polemical pas-
sages in DRN normally consist of three main components. These can be repre-
sented schematically as follows:
1. Some people, or X, believe that Y.

2. To believe Y is to depart from true reasoning.
3. The refutation of Y.
The full pattern is found in the majority of polemical passages,10 of course with
a certain degree of variation, which can be attributed to deliberate avoidance
of monotony. Thus two polemical passages display a slightly different sequence
of components, namely 2, 1, 3.11 Lines 1.635–637 introduce only components 1
and 2, and the subsequent three sections devoted to individual Presocratic phi-
losophers are structured according to the following pattern: (1) philosopher,
(2) his teaching, and (3) refutation (in the case of Heraclitus, his teaching is not
formally stated before it is refuted).12 In addition to this, few passages do not
contain one of the three components or their elements.13
One interesting type of variation within the threefold framework is achieved
through skillful control of the length of individual components. The third
component, devoted to the refutation of the view in question, is usually the
longest in any given sequence. A notable exception to this rule is the Magna
Mater passage in book 2 (2.600–60). Here Lucretius develops a description and
allegorical interpretation of the procession and the attributes of the goddess
Cybele in great detail and at great length, only to set up this elaborate poetic
edifice for a great fall. The fall begins with the curt blow at 2.644–45 (this is all
nice and fancy, concludes Lucretius, but far from truth); this reversal leads to
a concise and pointed restatement of the principle introduced in the proem
10 D RN 2.167–82 (full rejection at 5.195–234); 2.225–42; 2.600–60; 4.469–77 (with a variation
of component 2); 4.823–76; 5.156–234 (with variations of components 1 and 2); 6.848–78.
11 D RN 1.370–417 (where component 3 is expanded into a general didactic conclusion) and
3.370–95.
12 Cf. Kollmann, “Lucretius’ Criticism,” 92. For a doxographic pattern in the sequence of phi-
losophers, progressing from monists to pluralists, see Mansfeld, “Doxography,” 3153.
13 D RN 5.318–22 omits component 2; 5.324–415 contains a partial component 1 and no com-
ponent 2; and lines 5.1041–90 contain only a part of component 1.
to book 1 (gods are blessed, immortal, and enjoy absolute peace; no human
action—including worship—could really concern them).14
The polemical pattern occurs with sufficient regularity to enable us to con-
jecture with reasonable confidence the content of several lacunae in our text of
the poem. Lines 1.1068–75, for example, form a part of the section that refutes
the theory that all matter presses toward the center of the whole. They were
damaged in the course of textual transmission,15 but the preserved beginnings
of the first two lines suggest that the text can essentially be described as com-
ponent 2.16 Similarly, in the passage beginning at 2.902, there is a lacuna after
line 2.903, and it is not impossible (since the length of the lost text is not cer-
tain) that the missing line(s) also contained component 2.17 The consistency
of the pattern has been used to fill in the text in the lacuna that preceded line
3.98, where we do not have the opening of the section that refutes the theory
that the mind is harmony as a vital condition, not a physical part of human
being.18
While the first two components of the tripartite polemical pattern described
above constitute an introductory formula, the third component is where the
actual refutation of a rival view takes place. The first properly polemical pas-
sage in the poem is particularly interesting because it formulates an important
didactic principle, showing that in addition to their well-defined place and
anatomy, polemical passages in DRN also have a precisely determined role. In
lines 1.370–417, after declaring that void exists, Lucretius refutes the view that
things can move without the void by asking whether movement can ever begin
without a space to accommodate it and whether air can be condensed between
two colliding objects without void to make its rarefaction possible. After mar-
shaling his counterarguments, Lucretius turns to Memmius (1.398–417):
14 That is, if our text is good and lines 1.44–49 are to be retained at their current place. One
less-often mentioned argument in favor of retention is the fact that it would enhance the
rhetorical effect of 2.646–51.
15 See Bailey, T. Lucreti Cari DRN, ad loc.
16 The restored text of Munro reads: Sed vanus stolidis haec <error falsa probavit> | amplexi
quod habent perv<ersa rem ratione.> The words error, falsa, and ratione are typical for
component 2.
17 For example, <profecto a vera longe ratione recedunt> mollia cum faciunt; nam sensus iun-
gitur omnis. Cf. Bailey, T. Lucreti Cari DRN, ad loc.
18 Combining at quidam contra haec, supplied by Diels, and putarunt, supplied by Marullus,
Bailey proposed as the opening line a version of component 1: at quidam contra haec falsa
ratione putantur.
154 Marković
Quapropter, quamvis causando multa moreris,

esse in rebus inane tamen fateare necessest.
multaque praeterea tibi possum commemorando 400
argumenta fidem dictis conradere nostris.
verum animo satis haec vestigia parva sagaci
sunt, per quae possis cognoscere cetera tute.
namque canes ut montivagae persaepe ferai
naribus inveniunt intectas fronde quietes, 405
cum semel institerunt vestigia certa viai,
sic alid ex alio per te tute ipse videre
talibus in rebus poteris caecasque latebras
insinuare omnis et verum protrahere inde.
quod si pigraris paulumve recesseris ab re, 410
hoc tibi de plano possum promittere, Memmi:
usque adeo largos haustus e fontibu’ magnis
lingua meo suavis diti de pectore fundet,
ut verear ne tarda prius per membra senectus
serpat et in nobis vitai claustra resolvat, 415
quam tibi de quavis una re versibus omnis
argumentorum sit copia missa per auris.
Therefore, however you may demur by making many objections, confess

you must, nevertheless, that there is void in things. Many another proof
besides I can mention to scrape together credit for my doctrines. But for
a keen-scented mind, these little tracks are enough to enable you to re
cognize the others for yourself. For as hounds very often find by their scent
the leaf-hidden resting-places of the mountain-ranging quarry, once they
have hit upon certain traces of its path, so will you be able for yourself to
see one thing after another in such matters as these, and to penetrate all
unseen hiding-places, and draw forth the truth from them. But should
you be sluggish or draw back a little from the task, this I can promise you,
Memmius, without more ado: so bounteous draughts out of plenteous
springs will my melodious speech pour forth from my richly stored mind,
that I fear lest laggard age may creep over our limbs and break down the
barriers of life within us, before the whole store of demonstrations on any
one matter has been poured in my verses through your ears.19
19 The text and translations of Lucretius are from M. F. Smith, Lucretius.
The image of hunting, combined with that of a potential flood of arguments,

recalls the contemporary explanations of the concept of loci or sedes argu-
mentorum commonly found in Roman rhetorical theory. The concept of the
“places” or “seats of arguments” belongs to the rhetorical subdivision of inven-
tio, which covers the technical procedure of finding arguments in any given
case. Cicero’s descriptions of the concept regularly exploit the metaphor of
hunting, implicit in the terminology of loci or sedes. Here is one example
(De or. 2.147):20
Atque hoc totum est sive artis sive animadversionis sive consuetudinis nosse
regiones, intra quas venere et pervestiges quod quaeras. ubi eum locum
omnem cogitatione saepseris, si modo usu rerum percallueris, nihil te effu-
giet atque omne, quod erit in re, occurret atque incidet.
In fact the whole thing boils down to this (whether it is a matter of art or
observation or experience): knowing the areas where you must hunt for,
and track down, what you are trying to find. Once you have surrounded
the entire place with the nets of your thought, at least if practical experi-
ence has sharpened your skill, nothing will escape you, and everything
that is in the subject matter will run up to you and fall into your hands.21
In other sections devoted to the topic, Cicero also uses the vocabulary that
suggests an inexhaustible supply (for example, fontes, copia abundans).22
Cicero’s main speaker, Antonius, explains that art merely indicates the loca-
tion of the argument that one is trying to find, while the actual finding requires
one’s own work.23 The ‘art’ in question is Aristotle’s teaching of the ‘places’,
topoi—that is, formulas that enable both philosophers and orators to find their
arguments. Cicero’s Antonius briefly enumerates the main Aristotelian topoi
and concludes (2.174):
Haec ut brevissime dici potuerunt, ita a me dicta sunt. ut enim si aurum cui,
quod esset multifariam defossum commonstrare vellem, satis esse deberet,
si signa et notas ostenderem locorum, quibus cognitis ipse sibi foderet et id,
quod vellet, parvo labore nullo errore inveniret, sic has ego argumentorum
20 Cf. Quint. Inst. 5.10.20–22.

21 Text K. Kumaniecki, translation J. M. May and J. Wisse.
22 De or. 2.151, and 162.
23 De or. 2.150. Cf. Quint. Inst. 5.10.119–21.
156 Marković
notavi notas quae quaerenti demonstrant ubi sint; reliqua cura et cogita-
tione eruuntur.
I have described these matters in the briefest possible way. For if I wanted
to show somebody gold that had been buried in many places, it should be
enough for me to point out the signs that indicate its locations; once he
knew these, he would dig for himself, and be sure to find what he wanted
with little effort. In the same way, I have indicated these signs, which
show anyone who is looking for arguments where they are; unearthing
the rest is a matter of care and concentration.24
The parallels from Cicero suggest an underlying conceptual unity behind the
methodologies of philosophical and oratorical refutation, a unity that can be
traced back to Aristotle’s system of topoi. However, as in other similar cases
in Lucretius, a closer look shows that the comparanda from non-Epicurean
sources can serve only as a foil to the poet’s skillful use of the image to promote
his own philosophical teaching. Lucretius most likely draws here on imagery
used by Epicurus; the distant relatives of this imagery in other, non-Epicurean,
sources turn out to be mere shadows. In one extant fragment of Περὶ φύσεως,
Epicurus explains the ultimate ethical motivation of his scientific research,
using the phrase “to hunt for the first principle and the measuring stick and
the standard of judgment” (θηρεύειν τὴν ἀρχὴν καὶ κανόνα καὶ κριτήριον). The
example is not isolated. Epicurus’s Letter to Pythocles also presents the philos-
opher’s method of investigation through the metaphor of hunting (ἴχνευσις),
and in a similar context—both texts contain methodological remarks of wider
importance.25 We should perhaps focus our attention here on the latter, bet-
ter preserved text. The passage from the Letter to Pythocles follows Epicurus’s
speculation on the physical causes of the phenomena related to the moon—
the waning, the waxing, and the well-known face on its surface:
Ἐπὶ πάντων γὰρ τῶν μετεώρων τὴν τοιαύτην ἴχνευσιν οὐ προετέον. ἢν γάρ τις
ᾖ μαχόμενος τοῖς ἐναργήμασιν, οὐδέποτε μὴ δυνήσεται ἀταραξίας γνησίου
μεταλαβεῖν.
24 Text K. Kumaniecki, translation J. M. May and J. Wisse. Problems in the transmission
of this paragraph do not prevent us from grasping its general sense. See commentators
(Leeman, Pinkster, and Rabbie, De oratore, and May and Wisse, Cicero: On the Ideal
Orator) ad loc.
25 [34.32] 6–7 Arrighetti and Ep. Pyth. 96. As Smith, Lucretius, ad loc., points out, the meta-
phor is already prominent in Plato’s dialogues (e.g., θηρεύειν at Phd. 66a3).
For in the case of all celestial phenomena such a track of search must not
be abandoned: if one fights against clear evidence, one will never enjoy
genuine peace of mind.26
The second sentence, which concludes the preceding passage, draws atten-
tion to the ultimate weapon of Epicurean philosophical polemics—namely,
“what is evident,” ἐναργές. According to Epicurus, no philosophical princi-
ple can be valid if it contradicts the evidence of, or concepts derived from,
sense perception.27 This fundamental rule of philosophical inquiry points to
the senses and the mind as the “measuring stick” and the “standard of judg-
ment” (κανών, κριτήριον) by which theories concerning the things that cannot
be observed (ἄδηλα) are either accepted or rejected. As for identifying false
theories, Epicurus is brief: “Falsehood comes to be if there is no witnessing
or if there is counterwitnessing” (ἐὰν μὲν μὴ ἐπιμαρτυρηθῇ ἢ ἀντιμαρτυρηθῇ, τὸ
ψεῦδος γίνεται).28 The rule points to contradiction as the main mode of refu-
tation and the main locus in Epicurean polemics. Polemical passages in DRN
confirm the central importance of this mode. Lucretius’s two standard objec-
tions to rival theories are (1) that the theory under scrutiny contradicts the
evidence provided by sense perception, and/or (2) that the theory contradicts
other premises accepted by its advocate(s).29 In the traditional system of loci
argumentorum, the Epicurean mode of refutation has counterparts in the locus
ex contrario30 and the locus ex repugnantibus;31 both loci generate conclusions
based on contradictions of various logical types.
To go back to the example of DRN 1.370–97—allowing that movement exists,
but that the empty space in which it would take place (which the Epicureans
call void) does not, would in the Epicurean view be a blatant contradiction. It
is a good example of “counterwitnessing” (ἀντιμαρτύρησις); theoretical removal
of the conditions that make its appearance possible is refuted by the phe-
nomenon itself. The essence of Epicurean objection is that movement as an
empirical fact cannot be logically compatible with the proposition that void
26 The text of Epicurus G. Arrighetti, translations mine.

27 For a survey, see Asmis, “Epicurean Epistemology.”
28 Ep. Hdt. 51.
29 Cf. Kleve, “The Philosophical Polemics,” 58.
30 See Arist. Top. 2, 112b27–114a25; Arist. Rh. 2, 1397a7–18; Cic. De or. 2.169; Cic. Top. 17. For
discussion, see Reinhardt, M. Tullius Cicero: Topica, 226–27.
31 See Arist. Top. 2, 112b27–114a25; Arist. Rh. 2, 1400a15–22; Cic. De or. 2.170; Cic. Top. 21. For
discussion, see Reinhardt, M. Tullius Cicero: Topica, 237; and Rubinelli, Ars Topica, 132–33.
For arguments from contradiction in DRN, see Marković, The Rhetoric of Explanation,
100–110.
158 Marković
does not exist.32 Sense perception provides observations that the mind takes
as “signs”; these form the basis of inferences about things that cannot be vali-
dated empirically. The mind draws valid conclusions only as long as there is
“neither trace nor flashing” that leads to a contrary conclusion.33 Lucretius’s
hunting metaphor is thus given a typical dogmatic edge that its relatives in
Cicero’s and other rhetorical texts devoted to loci argumentorum do not have.
The word vestigia at 1.402 and 1.406 evokes both the preceding examples of
Lucretian refutation that illustrate the general Epicurean method of producing
an argument (1.372–97)34 and the signs that form the basis of Epicurean men-
tal calculation.35 The metaphor ultimately points not to the method of arguing
but to the method of finding truth (verum at 1.409).
Lucretius enhances his arguments from contradiction—his standard
method of refutation—with a number of corresponding rhetorical strate-
gies. One of such strategies is the parodic procedure of turning the words of
philosophical opponents against their own theories or followers. In the sec-
tion devoted to Heraclitus, for example, Lucretius turns the critical words of
Heraclitus (fr. 87 DK) against his followers: omnia enim stolidi magis admiran-
tur amantque | inversis quae sub verbis latitantia cernunt (For dolts admire and
love everything more which they see hidden amid distorted words).36 In lines
3.526–30, to take another example, the poet uses the well-known description
of the death of Socrates in the Phaedo as a proof of the mortality of the soul:
in pedibus primum digitos livescere et unguis,  | inde pedes et crura mori, post
inde per artus |  ire alios tractim gelidi vestigia leti (First the toes of the feet grow
livid, and the nails, next die feet and legs, afterwards over the other limbs go
creeping the footsteps of death).37 Other Epicurean writers were also fond of
parodic quotation.38
32 Cf. Sext. Emp. Math. 8, 213–14.

33 We find these hunting metaphors of Demetrius of Laconia in Phld. Sign. 29.2–3 (μήτ’ ἴχνος
μήτ’ αἴθυγμα).
34 More evocative of vestigia at 3.4, where Lucretius pictures himself treading in the foot-
prints of Epicurus. Cf. Schiesaro, “Didaxis,” 64–71 (= Schiesaro, “Rhétorique,” 57–62).
35 Cf. the vestigia at 2.124, where the word refers to a visible phenomenon (movement of
dust in the air) that provides a concept (notitia) for the movement of atoms in the void.
36 See Marković, “Lucretius 1.638–44.” For Lucretius’s parody of Heraclitus’s style, see
Kollmann, “Lucretius’ Criticism,” 79–85.
37 Cf. Phd. 117e–118a. For this and other similar examples of anti-Platonic critique in
Lucretius, see De Lacy, “Lucretius and Plato.”
38 Plutarch’s treatise Against Colotes suggests that Epicurus’s pupil Colotes often turned the
philosophical opponents’ words against themselves (e.g., against Empedocles, Adv. Col.
1111F–1112A).
Lucretius also likes to intensify a contradiction through exaggeration, press-

ing it to the point of reductio ad absurdum. His refutation of the teaching of
Anaxagoras, for example, ends with a bizarre image of emotional, anthropo-
morphic atoms (1.919–20): fiet uti risu tremulo concussa cachinnent | et lacrimis
salsis umectent ora genasque (It will follow that they guffaw shaken with quiv-
ering laughter, and bedew face and cheeks with salt tears).39 It has already been
observed that such exaggerations are often achieved through simplification
and misrepresentation of the teaching of the opponents.40 Other instances of
mockery in Lucretius often reach the point of absurdity. For example, a skep-
tic is described as a man qui capite ipse sua in statuit vestigia sese (who has
placed his head in his own footsteps) (4.472).41 Variations on this strategy are
visible in other Epicurean sources. For example, Epicurean polemics likes to
ridicule the analogies and personifications of the opponents: in Cicero’s De
natura deorum, the Epicurean Velleius mocks the Platonic personification of
the god as an architect by taking it quite literally (Nat. D. 1.19–23);42 in a similar
way, Diogenes of Oenoanda ridicules the idea of the first inventor of language
by casting him as a schoolmaster (fr. 12 V 4–14 Smith).43
Another prominent and closely related rhetorical strategy of refutation in
DRN is amplificatio: the rejected theory is not only incorrect but also a sign of
pure madness. Lucretius frequently uses the charge of insanity both against
rejected views and against their proponents. False views and teachings are
described through a fixed set of synonyms, such as delirum, perdelirum, vanum,
dementia, delira and furiosa, disipere, disiperest;44 similarly, their proponents
and supporters are described as empty-headed and stupid (inanes, stolidi).45
It is possible that the disparaging vocabulary reflects the language of the
poet’s Epicurean source(s): in one fragment from Philodemus’s On Piety, for
39 Cf. DRN 2.973–84. For a discussion of Lucretius’s animated critique of Anaxagoras’s teach-
ing, see Brown, “Lucretian Ridicule,” 151–60.
40 For Lucretius’s treatment of Anaxagoras, see Brown, “Lucretian Ridicule,” 151–52; for his
treatment of Empedocles, see Edwards, “Lucretius, Empedocles,” 114–15. Plutarch accuses
Colotes of detaching the statements of the philosophers he criticized from their original
context (Plut. Adv. Col. 1108D).
41 For Epicurus’s phrase περικάτω τρέπεσθαι and the way in which Lucretius’s poetic image
captures the argument of the master, see Burnyeat, “The Upside-Down Back-to-Front
Sceptic.”
42 Cf. 2.1093–1104, 5.195–234.
43 Cf. 5.1041–55.
44 See 1.692, 1.698, 1.704, 2.985, 5.165, 5.1045.
45 See 1.639, 1.641, 1.1068.
160 Marković
example, we learn that in book 12 of Περὶ φύσεως Epicurus described the soph-
ists Prodicus, Diagoras, and Critias as deranged and raving madmen.46
Despite the strongly scornful tone, as I already pointed out, Lucretius rarely
specifies the identity of his opponents.47 In addition to this his arguments
against rival views are often triggered by the objections of an imaginary inter-
locutor, in the manner typical of the so-called diatribe,48 or they address an
anticipated question or difficulty.49 This leaves only one section in which argu-
ments a persona appear prominently—namely, the refutation of the physical
theories of Heraclitus, Empedocles, and Anaxagoras at 1.635–920.50
In fact in this particular section only Heraclitus and Empedocles receive
attention as individuals. Lucretius treats the two philosophers from two very
different points of view. On one hand, he characterizes Heraclitus through the
language of blame, creating an image of a grandiloquent and pompous impos-
tor; on the other, he introduces Empedocles through the traditional epideictic
loci of praise, using a description of the natural wonders of his native Sicily
to suggest the true grandeur of the philosopher’s divine inspiration.51 Both
philosophers advanced theories that are incorrect from the Epicurean point
of view, and both were criticized by Epicurus and other Epicurean authors.52
Poetic medium aside, the reason why Lucretius treats them so differently
might be found in the eminence of Heraclitus as one of the most important
46 [27.2] Arrighetti.

47 For example, quidam fingunt (1.371); dicunt (1.1053); quidam . . . credunt (2.167–168); si . . .
aliquis credit (2.225); qui . . . constituunt (2.902–903); si . . . aliquis dicet (2.931); siquis . . .
refutat (3.350); siquis putat (4.469); quidam memorant (5.320).
48 For example, 1.803–29; 1.897–914; 3.356.
49 For example, 4.777–78; 5.91–234.
50 This section has received much attention in recent scholarship. Most notable are
Piazzi’s commentary (Lucrezio e i Presocratici) and Montarese’s monograph (Lucretius
and His Sources). Montarese (Lucretius and His Sources, 145–46) concludes against
Sedley (Lucretius, 145–46) that Epicurus’s Nat. 14 and 15 cannot be taken as the source of
Lucretius 1.635–920 with certainty but were more likely derived from an Epicurean doxo-
graphic text (cf. Rösler, “Lukrez und die Vorsokratiker,” 62; and Mansfeld, “Doxography,”
3153).
51 For detailed comparative analyses of the two passages, see Kollmann, “Lucretius’
Criticism,” 79–91; and Brown, “Lucretian Ridicule,” 146–49.
52 For example, Empedocles by Epicurus ([29.28] Arrighetti) Hermarchus (Diog. Laert.
10.25) and Colotes (Plut. Adv. Col. 1111F–1113E); Heraclitus by Diogenes of Oenoanda (fr. 6
Smith).
predecessors of the Stoics and in the fact that the theories of Empedocles have
some points of contact and affinity with those of Epicurus.53
The two striking features of Lucretius’s polemics—namely, the poet’s reluc-
tance to name the current opponents and his limiting of direct references to
the names that belong to the distant past, can be recognized as Epicurean.54
The extant writings and fragments of Epicurus show that he also tended to
avoid mentioning his philosophical rivals by name. Most often he made ref-
erences to “someone” and “some people,” identified individual philosophers
using nicknames, or put them in less personal groups such as “the sophists,”
“the dialecticians” (that is, the Megarians), or “the astronomers” or “Cyzicenes.”
The only names of philosophical rivals that the extant remains of Epicurus’s On
Nature explicitly mention are those of Empedocles and possibly Democritus.55
We have indications that a similar approach was taken by other Epicurean
authors too. Plutarch says that Colotes attacked contemporary opponents
under the masks of their predecessors;56 he also finds the Epicurean author
guilty of lumping the opponents together.57 In addition to this it seems plausi-
ble that Hermarchus’s discussion of Empedocles was indirectly aimed against
contemporary philosophers, such as Theophrastus, rather than the ancient
predecessor of some of their views.58
The observation that Lucretius adopts the procedure of Epicurus and attacks
contemporary rivals only indirectly raises the question of why, or, as I would
like to put it, the question of the gains of this rhetorical strategy. One such gain
can be described simply as marginalization of the opponents. For example,
referring only to Heraclitus, a remote Presocratic forerunner, Lucretius makes
the position of the Stoics implicitly derivative and marginal. This does not
mean that the implied reader would not recognize the connection—on the
contrary this reader’s appreciation of Lucretius’s artistry will only gain from
the recognition of his philosophical opponents.59 The main point is that the
poet’s goal is to celebrate the correct views of Epicurus, not to obscure the
glory of the discoverer of truth by offering a detailed and precise discussion
53 For a balanced discussion of Epicurus’s criticism of Empedocles, see Leone, “Epicuro ed
Empedocle.”
54 This is not to deny that they are also a part of a wider practice, attested already in Plato.
55 [29.28.] 17–18 and [29.18.] 4 Arrighetti. For these features of Epicurus’s polemics, see
Sedley, “Epicurus,” 132–33.
56 Plut. Adv. Col. 1120C.
57 Plut. Adv. Col. 1115A–C.
58 For this point, see the discussion in Obbink, “Hermarchus,” 431–32.
59 Cf. Kleve, “The Philosophical Polemics,” 60.
162 Marković
of the personalities and views of his current opponents. In other words as the
passage that describes Epicurus’s “military campaign” in the opening of book 1
suggests, Lucretius’s poem is partly meant to be read as Epicurus’s intellectual
res gestae; the proper rhetorical procedure in this kind of public document
is to leave the enemies of the victorious general simply unnamed, concealed
under vague and generic traits.60
This explanation is further corroborated by the secondary location of
Lucretius’s philosophical polemics in the architecture of argumentative sec-
tions or individual arguments. This feature, it seems to me, reflects both the
poet’s pedagogical and rhetorical goals. In his central work, On Nature, Epicurus
did not set out to find the truth through dialectical examination of the views of
the preceding philosophers, as Aristotle did, but by immediate and dogmatic
sinking in of the foundations of his system. Lucretius takes exactly the same
approach and enters polemics only to refuse the side paths of falsa ratio—
once he had laid down the main coordinates of the true path. This removes
the debate with external opposition from the spotlight; the voice of the rivals
is heard only in a postscript, just to be silenced for the sake of protecting the
promised peace of mind. Epicurean liberation is a liberation from inside.61 As
the programmatic remark in 1.398–417 shows, Lucretius avoids the exhaustive-
ness of a manual and does not want to say everything that can possibly be said
to defend Epicurean positions (although he does not leave any doubt that he
would be capable of doing just that). Instead he prefers to enable Memmius to
apply the principle of contradiction on his own.
To conclude, curious features of Lucretian polemics can be explained by
the medium and the main rhetorical goals of the poet’s work in its cultural
context. In a poem that purports to be a celebration of Epicurus’s conquest
of the universe, in which Epicurus is represented as a victorious general, to
devote much attention to the criticisms that challenge his achievement would
probably not be the best rhetorical choice. Certainly Epicurean philosophical
battles continued to be fought after Epicurus, but Lucretius did not choose to
write a polemical pamphlet or a treatise in Greek. He chose to write an epos
in Latin. The choice was limiting, as much as it was inspiring; it stimulated the
poet to see himself as a translator and creative imitator, not as a philosophical
apologist of Epicurus.62
60 Cf. the Res gestae of Augustus.

61 Cf. DRN 5.43–54.
62 D RN 1.136–45 and 3.1–13.
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Lukrezforschung, edited by Carl J. Classen, 57–73. Hildesheim: Olms, 1986.
Rozelaar, Marc. Lukrez: Versuch einer Deutung. Amsterdam: H. J. Paris, 1943.
Rubinelli, Sara. Ars Topica: The Classical Technique of Constructing Arguments from
Aristotle to Cicero. Introduction by David S. Levene. Berlin: Springer, 2009.
Runia, David T. “Lucretius and Doxography.” In Lucretius and His Intellectual Background,
edited by Keimpe A. Algra, Mieke H. Koenen, and Piet H. Schrijvers, 93–104.
Amsterdam: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1997. Reprinted in
Aëtiana, Studies in the Doxographical Traditions of Ancient Philosophy, edited by Jaap
Mansfeld and David T. Runia, 255–70. Leiden: Brill, 2010.
Schiesaro, Alessandro. “Didaxis, Rhetoric, and the Law in Lucretius.” In Classical
Constructions: Papers in Memory of Don Fowler, Classicist and Epicurean, edited by
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chez Lucrèce” was published in Le jardin romain: épicurisme et poésie à Rome:
mélanges offerts à Mayotte Bollack, edited by Annick Monet, 57–75. Villeneuve
d’Ascq: Presses de l’Université Charles-de-Gaulle–Lille 3, 2003.
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1976.
Sedley, David N. Lucretius and the Transformation of Greek Wisdom. Cambridge:
Smith, Martin F. Diogenes of Oinoanda: The Epicurean Inscription. Naples: Bibliopolis,

1993.
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The Perfidious Strategy; or, the Platonists
against Stoicism
Mauro Bonazzi
All his usual formalities of perfidy were observed with scrupulous

technique.
Winston Churchill
⸪
1
Polemics are part of many people’s everyday life; sometimes they are even nec-
essary or useful. They were, for instance, necessary for ancient philosophers
who, in the absence of any institutional acknowledgment, always needed to
prove their authority and attract students. From the very beginning (think
of Heraclitus or Isocrates, Plato, and Aristotle), to attack or discredit the cre-
dentials of the adversaries was an incisive way to claim one’s own authority.
Polemics were even more useful for philosophers who were trying to fight their
way into an already organized context. This was precisely the problem of the
Platonists at the beginning of the early imperial age. For at least two and a
half centuries, the Hellenistic centuries, it had been clear who were the major
figures and the protagonists. In the Hellenistic age philosophy was the affair
of Stoics, Academics, and Epicureans; the major philosophical debates turned
around them, whereas other thinkers (the Cynics for instance) or schools
(the Peripatos) were relegated to the fringe. In the first century BCE, the pan-
orama was enriched by the arrival of, among others, the Platonists. Seen from
the perspective of later centuries, one can describe the Platonists’ attempt to
conquer the center of the scene as the “chronicle of a triumph foretold”: in a
few decades, and for many centuries, the main problem of philosophy became
Plato’s metaphysics. There was no more room for skeptical doubts or for Stoic
and Epicurean empiricism.
But at the beginning of the early imperial age, the situation for Platonists
was not so simple, for several reasons. For centuries the agenda of problems to
be investigated and discussed was fixed: there was the problem of the criterion,

which is the foundation of knowledge; there was the debate on the telos or
the summum bonum; there was the problem of reconciling determinism and
human responsibility, and so on. It is what Tony Long once described as “pro-
fessionalism,” a “community of concepts, standard questions and answers,
common argumentative methods and objections.”1 The two major Hellenistic
schools, the Stoics and the Epicureans, had been able to build a coherent sys-
tem of thought in order to account for all these problems.
These points raised substantial problems for Platonists. Their basis was
Plato, but in the dialogues the topics of the Hellenistic debates were not
clearly discussed; at best there were only scanty traces. Besides, and even
more problematic, it was very difficult to organize the dialogues in a coher-
ent and perfect system, which was the pride of the Epicureans and, above all,
the Stoics.2 By the way, that the Hellenistic tradition of Platonism—that is, the
Academy of Arcesilaus and Carneades—was in essence antisystematic must
not be neglected.
So for Platonists the problems were how to be accepted by this already orga-
nized community and, hopefully, how to obtain high visibility and become
protagonists in the philosophical debates. Undoubtedly, the task was not easy.
Given this difficult situation, the strategic importance of polemics becomes
clear: to attack the adversaries is a good strategy if you want to discredit their
presumed authority and attract attention. But how can one obtain this result?
To put it more clearly, how should one polemicize?
Until now I have spoken of polemics as if it were evident what polemics
consist of.3 In fact there are several kinds of polemics, and the problem is
to find the most effective one for one’s purposes. In antiquity, and not only
among philosophers, (biographical) calumny was, for instance, very popular. It
is not a kind of polemics that we nowadays appreciate, but at that time it was
widespread, and the reason is clear: for the ancients the connection between
doctrines and life was stronger and more important than it is for us. In conse-
quence, to attack the life and behavior of a philosopher was a way to attack his
philosophical views. Another possibility was to directly attack the philosophi-
cal ideas of the adversary by claiming that they were completely mistaken.
Needless to say this possibility too was very popular; it was probably the most
popular, especially when the divergencies between two schools were too radi-
cal to be reconciled. If we consider early imperial Platonism, the best example
of these two strategies was the polemic against Epicurus and Epicureanism.
1 Long, “Ptolemy On the Criterion,” 182.

2 Cf. Cic. Fin. 3.74.
3 See also André Laks’s remarks in this volume.
168 Bonazzi
Epicurus was the real bête noire for Platonists, as we can see, for instance, in
Plutarch’s anti-Epicurean treatises. Epicurus and Epicureans had violently
attacked Plato—his person and his philosophy. Platonists reacted in the very
same way by attacking both the life and doctrine of Epicurus and his pupils. In
this case there was no real confrontation, but stark opposition.
These were the most popular and widespread kinds of polemics adopted
by Platonists in the early imperial period, but they were not the only ones.
Indeed, Platonists also adopted a different and more subtle strategy, especially
when they confronted Stoicism. There are several reasons for this fact. First of
all, Stoicism was the most important and most influential philosophy of the
time; its prestige was widely recognized, so that a frontal attack was perhaps
not the best strategy to adopt. Besides, one must also take into consideration
that there were many obvious differences between Stoicism and Platonism,
but there were also some affinities, many more than with the Epicureans.4
Nowadays many scholars have argued that Hellenistic Stoicism was influenced
by Plato’s dialogues;5 this was also the view of the later Stoics such as Panaetius
and Posidonius, who presented Plato as a predecessor of their philosophy. This
affinity was also partly recognized by imperial Platonists: as many scholars
have observed, a remarkable feature of Platonist texts is the massive presence
of terms and doctrines that are ascribable to Stoicism. Clearly the adoption of
such terms shows that Platonists were not as hostile to Stoics as they were to
Epicureans. And here we come to an interesting problem: how to evaluate this
striking presence?
The standard explication provided by modern scholars is that this is a con-
sequence of the Hellenistic debates: after centuries of debating together, it is
easy to understand that a common language was created in which words and
terms gradually lost their distinctive philosophical connotations and became
the common property of all philosophers of the Roman Empire. The result
was a sort of koinē or lingua franca, as it is often said, in a world dominated
by eclecticism. In my opinion this explication does not properly account for
the situation, for on closer scrutiny it appears that philosophers, especially
Platonists, were aware of the provenance and original value of terms and doc-
trines. It is probably true to affirm that there was a common jargon, but this
does not imply that the adoption of terms was always or necessarily neutral.
My suggestion is rather that the adoption of terms was part of a polemical
strategy of appropriation and subordination of the rival philosophy. Needless
4 See, with special attention to Plutarch, Opsomer, “Plutarch and the Stoics.”
5 Particularly important is Reydams-Schils, Demiurge and Providence.
to say, to prove this point one should provide an exhaustive analysis of all, or
at least many, terms and show how they were appropriated—which is clearly
impossible to do on this occasion. So I will limit myself to offering an example
of this strategy by focusing on one of the most important topics of discus-
sion between the Hellenistic and early imperial centuries: the problem of
knowledge—in other words, the problem of the criterium.6
That this was probably the most important issue for the Hellenistic philoso-
phies need not be shown. The problem, on the other hand, does not appear to
be so important for imperial philosophers: at that time the skeptical challenge
was less urgent, and so was the challenge that knowledge is impossible; for
imperial philosophers the main epistemological problem was now to account
for the process of knowledge and to show what knowledge is, not to prove that
knowledge is possible and how. This is certainly true, but it does not imply
that imperial Platonists, when accounting for the process of knowledge, were
not also interested in offering a solution to the problem of the foundation
of knowledge. On the contrary it might be argued that Platonists, by show-
ing what knowledge is, also accounted for the fact that knowledge is possible.
Indeed, that this is so is confirmed precisely by the adoption of Stoic terms—
in particular the adoption of ennoia. Ennoia is a distinctive term of the Stoic
vocabulary and has a precise criterial role in the discussion about knowledge.
Remarkably, we also find it in many Platonist texts: it has the same criterial
function, but its meaning is different. As I will try to argue, this difference is
not without importance.7
The Stoic doctrine of ennoiai is notoriously difficult. But what we know from
the scanty testimonies suffices to show what its role was in the Stoic episte-
mological system. In short, ennoiai are the conceptions that come to consti-
tute our mind (reason is the collection of our conceptions)8 as the result of
repeated sense experience.9 For the Stoics these ennoiai naturally arise in
the mind of all human beings, and for this reason, because they come about
6 For a more detailed analysis of this problem and of all the relevant testimonies, I refer to
Bonazzi, “The Platonist Appropriation of Stoic Epistemology.”
7 On this topic I am deeply indebted to Tarrant, Recollecting Plato’s Meno, 127–51; Boys-Stones,
“Alcinous, Didaskalikos 4”; Chiaradonna, “Platonismo e teoria della conoscenza stoica.”
8 Cf. SVF 1.149 and 2.841.
9 Aët. 4.11; Plut. Comm. not. 1084F–1085A.
170 Bonazzi
aturally (that is without effort and without any specific instruction or rea-
n
soning), they are said to be “natural” (phusikai). Insofar as they are natural,
they are also taken as true; they are also called “common” (koinai) because they
belong to all human beings. Since they are true, they have the status of cogni-
tions, and we can thus deduce further truths from them as principles,10 or we
can use them as yardsticks against which philosophical views are to be tested.11
In short, conceptions are “constitutive of reason and the basis from which phil-
osophical inquiry, and hence ultimately wisdom or perfected reason, sprang.”12
In this sense, as the Stoics say, they are the criterion of truth.13 Their epistemo-
logical importance is clear.
Platonists were aware of the Stoic provenance of the term and of its func-
tion in their system,14 and still the term repeatedly occurs in Platonist texts
from Cicero onward, as the following passages clearly show:15
In no other way was it possible for us to possess from childhood such a

number of important ideas, innate and as it were impressed on our souls
and called ennoiai, unless the soul, before it had entered the body, had
been active in acquiring knowledge. And since there is no true existence
in any sensible object, as Plato everywhere argues—for he thinks that
nothing that has a beginning and an ending exists, and only that exists
which is always constant to its nature; this he calls idea and we ‘idea’—the
soul in the prison-house of the body could not have apprehended ideas;
it brought the knowledge with it: consequently our feeling of wonder at
the extent of our knowledge is removed. (Cic. Tusc. 1.57–58; trans. King)16
10 Cic. Varro 42; Diog. Laert. 7.41–42; Plut. Comm. not. 1059E, 1060A, 1073D; Alex. De mixt.
218.10.
11 Plut. Comm. not. 1075E; de Stoic. rep. 1051D–F; Alex. De mixt. 217.2–4. “These theorems,
having been deduced from cognitive assumptions, will themselves have the status of cog-
nitions. In this way we arrive at whole bodies of such cognitions and thus at sciences,
and in this way, ultimately, we will also arrive at that particular body of cognitions which
constitutes wisdom” (Frede, “Stoic Epistemology,” 319).
12 Brittain, “Common Sense,” 167.
13 Diog. Laert. 7.54 = SVF 2.105 Alex. De mixt. 217.3–4 = SVF 2.473, 29–30.
14 See, for instance, Plut. fr. 215f and, even more, the treatise Against the Stoics on Common
Conceptions (peri tōn koinōn ennoiōn).
15 See also Alc. Did. 165.10 and 178.8; Anon. In Tht. 55.30 and 56.34. For phusikē ennoia cf. Alc.
Did. 155.32; 156.19–23; 158.4; Albin. Prol. 150.21–22 and 33–35; Plut. fr. 215f; Nemes. De nat.
hom. 69.3; Procl. Theol. Plat. 1.15, p. 73.14 (Saffrey-Westerink); for koinē ennoia, Plut. Quaest.
Plat. 1000E; Porph. Ad Marc. 10.
16 Nec vero fieri ullo modo posse, ut a pueris tot rerum atque tantarum insitas et quasi consig-
natas in animis notiones, quas ἐννοίας vocant, haberemus, nisi animus, ante quam in corpus
Then the third part of philosophy, consisting in reason and in discus-

sion, was treated by them [Plato and the other Academics] as follows.
The criterion of truth arose indeed from the senses, yet was not in the
senses: the judge of things was, they held, the mind—they thought that
it alone deserves credence, because it alone perceives that which is eter-
nally simple and uniform and true to its own quality. This thing they call
the Idea, a name already given it by Plato; we can correctly term it form.
All the senses on the other hand they deemed to be dull and sluggish,
and entirely unperceptive of all the things supposed to fall within the
province of the senses, which were either so small as to be imperceptible
by sense, or in such a violent state of motion that no single thing was ever
stationary, nor even remained the same thing, because all things were in
continual ebb and flow; accordingly all this portion of things they called
the object of opinion. Knowledge on the other hand they deemed to exist
nowhere except in the notions and reasonings of the mind; and conse-
quently they approved the method of defining things, and applied this
“real definition” to all the subjects that they discussed. (Cic. Varro 30–32;
trans. Rackham)17
For the natural conceptions are in need of articulation. Before this, people
apprehend things, insofar as they have traces of the natural conceptions;
but they do not apprehend them clearly. (Anon. In Tht. 46.43–49; trans.
Boys-Stones)18
intravisset, in rerum cognitione viguisset. Cumque nihil esset, ut omnibus locis a Platone dis-
seritur—nihil enim putat esse, quod oriatur et intereat, idque solum esse, quod semper tale
sit quale est; idean appellat ille, nos speciem—non potuit animus haec in corpore inclusus
adgnoscere, cognita attulit; ex quo tam multarum rerum cognitionis admiratio tollitur.
17 Quamquam oriretur a sensibus, tamen non esse iudicium veritatis in sensibus. Mentem
volebant rerum esse iudicem; solam censebant idoneam cui crederetur, quia sola cerneret
id quod semper esset simplex et unius modi et tale quale esset. Hanc illi ἰδέαν appellant, iam
a Platone ita nominatam, nos recte speciem possumus dicere. Sensus autem omnes hebetes
et tardos esse arbitrabantur nec percipere ullo modo res eas [ullas: GHBM], quae subiectae
sensibus viderentur, quae essent aut ita parvae, ut sub sensum cadere non possent, aut ita
mobiles et concitatae, ut nihil umquam unum esset constans, ne idem quidem, quia conti-
nenter laberentur et fluerent omnia. Itaque hanc omnem partem rerum opinabilem appel-
labant. Scientiam autem nusquam esse censebant nisi in animi notionibus atque rationibus;
qua de caussa definitiones rerum probabant et has ad omnia, de quibus disceptabatur,
adhibebant.
18 αἱ γὰρ φυσικαὶ ἔννοιαι δέονται διαρθρώσεως, πρὸ δὲ τούτου ἐπιβάλλουσι μὲν τοῖς πράγμασι τῷ
ἔχειν αὐτῶν ἴχνη, οὐ μὴν τρανῶς.
172 Bonazzi
But definitions are not adopted as greetings or as being more concise

than names, but are used to unfold common conceptions. This does
not happen without getting each genus and the differentiae. (Anon.
In Tht. 23.1–12; trans. Boys-Stones)19
But when he was teaching, he prepared his students to talk about things
themselves, unfolding and articulating their natural conceptions. And
this way of doing things follows from the doctrine that so-called acts of
“learning” are in fact acts of remembering, and that the soul of every man
has seen what exists and does not need learning to be placed in it, but
needs reminding. (Anon. In Tht. 47.37–48.7; trans. Boys-Stones)20
Intellection is the activity of the intellect as it contemplates the pri-

mary objects of intellection. There seem to be two forms of this, the one
prior to the soul’s coming to be in this body, when it is contemplating
by itself the objects of intellection, the other after it has been installed
in this body. Of these, the former, that which existed before the soul
came to be in the body, is called intellection in the strict sense, while,
once it has come to be in the body, what was then called intellection is
now called “natural conception” [φυσικὴ ἔννοια], being, as it were, an
intellection stored up in the soul. So when we say that intellection is
the first principle of scientific reasoning, we are not referring to what
is now called this, but rather to that which existed when the soul was
apart from the body, which, as we said, was in that context called “intel-
lection,” but in its present state “natural conception” [φυσικὴ ἔννοια].
The natural concept is called by him, “simple item of knowledge,” “the
wing of the soul,” and sometimes “memory.” (Alc. Did. 155, 20–32; trans.
Dillon)21
19 ἀλλὰ οἱ ὅροι οὔτε πρὸς τὸ ἀσπάζεσθαι οὔτε ὡς τῶν ὀνομάτων συντομώτεροι παραλαμβάνονται,
ἀλλὰ πρὸς τὸ ἀναπλῶσαι τὰς κοινὰς ἐννοίας· τοῦτο δ ̓ οὐκ ἐγγίνεται ἄνευ τοῦ λαβεῖν τὸ γένος
ἕκαστον καὶ τὰς διαφοράς.
20 ἐν δὲ τῷ διδάσκειν αὐτοὺς παρεσκεύαζεν τοὺς μανθάνοντας λέγειν περὶ τῶν πραγμάτων,
ἀναπτύσσων αὐτῶν τὰς φυσικὰς ἐννοίας καὶ διαρθρῶν. καὶ τοῦτο ἀκόλουθον τῷ δόγματι τῷ τὰς
λεγομένας μαθήσεις ἀναμνήσεις εἶναι καὶ πᾶσαν ἀνθρώπου ψυχὴν τεθεᾶσθαι τὰ ὄντα καὶ δεῖν
αὐτῇ οὐκ ἐνθέσεως μαθημάτων ἀλλὰ ἀναμνήσεως.
21 Νόησις δ’ ἐστὶ νοῦ ἐνέργεια θεωροῦντος τὰ πρῶτα νοητά· αὕτη διττὴ ἔοικεν εἶναι, ἡ μὲν πρὸ τοῦ ἐν
τῷδε τῷ σώματι γενέσθαι τὴν ψυχήν, θεωρούσης αὐτῆς τὰ νοητά, ἡ δὲ μετὰ τὸ ἐμβιβασθῆναι εἰς
τόδε τὸ σῶμα· τούτων δὲ ἡ μὲν πρὸ τοῦ ἐν σώματι γενέσθαι τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτὸ τοῦτο νόησις ἐκαλεῖτο,
γενομένης δὲ αὐτῆς ἐν σώματι ἡ τότε λεγομένη νόησις νῦν ἐλέχθη φυσικὴ ἔννοια, νόησίς τις οὖσα
ἐναποκειμένη τῇ ψυχῇ. Ὅταν οὖν φῶμεν τὴν νόησιν ἀρχὴν εἶναι τοῦ ἐπιστημονικοῦ λόγου, οὐχὶ
What is even more remarkable is that it is not a matter of one single term
alone. In fact on closer scrutiny, it is easy to see that early imperial Platonists,
from Cicero and Antiochus to the anonymous commentator on the Theaetetus
and Alcinous, all appear to have basically adopted the same Stoic theory: con-
ceptions are the starting point; they are present in our soul, so that the task is
to develop and bring them to clarity, and once they are articulated22 they lead
to the formal definitions that are the basis for scientific knowledge—that is,
epistēmē, which is “a systematic understanding of the world.”23 This is the Stoic
theory, but Platonists adopt it as their own—that is, Platonist—theory.
Of course there are also differences, and the main difference is no less
remarkable than the above mentioned affinity. Unlike the Stoics, Platonists
introduce Ideas: ennoiai are made strictly dependent on Ideas. In itself, that
Platonists introduce the Ideas is not surprising, but the connection between
Ideas and conceptions is relevant and needs to be explained. As I have already
remarked, the standard view was that Platonists were simply using a term,
ennoia, whose Stoic origin was at that time forgotten.24 In fact, as we have seen,
many clues show that the situation was different: Platonists were aware of the
Stoic provenance of the term, and still they used it, at the same time taking
over the overall structure of the Stoic theory. Moreover, they used it in explicit
connection with the Ideas. All this suggests a conscious engagement on their
part, and another explication is needed.
A possible answer emerges when we take into consideration the reasons that
justify the innovations introduced by the Platonists. The innovations (most
notably the reference to the Ideas) are clearly derived from the dialogues, but
the problem is to understand why Platonists felt entitled to reshape the Stoic
τὴν νῦν λεγομένην φαμέν, ἀλλὰ τὴν ὅτε χωρὶς τοῦ σώματος ἦν ἡ ψυχή, ἥτις, ὡς ἔφαμεν, τότε μὲν
νόησις ἐλέγετο, νῦν δὲ φυσικὴ ἔννοια, καλεῖται δὲ ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ ἡ φυσικὴ ἔννοια καὶ ἐπιστήμη ἁπλῆ
καὶ πτέρωμα ψυχῆς, ἐσθ’ ὅτε δὲ καὶ μνήμη.
22 For diarthrōsis, see Helmig, Forms and Concepts, 278–82 with further bibliography.
23 Dyson, Prolepsis and Ennoia, 73. Cf. Diog. Laert. 7.42; Gal. Def. Med. 348.17–349.4; Cic. Tusc.
4.53; Aug. De civ. D. 8.7: “<The Stoics> thought that <dialectic> should be derived from the
bodily senses, claiming that from this source the mind conceived its concepts (which they
call ‘ennoiai’)—that is, concepts of the things which they articulate by definition” (trans.
Brittain, “Common Sense,” 180).
24 See, for instance, Invernizzi, Il Didaskalikos di Albino, 93n33; Whittaker, “Platonic
Philosophy,” 114–15.
174 Bonazzi
doctrine in such a Platonic manner. To understand this point it is necessary

to understand the limits of the Stoic doctrines according to the Platonists.
Clearly, the problem is that, according to Platonists, Stoics are not able to
correctly account for the ennoiai as the grounds for knowledge (epistēmē).
If ennoiai are criterial, we must be sure that they are true and truly describe
their (the essential features of their) objects; we must justify reposing so much
confidence in them.25 For the Stoics, as we have seen, it is the way they come
about that guarantees their truth and their reliability as criteria.26 It is the con-
viction of Platonists that the Stoic account is mistaken, because of their empir-
icist assumptions. For the Stoics ennoiai derive from sense experience; for the
Platonists any attempt to empirically account for the formation of ennoiai is
bound to fail. In other words, the problem is not so much their doctrine as the
grounds on which it rests.
Broadly speaking, the main reason for the Platonists’ opposition is clear.
Platonists argue against the Stoics that nothing reliable can be produced by
sensible experience alone, for matter is unstable,27 and in addition human
senses are notoriously weak,28 so that nothing stable and reliable can come
from sensible experience. That is, the Stoics insisted that ennoiai come to
us naturally, and this is taken as the proof that they are faithful and reliable.
Platonists reply that since we derive them from sense impression and it is dem-
onstrated that sense impression is not always reliable and we are also prone to
assent to false sensations, it will be difficult for us to determine which of our
perceptual impressions and their results in fact have this privileged status.29
25 So, correctly, Schofield, “Preconception, Argument, and God,” 293.

26 Frede, “Stoic Epistemology,” 319.
27 Or, to be more precise, always in flux: cf. Anon. In Tht. 69.36–70.5 with Decleva Caizzi,
“La ‘materia scorrevole,’ ” 447–52.
28 Another Platonist lieu commun. See, for instance, in the above quoted texts Cic. Varro 32.
29 Striker, “The Problem of the Criterion,” 159: “Since cognitive impressions and no others
are automatically accepted by the human mind, they will lead to the formation of pre-
conceptions or common notions by a causal process, not by induction or generalisation
(cf. Cicero, Luc. 30–31). Thus cognitive impressions are what explain and guarantee
the truth of elementary cognitions and common notions alike—we will be justified
in accepting those on account of their origin and status, not on the basis of argument.
But since we are commonly prone to assenting also to unclear and false impressions, it
will be difficult for us to determine which among our perceptual impressions do in fact
have this privileged status. . . . Nature herself, as it were, provides the elementary truths,
and also the possibility of distinguishing cognitive from non-cognitive impressions; but
At stake, in other words, is what we may call “the naturalistic assumption.”30

For the Stoics the very fact that our mind is by nature constructed to form
notions in this way appears as a sufficient proof of their reliability; needless
to say, for Platonists (as for skeptics—we will soon come to skeptics), such an
assumption in itself would be far from being correct, given their concept of
nature and of human nature.
In fact the problem for the Stoics was much more complicated. The prob-
lem, as we have seen, is not so much to explain the empirical origin of the
ennoiai as to justify their criterial role: to serve as a faithful criterion, ennoiai
must not give us a simply generic presentation of the object but must provide
us with the essence, as it were, of the object. That the Stoics can account for
this is controversial. Consider, for instance, the following sequence that we
read in one of the most important testimonies:
But then whatever character belongs to these objects which we say are
perceived by the senses must belong to that following set of objects which
are said to be perceived not by actual sensation but by a sort of sensation,
as for example: “Yonder thing is white, this thing is sweet, that one is melo-
dious, this fragrant, this rough.” This class of percepts consists of compre-
hensions grasped by our mind, not by our senses. Then “Yonder object
is a horse, yonder a dog.” Next follows the rest of the series linking on
a chain of larger percepts, for instance the following, which embrace as it
were a fully completed grasp of the objects: “If it is an animal being, it is
a rational mortal animal.” From this class of percepts are imprinted upon
us notions of things, without which all understanding and all investiga-
tion and discussion are impossible. (Cic. Luc. 21; trans. Rackham)31
What justifies the last claim of man as rational mortal animal? In short, we can
admit that we naturally produce ordinary notions, but it is debatable whether
while she sees to it that the basic truths do get accepted, she has left it up to us to guard
against deception.”
30 See Frede, “Stoic Epistemology,” 320.
31 Atqui qualia sunt haec quae sensibus percipi dicimus, talia secuntur ea quae non sensibus
ipsis percipi dicuntur sed quodam modo sensibus, ut haec: ‘Illud est album, hoc dulce, cano-
rum illud, hoc bene olens, hoc asperum.’ Animo iam haec tenemus comprehensa, non sen-
sibus. ‘Ille’ deinceps ‘equus est, ille canis.’ Cetera series deinde sequitur, maiora nectens, ut
haec, quae quasi expletam rerum comprehensionem amplectuntur: ‘Si homo est, animal est
mortale, rationis particeps.’ Quo e genere nobis notitiae rerum imprimuntur, sine quibus nec
intellegi quidquam nec quaeri disputarive potest.
176 Bonazzi
the causal mechanism (the “naturalistic assumption,” in other words) that pro-
duces these ennoiai actually produces essential ennoiai (so to speak).32
From this a second problem derives. Given that this essentialist principle is
not granted, what justifies the Stoic claim that the articulation of the ennoiai
(of these opaque, empirically derived conceptions) in definitions leads to
scientific knowledge (epistēmē)? A testimony from Alcinous is a good example
of this second problem:
If, again, acts of learning are instances of remembering, then the soul
is immortal. That learning is remembering we may infer as follows.
Learning cannot arise in any other way than by remembering what was
formerly known. If we had in fact to start from particulars in forming
our conception of common qualities (ἐνενοῦμεν τὰς κοινότητας),33 how
could we ever traverse the infinite series of particulars, or alternatively
how could we form such a conception on the basis of a small number
(for we could be deceived, as for instance if we came to the conclusion
that only that which breathed was an animal); or how could concepts
function as principles (ἢ πῶς ἂν τὸ ἀρχικὸν εἶεν αἱ ἔννοιαι;)?34 So we derive
our thoughts through recollection, on the basis of small sparks, under the
stimulus of certain particular impressions remembering what we knew
long ago, but suffered forgetfulness of at the time of our embodiment.
(Alc. Did. 177.45–178.10; trans. Dillon, slightly modified)35
Alcinous’s argument is clear.36 By using induction one can arrive at the notion
(koinē ennoia, see note) and “definition of animals as only those beings which
32 Hankinson, “Natural Criteria and the Transparency of Judgement,” 196; Brittain, “Common
Sense,” 181–82 and 185.
33 “I.e. ‘universals.’ These would be any qualities common to more than one particular”
(Schrenk, “A Middle Platonic Reading of Plato’s Theory of Recollection,” 104n8).
34 On this translation, see Schrenk, “A Middle Platonic Reading of Plato’s Theory of
Recollection,” 104n9.
35 Εἴ γε μὴν αἱ μαθήσεις ἀναμνήσεις εἰσίν, ἀθάνατος ἂν εἴη ψυχή· ὅτι δὲ αἱ μαθήσεις ἀναμνήσεις,
τοῦτον ἂν ἐπαχθείημεν τὸν τρόπον· οὐ γὰρ ἂν ἄλλως μάθησις ὑποσταίη, ἢ κατὰ ἀνάμνησιν τῶν
πάλαι γνωσθέντων. Εἰ γὰρ ἀπὸ τῶν κατὰ μέρος ἐνενοοῦμεν τὰς κοινότητας, πῶς ἂν τὰ κατὰ μέρος
διωδεύσαμεν ἄπειρα ὑπάρχοντα, ἢ πῶς ἀπ’ ὀλίγων; διεψεύσθημεν γὰρ ἄν, οἷον φέρε κρίναντες
τὸ ἀναπνοῇ χρώμενον μόνον ζῷον εἶναι· ἢ πιῶς ἂν τὸ ἀρχικὸν εἶεν αἱ ἔννοιαι; ἀναμνηστικῶς οὖν
νοοῦμεν ἀπὸ μικρῶν αἰθυγμάτων, ἀπό τινων κατὰ μέρος ὑποπεσόντων ἀναμιμνησκόμενοι τῶν
πάλαι ἐγνωσμένων, ὧν λήθην ἐλάβομεν ἐνσωματωθέντες.
36 In fact one may object that this argument does not address the Stoics. Philodemus’s
On Signs informs us that the Stoics too were well aware that induction alone was not
breathe. But this is not the case for there are some animals which do not
breathe.”37 The problem here is that induction and, more generally, any other
method grounded on sense perception “provides no mechanism for distin-
guishing such a false definition from a true one”; but if this is so, empirically-
derived notions and definitions cannot meet the standards of real scientific
knowledge (epistēmē).38 Therefore, it is not clear how ennoiai can be regarded
“as principles,” as Alcinous says.39
It is interesting to note that Alcinous’s argument against induction can
be paralleled with many other passages of the Pyrrhonian skeptic Sextus
Empiricus. This confirms that Platonists were using skeptical (probably
Academic) arguments, and the temptation is perhaps to endorse Sextus’s con-
clusions. For, more coherently it seems, Sextus argued against the validity of
such a method and therefore against the epistemological reliability of the uni-
versal empirically-derived notions:
s ufficient to guarantee any cogency to the conclusions (1.2–4.13), see Sedley, “On Signs,”
259. But Philodemus had already remarked that it is not clear how they could otherwise
obtain a satisfactory and cogent conclusion. Faithful to the empiricism of his own school,
Philodemus tries to argue in favor of such a method for an empiricist theory of knowl-
edge (On Signs 34.29–36.17). Alcinous seems to endorse Philodemus’s premise and ends
in the opposite direction. In fact there are two options: either recollection and innatism
or empiricism; and since Stoics do not accept Plato’s recollection, they fall in the other
option, with the result that they cannot account for the formation and articulation of
the ennoiai. Indeed, the comparison with the Epicureans shows what the real problem at
stake between Stoics and Platonists is. The problem is the transformation of these vague
ennoiai into scientific definitions (or to a complete grasp of the object, as Cic. Luc. 21 says,
cf. Schofield, “Preconception, Argument, and God,” 295). This was not a problem for the
Epicureans, for the Epicureans were happy to stay with ordinary notions and denied any
value to definitional inquiries (cf. Anon. In Tht. 22.39–46). But this was precisely what
Stoics and Platonists were doing; they were interested, as we have seen, in essences, defi-
nitions, and so on. And it is not clear how the Stoics could adequately argue in favor of
their position. We can admit that we naturally produce ordinary notions, but whether
these ordinary notions contain the essences should be proved; and insofar as this is not
proved, one can object that their conclusions might not be correct.
37 Schrenk, “The Middle Platonic Reception of Aristotelian Science,” 345. Here there is also
an interesting allusion to Aristotle. Indeed, the example chosen by Aristotle in Post. An.
100b2–3 to explain the production of principles via intuition is “living,” and the definition
of “living” as “being which breathes” is discussed and criticized in De an. 404a10 and De
resp. 470b–471b. I am not sure that this allusion can be read as a criticism of Aristotle,
as Schrenk argues (on p. 345), for Aristotle, like Alcinous, criticizes this option.
38 Schrenk, “The Middle Platonic Reception of Aristotelian Science,” 345.
39 On archē cf. also Alb. Prol. 150.23e and Plut. fr. 215b.
178 Bonazzi
It is also easy, I consider, to set aside the method of induction. For, when
they propose to establish the universal from the particulars by means of
induction, they will effect this by a review either of all or of some of the
particular instances. But if they review some, the induction will be inse-
cure, since some of the particulars omitted in the induction may contra-
vene the universal; while if they are to review all, they will be toiling at
the impossible, since the particulars are infinite and indefinite. Thus on
both grounds, as I think, the consequence is that induction is invalidated.
(Sext. Emp. PH 2.204; trans. R. G. Bury)40
This is not, however, Alcinous’s conclusion. Unlike Sextus, Alcinous does not
exclude the importance of the inductive method, nor does he deny the validity
of the ennoiai, as Sextus’s critique of induction affected the validity of univer-
sal notions. What he contests is only the empirical account of ennoiai. If it were
so, the result would be skepticism. But since it is not, another solution is pos-
sible. The strategic importance of recollection and of Ideas becomes therefore
clear. In short ennoiai are the criterion. And if they are to effectively serve as a
criterion, we must be sure that they are true. The Stoic empiricist explanation
is not able to guarantee their trustworthiness. But luckily, Platonists have the
solution, for they have a theory that can account for the formation of ennoiai
in a non-empiricist way: ennoiai depend on the prenatal view of Ideas and are
reactivated by the process of recollection.41 Moreover, we can rely on them
for scientific knowledge, for once correctly articulated in definitions, they will
lead us to the Ideas: this correspondence between the articulated ennoia and
the Form is the basis for epistēmē.42
40 Εὐπαραίτητον δὲ εἶναι νομίζω καὶ τὸν περὶ ἐπαγωγῆς τρόπον. ἐπεὶ γὰρ ἀπὸ τῶν κατὰ μέρος
πιστοῦσθαι βούλονται δι’ αὐτῆς τὸ καθόλου, ἤτοι πάντα ἐπιόντες τὰ κατὰ μέρος τοῦτο ποιήσουσιν
ἢ τινά. ἀλλ’ εἰ μὲν τινά, ἀβέβαιος ἔσται ἡ ἐπαγωγή, ἐνδεχομένου τοῦ ἐναντιοῦσθαι τῷ καθόλου
τινὰ τῶν παραλειπομένων κατὰ μέρος ἐν τῇ ἐπαγωγῇ· εἰ δὲ πάντα, ἀδύνατα μοχθήσουσιν,
ἀπείρων ὄντων τῶν κατὰ μέρος καὶ ἀπεριορίστων. ὥσθ’ οὕτως ἑκατέρωθεν, οἶμαι, συμβαίνει
σαλεύεσθαι τὴν ἐπαγωγήν.
41 “Perceptions of sensible objects, though not evidence for the Forms, are able to trigger
the mind to recall what it already knows” (Schrenk, “A Middle Platonic Reading of Plato’s
Theory of Recollection,” 107). By the way, it is interesting to remark that given their theory,
Platonists are also able to account for the importance of induction: “Induction is particu-
larly useful for activating the natural concepts” (Alc. Did. 158.3).
42 Remarkably, this appears to be the sense of Plutarch’s critique in the much debated fr.
215: “That the problem advanced in the Meno, namely whether search and discovery are
possible, leads to a real impasse. For we do not, on the one hand, try to find out things we
know—a futile proceeding—nor, on the other, things we do not know, since even if we
Alcinous and other Platonists’ strategy is clear. The problem with the
Stoics—unlike, for instance, the Epicureans—is not their doctrine (in this
case the theory of ennoiai as criterion for epistēmē) or the assumptions on
which their doctrine rests (the commitment to the view that knowledge is pos-
sible): both their theory and the commitment to the possibility of knowledge
can be shared. Their problem is that they cannot properly account for their
theory, for they mistakenly persist in defending an empiricist concept forma-
tion. The Stoic theory is correct but inadequately grounded. The Platonist
reshaping of that very same theory offers, therefore, an explicit solution and
an implicit exhortation: the solution is the innatist/metaphysical foundation;
the exhortation is that the Stoics, if they want to defend their theory, must
become Platonists and are obliged to insert their doctrine into the Platonist,
that is metaphysical, context.
This is an illuminating example of the strategy adopted by Platonists to con-

front and subordinate Stoicism, a strategy that I propose to label “perfidious.”
There is a word in the Latin vocabulary that passed into many modern lan-
guages: perfidia. As the Oxford Etymological Dictionary explains, perfidia comes
from per (through) and fides (faith); its original meaning is therefore some-
thing like “to deceive through faith,” per fidem decipere. It appears that I am a
loyal friend and that you can trust that my suggestions will improve your ideas,
come across them we do not recognize them: they might be anything. The Peripatetics
introduced the conception of ‘potential intuition’; but the origin of our difficulty was
actual knowing and not knowing. Even if we grant the existence of potential intuition,
the difficulty remains unchanged. How does the intuition operate? It must be either on
what it knows or on what it does not know. The Stoics make the ‘natural conceptions’
responsible (οἱ δὲ ἀπὸ τῆς Στοᾶς τὰς φυσικὰς ἐννοίας αἰτιῶνται). If these are potential,
we shall use the same argument as against the Peripatetics; and if they are actual, why
do we search for what we know? And if we use them as a starting-point for a search
for other things that we do not know, how do we search for what we do not know?”
(Plut. fr. 215f; trans. Sandbach). See Boys-Stones, “Alcinous, Didaskalikos 4,” 220–21:
“Plutarch is clear that the Platonic doctrine of recollection is the only way through the
paradox set in the Meno. What is interesting is that he recognises in the Stoic doctrine of
phusikai ennoiai an attempt to tackle the same issue—but an attempt that fails. Where
Platonists ‘memories’ contrive to avoid Meno’s dilemma by being at the beginning of the
inquiry both actual and potential in a sense, Stoic physikai ennoiai are definitely one or
the other, and so constantly vulnerable to one or other horn of the dilemma.”
180 Bonazzi
and the result is that your ideas are appropriated: I appropriate your ideas and
triumph. This I would call a “perfidious strategy,” and this seems to me a good
description of the Platonist strategy with regard to many Stoic doctrines.43 The
adoption of typically Stoic terms and notions does not depend on any eclectic
attitude, nor is it a neutral practice, but it leads to the transformation of such
terms and notions into a different, Platonic, context. Underlining the affinities
does not therefore bring the two schools closer together but rather aims at
the subordination of one. It does not appear but in fact is part of a polemical
debate. Indeed, it is a remarkable fact that many other early imperial Platonist
doctrines appear to follow a similar pattern with regard to Stoicism. Given this
polemical context, it is not surprising if Platonists talked of eupatheiai in rela-
tion to their tripartite psychology and in open discussion with the Stoics, and
even added a fourth eupatheia to the three of the standard Hellenistic (that
is Stoic) theory,44 or if they endorsed a similar compatibilist position with
regard to the problem of determinism and human responsibility.45 These are
only some examples of the same polemical strategy; many others, which still
wait to be adequately investigated, can be added. And it is even more interest-
ing that a similar discourse can also be applied to a more general problem:
the systematic organization of Plato’s philosophy, which is probably the most
important contribution of the early imperial Platonists to the long history of
Platonism. Indeed, it is precisely in this period that the exigency to organize
the dialogues into a coherent and systematic whole came to be felt. This might
depend on the scholastic nature of philosophy at that time: philosophy was
now the affair of teachers, and teachers notoriously love classifications and
order. But it is not only that, for the testimonies clearly show that once again it
was the confrontation with Stoicism that played a substantial role. As already
remarked, Stoicism was at that time the leading philosophy and was famous
for its “perfect” system. It is therefore predictable that the attempt of newcom-
ers such as the Platonists to be taken seriously as real philosophers (not neces-
sarily by the other schools but at least by the audience of potential pupils) was
also dependent on their capacity to produce a coherent interpretation of their
philosopher, Plato. This is precisely what they did from the very beginning with
Antiochus claiming that Plato left a perfectissima disciplina (Cic. Luc. 15), and it
43 As already envisaged by Donini, Le scuole, l’anima, l’impero, 81, with regard to Antiochus
of Ascalon.
44 See Plut. De virt. mor. 449B with Bonazzi, “Antiochus and Platonism,” 331.
45 Cf. Boys-Stones, “Middle Platonists on Fate and Human Autonomy,” discussed by
Opsomer, “The Middle Platonic Doctrine of Conditional Fate.”
is remarkable that they adopted the very same tripartition of the Stoics.46
It might be argued that they did so because this was the standard classifica-
tion. But in fact it was not: it was the Stoic tripartition. In this case as well, it is
reasonable to assume that it was not simply a matter of passive reception but
also of appropriating (and subordinating).
Undoubtedly, such a strategy was brilliant, and it enabled the latecom-
ers, the Platonists, to find a seat at the philosophical table. It is precisely in
this period that Platonism became the most important philosophy, and it is a
reasonable hypothesis that its success depended, at least in part, on its seem-
ing capacity to offer new solutions to old problems—problems for which the
old traditional schools did not appear to be able to offer solutions. If one fur-
ther considers that a similar strategy was later adopted also in rapport with
Aristotle, one will agree that the standard description of Platonism as the syn-
thesis of Greek philosophy is not far from the truth.
Needless to say, however, the Platonist success does not mean that they
were really capable of offering the definitive answer. Indeed, several doubts
still remained open. Two in particular deserve to be mentioned. First, there is
an exegetico-historical problem, for one may wonder how correct this reshap-
ing of Plato’s philosophy into a closed system was. Does this really do justice to
the richness and vivacity of the dialogues? This is the perennial question of the
history of philosophy, to which no satisfactory answer can be given. In antiq-
uity, as today, Plato’s readers divided themselves in two camps: those commit-
ted to the view that Plato’s philosophy can be reduced to a coherent system
and those who denied it. What is important is to remark that the defense of a
systematic interpretation of Plato had a historical development in antiquity: it
is not a perennial truth.
This is not the only problem, for a philosophical question also needs to
be raised: can we really assume that the Platonist appropriation of the Stoic
theory was successful? Indeed, we have already remarked that the Platonist
reshaping of the Stoic doctrine rests on an implicit assumption that is never
doubted, which is that knowledge is possible. That is, by accounting for the
process of knowledge, Platonists can be expected to show that knowledge is
possible. But were they successful? To put it more clearly: one major purpose
of the Stoic doctrine of the criterion was precisely to prove that knowledge
is possible against the skeptical challenge of Academics such as Arcesilaus,
46 I leave aside the problem of the presumed influence of Xenocrates on the Stoics. What
is certain, in any case, is that the Stoic tripartition of philosophy into logic, physics, and
ethics was not suited for the Platonist system: soon a new classification was provided that
culminated in epoptics; cf. Bonazzi, “Il posto dell’etica nel sistema del platonismo.”
182 Bonazzi
Carneades, and Philo of Larissa. So there is another question that runs in

parallel with that of which epistemology—Stoic or Platonist—was the best:
whether this theory was really able to defy the skeptical challenge. As we have
seen, that the Stoics were not able to do so is the conviction of the Platonists.
Indeed, the arguments that they used to attack Stoic empiricism can be
found in Plato, but they were also traceable (and were in fact traced) to the
Hellenistic Academy. Perhaps the Platonists were right, and the Stoics were
wrong. But whether their theory was superior with regard to the skeptical chal-
lenge still waits to be proved. And it is debatable that this can be proved, for
a remarkable feature of almost all imperial Platonists is the view that Ideas
are not properly objects of epistemic knowledge. Strange as this may appear,
this is what we find in thinkers such as Plutarch or Alcinous, both arguing,
though in different ways, that the soul will be able to see and grasp the Ideas
only after the death of and separation from the body.47 If ennoiai depend on
Ideas, but Ideas are not knowable, we can hardly say that the Ideas are the
evident truth upon which the rest of our knowledge can securely rest. But if
this is so, the conclusion is that the Platonist theory was not able to refute the
skeptical challenge. In short the risk is that between Stoics and Platonists
the winners are the Academics. This is not without irony, for it can be remarked
that the Academics also massively employed a sort of perfidious argument
when they invited Stoics to become skeptics in order to preserve the coher-
ence of their claims.48 Epochē is the unavoidable conclusion that follows from
both the demonstration that Stoic katalēpsis is not possible and the Stoic claim
that the sage will never assent to an opinion: if I cannot distinguish true from
false impressions (this is the akatalēpsia thesis) but do not want to assent to
a false one, the only remaining solution is to always suspend my judgment. If
the same conclusion holds also in the case of the Platonists, as it seems to hold
if the ideas are not knowable, one may conclude by observing that they finally
met philosophers who were even more perfidious. And the moral of all this
47 Cf. for instance Plut. De Is. et Os. 351C, 382F–383A; Alc. Did. 155.20–36 and 164.13–18. I refer
to Bonazzi, À la recherche des Idées, 106–26, for a detailed analysis of this problem.
48 Cf. the seminal study by Couissin, “Le stoïcisme de la Nouvelle Académie.” See, for
instance, how Cicero introduces Arcesilaus’s position in Luc. 76 (trans. Long-Sedley):
“Arcesilaus fought with Zeno not for the sake of criticizing him, but from a wish to dis-
cover the truth, as what follows makes plain: no one previously had clearly expounded, or
even stated, the thesis that a human being can refrain from opining and that a wise man
not only can but must do so. To Arcesilaus this idea seemed both true and honourable and
worthy of a wise man.”
debate seems to be perfectly described by an Italian proverb: “Dagli amici mi

guardi Iddio, ché dai nemici mi guardo io.” Or, if you prefer Ovid:
Quos credis fidos, effuge: tutus eris.
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Whittaker, John. “Platonic Philosophy in the Early Centuries of the Empire.” ANRW
2.36, no. 1 (1987): 81–123.
Vehementia: A Rhetorical Basis of Polemics in
Roman Philosophy
Carlos Lévy
The two alternative etymologies that Ernout and Meillet proposed for vehe-
mens reflect the problems posed by this term:1 vehemens may derive from veho
(the more plausible etymology), or it may come from mens, with ve- taken as
the privative prefix (as found, for example, in vesanus). To this we must add a
Varronian etymology, both fanciful and suggestive, that would derive the word
from a vi mentis “with mental force.”2 If so, vehementia evokes the impulse
toward and possibility (or impossibility) of regulating this force. But what is
its source? It seems to me that there are three possible ways of approaching
this term. We may begin with everything that modern languages (ex., French,
English) comprehend in the semantic field of vehemence. Or we can decide
that vehemens simply corresponds to the deinotēs of Greek rhetoric, which
Pierre Chiron has studied in depth with regard to Pseudo-Demetrius.3 Or we
can give primacy to the actual texts, bracketing everything that exists before
and after the Latin, and focus on the instances of vehementia, first in Latin
rhetorical treatises and then in Latin philosophy, before homing in on the
apposite use of the term in Latin philosophical practice. It is the last method
that is employed here. Because the core of the study involves polemics, we will
set aside almost totally the often vigorous arguments about the sublime, with
which vehemence has rather complex links.4
1 Ernout and Meillet, Dictionnaire étymologique, 717.

2 See Gell. NA 16.5, 6; Q. Terentius Scaurus, De Orthographia (Grammatici Latini ex Recensione
Henrici Keilii, vol. 7, ed. H. Keil, 1880, 19).
3 Chiron, Un rhéteur méconnu, 48–57. The presence of the “vehement style” in Pseudo-
Demetrius IV poses a problem and gives an impression of confusion, highlighted by a num-
ber of scholars. The explanation offered by Chiron (51–52) is that the definition of deinos
evolves. To this he adds, “The dominant and explicit idea is that vehemence, produced by
passion and urgency, is incompatible with the conscious, detailed, and concerted effort of
style. It is spontaneous, direct, and extemporaneous. The vehement style is then defined as
the accumulation of short periods. What the vehement style and the elegant style have in
common is brevity and simplicity” (trans. Lenn Schramm).
4 See Fumaroli, L’âge de l’éloquence, 54ff. For a complete treatment of the sublime in Seneca,
see the opposing views of Michel, “Rhétorique, tragédie et philosophie,” and Setaioli, “Duae
messe a punto senecane.”

186 Lévy
1 The Rhetorical Formalization
Latin rhetoric does not seem to have thought about vehementia on its own.
Neither Cicero nor Quintilian offers a definition of it. This is undoubtedly
related to the fact that deinotēs itself (at least to judge by what Pseudo-
Demetrius wrote about it) seems to have been a concept that was hard to pin
down, located as it was at the confluence of spontaneous oratory and elabo-
rate rhetoric. In Cicero’s earliest treatise on rhetoric, De inventione, which is
both close to a Greek source as well as the laboratory in which Cicero created
the rhetorical terminology he continued to use thereafter, there is no theo-
retical attention to vehementia; in fact it plays a very minor role there. In most
instances words of the vehemens family are employed as intensives for a verb
or adjective.
There are few exceptions to this poverty. Praise for a character is said to be
honorable, but criticism is “vehement”;5 the juxtaposition of statements and
intentions with the written text is presented as a powerful means of persua-
sion: “vehementissimum est.”6 Here, at the outset of Cicero’s thinking about
rhetoric, vehementia is essentially perceived as a shock to the listener’s mind,
a blow intended to win his agreement. Of course this can always be imputed
to the fact that De inventione, by definition, addresses only the first aspect of
rhetoric and that vehemence relates rather to the side of oratorical presen-
tation, elocutio, as shown by the frequent references to deinotēs in Pseudo-
Demetrius’s On Style.
Hence we need to move on to the Rhetorica ad Herennium, which, because
it covers the entire domain of rhetoric, conveys a more detailed and complete
picture of the concept. There we find vehementia not only as forceful expres-
sion but also as a concept with practical and aesthetic aspects that is conse-
quently not perceived only from the angle of movere. In 3.26 we encounter the
need to bring one’s face as close as possible to the audience when “we wish to
prove a point and arouse them vigorously (vehementer).”7 Even if vehemence
is not an attribute of elocution, it is nevertheless frequently evoked in the con-
text of oratorical style. If we put all the passages together, its essence seems to
be repetition. The Auctor says of conduplicatio, reduplication, that the repeti-
tion of a word has a strong effect on the listener and can be compared to a
5 Inv. rhet. 2.178: “but praise of a man’s mind is honourable and censure of it very effective”
(trans. H. M. Hubbell). animi autem et laus honesta est et vituperatio vehemens est.
6 Inv. rhet. 2.125.
7 Rhet. Her. 3.26; trans. Caplan. si quam rem docere eos et uehementer instigare uelimus.
dagger that is plunged into the same spot again and again.8 So too frequenta-
tio, accumulation, which brings together elements scattered throughout the
speech in order to give them greater power, with the consolidation of themes
accompanied by the repetition of words.9 There is also ratiocinatio, which piles
up question after question in order to interrogate the suspect about the deed
being investigated.10 Expolitio, or refinement, repeats the same topic while giv-
ing an impression of variety: for example, by altering the delivery or tone “quite
strikingly” (vehementer).11 But vehementia can also be based on opposition and
play on the contrast between what is certain and what is not, thereby sowing
confusion in the mind of the vacillating listener and leaving him unsettled.12
Although Cicero was not much more explicit about the theoretical side in
De oratore, a number of passages in that dialogue bear closer examination.
One of these is the distinction, in book 2, between two types of speech—the
mild and gentle (lenis) and the spirited (vehemens).13 The former is intended
to establish the speaker’s oratorical personality and convey him as a moderate
man, fully aware of the weight of his words.14 The latter is a powerful weapon
that can be used to shatter the hearers’ resistance and then manipulate them
with ease.
In such a context, the physics of speech is relatively simple: it is a matter
of countering the force of the other side—whether active or inertial—with a
greater force. There remains, however, a more difficult problem to resolve: how
much force can gentle speech—that is, speech that does not make its strength
felt through the power of the voice or extreme modulations, accompanied by
vigorous gestures—exert? Must we accept that speech may in some fashion
8 Rhet. Her. 4.38.

9 Rhet. Her. 4.52.
10 Rhet. Her. 4.23.
11 pronuntiationem quoque uehementer immutabimus.
12 Rhet. Her. 4.26.
13 De or. 2. 211: “And, just as that other kind of style, which by bearing witness to the speaker’s
integrity is to preserve the semblance of a man of worth, should be mild and gentle (as I
have repeatedly said already), so this kind, assumed by the speaker in order to transform
men’s feelings or influence them in any desired way, should be spirited (vehemens) and
emotional” (trans. E. W. Sutton). Et ut illa altera pars orationis, quae probitatis commenda-
tione boni viri debet speciem tueri, lenis, ut saepe iam dixi, atque summissa, sic haec, quae
suscipitur ab oratore ad commutandos animos atque omni ratione flectendos, intenta ac
vehemens esse debet.
14 See Guérin, Théorisation cicéronienne, 324n2, criticizing Fantham (“Ciceronian Conciliare
and Aristotelian Ethos”), who maintained that in the De oratore Cicero confounded con-
ciliare and movere.
188 Lévy
be inherently weak or strong? Cicero answers this quite clearly, with a sort of
implicit sorites that challenges the cut-and-dried distinction between a strong
force and a weak force. The difference is abolished, or at least overcome, by the
construction of a system of forces:
Yet these two kinds of speaking, one of which should be gentle, the other
vehement, show a certain similarity, which makes it difficult to keep
them apart. For something of that gentleness, which wins us the favor
of the audience, ought to flow into this vigorous forcefulness, by which
we stir that same audience; and again from this forcefulness some spirit
must sometimes animate that gentleness. No speech is better blended
than one in which the sharpness of energetic passages is seasoned with
the personal humanity of the orator, while the relaxed attitude of gen-
tleness is given strength by some weightiness and energy. (De or. 2. 212;
trans. May-Wisse)15
The language here, aside from its literary style, is that of physics: vis, influere,
inflare, gravitas, contentio. The power exerted by an oration is defined as the
resultant of multiple forces, some of which are immediately felt as strong,
while others seem to be of lesser intensity. The essential point is that their
overall effect gives the greatest possible power to the whole. Seen in this way,
ornamentation, humor, and ironic allusions are not external to this system of
forces but intrinsic components thereof, of equal importance with the delivery
(actio). Both vis and delectatio, power and charm, are imperative in an oration,
not as two ontologically different principles but as a single dynamic reality
whose intensity, which can be adjusted within that system, must be modulated
in order to produce the greatest effect.
The military metaphor, prominent in both Roman rhetoric and Roman
philosophy, recurs in Partitiones oratoriae 14:16 the prosecutor’s arguments
are like a lance that he hurls with great force (vehementer). But it is perhaps
the Orator that offers us the most interesting ideas, when it seems to set
15 Sed est quaedam in his duobus generibus, quorum alterum lene, alterum vehemens esse
volumus, difficilis ad distinguendum similitudo; nam et ex illa lenitate, qua conciliamur eis,
qui audiunt, ad hanc vim acerrimam, qua eosdem excitamus, influat oportet aliquid, et ex
hac vi non numquam animi aliquid inflandum est illi lenitati. Neque est ulla temperatior
oratio quam illa, in qua asperitas contentionis oratoris ipsius humanitate conditur, remissio
autem lenitatis quadam gravitate et contentione firmatur.
16 See Lévy, “Le philosophe et le légionnaire.”
vehementia exclusively on the side of movere, if we give credence to §69, which

states that the eloquence he is seeking, the most complete possible, must be
“subtile in probando, modicum in delectando, vehemens in flectendo” (subtle
in proving, moderate in delighting, vehement in diverting). Somewhat ear-
lier, in §20, he states that the essential trait of grandiloquent orators is that,
thanks to the weight of their thought and the majesty of their expression, they
are “vehementes, varii, copiosi, graves, ad permovendos et convertendos animos
instructi et parati (“vehement, various, copious, authoritative; well adapted and
prepared to create deep emotions and to effect radical changes in men’s feel-
ings”). To this we may add an interesting observation from our current perspec-
tive: this grand style, which has the ability to move and persuade, in fact goes
beyond mere style, because the same objective can be achieved with language
that is “rough, unpolished, and careless” (horrida oratione neque perfecta atque
conclusa) and with a speech that is “smooth, well structured, and polished”
(levi et structa et terminata).
If we now turn now to Quintilian, we note that he really has nothing to add
to Cicero, as is the case in so many instances. The most interesting passage
is found in 2.9.6, where, reflecting on how Latin can render the distinction
between ethos and pathos, he contrasts lenes motus with vehementes motus:
the latter produce inner turmoil, whereas the former open the hearers’ minds
(hos ad perturbationem, illos ad benivolentiam praevalere).
These remarks can lead to only tentative conclusions. There is no doubt that
the conceptualization of vehementia has scarcely advanced, in the sense
that neither Cicero nor Quintilian offers a definition that covers every facet.
Still, Quintilian’s approach is more complex. For him vehementia is no longer
just a hammer blow that batters down the defenses of those who do not want
to be persuaded; instead, with a more nuanced understanding of the issue, he
sees it as part of a full arsenal of aesthetic and psychological devices.
2 Toward a Philosophical Definition?
When he was left at leisure, first by the civil war and then Caesar’s dictator-
ship, Cicero had time to conduct a closer study, from the philosophical per-
spective, of the concept of vehementia, which, until then, he had more or
less seen as an appendage to movere. He analyzes it in his philosophical writ-
ings, especially the Tusculan Disputations, where he explores the psychology
of the passions through two lenses: the Platonic, with regard to ontology, and
the Stoic, for a description of the pathē and presentation of the appropriate
190 Lévy
treatment.17 Here we will not delve into a problem that has inspired many
studies in recent years18 but will suffice with defining, as precisely as we can,
the role of the Roman version of vehementia. Cicero provides the following
definition of the passion (aegrotatio): “a vigorous (vehementem) opining that
some object is worthy of pursuit which is in fact not worthy of pursuit,
that opinion being deeply attached and rooted in the mind.”19 For the Stoics
passion, when ingrained, is simply an error of judgment: an opinatio vehe-
mens, Cicero’s rendering of the Stoic concept of an excessive impulse (ὁρμὴ
πλεονάζουσα). In this he remains faithful to Stoicism because the mistaken
opinion is accompanied by an excess of hormē, that is, of the vital impulse
that, although common to animals and human beings, is rational only in
the latter. He says this in so many words later on, when he takes up Zeno’s
definition of passion.20 For the founder of Stoicism, passion is a confusion
of the soul and opposed to its rational nature; it is an impulse that is exces-
sive, too strong, as exemplified by Chrysippus’s metaphor of the runner who,
carried by his momentum, continues running far beyond the finish line.21
But the most important detail, for us, is Cicero’s remark, in the same place:
“By ‘too vigorous’ (vehementior) he means an impulse which varies widely from
the consistency of nature.”22 The fact that Cicero felt the need to define the
scope of the comparative shows that he was aware of the semantic innovation
he was about to make. Vehementia makes it possible to avoid dualism by intro-
ducing the idea of a disorder in nature itself, identified as universal reason.
We should also note a passage that, superficially rather trivial, is important
for the polemical use of the concept in question: “You sometimes see me argu-
ing my cases more vehemently than usual: do you think I am always angry on
17 See on this point Lévy, Cicero Academicus, 472–80.

18 For a nonexhaustive list, see Pigeaud, La maladie de l’âme; Fillon-Lahille, Le De ira de
Sénèque; Inwood, Ethics and Human Action; Brunschwig and Nussbaum, Passions and
Perceptions; Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire; Cooper, Reason and Emotion; Sorabji,
Emotion and Peace of Mind; Lévy, “Chrysippe dans les Tusculanes”; Prost, Les théories hellé-
nistiques de la douleur; Gill, The Structured Self; Graver, Stoicism and Emotion; Sihvola and
Engberg-Pedersen, The Emotions in Hellenistic Philosophy.
19 Tusc. 4.26; trans. M. Graver. Opinationem vehementem de re non expetenda, tamquam
valde expetenda sit, inhaerentem et penitus insitam.
20 Tusc. 4.47.
21 See Galen, PHP 4.4.24–25 = SVF 3.476.
22 Tusc. 4.47; trans. M. Graver. Ut perturbatio sit adpetitus vehementior, vehementior autem
intellegatur is qui procul absit a naturae constantia.
those occasions?”23 The question is whether the speaker must feel the passion
himself or merely simulate it—a question already addressed by Antonius in
the De oratore and answered in the affirmative: there the orator asserts that
he was incapable of moving others if he himself was not moved.24 The pre-
sentation is artificial: using “vigorous and vehement” (acrius et vehementius)
language when arguing a case does not mean that you are angry. So at the same
time that he associates vehementia with passion, Cicero prescribes an emo-
tional introspection that allows an appropriate use of vehemence. If an orator
can be vehement even when not truly impassioned, a philosopher too should
be able to employ vehementia to good advantage. It remains only to define how
he does this: but this is not so simple, because, despite its increasing presence
in the text, the meaning of vehementia remains unclear. We shall return to this
later. First, however, we need to take a look at Seneca’s contribution to the fur-
ther development of its philosophical sense.
Seneca allows that vehemence can be positive, in a way that Cicero does not.
It is true that there is nothing systematic, only a series of sometimes surprising
remarks. They can be linked to a difference of temperament but also to a more
relaxed idea of Stoic psychological monism than the one Cicero developed in
the Tusculan Disputations. Thus, in Letter 66, in the midst of a long and vivid
exposition of the virtuous soul, the adjective vehemens pops up where least
expected, in association with the wise man who is magnus and vehemens—
a nexus where vehementia must carry the sense of an energy that is immense
but also totally under control, “well ordered with regard to both seemliness
and strength.”25 Virtue reunites what is broken apart by passion. Seneca
23 Tusc. 4.55; trans. M. Graver. An tibi irasci tum videmur, cum quid in causis acrius et vehe-
mentius dicimus.
24 De or. 2.191.
25 Ep. 66.6: “It is a mind which contemplates the truth, is experienced in the matter of what
should be pursued and what avoided, assigns values to things in accordance with nature
and not on the basis of mere opinion, involves itself in the whole cosmos and directs its
reflection to all of its [i.e., the cosmos’s] actions, is focused on thought and action in a
balanced manner, is great, energetic (vehemens), unconquered by hardship and pleasures
alike and submissive to neither circumstance, rising above everything which happens
to befall it, is very beautiful, well ordered with regard to both seemliness and strength,
is sound and sober, undisturbed and fearless, immune to violent blows, neither elated
nor depressed by the events of fortune. Virtue is this kind of mind” (trans. B. Inwood,
slightly modified). Animus intuens vera, peritus fugiendorum ac petendorum, non ex opin-
ione sed ex natura pretia rebus inponens, toti se inserens mundo et in omnis eius actus con-
templationem suam mittens, cogitationibus actionibusque intentus ex aequo, magnus ac
vehemens, asperis blandisque pariter invictus, neutri se fortunae summittens, supra omnia
192 Lévy
e ffectively says that there is nothing great about anger, even when it appears
to be vehemens and seems to reflect contempt for men and gods.26 Only in
wisdom can vehementia be a virtue, or at least support virtue. The best proof of
this philosophical upgrading of vehementia is found in the Natural Questions.
In a passage that resists easy interpretation, Seneca, evidently taking his cue
from the Stoic doctrine of tonos, affirms the existence of a force that animates
all of nature and which he defines by means of vehementia and intentio, vio-
lence and tension.27 In that context vehementia does not mean transgressing
the appropriate bounds; it is, rather, part of the dynamic infrastructure with-
out which the world could not exist. No one seems to have remarked the full
significance of Seneca’s innovation; it is true, however, that he failed to present
the idea with as much clarity as he could have.
3 Vehementia, a Tool for Philosophical Disputation?
As our new point of departure we now take the opposing natures of these two
domains, philosophy and rhetoric, as illustrated by the different uses of the
metaphor of the runner. For the Stoic philosopher, as we have seen, the run-
ner is supposed to pull up as soon as he crosses the finish line; in other words,
he is to comply with the directives of reason and not try to assert himself by
means of a force he has no use for. When the same metaphor is employed in
the Rhetorica ad Herennium 4.60, it is turned on its head. Although the context
quae contingunt acciduntque eminens, pulcherrimus, ordinatissimus cum decore tum viri-
bus, sanus ac siccus, inperturbatus intrepidus, quem nulla vis frangat, quem nec attollant
fortuita nec deprimant—talis animus virtus est.
26 De ira 1.21.1: “There’s nothing great, then, nothing notable in anger, not even when it seems
to be vigorous, despising gods and men” (trans. R. A. Kaster). Nihil ergo in ira, ne cum vide-
tur quidem vehemens et deos hominesque despiciens, magnum, nihil nobile est.
27 Q. Nat. 2.8.1: “There is no need to spend <a long time> proving that there are some vio-
lent (vehementia), powerful things in nature. Now, nothing is more violent (vehementius)
than a result of tension, and equally, by Hercules, nothing will be able to acquire tension
from another thing unless something is in tension in itself; for, in the same way, we say
that nothing can be moved by another thing unless there is something that can move
of itself. Now what has a more credible claim to possess tension in and of itself than
breath?” (trans. H. M. Hine, slightly modified). Esse quaedam in rerum natura vehementia
magnique impetus non sit <diu> colligendum; nihil autem nisi intentione vehementius est,
tam mehercule quam nihil intendi ab alio poterit, nisi aliquid per semet fuerit intentum,—
dicimus enim eodem modo non posse quicquam ab alio moveri, nisi aliquid fuerit mobile ex
semet;—quid autem est quod magis credatur ex se ipso habere intentionem quam spiritus?
is different, of course, because the manual of rhetoric is dealing not with the
passions but with the theme of comparison, the point is not unimportant. It is
obvious to the orator, unlike the philosopher, that a runner cannot reach the
finish line unless he has sufficient momentum to continue past it. This dif-
ference is where vehementia is found; the boundary between philosophy and
rhetoric passes through the sense of this term. So how should a Roman who is
both philosopher and orator behave when philosophy directs him to stop at
the finish line and rhetoric tells him to continue past it? I believe that the cases
of Cicero and Seneca reveal significant differences.
If we are to believe the Orator,28 vehemence is foreign to the philosophical
style because, Cicero says, the latter is delicate and afraid of the sun. It does not
employ anger, hatred, violence, pathos, or cunning. It is as chaste and reserved
as a spotless virgin. This is why it falls into the category of sermo, conversa-
tional discourse. As a faithful reader and translator of Plato, however, Cicero
could not ignore the fact that some passages in the dialogues express real pas-
sion, such as (to take only one example), Callicles’s outburst in the Gorgias.
Cicero himself, who makes a clear distinction in De officiis29 between tense
discourse (contentio) and conversational speech (sermo), and assigns philos-
ophy to the latter category, applies contentio in the De finibus to his dispute
with the Stoics, which, he says, is even more contentious than his critique of
the Epicureans.30 Thus he implicitly recognizes that philosophy is not exclu-
sively an arena of serene dialogue. All the same, philosophical contentio will
always be of a lower intensity than the interchanges in the Forum, because it
lacks the furor of rhetoric and the sometimes vital stakes of political assem-
blies or judicial tribunals. How, then, can one reconcile the essential tranquil-
ity of p
hilosophical d iscourse with the violence that may erupt in the disputes
28 Orat. 64: “It is therefore easy to distinguish the eloquence which we are treating in this
work from the style of the philosophers. The latter is gentle and academic; it has no equip-
ment of words or phrases that catch the popular fancy; it is not arranged in rhythmical
periods, but is loose in structure; there is no anger in it, no hatred, no ferocity, no pathos,
no shrewdness; it might be called a chaste, pure and modest virgin. Consequently it is
called a conversation rather than oratory. While all speaking is oratory, yet it is the speech
of the orator alone which is marked by this special name” (trans. H. M. Hubbell). Mollis
est enim oratio philosophorum et umbratilis nec sententiis nec verbis instructa popularibus
nec vincta numeris sed soluta liberius; nihil iratum habet nihil invidum nihil atrox nihil mise-
rabile nihil astutum; casta, verecunda, virgo incorrupta quodam modo. Itaque sermo potius
quam oratio dicitur. Quanquam enim omnis locutio oratio est tamen unius oratoris locutio
hoc proprio signata nomine est.
29 Off. 1.132. On this passage, see Lévy, “La conversation à Rome.”
30 Fin. 3.2.
194 Lévy
between rival schools or between individuals who are defending opposing

views?
In the Lucullus, one of the first philosophical treatises of the last period,
Cicero proposes a somewhat organizational solution for the tension between
rhetoric and philosophy and returns to it in the first Tusculan Disputations. At
first he submits to the requirements of dialectic and expresses himself rather
dryly (ieiune), replying methodically, point by point, to the Stoics; then he says
that he would rather take his stand on a level where the discussion can proceed
freely, when there is “an open field for my speech to freely run in” (in qua exul-
tare posit oratio).31 This does not mean that everything must be vehement but
that vehemence has to be an option. It remains to see how this can be recon-
ciled with not only the peaceful character of philosophic speech but also with
Roman social codes. Reacting to a passage in which Cicero lashes out violently
against Epicurus, Augustine writes that it is mira urbanitate conditus . . . etiam
firmitate roboratus, refined yet powerful.32 How did he accomplish this?
In the Ciceronian plan of philosophical debate, the Golden Rule of vehe-
mentia seems to be occupying the middle ground. In these dialogues, the polite
urbanitas that prevails among individuals who are all members of the Roman
aristocracy requires that the speaker not lay into his counterpart but attack
only what the latter is taken to represent. To put this another way, there is
never total identification of a person with the doctrine he maintains, just as an
attorney targets his client’s opponent much more than the latter’s own advo-
cate. Here we can offer only a few examples of this procedure, in order to show
how vehemence is present but directed against objectives that make it possible
to comply with Roman social norms, at least to some extent.
In the Lucullus, the first version of the Academica, and specifically the pas-
sage that comes after the speech by Lucullus, the defender of Antiochus’s
Platonico-Stoic dogmatism, the sequence runs as follows:
• Lucullus concludes his defense of Antiochus’s ideas with a peroration in the

appropriate register of persuasion, in which he exhorts Cicero to renounce
his skepticism. The vehement tone is matched, however, by a somewhat
31 Luc. 112. On this point, see Lévy, “La conversation à Rome,” 176; Ruch, “La disputatio in
utramque partem.”
32 C Acad. 3.7. 14–16: “In the books that Cicero wrote in support of their position, there is a
certain passage that seems to me to have a remarkably witty flavor; it seems to not a few
people to be strong and forceful as well” (trans. Peter King). Nam est in libris Ciceronis,
quos in huius causae patrocinium scripsit, locus quidam, ut mihi videtur, mira urbanitate
conditus, ut nonnullis autem, etiam firmitate roboratus.
sycophantic mention of the consul’s high status. It is precisely because he

brought Catiline’s conspiracy to light that Cicero cannot say, as Archesilas
does, that everything remains in the shadows.33
• Cicero replies by emphasizing that he too chooses the register of movere.34
While acknowledging Lucullus’s authority and ability, he employs the grand
style to demonstrate the importance of uncovering the truth and the chal-
lenge that the great task of passing from the plausible to the truth repre-
sents for a small and fallible man (magnus opinator; later, in 134, homuncio)
like himself.
• After a definition of the discrimen, the point to be judged, there comes a
passage of extreme vehemence, a vituperatio that makes use of all the stylis-
tic figures of the genre—a personal indictment strewn with multiple ques-
tions and exclamations.35 Each question is followed by a scathing response,
which batters down in advance all the arguments that could be advanced to
defend Antiochus. The conclusion is clear: by leaving the New Academy to
join the Old, Antiochus has convicted himself of inconstantia, a result of the
levitas for which the Greeks are frequently castigated but which disqualifies
him as a philosopher. There is no reference to Lucullus in this bravura pas-
sage. Antiochus is inconsistent and erratic, but Lucullus, who follows his
teachings and defends him, remains a model of Roman gravitas.
Does this mean that vehemence is reserved for critiques of Greek philosophers?
The situation is more nuanced than that. When Lucullus, in §13, compares the
New Academics with the populares, he employs the second-person plural,
which Cicero observes must refer to himself: “ ‘first you (pl.) seem to me,’ he
was in fact addressing me by name” (“Primum mihi videmini,” me autem nomine
appellabat). Why not use the second-person singular, given that this allusion to
Roman politics is meaningful only with reference to Cicero himself? The point
33 Luc. 60–62.

34 Luc. 64: “At this point I was no less worked up than I tend to be in my more important legal
cases” (trans. Ch. Brittain). Tum ego, non minus commotus quam soleo in causis maioribus.
35 Luc. 69: “Did he think something up? What he says is the same as the Stoics. Perhaps he
was ashamed to have had such thoughts. Why didn’t he transfer his allegiance to oth-
ers, and particularly to the Stoics, since this was their disagreement with the Academics?
Was he really dissatisfied with Mnesarchus or with Dardanus, the leaders of the Stoics in
Athens at that time? He never left Philo until after he started to have his own students”
(trans. Ch. Brittain). Excogitavit aliquid? Eadem dicit quae Stoici. Paenituit illa sensisse?
Cur non se transtulit ad alios, et maxime ad Stoicos? Eorum enim erat propria ista dissensio.
Quid eum Mnesarchi paenitebat, quid Dardani? qui erant Athenis tum principes Stoicorum.
Numquam a Philone discessit, nisi postea quam ipse coepit qui se audirent habere.
196 Lévy
must be to keep the attack from being too frontal, to dilute it by evoking the
school and to maintain the sting of the rapprochement between Cicero and
the popular party, while not giving the appearance of a direct assault. This is
another strategy for reining in vehementia, with the objective of attenuating its
offense to the mutual respect that is supposed to prevail in conversation and
getting its object to assume responsibility for it. So Cicero himself takes up the
vigorous objections that Lucullus might advance against him:36 he develops
them at length, no doubt because this makes it easier to refute them but also
to avoid portraying Lucullus as attacking him violently.
The use of these strategies becomes more interesting in the case of the
philosophy that “naturally” leads to Ciceronian vehemence—Epicureanism.
The second book of the De finibus, which is a refutation of Torquatus’s argu-
ment, is full of invective that targets the Garden and Epicurus himself. In §12
we find the famous metaphor of sensual pleasure, compared to a courtesan
whom Epicurean philosophy forcibly introduces into a company of demure
matrons. This attack, of rare vehemence, is clearly directed at Torquatus but
in a different way. In the case of Roman Epicureans, the register of the meta-
phors changes, thanks to the reference to tradition—a reference that is cer-
tainly ironic but that also serves to reflect the change in the world. According
to Cicero, the Roman Epicureans do in their own way what their forebears did
when they dragged Cincinnatus from his plow to serve as dictator: they visit
the most remote Roman villages in search of adepts, ut maiores nostri, “like our
ancestors.” The expression is certainly sardonic and humorous but, at the same
time, reflects that there is something to be said for the Roman Epicureans
that cannot be said of the Greeks. We find the same thing with regard to the
Epicureans’ attempt to reconcile pleasure with ethics or, more precisely, to
base ethics on pleasure. The attack on Epicurus is extremely violent, punctu-
ated with a long series of exclamations and questions, because his project of
maintaining a rigorous ethical doctrine while making pleasure the alpha and
omega of ethics is suspect, to say the least. When it comes to Torquatus, on the
contrary, who, as a presumed Epicurean should be subject to the same suspi-
cions and the same charges, the procedure is different:
You were certainly well suited to using such words. And if philosophers
did not use them, then we would have altogether no use for philosophy!
It is through their love of these words, words like wisdom, courage, jus-
tice and temperance, which Epicurus so seldom utters, that those of the
36 Luc. 125.

very highest ability have devoted themselves to the study of philosophy.

(Fin. 2.51; trans. R. Woolf)37
This “suitability” guarantees the existence of the “natural” harmony between

the Roman aristocrat and ethics. This is made explicit in §80, where Cicero
says, “The question, however, is not what is consistent with your nature, but
what is consistent with your philosophical position” (trans. R. Woolf). A vehe-
ment dispute about the doctrine of pleasure does not imply an attack on the
person who defends it—if he is a Roman aristocrat. Thus vehementia does
threefold duty in this book:
• It is invoked in the service of unqualified condemnation, in the case of

Epicurus.
• It is extremely positive when applied to the great families that exemplify the
mos maiorum, such as the virtuous Lucretia or Regulus.
• It is unavoidably more complex and objective in the case of Torquatus, who

is affiliated with both the Roman tradition and the doctrine being assailed.
Let us consider another well-known example—the hymn to philosophy in the

last book of the Tusculan Disputations (5.5). The many repetitions, exclama-
tions, and questions identify this bravura passage as falling in the category of
vehemence, as Cicero redefined it in Orator. This is never stated in so many
words, but several of its features are visible. We are simultaneously at the start
and the end, in the introductory section of the book that caps the sequence
that begins in the Lucullus, with its focus on of the debates among moral phi-
losophers; continues in the De finibus, with a critical examination of their doc-
trine; and culminates in the Tusculan Disputations, with a reflection about the
abolition of the passions. At the end of this process, Cicero reaches the conclu-
sion that the greatest good is not any particular doctrine but philosophy itself,
in which both the Skeptics of the New Academy and the dogmatics engage,
and even the Epicureans are not outside the pale.38 The initial vehementia thus
serves to represent the concept that will be at the center of the entire book. We
may add that the famous exhortation, O vitae philosophia dux, is preceded by
Cicero’s evocation of his own misfortunes, which he has been able to surmount
37 Quam te decebat iis verbis uti, quibus si philosophi non uterentur, philosophia omnino non
egeremus! Istorum enim verborum amore, quae perraro appellantur ab Epicuro, sapientiae,
fortitudinis, iustitiae, temperantiae, praestantissimis ingeniis homines se ad philosophiae
studium contulerunt.
38 On this point, see Lévy, Cicero Academicus, 485–92.
198 Lévy
only by virtue of philosophy. So the hymn is not just a sublime recognition of

intellect but also a personnel statement of thanks, which further justifies his
recourse to movere.
Cicero never offers a solid theory about the use of vehemence in philoso-
phy but only a set of practices to be employed inside a space that he himself
defines, at the meeting point of rhetoric and philosophy, at the confluence of
praise and vituperation. It is only when we come to Seneca, no doubt because
he was aware of this deficiency, and in the context of the much more baroque
aesthetics of his time than had prevailed in the last days of the Republic, that
we encounter consideration of the role of vehemence in philosophy. As has
been shown by Aldo Setaioli, Seneca does not reject the Ciceronian heritage
but endeavors to reconcile his own attempt at preaching with his predecessor’s
essentially didactic and dialectic project.39 Like Cicero, Seneca begins with
the opposition between emotional eloquence, which is meant to change the
public’s mind, in the forum or elsewhere, and that referred to as quieta, calm,
which, withdrawing into itself, he says, can never provoke contempt.40 The
opposition between these two worlds is symbolized by Cato, whom Seneca
reproaches for having thought it appropriate to get involved in the quarrels
that led to the death of the Republic.
They are choosing a master. What does it matter to you which man wins?
The better man may win, but the man who wins cannot avoid becoming
worse. I have touched on the last role played by Cato, but not even his
earlier years were such that they allowed the wise man a role, surrounded
as he was by the plundering of the state. What else did Cato do than shout
and utter futile protests, when he was at one time hauled by the hands of
the common people and dragged smothered in spittle to be carted out
of the Forum, and at another time escorted from the Senate into jail?
(Ep. 14.12–13; trans. E. Fantham)41
The underlying thought is consistent with what is referred to as Stoic ortho-

doxy. The wise man must not get involved in affairs of state when the latter
39 Setaioli, “Seneca e lo stile.”

40 Ep. 14.11.
41 Dominus eligitur: quid tua, uter vincat? Potest melior vincere, non potest non peior esse qui
vicerit. Ultimas partes attigi Catonis; sed ne priores quidem anni fuerunt qui sapientem in
illam rapinam rei publicae admitterent. Quid aliud quam vociferatus est Cato et misit inritas
voces, cum modo per populi levatus manus et obrutus sputis exportandus extra forum tra-
heretur, modo e senatu in carcerem duceretur?
have been debased to the point that his action would be meaningless—that is,
of no use to society.42 The paradox, though, is that in this letter, which elevates
the serenity of philosophy over the tumult of the world, Seneca, while criticiz-
ing the behavior of Cato, whom he deeply admired as a martyr to reason and
the Republic, employs a style full of vehemence, in which the many questions,
carefully wrought repetitions (cum modo . . . cum modo), and alliteration (the
abundance of r’s in the last part of the sentence) evoke an image of chaos and
condemn the man who made the mistake of venturing there. In an interesting
passage (which is unfortunately corrupt) of the next letter, Seneca advises his
pupil to regulate his voice when denouncing passion: “So however your mental
impulse urges you on, make your rebuke of vices now more energetically (vehe-
mentius), now more calmly.”43 It is clear that, in his rebuke of Cato’s attitude,
Seneca opted for great vehemence.
In fact, the quietism of Letter 14 is hard to reconcile with the paraenetic or
hortatory vocation of most of Seneca’s writings. Despite appearances, the solu-
tion he counsels is of Stoic inspiration and, mutatis mutandis, seems to involve
the application of the distinction between moral beauty and the indifferents
to the relationship between philosophy and rhetoric. Anything that rises above
what might be called the lowest level of the text, that is, the expression of the
res, the statement of the case, cannot have absolute value. Even purely infor-
mative speech has only a relative value because it is always located on a level
with the reality it presumes to describe, because the examples cited are more
striking than the texts: “Cleanthes could not have been the express image of
Zeno, if he only had heard his lectures.”44
So there is a weakness, a primary deficiency of language, that must be coun-
terbalanced by making good use of the sermo’s obligatory andante, which
makes it possible to convey, step by step, the ideas one holds firmly, by means
of rhetorical devices—at least some of them. Here Letter 38, one of the short-
est, is of especial interest. When lecturing on philosophy to a large audience,
42 See Laurand, La politique stoïcienne.

43 Ep. 15.8. The whole passage runs as follows: “So however your mental impulse urges you
on, make your rebuke of vices now more energetically (vehementius), now more calmly,
as your voice itself encourages you in that direction; let it sink moderately, not collapse
when you withdraw and hold it back; let it not have the violence of an attendant or work
off its rage as if you were an uneducated countryman” (trans. E. Fantham, slightly modi-
fied). Ergo utcumque tibi impetus animi suaserit, modo vehementius fac vitiis convicium,
modo lentius, prout vox te quoque hortabitur †in id latus†; modesta, cum recipies illam
revocarisque, descendat, non decidat; †mediatorisui habeat et hoc† indocto et rustico more
desaeviat.
44 Ep. 6.6; trans. Gummere, slightly modified.
200 Lévy
or trying to draw in someone who is unwilling to adopt it, one should employ
hortatory language of the sort employed by the tribunes in their intemperate
orations to the people. By contrast, sermo is the appropriate mode in face-to-
face conversations with a pupil, and this is what Seneca more or less does with
Lucilius. In such a context vehementia is a stimulus that makes it possible to
act on the seeds of rationality that nature has planted in all human beings so
as to convert them from virtual to real. This is the context in which Letter 108
proposes a method based on disquieting one’s audience:
Speak out against the love of money. Speak out against extravagance.
When you see that you’ve achieved something and had an effect on your
listeners, press more intensely. It is hardly believable how much can be
achieved by this sort of speech, aimed at curing people, wholly directed
to the good of the people listening. (Ep. 108.12; trans. R. Campbell, slightly
modified)45
Let us now consider an instance of vehemence in polemics. In De vita beata,

Seneca’s strategy, building on some texts by Cicero, is, paradoxically, to defend
Epicurus because he was, all the same, a philosopher, while at the same time
thrashing those who cite him to justify their endless pursuit of vulgar plea-
sures. As a result the discourse proceeds in two different registers. Every refer-
ence to Epicurus himself employs terms that evoke his sobriety and rectitude:
The teachings of Epicurus are holy and upright, and, if examined closely,
rigorous; for his well-known doctrine of pleasure is reduced to small and
slender proportions, and the rule that we prescribe for virtue he pre-
scribes for pleasure. (Vit. be. 13.1; trans. J. Davie)46
On the other hand, the roués who employ Epicurus as moral justification of
their scandalous behavior are attacked mercilessly:
Whoever applies the term “happiness” to slothful inactivity and to the

gratification of gluttony followed by that of lust, is looking for a good
sponsor for his wicked conduct, and when he comes along with that
45 Dic in auaritiam, dic in luxuriam; cum profecisse te uideris et animos audientium adfeceris,
insta uehementius: ueri simile non est quantum proficiat talis oratio remedio intenta et tota
in bonum audientium uersa.
46 sancta Epicurum et recta praecipere et si propius accesseris tristia; uoluptas enim illa ad
paruum et exile reuocatur et quam nos uirtuti legem dicimus, eam ille dicit uoluptati.
persuasive name he has found attractive, he pursues the pleasure he has

brought, not the one he has been taught. (Vit. be. 13.2; trans. J. Davie)47
This is not vehemence of the deinotēs sort, because it lacks the repeated short
phrases characteristic of that style; it is, rather, the vehemence that Cicero asso-
ciated with the grand style. Several paragraphs later, however, it is indeed vehe-
mentia/deinotēs that Seneca wields when he attacks those who bark against
philosophy (qui philosophiam conlatrant),48 painting them as Cynic-dogs who
reject philosophy. Here the violence is unrestrained, marked by a long series of
questions that are in fact indictments; repetition dominates, both in the syntax
and in the details:
Why do you farm more extensively than your natural need requires? Why
do you flout your own prescriptions when you have dinner? Why do you
own furniture of some refinement? Why do you and your guests drink
wine of greater years than yourself? Why is your tableware of gold? Why
do you plant trees that will yield only shade? Why does your wife wear
in her ears the income of a wealthy house? Why are your young servants
dressed in expensive garments? (Vit. be. 17.2; trans. J. Davie)49
The themes are those of the Cynically inspired diatribe that Seneca is so fond
of in his letters. Here they rebound against him with no mercy, hammering
home the theme of nature both invoked and betrayed. In the mirror that his
opponents hold up to him, he recognizes his inconsistency and then dismisses
it. His reply to this indictment is that he has never pretended to have achieved
any sort of perfection: “I have not arrived at perfect health, nor indeed shall I;
my plan is to alleviate, not to banish, the gout that afflicts me” (ibid.; trans.
J. Davie). When his opponents assail him with facts that are incompatible with
his words, he replies with a metaphor that, by introducing a different species
of discourse, cuts short the vehement series of accusations.
47 Ille, quisquis desidiosum otium et gulae ac libidinis uices felicitatem uocat, bonum malae rei
quaerit auctorem et, cum illo uenit blando nomine inductus, sequitur uoluptatem non quam
audit sed quam attulit, et uitia sua cum coepit putare similia praeceptis, indulget illis non
timide nec obscure, luxuriatur etiam inde aperto capite.
48 Vit. be. 17.1–3.
49 Quare cultius rus tibi est quam naturalis usus desiderat? Cur non ad praescriptum tuum
cenas? Cur tibi nitidior supellex est? Cur apud te uinum aetate tua uetustius bibitur? Cur
aurum disponitur? Cur arbores nihil praeter umbram daturae conseruntur? Quare uxor tua
locupletis domus censum auribus gerit? Quare paedagogium pretiosa ueste succingitur?
202 Lévy
In Letter 85, Seneca juxtaposes the ethics of the Peripatetics with those of the
Stoics, which he approves of despite his distaste for the syllogisms employed.
His attack on the Peripatetics begins in §2 with a fairly balanced exposition
of the arguments they allege against the notion of the wisdom that, although
infallible, can still be attained by human beings. But then the pace picks up,
eliciting the observation from Paul Veyne that the “discussion falls flat.”50 In
effect Seneca deploys a polemical vehemence that uses the traditional meth-
ods of deinotēs—repetition, opposition, and the staccato clauses that are so
many lances hurled at the enemy:
But how little we grant to the wise person if he is stronger than the very
weak, is more happy than the very sad, is more temperate than those who
are totally uncontrolled and rises above the most lowly. What if Ladas
were to admire his own swiftness by comparing himself to those who are
lame and weak? (Ep. 85.4; trans. B. Inwood)51
Of course the picture of the Peripatetics, admiring themselves extravagantly

for having achieved the minimum, is in unremitting bad faith. Nevertheless,
it serves a function that is not totally alien to philosophy. Seneca knows that
for most people the Achilles’s heel of Stoicism is the extreme rarity of the wise
man, almost to the point of nonexistence. So he applies his argument to invert-
ing the theme of the minimum: there is no doubt that the Peripatetics make
wisdom accessible, but they are content with very little.
While Greek thought is marked by the use of the concept, Latin thought
is defined much more by the use of notions. What we mean by ‘notion’ is an
imperfect idea of a reality. By contrast, a concept seeks to capture the essence
of a reality and to give a satisfactory idea of it. In Greek philosophy generally
philosophers strive to elaborate clear concepts or, if that seems impossible,
they mitigate this difficulty by providing explanatory myths. Things are dif-
ferent in Roman philosophy, where mere notions are more easily accepted as
temporary ways of reflecting on reality. When Lucretius, in a famous passage
(DRN 2.257, 261), uses the word voluntas, he does not feel the need to define
it. At the same time, in his poem, voluntas is a key word used for expressing
human freedom. The concept is inseparable from a definition, but the notion
works much more by modifying intuitions. To put it a different way, a concept
50 Veyne, Sénèque, ad loc., 859.

51 Quantulum autem sapienti damus, si inbecillissimis fortior est et maestissimis laetior et
effrenatissimis moderatior et humillimis maior! Quid si miretur velocitatem suam Ladas ad
claudos debilesque respiciens?
is a well-built edifice, whereas a notion is an active construction site, such that

completion of the project can be left to our successors. In this Roman view,
the concept is a horizon, not a point of departure. Pace all those who continue
to refuse to hear about Roman philosophy; we insist that the method proved
its fruitfulness, for example with voluntas, which swallowed up all the Greek
concepts that expressed autonomy on the way to becoming a key concept of
Western thought. Like voluntas, vehementia began as a notion, but unlike the
former it was never promoted to the rank of a concept, even though it clearly
evolved over the centuries. Had Roman philosophers made full use of vehe-
mentia in their polemical writings, they would have ended up sounding like
Greek philosophers, which they did not want to be. So they had to be vehe-
ment while avoiding the head-to-head attack of deinotēs—that is, by evading
everything that, in this concept, might threaten the gravitas of an eminent
Roman. To be vehement while exhorting to virtue fit perfectly with an admo-
nitio that could be rooted in the mos maiorum; Seneca certainly felt that. But
the vehemence of the philosophers trapped in the endless disputes between
the schools—that was to be avoided at any cost. Whence the constant ten-
sion between, on the one hand, the desire to give philosophy the image of the
serene dignitas characteristic of the eminent ancestors, and on the other hand,
the observation that to philosophize is also to wage battle, criticize, and con-
demn. The indirect and often complex use of polemical vehementia by Cicero
and Seneca, the extreme care with which they made sure that philosophical
vehemence would not demolish every other consideration, was intended to
resolve this contradiction.52
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The Art of Quotation: Plutarch and Galen against
Chrysippus
Sharon Weisser
The anti-Stoic attitude of Plutarch and Galen is a well-acknowledged phe-

nomenon. Plutarch of Cheronea wrote abundantly against the Stoics. The
Catalogue of Lamprias lists nine treatises explicitly directed against the Stoics,
three of which have come down to us.1 Furthermore many other works from
the Moralia display anti-Stoic arguments (such as On Moral Virtue, On Making
Progress in Virtue, On the Cleverness of Animals, and so on). The critique of
Stoicism also played an important role in Galen’s work: he wrote against Stoic
logic,2 and the most manifest case of his confrontation with Stoic psychology is
to be found in books two through five of his On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and
Plato. Despite the openly hostile stance toward Stoicism, it has been more and
more acknowledged that Plutarch’s and Galen’s relation to Stoicism is more
complex than one of stark opposition. For instance, Opsomer has claimed that
the close proximity with many Stoic ideas and techniques led Plutarch to mark
his own difference and to attempt to subordinate Stoicism to Platonism,3 and
Gill has shown that Galen shares some fundamental assumptions with the
1 The extant works bearing an explicit anti-Stoic title are On Stoic Self-Contradictions (No. 76);
Against the Stoics on Common Notions (henceforth, Comm. not.; No. 77) and an Epitome of The
Stoics Talk More Paradoxically than the Poets (No. 79), which is not Plutarch’s original work
but a literal extract from it (see Cherniss, LCL 470, 13.2, 606–9). The lost treatises listed in the
Lamprias Catalogue are: Against Chrysippus on Justice (Lampr. No. 59); Against the Stoics on
Common Experience (No. 78); Reasons Why the Stoics Vacillate (No. 149); Against Chrysippus
on the First Consequent (No. 152); On What Lies in Our Power: Against the Stoics (No. 154). To
this list should be added a treatise dealing with both the Stoics and the Epicureans: Selections
and Refutations of Stoics and Epicureans (No. 148).
2 We learn from Galen’s own testimony that he wrote six treatises discussing Stoic logic (Lib.
Propr. 19.47) toward which he was, on the whole, hostile (see Morison, “Logic,” 88–115).
3 Opsomer, “Plutarch and the Stoics,” 89–102. What is more, Babut has shown that Plutarch
displays a genuine sympathy for his Stoic contemporaries (Babut, Plutarque et le stoïcisme,
239–70; Babut, “Stoïciens et stoïcisme,” 203–27) and has argued that Plutarch’s stance
against Stoicism should not be seen as the expression of a personal antipathy but rather as
conforming to the laws of the genre (Babut, “Polémique et philosophie,” 11–42).

206 Weisser
Stoics, such as a physicalist approach to psychology and a teleological view of

natural entities.4
Whereas it is beyond doubt that the content of Plutarch’s and Galen’s argu-
ment against Stoicism is of great interest for the history of Stoicism in gen-
eral and for the better understanding of their thoughts in particular, my focus
will not be on the content of their attack on Stoicism but on their polemical
strategy, and more particularly on their use of quotations. My contention is
that both Plutarch’s On Stoic Self-Contradictions (henceforth, De Stoic. rep.)
and Galen’s On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato (henceforth, PHP) rep-
resent the best instances of a new genre of polemic, based on the accusations
of self-contradictions and characterized by an abundant use of the opponent’s
ipsa verba. These texts thus constitute important milestones in the history of
polemics, for they mark the emergence of a new kind of polemic that will be
variously adopted and declined in the following decades and centuries.
With a view to identifying the key features of this polemical genre, my
analysis will be mostly devoted to Plutarch’s De Stoic. rep. First, I will map out
the different types of accusations leveled against Chrysippus, and then I will
examine the way in which Chrysippus’s quotations are employed within this
polemical framework. An overview of the parallel strategy used by Galen in
his polemic against Chrysippus will enable us to better localize the genre that
Plutarch’s De Stoic. rep. represents.
1 Plutarch’s On Stoic Self-Contradictions
On Stoic Self-Contradictions (Peri Stōikōn enantiōmatōn) constitutes, with its

lost parallel anti-Epicurean tract, an unicum in the history of philosophy. It
is entirely devoted to showing that the Stoics, and especially Chrysippus, are
guilty of many inconsistencies. The forty-seven chapters cover various top-
ics in ethics, physics, and logic and intend to prove that in all these domains
Chrysippus is found faulty of many self-contradictions. Plutarch does not
explicitly offer any alternative view to the ones he criticizes, since as he him-
self states, “my intention is not to examine if they say something wrong, but
only how much they say in disagreement with themselves (ὅσα πρὸς ἑαυτοὺς
4 Thus, according to him, Galen’s polemic against Chrysippus in books 2–3 of PHP is a “localized
disagreement conducted from within a partly common conceptual framework” (Gill, “Galen
and the Stoics,” 92).
The Art Of Quotation 207
διαφόρως λέγουσιν).”5 Despite this assertive stance Kidd has argued that
Plutarch’s criticism against the Stoics is less motivated by the search for the
logical contradictions than by his desire to pinpoint the inconsistency existing
between their words and their deeds. Whereas he is certainly right in point-
ing at the importance of this idea in Plutarch’s writings in general,6 and in the
De Stoic. rep. in particular, a sketch of the different charges of inconsistency
leveled at Chrysippus shows that Plutarch in fact endorses a wide range of
polemical devices available to him and that inconsistency between theory and
practice constitutes only one of many categories. An analysis of the different
types of accusations of inconsistency shows that they can be roughly distrib-
uted into six main categories:
1. Mutually exclusive statements: This is the charge that Chrysippus endorses

mutually exclusive claims, such as “A is B” and “A is not B.” The simplest
instance of such an accusation is found in chapter 25 (1046B), in which
Plutarch argues that Chrysippus claims that (A) “spiteful joy
(ἐπιχαιρεκακία) does not exist,” while in the second book of his On the
Good, he claims that (B) “spiteful joy exists.”7
2. Contradiction between words and deeds: This is the charge that in his way
of life or in his philosophical practice, Chrysippus contradicts the prin-
ciples of his own dogma. Thus, for instance, Chrysippus is found faulty
for requiring theology to be the last topic in the teaching curriculum,
while in practice he inaugurates every teaching on ethics with theology
(9, 1035A–B), or he is accused of calling to use cautiously the academic
practice of exposing both sides of an issue, while being himself infused
with zeal and vigor in such a practice (10, 1036A–1037C).
3. “It applies to himself ”: This accusation refers to the charge that
Chrysippus’s criticism of a certain thesis or position endorsed by another
philosopher equally applies to himself or that he is doing worse than
whatever he finds at fault. According to Plutarch this is “the biggest self-
contradiction and the most shameful error” (29, 1047C), and it is in his
disputes against others (ἐν δὲ ταῖς πρὸς ἑτέρους ἀντιλογίαις) that Chrysippus
5 De Stoic. rep. 32, 1049B (trans. Cherniss); cf. 33, 1049B; moreover, Plutarch repeatedly claims
that he is passing over the absurdity (atopia) of Chrysippus’s individual statements (e.g. 9,
1036A; 19, 1042E).
6 Kidd, “Plutarch and His Stoic Contradictions,” 296–301.
7 Statement B is supported by a quotation describing spiteful joy as a “will to abase one’s
neighbors.” It is obvious that statement A refers to the class of eupatheiai, while B refers to
the passion that is a subtype of pleasure (cf. Diog. Laert. 7.144).
208 Weisser
is less preoccupied with avoiding self-contradictions and inconsistency

(14, 1039D). Thus although Chrysippus condemns Plato’s mistaken and
precipitated statement that liquid food goes into the lungs and solid food
into the belly, he himself indulges in obvious errors when stating that
the combination of ten propositions exceeds the number of a million
(29, 1047C–E).
4. Reverse praise: This is the opposite of the previous category, and it is the
charge that when Chrysippus praises the words of another philosopher,
he is in fact endorsing the opposite thesis or attitude. Thus, Chrysippus
praises Diogenes, who publicly indulged in pleasures whereas he himself
demanded that no citizen be led by pleasures (21, 1044B).
5. Being in contradiction to poetic verses: This is the charge that Chrysippus
improperly adduced poetic verses and that there is a fundamental dis-
agreement between the position they express and another point of his
doctrine. Thus, for instance, although Chrysippus calls into question the
fear of divine punishment as an incentive to justice, he himself adduces
poetic verses from Euripides and Hesiod that, in Plutarch’s eyes, validate
it (15, 1040A–C).8
6. Being contrary to common sense or absurd:9 This is the claim that
Chrysippus’s doctrine is at odds with some fundamental generally held
views or with concepts such as virtue or providence, or otherwise, that it
is patently absurd. Thus for Plutarch it would be utterly ridiculous to
address Zeus as the “Guardian of Harvests” if one considers, as does
Chrysippus, that external goods are no more worthy than golden cham-
ber pots or golden tassels (30, 1048B–C).
These different type of accusations mapped here clearly indicate that Plutarch’s
purpose is to reduce ad absurdum Chrysippus’s claims from within. As shown
by the synoptic table in the appendix, the first category is given pride of place.
What is more, these categories are not always clear cut, and they are often
8 This is part of a larger attack by Chrysippus on Plato’s Republic, and as noted by Long
(“Subtexts,” 126), Plutarch’s sentence can be translated as meaning either that Chrysippus
criticizes the fact that Cephalus used fear of the gods as a deterrent to injustice or the fact
that Plato deters Cephalus from injustice by this means.
9 This also includes “contrary to common notions”—an accusation that is most prevalent in
Against the Stoics on Common Conceptions. Although Plutarch seems to misunderstand the
Stoic notion of koinē ennoia, since under his pen it appears as an equivalent to commonly-
held views (see, for instance, Comm. not. 28, 1073C and 21, 1069B and Cherniss, LCL 470, 13.2,
627). On the appropriation of the Stoic doctrine of ennoia by the Platonists, see Bonazzi in
this volume.
mixed together in one single chapter. Category 1 often constitutes the general
framework in which other types of accusations are imbedded. What is more, it
is not always the case that a simple statement A contradicts statement B, but it
is often what Plutarch deduces from one or several of Chrysippus’s statements
that stand in opposition to another statement, or to the consequence that
Plutarch draws from several statements. Thus, for instance, in Plutarch’s eyes,
Chrysippus’s claim that the wise man becomes wise without noticing contra-
dicts the idea that goods and evils are perceptible by the senses. This claim can
be spelled out in the following way: (A-1) Virtue and vice are perceptible by the
senses; (A-2) the wise person possesses virtue; (A-3) therefore the wise person
perceives his virtue by his senses. (B-1) The wise man becomes wise without
noticing means that (B-2) he does not perceive his virtue by his senses; (B-3)
therefore virtue is not perceptible by the senses (19, 1042E–1043A). A-1 appears
thus to contradict B-3.
Another good example of Plutarch’s procedure in framing his contradic-
tions is found in his claims that Chrysippus’s twin statements that (A-1) the
gods give the occasion of war in order to reduce the overpopulation of the cit-
ies, and that (A-2) wars originate from evils, imply that (A-3) God is the source
of evil. This conclusion (A-3) contradicts another of Chrysippus’s statements,
according to which (B) God is not the source of evil. In this way Chrysippus is
presented as holding mutually exclusive statements such as “God is the source
of evil” and “God is not the source of evil” (De Stoic. rep. 32–33, 1049A–F). It
is already worth noting that statement A-1 is supported by a quotation from
On the Gods, whereas statement A-3 is naturally not supported by any refer-
ence or quotation. Statement B is said to appear in Chrysippus’s Concerning
Decision and in the second book of On the Gods and is moreover supported by
two quotations from Euripides which Chrysippus is said to have praised.
It is important to note that the various charges of self-contradiction sketched

here are not Plutarch’s own invention. My purpose here is not to retrace the
history of each of these critics but only to point out that, by Plutarch’s time,
most of them, if not all, were already well-known discursive strategies avail-
able to any philosophically or even rhetorically educated man. First, the tech-
nique of pointing out the inconsistencies of one’s interlocutor’s views recalls
without any doubt the Socratic method, as Socrates’s elenchus aims at bring-
ing his interlocutor to the realization that he endorses incompatible opinions.
Whereas in the Socratic dialogue, this deconstructive method is recruited at
the service of a renewed inquiry concerning the essence of the topic under
scrutiny, in Plutarch’s approach the objective is purely negative. While the
absence of self-contradictory statements seems to be the most characteristic
210 Weisser
feature of any philosophical discourse, it is in Aristotle’s Metaphysics (4.3–6)

that this idea is expressed in the form of the principle of non-contradiction,
which he erected as the indemonstrable and chief principle of any scientific
and rational inquiry. Accusing someone of self-contradiction comes indeed
very close to accusing him of holding that something can be, at the same time
and in the same respect, both φ and not-φ. For Aristotle, any rational living
being would recognize the veracity of this principle, and only uneducated men
would require it to be demonstrated.10 Aristotle contends that even if accord-
ing to some, Heraclitus denies this most secure and basic principle, it cannot
be the case that he really believed what he said.11 But it is in the Sophistical
Refutations, that Aristotle mentions the technique of “examining the contra-
dictions (enantiōmata) of the answerer’s position either with his own state-
ments, or with those of persons whom he admits to say and do aright” as
one of the techniques available in rhetorical arguments and in refutations.12
It appears that Chrysippus himself used the charge of inconsistency against
Plato, arguing that his discourse contradicts itself (ὁ γὰρ τοιοῦτος λόγος καὶ
ἑαυτῷ μάχεται).13 It has been sometimes assumed that the Academic Skeptics
were the first to systematically collect self-contradictions for polemical pur-
poses and that it was from such collections that Plutarch drew his anti-Stoic
material.14 However, Boys-Stones has convincingly shown that there is no tex-
tual evidence in support of this claim. He notes however that self-contradic-
tions were used by Plutarch’s roughly contemporary Platonists.15 Thus when
Plutarch uses this charge as his chief weapon against Chrysippus, he employs
a discursive technique which is at home in philosophical discourses. Further,
it can be assumed that the Stoics’ own praise for the coherency of their philo-
sophical system (Cic. Fin. 3.74) all the more invited this kind of criticism.
When Plutarch accuses Chrysippus of contradiction between words and
deeds, he uses a theme widely spread in many ancient texts, which often recall
the importance of living in accord with one’s own principles.16 But the spe-
cific charge of pragmatic inconsistency is found in the very title of the book
10 Arist. Metaph. 4. 1006a5–16.

11 Arist. Metaph. 4. 1005b23–30.
12 Soph. el. 15, 174 b19–23 (trans. Pickard). This is also note in Kechaiga’s analysis of Plutarch’s
argumentative strategy in the Adv. Col. (Kechaiga, Plutarch against Colotes, 177).
13 De Stoic. rep. 14, 1039D. On the polemical character of Chrysippus’s writings and the defen-
sive nature of his dialectic, see Babut, “Sur les polémiques des anciens Stoïciens,” 65–91.
14 Von Arnim, SVF vol. 1, xi–xiv; Sandbach, “Plutarch on the Stoics,” 22–23.
15 As Taurus in Gell. NA 12.5.5 or Numenius fr. 24.47–8 (des Places). Boys-Stones, “Plutarch
on koinos logos,” 300–2; Boys-Stones, “Thyrsus-Bearer of the Academy,” 41–58.
16 A few examples include Pl. Lach. 188d; Sen. Vit. beat. 18.1; Luc. Menip. 5.
of Epicurus’s pupil, Colotes: On the Fact that According to the Doctrines of the
Other Philosophers It Is Impossible Even to Live (Plut. Adv. Col. 1107D–E) and,
of course, in Plutarch’s counterattack.17 As shown by the testimony of Cassius
Dio, Seneca has been confronted many times with this charge.18
As regards the gambit of overturning the tables—that is, of reversing one’s
accusation against someone else—it is already listed by Aristotle as one of the
twenty-eight topoi common to all the branches of rhetoric.19 Finally, as regards
the improper usage of poetic verse, it is already found in Chrysippus’s charge
against some philosophers who, in his eyes, misinterpreted Hesiod’s myth
of the birth of Athena.20 Further, thanks to Cicero, we know that Carneades
found fault with Chrysippus’s praise for some Euripidean verses.21 One can
find similar criticism in Philodemus’s On Piety where, in addition to the cita-
tions of poetic verses taken from the books of his Stoic opponents, he levels the
charge that they attempt to accommodate the poets to their views.22
It appears clearly from this brief overview that the innovative aspect
of Plutarch’s polemic is less due to the different types of charges of self-
contradiction that he recruits than to their compilation into one single treatise.
His polemic against Chrysippus in De Stoic. Rep. appears thus as the matura-
tion and accumulation of already well-known discursive strategies. The other
innovative aspect of this controversy lies in the abundance of the textual quo-
tations of the views he condemns.
2 The Use of Quotations
Indeed, any student of early Stoicism finds in the numerous verbatim frag-
ments preserved by Plutarch a refreshing interlude from the usual indirect
17 Kechagia, Plutarch against Colotes, 108–16 and 295–303.

18 Hist. Rom. 61.10.2–3; cf. Tacit. Ann. 13.42.
19 Rh. 2.23, 1398a3–1398a14. According to Tindale (Reason’s Dark Champions, 83–98) this is,
in the widest sense of the term, a case of peritropē. See also Burnyeat, “Protagoras and
Self-Refutation,” 65–66.
20 Galen, PHP 3.8.3.
21 Cic. Tusc. 3.59.
22 De pietate, P. Herc. 1428 col. 6 line 16–col. 7; see Obbink, “All Gods are True,” 203–4 (with
the parallel passage in Cicero, Nat. D. 1.41 mentioned there). Philodemus’s catalogue of
poetic verses used by the Stoic adversaries is very similar to what we find in Galen’s PHP
books 2 and 3, as also noted by Obbink, “All Gods are True,” 191n18 and 193–205. For a simi-
lar kind of exegetical polemic see also [Plut.] De Homero 2, 150 (Keaney and Lamberton);
and Weisser, “The Dispute on Homer,” 175–97.
212 Weisser
reports (as is the case with Galen’s PHP). De Stoic. rep. includes more than
seventy verbatim quotations of Chrysippus and mentions roughly thirty of
his books. Plutarch provides at times a precise reference, including the title
and the number of the book from which the excerpt is taken.23 This feature of
Plutarch’s discourse stands in opposition to previous philosophical polemics
that have come down to us. Thus, for example, when Cicero—capable though
he was of translating philosophical texts from Greek to Latin24—exposes, in his
De finibus, the debate concerning the doctrine of the good with the Epicureans,
the Stoics, and the Antiochean version of Aristotelian ethics he stages a dia-
logue in which each interlocutor represents the position of a school.25 When
Aristotle reviews the opinions of his intellectual forebears at the beginning of
several of his works—as, for instance, in the De anima or in his Metaphysics—
he sums up their main tenets on the specific topic under discussion before
examining them critically.26 Of course, this is not to say that before Plutarch,
philosophers did not at times quote the views of their opponents. For instance,
Philodemus, Cicero, and Seneca quotes at times the philosophers whose views
they confront.27 Nevertheless, it never reaches the extent to which they are
employed by Plutarch.
23 Kidd (“Plutarch and His Stoic Contradictions,” 287–90) has raised the issue of the accuracy
of these quotations. His examination of another polemical work filled with quotations
whose original can still be read, the Herod. malign., led him to conclude that although
not every quotation should be seen as a direct quotation, usually Plutarch remains close
to the sense of the original and that the “fidelity of report seems on the whole trustwor-
thy.” We should note that De Stoic. rep. abounds with expressions such as ‘κατὰ λέξιν’ (7,
1034D; 9, 1035A; 13, 1038D; 14, 1039D and E; 15, 1040C; 24, 1046A; 34, 1050C; 38, 1051E), ‘ταῦτα
γέγραφεν’ (10, 1037B; 28, 1047A; 30, 1048B), ‘ταυτὶ γὰρ αὐταῖς λέξεσιν εἴρηκεν’ (10, 1036A) or
‘τὰς ἐκείνου λέξεις ἀναλαβεῖν’ (15, 1040E), which by and large indicate trustworthy verbatim
reports. See Cherniss, LCL 470, 13.2, 404–6. See also the list of quotations compiled by
Helmbold and O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations.
24 Powell, “Cicero’s Translations from the Greek,” 273–300.
25 On Cicero’s use of the philosophical dialogues, see Schofield, “Ciceronian Dialogue,”
63–84.
26 Mansion (“Le rôle de l’exposé et de la critique,” 35–56) has shown that this critical exposi-
tion is not motivated by a historical outlook but by the will to find solutions to specific
issues and that the views of the predecessors, even if rejected, are always treated with
respect.
27 Thus Seneca quotes a text of Metrodorus in Ep. 99.25 and of Posidonius in Ep. 94.38
(but quotes him with approval in 93.28). Cicero does not hesitate to utter his disagree-
ment with Epicurus’s own words in Tusc. 3.41–42, although the consolatory context of
these quotations (such as the one in Sen. Ep. 99.25 mentioned above) should be noticed.
Likewise Philodemus sometimes brings textual quotations of his opponents (such as
In order to get a better understanding of the role of quotations in Plutarch’s

argumentative strategy, I will focus on one passage that can be considered a
typical argument both in its structure and dynamic. In chapter 16 (1041B–E),
Plutarch presents a multilayered polemic, belonging to the first and third
categories of self-contradictions. Following his standard procedure, he first
exposes what he presents as the two mutually exclusive statements endorsed
by Chrysippus, namely that (A) “injustice is not toward oneself” and that (B)
“injustice is toward oneself.” Plutarch first summarizes the context of the first
statement, which is Chrysippus dismissing Plato’s concept of injustice as dis-
cord (diaphora) and faction (stasis) within the soul as absurd,28 and mentions
that in this connection Chrysippus sustained a concept of injustice that does
not apply toward oneself. Plutarch then goes on to claim that, having for-
gotten these things, Chrysippus endorsed the opposite point of view in his
Demonstrations Concerning Justice, in which he is shown to have adopted a
concept of injustice as applying to oneself. Four quotations are brought to
illustrate these statements. The first one, illustrating statement A, is taken from
Chrysippus’s On Justice against Plato:
A. For it is <not> as isolated individuals that men <are unjust nor are<
unjust men composites of several such individuals contradicting one
another, injustice being understood anyhow as obtaining in the case of
several persons so disposed to one another and no such condition per-
taining to the individual save in so far as he stands in such relation to his
neighbours. (1041C)29
Diogenes of Babylon, in De rhet. 3, P. Herc. 1056 col. 7, 25–9, 29; see Obbink, “The Stoic
Sage in the Cosmic City,” 191–93; see also On Poems 5, esp. M xxi–xii, in Armstrong,
“Appendix I”), but on the whole he prefers either the doxographical mode of exposition
or paraphrases. Thus although Philodemus brings many citations from the poets adduced
by the Stoics in his On Piety, when he confronts their theology, he chooses to paraphrase
them. See, for example, P. Herc. 1428 col. 8 line 14–col. 10 line 8 in Obbink, “All Gods are
True,” 206 (against Diogenes of Babylon); P. Herc. 1428 col. 6 line 16–col. 7 line 12, in ibid.,
203–204 (against Chrysippus) and P. Herc. 1428 col. 10 line 8–col. 11 line 5 in ibid., 209
(against Zeno’s whole school); See also On Music 4. col. 1–55 (Delattre) where Diogenes of
Babylon’s theory of music is summarized before being criticized.
28 Referring probably to Resp. 351d–352a.
29 οἱ γὰρ κατ’ ἰδίαν < ἄδικοι οὔκ εἰσιν οὐδὲ οἱ > ἄδικοι συνεστήκασιν ἐκ πλειόνων τοιούτων τἀναντία
λεγόντων, καὶ ἄλλως τῆς ἀδικίας λαμβανομένης ὡς ἂν ἐν πλείοσι πρὸς ἑαυτοὺς οὕτως ἔχουσιν
εἰς δὲ τὸν ἕνα μηδενὸς διατείνοντος τοιούτου, καθ’ ὅσον δὲ πρὸς τοὺς πλησίον ἔχει οὕτως. The
followings translations of chapter 16 follow Cherniss with slight modifications.
214 Weisser
This text is followed by three syllogisms taken from the Demonstrations

Concerning Justice that aim at supporting B, introduced by a short summary of
the argument, as it is often the case.
B.1. The law prohibits one from becoming accessory to a transgression

and to do injustice is a transgression. Now, he who has become his own
accessory in doing injustice transgresses in regard to himself; and he who
transgresses in regard to an individual also does that individual injustice.
Therefore, whoever does anyone at all injustice does himself injustice
too. (1041D)30
B.2. [Moral] mistake (τὸ ἁμάρτημα) belongs [to the category of] injuries,
and everyone who makes a [moral] mistake, errs towards himself (παρ’
ἑαυτὸν ἁμαρτάνει). Therefore, every person who commits a [moral] mis-
take, injures himself contrary to value (παρὰ τὴν ἀξίαν); and if so, he also
does himself injustice. (1041D)31
B.3. He who is injured by another injures himself and injures him-
self contrary to value (παρὰ τὴν ἀξίαν). This, however, is to do injustice.
Therefore everyone who is done injustice by anyone at all does himself
injustice. (1041D–E)32
The chapter ends with these texts, but it is not uncommon to find Plutarch
adding a few derogatory comments on Chrysippus’s reckless way of endorsing
opposite statements.
Whereas the quotations aim to serve as a proof text of the different charges
of inconsistency, they enable us to measure the extent to which Plutarch is
(willingly or not) distorting Chrysippus’s thought. The absence of the original
material does not always make this task easy and, as noted by Daniel Babut,
one should not hastily disregard all of Plutarch’s reports as simple misinter-
pretations on the ground that he at times indulges in some obvious fallacies.33
In the passage under examination, however, Plutarch’s misrepresentation of
Chrysippus can be easily detected. The fact that Chrysippus rejected the notion
30 παραίτιον γενέσθαι παρανομήματος ἀπαγορεύει ὁ νόμος· καὶ τὸ ἀδικεῖν ἐστι παρανόμημα· ὁ
τοίνυν παραίτιος γενόμενος αὑτῷ τοῦ ἀδικεῖν παρανομεῖ εἰς ἑαυτόν· ὁ δὲ παρανομῶν εἰς ἕνα καὶ
ἀδικεῖ ἐκεῖνον· ὁ ἄρα καὶ ὁντινοῦν ἀδικῶν καὶ ἑαυτὸν ἀδικεῖ.
31 τὸ ἁμάρτημα τῶν βλαμμάτων ἐστί, καὶ πᾶς ἁμαρτάνων παρ’ ἑαυτὸν ἁμαρτάνει· πᾶς ἄρ’ ὁ
ἁμαρτάνων βλάπτει ἑαυτὸν παρὰ τὴν ἀξίαν· εἰ δὲ τοῦτο, καὶ ἀδικεῖ ἑαυτόν.
32 ὁ βλαπτόμενος ὑφ’ ἑτέρου ἑαυτὸν βλάπτει καὶ παρὰ τὴν ἀξίαν ἑαυτὸν βλάπτει· τοῦτο δ’ ἦν τὸ
ἀδικεῖν· ὁ ἄρ’ ἀδικούμενος καὶ ὑφ’ ὁτουοῦν πᾶς ἑαυτὸν ἀδικεῖ.
33 Babut, “Polémique et philosophie,” 25–43.
of injustice as referring exclusively to an isolated individual (text A) does not

contradict the idea that injustice also applies to oneself (texts B.1, 2, and 3).
Text A shows that Chrysippus spelled out an early version of homuncularism,
or in other words, the idea that Plato’s theory of the tripartite soul conceives
the agent as fractured into different small persons (homunculae)—each part of
the soul having the properties of an independent human agent.34 Chrysippus’s
dismissal of Plato’s idea that justice obtains in the individual when each part
of his soul is doing its own is based upon his conception of the soul as a unified
and centralized entity, which precludes the possibility to conceive that hetero-
geneous motivational forces could act simultaneously in one’s soul.35 In con-
ceiving injustice (and supposedly justice) as necessarily relational, Chrysippus
seems thus to align himself with Aristotle.36
The three syllogisms (B.1–3) show that Chrysippus did not conceive of injus-
tice as exclusively applicable to others excluding oneself but rather conceived
that relational injustice has consequence over oneself. B.1. and B.2. contain
similar claims. The purpose of B.1. is to show that being the agent of injus-
tice necessarily involves transgressing in regard to oneself. B.2. rests on the
assumption that any moral mistake (including being unjust) is an expression
of one’s own vice and therefore should be seen as a mistake towards oneself.37
For Chrysippus, every moral mistake, even when it harms another person, is
necessarily reflexive, and can thus be conceived as an injury “contrary to value”
(παρὰ τὴν ἀξίαν) towards oneself. Since injustice is, according to the Stoic stan-
dard definition, “the ignorance of the distribution according to value (κατ’
ἀξίαν) to each person,”38 every moral mistake amounts to an injustice toward
oneself. B.3 adds the idea that by being subject to injustice, one causes injus-
tice to oneself. Chrysippus’s reason for maintaining this is that being harmed
34 This is, to the best of my knowledge, the only Chrysippean fragment that bears a clear
indication of a direct confrontation with Plato’s tripartite soul. The analysis of the frag-
ments of Chrysippus’s On Soul preserved by Galen do not show any clear confrontation
with Plato’s theory of the soul, with the exception of one mention in a doxographical pas-
sage (PHP 3.1.10–15), which cannot be seen as a sign of a polemic against Plato.
35 Resp. 443c8–444a1. On Chrysippus’s concept of the soul see: Tieleman, Galen and
Chrysippus, 133–290; Gourinat, “Le traité de Chrysippe Sur l’âme,” 557–77.
36 Eth. Nic. 5.1, 1129b26–1130a13.
37 The Epitome of Arius Didymus confirms this Chrysippean idea: “everyone who makes
a ]moral] mistake (ἁμάρτημα) does so because of his own vice” (ap. Stob. 2.7.11d) and
“[Moral] mistakes are unjust actions and unlawful actions and disorderly actions” (ap.
Stob. 2.7.11e; trans. Inwood).
38 Ap. Stob. 2.7.5.b.1; De Stoic. rep. 7, 1034C; Ps-Andron. De affect. 2.7: “ἕξις ἀπονεμητικὴ τοῦ
κατ’ ἀξίαν ἑκάστῳ.”
216 Weisser
in these circumstances is the result of considering that being the object of an

injury is something bad. By contrast, the perfect virtuous agent, who possesses
the firm knowledge that only vice is bad and only virtue is good, will never con-
sider an injury performed by someone else against himself as something bad.
Thus, for Chrysippus, both suffering from harm and causing harm, both trans-
gressing and being affected by a transgression, and both being the agent and
the patient of injustice manifest the nonvirtuous state of the agent and attest
to his nonconformity with the orthos logos.39 Thus, clearly, Plutarch’s charge
here appears ill founded.
From Plutarch’s perspective quotations constitute the compelling evidence

that prevents any counterattack.40 They are intended to strengthen his case
and to dispel any doubt that might exist about the accuracy and validity of
his charge. They can also be seen as a preventive move against the attractive-
ness of the Stoic doctrine, as anyone who is endorsing Chrysippus’s view would
inevitably be condemned to the same charges and would have to vindicate the
texts of the school master against these harsh accusations.
Most of the time Plutarch does not gauge the intrinsic validity of such or
such argument but simply notes that they are obviously absurd (atopos).41
What he is testing is the consistency of the combination of isolated claims
belonging to different books or contexts, although he was probably aware of
the strong probability that, over the many years of his philosophical career,
Chrysippus could have modified or refined his position. This, however, enables
us to gain some insight on an additional feature of a textually based polemic
through self-contradictions: it rests on the assumption that a whole corpus
should be coherent. Plutarch’s willingness to accept the idea of an evolution in
Aristotle’s doctrine of the soul does not apply thus to Chrysippus.42
According to Kidd, Plutarch’s use of the quotation is dictated by the general
objective operating in Plutarch’s writings in general, which is to make a strong
impression on his readers and, in this particular case, to vividly disclose the
Stoic failure to function as a practical philosophy. According to him
39 The law is defined in the Epitome of Arius Didymus as “the right reason (orthos logos)
which commands what is to be done and forbids what is not to be done” (ibid. 11i; trans.
Inwood).
40 De Stoic. rep. 17, 1041F; 9, 1035E.
41 De Stoic. rep. 22, 1045B; 9, 1036A.
42 De virt. mor. 442B; contra Babut, Plutarque, De la vertu éthique, 137–39.
Plutarch did not have a logical mind, and he didn’t tend to argue a case
logically; he had a vivid, pictorial, impressionistic mind. . . . Quotations
are actually part of this, the tools, sometimes bludgeons, by which he
makes his effects as with imagery, metaphor, smile, anecdote. . . . they are
used for their effect on the reader, not for their logical coherence.43
While the nature of Plutarch’s mind unfortunately cannot be assessed here,

Kidd is certainly right to stress the fact that there is something other than a
pure interest in the rules of logic that accounts for the extensive use of quota-
tions. Applying, however, Plutarch’s accusations to himself, by attributing the
distance between Chrysippus’s words and Plutarch’s glosses to a careless philo-
sophical mind or to a low respect for the rules of logic, may lead us to overlook
the rules of the game by which Plutarch is playing. The solution may in fact
be found outside of “Plutarch’s mind.” My contention is that a closer look at
his working method, together with an overview of a non-Plutarchean similar
pattern of polemic, may provide us with some indications concerning the dis-
cursive practice that is at stake in this text.
3 Plutarch’s Working Method
Contrary to the view that Plutarch simply drew his material from a preexist-
ing academic account listing different Stoics self-contradictions and that he
thus had only indirect knowledge of Stoicism,44 Babut, Hershbell, and Kidd
have argued that Plutarch demonstrates acquaintance with the content of the
books from which the passages are extracted.45 Nevertheless, any influence
of an academic polemic against the Stoics should not be excluded. Indeed,
according to Boys-Stones, Plutarch drew the content of the arguments against
Stoicism from an academic source but turned these arguments into self-con-
tradictions. In his eyes, the process of turning this source—whose structure
can still be identified in the thematic organization of Plutarch’s material—is
what conveys the impression of a somewhat rambling text, lacking in cohesion
43 Kidd, “Plutarch and His Stoic Contradictions,” 296.

44 Von Arnim, SVF vol. 1, xi–xiv; Pohlenz, “Plutarchs Schriften gegen die Stoiker,” 1–33; and
Sandbach, “Plutarch on the Stoics,” 22–23; and the discussion in Babut and Casevitz,
Plutarque, Œuvres morales, 15.1, 7–14, and Cherniss, LCL 470, 13.2, 397.
45 Babut and Casevitz, Plutarque, Œuvres morales, 15.1, 7–14 and Babut, Plutarque et le stoï-
cisme, 25–33; Hershbell, “Plutarch and Stoicism,” 3336–3352; Kidd, “Plutarch and His Stoic
Contradictions,” 291–93.
218 Weisser
and structure.46 It is then very plausible that Plutarch read most of the works
he mentions (or they were read to him), took notes, and excerpted many pas-
sages in his notebooks.47 Using his notes, and following in a rather free manner
the template of a previous anti-Stoic polemic (possibly of academic origin), he
composed his treatise, selecting from the texts copied into his notebooks the
ones that better supported his refutation. The similarity of the material with
arguments exposed in Against the Stoics on Common Conceptions and in some
other works seems to indicate that Plutarch was drawing from the same col-
lection of notes.48 Plutarch’s reliance on notebooks explains why Chrysippus’s
claims are so easily decontextualized, twisted, or misinterpreted, as this consti-
tutes a common feature of a work based on excerpta.49
Interestingly, this also seems to have been the procedure adopted in his anti-
Epicurean writings. The now-lost treatise, On Epicurean Self-Contradictions
(Lampr. 129), most likely followed the same structure and was also character-
ized by a multitude of quotations.50 The fact that Plutarch opted for an identi-
cal polemical strategy against both the Stoics and the Epicureans, although he
held the former in higher esteem, already suggests the existence of a specific
polemical genre that he indifferently adopted, his personal preferences not-
withstanding. These polemical writings, belonging most probably to the same
period of activity and dated to a relatively early stage of his career,51 may be
considered as training, or perhaps as a “classroom exercise,” in this specific
genre of polemic, which could ultimately serve as a basis for his more struc-
tured and constructed attacks.52 An examination of Galen’s polemic against
Chrysippus might provide further indications regarding this polemical pattern
that Plutarch endorses in his attack on Chrysippus.
46 Boys-Stones, “Plutarch on koinos logos,” 299–329.

47 As has been often noted now, Plutarch refers to these notebooks (ὑπομνήματα) in
De tranq. anim. 464F–465A, cf. de coh. ira 457D–E; De E 384E (see, for example, Cherniss,
LCL 470, 13.2, 396–400); and on excerpting passages in the process of book writing in anti
quity, see Dorandi, Le stylet et la tablette, esp. 27–50.
48 Babut, Plutarque et le stoïcisme, 27n2.
49 Mejer, Diogenes Laetrius and His Hellenistic Background, 16–19.
50 Cherniss, LCL 470, 13.2, 371.
51 Babut, Plutarque, Œuvres morales, 15.1, 15–18.
52 This does not mean that Plutarch did not write anti-Stoic works before the De Stoic. rep.
Thus, in 15, 1040D, he mentions his On Justice, against Chrysippus (Lampr. No. 59); cf. 16,
1041B.
4 Galen’s On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato
Unlike Plutarch’s On the Stoic Self-Contradictions, in which no positive alter-

native doctrine is proposed, Galen’s On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato
aims at showing that Plato’s tripartite soul is correct, both from the philo-
sophical and the anatomical point of view, and moreover that it coincides
with Hippocrates’s concept of soul. In so doing Galen devotes four out of nine
books to counter Chrysippus’s theory of the soul. This refutation is conducted
in two parts, each of which tackles a different Chrysippean treatise. In books
two and three, Galen discusses Chrysippus’s On the Soul and seeks to establish
the groundlessness of Chrysippus’s arguments in defense of a soul that Galen
depicts as lacking irrational powers or parts. The second part of Galen’s refuta-
tion (PHP 4 and 5) sets out to demonstrate that in On the Emotions Chrysippus’s
view is no longer in line with the monistic soul exposed in On the Soul. In other
words, in addressing Chrysippus’s On the Emotions, Galen’s objective is to show
that by defining emotions as he does, Chrysippus is compelled to conceive an
irrational force in the soul. As in Plutarch’s De Stoic. rep., Galen’s refutation is
built on the charges of inconsistency and is sustained by numerous verbatim
quotations from Chrysippus’s treatises.53 As a detailed examination of Galen’s
whole range of arguments and tactics cannot be dealt with in the limited
framework of this paper, I will restrict myself to presenting his main strategy.
Galen’s attack of Chrysippus’s On the Soul revolves primarily around the
claim that the poetic verses adduced by Chrysippus do not support his identi-
fication of the heart as the seat of all the activities of the soul but corroborate
Plato’s tripartite doctrine of the soul better (that is our category 5 of self-
contradictions). Although Galen is clearly reluctant to resort to poetic verses in
a scientific argument, he himself engages in counterexegetical readings of the
verses adduced by Chrysippus, quoting and discussing them at length. Thus,
the Homeric lines such as
53 Galen adduces around thirty verbatim fragments from Chrysippus’s On the Soul in PHP
2 and 3 (all of which are derived from the second part of the first book of Chrysippus’s
On the Soul) and around seventy quotations from On the Emotions. See Tieleman,
Chrysippus’ On Affections, esp. 89–196. Galen even suggests that he considers collecting
Chrysippus’s countless enantiologia in one single treatise, when he will have the leisure
to do so (PHP 4.4.1).
220 Weisser
Never before did love of goddess or woman

So flood my breast and overpower my spirit (thumos) (Il. 14.315–16;
PHP 4.1.9)54
which were adduced by Chrysippus as testimonies of the localization of the

hegemonic part of the soul in the heart (which is located in the breast), clearly
indicate, in Galen’s eyes, that the heart is the seat of the thumos. Galen accuses
Chrysippus of being convinced by the very verses he adduces, of being con-
victed by his own witnesses.55 This tactic evidently aims at making Chrysippus
appear as a mediocre philosopher, who not only was unable to produce a valid
demonstration56 but who moreover did not understand the obvious meaning
of the verses he adduced.57
The second strategy adopted by Galen belongs to our first category and
operates at two levels. In order to show that (1) Chrysippus’s theory of the soul
that is reflected in On the Emotions is at odds with the one exposed in On the
Soul, Galen attempts to demonstrate, by means of the exposition of internal
contradictions, that (2) Chrysippus’s arguments concerning the emotions in
fact support the idea of irrational parts of the soul. Chrysippus is thus pre-
sented as holding mutually exclusive statements not only between two differ-
ent books (1), but also within different claims of the same treatise (2).58 This
twin purpose already makes of Galen’s attack a more elaborated strategy than
Plutarch’s one—a difference that is further enhanced by the fact that whereas
Plutarch merely singled out inconsistencies, Galen makes every attempt to
present Chrysippus as a supporter of Plato’s doctrine of the soul. The two fol-
lowing examples provide a good case study of Galen’s polemical method.
In the first, Chrysippus is found at fault for defining emotion both as a judg-
ment (statement A) and as an irrational motion of the soul happening without
judgment (statement B). Galen starts by quoting a long passage from the first
book of On the Emotions, in which Chrysippus presents his first definition of
the emotions. I quote here part of it:
54 οὐ γὰρ πώποτέ μ’ ὧδε θεᾶς ἔρος οὐδὲ γυναικὸς; θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι περιπροχυθεὶς ἐδάμασσε.
55 See, for example, PHP 3.3.30; 3.4.14; 3.7.47; and Weisser, “The Dispute on Homer,” 175–97.
56 Galen repeatedly complains about Chrysippus’s nonscientific mode of argumentation.
He claims that since Chrysippus was unskilled in the useful parts of logic, he based his
demonstration on rhetorical premises and on the authority of nonexperts (see, inter alia,
PHP 2.2.5–8; 2.3.8–9; 2.4.3–4).
57 As in PHP 4.1.11–13.
58 PHP 4.1.14–15.
For this “irrational” must be understood as disobedient to reason and

rejecting it; and with reference to this movement we say in ordinary
usage that some persons are pushed and moved irrationally, without
reason and judgment (ἄνευ λόγου καὶ κρίσεως). For when we use these
expressions, it is not as if a person is in error or has overlooked something
that is in accord with reason; but we refer especially to the movement
that he (sic. Zeno) describes, since it is not the nature of a rational animal
to move thus in his soul; but in accordance with reason. (PHP 4.2.12; trans.
De Lacy, modified)59
Galen’s purpose in quoting this passage is to show the incompatibility of

Chrysippus’ two claims: that emotions are irrational and that they are judge-
ments. Galen praises Chrysippus for stating that “it is not as if a person is in
error or has overlooked something that is in accord with reason,” which shows,
in his eyes, that Chrysippus distinguished [irrational] emotions from [ratio-
nal] errors and that he ultimately endorsed, as did Plato, the idea of irrational
powers in the soul (PHP 4.2.24–28). However, Galen lingers on Chrysippus’s
description of ‘irrational’ as “without reason and judgment” and presents it
as standing in sharp contradiction with his definition of emotions as judg-
ment (PHP 4.2.8). According to Galen, Chrysippus “contradicts himself, hold-
ing at one time that the affections arise without reason and judgment, and
at another saying not only that they supervene on judgments but that they
are actually judgments” (PHP 4.3.6–7; trans. De Lacy, cf. 4.4.5). Galen shows
himself to be aware of the possibility that one may argue that Chrysippus uses
‘judgement’ in two different meanings, but he immediately attacks Chrysippus
for not having removed the ambiguity. He moreover points out that in fact
Chrysippus uses judgment as a name for “impulses and assents,” which makes
it impossible for him to account for the cause of the excessive impulse and
assent (4.3.6–10; Galen obviously refers here to Chrysippus’s definition of emo-
tion as “an excessive impulse”). As this text makes abundantly clear, although
Galen closely follows Chrysippus’s own wording, he patently omits the fact
that that when Chrysippus used the expression “without reason and judge-
ment” to qualify “irrational,” he was referring to the “ordinary usage” (ἐν τῷ ἔθει)
of these expressions.
59 τὸ γὰρ ἄλογον τουτὶ ληπτέον ἀπειθὲς λόγῳ καὶ ἀπεστραμμένον τὸν λόγον, καθ’ ἣν φορὰν καὶ ἐν
τῷ ἔθει τινάς φαμεν ὠθεῖσθαι καὶ ἀλόγως φέρεσθαι ἄνευ λόγου <καὶ> κρίσεως· <οὐ γὰρ> ὡς εἰ
διημαρτημένως φέρεται καὶ παριδών τι κατὰ τὸν λόγον, ταῦτ’ ἐπισημαινόμεθα, ἀλλὰ μάλιστα
καθ’ ἣν ὑπογράφει φοράν, οὐ πεφυκότος τοῦ λογικοῦ ζῴου κινεῖσθαι οὕτως κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν, ἀλλὰ
κατὰ τὸν λόγον.
222 Weisser
The second example, which discusses Chrysippus’s concept of striving

(orexis), discloses another case of Galen’s polemical use of Chrysippus’s text.
After defining desire (ἐπιθυμία) in his first book On the Emotions as “irra-
tional striving” (ὄρεξις ἄλογος), he defines striving itself in the sixth of his
generic definitions as “a rational impulse (ὁρμὴν λογικήν) toward some-
thing that gives pleasure to the extent that it should” and he defines it
this way also in his work On Impulse. Therefore, the definition of desire,
when expanded, is thus: “Desire is an irrational (ἄλογος) rational (λογική)
impulse toward something that gives pleasure to the extent that it
should.” (PHP 4.4.2; trans. De Lacy, slightly modified)60
Then Galen adds:
To not perceive contradictions between different books or parts of

books is less serious; but when a person combines in the very state-
ments he is making things that are contrary (ἐναντία) and utterly con-
tradictory (μαχόμενα), he thereby confuses and disrupts the teaching
and causes great embarrassment for those who try to test his statements
(PHP 4.4.3–4; trans. De Lacy, modified)61
The accusation of holding mutually exclusive statements (A. desire is “rational”

and B. desire is “irrational”) operates through the combination of two differ-
ent passages, which reduce ad absurdum Chrysippus’s definitions. Once more,
according to Galen, such a contradiction can only be resolved through the pos-
iting of irrational parts of the soul. But here again, Galen omits a distinction that
operates in Chrysippus’s text: the one between logikos and logos. For Chrysippus
logikos refers to what pertains to an animal endowed with reason (logikon
zōion),62 while alogos is used to indicate the deviation from the logos according
to which a rational animal should live. In Chrysippus’s eyes there is no contra-
60 τὴν τοίνυν ἐπιθυμίαν ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ περὶ παθῶν ὁρισάμενος ὄρεξιν ἄλογον, αὐτὴν πάλιν τὴν ὄρεξιν
ἐν ἕκτῳ τῶν κατὰ γένος ὅρων ὁρμὴν λογικὴν εἶναί φησιν ἐπί τι<νος> ὅσον χρὴ ἥδοντος [αὐτῷ],
οὕτω δὲ αὐτὴν ὁρίζεται κἀν τοῖς περὶ τῆς ὁρμῆς, ὥστε τὸν τῆς ἐπιθυμίας ὅρον ἀναπτυσσόμενον
γίγνεσθαι τοιοῦτον· ἐπιθυμία ἐστὶν ὁρμὴ λογικὴ ἐπί τι<νος> ὅσον χρὴ ἥδοντος [αὐτῷ], ἄλογος.
Cf. Diog. Laert. 7.113, Arius Didymus ap. Stob. 2.7.9.
61 ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν ἐν διαφέρουσιν ἤτοι βιβλίοις ἢ χωρίοις βιβλίων ἀναισθήτως ἔχειν τῆς ἐναντιολογίας
ἧττον δεινόν· ὅταν δ’ ἐν αὐτοῖς οἷς φθέγγεταί τις ἐναντία τε καὶ παντοίως μαχόμενα συμπλέξῃ,
συγχεῖ καὶ ταράσσει τὴν διδασκαλίαν ἐν τῷδε καὶ πολλὴν ἀπορίαν παρέχει τοῖς ἐξελέγχειν αὐτὰ
πειρωμένοις.
62 See Orig. De princip. 3.1.2–3 (LS 53 A); Philo Deus 35–46.
diction: desire can be both at the same time: logikos—that is, pertaining to a
rational animal, and alogos—that is, disobedient to and rejecting reason.
Despite the exploitation of apparent synonyms—which makes this kind of
argument tilt toward sophistry—by quoting long portions of Chrysippus’s text
in his refutation, Galen leaves the impression that he is working on the actual
premises of his opponent, or in other words, that he engages in a dialectical
argument.63
Galen’s refutation of Chrysippus by Chrysippus constitutes a destructive
step at the service of a positive program. As Galen states in On the Order of My
Own Books in explaining why he wrote medial polemical treatises: “Once the
wrong opinions have been refuted, then the exposition of the true ones is bet-
ter established” (2.17). The same motivation undoubtedly applies to his refu-
tation of Chrysippus.64 Once Chrysippus’s opinions have been refuted from
within, he can turn to the anatomical and philosophical proofs of the agree-
ment between Plato and Hippocrates on the powers that govern us.
5 Conclusion
The shared polemical formal framework that has emerged from the analysis
of Plutarch’s and Galen’s dispute against Chrysippus enables us to identify a
specific polemical pattern to which they both subscribe. In both cases quo-
tations are used as weapons in the discursive war waged against Chrysippus
and fuel the various accusations of inconsistency. Galen and Plutarch made
use of numerous quotations from Chrysippus toward the same objective: to
discredit him as a philosopher. According to the spectrum, described by André
Laks in this volume, extending from ‘polemic as attack’ to ‘polemic as critique,’
Plutarch’s and Galen’s polemic tilts obviously to the second extremity, as both
the charges of self-contradictions and the extensive resort to Chrysippus’s own
words aim at depicting him as a reckless thinker who is unable to formulate
coherent positions. Polemics through self-contradiction are prone to be textu-
ally based since it is the ipsa verba of the opponent that better supports the
63 Although Galen considered the demonstrative and scientific method to be the best suited
to any investigation, he nevertheless viewed the dialectical method as useful, as good for
training and for refuting the Sophists. See for example, PHP 2.3.9–14; 2.4.3–4; 2.8.1–2. See
Tieleman, Galen and Chrysippus, 14–23.
64 See PHP 2.4.1: “Since our purpose is to persuade not [the Stoics] only but also all others
who have been nurtured in fallacious habits of reasoning but whose minds are not yet
incurably perverted” (trans. De Lacy).
224 Weisser
case. By quoting the adversary’s own words, the polemicist creates the impres-
sion that he endorses the opponent’s own language, that he engages in a dia-
lectical controversy, whereas he is in fact often misrepresenting his opponent’s
position. Quotations are decontextualized and inserted into another discourse,
which rests on different assumptions, and whose terminology refers to differ-
ent concepts. Furthermore, quotations do not only constitute an adversarial
move but they also come out as a self-asserting tactic, as they bring to the fore
the epistemic authority of the polemicist and his intellectual elitism.65
In his introductory paper in this volume, André Laks has recalled Stenzel’s
scheme of the triadic structure of polemic, composed by the subject (here
Plutarch or Galen), the object (Chrysippus), and the public.66 The question
of the audience of these treatises is in fact closely tied to that of authority.
Plutarch’s and Galen’s choice to focus on a philosopher dead for a few hun-
dred years points at his prominent standing and authority within the Stoic
circles of their own time. Indeed, the reference to alternative Stoic exegesis of
Chrysippus’s words suggest that Chrysippus’s texts were read and commented
on both in and outside Stoic circles and that the contemporary Stoics engaged
in a lively debate with other philosophers.67 Plutarch and Galen, who recog-
nized other authorities—and especially that of Plato68—endeavor to under-
mine the prestige gained by Chrysippus in the intellectual arena of the time.
Lying behind Chrysippus, it is the Stoic tradition as a whole that is targeted, as
65 See for example, Quaest. conv. 5.3 (675D–677B); and Kidd, “Plutarch and His Stoic
Contradictions,” 292; and on Plutarch’s self-promotion, see Van Hoof, Plutarch’s Practical
Ethics, esp. 254–65.
66 Stenzel, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus,” 3–11.
67 Plutarch attests to the wide diffusion and the popularity of Chrysippus’s books and doc-
trine in Comm. not. 25, 1070E and De Stoic. rep. 23 1054D. The diffusion of Chrysippus’s
books by Galen’s time is also attested by the fact that Galen’s refutation is a reply to a
Sophist who has pointed out to him that it is impossible to “refute all that Chrysippus had
written concerning the fact that the heart alone in the body of an animal is the source of
the governing part” (PHP 3.1.7, cf. 3.7.18; but in 3.8.39 it is upon request of several of his
friends). On the contemporary aspect of Galen’s polemic, see also PHP 2.3.25–27; 2.4.28–
29; 2.5.22–25; 3.4.12–13; 4.5.1–2; 8.1.14 and 16; and Tieleman, “Galen and the Stoics,” 282–99.
68 Plutarch defends Plato and the Academic tradition against Chrysippus’s attacks in De
Stoic. rep. 14, 1039D–1040A and 15, 1040A–1041B; cf. Babut, Plutarque, Œuvres morales, 15.1,
158n151. According to Long (“Subtexts,” 122–24), there is, however, no evidence of a sus-
tained polemic against Plato in Chrysippus’s fragments, except in the case of On Justice
against Plato. The question of Galen’s philosophical affiliation is an intricate question
(see De Lacy, “Galen’s Platonism,” 27–39; Hankinson, “Galen’s Philosophical Eclecticism,”
3505–22); however, he is undoubtedly strongly committed to Plato’s psychology through
the first six books of his PHP.
shown by the easy shift from an attack ad hominem against Chrysippus to one
directed against a more general “they.”69 Thus, the war waged through quota-
tions is first and foremost one against authority and can be understood against
the backdrop of the prominent importance gained by the concept of authority
in the philosophy of the empire. In this regard, it is useful to consider this genre
of polemic in the larger context of the textual turn that occurred in the philo-
sophical landscape around the turn of the era and that is best illustrated by the
birth and blossoming of the commentary tradition on the works of Aristotle.70
The writing of commentaries and the reading and explanations of passages
in philosophical classrooms all point to a philosophical activity character-
ized by a growing dependence on authoritative texts. Textual polemic may
be considered as the other side of exegetical philosophy, as another facet of a
philosophical practice and reflection characterized by its dependence on the
texts of the authorities. Plutarch’s On Stoic Self-Contradictions may be unique
in its genre but only on account of the density of the various textually based
polemical strategies that it encapsulates. What is more, this assumption gains
confirmation from other polemics of the early empire that display a similar
polemical pattern. Suffice it here to mention the Against Apion by Plutarch’s
contemporary Josephus,71 Origen’s attack on Celsus,72 or again, at a later period,
Epiphanius of Salamis’s controversy with the heresies.73 These polemics pro-
ceed through numerous quotations of the opponents and recruit the different
charges of inconsistencies mapped out at the beginning of this survey. It seems
thus that Plutarch’s De Stoic. rep. and Galen’s PHP have to be situated in the
larger context of this polemical genre. The discursive war waged by means of
accusations of self-contradictions and quotations constituted thus an effective
device in fighting against competitive authorities as well as a powerful driving
force of controversies in a culture marked by an increasing return to the texts.74
69 As, for example, De Stoic. rep. 27, 1046E–F; 31, 1048C–E; 38, 1052D–B; 40, 1052E; Gal. PHP
2.3.25–27; 2.5.21; 2.5.64.
70 See Hadot, “Théologie, exégèse, révélation,” 13–64; Sedley, “Plato’s Auctoritas and the
Rebirth of the Commentary Tradition,” 111–29; Donini, “Testi e commenti,” 5027–100;
Snyder, Teachers and Texts; and Hatzimichali, “The Texts of Plato and Aristotle,” 1–27.
71 C. Apion. 1.253–287 (against Manetho); 2.137–139 (against Apion).
72 C. Cels., 1.8; 2.18; 2.23; 2.70; 3.63; 7.15; 7.66 (a reply to Celsus’s accusation of self-
contradictions), and 8.69.
73 Epiph. Adv. haeres. 46.3.1; 44.1.3; 21.6.1; 25.5.4; 31.33.3–34.1.
74 I am grateful to the participants of the conference as well as to the anonymous referees for
their valuable comments.
226 Weisser
Appendix
Table of the Accusations of Self-Contradictionsa
1. Mutually exclusive 7, 1034D (Zeno); 9, 1035A–F; 10, 1036A–1037C; 11,

statements 1037D–1038A; 12, 1038A–C; 13, 1038C–1039D; 16,
1041B–E; 18, 1042A–1042E; 19, 1042E–1043A; 20,
1043A–1044B; 21, 1044B–F; 22, 1044F–1045B; 25, 1046B;
26, 1046 C–E; 27, 1046E–F; 28, 1047B; 30, 1048A–C; 31,
1048C–1049A; 33, 1049 D–F; 34, 1049F–1050C; 36,
1051A–B; 37, 1051B–D; 39, 1052B–1052E; 41,
1052F–1053E; 42, 1053E; 43, 1053E–1054B; 44,
1054B–1055C; 45, 1055D; 46, 1055D–F; 47, 1055F–1057C.
2. Contradiction 2, 1033B–E (and other Stoics); 3, 1033E–F (Stoics); 4,
between words 1034A–B; 5, 1034B; 6, 1034B; 8, 1034E–F (Zeno); 9,
and deeds 1035A–F; 10, 1036A–1037C; 24, 1045E–1046B; 30,
1047E–F; 32, 1049A–C.
3. “It applies to 6, 1034B (Zeno’s followers); 7, 1034D; 8, 1034E–F (Zeno);
himself” 13, 1038E; 14, 1039 D–1040A; 15, 1440A–1041B; 16,
1041B–E; 23, 1045B–1045F; 29, 1047C–E; 44, 1054C; 38,
1051C–1052B (and Antipater).
4. Reverse praise 14, 1039D; 21, 1044B; 47, 1057A–B.
5. In contradiction to 14, 1039F; 15, 1040A–C; 20, 1043E; 21, 1044B; 30, 1047E–F;
poetic verses 33, 1049E–F; 34, 1049F and 1050B; 40, 1052E; 47, 1055B.
6. Contrary to 10, 1036A; 17, 1041E–1042A; 19, 1042F; 21, 1044C–D; 30,
common sense or 1048B–C; 31, 1049B; 32, 1049A–D; 35, 1050E–1051A; 38,
absurd 1052B; 40, 1052E.
a Unless otherwise explicitly mentioned, all the accusations are leveled at Chrysippus.
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The Invisible Adversary: Anti-Christian Polemic in
Proclus’s Commentary on the Republic of Plato
Robert Lamberton
The Greeks were nothing if not agonistic, and whether philosophy was
born of rhetoric or rhetoric of philosophy, any argument—philosophical or
otherwise—addresses a previously existing argument (real or implied) and
hence an interlocutor, an antagonist, possibly a straw man, possibly a more
substantial and tangible presence. Many—perhaps most—philosophical
opponents are in the second category. They are named, and the positions
attacked or questioned are attributed (rightly or not) to a historical individual,
but there are many reasons for hiding the identity of the interlocutor. If we
believe the standard histories of Greek philosophy, the “invisible adversary”
of my title is no stranger to the philosophical discourse of the Greeks, and his
history is a long one. One thinks first, perhaps, of Aristotle. The arguments of
the Poetics, and particularly the peculiarly underargued notion of catharsis,
look like answers to a counterposition, but this is never identified, much less
described or addressed directly. If, as I think we would all agree, this figure who
needed to be answered but not named was Plato, then the adversarial nature
of Aristotle’s argument is restored, and the motivation of his decision to keep
his adversary anonymous can be plausibly explained.
Some 800 years after Aristotle’s one-sided exchange, Proclus, one of the last
“successors” to the chair of Platonic philosophy in Athens, engaged in a one-
sided polemic of a very different sort.1 One way to characterize this debate
would be to say that it was an exchange with the elephant in the room. If
that familiar metaphor refers primarily to the size and obtrusiveness of the
unnamed presence in question, the elephant has another quality that is per-
haps just as relevant here: his potential destructiveness. Had Proclus confronted
him directly, we might well be reading today not what Proclus wrote but at
best the equivalent of what (to cite an earlier example) Origen the Christian
1 Cf. Saffrey, “Allusions antichrétiennes,” 553–54. Saffrey’s article, which forms the basis of much
of this article, opens with this observation: “On chercherait en vain dans ses [i.e., Proclus’s]
écrits une réaction ouverte au christianisme.” Sincere thanks are due to the two anonymous
readers who commented on the text and pointed out several errors. I am especially indebted
to “Reviewer 1” for the reference to P. Hoffmann, “Un grief antichrétien chez Proclus,” which
I was unfortunately unable to incorporate here.

The Invisible Adversary 231
claimed that Celsus said, perhaps accompanied by some excerpts selectively

culled from his writings by an unsympathetic excerptor. And the elephant had
another destructive trick or two up his sleeve. Proclus never mentions Hypatia
(who met her end at the hands of a Christian mob in Alexandria when Proclus
was an infant), but one might imagine that he thought about her a good deal.
My initial sketch of the motivations behind Proclus’s rhetorical strategy in
his Republic commentary may be flippant, but I have made it so primarily to
problematize that strategy. Proclus unquestionably characterizes those who
oppose his position (and from whom, he insists, much of the specifics of his
argumentation must be kept secret), but the manner in which he does this
raises interesting questions. First of all (like the elephant himself), the polemic
both is and is not obvious, or to put it differently, it can easily be ignored. Of
course, it is difficult to recreate the experience of native speakers remote in
time, but I can at least report my own experience in dealing with this text: the
characterization of Proclus’s Christian opponents is something that can easily
be overlooked in the Republic commentary, but it becomes louder and louder
with repeated readings.2 This is in part a matter of conventional signals, used
not just by Proclus but by generations of polytheists to refer to the growing
Christian threat.3 This cryptic language gives us precious information about
Proclus’s notion of his audience. He seems to be writing in a deeply coded
language, where the polemic is readily accessible to those who share his views,
but just as easily ignored by the elephant and his friends: a sort of double rhet-
oric, designed to be read and understood differently by two classes of readers.
It is striking that Proclus’s explicit analysis of Homeric poetry in this essay mir-
rors the rhetorical strategy of the essay itself.
Let me turn briefly to the specifics of the argument in question in order to
situate what I have called its polemical aspect within its other rhetorical strat-
egies. The sixth essay of Proclus’s Commentary on the Republic is largely self-
contained, and its concerns might be approached from various points of view:
religious, literary, and finally (and most obviously) philosophical. The explicit
goal of the essay is to defend Homer against Socrates’s criticisms in books 2, 3,
and 10 of the Republic and at the same time to show that Plato is in fact not self-
contradictory in sometimes praising and sometimes (apparently) condemning
Homer. The essay originated, as Proclus tells us, in a speech on the occasion of
2 Cf. Lamberton, Proclus the Successor on Poetics and the Homeric Poems. Over the years during
which I worked on this text, translation, and commentary, the polemical nature of Proclus’s
arguments became increasingly unavoidable.
3 Saffrey, “Allusions antichrétiennes,” made a preliminary catalogue of these expressions in
Proclus and in his biographer, Marinus.
232 Lamberton
Plato’s birthday and turns largely on a series of interpretations of passages, for

the most part those same passages singled out by Socrates in the Republic and
branded as unacceptable for the education of the Guardians. These specific
interpretations need not occupy us here, but one of the things that makes this
collection of Homer interpretations stand out is the fact that it is based on a
genuinely philosophical move—a “division” in the terms of Platonic logic—
that is uniquely interesting in its implications.
The three levels of poetry, and the three lives (ζωαί) or conditions (ἕξεις) of
the soul on which they are based, are the following:4
(1)
nature: Absolute fusion of subject and object; inspiration, possession
by the Muses, divine madness (μανία) filling the soul with symmetry
means: Symbols (σύμβολα), which are nonmimetic
examples: The song of Ares and Aphrodite (Od. 8. 266–366) and the
Deception of Zeus (Il. 14. 153–351)
(2)
nature: Again, fusion of knower and known—this poetry knows the
essential truth and loves to contemplate beautiful actions and accounts
of things
means: Apparently still nonmimetic, based on ἐπιστήμη
examples: The description of Heracles in the nekyia (Od. 11. 601ff.) and
unspecified Homeric passages
(3)
nature: This poetry is full of opinions (δόξαι) and imaginings
(φαντασίαι); it projects a false image of reality, and is further divided into
a. accurately mimetic (εἰκαστικόν)
b. illusionistic (φανταστικόν)
means: Mimetic, using
a. εἰκασία (representation) and
b. an apparent but not real ἀφομοίωσις (resemblance)
examples: a. heroes portrayed fighting or performing other activities
in character
b. descriptions of what appears to be—for example, the
sun rising “out of the sea” (Od. 3. 1)
4 This schematic presentation of Proclus’s division is based on pp. 1, 177–95 (Kroll) of the
Republic commentary.
Proclus divides the category of poetry along lines that can properly be called
semiotic. That is, he argues that poetry falls naturally into three categories
distinguished from one another by the way in which each designates what it
designates. Not surprisingly, these three categories form a hierarchy, and the
“highest” of the three is symbolic, representing what it represents nonmimeti-
cally by way of “symbols.” These peculiar entities have odd characteristics, and
they sometimes (but by no means always) represent by opposites—the tran-
scendent truths designated by the obscenity of the song of Ares and Aphrodite
are a good example. The median category is also nonmimetic, though the
details of its mode of representation are somewhat unclear. It seems, in any
case, to correspond roughly to didactic poetry. Finally, the third category is
mimetic, representing by likeness, and may be subdivided into (1) accurately
mimetic and (2) illusionistic poetry. This division, which is shown to be consis-
tent with what Plato has to say about poetry, is the tool that makes possible a
correct understanding of the Iliad and Odyssey.
The point that Proclus develops, based on this division, is essentially that
correct reading is tiered. The correct reader will recognize these differences,
will understand the first category of poetry κατὰ τὴν ἀπόρρητον θεωρίαν, and
will not make the mistake of literalism in contexts where a literal understand-
ing of the words of the text will lead to misinterpretation. The other two levels
do not present such hermeneutic challenges, but in a final swipe at misguided
readers, Proclus insists that the symbolic mode is the one that is most charac-
teristic of Homer and the mimetic the least characteristic (and the illusionistic
subcategory of the mimetic—category 3b—vanishingly rare).5 This, for better
or worse, is how Proclus saves Homer from Socrates’s blanket condemnation
of mimesis.
I think that this paraphrase of Proclus’s argument is a fair one. In any case, it
states what is argued and leaves in silence what Proclus’s far longer text leaves
in silence, and that is precisely what I would like to turn to now.
The argument as I have presented it advocates a mode of reading, a some-
what complicated, perhaps awkward mode of reading that seems at some levels
dependent on hermeneutic assistance. It is nevertheless a way of apprehend-
ing a text, or more specifically, of apprehending the text of Homer. The stated
adversary in this argument is the Socrates of the Republic, but the debate with
Socrates, while pervasive, is far from the whole story. It is never suggested that
Socrates is guilty of the sort of misreading that is targeted, and we must ask
ourselves just who the readers are who fail to read Homer as Proclus advocates
and why they are a concern to Proclus—and, finally, why the answers to these
5 In Remp. 1.195.13–199.28 (Kroll).

234 Lamberton
questions are not to be found in Proclus’s text. Why is he not explicit in desig-
nating these opponents?
The answers to these questions are in part unique to Proclus’s prose, but
in part they lie in an elaborate code used by the later polytheist Platonists to
designate their Christian neighbors. This code has been studied for some forty
years now (since Henri-Dominique Saffrey’s 1975 article “Allusions antichré-
tiennes chez Proclus le diadoque platonicien”) but has not, to my knowledge,
been studied in specific contexts of argument for the light that it can throw on
those contexts. The discussion of poetics and of Homer in the Republic com-
mentary seems to offer an exceptional opportunity to do so.
Let me start with an image that is pervasive in Proclus’s text and that can
best be seen as an inherited trope. In one of his most famous pages, the poly-
theist historian Eunapius of Sardis described the destruction of the Serapeum
of Alexandria in 391 (two decades before Proclus’s birth), in the following
terms:
[Shortly after the death of a polytheist philosopher named Antoninus]

the service of the gods in the temples of Alexandria, including the
Serapeum, was scattered to the winds, and not only the [ritual] service,
but the buildings themselves, and it all happened as in the myths of the
poets, when the Giants had gained control.6
There can be no doubt just whom the “Giants” in this text represent, and the
term became virtually a kenning for the Christians in power in the prose of
the last polytheists, including Proclus and his biographer Marinus. Saffrey
singled out only the relatively colorful instances in Marinus, who in describ-
ing Proclus’s political enemies in Athens, refers to the πνεύματα τυφώνεια7 that
troubled his orderly life (and, one assumes, did little for his ἀταραξία) and to
the hostile “vulture-giants” (or “giant-vultures”?—γυπογίγαντες—a distinctly
Lucianic term) that harassed him. But “Giants” are lurking everywhere in the
sections of the Republic commentary on Homer and on reading myth,8 where
they provide a ready metaphor for arrogance, pretention, and incidentally, lack
of intellectual force. They piled Pelion on Ossa to displace the gods, and this
6 οὐ γὰρ ἔφθανεν ἐκεῖνος ἐξ ἀνθρώπων ἀπιών, καὶ ἥ τε θεραπεία τῶν κατὰ τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρειαν καὶ τὸ
Σεραπεῖον ἱερὸν διεσκεδάννυτο· οὐχ ἡ θεραπεία μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ οἰκοδομήματα, καὶ πάντα ἐγίνετο
καθάπερ ἐν ποιητικοῖς μύθοις, τῶν Γιγάντων κεκρατηκότων. Eunapius, Lives, 6.11.1 (p. 38, 11–15,
Giangrande). Cf. Becker, Eunapios aus Sardes, 72, 102–3.
7 Typhon, if not a Giant, is in Hesiod another child of Gaia with attributes similar to those of
his siblings.
8 Essay 5:1.51.11 (Kroll); Essay 6:1.74.12–16; 1.90.8–14; 1.104.1–4; 1.186.1–2.
pretention was born of ignorance, and so their attitude and actions provide a
concise image to evoke the activities and motivations of the Christians. But
note the specific form of ignorance denounced in this characteristic passage.
The point defended is that the myths themselves cannot be blamed for “error
regarding the divine,” and first among the defenses of myth, Proclus offers this:
It turns out that those who, on account of the visible fictions (τὰ φαινόμενα
πλάσματα) have treated with contempt the cult of the beings greater than
ourselves, were drawn into this unaccountable and Gigantic impiety
because they were ignorant of both the goal and the meaning of myth. If
myths have set up in front of themselves the whole apparatus they proj-
ect, rather than the truth that is rooted in secrecy, and use visible screens
for the concepts that are obscure and unknowable to the many . . . and if
these people, rather than search out the truth that lies within the myths,
are content with the curtain of mythic fabrications and, instead of puri-
fication of the intellect, encounter only fantastic and figurative concepts,
how can one blame the myths for their transgressions, rather than blame
those who misuse the myths for their errors concerning them?9
Here, I would argue, is the polemical subtext of this entire exercise in interpre-
tation that Proclus is undertaking, and this notion is supported not only by the
colorful equation of Giants and Christians but also by a host of other terms.
These are largely terms that form part of Proclus’s everyday language and
whose specific reference to his Christian antagonists here might be unclear
were it not for the existence of the code whose elucidation Saffrey began.
Probably the most frequent of these terms is the familiar οἱ πολλοί, which
occurs in the passage just cited (“the many”). It is certainly part of everyday
language and generally difficult (or at least embarrassing) to translate, stem-
ming as it does from a dismissive and class-bound attitude toward the great
9 πρῶτον μὲν ὅτι τοὺς διὰ τὰ φαινόμενα πλάσματα τῆς περὶ τοὺς κρείττους ἡμῶν κατολιγωρήσαντας
θεραπείας οὔτε τὸν σκοπὸν τῆς μυθοποιΐας οὔτε τὴν δύναμιν ἐγνωκότας εἰς ταύτην ὑπενηνέχθαι
τὴν ἀλόγιστον καὶ Γιγαντικὴν ἀνοσιουργίαν συμβέβηκεν. εἰ γὰρ οἱ μὲν μῦθοι τὴν προβεβλημένην
αὐτῶν ἅπασαν σκευὴν ἀντὶ τῆς ἐν ἀπορρήτοις ἱδρυμένης ἀληθείας προεστήσαντο καὶ χρῶνται τοῖς
φαινομένοις παραπετάσμασι τῶν ἀφανῶν τοῖς πολλοῖς καὶ ἀγνώστων διανοημάτων (καὶ τοῦτό ἐστιν,
ὃ μάλιστα ἐξαίρετον αὐτοῖς ἀγαθὸν ὑπάρχει, τὸ μηδὲν τῶν ἀληθῶν εἰς τοὺς βεβήλους ἐκφέρειν,
ἀλλ’ ἴχνη τινὰ μόνον τῆς ὅλης μυσταγωγίας προτείνειν τοῖς ἀπὸ τούτων εἰς τὴν ἄβατον τοῖς πολλοῖς
θεωρίαν περιάγεσθαι πεφυκόσιν), οἱ δὲ ἀντὶ μὲν τοῦ ζητεῖν τὴν ἐν αὐτοῖς ἀλήθειαν τῷ προσχήματι
μόνῳ χρῶνται τῶν μυθικῶν πλασμάτων, ἀντὶ δὲ τῆς καθάρσεως τοῦ νοῦ ταῖς φανταστικαῖς ἐφέπονται
καὶ μορφωτικαῖς ἐπιβολαῖς, τίς μηχανὴ τοὺς μύθους αἰτιᾶσθαι τῆς τούτων παρανομίας, ἀλλ’ οὐκ
ἐκείνους τοὺς κακῶς τοῖς μύθοις χρωμένους τῆς περὶ αὐτοὺς πλημμελείας. In Remp. 1.74.12–31
(Kroll).
236 Lamberton
unwashed that is hard to express in our own everyday speech without blatant
political incorrectness. Here, however, the reference is—exceptionally—quite
specific (at least for one segment of Proclus’s public) and provides an excellent
example of the creative ambiguity so carefully maintained here. At the same
time, the lines of demarcation between the “many” and the (implied) “few”
remain fluid and, all else being equal, might as easily exclude on the basis of
philosophical belief or of general education as of religion.
Elsewhere in the sixth essay of the Republic commentary, the term “hoi
polloi” repeatedly designates people whose errors regarding what Proclus
deems the correct reading of myth (and specifically poetic myth or Homeric
myth) can be seen to be those of Proclus’s Christian contemporaries. In the
conclusion of the section on representations of gods laughing or lamenting,
we find him observing this:
For the same reason, the mindless should not have knowledge of the
secret rites of the theurgists, and likewise they should not hear such fic-
tions as these. The witnessing of both these things in ignorance results in
a terrible and irrational violation of piety toward the divine in the lives
of the many.10
Needless to say, “the mindless” (οἱ ἀνόητοι) are the same people as hoi polloi
(“the many”), and we see once again that Proclus’s prose maintains a careful
ambiguity. The identification of the mistaken readers (or viewers) criticized
here remains clear to those who understand the code and unobjectionable
(and hopefully unobserved) to those who do not.
The vocabulary that Proclus uses to express the way myth (and in this
instance, the poetry of Homer) functions—projecting a “screen” (παραπέτασμα)
both to protect the true meaning from “the many” and to make it available to
the intellectually inclined, who will be puzzled by that screen of fiction and
motivated to look behind it—seems finally to be echoed by the rhetoric of the
essay itself. This rhetoric both conceals and reveals its true target—those des-
ignated by the code in other texts as οἱ ἐν τέλει—“those in power.”
The essay closes by calling attention to this double audience in a sentence
that must seem at odds with the notion of a published text: “Dear friends, may
10 Καὶ ὁ αὐτὸς τρόπος μήτε τῶν ἐν ἀπορρήτοις δρωμένων παρὰ τοῖς θεουργοῖς τοὺς ἀνοήτους ἐπαΐειν
μήτε τῶν τοιούτων πλασμάτων. ἡ γὰρ ἄνευ ἐπιστήμης τούτων ἀμφοτέρων ἀκρόασις δεινὴν καὶ
ἄτοπον ἐργάζεται σύγχυσιν ἐν ταῖς τῶν πολλῶν ζωαῖς τῆς περὶ τὸ θεῖον εὐλαβείας. In Remp.
1.128.19–23 (Kroll).
these things be made a tribute to the memory of my conversations with my

guide [Syrianus], things fit for me to tell you, but which you must keep secret
from the many.”11
The polloi constitute literally the last word of the essay. We seem to be back
in the symposiac context announced in the opening remarks. Are “the many”
actually present (that is, anticipated as readers of this text)? This seems to be
one of the many places where Proclus can be accused of having his cake and
eating it too. The complex semiotics that Proclus attributes to Homeric poetry,
in any case, is echoed in the complex surface of his own discourse, where the
failed, defective readers, those who are likely to be misled (and have already
been misled) are repeatedly and obliquely designated. They are the ones
whose misunderstanding is truly dangerous and has resulted in the neglect
of cult, not to mention the destruction of the temples themselves. A reader of
Proclus is reminded of the remarkable sentence with which Marinus closes his
biography of the “Successor”:
He often used to say, “If I were in control, of all the ancient books I would
keep in circulation only the [Chaldaean] Oracles and the Timaeus and I
would hide all the rest from the people of today because some of those
who approach them casually and without interrogating and interpreting
them properly are actually harmed.”12
In correcting the Socrates of the Republic and in reconciling him with Homer
and Homer with Plato, Proclus writes as a champion of the sort of notion of
an integral Hellenism that has been attributed to Julian13 and to other fourth-
and fifth-century polytheist Platonists. Even his most unexpected move in the
sixth essay—the concession to Socrates that Homer is unfit for education (pre-
sumably because reading him requires too much hermeneutic assistance)—
implies and points to the hostile Christian environment in which Proclus
worked, where classroom hermeneutics was inevitably in the hands of a new
and remarkably capable interpretive community.
11 Ταῦτα, ὦ φίλοι ἑταῖροι, μνήμῃ κεχαρίσθω τῆς τοῦ καθηγεμόνος ἡμῶν συνουσίας, ἐμοὶ μὲν ὄντα
ῥητὰ πρὸς ὑμᾶς, ὑμῖν δὲ ἄρρητα πρὸς τοὺς πολλούς. In Remp. 1.205.12–13 (Kroll).
12 Εἰώθει δὲ πολλάκις καὶ τοῦτο λέγειν, ὅτι κύριος εἰ ἦν, μόνα ἂν τῶν ἀρχαίων ἁπάντων βιβλίων
ἐποίουν φέρεσθαι τὰ Λόγια καὶ τὸν Τίμαιον, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα ἠφάνιζον ἐκ τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων, διὰ τὸ
καὶ βλάπτεσθαι ἐνίους τῶν εἰκῆ καὶ ἀβασανίστως ἐντυγχανόντων αὐτοῖς. Marinus, Vit. Proc. 38
(the end of the essay).
13 See Athanassiadi-Fowden, Julian and Hellenism, 123–125 passim.
238 Lamberton
The rhetorical strategies I have been describing seem to have made it pos-
sible for Proclus not only to communicate to his sympathetic, polytheist read-
ers the raw facts of the situation—that it was essentially a hermeneutic failure
that was resulting in the neglect of cult and the destruction of the temples—
but at the same time to shield the most dangerous implications of that idea
from readers who might well have responded by silencing him.
Bibliography
Athanassiadi-Fowden, Polymnia. Julian and Hellenism. Oxford: Oxford University

Press, 1981.
Becker, Matthias. Eunapios aus Sardes, Biographien über Philosophen und Sophisten.
Einleitung, Übersetzung, Kommentar. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2013.
Hoffmann, Philippe. “Un grief antichrétien chez Proclus: l’ignorance en théologie.” In
Les Chrétiens et l’hellénisme: identités religieuses et culture grecque dans l’Antiquité
tardive, edited by Arnaud Perrot, 161–97. Paris: Éd. Rue d’Ulm, 2012.
Lamberton, Robert. Proclus the Successor on Poetics and the Homeric Poems: Essays 5
and 6 of His Commentary on the Republic of Plato. Writings from the Greco-Roman
World 34. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012.
Saffrey, Henri-Dominique. “Allusions antichrétiennes chez Proclus le diadoque pla-
tonicien.” Revue des Sciences philosophiques et théologiques 59 (1975): 553–63.
Index
absurdity 208, 226 polemics and 23, 25–27

Academics/Academic Skeptics/New See also specific topics
Academy 3, 12, 121, 129, 181–182, 195, 210 Aristippus of Cyrene/Aristippus the Elder
Cicero as an academic 113, 121, 141 Anniceris and 117n14, 118, 119
Cyrenaics and 121, 129, 141 Cicero and 120
Epicureans and 71, 113, 121, 166 Cyrenaics and 117
Lucullus and 195 Diogenes and 128, 130–131, 135–137,
Platonists and 177, 182 141n83, 142
Plutarch and 113, 141, 217, 218, 224n68 Epicureanism and 130, 142
and Pyrrhonian skepticism 177 Epicurus and 114n4, 117–121, 130
Stoics and 6, 19, 22, 182, 195n35, 217, 218 as hedonist 120
Academy, Plato’s 19n11, 71 pleasure, hedonism, and 73, 81, 113–117,
Academic controversy about pleasure 82 120, 121, 130, 131, 135
Aristotle and 38, 40, 41 presentism 130–131
dialectic, eristic, and 41 On Socrates 117
ad hominem arguments 23, 24, 86, 109, 225 as a Sophist 115, 137
advantage and justice 56, 57, 59–63 and the soul 130–131, 142
aesthetic experiences 119 Aristippus the Younger 114–117
aesthetic pleasures 122–123, 139–140 Aristotle 5, 7, 162
aggressiveness 16, 17, 19, 37, 141 Academics and 38, 40, 41
See also anger on agonistic vs. dialectical exchange 24
agreement (sumphōnia) 28 argumentation and 109, 111
amplificatio 159 category theory and 46, 48, 51
Anaxagoras 28, 151, 159, 160 Cicero and 155, 156
anger 26, 192 compared with other philosophers 27–28
See also aggressiveness “dialectical confrontation” in the
Anniceris 141 Topics 26
Annicerian doctrine 118n19 eristical syllogism and 41–49
Annicerians 114n4, 117, 118, 142 eristic and 33, 38, 39, 49, 51
Aristippus and 117n14, 118, 119 hedonism and 85, 87–90
Cyrenaics and 113, 115, 117, 118, 141 Lucretius and 151
Epicurus and 115, 118–119, 142 phainomenon and 41–49, 51
on mental vs. bodily pleasures 118–119 Plato and 19, 27–28, 72, 74, 82–90
Antiochus of Ascalon 19, 27, 28, 121, 180, 194, on polemics 25
195 on sophistry 45, 51
apology (excusatio) 94, 95 Stoics and 27–28
aponia 115n10, 116n12, 118, 130, 135, 141 syllogism and 38–42
aporia (puzzle) 97–98 theory of pleasure 72, 86–90
apparitions 36, 50, 51 position in the polemics 83–85
argumentation 16, 17, 141–142 on topoi 155, 156
argumentatio 151 See also Plato’s Republic: Aristotle’s
Aristotle and 109, 111 criticism of
critical 23, 26 Aristotle, writings of
dispassionate 26 De anima 97, 212
Plato and 31 De Sophisticis Elenchis 38, 39, 43, 210
240 index
Aristotle, writings of (cont.) Diogenes and 142

Metaphysics 19, 41nn17–18, 42–43, 45, 49, Epicureans and 119, 120, 142, 143n87, 159,
51, 88, 89, 210, 212 193, 196, 197, 212
Nicomachean Ethics 43, 72, 74, 83, 85–90, Epicurus and 119–121, 194, 200, 212n27
95, 97, 98, 104–105 hedonism and 120, 142
On Pleasure 72 Lactantius as “Christian Cicero” 2
Politics 2 93–96, 106, 108, 110, 111 Lucretius and 156, 158
aim in 96–101 Plato and 193
method in 101–106 Plutarch and 121, 122, 125, 141, 142
ataraxia 115, 135, 138 quoting the philosopher he is
confronting 212
Bacchylides 22 Seneca and 191, 193, 198, 200, 201, 212
Becoming, see genesis skepticism 194
Benjamin, Walter 16, 25 Stoics, Stoicism, and 170, 173, 190,
bodily pleasures, see mental vs. bodily pleasure 191, 193
bodily vs. mental pathē 126 translations 212
bodily vs. mental pleasure 114, 118–119, 124 vehementia and 186–198, 200, 201, 203, 212
body vs. the soul, pleasures/affections of writings
the 124–125, 127n41, 130–132, 135 De finibus 119, 120, 143n87, 193, 196,
197, 212
calculus 114, 116–117, 131, 137 De natura deorum 159
Carneades 6, 17n3, 113, 121, 167, 182, 211 De oratore 187, 191
category theory 46, 48, 51 Lucullus 194–197
Celsus 225, 231 Orator 188–189, 193, 197
Christianity 1–3, 26 Tusculanae Disputationes 189, 191,
vs. Neoplatonism 7, 22 194, 197
opposition to 7, 14–15 citizens
pagan philosophy and 3, 14 relationships between 100
Christians 1–3, 230–231, 234 sharing among 99
code phrases referring to 22 See also communism
on Greek philosophy 1 city-state (polis) 96n11, 98–102
polemics with 7 cognitive vs. non-cognitive
Proclus and 230–231, 234–237 impressions 174n29
Chrysippus Colotes 22, 26, 117, 121, 129n51, 141, 142
Galen against 26, 205–225 Against Colotes (Plutarch) 19, 26, 121,
on justice 208 158n38, 159n40, 161
Plato and 208, 210, 219–221, 223, 224 common sense, being contrary to 208, 226
use of the quotations of 209, 211–217 communism 96, 107n29
writings concepts 202–203
Demonstrations Concerning Justice constitutions (politeiai) 93–96, 98–103, 108,
213–214 110
On the Emotions 219–222 criteria on the basis of which Aristotle
On Justice Against Plato 213–214 evaluates 102n22
On the Soul 215n34, 219, 220 contentio (tense discourse) 193
Cicero 7, 155 contradiction
Academics and 113, 121, 141 Lucretius’s arguments from 157–159, 162
Arcesilaus and 182n48 principle of 162
Aristotle and 155, 156 between words and deeds 207, 210, 226
Augustine and 194 See also under poetic verses; reductio ad
Cyrenaics and 119–122, 125, 142 absurdum; self-refutation argument
index 241
credibility 16 and the soul 130–132, 135, 137, 142

criterion, problem of the 166–167 diplomatic means 18
Critias 160 disagreement (diaphōnia) 28
critique and polemics 18–21, 24–25, 223 discrediting adversary philosophers 166,
Cyrenaic doctrine 115, 117n14, 121, 126 167, 233
Cyrenaic presentism 115–117, 126–128, 137 discursive strategies 209–211
Cyrenaics
Academics and 121, 129, 141 elenchus/elenchos (Socratic method) 20, 23,
Anniceris and 113, 115, 117, 118, 141 37
Cicero and 119–122, 125, 142 evolving meanings of the term 20
Epicureans and 117–125, 126n39, 128, 133, Socrates’s 23, 37, 209
135, 139–143 emotional attachment 100n20, 107
hedonism and 115, 117, 126–128, 133–135, emotions 209
138, 141–143 defined 219–221
Philodemus and 117, 125–129, 134, 137, On the Emotions (Chrysippus) 219–222
141–143 as irrational judgments 221
on pleasure and the good life 113–143 Empedocles 28, 159n40, 160, 161
empty notions 125, 126n39, 128
deinotēs 185, 186, 201–203 empty space/void 157–158
Democritus 21–22, 151, 161 endoxa 38, 39, 42–44, 83
depersonalized personal argument 23 Enlightenment 24, 25n28
desire 33, 35, 39, 124, 128n43, 133, Ennius 151
222–223 ennoia
defined 222 Alcinous on 177–178
Diogenes on 135, 136, 139 epistēmē and 174, 176, 178, 179
nature of 222–223 Ideas and 173, 178, 182
rational vs. irrational 222 meaning 169–170
See also hedonism nature of 169–170
Diagoras 160 Platonists and 173, 174, 178
dialectic 24, 31–33 Stoics and 169–170, 173–176,
Aristotle’s view of 24, 26, 33, 38–46, 49, 51 177n36, 179
changes in the concept 51n30 use of the term 169, 170
eristic and 33–39, 41, 49, 52 See also koinē ennoia
Plato’s view of 31–37 “Epicurean,” connotations and use of the
See also Plato term 3
sophistic and 35, 39, 42–43, 46, 49, 51 Epicurean empiricism 166
dialectical exchange 24 Epicurean mental calculation 158
dialectical syllogism vs. eristical syllogism See also calculus
44, 45 Epicureans
dialectical vs. agonistic exchange 24 Academics and 71, 113, 121, 166
Dialecticians and Sophists 40, 45, 46 Aristotle and 151
Diogenes of Oenoanda Cicero and 119, 120, 142, 143n87, 159, 193,
Aristippus and 128, 130–131, 135–137, 196, 197, 212
141n83, 142 contradiction and 157
on desire 135, 136, 139 Cyrenaics and 117–125, 126n39, 128, 133,
Epicureans and 128, 135, 137–138, 135, 139–143
141–143 Diogenes and 128, 135, 137–138, 141–143
Epicurus and 134, 138, 142–143 ethics and 118, 119, 143n88, 196
hedonism and 134–138, 142 Lucretius and 150, 156–162
Philodemus and 129, 137, 141–143 parodic quotation and 158
242 index
Epicureans (cont.) See also under Philodemus

Plato and 167, 168 eristic 5, 32, 51–52
Platonism and 167, 168 Aristotle and 33, 38, 39, 49, 51
Platonists and 168, 177n36, 179 dialectic and 33–39, 41, 49, 52
on pleasure and the good life 113–143 eristical argument 45–49
Plutarch and 121–124, 139, 142, 168, 206, 218 eristical syllogism 39, 41
Roman 196 Aristotle and 41–49
Stoics and 19, 166–168, 177n36, 179, 193, vs. dialectical syllogism 44, 45
205n1, 212, 218 phainomenon and 41–43, 45, 51
on void (empty space) 157–158 reconsidered 42–45
See also under Philodemus; specific topics logos and 52
Epicurean sage 125, 132 phainomenon and 41, 51
Epicurean telos 115–118, 120, 133, 141, 143n88 Plato and 31, 34–38
Epicurus 138, 141, 200 Socrates and 32, 33, 35, 37, 52
Anniceris, Annicerians, and 114n4, 115, Sophists and 37–38, 49
118–119, 142 eristic vs. elenchtic investigation 33
Aristippus of Cyrene and 114n4, 117–121, erotic passion 139
130 See also sex
attacks on 21, 194, 196–197 ethics 196–197
by the Platonists 167–168 Epicureans and 118, 119, 143n88, 196
Cicero and 119–121, 194, 200, 212n27 Epicurus and 115, 119, 128, 141n84, 143,
criticism of the Sophists 160 156, 196
Cyrenaics and 113, 115, 117, 123–125, 128, hedonism and 82, 84
141–143 pleasure and 196
defenses of 200 See also Aristotle, writings of:
Diogenes and 134, 138, 142–143 Nicomachean Ethics; justice
Empedocles and 160, 161 Eudoxus 73, 83–85
ethics and 115, 119, 128, 141n84, 143, 156, 196 eupatheia 180, 207n7
eudaemonism 116 Euripides 208, 209, 211
on friendship 134 Eusebius of Caesarea 1–2
Heraclitus and 160 excerpta 218
on identifying falsehoods 157
Lucretius and 7, 23, 143, 150, 156, 158n34, facts (erga) 103–105
159n41, 160–161 faith 179
vs. Plato 168 false belief, destruction of 37
pleasure, hedonism, and 21, 114n4, false definitions 177
115–121, 123–124, 130, 133, 200 falsehood 157, 174n29, 182
Plutarch on 123–124 false pleasures 72, 75, 77
rational approach to action 128 false sensations 174
rhetoric of 7, 22, 23, 141, 196–197 friendship, see philia
“military campaign” 150, 162
telos and 115, 117 Galen 27
See also telos: Epicurean anti-Stoic attitude 26, 205
on virtue 120n27, 133, 142 examples illustrating the polemical
writings method of 220–223
Letter to Pythocles 156 Plato and 219, 224
On Nature 151, 161, 162 and Plutarch against Chrysippus 26,
Zeus on 3 205–225
index 243
writings Socrates and 74–82

On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and See also genesis; pleasure(s)
Plato 205, 206, 212, 219–223, 225 Hegesias 113, 117n14, 127, 136
On the Order of My Own Books 223 Helen of Troy, see Gorgias: Encomium of Helen
genesis (becoming) Hellenistic debates 167–169
Aristotle and 88, 89 See also specific topics
hedonism and 81, 88, 89 Hellenistic period 6–7, 113, 166, 182
kinēsis and 82n33, 85–90 See also specific topics
kompsoi and 79 Hellenistic philosophy 6–7, 71, 182, 237
ousia and 79 most important issue for 169
Plato and 81 See also Epicurus; Philodemus; Plutarch;
Socrates and 79 specific topics
See also pleasure(s): genesis theory of Hellenistic schools 167, 168
God 209 See also Academics/Academic Skeptics/
assimilation to/becoming like 67 New Academy; Epicureans; Epicurus;
godly vs. ungodly models/paradigms 67–68 Stoics; specific topics
gods 128n43, 209, 234, 236 Heraclitus 21, 22, 71, 151, 158, 160–161, 210
good, doctrine of the 212 Hermarchus 161
Gorgias 4, 5, 64n7 hermeneutics 233, 237–238
Encomium of Helen 4, 5 polemics and 27–28
gravitas 195, 203 Hesiod 20, 208, 211
Greek vs. Roman philosophy 202 Hippocrates 223
hoi polloi 236
heart and soul 219–220, 224n67 See also polloi
hedonic calculus 114, 116, 137 homuncularism 215
See also calculus
hedonic presentism 114–117, 126 Ideas and ennoiai 173, 178, 182
See also presentist hedonism impressions
hedonism cognitive vs. non-cognitive 174n29
antihedonism and adversaries of 74–77, sense 174
80, 82, 84, 85, 88–90 true vs. false 174n29, 182
Aristippus, pleasure, and 73, 81, 113–117, inconsistency(ies)
120, 121, 130, 131, 135 accusations of 5, 206, 209–211, 214, 219,
Aristotle and 85, 87–90 220, 223, 225
Cicero and 120, 142 types of 207–208
consequentialist 133 pragmatic 210–211
Cyrenaic 115, 117, 126–128, 133–135, 138, injustice 67, 208n8, 213–216
141–143 defined 215
debate about 73 intellection 172
Diogenes and 134–138, 142 inventio 155
Epicurus, pleasure, and 21, 114n4, 115–121, “invisible adversary” 230
123–124, 130, 133, 200 irrational 221–223
ethics and 82, 84
genesis and 81, 88, 89 Josephus 225
kompsoi and 79, 80, 82 judgment, Chrysippus and Galen on 221
Philebus and 73–75 justice
Philodemus, pleasure, and 126–128, 137 advantage and 56, 57, 59–63
Plato and 76, 77, 80–82, 84, 85, 90 fear of divine punishment as an incentive
See also Plato, writings of: Philebus to 208
244 index
justice (cont.) on rhetoric 23

relativistic view of 64–65, 70 on sex 139
Socrates on 59–63, 65–70, 108 Stoics and 150n5, 160–161
in the Theaetetus 69–70
See also Chrysippus; injustice; man- man-measure view of justice 55–59,
measure view of justice 61–69
Justin Martyr 2n2 justice, advantage, and 56, 57, 59, 61–63
See also Protagoras: man-measure doctrine
Kant, Immanuel 24–25 mental and physical pain 125, 126, 136
katalēpsis 182 mental suffering 138
katastematic/static pleasure 138 mental vs. bodily pathē 126
vs. kinetic pleasure 115–116, 143n88 mental vs. bodily pleasure 114, 118–119, 124
kinēsis 85, 87, 88, 116n10 Metrodorus 117, 212n27
vs. energeia 82n33, 88–90 mindless, the 236
genesis and 82n33, 85–90 “mine” vs. “not mine” 106, 107
knowledge, problem of (the foundation of) See also possession
166–167, 169 moral end 113–114, 118, 125–127
koinē ennoia 176–177, 208n9 See also ethics
koinōnia 94, 98–99 mutually exclusive statements 207, 209, 213,
See also political community/association 220, 222, 226
kompsoi, hedonism and 79, 80, 82
Kraus, Karl 16, 20, 25, 26 natural conception 172
natural desires 139
Lactantius 2 naturalistic assumption 175–176
laws 60–62, 100 Nausiphanes 21
See also Plato, writings of: Laws Neoplatonism vs. Christianity 7, 22
learning, acts of New Academics, see Academics/Academic
as acts of remembering 172 Skeptics/New Academy
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 24n27, 25, 26 Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm 34
Leucippus 22 notions vs. concepts 202
loci 155–157, 160
logikos 222–223 offense
logos/logoi 37, 52, 104 offensive linguistic resources 18
Lucian of Samosata 3 polemical 21
Lucretius 7, 150–162 Origen 225, 230–231
on Anaxagoras 159 orthos logos 216
arguments from contradiction 157–159, ousia 79
162
charge of insanity 159 pagan philosophy 3
Diogenes and 142–143 Parmenides 22, 23, 111n31
on Empedocles 160 parody 158n36
Epicurus and 7, 23, 143, 150, 156, 158n34, Pascal 19n8
159n41, 160–161 pathē 115, 116, 121, 123, 126, 127, 130, 131, 189
features of the polemics of 150–162 perceptual impressions 174
on freedom 202 perfect virtuous agent 216
Heraclitus and 158, 160 See also wise man
Memmius and 153–154 perfidia 179
mockery 159 perfidious argument 182
objections to rival theories 157 perfidious strategy 13, 179–180
polemics in translation 150–162 peritrope, see reversal
index 245
person Plutarch and 208n8, 224

dealing philosophically with the 21–25 theory of Forms 19
non-personal forms of See also specific topics
personification 22 Plato, writings of
personal attacks 17, 18, 20, 21 Apology 4
personalization 16 Gorgias 64n7, 81, 82, 109, 193
personal polemics 21, 23 Laws 93–96, 98, 101, 111
phainomenological conservatism 41–42 Philebus 72, 74, 77, 78, 81
phainomenon 41–49, 51 Aristotle and 72, 74, 82–90
Aristotle and 41–49, 51 dialectical scene in 73–74
eristical syllogism and 41–43, 45, 51 genesis claim in 83–90
eristic and 41, 51 hedonism and 73–75
Socrates and 45–48 Philebus (character) in 73–76
Sophists and 45–49 Socrates in 75–77, 81, 82
phantasms 50–51 Sophist 10, 31, 34n9, 75n12, 76n18
philia (affection/friendship) 99–101, a distinction in 49–51
106, 110 Theaetetus 23, 75n12, 173
Philodemus digression in 57–61, 63–66, 68–70
Cyrenaics and 117, 125–129, 134, 137, hidden argument in 55–70
141–143 See also Plato’s Republic
Diogenes and 129, 137, 141–143 Platonists
Epicurus, Epicureans, and 117, 123n33, ennoiai and 173, 174, 175, 178
128, 137, 141–143 Skeptics and 177, 182
pleasure, hedonism, and 126–128, 137 vs. Stoicism 166–183
skepticism and 126–129, 142 See also specific topics
Stoics and 211, 213n27 Plato’s Academy, see Academy, Plato’s
use of quotations 212 Plato’s Republic 31, 32, 35–36, 49, 50
writings anti-Christian polemic in Proclus’s
On Choices and Avoidances 125, 137 Commentary on the Republic of
On Death 143n87 Plato 230–238
On Piety 159–160, 211, 213n27 Aristotle’s criticism of 106–111
On Signs 176n36 Aristotle’s method in Politics 2
Philo of Alexandria 2–3 101–106
Philo of Larissa 19, 28, 182 politics of 93–111
Philoponus 18, 22, 23 pleasure(s)
philosophy aesthetic 122–123, 139–140
criticisms of 3–4 causes 122, 123, 133–134
decentralization 7 controversy about 73–74
phusikai ennoiai 179n42 defined 81
physical pain, see mental and physical pain erotic 139
physics 115n9, 129, 151, 188 See also sex
Pindar 22 false 72, 75, 77
Plato 5, 22, 27, 78, 171, 210 genesis theory of 79, 81
Antiochus on 27 See also genesis
Aristotle and 19, 27–28, 72, 74, 82–90 polemical destiny of the 83–90
eristic and 31, 34–38 two strategies for attacking the 85–90
Galen and 219, 224 Plato’s discussion on 74–75
hedonism, antihedonism, and 76, 77, See also Plato, writings of: Philebus
80–82, 84, 85, 90 the duschereis on 75–78
on justice 215 the kompsoi on 79–82
246 index
pleasure(s) (cont.) probabilities 39–42

telos and 87, 115–118, 120, 124, 133, 143n88 probatio 151
See also hedonism Proclus, Commentary on the Republic of Plato
pleasures/affections of the body vs. the anti-Christian polemic in 230–238
soul 124–125, 127n41, 130–132, 135 Prodicus 32, 160
Plotinus 7 Protagoras 35, 37
Plutarch 27 apology of 24
Academics and 113, 141, 217, 218, 224n68 man-measure doctrine 23, 55–58, 64
vs. Aristodemus 26n34 See also Plato, writings of: Theaetetus
Aristodemus and 26 sensualist epistemology 23
categories of his accusations of Socrates and 23–24, 55–58, 60–66
inconsistency 207–208 See also Protagoras: view of justice in
against Chrysippus 26, 205–225 the Theaetetus
Cicero and 121, 122, 125, 141, 142 Sophists and 35, 37
Cyrenaics and 121, 122, 139, 141, 142 view of justice in the Theaetetus, refutation
Epicureans, aesthetic pleasures, of 58–63
and 122–125, 139, 141, 142, 168, 218 See also Plato, writings of: Theaetetus
Plato and 208n8, 224 puzzle (aporia) 97–98
on Plato’s Meno 178n42
Stoicism and 205–206 Quintilian 189
working method 217–218 quotation, use of 211–217
writings
Against Colotes 19, 26, 121, 158n38, reductio ad absurdum 159, 208, 222
159n40, 161 See also contradiction; self-refutation
Against the Stoics on Common argument
Conceptions 208n9, 218 refutatio 151
On Epicurean Self-Contradictions 218 relativism, Protagorean, see Protagoras: view
On Stoic Self-Contradictions 26, of justice in the Theaetetus
206–212, 219, 225 relativistic view of justice 64–65, 70
poetic verses reversal (peritrope) 23, 24, 211n19
being in contradiction to 208, 226 reverse praise 208, 226
improper use of 211, 219 rhetoric 21, 24, 27
polis, see city-state rhetorical attacks 18
political cohesion 100–103, 106, 107 Roman vs. Greek philosophy 202
political community/association 94, 98–103,
106, 107 sage, Epicurean 125, 132
politikē koinōnia 94 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 10n13, 26
See also koinōnia; political community/ sedes argumentorum 155
association self-contradiction 32
polloi 236, 237 accusations of 206, 209, 210, 217, 223, 225,
Porphyry 7 226
possession 99 categories of 213
See also communism; “mine” vs. “not mine” On Epicurean Self-Contradictions
pragmatic inconsistency 210–211 (Plutarch) 218
presentism 114, 116, 130–131, 137, 138 polemics through 216, 222–223
Cyrenaic 115–117, 126–128, 137 On Stoic Self-Contradictions
presentist hedonism 128 (Plutarch) 26, 206–212, 219, 225
See also hedonic presentism See also contradiction
index 247
self-refutation argument 24, 55, 56 sophistic 3, 71

See also contradiction; reductio ad Aristotle on 42–43, 46, 49, 51
absurdum dialectic and 35, 39, 42–43, 46, 49, 51
Seneca 185n4, 192 philosophy and 5, 31–33, 46, 49, 51
Cato and 198–199 Plato and 31–35
Cicero and 191, 193, 198, 200, 201, 212 sophistical arguments, Diogenes on
Letters 7, 199–202 136–137
Stoics, Stoicism, and 198, 199, 202 sophistical syllogisms 39
vehementia and 191–192, 202, 203 classes of 42–43
sex 124, 139–140 sophistic arguments 47
Sextus Empiricus 177–178 sophistry 44–45, 223
sharing among citizens 99 Aristotle on 45, 51
See also communism vs. (genuine) philosophy 40, 45
Simonides 22 noble vs. ignoble kinds of 37
Simplicius 18, 21–23, 28 substantive vs. extrinsic features of 40
skepticism 6, 121–122, 126–129 Sophists 5, 40
Cyrenaic 121, 126–129, 142 Aristippus as a Sophist 115, 137
Philodemus and 126–129, 142 Aristotle and 46–49, 51, 95
Philo’s New Academy and 28 Chrysippus and 223, 224n67
Platonists, Platonism, and 182 definitions and meanings 34n9, 35
Pyrrhonian 6, 129, 177 Dialecticians and 40, 45, 46, 161, 223n63
Stoics, Stoicism, and 182 Epicurus on 160, 161
See also Academics/Academic Skeptics/ eristic and 37–38, 49
New Academy expertise 51
skeptics Galen and 223n63, 224n67
Lucretius on 159 phainomenon and 45–49
See also Academics/Academic Skeptics/ See also phainomenon
New Academy philosophers and 5, 35, 45, 46, 48, 49, 51
Socrates Plato and 33–37, 49–51, 64n7
Academics and 82, 121 Protagoras and 35, 37
death 158 Socrates as Sophist 4–5, 33–38
digression 57–61, 63–66, 68–70 soul 151n7, 158, 170–173
eristic and 32, 34, 36, 37, 38, 52 Alcinous and 172, 173, 176, 182
hedonism, antihedonism, and 74–82 Aristippus and the 130–131, 142
phainomenon and 45–48 Aristotle’s doctrine of the 216
Protagoras and 23–24, 55–58, 60–66 Chrysippus on 213, 215, 219–221
See also Protagoras: view of justice in Diogenes and the 130–132, 135, 137, 142
the Theaetetus Galen on 219–222
as Sophist 33–38 Hippocrates’s concept of 219
Theodorus and 55, 57, 60, 61, 66–67 irrational parts and powers of the
See also specific topics 219–222
Socratic method, see elenchus Plato’s concept of injustice as discord and
sophism faction within the 213
Aristotle and 46 Plato’s theory of the tripartite 215, 219
De Sophisticis Elenchis (Aristotle) 38, 39, 43 Plutarch on 182, 213
Sophist (Plato) 10, 31, 34n9, 75n12, 76n18 three lives/conditions of the 232
a distinction in 49–51 See also heart and soul
sophisms 38–40, 42, 46 Speusippus 72–77, 74n10, 80, 83–84
248 index
spirit (thumos) 220 Cyrenaics and 113

spiteful joy 207 man-measure doctrine and 66–67
Stoic empiricism 166 Socrates and 55, 57, 60, 61, 66–67
Stoicism Theophrastus 161
vs. Platonists 166–183 Thrasymachus 62
Plutarch and 26, 205–211 thumos (spirit) 220
See also specific topics Timon of Phlius 1–2
Stoic katalēpsis 182 topoi 155–156, 211
Stoics 161 See also loci
Academics and 6, 19, 22, 71, 182, 195n35, triadic structure of polemics 20–21, 224
217, 218
Aristotle and 27–28 value feelings 16, 25–27, 111, 140, 142
ennoia and 69–70, 173–176, 177n36, 179 vehementia 185
Epicureans and 19, 166–168, 177n36, 179, etymologies of the term 185
193, 205n1, 212, 218 rhetorical formalization 186–189
Epicurus and 21 as a tool for philosophical disputation
ethics and 27 192–203
vs. Galen 26 toward a philosophical definition
Lucretius and 150n5, 160–161 of 189–192
Philodemus and 211, 213n27 void, see empty space/void
Plato and 27 voluntas 202–203
See also ennoia; Plutarch; specific topics
subjectivism 126, 127, 141 war
Cyrenaic 121, 123 analogy and imagery of 150, 162
Syllogisms, see eristic; sophistical syllogisms polemics and 17–21, 25, 27
way of life 21, 104
telos 167 wisdom, Socrates on 67
Cyrenaic 120 wise, the 38, 40, 42, 209
defined 120 wise man 124, 131, 133, 182n48, 191, 198, 202,
Epicurean 115–118, 120, 133, 141, 143n88 209
pleasure and 87, 115–118, 120, 124, 133, See also perfect virtuous agent
143n88
temporality 117 Zeus 3
temporary intrinsics, problem of 47
tendency, defined 222
Theodorus 126n39

Sharon Weisser, Naly Thaler-Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy

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Sharon Weisser, Naly Thaler-Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy

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Strategies of Polemics

in Greek and Roman

Guy Stroumsa (Hebrew University of Jerusalem)

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

Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Weisser, Sharon, editor. | Thaler, Naly, editor.

Copyright 2016 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means? 16

The Young Dogs of Eristic: Dialectic and Eristic in the Early

A Hidden Argument in Plato’s Theaetetus 55

Polemical Arguments about Pleasure: The Controversy within and around

The Politics of Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s Republic 93

Polemics in Translation: Lucretius 150

The Perfidious Strategy; or, the Platonists against Stoicism 166

Vehementia: A Rhetorical Basis of Polemics in Roman Philosophy 185

The Art of Quotation: Plutarch and Galen against Chrysippus 205

The Invisible Adversary: Anti-Christian Polemic in Proclus’s Commentary

To what extent were polemics an integral component of ancient philosophy?

In contrast to Greek philosophy, whose practitioners are presented as “boxers

Strife, the ruin of men, goes about shouting in vain,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_002

Unseen she rolls around everything, but then

It would be tempting to view the derogatory remarks about philosophy in these

that the argumentative and contentious aspects of philosophy were already

No doubt Gorgias’s description of philosophy in the Helen is motivated by the

This refutation consisted to a large extent in exposing internal inconsisten-

5 There is no doubt as to the presence of polemical undercurrents in pre-Socratic philosophy,

false ­argumentative strategies shows that they too considered polemics to be

concentrated, systematic scholarly attention; rather their treatments tend to

The opening essay of this volume, “The Continuation of Philosophy by Other

Murgier underlines the strategic role of Plato’s resort to the arguments of

Polemical texts often reflect, or at least crystalize, a historical rivalry

this tension is found in the norms of Roman urbanitas: whereas it is improper

1 Straub, Der Polemiker Karl Kraus, 235.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_003

1 From Polemics to Critique

5 Swift, “The Battle of the Books.”

In order to preserve the specificity of polemics-as-critique, we must find

fact that ancient authors tend to dissimulate their inner-scholarly disagree-

2 Dealing Philosophically with the Person

. . . it is already decided that, in accordance with our principles of cri-

3 Rehabilitating Polemics (Polemics and Value Feelings)

to objective and dispassionate argumentation?30 Schleiermacher’s use of the

4 Polemics and Hermeneutics

Philosophical polemic has something to do with interpretation in more than

35 For the hermeneutical principle of charity, see Berner, “Equité.”

Barney, Rachel. “Simplicius: Commentary, Harmony, and Authority.” Antiquorum

38 Barney, “Simplicius: Commentary, Harmony, and Authority.”

Streitens, edited by Franz J. Worstbrock and Helmut Koopmann, 107–20. Tübingen:

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_004

2 Socrates the Sophist

The first, unavoidable point about Plato’s implied distinction between

Nietzsche famously said of himself that he was always fighting with

How is he close to them? And how does he fight?

Still, we have perfectly nonpejorative occurrences in fifth- and fourth-century

a syllogism (or deduction; συλλογισμός) is an argument in which, certain

Among syllogisms, some are demonstrations (ἀποδείξεις)—namely those

On Grote’s approach, more concisely, Aristotle deploys the following simple

σ is a sophism if (1) σ is a λόγος used illicitly for profit or gain; or (2) σ is a

Grote is skeptical about the utility of this framework.

14 Grote, Aristotle, vol. 2, 77.

But, if the distinction of purpose and procedure, between the Dialectician

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_002

false argumentative strategies shows that they too considered polemics to be

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_003

35 For the hermeneutical principle of charity, see Berner, “Equité.”

38 Barney, “Simplicius: Commentary, Harmony, and Authority.”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_004

14 Grote, Aristotle, vol. 2, 77.

16 Grote, Aristotle, vol. 2, 78.

23 Matthews, “Accidental Unities”; and Cohen “Kooky Objects Revisited.”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_005

g eneral, people tend not to accept the applicability of Protagoras’s dictum. In

r efutation of the Protagorean view of justice, I shall argue that it is to be found

1 See Brunschwig, “Aspects de la polémique philosophique en Grèce ancienne,” 40, 46.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004323049_006

4 Burnyeat, “Kinēsis vs. Energeia,” 274.

21 Compare Resp. 9.584c with Phlb. 45a.

41 Ibid., 268.

49 An exception is Resp. 9.583e.

56 See Frede, Philebos, 423.